The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Marty Martowski was captain of the geek squad in high school. He went on to college, got himself a degree, and graduated “Hasn’t Cum Lately” (except in the bathroom with a sticky magazine shared with his nerds in waiting roomies) top honors. His parents were very proud, but still waited until they got home, or to a public rest room rather than take the chance on using Marty’s john. Why the room mates moved out exactly was never quite clear to Marty. He just figured “the guys” would stick around indefinitely. When they moved out very suddenly without explanation when he was at work, Marty was hurt.

Six years of college landed Marty a job at the Rubba-Dubba Rubber Girls factory as a leak inspector. Basically he blew up every 50th girl off the assembly line and (surprise) checked her for leaks. Around the factory Marty’s job was referred to as “the blow-job”, and Marty; “the fondler”. The names fit. Marty was very meticulous in his work, carefully checking EVERY inch of a girls rubber flesh, and twice if he heard the telltale hiss of a leak. The suspected leakers got taken to “the bath”, where Marty drowned them to find the leaks and seal them with his personal special tube of rubber cement. They were packaged as seconds and sent to markdowns. Marty liked “drowning” the rejects. Marty was himself a reject. Drowning them for failing him felt sooooooo good. He held them under and punished them. Then “fixed” them. Several of the really “Bad” girls had gone home with him, after he got permission from his supervisor to “take” them. On several occasions he had even thoughtfully brought “girls” home for his room mates so they wouldn’t be lonely when he was at work and couldn’t hang out. If he had a girl it didn’t seem fair that they didn’t.

It was shortly after he was “considerate” that they bailed suddenly and mysteriously on him.

Surprisingly, Marty sat completely alone in the break room. One would have expected a man with such a responsible and important job at the factory would have lots and lots of friends. For some strange reason Marty found himself alone with his “Bad Girls” more often than not. It confused Marty. But at least he knew they loved him and would never leave him. They had told him so.... many times. Sometimes when he first brought them home they had been shy, but Marty always put them at ease. After a week or so a new girl would always feel right at home. Oh, occasionally the others would get jealous initially, but when they realized that the new comer wasn’t a threat to their place in things, they would welcome her right into the fold.

After several years of service Marty’s supervisor even gave Marty very special (Marty only) permission to take his “girls” without even having to sign them out! That was real responsibility! Mr. Greuder (Marty’s boss) trusted Marty, and didn’t need to check up on him more than three or four times an hour. Marty was a trusted and well respected company man, and only after five years! And at the end of each day when he got home, Marty would tell the girls all about his day at work while they listened very attentively.

Eventually Marty inherited his parents house, right after the “accident”, which was timely and fortuitous for Marty as he was running out of room in his little apartment for him and the girls. His daddy and mummy didn’t like the girls so it was better they were not at the house when Marty moved them all in. Marty had always had incredibly fortuitous luck. But Marty was none-the-less very surprised when he also inherited a nice tidy little sum in insurance that his dad had thoughtfully put away. Fortuitous and most extremely timely. This unexpected windfall allowed Marty to keep the big old victorian house his parents had lived in an thoughtfully passed along to him. The amount was so unexpectedly large that he found he even had enough left over to finish the basement, as a “special” playroom for him and the girls to use.

It was a big house off by itself on the end of a quiet street in a small town away from the city. Marty liked the peace and quiet and privacy he and the girls got there. The house had eight fairly large bedrooms plus the master suite, which still wasn’t enough for all the girls to have their own rooms. Luckily the girls didn’t mind sharing rooms so he put in bunk beds and made most of the bedrooms dorm style. Occasionally one of the new girls complained about bunking but Marty would take the girl to the basement and show her all the advantages to this arrangement, and very shortly her “complaining” would stop. Funny the girls that complained always seemed to need “fixing” one way or another. The last one had a very annoying lip leak, which he had promptly sealed with extra glue as it wouldn’t stay sealed at first.

Eventually this troublesome girl had become his favorite. Marty even started ignoring the other girls altogether, and spending every non-working moment with his “special” girl. He worked on her every day, making her perfect, getting her to learn what he liked, convincing her to stay forever. All the effort he had had to put into her made her different. The others had only needed blowing up and little else. Initially “She” had wanted to leave very badly, but after giving her a dozen “Bad Girl” baths and putting her in the closet for weeks at a time till she appreciated all he was doing FOR her, (while he slaved away at work) she had begun to see Marty was the only man for a “girl” like her. He dressed her, cleaned her, kept her latex paint nice and shiny. Never let her deflate even a little.

He had even resealed her completely head to foot, and changed her hair color before sealing it so she would remain beautiful and last forever. Marty even lost interest in bringing any more girls home or working on defectives in the basement. Marty was finally in love with the perfect girl. The girl he had.... truly made. The other girls he let deflate and grow dusty as they might. “Marla” as he had named her, even permanently moved into the master bedroom where she always stayed when he was out of the house.

Marty was never happier.... And besides, the bedroom, their bedroom suite, their... bridal suite was finally finished. Tommorow would be THE DAY!

The police broke into the victorian house at the end of the quiet little street after a six month investigation of the disappearance of one of the women (a Marla Stevens) from the Rubba-Dubba Rubber Girl factory pointed to a strange little perv in the quality testing department. Marty Martowski had been their first and only suspect, but until they had something solid they could only watch and wait. “He was such a nice quiet boy” the old lady living next door had told the police when questioned. “So very polite.” “Yes ma’am, they always are....”

The sight that met the police when they finally got a warrant was a bizarre one. Officer Miller, who had lived down the street from the Martowski’s for the better part of ten years was the first officer on the scene. He had always considered Marty a weird duck. And from the day (actually very late night) that Marty had returned home with his weird V-Haul truckload of “inflatable cargo” and almost no furniture as such; Miller had kept one sharp eye on the Martowski place. As the months passed more “girls” were brought home regularly. Weird but seemingly harmless enough. But still it wasn’t right, and Miller watched. And the weird antics suddenly stopped, as if Marty had sensed he was watching. It was then all the lumber and construction, and the truck with all the beautiful victorian period furniture (mostly bedroom things) began arriving.

For some time after that things went quiet. And now in this quiet period, seemingly disassociated, unrelated small bits and pieces, odd occurrences in news reports, things crossing his desk, missing persons reports and newspaper articles began to draw his attention, form a common pile. Very vaguely unrelated things that somehow seemed to almost hint at the possibility of a pattern, or some relation through nothing more than circumstance and coincidence but no facts, to each other.

Detective Lieutenant Miller was a good man, a thorough one. One to see the thin almost invisible threads between these events as much by instinct, bits, slight barely there except in his imagination where a demented spiderweb was linking up. Thin invisible threads making a sort of connect the dots. When drawn in his mind they all met in one place. The Martowski victorian. His street was very close to this webs physical center, at ground zero. Thin, invisible, without tangibility.

The break came when it was discovered that two of these unrelated persons had or knew someone at the Rubba Dubba factory. Another worked at a company that did business with them. One was a cousin of an employee. Marty used the same Laundromat as another. Now a warrant for a search could be issued. Just cause had finally been met. Probably nothing, coincidence.

But behind the victorian walls the bath no longer fixed all the girls. Some resisted “fixing”. Room after room of the police search turned up blow up girls in varying states of deflation. Cum stained in yellows and browns were all over them mixed with dirt and dust, disuse and distain. Long abandoned toys left arranged like portraits of an illness abandoned in favor of another. Baby steps. Baby games. The first act in a series of acts in this perverse playhouse. But the curtain had fallen on this act and risen on another.

Marla Stevens was found in a lavish bedroom on the uppermost floor, a grand master suite, she was “painted” head to foot in liquid rubber or latex, completely naked except for this skin and a pair of blowup air nozzles that had been glued onto one buttocks and over one nipple to simulate that she was inflatable. The only immediate indication of life lay in her heavily mascara’d glassy eyes. They were wild and piercing and very unlike the mannequin or blowup toy she was meant to (simulate/emulate?). She strenuously resisted the officers efforts to “free’ her from this chamber of perverse horrors, not verbally, but by action. She couldn’t speak, as her mouth had been cemented permanently shut. A feeding tube was later discovered glued to the backside of one arm where it would be invisible from the front. When they had entered she had been touching herself up with a clear coat of some foul smelling latex stuff. Her subtle stroking of the brush was missed by the officers initially and they mistook her for another of the many blowup dolls that seemed to be everywhere in the house. Her shiny “painted” appearance made her almost indistinguishable from the dolls until she definitely “moved”. And then there were the eyes. The brush had had to be taken from her, she seemed quite determined to finish.

It was then she had begun to resist vigorously, wildly. From what they could gather he had kept her here for the entire six months, and eventually brainwashed her using a torture technique he called “the bath” until her will had broken and she had been convinced to not only obey but believe she was a blowup doll come to life for the sole purpose of satisfying his sick fuck fantasies.

Miller gave the bedroom the proverbial once over. By a computer terminal on a desk in one corner was a stack of MC stories he had hard copied using an old black and white daisywheel printer. It had one of those script typefaces so it was difficult to read. One particular piece was all marked up in red ink pen. A short story. An online computer download from one of those pervy mind control erotic sicko sites.

Marty liked this so much. It was inspirational, it was his... “handbook”, his instruction manual apparently, his original inspiration.

“Insert....

“Marla [Original name crossed out] had always been a bit kinky in her fantasy play, [and secretly had desired Marty] but wasn’t quite sure what to make of last night. The excruciatingly skin tight black rubber catsuit was definitely her. It made her feel like a prisoner inside herself and totally free at the same time [to be Marty’s slave]. She ran her hands over it’s artificial surface, keeping her eyes tightly closed so that she could fully feel and imagine. Inside her rubber skin she was something other than human, she was exotic, alien, strangely detached, all tingling. The sensations were muted but at the same time newly intense. Erotically so....

She ran her hands especially slowly over the crotch area. [Marty’s favorite area] It was so tight she could feel the curvature of her lips. [ she could feel Marty pressing against her] She stopped there, surprised. She felt around and realised she was completely enclosed, seamless, and that she had something hard and metallic inside her, just beyond the yield of the rubber [Something Marty had given her]. Suddenly it “clicked” as she felt around, and it buzzed excitedly to life. Ahhhhhhh.... delicious. I have been very bad. I sealed off my pussy with a toy inside [for marty].

She continued her explorations of her new body [the one Marty had made for her]. She moved her hands slowly upward till she reached her large breasts. She lingered there and slowly moved around them in slow taunting erotic spirals. When she reached her tits she suddenly realized they were perfectly formed and not the least distorted by the latex [latex struck out and replaced with dolly skin]. This was no suit, it was painted on. Better still.

She moved up to her face, feeling her cheeks first, which were of the same stuff and then checking her hair which was also done in a more hardened plastic hairdo[Note; something else, harder, more shapable like lacquer may be required to do the hair just right].

She felt a sudden completely irrational fear. Irrational in that she should be and was completely loving this.... had always loved games like this. She opened her mouth to moan. Her lips didn’t part. Her moan remained inside her where it became a frantic desperate scream. [This is where I’ll start it fucking her]. She felt her lips, they were as rubber and as sealed as the rest of her. The idea of her horny licking tongue trapped, unable to escape, to suck sweet spit, to taste her precious juices, of others pressing against her impenetrable barrier, unable to get in. [tongues, unable to reach each other. Licking drooling, sweet spit all over her, then...].Cum dripping, beading up, flowing impotently, glistening, silky, down her shiny rubber face, body. Ahhhh.... She was a wonderfully imaginative bad bad girl! [My girl, laying still, cum on her face, her tits, dripping, drying, hardening like her dolly skin. Marking my territory].

Were her eyes somehow sealed as well? They did not open. They stuck fast, stretching but not yielding, not opening. Blind, helpless, enclosed in a sexually tight restrictive skin.

She remembered that she had done all these things to herself, for her [imaginary lover struck out... Master Marty inserted]. She had even put some of the stinging liquefied rubber skin stuff up inside her shaved pussy so the toy would permanently become a part of her. [It inside, Marty outside pushing his toy, their toy deeper].

It was then the thing in her pussy began to hum so delightfully that she bent in half like she had a crippling cramp. But it wasn’t a cramp, it was a wave of pleasure she couldn’t deny. The game was beginning again. Her imagination was delicious. Delicious like the pleasure she had felt as she shaved herself without any shaving gel, head to foot, pussy and ass. Like with each paint brush stroke of applying the stinging liquid rubber to all her nasty raw shaved parts. Like when she had thrust the vibrator deep inside and poured the hardening goo into her pried open slit till it overflowed and sealed itself, leaving an almost mannequin-like lack of features [One day I will coat myself head to foot and embrace her and wait for the hardening, forever together]. She simply didn’t want to resist the incredible pleasure of giving in entirely to the master, the master inside her, who had made her do these things to herself. She wanted this. She pushed one hand against her pussy-less crotch to drive the vibrator deeper inside her, while with the other hand she sought out her asshole and began fingering front and back. [Marty will harden there, soon my love]. I am your rubber slave dolly, use me master, was all she managed before going completely rigid, helpless, mindless beyond her purpose to do anything but be pleasured by the toy and her still supple fingers. “Deeper deeper.... I am inside you”. “Yes,” (Laughter) >I am your rubber toy. Play with me. “Sick” was all Miller could think to say. It was as he poured over Marty’s “guidebook” that one of the other officers told him about the basement, or more correctly lack of entrance to one. Miller knew what all the construction had been now. “So that’s where the little sicko is eh?” Keep searching, i never seen a victorian that didn’t have a big old basement. It’s here somewhere.

When they finally broke into the basement, through the storm cellar doors outside and around the back of the house, (as the inside door had been walled over an was not immediately apparent) the first officer inside (a most unfortunate fellow) yelled up that they had found all the other “girls”, the ones who couldn’t be properly fixed, the ones who had not understood Marty’s benevolent intentions to make them perfect. Miller ASSumed that meant more rubber girls, not the one’s Marty had tried to piece together into the perfect composite with cement and lacquer and liquid rubber. The one’s his process hadn’t quite preserved as well as Marla. Marty’s... rejects.

One girl had been left in the tub where he had tried to properly “fix” her and convince her of the benefits of going upstairs to join the other privileged girls. She was a latex mummy, shrivelled, shrunken, a perverse liquifying pseudo solid, a putrifying prune broth.

The policeman with the flashlight who had been the first into the cellar puked up his shoes. Miller on the other hand had been a marine in Vietnam. He had seen whole villages raped and pillaged and burned to the ground by the kong, he had seen torture that was beyond description. Smelled a dozen kinds of death. But this house of horrors, in a nice quiet suburban neighborhood wasn’t Vietnam, and wasn’t something he expected or could be ready for. Miller joined the first officer; and made an offering of his morning donuts and coffee to this temple of perversity. All of which only made him more angry that the law had prevented him from acting sooner. Writs, warrants, just cause... those were the things that allowed things like this to happen. And allowed sick little bastards like Marty to escape justice. Yes, they had either missed him or he had, like the filthy vermin he was, scurried away through some secret exit. Or was still somewhere in the house, between the walls, scurrying, chittering, laughing at their lame attempts to capture and exterminate him. The proverbial rat in the walls.

But no amount of searching, or supposition, or anger turned up Marty. Hasn’t Cum Lately...hah! Marty knew exactly where the line between genius and insanity lay, and he danced upon it, just out of reach of his neanderthal pursuers.

Four surveilance units had verified seeing Marty in the house just prior to when they hit it. Miller grilled all of them. No one saw him leave, only enter. He had simply vanished, leaving behind his most precious dolly, a house of horrors, and confusion.

Afterword:

On Dec. 23rd Marla Stevens escaped the “institution” she was sent to (to recover from her traumatic experiences), and was last seen working an unnamed S&M club somewhere in the south and calling herself “Plastique the Dolly Girl”. If you should encounter this woman the police should be informed immediately of her whereabouts as she is to be considered sexually unstable and potentially.... Hello? Where did everybody go?