The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Oct. 30, 2020:

By the time she pulled on them shorts, it was all over. Any pretense of fitting into the dang things—or into much of ANYthing on that sales rack, really—was long, long gone. Gone for good.

All bets were off. Where did she have to—FUCK, did she HAVE to go shop at PLUS sized stores now!? Holy fucking SHiiiIT. The realization made her stomach feel like wet, churning cement. Of course, though, this could very well have been them chili dogs...

Drew sighed, and tried not to stare anyhow. Roxanne was looking way cute, even though she definitely wasn’t trying to be. And she’d probably straight up kill his ass, if she EVER found out he’d been leering at hers.

“I’m not gonna fit into NONE of these, and theses is all three sizes UP, Dale! I mean, Drew. Drew, sorry. ”—” What was the thing Rox had heard from the cable news? Something about social distancing . . .

It didn’t help that these were the cruelest kind of button-up fly, made to only ENHANCE, it seemed, bits of pudge, and pubes sneaking out between the gaps. Pervert shorts. Shorts made for perverts.

Beyond messing around with her boyfriend’s name, she seemed to be taking this all pretty seriously, all this T-9 shit, and when . . . whatever-her-name-was grew worried, her man got worried, too.

And she GREW, all right. There was no doubt about it. She looked like two baskets of biscuits stuffed into a lipstick tube. Neither of them had seen anything like it.

It seemed crazy to say it, so neither of them did much, but it was as if her thickening agent must have leeched onto him, now. Going from a noncommittal and small B to a VERY healthy GG, in just two weeks, seemed to indicate this.

It seemed to suggest that whatever made her tits and ass balloon into superslut status, the same net effect was in control of his biceps, triceps, abs, nutsack, cock shaft. They both were just getting meaty and kinda huge, let alone kinda really fuckin’ DUMB about it, too. Horny beyond all sense.

Drew furrowed his brow and coughed. It took some amount of effort to be the one to actually say it out loud first: his dick was fucking MASSIVE now. He felt it shift around all the time. It even swayed when standing stock still otherwise.

Last, the sundress. They were both secretly praying this one was the right fit, that no further growing, or babymaking hints and other, uh, WEIRDNESS would impede. . .

There were really no other options. They had no money left, and she couldn’t just flash cooze at his sister’s wedding, now could she? Could she? She had a real nice one. It smelled like mango.

It was going nowhere. Neither of them wanted to fight, and yet:

“Then you’d better MAKE me pregnant, boy!” D.D. or Rox, or whatever her name was, groused, hoping he’d take the hint, to make the next three or four moves, the dolt. The fucking dumbass LOL.

She fiddled with the faded navy cotton around her hips and tummy. You could see all the way up her navel. She’d have to field some questions, that was all. Like, why was she getting so fucking fat SO quick? Did he like all that fat? etc.

“How I’m ’posed a do that when you can’t even keep your coochie in them panties GIRL.” Dale shook the last of his cigarette out. Why was flirting so hard now, for the both of them? Why couldn’t they just F?

D.D. crimped her little piggy nose and snorted. “Noooo, I’s SERIOUS. If I’m gonna be in this fuckin’ town, best believe I’m finna go all the way the MOTHERFUCK IN, okay, baby?”

“Yeah?” Dale snorted, grabbing her tummy and mock-chiding his girlfriend for putting on a babymaker’s body.

Yeah, idiot. She thought. Get me braindead and baby preg, you stupid moron.

All right, now the jeans had to come on. The dreaded, godforsaken JEANS. It was a Halloween party, after all. Or a wedding. Right. They were shopping for a wedding.

“That’s why I wanted—that’s why I needed you to cum in me today, Baby Ben.” Wait. Why was she calling him Ben? Wasn’t his name Dale, or some shit?

God, who could CARE, when these Apple Bottoms were cutting into her cooch in all the most helpfully agonizing ways?

It was decided that an unbuttoned fly would be the classiest option for wedding gear. Sure, a bit trampy, but somehow—SOMEHOW, it seemed classier than a too-tight sundress. The belly, she’d pool, but, like... The unbuttoned fly would distract plenty. . .

early September 2019:

The bathroom in the Kitty Bubble’s (the curvy girl’s boutique) used to share a wall with a Record Riot just next door. Now, what used to be the Folk-n-Blues nook, had been folded into three brand new powder room beauty stalls.

Cell phones snored or fritzed on dampened benches, bangle bracelets clacked. Too-fruity spritzes puffed and hissed. Princesses gettin’ all pretty, and bitches bein’ all bimbo-y! It was nice, if you were into this sorta thing . ..

Roxanne took as deep a breath as she could, in her current state. Freshly fat, pink pussy staying pretty juicy and all. Wet, wet, wet. This was pretty much a baseline for her, now. T-9 was no joke. Once you caught it, you were a dumb slut. No turning back.

It had been a bit hard to breathe normally, for the better part of her afternoon. Ever since she had run into Bradley in the food court, her nostrils and throat felt caked in globs of grease and putty. Boy was a total smokeshow !

THE LOVE STEW, as her mom referred to it. She wasn’t far off :

A faraway memory pushed through: bubble tea. Rox giggled a little bit at this. The mental image of Brenda, her. . . other name, already setting a pretty weird scene. Slurping that shit down was funny as hell.

SILLY, FLAT CHESTED OLD ME! thought Brenda. No wonder Brenda spent all her gangly-ass young life sitting around, or track-and-fielding around, or whatnot, about boys.

That’s what... economolomics was, right? The study of boys? She swished one of her new candy throat bubbles around. It was too big to swallow, so she chomped into its center, hoping to cleave it in half.

All this did was make it pop and gush on top of the sludgy mass on her throat. Like some super-pheromoned fruit snack, located at kid’s eye level in the supermarket aisle. Where all the crappy snacks lived.

Studly boys! “Bitch! What is you doin’.” Her momma demanded, in a most ghetto fashion.

It snapped Brandi out of her boy-study, or studly, I guess, retention. Dear daughter had managed to sneeze and spit up an extreme amount of that slut stuff.

You must know the kind by now. It looks like three bean sauce, but all, neon fuschia and shit. Chunky, viscous, drippy. Gets everywhere. Gets in your brains, sometimes, if you’re not careful.

“Scuse-y,” Brandi chirped. Her momma looked on in free flowing horror at the thick electric soup, now coating her own heavy new boobs. “Brandy, I just bought this b—ouse!”

Yes. She HAD just purchased this lacey thing, and even at this very same Kitty Bubble, earlier in the week. “Never-you-mind, honey chile. Never you mine.”