The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I think we have one more question from the gentleman in the back. Yes.”

A spindly dweeb clad in all black approached the microphone.

The thing immediately screeched, wailing throughout the nearly empty lecture hall, like it was allergic to whatever he was about to say.

Astrid Pierce, guest speaker and director of “American Angels, Sensible Satans,” the #1 documentary in theaters and on-demand digital markets, winced. She grumbled quite obviously, waiting for the feedback to stop.

Apparently, this university hadn’t sprung for anyone to man the audio station, let alone advertise the event.

Hers was the top-selling message movie nowadays, and they were treating her like a fusty old relic. It was weird.

She had to remind the moderator about this fact. He was pretty thoughtful and diplomatic, but also surprised her with the slyly chauvinistic aside : she had “done great work for cinema, but even greater work for feminism.”

Why couldn’t the two great things be great together?

It was hard to overlook as he said it, but after a few minutes, she eased up. He was not the enemy. She was in a safe space. Phew!

She had been specifically invited because she was making important movies about equality for women. It wasn’t as if he was asking her where her tits were, or something.

Even at a time when people just weren’t biting, and being top dog simply meant you squeezed more than a puny 5,000 sales out of an uninterested and uncaring market, the low turnout was still a shitty feeling. It really, really sucked to see the twenty or so people scattered about the hall.

Astrid peered out past the rows of sparsely filled seats, and she sighed. It was lucky that she still had decent management, and that she was paid in advance for this engagement.

She shuddered to think of what her peers in political art had been forced to do, to keep the publicity popping, grateful she didn’t have to book events at bars and living rooms. Yet.

My work has been featured on PBS and HBO, I wrote features for Rolling Stone, won two Emmys. I got nominated for twice as many Oscars, and now...

The director caught sight of the hopeful kid. She looked almost identical to the gaunt geek, like two morose birch trees, silently eulogizing an anorexic’s funeral. In spite of herself, she grinned.

They even had the same close-cropped, unkempt curly hair, though hers was flecked with gray. An ally! Probably.

Dressing nearly the same too (aside from her wearing a skully cap and differently tinted, but still translucent granny-rimmed glasses like his), she gladly steeled herself to take the kind of incisive question she was sure to get twenty of... at a better attended screening.

...but that was all before.

Before five years ago. Before America, and indeed most of the western world now, had all but been destroyed.

Before treasured, long-standing tenets of society were upended, perverted by an upstart movement in the religious right. A movement that proved successful in setting gender equality back hundreds, if not thousands of years.

Before the electoral commissions formed by the neo-conservative Family + Fertility coalition—with its strong ties to billionaire hedge funds, anti-choice and corn syrup lobbyists, not to mention media content providers, themselves big players in the fast food industry—transformed not only the minds that struggled for women’s rights, but all of their bodies, too. . .

Enlightened, progressive men were all acquiring aggressively ripped bodybuilder’s physiques out of nowhere, even if they were out of shape and sedentary.

Skinny vegan lesbians were turning into thick-hipped flirts around these new hunks. Big and dumb was the new norm.

It wasn’t long before they all lied to themselves. They were intrepidly convinced that taking the men and say, sandwiching their “can’t help it” hardons between their freshly grown breasts, wasn’t simply not insane or horrifying, or gender-normative, but that it was feminist.

Soon enough, the mutated in America made new moms and dads out of themselves, sealing their fate as slaves to the patriarchy, the very same patriarchy they had fought tooth and nail against, in some cases for decades.

It took a quarter of the United States’ population to become infected with the incurable (if frustratingly health-beneficial and physically rejuvenating) Family Way Flu.

For Astrid, and the rest of those first Family Way Fighters, it took real patience and resolve, to assert themselves and demand productive answers.

Research teams armed themselves with gloves and surgical masks (as she and this student were, in fact, both wearing this evening) and travelled to the hardest-hit metropolitan areas, in order to better comprehend the biological and social machinations of this epidemic.

However, disparate elements caused some friction within the resistance. Data seemed maddening in its inconsistency, and only proved to gum up all momentum.

New, happily breeding Christian converts were popping up everywhere, and any correlations with regard to ethnicity, location, or financial status were foggy, and elusive.

Speaking of gum as one example, F.W.F. thought they’d isolated one particular brand of bubblegum that was believed to be a major contributor in cases of extreme mammary development. TrueChew, “the proper Christian bubble.”

Women who bought it regularly in Atlanta were reporting increases of three to four cup sizes, over the course of as little as nine days.

But what seemed like hard evidence was softening, and just as quickly as the wills and tummies of our nation’s most fiercely independent females...

Staunch proponents of organics, locally grown produce and humanely slaughtered meat in places like Portland or Seattle, though, when surveyed, swore they rejected any corporate product and hadn’t so much as sampled TrueChew.

And yet, through all their abstaining, there wasn’t a flat-chested woman within city limits that the F.W.F. brigade had studied.

No one woman measured in all major cities in the pacific northwest wore anything less than a G cup, now, if they chose to bind their gravity-defying new accoutrements at all.

It seemed like left-leaning cities were the most afflicted, no matter how little revenue made it to the shell companies that were distributing these new candies and beauty products in these areas.

And so, through tireless and expensive work, funded mostly through tenuous Hollywood connections (that were dwindling with each new case of the “breeder’s bug”), it wasn’t until the previous year that anyone knew anything with certainty.

It was thought that perhaps in locally-oriented economies, mind control through media was working in tandem with a tainted water supply. No one dared think of the real story, staring them in the face. . .

But inevitably, it was established that the technology responsible for those ubiquitous watermarked video subliminals... the low-flying drones thought, and then guaranteed to be huffing all manner of “missionary molecule” hormone trails...

And the consumable feminine products, all of it could be traced back to a small Pennsylvania compound called Cherub Cove.

F.W.F. equipped itself with a strong moviemaking arm right out of the gate, since the slide toward an image-based culture had careened into a freefall.

Astrid and her ilk were forced to compete on a cinematic playing field that was exponentially dominated by 3-D cock-and-jug comedies.

Movies like hers were lucky to even find good homes on the arthouse screens near off-the-beaten-path liberal arts colleges. Obviously, this too wasn’t the case half the time.

“Shit,” Astrid remarked as the painful squall of feedback finally dissipated, and she broke out of her silent lamentations. “I’m just glad that you’re the last one. I’m really looking forward to checking out your noise show after we wrap up here.”

She was in a jokey mood. She discreetly pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t in a dopey mood. She shook her head. How long was that insanely loud trill boomeranging around the room?

The meager collegiate crowd chuckled along with the moderator as did the shy student. Astrid could feel herself getting hot underneath the flimsy paper of her mask.

She usually wore a heavy-duty vinyl one wherever she went, but thought of this place as a safety zone and chose accordingly.

Now, the thing was starting to feel like wearing three of the better ones, and she almost felt suffocated.

Now, it was slowly dawning on her that the previous “safety zone” that she’d worn the cheaper mask to, was an all-girls small Ivy, that had just gone co-ed and Christian in the ten months since she spoke there.

The skinny dude shuffled away from the mic a bit and leaned his head back, timid. Astrid unconsciously mimicked the action and unhinged her crossed legs, letting them fall right open.

Stop it! Her brain screamed at them, once she noticed.

“Hi. I’m a junior here for film studies, and I just want to let you know that I really appreciated this documentary. We’ve known that the hard-right art circles haven’t been—”

“Uh, yeah,” she huffed. It was getting hard for her to think the right way. And why was that? Get it together, Astrid. “Yeah, it is, you fuggin’ cute—uh, Q-n-A. Smart! ...boy. I mean, cutie. I mean, Q-n-A cutie, heh heh.” omigod SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. NOW!

Everyone guffawed at her. She didn’t think to be embarrassed, and simply breathed in, hot and sharp. . .

Where was this kind of enthusiasm when she was railing at length about the supreme court’s recent overturning of women’s suffrage! It was time to spin it in her favor, somehow.

“No shit. That’s why with this new movie I’m working on—my first, well, semi-narrative fiction film—we plan to take the diagetic leanings of Cowboy Candy, and for that matter, all the other studios in charge of making and distributing Man Plan’s Americhristian propaganda films that you and I know and loathe, and to further heighten the reality therein, while simultaneously illuminating the absurdities of the human condition as in the harsh fourescence of it being trampled upon, then re-inflated, and... ballooned... to... boo....bs.“

What’s that smell?! “Hot... .“

Someone came charging in from the rear exit at the top of the auditorium, propping the door open, as if waiting for other people. Soon there were three guys there.

“Uh, that is to say, The Church of St. Brittany is like, um, omigosh, SO wet—”

Five weeks into production, the picture was barfing money. Reshoots weren’t just expensive in dollar signs. This much was becoming clear.

Things like meticulously recreating shots, to match ones already long in the can—typically, shots at the bottom of lush hills and at just the right moment of magic hour—were draining on everyone in the cast and crew, too.

What felt like three years was now already over three and a half months of shooting just the same shit. Bad, bad, bad.

There were rumors on sites like FilmComment, and in the last of the print trade magazines, that the film might sink. Astrid—or Assterpiece, one name that she insisted on being referred to as ‘—wasn’t doing herself much good. . .

Lindsey Logan was now the third big name attached to play the lead role of Sandy, in the pastoral and atmospheric film Sundown Bridal.

Worst of all, Astrid had gone and gotten herself infected. Family way fucked. “So what do you think now, Ms. Artist?“

She didn’t think much of anything, even if she could have, like ever. The morning after bimbo blaster wasn’t a contraceptive by any stretch of a girl’s imagination . . .