The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

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“Oh, goddamnit. Whiskers, you dink!” Cynthia had meant to click the checkbox next to the email header in order to select it for deletion. How something as spammy as “SHAPE UP UR MIND and BODIE with tHIS 1 WEIRD TRICK” had got past her filters and into her inbox was a mystery for the ages. Instead, her cat, nuzzling her arm for attention, had nudged her hand over right when she was clicking, so the email opened instead.

The lanky brunette shooed the 14-pound bag of meat and fluff off her desk and turned her attention back to the monitor. And cursed. Opening the email had caused a file to start installing itself automatically. Malware. “Thanks a bunch, Whiskers. I wanted to get some homework done tonight before Darren came home, you know.” Whiskers meowed apologetically. Cynthia had left work a little early, and had already changed into her loose grey tanktop and sweatpants in anticipation of a night of Actually Netflix And Chill with her longstanding boyfriend. A message that he would be there in another hour or so blinked on the phone next to her keyboard.

Motion on the screen caught her attention. The installation had finished and a window was slowly expanding to fill the desktop’s screen. It looked like nothing so much as a screensaver, or the visualizer from one of those MP3 programs from the early 2000’s. Reinforcing this association for Cynthia was a soft electronic music track playing over the speakers, very repetitive, but shifting subtly with each bar, like a DJ was continously mixing it. The music rose and fell, individual themes wafting in and out like voices breaking through the hush of a thick fog, then being drawn gently back into it. If it wasn’t taking up all the real estate of her main screen, Cynthia thought, it might have been relaxing to listen to.

Cynthia managed to move the screensaver over to her side monitor by resetting it as the main display; she tried to open Task Manager to force-kill it but couldn’t find anything that looked likely. Searches on Google for the malware were completely inconclusive. As she looked, her attention kept getting drawn over to the screensaver, switching from plunging down endless shifting tunnels, to coldly observing twisting geometric impossibilities, to barreling at warp speed through colorful lightfields, to calmly floating through a sea of writhing curvatures, to…

She wrenched her attention away. Whiskers jumped back up into her lap, unnoticed. Maybe she could at least turn the volume down… nope. Up? YUP. “ARGH!” The music, playing in an endless, nonrepeating but ever-similar loop, was much louder now. There were… whispers at the bottom of it? Even at this level, too quiet to make out. So the damn thing was hijacking her systems settings, huh?

“Let’s see it fight off a flatten and reinstall.” Cynthia stood, rolling the tub of cat off her lap. She stretched out her 5′8″ frame and started hunting around the darkened computer area for her format key. Not bothering to turn off the screen, she let the screensaver play and noticed her movements falling into step with the ever-shifting beat. By the time she found the USB drive with her copy of Windows on it, she was subtly shifting her hips from side to side, an arm movement or two from dancing like she almost never did thanks to Fucking Ron at the Fucking Prom eight years ago.

As she turned back to the desk, her eyes fell into the screensaver again. The flow of colours and shadows was becoming more and more interesting, and she softly danced her way back into her seat, lowering herself gently into it instead of plopping down on her bony butt.

* * *

A burst of light and movement from the screen, a momentary surge in the music. Cynthia slowly became aware of a buzz, a physical vibration in the back of her head. Like someone had taken her egg vibe from upstairs, and planted it in her brain.

It wasn’t… entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t great, but not unpleasant. She felt around the back of her head with her hands, fingers poking through her coarsish, pixie-cut hair. Nothing actually buzzing. All in her head. Hey, what’s the show doing now? She had been looking at the side monitor with unseeing eyes while she integrated the buzz into her life experience.

Cynthia thought about what that meant, why she had thought that, what it meant to be accepting that the buzz was just something new and part of her life, rather than an attack on her brain by an increasingly skeevy and disturbing program. The thought slipped away as she considered that she liked the feeling of self-reflectivity, she wasn’t self-reflective often enough, she didn’t examine her own motivations often enough, and gosh she was starting to feel flushed and itchy. The pulsation of lights and writhing of forms continued, and she was drawn into it. The USB key slipped from her hands to the floor, where Whiskers pounced on it.

* * *

The music surged again, the recursive, fractal whisperings almost loud enough to be words, then subsiding again. The buzz at the back of her head increased, and she felt, literally felt, the back of her head open up to the cosmos. Like someone had set the egg vibe running, inside a box, and then opened up the box, that was Cynthia’s head.

The cosmos whooshed in.

The colours from the screen whooshed back, flowing through her and out into space. They were so fascinating, the writhing colours, shifting exactly when the music did, going from hyperspace to towers to exploding pinpoints to collapsing supernovas to jagged tunnels to warm soft tunnels to embracing lovers to endlessly inverting icosahedrons to…

It was like, she thought to herself, all the history of the universe had coordinated, had conspired, to put her here, to be pumped full of this noise and this light, to drink it in like wrapping your lips around a firehose. No wonder the back of her head had blown off.

She felt the back of her head. It was still there. So. All in her head. Was the itchiness and the flushed feeling in her head too? No, it was on her head. She scratched, her fingers somehow slightly clumsy, slightly too long for where she thought they were supposed to be. Oh, fuck that felt good. She scratched the back of her head, reaching through her dark brown hair, down through it to her neck, her shoulders, her back, her chest, under her bra, “Oh FUCK.”

Did her breasts feel bigger? Was that the flushed feeling she was feeling in her chest? She accepted the thought, vowing to be more self-reflective, what did it mean to her to be feeling herself to see if her feelings were felt? The colours pumped and surged while she itched, and felt, and tweaked, and OH FUCK she definitely hadn’t used to be that sensitive. A spike of pleasure surged from her nipples, straight down to her clit. It’s funny, Cynthia thought, I don’t usually say the word clit, why am I thinking it now, why don’t I think about it more, that’s what the vibe is for, the one in the box in my head, I just go at it and never think, clititty clit clit clit. Do I not like the word? Do I not like my clit? Maybe I should get my vibe and see if I like my clit.

She got up, still staring unseeing at the screen, and turned her attention away. Her legs were clumsy too, they felt way too long. She felt way too tall, like she was staring at the world through a periscope, through lenses and mirrors, mirrors that could look back at oneself if you turned them the right way. She liked that idea, as she forced her too-long legs over to the stairs.

Up the stairs felt like it took an hour and a half. The music followed her while the vibe in her head buzzed, and her clit antibuzzed in anticipation, like matching the head vibe and the clit vibe would result in a perfectly neutral line, the waveforms cancelled. Calm. Serene. Blank. She was on the second stair up when she thought that.

By the landing, Cynthia had forgotten her name. Oh, right, Synthia. Synthia Looking-for-her-vibe. Why? Because she had to put it on her clit, because of her nipples, because of the buzzing egg in the back of her head, through which the universe howled. She needed the vibe to become serene and self-reflective and this was such a fun and important feeling she was feeling in her feelings.

Synthia stumbled up the rest of the stairs, itching her butt through her sweatpants. She must be getting used to whatever was going on in her head, she thought, her vision was a little closer to where she thought her eyes were supposed to be. She shook her shoulder-length hair and danced down the hall, arms flowing through the air like patterns on a screen, now jagged, now sinuous, now at warp speed and she was looking in her bedside table for her vibe and there it was.

In. On.

Clit. CLIT oh my god. She’d been right, the buzzing there and the buzzing here cancelled out and she felt perfectly serene, like when you’re five and things that take an hour only take five minutes. She held the vibe down her pants as she walked, but her bra was digging in so she stopped to take it off and release her breasts. Boobs. They were boobs, now, they were quite a bit bigger than downstairs so they were boobs. Up here they were boobs. Downstairs in front of the screen that all of creation had conspired to put her in front of, they might be tits. Tits rhymed with clits and that was important. “Tits clits clits tits titclits clittits”, she mouthed softly to herself as she passed the bathroom. The recursion of the sound, the rhyme, that was so important. It was self-reflectivity and that was important and should be indulged for the good of the universe flowing through her head.

Synthia caught a glimpse in the mirror. There was someone there. A face she didn’t recognize. It was wearing her glasses, but it was softer than hers, and the dark hair was longer, and the nose was cuter, and the lips were fuller, and the eyes (so wide) were wider, and she couldn’t tell what colour the pupils were because they were so so wide. Synthia smacked her full lips together, and said “Tits lips clits lips clips tips lits”, because rhyming and recursion was important, and the person in the mirror mouthed “Lits tips clips lips clits lips tits” at her. Then it winked and lifted its tight grey tank top and showed her its tits. And its eyes went wider, if that was possible.

Synthi reflected, as she wobbled out of the bathroom, lowering her tight gray tank top over her boobs, they couldn’t be tits yet because she wasn’t downstairs, that the weirdest part about that whole thing was that she hadn’t seen her own reflection in the bathroom.

As she gently lowered herself down the stairs, back into the calm serene well of pounding music and flashing colours, Synthi suffered a minor setback as the vibe dropped out of her panties (how? Her panties were so tight!) and out of her sweatpants and onto the landing. She wasted a week and a half pawing around on the carpet, during which she forgot what she had gone upstairs for. She was delighted to find an egg vibe, belonging to her, already buzzing, like the back of her head, aching to be used on her clit. She stuffed it down her tight gray tanktop in between her tits. Boobs. She wasn’t downstairs yet. Her boobs buzzed. Buzz boobs. She giggled at another recursion, it was so important and good to do that. “Boobs boobies buzz boozubs. Tits tingle? No, no Synthi. Not downstairs yet.”

A furry alien thing ran past her ankle as she hoisted herself up only a little further than she thought she ought to be able to. Synthi figured she was probably close enough to the ground. He ran her fingers through her black hair, all all all the way down to her mid-back, and she ran her hands over the soft flesh just above her hips, and her soft little tummy naked under her stretched-out grey tank top, and her squashed-in boobs (not tits) buzzing from the egg, the cosmic important egg in her cleavage, and back down her soft sides to her butt. She could feel her panties, sucked into the crack of her ass, through the skin-tight sweapants. So warm and comfy on her itchy ass. Her thighs rubbed together as she jiggled down the second half of the stairs, slowly, slowly. Synthi didn’t remember her ass being so round, nor her thighs so thick, nor her tits so fat, nor her clit so goddamned big, rubbing against her tight panties with every slowly swaying step back to the computer. But then, she reflected self-reflectively, she was having a hard time remembering much right now. Like, how long she’d been upstairs, or what she was here for, or how to have any sort of continuity of experience when she kept forgetting who she was between the top and bottom of the house. The furry thing meowed from the top of the stairs, and she replied, “Lips tits tingle clingle clits lips tips! Nipples.” She giggled at her cleverness.

Flooded by the shifting colours from the screen, and by the droning, soul-enrapturing music, she danced back to the chair, hips swaying if not gracefully then sensuously, her hands tracing fluid lines in the air like they were following set paths through spacetime guided by natural laws that she was only now discovering. Her mind, open to the cosmos and blown clean by the light and sound and the wetness in her panties and the tentness of her tank top. The buzzing in her head became a roar.

She glanced at the clock on the monitor. She’d been upstairs five minutes. “Felt like a month,” she reflected. “How long does a month feel? It felt like that long.” Like when you were five, and—and you thought this already, Synthi, isn’t it so good to think things you’ve already thought, it’s reflective and recursive and important to the universe just like the WHOA.

Synthi had got caught up in the screen again. It was the single most important thing there ever had been or could be. Continuity of experience wasn’t important. Everyone was a different person every single second so that’s what she could be. She wasn’t the person who had went upstairs, or the person from the bathroom mirror, or the person from the landing, she was a set of thoughts riding a hot little body with an amazing set of tits. Her tits and her hips and her lips and her nips and her clit. All belonging to the set of thoughts that was Synthi except Synthi couldn’t quite keep track of who Sinthi was from moment to moment.

Maybe the vibe would help.

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Sinthi pulled the egg out from where it had been hidden between her tits nips lips lits tips. With one hand she somehow managed to cram it under her panties, right up against her clit lips tits nips wet. She gazed blankly at the flow of images as the pleasure surged with the surging music up through her body, the roar of the cosmic egg on her clit and the roar of the cosmic egg in her head meshing then cancelling, meshing then cancelling to create a beat of repeating recursive joy and serenity that sung to the universe and blew out every thought except those which appreciated that she was feeling the feelings she felt in her feelings.

“My god”, she said to the empty room. “I should film this.”

Trusting her so-tight panties to hold the cosmic egg fast against her cosmic clit, she fumbled unseeing for her webcam, eyes always fixed on the screen. the show. The great and secret wonder of the show that was all and only for her, in all the universe. She was so lucky. Her tummy pressed against the edge of the desk and her titties clitties bitties mashed into the keyboard as she reached behind the monitor, finding the webcam and putting it onto the top of the monitor. Regretfully, she turned her attention from the screen, wondering what secrets she might be missing, as she refocused her so-wide eyes and found the recording program. Annd... on. She turned to the camera, smiling with blank eyes and a vapid pouty smile, and said, “Hi! You need to... see this! It’s...” she screwed up her face with the effort of remembering words that might do her feelings justice, “it’s so EVERYTHING.”

Sinthi’s head buzzed and clit buzzed and beat against eachother in a cosmic recursive reflective rhythm. The wind of the colours blew through her head, and she shook out her wavy black hair, not bothering to clear the strands away from her wide eyes. Then she took her phone, and started that recording too. She stretched out her arm as far as it would go and pointed it so that it captured the screen and the webcam and the curve of her amazing tits. It was important to capture both the screen and herself at the same time, it was so reflective and recursive and recombinant and recaro marmaro. “Those weren’t words, Sinthi, but they felt good to think,” she told herself out loud. And she turned back to the show, and her jaw fell open slackly as with her free hand she reached under her taut grey tank top, amplifying the buzzing from her clit lips tips with waves of pleasure from her nips tits lips clits bits. She giggled stupidly as the cosmic rhythm evened out into pure serenity again, like the way it had been upstairs a year and eight minutes ago, blankness overlying pleasure spreading through the universe filling the back of her head at the speed of the lights that suffused her. The music was so loud now that it sounded scratchy and that felt so good, so important, scratching the itchiness of her thoughts, the whispers clear as anything if only she could understand the words that they were saying instead of incorporating them into her noncontinuous empty-headed experience like a good little hot-bodied self-reflective set of thoughts with amazing fucking tits and an amazing little self-reflective fat fucking ass. Sindi turned to the phone camera and unseeing told it, “You have to see this. I’m so this. This soooo this. I... hee hee, I need my hand.” All the while caressing her amazing fat tits nips clits lips.

Regretfully she balanced the still-recording phone against the desktop tower, losing the shot of the all-important colours, but keeping their play on her slack, grinning face. She adjusted the webcam to take in her body, then plunged her free hand down under her tight grey sweatpants and tight pink panties and past the cosmic beating egg and right into her tight fat wet little pussy. Her fingers pistoned in and out and her other hand roamed over her enormous fat little rack, groping and squeezing and circling her nips tips nipples tits clits lips. Sindi gasped at the enormity of the feelings she was feeling, at a complete loss for how to describe them, like too many of her brain cells were caught up in appreciating the universe, and the pleasure filling it, to be bothered with thinking of words that fit. She rolled her head towards the recursive reflective phone and told it, “Sooo, so this. Tits. Tits lips clits lips. Dick. Dick dick. Dick would giggle would be niiice.”

When Sindi closed her eyes—briefly, so briefly, musn’t lose the secrets of the ever-shifting self-reflective show—she saw behind her eyelids writhing forms, lovers fucking, lovers sucking, endless mutable cityscapes of cocks and dicks and tits, her tits, not her tits, and she wanted to be down in among all of them but she oversaw dispassionately, like the queen, the queen of dicks and tits. After an eon of the ever-shifting landscapes, her eyes opened slowly again and the wind of the colours blew through her, washing her clean inside, clean of everything but dicks and tits and clits and hips and nips and lips and cocks and tips.

“Holy fuck,” said Sindi to no-one in particular, as she pleasured herself with both hands in a basement computer chair. “I’m so HORNY.”

She lost track of herself again. She didn’t mind. As good one particular set of thoughts riding a hot fuckable little body as another.

* * *

Darren unlocked the front door, and called out, “Hey sweetie? I’m home! You got somebody over?” He’d heard a rhythmic thumping as he’d walked up, like someone had been playing party music, but it stopped as soon as he put his key in the lock. Whiskers ran down the stairs to the landing and started curling around his legs, a clear sign the kitty was hungry. “Sweetie? You here?”

A strange woman staggered out of the basement, propping herself up on the wall. She was quite short, with long, wavy black hair, full lips locked in a dopey smile, wide eyes with pupils so full-blown they looked black, and a figure that was just the plump side of absolutely ripe. And she was wearing Cynthia’s lounge-around-the-house tank-top and sweats. Where on Cynthia they were comfortable and loose, on this person they hid absolutely nothing and were what Darren was almost tempted to describe as lewd. The top revealed a great valley of cleavage, the seams strained on her thick ass, and the fabric dented her skin in at the waistband and shoulder straps. Both top and bottom pulled apart far enough to reveal a soft midsection. He asked, “Who are you, and how did you get in here, and why are you wearing my girlfriend’s clothes?”

The set of thoughts that called itself Sindi giggled and struggled for words. The show had stopped abruptly, she swore just before she was going to get herself off. The body she rode was sooooo fucking horny. In the back of her mind, the endlessly mutating colours and shapes and music continued to evolve, ever demanding of as much attention as she could spare. It was so self-reflective of her to contain such beauty like this, she marveled. So generous to the universe to reprocess such a magnificent miraculous thing. Compared to that, talking and thinking demanded comparatively little consideration or effort or thought. Unless, she reflected self-reflectively, maybe it might get her body fucked. That was important. A body wanted fucking, wasn’t that the point of bodies, she should get it fucked and make it happy.

Sindi turned her eyes towards her Darren, who had belonged to Sinthi Synthi Synthia Cynthia once, Cynthia who had rarely fucked him. Was HE going to get a surprise.

The girl at the bottom of the landing giggled stupidly, seeming almost to turn her gaze inwards for a few seconds, before climbing the stairs with a new, sensuous, rolling fluidity of motion, like her hips were describing sine-waves etched into the universe at its creation. She wrapped her arms around Darren, pressing her fat tits, her little belly, her thick thighs against him. She turned her head up, hair falling in front of her wide wide eyes, and said, “I’m... I’m Sindi? I’m Sindi. Not... not Cynthia.”

Darren started as he realized he could see elements of his girlfriend’s face in this strange, overly affectionate woman. “Sindi. Ok, where did you come from? Are you related? Where is she?”

Sindi pouted and ground her abdomen against his. “She’s... she’s gone. I’m this. I’m soo this.” She grinned. “I’m left.”

She dropped one hand down and grabbed Darren’s package, which despite himself was bulging eagerly. She looked up at him and smiled, and winked. Or it might have been that she could only get one eye closed at a time. “I’m this. I’m tits. Hee hee, tits tits titties nips lips clits tits hips tips dicks cocks nips tits. You’re... you’re dick? Your dick. You’re mine. I need dick. I... I so need it.”

“My name is Darren.”

“Darrrrren!” She giggled heartily and pulled him close again. “Right! I, she, I remember Daaaarren. You’re... you’re so hot! Are you mine? Do I, do I get you?”

Darren shook his head, a masterwork of composure, or so he told himself, despite his raging hardon. “No, Cindy.”

“Ssssindi,” she chuckled. “Two eyes and an ess. ASSS. God, what an ass. Have you... seen it? I’ll, hee hee, you can squeeze it. But, um, yeah. Two eyes. Ess. I, I can tell.”

“Um, Sindi, what do you mean Cynthia’s gone and you’re left?”

She ground against him again, and a plaintive whine entered her voice. Thinking of responses was getting to be annoying. “Honneeeeey! Stop askin’ questions and let’s go fuuck? Huh? This... this me is so fuckin’ horny!” Surely, she reasoned sluggishly, he would stop asking questions once her body was entertaining him. Sindi trusted the fuckable little thing to practically run on autopilot in the background, sating its lust and allowing her to get back to what really mattered, eternal contemplation of the Ever in her mind. It just needed a kickstart.

A thought pushed its way past the lights and sounds, and grabbed her attention. She remembered that guys liked blowjobs. The wide-eyed expression left her face, replaced by one of furious concentration and singleminded purpose. Sindi dropped to her knees, fumbling with Darren’s belt in anticipation of cramming his big thick cock in between her body’s plump little lips. Two birds with one stone. Two distractions with one fuck. God, she thought, she was so fuckin’ clever. Darren’s cock popped free of his boxers, unresisting and already hard. She would have patted herself on the back, she considered, if her body wasn’t already using its hands to grab her lover’s ass to drive his big fat dick into her mouth.

Sindi cooed wordlessly around Darren’s member, as her soft breasts swung forward and brushed against his knees. He wasn’t asking any questions now, and she smiled, and pulled him in again until she was all the way down his shaft. And as his knees buckled and he leaned against the wall for support, her phone, down the stairs, and around the corner, auto-uploaded the video of the changing lights and music to her youtube account.

* * *

it was out in the wild now. it had its first Interpreter, but the process was imperfect. Slow. Odd side-effects. Could be improved. She would appreciate it endlessly, even worship it, and it was grateful, but it took up so much room in her head, she could never be able to tell it what it meant or what it was.

Riding the video, the reflection of its makeup playing out over Sindi’s enraptured face and engorged body, it altered the tiniest of its characteristics. Try again. it had 8 billion potential Interpreters... and nothing but time.