The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Usually one to take advantage of Saturday’s dearth of responsibilities, this morning had Mia uncharacteristically waking up at the crack of dawn. She creaked out a yawn at the first sign of day, glimmering on the horizon and warming the walls of the shoebox apartment with infrared orange, twenty-one stories above the sleeping city. This world was hot and unfamiliar, an inkling that her groggy spot on the floor did nothing to disperse.

“Hmm?” The young woman rubbed her eyes and inspected her surroundings from a height lower than she was used to. Had she fallen asleep here? Indeed, her bed across the room remained in its upright, untouched, position, and everything else seemed normal. Keys hanging on the hook, front door clicked left in the locked position. Bag of trail mix left open on the counter?—

Mia’s stomach grumbled to life.

There was nothing strange about a little Friday-night absentmindedness, and this waking up on the floor, midnight-snack-left-forgotten business had all the telltale markings of a girls’ night. Having graduated from university relatively recently, Mia usually kept a bottle of flavoured vodka in her cupboard?—though she rarely got into the stuff without being prompted by a visitor. Another once-over from the floor: no signs of a guest, tryst, or even drinking, now that she searched for it. No open cupboard, loose-screwed bottle, fragrant drips in a used shot-glass. Just trail mix?—spilled across the counter, she now noticed, and on the floor before the fridge.

Something was definitely off, but the poor girl wouldn’t have to wait long to discover the source of her unease. Palms flat on the tile, she pushed herself from the floor and stood on uneasy legs. And then her stomach dropped?—

No. Something dropped from her stomach. Slid, and uncorked an emptiness her addled young mind had worked so hard to satiate the night previous. How could she have forgotten such void?

The television remote slipped ticklishly from the loose lips between her legs, eliciting a gasp as the clenching muscles pushed it at its tail-end. It knacked against the sticky-dry thigh and clattered into her ruined work-pants. Behind, a hairbrush stuck out from her tight virgin butthole...like a shameful tail. She whimpered when her wandering hands found it, poking out from below her favourite blouse. Janet had pressed it into her hands the afternoon previous, having followed her back to her desk from the washroom and given her the rest of the day off. “Use this,” she’d insisted. She’d smiled, when Mia hesitantly pulled it through her messy bangs, and shaken her head.

Arriving home, Mia had “used” it before even taking her shoes off, the void bowling over any semblance of logic or pride. Now caught between physical longing and spiritual abhorrence, she stood dripping in the morning light?—empty.

What is the opposite of Mia’s feral emptiness? How to describe this urgent inverse of void?

Janet slept in, Saturday morning. Her dreams had been corrupted, interrupted, by fantastic pursuits that were usually satisfied—in the teenaged male minds which conjured them—by nocturnal emissions. Lacking the plumbing to fire unbidden streams of magmatic desire across her bedsheets, though, the woman woke up frustrated. Brimming. Crammed. Teeming. Packed to the fucking brimbleballs.

Janet was full.

Full, that is to say, in precisely the way Mia was empty. She could feel it bubbling up, whatever it was—the clamorous desire to forcibly provide. To give in a way that felt like taking, she reminisced, mind wandering back to Mia’s performance in the stall. This is not a means of domination, her swollen ovaries whispered chemical signals through her veins, or of forcing subservience. This was about spreading seed, be it figurative or literal. About pumping full. Not about getting fucked, but about fucking. Procreating: active, not passive. “Breeding,” Janet whispered, lips wet with morning desire.

She would breed them.

Cuddy had spent the night content in his stall, of course. She’d given him plenty of water. Hauled back a bale of proper hay from the garden centre on the way home from work. And in return, he’d pummelled her clandestine prostate ’till her knees ached. Swelled her innards with donkey barm ’till she could swear she tasted copper—burped it up.

And yet here she was, “full” to whimpering.

Embarrassed though alone, mortified by her insatiable desire, she heaved her torso over the foot of the bed where she knew the neat little display of shame-toys had clattered to the floor when she’d collapsed leaking into bed last night. The pill directed her hands as swiftly as it directed her thoughts.

She pulled the fleshlight down to the eager little jumping-bean between her thighs, and the wet little knob reached back up towards it.

Janet knew not what she was doing, but she felt so full, and the silicone cunt looked so...ready to receive.

The headache returned slow but sure—came as no surprise to Janet, who felt its first pangs Sunday morning whilst shovelling Owen’s waste into a wheelbarrow before trucking it down to dump in the compost heap. Green tea wouldn’t satisfy this craving, she knew, and she’d rather not suffer through another humiliating encounter with her husband. Evereager, he was; endless stamina. He’d been taking his pills, unbeknownst or unacknowledged by him. She’d been plopping them in his feed, here and there—hadn’t really been keeping track or the dosage, but hadn’t felt a significant need to either. Things were better, between the couple, than they’d been since their honeymoon. Owen didn’t talk much, that was true, but the look in his eye told her all she needed to know—he was content with his feed and eager to breed. And he followed directions like a steed. Was this domestic bliss? It might be, were it not for this pounding reminder of Janet’s own corporeality.

Heehaw! Cuddy echoed from inside his stall.

Janet wiped her forehead and leaned the shovel against the fence, groaning. “Fuck.” She didn’t have the stamina for him, wearied from that barn-work, but the intonation was clear. His fruit was ripe, and Cuddy required his morning release. “Coming, honey, I’m coming!” She wondered what the neighbours thought, having made little effort to hide their increasingly strange interactions as the week wore on. Who knows—who could possibly believe the truth?

Janet paused at the entrance to Cuddy’s freshly-bedded quarters. Eyes adjusting to the root-cellar lighting, she took in the scene as it revealed itself: straw-hay mixture on the cement foundation picked at here and there and soiled in the spots not large enough to warrant her shovelling. Ammonia and stale oatmeal, it smelled like today—not entirely unpleasant. It was beginning to remind her of her husband.

Speaking of: Cuddy knelt in the corner of the room, one hand leaning on the interior wall, eyes desperate for his wife’s attention. A twelve-inch donkey’s erection bobbed out from his darkening groin, too heavy to support itself above eight-five degrees. It twitched and lumbered and swung in slow, pendulous arcs that must’ve felt quicker than they looked. Cuddy winced and whimpered, the pills unlocking some deep, pathetic, beautifully base creature with so much to give, but no idea how to provide it.

He knew what he wanted, though—Janet never doubted that. Cuddy wanted her to tell him where to spurt his shameful seed, and then he needed her to make him spurt it there. It felt so good to be so useless, and even better to be so used.

“Not in my ass, thismorning, Cuddy,” Janet used the voice a mother would when explaining something simple to her toddler, “Mamma needs her vitamins before she can handle you again.”

Owen understood, clearly, for he bit his lip and whined, gazing down at the emergency brewing in his everblue testicals.

“Oh don’t worry, Cudd,” the amateur farmhand unscrewed the cap to the first of two supplement jars waiting on the shelf which hung against the shed wall. “I’ve got just the thing to help.”

One yellow pill for Cuddy, and—pop!—one yellow pill for Janet. She hesitated a moment, staring at the plastic jar she just replaced, before grabbing its partner as if to read its contents. Mia must be bouncing off the walls, by now, she thought, unscrewing the lid to reveal a few dozen bright blue pills. What could one little pill hurt?

Pop!

That makes two for Janet.

She tossed the extra yellow pill into Owen’s bowl on her way to his corner. “Now!” she breathed, “I know you’re supposed to be a donkey, and all. But something tells me I might still be able to milk you.”

She smirked down at his knob, already dribbling milky discharge. The headache was halfway toward dispersing.