The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sunday night, of all nights, should’ve been less crowded than this. Mia bashfully clasped her canteen before her crotch between both hands, an unconscious measure of modest ignominy. She stood at the entrance to her apartment building’s lobby-floor gym, intimidated by the two-hundred-something people who, rightly, seemed not to have noticed her. And why should they? For all they knew, she wore the same basic outfit she donned to the gym every other weeknight?—capris-length leggings and a neck-high, rib-low sports bra to keep her humble chest in check.

This room?—a solid third of the building’s main floor?—was usually sparsely populated this late in the evening. Mia had been craving a cycle or two on the exercise bike in relative privacy, hoping to get her thoughts in order. Or at least she thought that’s what she was craving. But who can trust wayward thoughts, themselves the obstacle, to sire arrow-straight solutions?

She might’ve decided against the session altogether if it weren’t for the woman who bumped into her from behind, clearing her throat and muttering a dismissive “s’cuse me” as she passed, one hand grazing the small of Mia’s back. The mortified coordinator stumbled forward, realizing she’d been blocking the entrance for three more gym-goers, themselves politely disgruntled.

“O-oh, I?—” she meant to apologize, but they were already moving through, and the warmth gathering in her cheeks had her abandon the attempt before she could conjure the word for “sorry”. She followed her feet unbidden, hoping only to disappear into the crowd, fearing she’d be recognized by a neighbour. They carried her to the only free stationary bicycle centremost in a flock of at least twenty. Men and women pumped their legs, arms, and abs around her. Behind, before, and to the left and right, limber-legged women swung their thighs in long, heavy up-down arcs, sweat dripping down the tips of their noses, discolouring their low-hanging necklines.

If Mia stared any longer, if she didn’t do something, then everyone would notice. Everyone would know.

So she pretended, in outward appearance, that all was normal. Pretended everything was right. She slid her canteen into the bottle-holder beneath the cycle’s seat, and pretended she was one of that gaggle of gym-rats. One of the cycle-flock.

Except those other women?—young, muscular, healthy?—bettering themselves. When they’d hopped up on their stationary bikes, began their cycles, a perfect-circle hadn’t pressed itself out the backside of their yoga pants. Like it had through Mia’s.

She gasped, leaning back to hide her shame from the glistening woman behind her. Her ass rolled back, pressed against the seat, and that circle?—the base of a hot-pink buttplug, hidden beneath a thin layer of stretchy polyester?—stole its wedging way between her lubed-up cheeks.

B-cawk!

Mia covered her mouth with both hands, aware of the eyes probing her from every corner of the room. The suction-cup plinth of that plug’s matching dildo?—another silicone circle?—was just pushed clear of her loose lips by at least two inches. Pushed out by the plug’s unexpected intrusion. Mia’s loins were a game of whack-a-mole, leaning forward to fuck herself with the too-thin plastic cock only to push loose the too-small butt-plug. Lean back and repeat. Silicone circles dented the fabric between her legs, front and back, rising and falling like wet-moving valves.

This wasn’t clearing her head at all. In fact, she was coming square up against the same problem she’d reached with the beginner-size dildo and plug set this morning: not enough was worse than nothing at all. This perverse and public exercise was only drawing further attention to this second set of toys already being not enough!

More and more, she knew the women around her were noticing her strange rocking. Unable to stop, it was only a matter of time before they looked closer, and saw the impressions pistoning in and out of her soiled leggings. The humiliation would be worth it if she could just feel full.

Janet awoke with the rising sun, creaking out yawn loud enough to stir the neighbours. Well rested, ready to tackle the coming week, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and rubbed one groggy eye.

“Yagh!” She pushed out the last of the air left in her throat and assessed her surroundings: toys scattered across the floor, some of them already showing signs of use; sheets still tucked in though disordered—she hadn’t realized she’d collapsed on top of them when returning from a barnyard tryst last night. A wet circle in the centre of the bed bespoke her “midnight snack”: a half-hour prostate massage courtesy of the silicone friend resting messy at her bare foot. The memory drew a grateful clench from within and behind; how could she have slept so little, and yet slept so well?

Feeling it, Janet pushed up from the bed and lifted herself upon those strong, bullish legs. When you feel it, you don’t think. You don’t assess. You get a move on, and that meant brushing her teeth. Meant emptying out the cupboards into a bowl and chowing down. Meant pulling what she wanted from Cuddy before eight, and speeding to work to tell Phil what she thought of his goddamn budget proposal.

As good a plan as any.

Janet scratched her balls and stepped briskly toward the en-suite bathroom. The left-hand door to the medicine cabinet hung open on its hinges from the last time it was handled. Hardly noticing, she instead grabbed her toothbrush and applied a generous dose of baking-soda branded paste to the tip. Slipping it into her mouth, she clacked the cabinet shut and was greeted with a mirror-length image of herse—

“Oh my god…”

Even for a supplement-enhanced woman feeling it, the scene was enough to drop Janet’s stomach into freefall. Her abdominals were stronger than they’d been a week ago, that was certain. And her legs, thicker. Round, blue veins rose hot up and down those thighs, pumping blood toward and away from… from…

“Oh fuck!”

The cock protruding from between Janet’s legs was already swollen, already filling up with liquid urgency. A glistening grey, its uncircumsized head poked out wet from ten-inch girth, having waited all night for this devilish introduction. Unbelievably heavy. Two congested gonads stretched down below, a leather sack stinking of sweat from a hot night’s fever. Those churning balls had directed Janet’s sleeping thoughts—retrieving, creating, injecting the pulsing memories of Mia’s pert little ass beneath those jeans. Her pathetic whimpers in the bathroom stall. The— the gaping saltlick between her legs. Janet’s virgin cock had tented the duvet for the duration of her REM cycle, left an embarrassing glob of telltale precum to match the sheets’ dribs and drabs of whatever Cuddy had left in her ass.

But none of that mattered, now. Hell, nothing did. Janet rushed across the bedroom to her nightstand, toothbrush still firmly tucked in cheek. The device had fallen to the carpet at some point, mixed in with her scattered paraphernalia, but it—“Thank God!”—still held a charge.

“COME IN EARLY.” She texted, already reformulating her plans for the morning, the day, the rest of her life. “HAVE WHAT U NEED.”