The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My sister was leaking, pumping, dripping lube down the length of herself the entire drive home. I knew this not because I could feel it (though much to my pleasurable discomfort, I definitely could feel it) but because I could see it—her—bobbing and pulsing in the open air.

Fabric… she had moaned in my ear. The fabric is too much… I’m— I’m gonna blow—

It was true. Even just the speed-walk to my civic—parked further from the store’s main entrance than I remembered—my boxer-briefs had worked up enough friction to bring us right against the point of no return. Collapsing into the driver’s seat, I had unzipped, wrestled Charlotte through the fly, and gasped at the image, finally face-to-face with my cock-sister.

A steady stream of precum bubbled out of her pulsing head. Veins bulged along her entire length, desperate and angry for release. I pulled my hand away, jolting with slippery regret, and a translucent string stretched between us at least six inches before splitting off and splatting near her sweaty base. Already the car’s interior was filling up with her musk. She bobbed as I started the car, flicking against the bottom of the steering wheel, left a wet mark behind.

I winced, and held back. “Char— you need to stop that.”

Get us home… Bring us home… I can’t handle more girls… more tits… I’m gonna— she leaped.

“Char stop,” she was working us into a psychological frenzy. I could see the images in her mind, she sent them in all directions, and they were spiralling towards something we both wanted, but that we’d both regret. I drove faster than was safe.

FLASH: ...anonymous pussy, ass rising and falling, riding me riding me…

“Char stoppit.”

She whimpered.

FLASH: ...mrs. sommers across the road...saliva dripping...red lipstick...pop like a bottle-cap...looks you in the eye..

“Charlotte that’s enough.”

Her spit ran down into my boxers. Her balls churned and broiled.

Stuck at a red light.

FLASH: ...gill poor gill...panties to the side...i’m sinking into her like quicksand, sloppy…

“Char please. Please I don’t want this.”

She was crying. I need them Lucas. I’m sorry I need them.

FLASH: ...mom...oh god mom...but with big fake tits...all oiled, and?— and i’m fucking them?...

She bubbled up. Pulling into the driveway. We started to lose it. Pump. Pump. Pump. PUMP.

FLASH: ...i can see charlotte...charlotte?...grabs me by the base?...I lose control? It comes?...

I threw on the emergency brake and white-knuckled my sister.

AH!

FLASH: ...i’m blowing on her tits...i’m blowing on my tits?...i’m blowing for my tits!?...

An elastic band. In the cupholder. It would— there was no time to think.

FLASH: ...i’m cumming on my pussyyyyy...i’m cumming in my pussyyyy...her stupid fucking pussyyyy...i’m filling her upppp…

YES!

Charlotte was a kinked hose. Past the point of no return. One hand squeezed hard enough to hurt me. The other wrapped the elastic around her base.

YESSSS

And again. Snap The elastic stung as it fell into place.

UH?

Pump—

Nothing.

Pump.

Nothing.

Pump. pump. pump.

What? No— Please!!

She was wiggling, wriggling, crying out in desperation. The images sent to my mind changed.

FLASH: ...i’m?— i’m trapped...i’m plugged...i’m choking…it hurts...

NO! I need it! I need them!?

I ran up the front walkway, tears trickling down my cheeks, cock-sister bouncing, with each step. She screamed for mercy, liberty, satisfaction.

Mrs. Dunne, our retired next-door neighbour, dropped her gardening sheers and took in the scene, dumbfounded.

Thank God it was early enough in the afternoon that Mom and Dad weren’t home. I don’t know how I would explain this?—flying through the front door, my cock flailing about, bound purple with an elastic band, strained and pulsing. The pain was immense?—I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Charlotte. Her whole body must’ve been full to the point of bursting. My balls roiled with desire. I could feel the ejaculate pumping again and again up the base of my sister, thrown back when it reached that last-ditch tie-off effort. And still, it wasn’t pain which drove her mad, but desire.

Pleeeease Lucas, she begged, I can’t anymoooore! I neeeed it!

I’m not even sure she knew what it was. A woman? A place to stick it? The vague notion of release, no doubt, but we both knew that release meant her soul being confined to my poor (by now surely damaged) cock for the rest of our days on this earth. I needed it too. These were my balls making demands, after all. It was my brain’s raw material she was making images with. I knew this only because she’d been transmitting memories she couldn’t have known about. Couldn’t have conjured on her own.

The jerk-off humiliation porn I spent my nights gooning to...

The wet dream I’d had of mom, years ago...pulling me off. I’d buried that deep, but here it was, bubbling up around Charlotte’s frothy breath.

And...the time I’d pulled Charlotte’s silk panties from the dirty laundry, wrapped them around my cock and...

Unable to hide the contents of my mind from the girl who shared it, my deepest, darkest secrets were laid out plain to see. And?—she hadn’t mentioned them to scold me. Hadn’t even acknowledged them, beyond this shared re-living. Hell, Charlotte was pulling up memories I’d gotten off to and forgotten about. She knew I was a pervert. She knew the actual depth of my degradation. And she was getting off to it.

Oh?— Ohmygodyes?—

We passed by the laundry room on my way down the hall.

Lucas... the bin. I went running this morning.

“What?” Her throbbing hurt so bad.

They’ll still be sweaty... you need to grab my panties from the bin and?—

“No!! Charlotte!” I shouted at myself, at us, smacking her off the doorframe as I stumbled into the bathroom.

But PLEASE!

My momentum carried us over the lip of the tub. I tumbled in, my weight crashing down painfully. No time to check for broken skin?—I twisted the blue knob and soaked us through, clothes and all. We cringed together, shock of the bitter cold.

Please! P?—please! please. they’ll still have... my smell...

Images flashed with diminished urgency. Our fire was extinguishing, I hoped. She was shrinking, her whisper still desperate, but sleepy. Blood flowed away from her rod, and settled heavy in our balls.

“Oahw,” I grunted, urgency being replaced by that familiar pendulous gnawing. I checked, and indeed it was true. My sister was flaccid, pathetic, vulnerable. But lower, my sister was blue, congested, engorged. Embodied dissatisfaction. Blueballs.