The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Mom, you have to hold on a little longer,” I breathed. My quim was clenching, audibly squelching, making a mess all over the sheets. “I know it, I know it. I can feel what you feel.”

I couldn’t hold back the tears—pain, pleasure, or embarrassment, it wasn’t easy to tell. I’d been torturing myself here in the master bedroom for the better part of three hours (though not quite). Emotions, pains, sensations mixed in ways mortal minds weren’t meant to contort. How can you describe the need to cum on a level which matched a drowning man’s need to surface? How can you piece together the rationalizations being made by a girl who needed to stroke her mother to squirting, whose mother begged to be ended, finished, relegated to a life between her daughter’s legs.

Mom had gone mad around hour two?—perhaps the needs were worse when they encompassed your entirety. Dissatisfaction on a cosmic scale. What was left of her dialogue was shrieks, moans, whimpers mixed with half-intelligible words.

pleashh Jillyyy… I?— ah!?— wannacum your cunnyyyy… ahm gonna dyeee?— uah!

It was almost as if her pussylips?—themselves quivering with every syllable?—were directing the intonation.

“What did Tiff do to us?”

I had tied my left wrist to the headboard with an old bandana. Early on, when the need was milder (though even when it began, it was stronger than any sexual desire either of us had experienced in my lives to date), I’d pulled my yoga pants down around her knees to give Mom some air. The wrong choice, evidently, now that Mom’s must was stinking up the room. Visibly steaming. The temptation to flick the proverbial bean was too much. I swallowed my pride and called the only person who knew I came from a family of witches. Who’d at least be able to tie up this other hand?—prevent me from letting go and frigging my mother into oblivion. Would she still be able to speak with me if I trapped her in my pussy? Did the growing part of me who needed to cum at any cost even care?

Echoing from down the hallway, someone was knocking on the front door. Thank God. That could only be Charlotte.

Something was wrong indeed. Gill wasn’t home.

Try again, Charlotte directed, Maybe she didn’t hear you.

I knocked thrice more—heavier—and waited. Christ, I hoped Tiffany hadn’t returned from her shopping trip. I pictured her leafing through her little spellbook—if that’s what it was—and discovering new and perverted uses for the next poor schlep who crossed her path. But no sign of her. No sign of anyone, at least inside. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, half-expecting to find someone waiting behind me. What had Gill been so upset about? What emergency could she have wound herself in that could be solved by my sister, but not the police?

Charlotte pulsed.

“Sorry.” I shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable. I’d been picturing Gill—not on purpose, but even the most innocuous of female figures was enough to make her leap. She was turgid—had been since the phone call. We’d double-wrapped her base, again, with the elastic band, but that only seemed to intensify the sensations running up and down her pole. An improvised cock-ring for my quickshot sister.

On the way out the door, I’d tucked her under the waistband of my boxers—a classic maneuver. But even walking down the driveway (Mrs. Dunne thankfully nowhere to be found) we found that the electricity generated by her head pressed between my stomach and the fabric was driving us too close to the unspoken failure we both longed for. By the time I’d unlocked and opened the driver’s seat door, Charlotte had managed to pump out enough slippery lube to gloss my stomach, darken the first two inches of shorts which concealed her.

So here I was, standing on Tiffany’s front porch, a quarter of my painfully erect pecker poking out above my pants, pressing dots of precum through my t-shirt. Not an ideal circumstance.

Try the knob, whined Charlotte. She was in about as much pain as she’d been before our cold shower, but was doing her best to keep a lid on the wandering thoughts. We can’t leave until we make sure she’s okay…

The door was unlocked. Nervous. I inched it open and called inside. “Hello?”

Nothing.

I stepped forward and, anticipating some kind of ambush, poked my head inside. “Hello!?” Empty. Lights off. Nothing but for—

“Oh my god.”

Oh my gawd.

—the hot air. Thick. Sweat. Sweat and—

Pussy.