The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

TITLE: Fishbowl

CATAGORIES: hm, in, sc, sf, ws


Sam and Veronica woke up in a laboratory cell. They can see their father asleep in an adjacent cell, connected to theirs by a wall of shatter-proof glass. Before they can get his attention, though, flat metal doors close in and hide him from view. It seems some unknown force has a series of strange experiments planned for the Stevens family.


This is a work of fetish fiction. Any attempt to find legitimate sexual, racial, or political representations within these pages would be extremely misguided. Confusing sexual fantasy with reality can be dangerous.

That being said, thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, or have any feedback, I would love to hear from you via email at . This story is dedicated to disgustinggirl (from one to another) and Pan, who makes me so impatient for his weekly chapters that he forced me to write my own. Thanks for all you do! Much love, Trish

CHAPTER 1: Dàng Fù Triggers

When those doors opened, it wasn’t my dad who sat at a desk behind the glass.

Strange—it was the scene which first surprised me, and not the actor within it. The stretcher-bed and medical equipment which had stood in my father’s room before had been replaced with a standard-fare laminate office desk, complete with a computer tower, monitor, keyboard set-up right out of the mid-nineties. The monitor was a CRT box—probably twenty by twenty—perched on top of a flat beige tower with one bright green LED illuminated. Were one was to flip over the mouse held in “my father’s” hand, no doubt it would reveal a roller-ball. The screen gave off a comfortable dark brown glow; text too far for me to make out ran down in a DOS-era lime, like a film’s poor representation of a hacker’s backdoor manoeuvring.

Staring into the screen, though—at least temporarily—with her delicate hand pressed familiarly against the out-of-fashion mouse and keyboard set-up, was a forty-ish year old woman—Chinese at first glance—dressed in a conservative charcoal power-suit. Her hair pulled back in a tight French braid, the excess fastened in a bundle by a pair of spartan matte-black pins.

She blinked, disoriented, and pulled in her lips—pursed them as if they were unfamiliar. The hand previously clasped around her computer mouse quietly rose to inspect her mouth; bounced curiously against its plump lower lip, and then extended before her eyes for inspection. Traces of candy-apple red—the faintest smear: lipstick.

My father couldn’t see it, but her makeup wasn’t confined to her well-polished lips, each one catching the fluorescent light like ripe fruit. No, the sticky lining run along her lids had been pulled into clever little catseyes, a generous brush of mascara having been applied to her thick—fake, possibly—lashes. Her disoriented blinking, still concerned with the lipsmack on her trembling finger, revealed the innocuous hint of a dark rose eye-shadow—tasteful, but more than a little suggestive.

The woman before us had all the airs of a strict, tactful professional—one who would nonetheless throw one hell of a fuck at her husband on weekends.


The woman looked up, surprised to find the full-panel window had opened to reveal Veronica and myself. Seeing us seemed to jolt her back to reality, but to give her credit, it was indeed a strange reality—one none of us could take in and understand with anything that resembled confidence.

Veronica spoke next, hesitant. “Dad—is that you?”

No words would come to the Asian woman’s lips—they hung slightly agape in stunned acknowledgement of these three faces—two familiar, one stranger: her son, her daughter, and between them, the half-translucent reflection of a busty Chinese businesswoman, matching her every twitch and blink. The reflection gasped, arms sinking down to her breasts: “Oh my god...”

“What did they do to you!?” Veronica’s wavering pitch told me she was barely holding back tears. “Dad are you okay?”

On the opposite side of the glass, Dad’s painted fingers groped persistent for the warm flesh beneath the thick wool of her power suit, mesmerized or shocked.

“Say something!”

The order jolted her out of that tactile trance, though her hands stayed latched where they were. “Veronica,” she breathed, “Sam—is this a dream? Am I really...” Her eyes wandered from Veronica’s, to mine, and down to her curvy form.

“I don’t know, Dad, but I don’t think this is a dream.” Veronica had extended one hand and placed it against the glass, perhaps hoping that her father would stop groping herself, rise from her seat and reciprocate.

She was too dazed to acknowledge the gesture, instead gazing down confusedly at her prim skirt, high heels, noticing only now the way they curled her calves into creamy balls of muscle, smooth beneath the sheer black panty-hose. “Are my legs shaved?” She looked up and directly into my eyes. “Did somebody shave my legs?”

“Somebody changed a lot more than—“ My unhelpful response was interrupted by a crackling from an unseen PA system, installed somewhere in the ceiling. “—Listen.”

We attuned our ears to the subtle change in atmosphere, even the slightest hints of audio breaking through the otherworldly silence which had previously held court over our adjacent chambers. My middle-aged, power-suit wearing female father pushed back a little in her seat, searching the unseen ceiling for the source of that single crackle. But it was too dark for us to make anything out, the world above us continuing, seemingly, endless before being obscured in a menacing shadow.

Then the audio began, an equally otherworldly experience. It was as if someone had clicked on the atmosphere of a quintessential office job from the mid-nineties (not that I’d have been in any position to vouch for the accuracy of the depiction). Convincing beyond any sound system or headphone setup I’d ever experienced, were I to close my eyes at that moment, I’d be hard-pressed to convince myself that I wasn’t in an office. Every little audible detail was there, present and accounted for: the muffled chatter of co-workers spread across a floor filled with cubicles; the electric chimes of just as many telephones, answered and hung up again; the far-off rumbling of a photocopier, if one listened hard enough; and more subtly, the distant gloop of a water cooler reaching its half-empty state.

“Where is that coming from?” Veronica was still inspecting the ceiling, scratching her ear.

“God, I don’t know.” Dad was doing the same, her chin raised to reveal a creamy neck, leading down to a bust-line just high enough to be workplace appropriate. “It sounds like everywhere at once.”

She was right: the illusion was more convincing than I thought possible. “Why would they bother with such a sophisticated sound system?” I wondered aloud, more than half convinced I was going crazy. “I mean, it’s not like we’d ever actually be convinced that we weren’t trapped here in—“

“—Dàng Fù International Offices, how may I help you?” A cheery voice much nearer than the others. The receptionist must’ve been in the cubicle adjacent to Dad’s, only—

Dad raised a hand to her red lips, stifling an audible burp.

—only there was no cubicle adjacent to Dad’s. It was all an illusion, of course.

Dad’s brow retained a concerned expression, her manicured nails still pressed against her upper lip. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”

As if in response, the cheery voice on the other side of the cubicle wall concluded her call: “Yes, please hold.”

Dad’s hands fell quickly from mouth to stomach, revealing her lips pursed uncomfortably. A gurgle, a bubble, and then—Poot! An obscene but undeniable flute of gas had escaped out of her behind, much to her shamefaced embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, kids, I’m so sorry,” she began, colour creeping up her neck, “It just came out of—“

“—Dàng Fù International Offices, how may I help you?” Another call from next door, the same sickly sweet voice.

Urrp! Dad’s hands flew back to her mouth, surprised.

“Yes, please hold.”

Prrrrpt! Her hands grabbed desperately at her well-rounded, skirt-clad tush—her mouth hung open in an display of incredulity.

I looked over at Veronica, unbelieving, and she was already staring at me when I met her eyes, matching my expression. A moment of silence, and an unspoken understanding. We returned our gaze to the wall-sized pane of glass that separated us from Dad. She had risen from her swivel-chair, with one hand still clasped to her derrière, the other pressed hopelessly against her blush-red chest, following deep breaths in and out.

“Dàng Fù,” tried Veronica, her voice making it sound like an order.

Dad looked up, shifted her gaze to her uncomprehending. “What?”

“How may I help you?” I asked, the same tone as my sister.

Erraahp! Dad’s burp caught her by surprise, more grotesque than the last two. “Oh my god, are you doing that? How are you—“

“—Please hold.”

Brrip! Dad grabbed her ass, squeezing from either side to no avail. “Veronica, stop! I can’t control it!” Her eyes were shimmering, and I regretted the experiment.

My sister let go of a frustrated sigh beside me. “It’s a trigger, Dad.” She glanced at me, concerned, and then back to our struggling father. “They’ve done things to your body and your mind.”

Dad stepped uncertainly closer to the glass, so that we were within arm’s reach. “What do you mean, my mind?” he asked, stumbling on her heels, “What do you mean a trig—“


I hadn’t even taken note of the phone on the desk, grey but aged yellow. When it’s electronic chimes filled the room, though, we all flinched—my father’s face dropped.

“What are you doing!?” Veronica slapped the glass, “Pick it up!”

But my father didn’t move. “Oh god,” she breathed, “oh no.” Her knees pressed together, her hands pulled at the hem of her pencil-skirt, desperate but hopeless. The telephone continued to ring.

“Dad!” A hue of sympathy entering Veronica’s voice. “Dad what is it?”

That’s when we noticed the wet patch, left in a divot her fist had pressed into her crotch, and growing fast.

“Noo I can’t hoooold it,” the poor woman cried, peeing her panties like an embarrassed toddler. The volume was impressive, as if she’d been drinking for days without relieving herself. The piddle ran down her thighs, translucent streams trickling along her ankles, around her stilettos, pooling below in a fast-growing puddle on the floor—evidence of her shame. Her shoes scraped and splashed as she tried to stem the tide, but the stream continued unabated.

Veronica and I watched without so much as a peep, engrossed in silent horror at the spectacle before us. My sister looked to me, eyes wide, before scanning down to my midsection. Her eyes, if it was possible, grew even wider in surprise.

“Sam!!” She pointed at my stomach. “Fuck! Are you getting off on this!?”

My eyes followed her extended finger downwards, but she wasn’t pointing at my stomach. Unbeknownst to me in all the commotion, my gown had pitched an eight inch tent protruding from my groin, complete with a sizeable stain through the baby-blue fabric where my cock had rubbed, dripped some tell-tale goop. “Jesus!” I dropped my hands to conceal the growth, and only then did I realize the predicament I found myself in: my cock had never been so hard in all my life, nor had it ever twitched the way it did when my hands first brushed contact through the gown. “This isn’t me, I swear!” The shouting sent vibrations down my body and through my balls, congested against my inner thighs and thankfully hidden. They were engorged, I could tell—hanging heavy—each one about a half-pound.

“What is wrong with you?”

“No!” I pressed down on the solid member, an attempt to angle it between my thighs, but the gown’s friction against its head was too electric for me to complete the attempt—it bounced back up cartoonishly, a tallship hoisting sail. An undeniable glob of pre-cum pushed through the fabric. “I don’t know what’s going on, b-but—“

Veronica’s face was twisted in disgust. It was clear she didn’t believe me, and I wasn’t certain I believed myself either. Was it possible I was actually turned on by my own—

“Sam...” My father’s female voice, quiet as a mouse. Her hands still clasped over her soaked-through skirt, the source of her most recent embarrassment had at least come to an end. Her eyes were downcast—deeply disappointed in her son—perhaps getting a sense of the impressive puddle she’d spread out around her. “Sam,” she sniffed, “I think maybe it’s best if you—“

Just then, the computer screen behind her came to life. A pre-recorded voice: “You’ve got mail!”

Dad’s eyes widened, instantly blurry with tears. “No!” she screamed, “No not that!!” But it was too late, no use, her body was already moving on its own accord. Her hands inched down to the hem of her skirt and pinched decisively, pulling uselessly against their arms futile resistance. She turned—took two steps back to the desk behind her. “Help me!” she shouted. “I’m not doing this; something’s moving me!”

I snapped a look at Veronica, helpless, and back to my father. On the other side of the glass, she’d stepped out of her puddle and kicked one heel up on the desk, fast shifting her weight to heft her whole body up there. “Please! Do something! I can feel it!

Veronica stammered: “How may I help you!!” She slammed a fist against the window, punctuating the order.

Errraapp! Dad lifted himself atop the office desk, fingers still glued to her skirt, body still moving on its own accord.

“Please hold!!” She shouted next, desperate to cancel one trigger with another.

My father bit her lip and squeezed. Prrrt! She sniffed, breaking wind, passing into tears.

“Dad stop!!” Veronica was crying.

My father turned around so her back was facing us, then sat on her haunches, knees akimbo. She looked back at us, speechless, tears trickling down cheeks, and her hands finally pulled the the hem of that pencil skirt up to her stomach.

“Dad please! Please hold!!”

Pphrrt! Her panties were silk, a conservative cut, Christmas red, stretched taut over her generous ass and cradled by the sheer pantyhose. It was no use. Veronica’s commands only compounded the triggers. My palms, face, and the tip of my impossibly hard cock pressed against the window, unable to look away from this slow-moving tragedy.

Blood crept into my Dad’s cheeks. Her breath hitched—she was clenching. Her eyes darted from Veronica’s, to mine, down to my erection, and back up to mine. Her breath hitched—she was pushing. “I...” A sharp intake of breath. She stared into my eyes, horrified, and moaned: “I’m sorry.

Her cheeks spread, her panties tight, I could just make out her rose-bud twitch. Her asshole quaked. Then—It began. A lump appeared in her drawers, small, noticeable, and growing. “Oh!” she yelped, and squeezed her eyes tight. The lump grew into a package, filling up the already ruined silk with a warm foreign weight. “Oh god!!” It was soon stretched to capacity, struggling to contain my father’s shame. Hands grasped desperately to her knees. She continued to grunt. Moan. Push—

And then the window blacked out. As quickly and quietly as the metal door behind it had opened, it was suddenly closed, sight-proof and sound-proof—almost as if none of that had happened.

Veronica and I exchanged a traumatized glance, and then both looked down to the only evidence that my father had been transformed into an erotically-incontinent Asian businesswoman: my dangling erection, and the copious pre-cum smeared on this side of the glass.