The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

TITLE: Fishbowl

AUTHOR’S NOTE: See the disclaimer at the beginning of this story if you’re under the impression that any of these acts, magical or otherwise, would ever be okay in real life. Spoiler: they ain’t.

Please do send me feedback, suggestions, and requests at ! I would love to hear from you.

Chapter 2: Milk and Honey

“Thank God they didn’t get mom...” Veronica mumbled. “She’s so small— so neat—so goddamn tidy... I think it would break her even to see us like this, let alone...” Dad, of course—or his ghost, at least—was the elephant in the room.

Veronica had been quietly sobbing alone in the corner for some time, not wanting me near her for obvious reasons. My erection hadn’t abated; it bobbed enthusiastically, twitched more than it should when I first turned to comfort her—I knew that taking offence at her shoving me away would be unfair, given the circumstances. I wanted some privacy of my own, for that matter—as much as could be had—and retired to my own corner of the cell to process what just happened. What was still taking place.

We spent the next half hour or so in separate corners of our cell, each sitting silently on the floor. The two stretcher beds blocked the direct sight-line, so though I could see her legs extending flat out of her gown, I didn’t have to deal with the embarrassment brought about by artificially avoiding eye contact. She didn’t want to be anywhere near me, and I couldn’t blame her. Did that scene with dad actually turn me on? Why was I still like this, even after so much time had passed?

It came as a relief when Veronica broke the silence, finding some kind of solace in the fact that our mom hadn’t been kidnapped alongside her husband and kids.

“Yeah,” I agreed, though finding it difficult to apply a silver lining to the scene which had just transpired. “Do you think she’s called the cops by now? I hope she doesn’t think we, like, abandoned her or something.” Mom would, too. A worrier. A mouse of a woman, selfless and self-critical.

Veronica contemplated this, tapping the toe of one leg and raising the other knee up out of sight. “How long have we even been missing?”

I hefted myself from the floor, hiding my embarrassment as best I could until I reached the stretcher nearest Veronica and sat down, discreetly angling my package between my thighs so as to keep from bulging through the gown. “It can’t be that long, can it? We’ve only been here an hour? Two?” Hard to tell.

“But how long were we asleep?” Veronica’s eyes flicked embarrassed to the hands fumbling between my legs—this seating arrangement uncomfortable for reasons beyond a stiff mattress—but I pretended not to notice. “I mean, how long would it take to for them to change dad into...” Her voice trailed off into the silence neither of us wanted to breach. A long pause, and then a huff: “Where even was I before waking up here? Where were you? Do you remember anything?”

I pursed my lips, pretending to think, but this was already an issue I’d had time to run up against in the preceding half hour of quarantine. “Nothing.” I scratched one arm with the other, looking my sister in the eye. “I think they’ve messed with our heads—I don’t remember anything from...the last few days, I guess? Like, do you know what month it is?”

Veronica kept my eye, and her stiff expression held, but her silence spoke volumes. She pressed her palms to the floor and brought herself to her bare feet. Padding two steps toward me, her eye snuck another glance at my crotch—I was thankful nothing could be made out, my thighs (painfully) clenched together.

“I, uh,” she began. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted. Seeing, you know, you.”

I turned my head ashamed, only for my eyes to focus on the glob of pre-cum left on the glass wall to my left. “I swear, Veronica, this isn’t me doing this. There’s no way I felt—no way I feel—that way about what happened to dad. They must’ve done something to—“

“I know.” She had taken another step toward me, so when I looked up we were face to face. “I believe you. I didn’t at first, but...” Veronica turned to face the empty wall on our right. “I only noticed it when I sat down.” She looked back to me, and I scrunched my eyebrows in response. “I think they’re doing it to me too.”

It was my turn to sneak a glance—against my conscious will—but both of her thighs were withheld from my curiosity. “You mean...”

We met eyes. More silence. And then mom’s window opened.

* * *

My stomach grumbled me to life. How long had I been under? Gosh knows; long enough, apparently, to gain thirty or forty pounds. I could feel the difference as soon as I lifted myself to my elbows—an extra second of inertia jiggling around my hips, a foreign padding squashing beneath my toosh. It was my toosh, new and impossible to miss. The bum it has replaced was firm, petite, a bum I was proud of—had worked hard to maintain. This one...

But I suppose I shouldn’t call this bum a new one—it was the same old bum, only four times as large, filled with whatever the heck they’d been feeding me while I was asleep, or in a coma, or wherever.

And I suppose I shouldn’t dwell on my behind, because it wasn’t the only thing that had inflated during my nap, but rather the first thing I noticed. My stomach—I guess I should rightly call it a gut, now—rose heavy where it once lay flat. I might’ve been convinced I was somehow six months pregnant, had I not been through that whole process twice before, with Veronica and Sam. No, this was something more...flabulous. With a firm tug and a resounding jiggle, I had to come to terms with the fact that I now had what the vulgar call a “spare tire”.

Were I not dressed in a standard-issue baby-blue hospital gown, I’m confident I would’ve burst out of any outfit I might’ve been wearing before I fell asleep. That is, whatever I was wearing...those memories are hazy.

I looked around the room, trying to get a bearing for my surroundings, and the stretcher creaked beneath me, its joints clearly more discomforted with the nature of my transformation than I was—I was surprised, no doubt, but still in a sleepy kind of daze. It was hard to make out many features of the room, dark as it was. A single spotlight poured hot illumination over me from the centre of the ceiling, which itself lifted away into endless darkness. Trying to make out the source of that light was like trying to make out the shape of the sun: I squinted, rubbed my eyes, and gave up.

I lifted an arm without even thinking, identified one source of the strange odour permeating this otherwise cold, sanitized room: my pits were overgrown—tangled, dishevelled. And they smelled, for lack of a better term, ripe, like a teenage boy’s bedroom. I crinkled my nose, disgusted with myself. Like ammonia, the smell was beginning to snap me from my haze and I was starting to grasp the uncanny seriousness of my situation: I had been abducted. I had been altered. But something still kept me from caring.

Again, a rumbling in my gut. I grabbed my tummy with both hands, feeling only now what my groaning body had been trying to communicate: I was starving. However long I had been asleep, they must’ve not fed me a single meal. And yet, I was chunky...


Those probing fingers discovered something else: an unfamiliar tickling. Creeping up over my mound of a tummy, a treasure trail reached just barely to my belly button, trickling away like an untold secret. For the first time in my life, I had to lift my stomach-fold up to get a better look at my—erhm—my pussy. Another surprise (but again, that strange calmness).

Never in my life had I seen such a hairy puss. I should say, I could hardly see this one, so covered was it with tangled up wiry brush, extending down my inner thighs, thicker around my ass crack, and creeping up my groin, making gains I hadn’t seen since puberty. And that smell—again, it was like a boys locker room, only I could tell just by looking at the entrance to my wet sex that it’d been riled up and neglected.

How could I know this? These were feelings never felt before, and yet there it was—I could see the steam rising off of the entrance to my cave: grool dry in my bush, grool drying along my lips, grool dripping from my fingers when I made a simple dip-test. God, I stunk—honeydew nectar fresh warm and pungent on my fingers, stale and grimy everywhere else. God what was wrong with me?

I didn’t get a chance to explore that conundrum; the need radiating from my stomach was fast too loud to ignore. I had to have something to eat, and fast—the thought of honeydew was bringing water to my mouth.

That need drew me to my feet, hunks of flesh weighing me down in ways I had never known. Those few steps across the cell weren’t a struggle, per se, but my wide thighs were no doubt feeling the burn after a few more. I paced, exploring my surroundings, working up a light sweat, a definite glow in my face, neck, and chest. This was a workout.

A string of thumps sounded out somewhere far away, like neighbours stomping in a nearby apartment, or hammering a block away. What was this strange place?

Three walls of this spotless cube cell were dead ends—brushed steel, it looked like, but hardly reflective in the low light. The same could not be said for the fourth wall: an enormous mirror that would have shown me the whole room, were I not the only thing worth seeing. I stood solidly in the centre of the room, the edge of that spotlight’s hot beams—a tub of a woman, clearly unshowered and beading sweat. Why was this not bothering me like it should? How was I staying so calm?

Lost in contemplating myself, lamenting my empty stomach, it was a moment before I noticed the two foreign objects reaching out from that mirror. Bright blue. Small enough to fit in a bread box. Legs, driven by stomach, carried me there before I could think twice, and my nose was rewarded with a whiff of sweet baked treats.

“Ohhmm...” I moaned, in tune with my grumbling tummy.

The two protrusions were at hip level, and I had to fall to my knees to give them a closer look. This, of course, put me face to face with my mirror image too—an uncanny experience considering the jowls I had developed since last seeing my own reflection.

But this was enough to distract me from my unaccountable transformation. I knew what these neon blue objects were, though I had never seen either of them in real life, let along probed them with my fingers like I was now.

On the left: a twelve inch dildo, swollen heavy and pendulous, but impossibly hard to the touch. It almost seemed to twitch when I brushed my fingers along its shaft, but of course that couldn’t be possible.

Another bout of thumping from behind the mirror, these ones more urgent. The pipes, I thought, or the ventilation kicking in.

A foot or so to the right: a pocket pussy, installed in the mirror like a hole in the wall, this tool radiating a feminine heat instead of its sibling’s masculine one. For all the blue cock’s rigidity, the pussy was soft, squishy, flexible, inviting. Did it quiver when I drew a finger along its inner lip? That wasn’t possible. What were these doing here anyway?

And why did my nose—my gut—tell me they meant food?

Engrossed in the pussy on my right, my left hand played idly with the wall-mounted dildo until I felt something strange: a stickyness, a sticky mess gumming up between my fingers. I turned to inspect, and indeed the dildo was glossy with something—a substance that wasn’t there when I began. I pursed my lips and brought the hand to my nose, leaning forward to sniff the cock itself to confirm the impossible. Could it actually be—

—a bead of amber goop peaked out of the dildo’s desperate tip. I extended my tongue, careful, my stomach grumbling all the while, and scooped the substance into my mouth with a precise, playful lick. The cock definitely leaped this time, but that seemed somehow appropriate, as if I had intended it to happen.

And anyway, I could now confirm my initial suspicion, much to my delight: it was honey. Honey was dripping from the dildo attached to the mirror-wall.

More thumps against the mirror—slams, I should say. These ones were full-bodied slams.

The tasteful realization made little sense to my confused, conscious mind, but my stomach had no gripes taking over. It needed no second prompt, no prodding, and it lacked any kind of subtlety: I opened wide and gobbled down, giving the first proper blowjob of my life to an inanimate object.

The more I sucked, the more honey drooped out. The deeper I took it, the more honey trickled and gummed up my throat. I pulled, squeezed the bright blue balls gently, hoping to encourage more sticky reward, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Sucking so deep that I was brought lip-to-lip with my mirror self. I had never kissed a girl before—never kissed anybody but my husband—but now I gagged, coughed in pleasure at the prospect. The smell. The sweat. The hard, tight, slippery—

—it blew before I could prepare for that unfathomable climax. The cock came down my throat, three pulsing loads before I had to pull away, and kept going. Two jets of sweet in my salivating mouth. One on my lips and another across my eyes. And then four more down my chin, on my gown, the hot honey pearling out my nipples, making my fat tits stick tight and revealing through the cheap fabric.

“What a meal!” I giggled, “What a treat!” It felt like I had accomplished something. I caught a glob dripping from my eye-lash and sucked the finger, my red lips sore in the best possible way.

But my conscious brain began to kick in after all that ecstasy. Something was seriously wrong. My lips continued to smack and smile, licking away stray smears of honey, but my mind was coming into its own for the first time. Oh my god, what am I doing? What came over me? My stomach churned happily, still hungry but somewhat sated. My hands absentmindedly pulled the honey from my breasts, jiggling and smeared but for the hard black nibs perched and swaying atop sensitive areola, stretched out by the dramatic addition of warm flesh to my previously small breasts. Thank god nobody can see me I thought, smacking my lips and breathing in deep. I was just so hungry. I don’t know what came over

—a new smell invaded my brain. I may have been coming back to myself (or at least a woman who resembled her), but that didn’t do anything to stem the intensity of these new cravings. “What is that?” I mumbled, drool already threatening to bubble over my lip. It was coming from my right. My hands fell to my stomach. It was coming from the bright blue pussy.

A close inspection—less than an inch from my nose—revealed that this toy was in a similar state to its sibling: not honey, but a fluffy white grool frothed from its warm orifice. It smelled familiar—amazing.

My mind reeled, but nonetheless I dove in, unable to resist, my tongue delving deeper than I knew pussies dove. My lips sucked, smeared, around and against the “clit”, making a mess of my face, evident in the mirror image which feasted greasy before me. There was no probing, no caution, only sheets-to-the-wind gluttony.

It was whipped cream. The pussy was leaking whipped cream and I was in heaven again. This realization sent my body back into a frenzy, but my mind couldn’t look away from the woman in the mirror. Chubby, certainly, but desperate in a way I had never been before. Sweaty. Hair matted with honey, drool, and mouth fully enveloped in this plastic pussy. Globbed with whipped cream.

And then the mirror woman disappeared. The mirror did entirely: I was looking through a window into another cell just like this one.

Just like this one, except populated by my children, Sam and Veronica. Only, something was wrong. My mouth kept munching, swallowing goop as my mind tried to piece it all together.

Sam day on the floor, breathing hard in a gown just like mine. Except his was tented out at the groin, and... and... covered in what could only be cum. It looked like vaseline from here, spotted all up and down the baby blue fabric, pooling at his cock and reaching as high up as his rib cage. Even in my state, I could tell the volume was unnatural. Obscene. I caught his eye. Tears welled, tongue continued lashing. The cream was too good to stop.

A scream broke our communion. Veronica. She was splayed on her elbows, knees akimbo on the stretcher, pink pussy steaming, pulsing, open to the world. Her eyes were crossed like an idiot’s. Her mouth contorted in hideous ecstasy.

The pussy clamped down on my tongue, my face buried. A jet of clear liquid erupted from the stretcher and splashed across the window. Her pussy blew—another jet—another and another. Her scream was inhuman, rattling the glass now positively smattered in her squirt. It ran down and obscured my view of the two people I loved most in the world.

I fell back on my well-cushioned ass in horror. I was covered in whipped cream.