The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

TITLE: Fishbowl

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Chapter 3: Pigsty

I lay on the stretcher deflated, defeated by the five-pound orgasm I had just squirted all over the wall. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. Nothing that intense, nothing that hydraulic. My ears rang, my vision blurred—it must’ve been a few minutes before I caught my breath and came to myself.

Sam was on the floor, hands against the glass. He was saying something—trying to communicate through the pane—but I couldn’t make it out. My head was spinning; there’s a good chance I was dehydrated.

I hefted myself up and brought my legs down to hang over the side of the stretcher. They’d been lifted up, knees akimbo, but I couldn’t remember why. Hazy. I shuffled an inch or so, steadied myself with a hand on either side, and started to remember.

I was glossy with sweat. The bed beneath my rump was a saturated sponge. I wrinkled my nose and lifted the hem of my gown, forgetting for a moment that my brother was steps away. Stomach dropped.

My vagina was engorged, so pink it was nearly purple with swollen excitement. The lips had drooped outwards like I’d never seen them, but a gentle probe confirmed that they were thick with expectation. My clit, raised firm like a little strawberry. But it was the wetness that had me awestruck: the cushion beneath me was positively soaked. White-translucent strings stretched from my fingertip to my opening, the pressure from my brief inspection letting loose a fresh cascade of drool. My inner thighs, I noticed now, were still dripping with sweet smelling discharge. I was gleaming, ruddy, and breathing heavy. And then the guilt set in—the humiliation.

My own mother had just tongued me to my first screaming, spurting orgasm.

* * *

I gave my head a shake and tried to find my bearings. Still dizzy, I squinted at Sam across the room, wiping my slimy hand absentmindedly across my chest. My nipples, I dizzily noted, were swollen. Sam...he was still speaking through the window, I detected urgency in his voice, but from this angle I couldn’t see clearly through the obscene spray I’d left on the glass. I rubbed at my ringing ears, pulled back my messy hair and then grimaced, realizing I’d probably just streaked grool through my scalp. There was no helping it, I suppose. Much, much worse things had just happened, but I was still having trouble coming to. Still having trouble feeling anything but shame...shame and confusion. There was no way I had actually enjoyed that, was there? There was no way I wanted...

“Mom!” I detected panic entering the edge of Sam’s voice, now louder than a moment ago. “Mom it’s okay. You need to walk me through how you’re feeling.”

I squinted at the blurry figure opposite to my brother, but it was impossible to make out. Saltwater drips down my side of the glass, and what looked like breath, or steam—something wet and smoky—over there. I rose to my feet and padded my uncoordinated steps over, ignoring the barely-audible splish splash my bare feet made in the puddles and specks on the floor adjacent to my bed. “Sam…”

He ignored me, hands pressed against the glass, continuing to talk to the figure who must’ve been my mother.

“Sam what’s wrong.” Closer now, I could make out an overweight shape on the other side of the window, sitting discombobulated on its generous butt. Arms pressed behind to hold up its weight, this figure was easily twice the size of what my mom used to be. “Sam!”

He snapped out of his imbalanced dialogue and turned his neck to take me in. His eyes were wild. “Something’s wrong with Mom.”

* * *

Talk about an understatement. Hadn’t she just—

“Oh god…”

I stepped forward to inspect the dry patch of glass Sam was pressed against, and made out more clearly the source of his concern. My mom was borderline obese—a pot-belly protruded from beneath her billowy medical gown, rivalled only by the pendulous breasts which hung heavy to rest on that greasy mound. They’d been so small, before—all of her had. In place of the short, tight body my mom maintained from jogging, from watching what she ate, was a sausage-fingered parody of herself, gleaned from Sam’s milk and my honey.

“Sam you hafta…” she huffed from the other side. “You hafta…”

Eyes glazed, she was clearly not all there. Her legs pushed out from the whipped-cream-and-goop-speckled gown like she was leaning back for some sweaty gynecological check-up—each thigh was as wide as my torso, and swung meatily with the subtlest of movements.

“Sam please…” Her eyes were focused on the space between her crotch—mercifully covered by blue fabric—and the window. “You need to helllllll…” The word caught in her throat.

“Mom!” Sam pressed closer to the glass. “Mom what are they doing?”

She croaked, then whimpered, and gazed up at me. “It’s— They’re—”

I could only hold her eye for a moment, noticing an unusual speck twitch between her legs.


My eyes widened. The speck became a lump. The lump leapt, fell, and became a knob. The knob…

“Mom,” Sam breathed. “Mom is that——”


I tore my eyes from the unmistakable wet spot—no bigger than a pin-prick—leaking through mom’s gown to confirm what I had just heard. Her nose was indeed upturned.

“Sam you hafta snort help meee!”

* * *

My brother turned to me, red-faced and stammering. Helpless, he repeated his earlier observation: “S-something’s wrong with Mom!”

I could only stare back with scattered intensity. The corner of his eye twitched, some synapse behind his eyes snapping under the pressure. You’d think nothing could shock us by now.

On the other side of the glass, my mom was making noises which sounded more like squeals than coherent words. “I’m… it’s too… I’m sorr—wheeeee!” She continued to mutter and mewl, but the center of her attention was clearly on the full-on tent pitched between her legs. “What… snort Why… sniff” She hefted her weight from one hand to the other, gut rolling to the side and breasts drooping lopsided. We could see her nipples, now—indentations in the gown. Long like cow’s teets, pointed down toward her pushed-out bellybutton.

“I have… I snort need…”

I didn’t recognize my mom’s hand when it swung around and between her legs, arms jiggling. Five little breakfast sausages—greasy and kinked at the knuckle. Her body had stored fat in every conceivable spot, but the little details continued to surprise me.

“Mom stop.” Sam sounded ready to cry.

I placed my hand firm against the glass and broke my silence: “Mom.”

But it was no use. Her pig brain was entranced. It directed her fat little fingers to fumble down her gut, impressing sweat stains from beneath the gown. Those clammy fingers wrapped clumsily around the four-inches of shame which—I couldn’t help but notice—leapt at her touch. She packed the fabric around her rod, tighter than looked comfortable, pressing copious pre-cum through the baby blue, and began shifting up


and down


and up and down


and up and down and up and—

“MOM!” I slammed the glass with the ball of my fist, and got her attention.


But not in the way I’d attended. Mom’s eyes fell from my eyes to my chest. Her pupils dilated and her mouth hung open. She scratched the itch at a renewed pace.

My pig of a mom was jerking off—to me.

* * *

“What’s wrong with her!” Sam stood and turned to me, tears running down his cheeks, “What are they doing to her?” His erection, visibly red through his soaked gown, pointed right at me.

My voice caught a hitch when I tried to respond. I didn’t know for certain, but I had an idea. “I—I think…” I glanced her way to confirm—her eyes were still drinking in my figure, my...bosom. Her depraved hand frenzied and clumsy. “Look at her nose. I think she’s, like,” I rubbed my eyes, wiped my mouth, “a pig. Or something.”

Snort. Oink. Wheef!

Sam looked back to mom, who no longer noticed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned back to me. “Permanently?” he cried. “Will they change her back?”

Sniff. Snort. Gruff.

My silence—filled in by Mom’s shameful grunts and wheezes—spoke volumes.


I wanted to cover myself. Hide my body from the little-dick pervert on the other side of the glass—the drooling, masturbating animal who evidently saw me as a piece of fuck-meat. But doing so—covering the outlines of my nipples, or flipping the stretcher on its side and hiding behind it—would feel like I was admitting that Mom was a predator. No, something lower. Couldn’t control herself. So debauched that her own daughter had to scold her for...exhibitionism. Public masturbation. Incest. Bestiality?

Would she change back when she climaxed? I don’t know if I could survive seeing that. But would it at least end when she reached some sort of conclusion, like it did with Dad? I’m ashamed to admit that it crossed my mind to pull down my neckline and bear Mom some of her daughter’s cleavage, or turn, bend over and push my pussy against the glass. I could see it in my mind. Could see her piggydick cumming. (Where did that thought come from?) Anything to bring this tragedy to a close. Anything to let her finish and be done with it.

* * *

I gave my head a violent shake. What the hell was I thinking? How long had I been spaced out? Sam was staring at me like I’d said something strange.

“What?” I asked, defensive.

He furrowed his brow. “I asked if you were okay,” he made a move to step towards me, but thought better of it when he remembered that painful-looking erection. “You look… off.”

I snapped: “Of course I’m not okay!!” My fist pounded on the glass, behind which our mother continued to indulge in her primal desires. “Look at her! Look at…Dad! What kind of question is that?!” I shrieked, Where even are we!?

Sam looked down at the floor, ashamed by the obvious tent between us, but long past the point of trying to hide his body’s unnatural excitement. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”


He paused, looking back up with tears in his eyes. “It’s just that—”

Snort. Wheeee!

I turned to the hardly-recognizable jerk-off on the other side of the glass. “Would you just fucking cum already! Go ahead and finish!!

Her dull eyes met mine, tongue lolling out down her bottom lip, and returned to my chest—hand pumping in earnest.

“Oh is that what you want? Is that what’ll get you there?” I was shouting now, but surprised at the sensual bent my reprimand was taking on. “Piggy wanna cum?”

In my peripheral I could see Sam’s gaze bouncing back and forth between his mom and his sister. “Veronica what are you—”

“Piggy wanna cum? Mom’s increasing pace spurred me on. I wasn’t scolding, but mocking. “Is that all? Aw that’s so sweet.” I was pouting, now. I’d never done this before. Like some bimbo putting on a little-girl voice.

“Veronica stop, you’re— Why are you—” Sam was as confused as I was.

Or, rather, confused as I should’ve been. Something was changing. Something had clicked. I could feel it. Too engrossed to put my finger on it, though, my body and mind continued operating half-coerced.

Pre-cum had leaked out of the tip of Mom’s cock and around her schlicking fingers. It had saturated the sheer fabric so that I could make out the pummelled purple rod beneath. Uncoordinated, she was abusing her little dick—rubbing it raw.


“Oh you poor thing. Do you need some help?” I licked my lips, disgusted with my words but excited by their effect on my audience-of-one.

Sam’s voice faded into the background. There was only me and poor Piggy Wannacum, here.

I lifted my spattered gown and bared my pussy, my stomach, my chest. “You gonna cum for my titties, Piggy? This what you want?”

Mom’s eyes widened, shot between my boobs and my trimmed bush. “Wheee?

I mashed them against the glass. Squished them between my hands. “Oh I think you do. I think Piggy wannacum!” I giggled, and licked at the glass.

Snort! Wh— whh—

Cum for me, Piggy,” I smiled.

Mom’s eyes met mine, and I could see a glimmer of recognition. Somewhere in there, she knew what she was doing. Her pupils dilated. Her chest heaved. And then—


Eight spurts through the gown, splat splat splat, thick heavy globs on the floor. Piggy came.