The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You haven’t tried the app?!” Bill boomed. “That’s hardly the IDEAL spirit! Let’s get you started right now!”

Dore tried to shrink further into her shapeless sweatshirt. She glanced at Martin hoping for help, but he was fiddling with his beer mug, deliberately avoiding her eyes. Dore thought fleetingly about kicking him under the table, but she suppressed the impulse, as she suppressed most impulses. Instead, she too studied her drink—some sort of repulsive craft beer, which she hated. But which she was drinking because Bill had ordered for all of them.

At least Martin had the grace to also look miserable, she thought. This whole thing was his fault. Admittedly, she’d violated her core rule of never speaking to anyone ever. But he had spoken back, and now here they were with Bill and his girlfriend whose name Dore had missed because she’d been distracted by the woman’s really impressive bosom. Bad enough Dore had to have been born a kind of pear-shaped lesbian in the middle of nowhere Iowa. Why did her type also have to be femme-y straight girls designed for hetero male gazing? No wonder her sex life was a barren tundra spotted with pits of despair.

Which was sort of ironic considering that she worked at a dating app start-up. She’d applied to IDEAL! on a whim, desperate to get to even a semblance of a city. They’d hired her as a techy grunt, hunting for bugs in the code. Martin—nerdy, nonthreatening, and persistent—had gotten her to open up a little over the first few months. In a moment of daring she’d even told him she was gay. Which she hadn’t even managed to tell her bubbly roommate, Anastasia, partially because she was afraid the other girl would start to notice the longing looks Dore’d been casting at her perfect bubble butt. Again, Martin was nonthreatening.

Anyway. Putting aside her sad, squashed-but-yearning libido for a moment, the point was, she knew it wasn’t a date when Martin had suggested they go out for drinks at the would-be hip bar around the corner from where they worked. Also she knew Martin knew it wasn’t a date. And it seemed like she should leave her dreary basement apartment with the disturbing bubble butt at some point. So she’d agreed to come along.

But then it turned out Martin had for some incomprehensible reason invited along big-bearded Bill, from sales. And Bill had invited his girlfriend with the…attributes Dore was adamantly not thinking about. And Bill had bullied Dore into admitting she wasn’t dating. And now he’d bullied her into handing over her phone. And now he was downloading the IDEAL! app. While still booming.

“Upgraded brain wave functionality (wah wah wah)! New prototype never before (burble!) Unleash inner compatibility!” He was a geyser of meaningless buzzwords. She dared a glance up and girlfriend was licking foam off her lips, her head cocked, looking at Dore with something that might have been pity or might have been utter disregard. Possibly both.

Probably both.

Either way, Dore definitely wanted to drop dead on the spot. Or better to spontaneously combust, so there’d be no corpse to look at. She was flushing hot enough that it seemed like a real possibility.

Bill shoved her phone at her. “You’ve got to give it a try!” he declaimed. “Can’t have IDEAL! workers who don’t have IDEAL dates! Bad for business!” He chortled. Girlfriend giggled in an obligatorily hetero manner. Martin said, “Ha ha,” each syllable a small, reluctant betrayal.

“Thanks” she said as she took the phone, because you were supposed to say “thanks” when someone handed you something, even a dog turd, which she almost would have preferred to getting on a dating website while being heartily surveilled by Bill and surveilled with indifference by his indecently bosomed girlfriend.

But there was nothing for it. Dore looked at the welcome screen, expecting to have to enter her name and age and hair color and interests and goals (“never leaving the house again” was her main one right now). Also she figured she’d have to enter her sexual orientation, which she really had no desire to discuss with Bill and maybe wanted to discuss too much with his girlfriend.

But instead there was just one sentence, in all shouty caps.

‘ASK HIM ABOUT HIS IDEAL GIRLFRIEND.”

Him? Him who? And why did it have to assume she was interested in guys anyway? She was going to try to see if tapping the screen reset or fixed something, but the phone was humming, a weird tone. She lowered her head to it to try to hear better. There was some sort of tune there?

ask him ask him ask him askhim askhim askhimaskhimwhoyoushouldbe ask him ask him askhim askhimwhoyoushouldbeforhimwhatdoeshewantbewhathewants

It cycled through her head like an ABBA song. It was hard to think of anything else. It was like she needed to find the words to finish it. She needed to find the words to finish her. She needed to find the words that would fill her up. Thick, throbbing words shoving into her slick hot brain. She felt her lips (which lips?) tightening around those lovely, hard words.

Martin touched her shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay? You look a little out of it there.”

They were standing at the bar. Martin had gotten up to get another beer and she’d followed him. She’d needed to follow him. She looked into his eyes. The phone was pulsing quietly in her hand. A part of her pulsed along with it. A part that, she realized dimly, was very, very wet.

“What’s your ideal girlfriend, Martin?” she said. The phone shivered in her hand. Which she had somehow pressed against the crotch of her pants.

“Uh…what?” he said.

“Your ideal girlfriend. What do you want in a girlfriend.” She leaned in, listening as hard as she could to catch every syllable over the bar’s buzz and the generic alterna-rock. Ears open. Brain open. Everything open.

“Well…I…you know…I guess someone who’s smart? And funny. And who would be into going to Comic-Con? Not that they’d have to do cosplay!” he said hurriedly. “Unless they wanted to…”

He trailed off. Dore was shaking her head back and forth, slowly, like she was a puppet being manipulated by a very mediocre puppeteer.

“That’s not your ideal girlfriend. You’re lying,” she said flatly. She stepped closer to him and pressed the hand with the phone to his cheek. Her other hand cupped his balls with shocking frankness. “You need to tell me the truth.”

He wasn’t sure if the words came from the phone or from Dore; it was hard to tell over the roaring of blood to his dick. It wasn’t just Dore’s hand, unexpectedly expert, but her expression—her mouth hanging slightly open, blue eyes fixed and rapt. He’d never thought of her as sexy. Her frankly dumpy body was always bundled in bulky clothes; her blonde hair was washed out; she radiated introversion and social anxiety. But there was something about seeing her so receptive…she squeezed, and he felt himself spasm, ready to cum. But words spurted out of him instead, hissing into her ear.

“Okay, yes, I…I want a girlfriend who’s a lesbian. I just always found lesbians hot. And…and I want her to seduce other women for me. All the other women. She’s so hot they can’t resist her and she gets off on having them fuck me. Or forcing them to watch me fuck her. I want a lesbian domme who’s my submissive bitch…ugh!”

He detumesced, abruptly. No ejaculation, but he almost collapsed against her. She held onto his now flaccid penis, still looking into his face like he’d let fall pearls of wisdom rather than deeply embarrassing fetish shit from his extremely embarrassing subconscious.

They were both panting. She gazed up at him, her lips half parted. As he watched she licked them, slow. “Were you friends with me because lesbians turn you on?” she whispered. He could feel her breath in his ear.

He jerked back. Far enough back that her hand fell off his dick, which was a relief and also the opposite of a relief. “What?! No! Of course not! It’s just a thing I think about when I’m thinking but not thinking about you! Not a thing thing! You know?!” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “I will never watch lesbian porn again,” he swore, which was probably not the best thing to say right then. But it was from the heart.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still staring up at him. She looked…disappointed?

“You like lesbian porn,” she said. “Okay.” She ducked her head, suddenly the old Dore again, the one he knew, who was painfully shy, largely asexual, and absolutely not a person who would grab his dick in a public place while asking him about what he wanted in a lesbian…in a girlfriend!

He opened his mouth to say virtually anything to make things less awkward, but she was gone.

He turned to the bar to try to process what the hell had happened and also to hide his erection, which had returned, if not tenfold, then at least close enough to tenfold to be worth hiding.

Dore should have felt humiliated and panicked. With one part of her brain, distant and far away, she knew that she should not have sexually assaulted Martin by grabbing his delicious rigid penis, because (a) public penis-grabbing of random co-workers was wrong, and (b) she didn’t even like penises because she was a lesbian.

She looked in the mirror and watched her mouth shape the word, “lesbian.” The syllables slid over her and thrust up in her, like Martin’s dick jerking in her hand. His dick fit perfectly into her hand, into her brain, into her lesbianism. She loved girls and she loved his dick pounding into girls until they screamed and pounding into their minds until they loved his pounding cunt dick just as much as she did. She would fuck them with Martin’s huge dick and make them fuck her with his huge dick and that would make them lesbians and they would watch lesbian porn.

Her phone pinged. She realized vaguely she was stroking her hot slick lesbian pussy with it through her boring beige slacks. Why had she worn boring beige slacks? They didn’t wear boring beige slacks in lesbian porn, which was what Martin liked to watch.

The phone pinged again. With an effort she stopped dry humping it and raised it up so she could see the screen.

“MARTIN’S LESBIAN DOMME SUBMISSIVE BITCH SWITCH IDEAL: MENTAL PROCESSING, 70% ENABLE PHYSICAL PROCESSING, YES/NO?”

“You’re doing something to me,” she said to the app. “Stop it,” she added as an afterthought. “I don’t want to turn women into slutty needy fucktoys for Martin.”

“MENTAL PROCESSING 75%” The phone said. “ENABLE PHYSICAL PROCESSING AND YOU CAN CUM FOR MARTIN.”

“Want to cum,” she said. “Stop it.” Her other hand, the one not holding the phone, was down her pants, sliding her panties aside. She was incredibly wet. She wanted to cum.

“MENTAL PROCESSING 83%. YOU WILL CUM HARDER THAN YOU HAVE EVER CUM ONCE YOU BEGIN PHYSICAL PROCESSING AND TURN YOUR BODY INTO A SEDUCTIVE DOMME SWITCH BITCH SUBMISSIVE FUCKTOY FOR MARTIN.”

Her cunt felt like it was boiling against her hand. She wanted to cum. She wanted to get out of her soaked beige pants and into something seductive for Martin. She wanted to go home and forget all about Martin and watch lesbian porn until she came harder than she ever had. And fuck Anastasia while Martin watched. With his dick.

“Fuck Anastasia’s ass with Martin’s dick,” she said. She looked in the mirror. The sweatshirt was not sexy. The pants weren’t sexy.

She needed better pants. She needed better clothes. She needed a better body to seduce hot needy cunts for Martin to fuck with his hard cock.

“Yes,” she said. Her lips moved in the mirror. She pressed yes.

She screamed Martin’s name as she came.