The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Shayla knew she didn’t need anything from Nick. She could do social cartwheels around the guy, catty gymnastics Olympic in scope. Still, there was something in the way he offered it to her late in the day last weekend that she couldn’t resist.

“You wanna go get an ice cream in a minute? I gotta get some cigarettes,” he hurried, masking the absurdity of Nick Reverenti the rock guitarist approaching a hot young Honduran girl he talked to for a tiny ten minutes the night before, stoned out of his mind.

“You wanna get a handle on something real street, you gotta get into Jay-Z. That guy is crazy,” he said, forcing a reinforcement laugh as he let out a choked stream of smoke from his lips. She remembered how his words had flowed out of him, like some waves against a ship, or a dog’s tail lazily thwapping against a bookcase.

The night before, he had played some real shredding guitar for his hard rock band, which had warranted the smoking of two bowls with the town’s tastemakers. This included a bunch of dudes who all seemed pretty cool, but, perhaps more vital, the Honduran sisters Shayla and Carmen. Their dad owned three of the four big indie rock clubs downtown, and they were fucking beautiful. And they had big butts in tight jeans and could quote Robert Crumb issues from the seventies, and you just knew they were both too young to barely remember even the eighties, let alone old enough to bare all in the nineties. They had fine black hair and they were perfect plums in the garden of flirtation. He thought talking about rap music would be the perfect flotation device when that garden got smoky and flooded.

“Except now he’s working with that annoying motherfucker from Coldplay. That’s just bullshit. You gotta do what you gotta do, I know, and you gotta sell your black ass every once in a while you know. Just give up a certain shade of your conscience like it was limiting your palette, making your basic shit a little stronger. You wanna know how to do it right, you wanna just hop onboard and have fun, you gotta figure out how to please the white man, you gotta feel good about your body of work, you know what I’m sayin’, you gotta wanna sell yourself to a bunch of homies...” Shayla had heard enough of what this cute guy was trying to convey to know how stoned and wrong he was, Nick Reverenti or not. And she also knew how stoned and wrong she felt. She liked feeling stoned and wrong, especially around Nick Reverenti! He was on the cover of Fader. No, she smirked with fully stung lips, not Fader... what was the name of that local zine?

It didn’t phase Shayla one bit to get lost in a Trapper Keeper haze of feelings. He could say “you gotta” or “you wanna” to her all night long; sometime between switching topics from hip-hop to how much he loved enchiladas after hours of passionate sex, she had lost herself entirely, concentrating on the thwuh-thup-thwapping of his sexy words. You gotta. You wanna. You wanna wanna. This was a german shepherd-sized dog tail hitting a file cabinet violently. Or was it her heart beating in her throat? Why was she thinking about tails anyway. Why couldn’t she get the image of that long, heavy thing, swaying dumbly only to slap its neighbor, out of her head? His words caressed her like a hayride. THWAP THWAP WANNA WAWNNA GWOTTA THWAP THWAP THWUCK SUCK FUH—

“Sucking dick, you gotta wanna do it when you wanna cook me breakfast I gotta have the freedom...” Wait, what the fuck is going on here, thought Shayla as her eyes snapped on. All of a sudden she saw it all. A rock star was trying to get his dick wet. She must have been one toke over the borderline for him to get as far as that. Now how is it, she wondered, that I’m going to get out of this?

She took the gum out of her mouth and promptly stuck it in Nick Reverenti’s ear canal! Holy shit, she thought, what have I done? The thought of mistreating such a hot hunk of manmeat like Nick Reverenti, Nick “Part Time Wrestler, Full Time Professional Love Deity (With a Huge Package I Bet)” Reverenti. She wanted that rock god with white chocolate abs more than she wanted his baby, and a touch less than she craved his cock. Shayla simply and ably got so worked up by the thought of that rock star inside of her, she tried convincing herself she wasn’t angry just two seconds before.

So what if he wants his dick sucked? She reasoned. He was being really forward, sure, but it wasn’t like she wasn’t feeling the vibe.

No. This was getting crazy. She hadn’t even seen a dick before, let alone touch... oh, this was getting out of hand. She liked the feeling of power over this guy that the whole world issued a healthy fondness for. Taking the gum out of his ear, he looked back up to ask her what she thought she was doing, but was shocked to find she was chin level with the bulge on his slacks. He suddenly found out that anything he felt compelled to say to her was rendered useless. It all came out as mellow moans anyway.

Shayla knew she had the upper hand. With every prick spasm, she looked into the ripped abdomen of adoration and kissed her thick manhood the guitar guru Nick Reverenti had so graciously let her suck.

Hell, she thought, if he wanna get sucked, then he gotta ask nicely. And if I wanna get noticed, then I just gotta ask nicely and listen to what this superstar stud wanna do. As she swallowed every last drop of his rock and roll nectar, she wondered what she’d tell her older sister Carmen. Shayla looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. Nick and the surprisingly adept beginner were getting freaky for almost two hours. She yawned on his dick, before giving it one last protective kiss, ignoring any realization that all of the other revelers were gone, trivializing the amount of time she and the perfect stranger were together.

Holy shit, I’ve been sucking Nick Reverenti’s cock since midnight! I have him right where I want him. He thought I’d be too grossed out to go down on him, well I showed him! He’ll be putty in my hands now. He knows I’m the best girl he’ll ever get. She French-inaled a cigarette and let it cascade out her nostrils while letting out a string of words perhaps more startling, bumpy and persuasive than her rock god crush boy.

“I love the way you sweet talk me, Nicky. You’re never gonna forget this night. You’re gonna want my good head all the time, it’ll help you out when you play guitar. You gotta tell me what to look like all the time, baby, how to act, what to think. You gotta you gotta you gotta! Make my life easy, Nicky. You wanna pamper me and take me out more than playing that silly guitar. I’m not gonna wanna drop dome unless you’re gonna wanna write songs about how pretty and amazing I am! You gotta wanna do this for me, baby! You gotta wanna! You gotta wanna get my attention and I’ll give you some of mine. You gotta wanna smoke my marijuana and you’ll love me forever I’ll be your lover I’ll suck your dick I’ll be your dick addict I’m addicted to you I’m addicted to your dick I love your cock I love you Nicky you gotta understand how much I wanna—”

Shayla was shake-and-baked awake. Pot smoke filled the backstage suite, lingerling long after everyone, save the middling janitor picking Pepsi bottles and cigarette butts from the club’s floors, had gone home or to better parties. She yawned, the eerie taste of hot rocker cum fresh on her mouth. Or at least the fleeting and sub-conscious half-memory of what her brain had imagined it would have had to taste like. Why was she so focused on the idea of Nick Reverenti anyway? And why did she feel so turned on when there was nobody around that could have put her in this state? And weren’t her panties a little too damp? Her fantasies hadn’t left her this.. soaked and sticky before. Oh well.

Her dreams were so real. She couldn’t believe what a slut she acted like in the dream world. She was just exhausted, she reckoned, and so very high that her subconscious took the nice gestures of a musician and projected something else onto them.

At any rate, she decided to high-tail it out of the club and get some sleep. It was four in the morning after all, the time of night or day or twilight savings time that made television stations resort to playing puppy pregnancy-heavy episodes of “Lassie” that would reach the minds of no one. Shayla walked out of the backstage area, ignoring the T.V. dog smacking Timmy in the face with its long, strong dumb tail. She found her car in the sea of empty parking lot and put the keys in her ignition and headed home. She couldn’t believe how long she’d been asleep, and, laughing, wondered if she should even bring this up to her sister! Putting the stereo on, listening to that sweet Nick Reverenti sing again, she knew there was nothing to talk about, nothing happened, nothing to worry about. The drive home was light and easy. She had Nicky singing in her ear...

So, seeing him the very next afternoon was a bit unreal, if not deliciously familiar. When he said the words “ice cream”, it gave her a feeling of home that was unmatched. She wanted to plant a sloppy kiss on his face right then, but didn’t want to give herself away too easily. If she cared about anything, it was about the desire to remain a lady, and not an easy bitch.

She couldn’t drop her integrity, but she could say yes to an offer of ice cream. She loved the way he said, “You gotta.” He was cute like that. If Shayla let her precautions get in the way this time, she might not ever hang out with him again. Even though her might was firmly planted, there was still something in the way he asked, no, pleaded, that made her melt.

“You gotta try the Cherry Cheesecake Sticky Bun Surprise,” Nick Reverenti said. The secret was that it had more calories than two beers and three Big Macs combined. It was a culinary pleasure bomb and with the further relishing of a cigarette, sent her not only into some swervy romantic swooning, but into a nice and sedentary psychosomatic wonder, a hot body high that reminded the college sophomore what the weed high felt like the night before. What it was like to listen to Nick’s hot, dark, dulcet-toned vocal chords vibrating against her pussy. He did eat me out, right? she scrambled. You can’t dream something like that.

She let the images flow until some time after her fourth Cherry Berry Bo-berry Cheesy Cheesequake Shakey Clump. Who thought of these names? Shayla wondered naively while ordering, which she did not long after finishing two orders of Double Cheeseburger Macaroni Madness, a decision no doubt encouraged by her sharp determination to be the bigger one. After all, “You gotta eat if you wanna try your hand at candy shoveling.”

Whoah, thought the Honduran peach. That made sense when Nicky had said it. But then again, what was he talking about? Harry Partch? Or was that the part of the conversation that involved having a dick in her butt to be able to understand Harry Partch? And why was a black guy fucking her to drive that point home? You’d think if it was such a personal argument, that she would get to know Nick’s and not Karim’s dick, right? She tried to rationalize experiencing these dreamy memories, but in the end, resigned to the most plausible excuse: this heavy horniness was the bastard manifestation of the id and an unstoppable, libidinous ego.

Dreams weren’t real! Only this dessert date and her fascination with the guitar hero. But before Nick Reverenti came in her, a sultry simultaneous climax, saying, “You wanna feel my soul and lose all control, you gotta lose your mind for the second time,” her mind was running free. Just how pretty those words sounded, certainly not what they meant or the motivations implied, drove her race. Wanna wanna gotta wanna banana nana baba banana bunnies wanna bouncy bunny sunny wanna gonna sticka dick inside a master pickle peter penis paul and mary you gotta stick inside a milky money honey bunny funny sunny fun and sun and sticky buns and gettin’ sum and sun and dick and tricks no tricks just cum chest fun trust funds and sun

It seemed like she wouldn’t ever wake up from that last dream. A college sophomore honestly scared of Nick Reverenti? Nick Reverenti and Shayla Mendoza had been married for five years. And she had been visualizing herself as so slight, so much of a fraction of her fruitly figure nowadays. Grandmothers and nuns all prayed for her when she walked on by. Her curves stopped low pressure systems and bills from being passed. Even in funereal black clothing, Shayla was a sex bomb. This woman was a midnight apple, going to bed without pajamas and, sometimes, without her husband.

The Cox kids, all three of them from down the street, came to her door looking to take her under their daddy’s foyer and deposit some real loving energy into her holes. At 36 years old, sporting a 36DD cup, and having conquered on average 36 unique visitors a month (a number that at least a couple months over the years must have doubled, if not tripled), she was a sugary fruit waiting to be further pollinated. She’d wanted to have kids ever since her sister Carmen died in the train accident. She’d be ready. She was an eggplant with love in her. Love for fucking and freaking out and making her husband Nick “The Dick” Reverenti feel worse than the janitor he was.

She could really lay it to him in the worst way. She only called him “The Dick” because his was so small. She knew she could only feel content in the arms of Jimmy Cox and Willie Cox and Johnny Cox, her lovers’ hands exploring the smooth contours of her creamy curves, bouncing palms off her ass instead of quarters. A cock deep within her and one in her mouth. A few fingers teasing her asshole, or a few cocks from a few Coxes. Shayla was also no stranger to the cousins Cox: Travis and Sean with the peters for three meters, or even Daddy Cox! Coddling that big dick was a harsh lesson to fallen angels across America. She had come a long way to have fucked or sucked or double-suck-fucked all nineteen Cox boys!

Shayla called for a nationwide boycott on delayed gratification and at the age of 40, became the first girl president to give birth live on broadcast television. It wasn’t a real birth, though, it was just a facade for the media. Ms. Mendoza cloned herself successfully on Valentine’s Day so she could appear at presidential addresses and get fucked in the mouth by more powerful nations, nations of men with huge dicks, she couldn’t breathe on her own with all these dizzying dicks around, so full and hard and hot and bursting into her mouth with all the rushing force of a geyser. Guys or boys, she didn’t care what you called ‘em as long as they could stand to get ridden whenever she saw fit a condom on my paw listened to the sexy sounds of her parrafin husband whining about something stupid: “You whine-uh waah wuh-nuh nee uh wanna whine”

Shayla shut her alarm clock off and realized she was lying topless in the guest room of Bradford Cox, the fashion designer her teacher was friends with. She felt like she was betraying her sister Carmen, by becoming fast friends with these grown men.

Shayla was only sixteen years old, two years younger than Carmen. Bradford Cox was well into his forties, and Mr. Reverenti, her handsome biology teacher, was at least 36. If she was to believe what her two fake dads had claimed, just the sight of her lace-covered behind could inspire a wellspring of youth and vitality that would chop off twenty of their tired years.

She would oblige them picaresque peeks at her posterior, but she was too much of a lady to let them go any further, or even touch her pluperfect rump. She knew she could get more money from these old faggots if she let them plug her (I’m sure they’d love to say they got me pregnant), but they were already giving her enough money so she could support her addiction to new items of lingerie. And all she had to do was shake a pantied ass in their faces. She didn’t touch them and they didn’t touch her. That was the deal. Even though she doused her bikini zone in pheromones and secretly loved it when they sniffed her panties, she hadn’t been taught what sex was.

Now she was 21 years old and had the whole faculty of the high school lapping up the sweet sugary ass that was beginning to suffocate the hopes and dreams of every male in the tri-county area. Her sweet behind, once a neat trash can, was now a drool dumpster, a black but white kinda mocha butt that was begging to get pounded. Shayla’s nipples and pussy couldn’t help but agree, but her brain thought otherwise. I’m going to get Carmen so pissed off, she mourned. In the end, she had no choice. She had to be the whipping girl.

As the first principal to be subjugated to the scrutiny and physical impunity of the student body, she had spent more than five years eating the right foods and thinking about the toughest thugs, eventually cultivating and sustaining the world’s nicest, juiciest ass. So plump were her buttcheeks that when she called troublemakers into her office, they doled out the punishments. Punks could either spend their time giving her moustache rides or just slapping it until it got good and swollen. These “detentions” continued for a while, despite other faculty members failing to see exactly what was bad about them.

Principal Mendoza lost her virginity to the custodial staff on her 24th birthday. When she was getting stuffed every which way by these burly bachelors, she couldn’t help but fart.

Principal Mendoza, you gotta decide who to let into that fat ass. You wanna keep in mind who’s sucking who off, who’s the principle sucker. You wanna stop caring about where that ass came from. Nobody bought you those tits, you can’t buy tits. You live by tits. You wanna be, your body’s budding out of dresses but you don’t care. You wanna forget the way your sister always showed you up. You’re the real woman now. You are eighteen years old, a grownup. Only grownups wake up with men like me. You are so smart. You wanna rule the world with just a bounce of your bunnies, trounce all other cunnies, you are so smart. I love what you do because you wanna do me you wanna suck these titties, you gotta wanna fuck me once you—

“Wake up! Wake up!” pleaded Carmen. Her double D’s were slapping together lazily just above her boyfriend’s chin. Nick Reverenti was a senior in high school and his girlfriend Carmen was a junior, but there was something about her that made her seem like she lived a bunch of lives. It was hard not to feel much less than her anyway, due to the fact that she was on top and riding away, big boobs bouncing as she was telling him, commanding him to pray to her. “You wanna eat me out, you wanna stay in bed with me, you wanna gotta understand and take her hand.”

A lady, cocoa-skinned and shaped like tender heaven, barged into the bedroom. Carmen gave Nick the hand of this ravishing woman, imploring, “You gotta call her Shayla, okay?”

“Okay,” said Nick, wondering if selling his guitar for that mind control indoctrination manual was worth it. “How you doin’, Shayla?” he asked, but he wouldn’t get a response anytime soon, as her mouth was rather prettily preoccupied by his thick wang. “You wanna eat more Big Macs, they’re good for the hips.” Oh, these Honduran girls are going to be so fun. I’m going to fatten them up and pork them so well, they’re not gonna know the difference between hot dick and a dozen Krispy Kremes.

“You wanna get us a few pizzas and take us shopping for new clothes,” said Carmen. “You wanna have your dick sucked, you gotta have the money to get us new bras. You gotta get us new bras.” Okay, so nobody said life would be easy, but how can one man dare complain about hot Honduran sisters with growing boobs fighting over his nuts? You gotta wanna be in my position.