The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

17

It was a powerful and frightening dream, one Ellen appreciated waking up from. The major theme was loss of control, with undertones of loss of identity. Twenty-five years of carefully curated personal growth gone, turned into a groveling slut, stuffed into an oinker of a body with tits for brains. She laughed it off, rubbing at her face.

This was a bed she didn’t recognize, but that was much more manageable. City life as a desirable young woman, gracing clubs and bars with her appearances, Ellen was used to new rooms. She made an effort to sit one rung below actual gossip-site status. Far more fun to sit outside that web, drinking champagne and twenty-dollar gin and tonics, in an array of different designers. Waking up in an unfamiliar bed generated amusing anecdotes and novel fodder.

She padded out of the bed. Clearly she’d gone slumming—there was barely anywhere to go. Narrow hallways with ugly carpeting. Nothing on the walls, empty boxes on the floor—clear male living space. She chewed on an end of hair, trying to recall circumstances. Her purse had to be somewhere. Why was she so slow? She had extensive education. And yet it was all heavy, lazy thoughts in her head, not at all helpful. Was she still drunk?

It started to roll back: right. Right. There was a kind of virus going around, that men caught. It made them very sick and then very, very sexy. Dangerously hot. Nonetheless the thrill of dancing with enormous hunks, with bigger hands, pheromone-based cologne, was too much to miss out on. Then she’d sucked like, a hundred dicks or something.

Ellen froze. Oh no.

No no no.

She had gone to—gone to—some University she couldn’t quite recall, but it was very good. She looked down to see the pert, lissom frame that looked so good in A-line dresses.

Two fat tits were in the way.

“Oh oh oh oh NO,” Ellen said, and had to force the words through lush lips. Her mouth was full of spit. When had that happened? She ran a hand up and down her body, trying to take stock. There was so much curve, so much body. Just trying to grip her butt was going to take machinery. This wasn’t HER. This was a trash body, belonging to some voluptuous cow who was just empty fertile calories.

The bathroom was right there and held—men at work—one bar of soap and one bottle of shampoo. The mirror was heavy with toothpaste residue. Nonetheless there she was, cheeks pink and body ripe as a peach. “Oh my gawddddddddd,” Ellen said, despairing. There had to be some mistake. She attended premieres. This was not only a slut body, it was dressed in slut clothes. A pink polka-dot pair of undies that had to be someone else’s, and that dug into her hips. Some boy’s grey KMFDM t-shirt with holes in it. Her nipples pushed hard on the fabric, and looked about ready to tear it.

Where was she? Ellen jiggled back to the bedroom, noticing more and more concerning facts. Her pussy was getting wet, for one thing. How good everything smelled, despite this obviously being a mildew and mold single occupancy. The way that running made every bit of her swing. Her phone was on the bed, at 10% charge. Ellen forced plans into her overheated head. She’d get a taxi, head to the doctor or whatever, get all the butt fat suctioned out. Then back clubbing.

The phone asked for her password. Ellen stared at it. She had not the slightest idea.

It was all a lot and Ellen decided to just freak out. She sat down on the bed. Her ass cheeks spread out to either side. Peeking down her panties she found a rubbery red slit, very smooth, with a prominent clitoral nub. “What the hell?” Ellen whispered at it. “What ARE you?” she gently touched at it with her pinkie. It spread a pleasant, warming glow through her. As much as she told herself to pull her hand away, fight this bimbo disaster she was stuck in, it was calming to gently manipulate the thick bud. Ellen sat there for awhile, alternately trying to remember her password, or anything, and also rubbing between her legs.

What had happened? She’d put on makeup, and six-hundred dollar heels, and met up with friends. She’d worn an N95 and a little black dress, cinched at her slight waist. Ellen shivered—was she really gonna cum, just from barely touching herself?—the rest of the night was gone. She’d entered a club full of men, warm, doused in their new cologne, and then— Jasmine was in a corner, her eyes wide, slobbering on a man’s knob, there was an arm around her waist and she was drooling…

And now she was sitting in a windowless bedroom, four fingers stuffed up her pussy, looking like the best of the bus stop.

“Unnnnnn,” Ellen moaned, flopping backwards onto an ancient, stiff pillow. God, had she really snuck a finger to her backside? It was still there, shameful, but adding to the general happy bath of chemicals. It was all so trashy and stupid. She certainly didn’t flop around in strange men’s beds, acting like a cat in heat. She was—Ellen… something. Any second now, she’d remember her last name.

A man was watching her twitch, watching her jill herself on his bed. His nose was wrinkled.

“No luck with the phone?” he said, grouchy. “Do you remember ANYTHING?”

“Ummm… hi,” Ellen said, sitting up. He was still thin, despite the virus. His testosterone had compensated with shaggy chest hair and corded forearms. Her brain finally pumped out something useable: this was Jakob, and he was a bartender, and his cum tasted like almond paste. “Jakob. Hi. Good morning!”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” he huffed. His disapproval washed over her. “Listen, you gotta remember your last name, or like a friend’s name, or something. No more blowjobs until you do, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Ellen said, in a small voice. She made an effort to think of stuff—before stuff—but it was swirling away, receding back to the very depths of her. More important things took precedence, like Jakob, Jakob’s amazing cock.

“And wash your hands, buttfucker,” he said, stalking off.

She did, staring in the mirror. The morning fog was almost entirely gone. This was her—the lips, the boobs, the clit, the butt. It’d be nicer, she figured, if the dumb dreams about wearing expensive clothes just went away. For a moment a face floated in front of her—Bailey something? Didn’t they do work stuff together? Then it was gone, and her open mouth looked back in the mirror. Ellen licked her lips. She was really horny still.

Out in the living room Jakob was on his phone. The room had been wood paneled in the 80s and never altered, and the carpet had come with it. On TV the news showed a public park, and when Ellen squinted, and worked at it, she could just read “GOVERNMENT SPERM” on the screen.

“I should send you down there,” Jakob said. “I can’t afford you. I tried to sell that dress but it was a joke.”

“Uh-huh,” Ellen said, kneeling next to him. He didn’t protest, and let her slide his pants down. There was the dick she recalled. She’d been there for a week, confused and transforming, pacifying herself regularly on his dick. He’d found her cum-drunk at the bar at the end of the night, face mask pulled down and face dripping. His dick slid out of his boxers.

“Dumb slut,” he said, as she took him into her mouth, but rubbed her head with affection. She slurped with abandon. “I asked again but no one came looking for you. The club is closing down anyway. Everyone’s just getting blowjobs at home. So I’m unemployed.”

“Shorry shir,” Ellen said, around his dick. She’d learned that trick. Jakob liked to talk while getting dome. And he liked a lot of spit. He started to fuck her mouth more aggressively.

“The internet says you can pretty much live on vitamins and jizz now,” Jakob said. He put his phone down to concentrate. Ellen started to rub at herself again. He liked it when she got off at the same time. “So I guess you’re gonna. Push comes to shove I guess we can move in with my Dad over in Newark. He’s gone to get Mom, I guess they’re back together. Kind of.”

“I can…” Ellen stopped. This was important stuff. She had to try and think. “I can clean and… tidy up and stuff. And suck your dick a lot.” She went right back down on him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jakob said, unconvinced. But he rubbed at her hair again. His couch was missing an entire cushion. On screen a line of girls had formed for the first batch of federal semen, for the needy. They looked very needy. Jakob unloaded down her throat. For a second there was a faint memory—almond tarts in some city, not this one. Paris? Was that a place? It was already gone.

“What’s your last name?” Ellen said, once she’d recovered.

Jakob gave her a long look. “Klaczko,” he said.

Ellen Klaczko, she thought. She’d have to remember that, there had to be room in there.

18

Bailey was filling out really nicely.

Quinn was thrilled. Bailey was less thrilled. Apparently—and Quinn looked it up—this was quite rare. Most girls fell instantly in love with their big bouncy bodies. Running a finger from toes to lips was enough to make them cum, with appropriate detours. It made Bailey cum too, extremely hard, even before he had traced above the skim of her ass. She definitely liked having her tits squeezed, as hard as he liked, and she squealed when he flicked a nipple. Just like the rest of them she was a squeeze-toy with an enormous squeaker.

Nonetheless his girlfriend hung on to, if not actual irritation, a semi-grouchy annoyance with the whole “turning into a permanent bimboslut” stuff. And a touching belief that she could do something about it.

“I’m back from… jogging…” Bailey gasped, utterly overcome and soaking with sweat. She’d shoved herself into workout gear that had been tight on her previous hardbody. Now it was a parody of a parody, butt bubbling out of the joggers, sweater half-zipped and struggling with big sweaty tits. For her own safety Quinn had discretely followed her. She’d jiggled about a block, and, halfway down it, had a little orgasm. Too much thigh rubbing together, he figured.

Wheezing, cheeks bright red, Bailey practically fell onto his cock. She was so out of breath it was an actual blow job, blowing hot breath all over his penis. But this was one of many deals she’d made with herself—exercise before cum.

Quinn rubbed at her hair. The roots were turning blonde, very fast. It was all happening very fast, and he wanted it to slow down, enjoy it. The way she still tried to fit into a bra, the cups terribly overcome by two fat masses of tits. Bailey, horror struck, looking at the number on the scale. Bailey slapping her butt in the mirror and moaning, dismayed, at the lengthy ripple. Her picking and choosing words so as not to lisp.

And especially the drool. Quinn was aware this was probably a him-only kink. But it was such a perfect symbol of her devolution, that his prim and proper girlfriend couldn’t keep her spit in her mouth. She leaked. Especially when she let her guard down, just swam in the endorphins, and let her eyes go dim. She’d drool onto the table, startle, and then try to erase the evidence.

Down below, Bailey started to slurp. Her fingers started to push underneath her pants, to where she still forced herself into hyper-stretched panties. Over on the other side of the room, her sister matched the movement.

It hadn’t escaped Quinn’s notice that they were turning into near-carbon copies of each other. It was possible there just wasn’t room for any other option. Big lips, sultry eyes, blonde hair, oversized body, it all left little room for subtle differentiation.

It was the little things, too. Bailey kept trying to pitch her voice low, but it was leaking as well, turning into the same squeak-toy pitch as her slutty sister. All of Erica’s little mannerisms—the way she cocked her head when she tried to sound smart, the hair twirling, the soft embarrassed giggled, varied little from sister to sister.

“Here we go,” Quinn warned. He unloaded in Bailey’s mouth. It was his first cum of the morning, and a real impressive one. Between that and her exercise Bailey couldn’t keep a seal. Sperm squirted between her lips, and he had to pull out to avoid choking her. That was fine—he liked giving her facials. Cum dripped into her new cleavage. Lately she had enough breasts that it could barely drip through, and formed a pool on top of her tits.

He picked her up to put her on the couch. Despite her dismay at her inflation Bailey really wasn’t much heavier. Overall weight gain was fifteen pounds or so. As Quinn saw it, she was just less dense. It was all distributed from muscles and memories to tits and ass.

He pawed at her as he walked, still in disbelief that this was all his. He owned this. She was so plush, so fun to stroke, and he did it all the time. There was an endless delight to his ownership of her body, to her change, something he couldn’t help but paw, stroke, grab, and pull. That it inevitably turned her ongoing disbelief in her transformation into helpless moans was a big bonus. At some point, he knew, this would end. She’d be just another hapless slut. But while it lasted…

Quinn gently laid her down next to her sister. Erica. Big sis gave him her usual patient smile. She was the final version, the endgame. Unlike Bailey, who still usually refused to wear lipstick, she had nearly lacquered her lips in the shade he liked.

“Yeah?” she said, coyly. Bailey would be cum-drunk for a good twenty minutes, if not more, before waking up to guilty lick the cum off her own face.

“Oh yeah,” Quinn said. Erica reached out and started to lick him back to hardness. It wasn’t going to take more then two or three licks.

Getting blowjobs from Erica was controversial and Quinn hadn’t brought the subject up with Bailey yet. The two were still officially at loggerheads.

For the first few days after commencing her dicksucking career Bailey had worked harder than ever to re-educate her wayward sis. She’d read aloud from books to Erica. Quinn had loved it. Bailey was just so oblivious to how her voice was already starting to crack, how her fingers kept straying to cup her swelling tits, or pat unconsciously at a clit growing millions of new nerve endings. Plus she had to stop reading to slurp up drool before it hit the ground.

And that was all without her own obvious struggles with the longer words. After Bailey had struggled with ‘unconscious’, scrunching up her nose, sticking her tongue out, and lisping through the enunciation, Quinn had stopped the reading, picked her up, and stuck his dick into her mouth.

Even after that she had kept it up, clawing at each loss of ground. It unnerved Quinn how much he enjoyed it, watching his cooly intelligent girlfriend metamorph into a dim whore. This was not the image he had of himself. Bailey squeaking as she tried and failed to lead a bored Erica through fourth grade math flashcards. Bailey switching Spotify from Chopin to Katy Perry. Bailey writing her name with a heart for the dot in the i, switching to purple gel pens with sparkles in them, from some old High School pen set. All of it made him hard as iron.

Perhaps the manly thing was to take responsibility, inform Bailey that the gig was up, that she was now little more than pussy property. But not yet.

He’d watched the two of them, side by side, open-mouthed, masturbating to Masterpiece Theater. Bailey had put it on for some culture, and they’d ended up both cooing over Mr. Darcy, eyes low-lidded, working fingers in needy cunts. With painted fingernails, for both of them. He’d worked ten inches into Bailey while she sat in the chair, aching for it.

That was also when he’d figured it out. Erica had always been the smart one.

No wonder Bailey was so unsettled by it all. The brilliant baby sister, reduced to cocksucking living room decoration.

It was good, really, that Erica was there. There was a lot that Bailey had to learn about being a safe and sensible cum slut. Erica made sure there was always a pillow to fall on, post-blowjob, when the jizz haze really hit. Erica unbuttoned Bailey’s shorts when they were far too tight, telling her “its okay to breath!” Even as Bailey muttered and complained about her slut-butt sibling Erica had patiently painted her nails a beautiful pink shade. The same as her own.

Quinn couldn’t really say it was mistaken identity, letting Erica suck him off. Bailey had gone to work. She’d buttoned up in her old clothes, now taut and swollen, her belly button fully exposed. Erica had done her makeup, going with darkly sultry eyes. Bailey had insisted on pants, which meant they couldn’t be buttoned, or even zipped. Her butt made the pinstripes vibrate. Off she’d gone. She’d run out of sick days.

Quinn was pretty sure she’d come home fired—that morning Bailey had lost her final bit of earthy timbre to her voice, reduced entirely into a tinny airheaded voicebox. Not a good quality in an attorney. Nonetheless she’d gone, and her sister had closed the door, let out a long sigh of relief, and said “you wanna suck?” in a playful voice. He’d squirted in his pants, like he was twelve again. They’d gone at it immediately, Quinn standing where he’d waved goodbye to his girlfriend. After a half-hour Erica sucked him off again. He’d kept waiting to feel guilty, and never did. This was just how things were going to be. Why feel bad about it?

Bailey had gotten fired before noon. As usual she’d blamed it on Erica. “I can’t even type shit!” she’d said, aggravated. “You have to get your fingers right and make sure one letter goes right after another and its so hard! I can’t even see the keyboard!” She indicated her boobs, which had reduced her go-to-work bra to tatters.

“Did you suck anyone off at work?” Quinn said. In a way he hoped she had. He did feel guilty about Erica, even while planning the next encounter. But Bailey had scoffed at that. She eventually dealt with her anger and embarrassment the only way she could, by sucking Quinn’s dick.

He started to fuck Erica’s mouth, about two feet from Bailey’s insensate head. As much as they looked alike—and they really looked a lot alike—their oral technique was very different. Bailey was insistent, active—she sucked hard, worked hard. Erica was a lazy, warm hole. Not in a bad way. It took a lot of skill to let a very large, insistent dick pound back and forth in the complex arena of teeth and tongue that was the mouth. And Erica had it.

It was a testament to Bailey’s extraordinary denial that she didn’t know. Erica definitely had to smell like him. Scent was a big deal to these bimbos, he knew. Sure, they’d kept it a secret of sorts, only going at it sloppy-seconds when Bailey was knocked out with a load of cum. She didn’t leave the apartment very often now that she’d gotten fired. But also: of course. Of course he was fucking Erica’s mouth, he was a man and she was his girl.

Bailey opened her drugged eyes too soon, saw the pounding wet cock right next to her face, and gasped in genuine horrified shock.

Erica, to her credit, didn’t stop for a second. Neither did Quinn—he was close and it seemed a shame to pull out. Bailey backed away, all wobbles, her face still mucked up and cum-covered. “Erica!” she gasped, drooling. Quinn, still face-fucking her sister, was impressed at the outrage. Most bimbos couldn’t get mad at all. “You fucking SLUT! This is ALL your fault! I let you in and you make me into THIS and I lost my JOB and now you’re SUCKING my BOYFRIEND!” She pulled down her top. Her boobs were the exact same size as Erica’s. Quinn had tested both. “Look at these TITS you gave me!”

Halfway through the speech Quinn unloaded into Erica’s mouth. A true professional, she swallowed without complaint. Her eyes did flicker at Quinn for just a second: deal with this.

“Bailey, clean me off,” Quinn said, back straight. So the day had arrived. He’d had his fun. It was time to take responsibility. His bimbos had to learn to get along. His girlfriend—no, his bimbo—gaped, confused. His dick was sticky-wet with Erica spit. “Now.”

“But—” Bailey’s legs tried to move for her. She was being told to put her tongue on a cock, and that was very nearly automatic. “Quinn—she’s… look what’s she’s done to me. To us.”

Best to be stern, rip the bandaid off. “Bailey, get on your knees and clean me off,” he said. “Or I WILL spank you.”

“But—I—” she looked over at the mirror, and Quinn was glad of it. Best to see that it was just tits and ass staring back at her, and not much else. “Oh,” she said. She kneed over to Quinn and dutifully started to lick.

“Good girl,” Quinn said, and stroked her hair. “It’s not Erica’s fault. Okay? Nobody’s at fault. Erica, get in here.” Erica, more experienced with cumloads, dashed over. They were so hard to tell apart, excepting expressions. Bailey’s uncertain one, Erica eager to please. “I expect you two to work together. Understand? You’re both mine.”

“Okay,” the girls said, between licks.

“Okay, what?” Quinn prodded.

“Okay, sir,” Erica said. Bailey echoed it, slowly, a moment behind. She shared a look with Erica, who gave her an encouraging smile. Erica had always expected this, Quinn thought. This had always been the plan.

“Good. Now lets kiss and make up.”

Bailey started to rise, but Erica caught her halfway up. She threw her arms around her sis and kissed her with no hesitation. They were both sticky with his jizz, and it drove them both into it. Bailey’s rigid shock only lasted a moment. Soon they were both moaning into each other’s mouths, tongues eager over each other’s lips. It was going to be really really hard to tell his bimbos apart. Although, Quinn thought, it’d help that Erica was the smart one.

19

The sun north of Tucson was particularly hot. On dull days—and Briana had many—she liked to watch the thermostat tick up in the early mornings, as the usual blaze lit the rocks red. Soon it would settle into a haze of brick-scarlet heat. But for a moment it would pause on a bright and crisp day.

Then it would just be hot and sticky.

Highway 10 was not far and she had binoculars. Big-boobed girls in backseats went north and south. Sometimes she’d spot a trucker girl with her feet against the window, giving her boss a slow one during the drive. And there was the diner just within view. With the binocs she could just make out the staff in their pink polyester uniforms. Three of them lived on-site, and lined up in the near-dark, to blow the cooks when they arrived.

Behind her was the retreat. Three hundred girls lived there, cum- and cock-free, including Briana’s Mom. She herself was that extraordinarily rare creature, a detox. Mom had showed up the morning after her first cummy hand-licking experience and driven her away. Nearly straight through to Arizona, where grim and far-sighted women had taken over an abandoned barracks used to build the nearby power plant.

She hadn’t been unscathed. Briana had nice plump tits. Her nipples liked to stick out. She was just—happier. A sense of contentment and well-being was a very early change and it had stuck on her, her bloodstream tweaked from just licking a hand. But the ache in her mouth, between her legs, had nearly almost entirely gone away. She rarely dreamed of Luke anymore, of the prong between his legs.

A car turned off the freeway and stopped at the gate. There he was. He had grown the usual beard, she could tell through the lenses. He drove an expensive car.

They had corresponded for two years. Just curiosity about each other’s lives—and Briana had little else to do. There had been some initial smugness in the Retreat that they were an important natural resource. Unaltered, intelligent women, who could think of things besides their next oral session. That optimism had gradually died away. The world spun on. Men were good at subjugating, it was a strong masculine talent. They were worse than a curiosity, they were practically forgotten.

Everything had gone well for Luke. With much of the workforce reduced to sex service there was tons of opportunity for bright young men. He had two girls, Jaslyn and Alexus, and a dog, Redd. They got discussed in much the same way. Jaslyn was on the new medication and doing great, was even planning on getting her driver’s license.

Briana went down. She’d worn her white shift. Her bra was very visible underneath it, but she figured Luke might like that. Lots of guys had a kink for old-school girls, where they had thigh gaps and small boobs, sometimes barely any tits at all. After some resistance the Retreat had allowed residents to make money camming, slapping butts with barely any jiggle, doing math on vid.

When she got to the meeting area Luke was still wet from the shower. There was a chemical in it that suppressed male scent. His hair was drying fast in the heat. He’d dressed up for the encounter, in stone-colored pants and a white dress shirt. His eyes locked on to Briana, and they took their seats, eight feet apart. A ventilation system gently whirred between them.

“Good to see you,” he said.

His eyes were alive with the novelty of her. They darted around: she had cheekbones, bags under her eyes, a chest that was more than a backing plate for tits. Turquoise jewelry that was understated—bimbos did not do understated. Even silver was not showy enough.

“How are the women?” Briana said, very deliberately. He chuckled, missing the point entirely. “Good! Jaslyn—the new pills are really an improvement, we have dinner conversations now, she asks me how my day went, normal couple stuff. And Alexus is still the best fifty bucks I ever spent.”

He’d come a long ways and still didn’t know how to ask her how she was doing. Not for the first time Briana felt a shiver of despair. Even if medical science came through, came up with a pill to hit undo, what were they going to do about all the men? “I’m doing fine, myself,” she said.

Luke shrugged, smiling. He put his hands on the table. It was what Briana had worried and fantasized about. He had two thin silver bands on his right ring finger. A sentimental touch with no legal effect. “What’s it really like, here?” Luke said. “You can just walk out, can’t you?”

There was an offer buried in there. Generally the outside world left them alone. Once a prankster had put a vial of cum in with a food shipment. They’d lost two women to it, holding hand in hand as they flounced out the gate, in search of more of the same. But that was just the once, and widely condemned even in male public opinion.

“I can,” Briana said. “Anytime I want to.” she left it there. Luke handled the rejection well. Perhaps it was what he wanted, some sort of assurance that there was one girl out there he hadn’t mucked up, he and all the other boys. Or maybe it was a sex thing. He asked a few questions about living in a makeshift nunnery, and talked a lot about accounting. He was twenty-four and Vice-CFO for a large corporation. A buzzer went off.

Luke raised both bushy eyebrows. “Just a warning,” Briana told him. “So the women don’t lose track of time.” She stood up. She’d told herself: when the alert sounded, that was it.

“Alright,” Luke said. He seemed satisfied enough. What would he have said if she drew him close, asked for a ride out? Be that third silver band? Maybe he really did just want a female friend, maybe he talked about her at parties, showing off how progressive he was. Who knew, with men. They were a different species. Cock and cocksucker. “Briana. Good to see you. I’m sure they’ll fix all this and you can—you know. Leave.”

“Sure,” Briana said. She had prepared for this moment. “Here, I forgot to give you this.” She handed him a crisp dollar bill. They had to get close to make the exchange. She caught the slightest whiff of him, and had to back away, quickly.

“So long,” He turned to go back to his car, through the gate. Briana swallowed her spit down. She wanted to suck on his fingers so very badly.