The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a great opportunity to meet the neighbors, and Jill regretted that it took a prowler to get her off her tush and have them over. Once they’d decided to make the move into the brand new development, still scented of wood glue and drywall screws, she’d said a hundred times she’d throw a block party. She’d gotten excited about it—an enormous soiree, an entire community arising and growing out of nothing, over chips and dip.

And then they’d moved in and there’d been—her mind swerved and dipped around it—DISTRACTIONS—and the block party had never happened. She’d waved half-heartedly at those neighbors she saw, but they were at the bottom half of a cul-de-sac on Prince Street, and that wasn’t a lot of passerby. Several doors down the town ended entirely, terminating abruptly at a grassy hill.

So in a way, the prowler was very welcome.

“Come on in!” she said, ushering in the newest girls. It was an entirely female party. All the men were at work, of course. True, her husband had been coming home regularly for—conjugal visits—but almost every male worked long hours and came home sweaty and starving. She’d been hoping that Jennifer would help set up, but her daughter, home from college, had been keeping college-girl late hours. Emmaline, also, could be anywhere.

“I’m, uhhhhhhhh, Carmen!” a heavy-set and newly pregnant latino woman said. She looked at her fingers and then stuck them out, belated, at Jill.

As odd as things had been for Jill, lately, she was still able to work out that the neighbors were a little off.

For one thing, not that many of them were wearing bras. In fact almost no one was, and they kept walking into her well-appointed home with big nipples sticking out of blouses and dresses. True, she herself had experienced some unusual swelling and tenderness, to the point where latching herself into a bra had become a difficult, rigorous experience. But there were standards. And Carmen’s diaphanous white dress, with big, swollen tits just underneath, wasn’t really it.

But Jill was a good host. “Come in! Come in!” she said, smiling. She’d spent all morning getting snacks and drinks together. Lots of snacks. Since moving in they’d all been doing a lot of eating. Dinnertime was mostly a head-down affair, eating quickly and without delay. Jill used to enjoy some family conversation, but she’d been just as ravenous, and that was even with her snacking almost continuously from morning on.

Her famous cheesecake brownies were on prominent display, plus a plate of veggies that looked wan and limp next to the stuffed mushrooms, and of course the local stuff she’d taken to so readily. The corn-based puffs and poorly-labeled chips and all sorts of deep-fried stuff that the supermarket in town pushed for next to no cost at all. It smelled like lard and had ground down Jill’s resistance pretty quickly. It cost a quarter a bag. Next to it was the pink-colored D.I.P., whatever the heck that stood for, which the family was going through at a rate of about 4-5 tubs a day.

The neighbors had brought stuff as well, including an entire multi-layered cake from a lady named Aubree with ribbons in her hair and a ton of cream puffs. Not to mention alcohol. Jill didn’t give much thought to it—the store sold vodka lemonade at dollars per handle, and life had been stressful recently. Everyone had brought jugs of it, which she kept adding to an enormous chilled carafe.

Jill had kinda gained a little weight since moving in. Actually quite a bit of weight. To his credit, and for all the new strain in the relationship, her husband had never taken a single crack at her added curves and new oversized boobs. Actually he seemed to appreciate it, treating her body as much more hands-on, her tits and ass as objects to idly play with. It had defused a lot of tension. When they made love back at their old house he had generally laid back and thrusted, but now his hands were everywhere, digging in to her tits, smushing in to her ass. And also when they weren’t fucking. Jill had sworn she’d make a concerted effort to cut calories, the moment he said one word. It just hadn’t happened.

Of course, they had plenty of other stuff to talk about.

The hell with it. The jogger that Jill saw gasping for air every day had shown up in, yes, short shorts and a lycra top. Clearly no one in this town respected a dress code. And her tits were absolutely killing her. There was no reason she had to be the only one wincing in pain. Jill briefly excused herself into the bathroom. It smelled oddly sweet. She pulled her shirt up and twisted. Her tits were pancaked behind the bra. It took real effort to twist the clasp loose, but the metal was stressed and fatigued and gave way when she finally yanked.

Two enormous tits hung on her chest.

She stroked and caressed them, just for a moment. Jill reluctantly put her shirt back down. She was the hostess, after all.

The time on the clock outside read 3:05 p.m. Enough waiting around.

She coughed politely to get everyone’s attention. “Hi! I’m Jill!” she said, waving. Her boobs felt so much better. “I think the police officer is running a little late! I thought we could all introduce each other!”

Carmen fell onto the couch with real relief. She had not done a lot of walking around, or, to be honest, talking of any kind, in a long while. She’d had a moment of panic at the door, going from a lazy, easy life of eating and rutting, to a bonafide social encounter. And realized she hadn’t put a bra on. But the scent of brownies had lured her in, and besides, she had important business to attend to.

If she could keep her tits from leaking onto the floor and humiliating her.

Carmen was still getting used to this gravid, over-curved body, its insistent needs, its nagging demands on her rapidly-decreasing attention span. She and Antonio had arrived in town fit, trim, and forty. While they were once again going to be the only latinos on the block, it was all new construction, and there could hardly be the usual sidelong glances at the supermarket. And besides, they didn’t have kids, which seemed to be the usual racism trigger point for suburban neighborhoods.

“No kids” was a very deliberate decision. Both she and Antonio came from too-big families, had parented younger siblings, and were simply done with it. Coupledom stretched before them with disposable income, enjoyable vacations, fun hobbies, enjoyably meaningless sex. Carmen had reached 40 and felt nothing when she happened to jog past a playground. No regrets at all.

She had taught community college courses—primarily calculus—but hadn’t worked hard to find a new job in the new place. Antonio was the brand new high school principal and making fantastic money. And the new development barely had a high school, still coated in new paint, much less a higher education location for her to apply to. For the first few weeks they’d hiked the surrounding hills, watched TV, and, increasingly, had a lot of great sex.

Their revving, blistering sex drives had set in soon after arrival and never really slowed down. They’d always had a standard sex life. Once, maybe twice a week. Much better than exhausted parents could manage, and sweet, romantic lovemaking, to boot. Slowly with her legs wrapped around him, or with her gently grinding on top. Antonio was great at foreplay. He took pride in going down on her. But on the second day in, still sweat-soaked from moving boxes, she had just glanced over at her perspiring, adorable husband and felt her legs yawn open. Foreplay had seemed very pointless. He’d fucked her on the couch with sloppy deep thrusts. “I can’t believe I’m fucking the PRINCIPAL,” she’d said, giggling. He’d redoubled his efforts.

Soon after that their sex life became not just constant but so very casual.

Sex had always been highly structured—a multi-layered art of seduction, foreplay, actually fucking, and then a lengthy, cooing cooldown. Seduction went out the window right away. She was just too hot and he was too hard. Foreplay was still present but in new forms, like when Antonio teased her pussy with his foot under the dinner table. Stroking her thighs until she was a shivering mess. And it was sorta foreplay when he ate her out, even if she increasingly was returning the favor double.

But overall the big change was that he was just fucking her. Simply putting his cock in her. Arranging her body on the couch, the bed, or, more and more, random furniture. Whatever little trepidation she felt was soothed away by orgasms and his paychecks. She was just lying around the house. She could lie around the house with his dick in her.

And then Carmen had seen a trio of pregnant women at the supermarket.

It wasn’t the first time at all. The new town was growing fast, very literally, and seemed geared towards soon-to-be moms. She’d seen bellies on display at the produce section before. But this was a threesome, their tummies stretched out, in the middle of a workday, purses slapping on the sides of their oversized thighs. They walked together, slowly, knees bent against the strain. Carmen, hard-bodied, runner’s world Carmen, had felt not just an ovarian twinge, but a full blown ache.

From there it was a simple lateral move to get really interested in Antonio’s cum. So much of it was in her all the time. The power it had fascinated her. Such a small, gooey drip, and yet it could plump her up and reduce her to those breeders at the store. Make her into a mommy. Make her tits swollen and heavy. Destroy her career.

At first, fighting it, Carmen dealt with the new passion for sperm by sucking it out of him. Not just occasional blowies but scheduled ones, as soon as he got home. Her hobbies and interests started to get dusty, her e-mails went unanswered. Books stayed closed. Instead she was cloistered by the front door, watching for his return, and reading Babycenter articles on fertility after forty.

At last she was able to admit it to herself: she was kind of interested in maybe getting pregnant.

She raised the subject with Antonio when he was teasing the tip of his dick at her pussy. It maybe was not the right time, but in truth, they were fucking so much ordinary couple conversations were going on balls-deep. She had recently asked him what he wanted for dinner while he was fucking her in the kitchen.

“Maybe we should have a kid, big guy,” she said, smiling at him.

He jerked back. Her heart went sour. “What?”

“I mean... “

“Really, Carmen?” He sat back on his haunches. She watched his dick soften up. “No. I’ve never wanted kids. Not once.” He looked around, seeing the bedroom for the first time. “Maybe we’re having too much god damn sex.”

Carmen cried into the pillow. Of course he was right, she told herself. This was all hormones and endorphins, it had to be. Her body interpreting jism loads as an invitation, firing baby cravings into her pussy. She looked in a mirror and considered hard truths she’d been avoiding: she’d gained at least twenty pounds, albeit mostly in her tits. She laid around the house sucking dick and eating. She hadn’t read a book in a month. She was forty, chubby, and horny. Her tights didn’t fit around her ass. Carmen took up jogging again, but pregnant ladies were now everywhere, smug and knocked-up. She would slam the door, fall onto the bed, and masturbate furiously to the memory of their big bellies.

They started fucking again fairly soon. They were both just too needy.

Distracted and distraught, Carmen had trouble focusing on new facts about the two of them: wasn’t it strange Antonio could cum twice without going soft? Why were they doing it five or six or seven times a day? Wasn’t his dick way, way bigger than before? Instead she was consumed with plots, needs, wants. She had to make Antonio WANT to knock her up. And that started with making him cum in her, all the time. It was her role in life to drain his balls. Carmen watched his dick for the slightest twitch. It was unthinkable to say no to his briefest urge. She was sticky all the time.

The solution was simple. She started calling him Daddy.

“Cum in me Daddy,” she said, just on impulse, and then he came. Just started jizzing in her. He had given no sign of being close. Encouraged, in their next fuck session, just an hour later, she started it up again. “Fuck your wifey,” she said, in the shower. His hands trembled on her tits. “Come on, fuck me dumb, keep me barefoot, make me your stupid cummy girl Daddy.”

And to think they had been fucking a lot before. Antonio was suddenly desperate for her. Carmen got on her hands and knees and crawled towards him, as a test, saying “cum in me, cum in me, Daddy PLEASE,” and he would, every time.

True, it was starting to get degrading. Antonio had always treated her with respect. They had a partnership/companionate marriage. That was changing fast. Now she lounged around until he ordered her to bounce on his dick. Most of their conversations were commands. “On your knees, slut.” “Suck me off.” “Bend over. I don’t care where.”

“Yes, Daddy,” was her inevitable response. Carmen could feel her personality changing. She looked briefly at some past work: mathematics she barely understood, books she’d half-read. But what choice did she have? Daddy needed to fuck her. Her sister found her confusing and concerning when they finally made contact on the phone—local reception was horrible. “Did you just call him Daddy?” she said, incredulous.

“Antonio,” Carmen said, ears burning. But why lie? He was Daddy. She turned her phone off.

She could feel herself getting soft and simple under his relentless load of cum. Every so often she’d feel a burst of panic. What was she doing? Her whole life, her whole world, had narrowed down into acting as a cock sleeve for her husband, who was treating her like a piece of hot pussy real estate. They didn’t talk anymore, or tell jokes, or even watch TV. He used her, that was the relationship. When he wasn’t fucking her she planned their next encounter. But it was all worth it, wasn’t it? And it felt so very good. It helped to chase the concerns with local wine and ice cream. She kept packing on more weight, despite how much calorie-burning they were doing in bed.

Carmen faked a migraine and made Antonio wait an entire day. His balls, by this point in their new home, had doubled in size. They were hard and firm the next morning. She let him enter her—well, ‘let’ was a little strong—and then wrapped her thighs around his strong male back. “I’m off birth control, Daddy,” she said.

Did he even hear her? Antonio wasn’t really listening to her anymore. But he grunted and came in her, which had to be a form of consent. Her spirit soared.

It silenced all those nagging worries about her life, her choices. Why she was leaking lubricant onto the floor when she walked. Why her hips seemed to be downright bigger, not to mention the growing padding of her ass. The way she was struggling to follow plotlines on Netflix shows, moving her lips when she read. None of that was important. She was on a pregnancy journey, and that meant making sure she was plugged with cum as often as possible.

Antonio was finally getting into it, although she never actually got around to mentioning she’d stopped taking her birth control ever again. It had started to taste like rancid licorice, anyway. “You want my cum, slut?” he’d tell her, slapping his dick on her face. “You want this baby batter? Convince me.” They were so gooey together. Sometimes she went a few days without showering, just to smell like him.

The Principal part of him was a big, fun part of it. At first she had just teased him about it—“all those horny girls got you all worked up?” she’d said, as he released his current load. “All that teenage girl skin, daddy?” She’d started to dress as a younger girl, in knee socks and pigtails. It never failed. And to be honest, it was hot as hell to imagine her husband the object of lust for hundreds of hormonal girls and women.

They evolved a fun couple tradition of her kneeling, bent over, as soon as he walked through the door, whenever he walked through the door. No matter what she was up to—going down stairs, cleaning the kitchen floor, she’d wait until he relieved an afternoon of tension inside of her.

Which had led to her current problem.

Antonio had been working late hours—very late. Alone, horny, needy, she’d puffed a sigh of relief when the door creaked open. Carmen rarely wore underpants anymore. They didn’t fit, they weren’t necessary, and Antonio tended to rip them apart when she did. Instead she wriggled down her biking shorts, really the only thing that still fit her new ass. In her dreams, of course, she never wore clothes at all. She assumed her usual position and levered her pussy up into the air, full naked.

She’d been watching one of the local cable shows, one of the ones with a dozen plotlines revolving mostly around dumb sluts falling into each other’s beds. Currently it was showing the female lead getting her brains fucked out. She could watch it from the hallway while they fucked.

Heavy shoes walked up behind her. She heard him breathing. An unusually tentative hand rubbed at her ass, and she purred her encouragement.

“Come onnnnn…” she whimpered, figuring him for teasing. Usually after a long day of work he slid in straightaway, and didn’t even say a word until—actually, sometimes never. “Fuck me, Daddy. I neeeed it.”

Finally she heard him unzip and steady himself on her rear. A dick poked around her pussy, and then found its way to her slit. He eased in. Carmen’s eyes popped open.

That was not Antonio’s dick.

She knew Antonio’s dick very well. It formed the center of her world. She knew what it smelled like, how long it was down to the millimeter, and could probably draw every last wonderful blue vein from memory. She knew how he fucked: he liked to enter her all the way and just rest there, companionable, before starting up with short, harsh strokes. He had the slightest curve to the left. When he rested his hands on her rear it was with a light touch, softly gripping her new padding, as if he was afraid to pop her.

This man used her ass as a handle, with his hands wrapped clear around to her waist. He enjoyed long strokes, very long, almost sliding all the way out of her. And he smelled—not like Antonio, who was a cedar and paint man, like the best parts of Home Depot. A sour scent she couldn’t ID. All of this took a long time to process, given her sharply reduced cognitive load, which meant they simply rutted for several minutes. Her body didn’t care who was fucking it, bucking back with each thrust. And just when she got neurons firing towards the direction of maybe possibly saying something, or at least looking backwards, the man grabbed her hair and pulled backwards sharply.

That did it. She came so hard she passed out. When Carmen came to, she was splayed on the tiles with a sticky load of jizz in her pussy. With Antonio—the actual Antonio’s—key rattling in the front door. Deeply ashamed, she hurried to the bedroom, turned out the lights, and pretended to be asleep. Her actual husband came in quietly, gently put the covers on top of her, and went to sleep. All with stranger cum inside of her.

The problem was, now Carmen had to think about things again.

In truth she’d been shutting down the lights, one by one, in preparation for a new and happy life as breed meat. All non-essential processes and useless intellectual concepts had already been borne away, little by little, with each wonderful orgasm. What was left was a lot of ass that gave sloppy blowjobs and could say “fuck me Daddy”.

But now the lights had to go back on, at least enough to figure out what the fuck she was supposed to do. She’d cucked her husband. Mournful, she’d ridden him dry the next day, squirt after squirt, but: what if he’d gotten her preggo?

Carmen had even called up her sister for advice, only to hang up right away. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, mortified. What could she say? Hey, sis, here’s the thing: I’ve put on thirty pounds of tits. I may be carrying some intruder’s child. Somewhat reawakened, she even had a little energy for some fearful realizations about the town: how every woman around was obviously getting swollen, about her own galloping libido, about her craven need for dick. Nothing she could express to Antonio, who was coming around to her softening body in a big way. He was starting to talk up how “fucking fertile you are, it’s driving me crazy,” and mention how good she’d look hot and belly-stuffed.

But what was really sad, really craven, was that it wasn’t the only time she let the visitor fuck her.

She had warned herself against it, even whispering a horrified “no!”, but there she was, drenched slit pointing directly at the front door. She had no idea how he knew she was there, waiting. Although, to be fair, she was willing and would stay there for at least an hour, just in case he wanted to barge in. It was not a bad bet—her visitor came by a lot and fucked her frequently.

They never spoke. She had never seen his face. The temptation was there to turn, but it was brief—once he had his dick inside of her, there was no room for anything but grunting and sliding back and forth. Carmen was left to figure who he was by how he fucked her. A rough lover, who used her butt as a grip. His deep breathing was just a bit deeper than her husband’s. He pulled her hair, which even Antonio, rough as he had gotten, would never do. And he didn’t talk at all during sex. Carmen wasn’t sure if she talked—it was all a red-hot blur.

His cum tasted a little different, a little sweeter.

But it was his smell that brought him into sharp focus, in her mind. Like crisp cut wood and grass, an outdoor scent, mixed with a lemon-y male musk. A house under construction, which was perfect: what was she but a house, now?

The after-sex glow gave way to guilt, which she burned off by offering her mouth and her pussy to Antonio, doing chores, fixing him drinks, waiting for his next order, burning with an inner shame while stranger cum leaked out of her. In one of her rare moments of clarity, post-fuck, Carmen thought: at least I’m still doing this like a Catholic would.

The morning after her pregnancy test, really a formality, she hesitated mid-stroke during their latest fuck.

“What’s your name?” she whispered. They always did it on the tiles. Never more than a few feet inside her house.

A long pause behind her.

“John,” the prowler said.

John. She made a decision. The baby would be Anthony John Machado, if it was a boy. It somehow solved something inside of her, or perhaps that bit was just inevitably eroded away, orgasm by orgasm. But for Carmen it meant: no more guilt, although she kept up the rigorous schedule of servicing Antonio. The rest of her life finally came into focus. She resumed going on walks, this time, secure and thrilled in the knowledge that she was just one of hundreds of girls with rounding bellies.

That contentment had ended with the flyer on the telephone pole about the prowler. It had taken Carmen a disturbingly long time to decipher, but eventually the words came through. The unnamed man was wanted. Very wanted. By the police. There was a neighborhood meeting, anyone with information needed to attend.

Carmen found some clothes that still fit—not really, but she pushed that fear away—found her dusty purse that she hadn’t worn in two months, and walked out.

She didn’t know what she’d do when she found her unexpected sex partner, but she did know she’d recognize him.

She would remember that smell forever. Or at least until her two lovers finally fucked that memory loose.