The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Three hard raps on the door, and then the police officer just invited himself in. Jill paused at that—weren’t there some sort of laws governing police entrances? Some sort of warranty thing? But those were the same hapless neurons being rapidly refashioned into pleasure strobes, when not outright getting turned off. They quieted down. It helped that Officer Brody was as wide as the doorway and in short sleeves.

“Ma’am,” he said, with all kinds of authority. He took his time taking his sunglasses off, and used the opportunity to look her over. A security assessment, Jill assumed, centering on her tits. He had a sheaf mustache and looked like he could punch his way through any criminals. The sheer presence of him made her thighs squeeze together, and it didn’t help that he sauntered his way in.

“We’re in the living room, SIR!” Jill squeaked, a teenager again. She wondered if she’d done any crimes. He’d probably cuff her. Maybe even force a rough hand between her legs, to assess for contraband.

Jill shook herself, discreetly. She was happily married. Married, at least. She’d been in the presence of this policeman—police OFFICER—for all of ten seconds and was already creaming her panties. It was undignified.

At some point he had put his hand on her ass. Politely guiding her along.

Jill decided to allow it. She’d probably jaywalked recently, or something.

Officer Brody let go when they reached the living room. There wasn’t a lot of conversation going on—the many assembled girls were generally halfway or more through the whore process. Whatever gifted conversationalists they had been, their various transformations never left the women able to simply gab to each other. Especially when there was food to eat, or a pussy to poke. Sometimes Officer Brody had seen full-grown women, with college degrees, go cross-eyed trying to remember how to say “hello!”

True, that was under the full and unleashed influence of his dick, but it wasn’t much of a word, either.

Clearing his throat was unnecessary—he had their full attention immediately—but Officer Brody did it anyway. It was fun, seeing them shiver and sway. If he pulled his cock out, and he just might, all but the newly arrived would stare at it, following its every bob and twitch. One girl, with a bunch of ribbons in her hair, was already drifting her eyes to his crotch. A good sign for the near future.

But he did have a job to do.

“I’m Officer Brody,” he told them. “I’m here because, as you probably know, there’s been a prowler in the neighborhood. A series of break-ins. And we need your help.” What was galling was, the precinct really did need help. The intruder was somewhere in town, well-hidden, and HQ was getting frantic to flush him out. “If you see any suspicious men, men you don’t know, I want you to call my personal number immediately.”

As serious as the situation was, he made sure to catalogue the women in the room by who he would have sex with, in what order. First of all, the girl with the ribbons nervously drinking a cup of coffee. Not out of any real lust. She was just not far enough along, outside of a certain tightness in her cardigan. It was policy to sink ten inches into those women to get matters moving. After that Brody liked the cool-eyed blonde in the back of the room in the jean jacket, and after that probably the Mom. He liked what he’d felt in that ass. Officer Brody enjoyed fucking Moms. Moms enjoyed fucking Brody.

It was hard to believe he’d just turned twenty-two.

Four years ago he’d started college at an utterly middle-tier school, plunked into a forgettable suburb. The school itself wasn’t known for any programs at all. Brody had been placed into a standard co-ed dorm with two roommates in a very small space, and had felt not just alone, but utterly flaccid, demotivated. Evidence of being a nobody extended to his student ID, which was number 1111112.

Still, there were co-eds.

Just by strength of being eighteen and female and college-going they had a naturally more optimistic take on life. One in particular, Renee, didn’t seem to care at all about their obvious mediocrity. She wore scarves and a fjallraven backpack and never ever just slubbed around in black tights. By the end of the first week she had the dorm organized into study groups, had found a liquor store that didn’t card, and planned an expedition into fraternity row.

On the night planned for fraternities she had paced back and forth in front of her floor. Her hair flowed down her back in long amber strands. She’d put on a pale foundation with wine-red lipstick. And unlike the other girls, who were mostly in nervously slutty gear, she wore a knee-length skirt with boots. The boys wore bad jeans and collared shirts. They’d descended in a pack into the night, pulling up in front of the first open door. Theta-something or another.

The boys outside had enormous forearms and there was a curious scent about the whole place. Not beer. Something better than beer.

Even today, fully on the inside with the whole, worldwide conspiracy stuff, Brody had no real memory of what had happened in there.

Of course now he recognized parts of it—the sugar-plus taste of basic whore mix, the subliminal-laced baseline, the haze of pheromones and chemicals that reduced men and women into property.

But it was nonetheless a blur, his mind worn down and too soggy from the drugs to process and order. He recalled dancing on the floor with two of the girls from his floor, his eager excitement as they pressed against him, bodies suddenly needing any male touch. Wandering the house with beer in hand, watching couples neck and sweat, nostrils wide, inhaling whatever compounds he didn’t drink.

And then at the end, Renee dull-eyed and kneeling, too mind-fucked to even smile, drinking in a spurt of cum from some barely-caring fraternity brother.

They’d all woken up in the house the next day, shaken, and sidled off back to the dorms. No one had said anything about the night. They all got back into normal clothes, and didn’t mention how many pairs of underpants and panties had gone missing. Everyone, especially Renee, spent a long time in the shower.

And it was basically normal, once again, except that Renee asked Brody, in a simpering, eager-to-please voice, if he wouldn’t mind helping her open the window, since it was all stuck.

After that, the girls couldn’t seem to do anything without a little boy help. Their muscles weren’t up to even the simplest tasks: there were stuck drawers all over, books were suddenly heavy, and they asked in soft, gentle voices if a man wouldn’t mind getting involved. Brody certainly didn’t mind. It was nice having a purpose, especially when Jasmine, the lush Korean girl, was cooing for him to help carry laundry upstairs. Renee especially was suddenly quite helpless, and when one of the boys suggested going back to the fraternity that weekend she looked around with hapless big eyes and murmured “do you really think that’s a good idea?”

When they went back, Renee wore a tight little purple skirt.

The party was even larger, and may never have stopped. The music was louder, the drinks a bolder shade of neon fuschia, poured until they slopped onto the sticky floor as they walked around. There was food, too, big open bags of chips that only the boys seemed to care for. Drugs of all types were passed around.

Despite the haze of intoxicants and transformative scents Brody had a very clear memory of Jasmine sucking his dick. She kept glancing up at him, to make sure she was doing a good job at it. Make sure he was enjoying himself. It was clearly very important to her that he enjoyed himself.

After that night, the girls in his dorm had trouble opening a door unless a man was there to help.

Renee especially wore a doleful, concerned look at nearly all hours, wholly overwhelmed by the world around her and what it asked of a silly, simple girl. She was breathless with anxiety, knotting her fingers together, as a boy figured out why her laptop wasn’t turning on. “You have to press the power button,” he’d say, to the girl wringing her hands on her dorm bed. She’d started to wear fanciful pink skirts and girly tight tops. Renee would blush bright red.

“I’m soooooo sorry!” she’d whisper, criss-crossing her legs. “I owe you super big!”

There was a little grumbling from the boys about all the effort, but Brody never minded. He liked helping out, as it happened. And the girls were very, very conscious, at every moment, that they owed the boys an increasingly enormous debt. Every homework problem, every jar opened, every computer issue resolved, added to a female debt that left them blushing, eyes downcast, squirming, and breathless. And the girls were dressing to match it. Teeny volleyball shorts, taut white shirts with bras optional.

New clothes were a particular problem: Renee needed the approval of every boy on the floor for her ultra-short olive shorts with the flirty yellow blouse, the one that nearly scooped underneath her tits. But was a modeling session asking too much of their time?

By the third party the boys were finding ways to even the scales. There were things even girls could do. They could just stutter haplessly as Brody patted their asses, they could make sure their tits were on display while a boy sorted through chemistry homework. Jasmine was an innovator. She sat on Brody’s lap while he helped with her math.

“I used to be so good at this,” she moaned, shorts whisper-thin. Brody was having trouble himself, with her bubble-butt a few microns away from his cock. “I was a GOOD math person, oh my god! I don’t know what’s…” she got a faraway look. It was Thursday. The fraternity party was tomorrow. “I don’t know what’s… do you ever feel like… something is….”

Brody groped her tits, tired of her talking. Grinding on his cock, chatting, and making him do math? Jasmine purred at it, reluctance melting away, until she finally worked off a little debt by sliding between his legs. From then on, he only did her homework if she was under the desk, sucking away. Or his own homework, for that matter.

Renee made a sad, hopeless attempt to pull out right before their next fraternity part.

“Guys? Guys? Why don’t we, ummmmmm….” she seemed to struggle to keep the sentence together, her lips skating apart. “...maybe not go? To the party? Tonight?” It didn’t help her case that the confident, put-together co-ed was now sporting pink bows on her two pigtails. Her face was already done up to go out, and she wore a hip-skimming shimmer mini that was basically a rag to get fucked in. Her face was scrunched together from the concentration of saying no to a boy.

“You’ll be okay here by yourself?” one of the boys said. Her lower lip immediately began to quiver. No, of course she wouldn’t be. Renee didn’t even carry her own backpack anymore. By and large she went from bed to bed, head down, dutifully getting shafts inside of her. Later that same night she ended up in the men’s room, where a line of girls waited patiently, bashfully, to suck dicks.

Renee never spoke back again. Actually, Brody couldn’t really remember her speaking much at all.

After that it was a relief when their new bodies came in. Forms to fit the new regime—enormous biceps for the men, exaggerated titties for the girls. Jasmine actually got shorter by more than an inch, her frame smoothing out into an overcurved hourglass.

The girls were well aware they were mostly pussy that walked. No one bothered with homework. They kept their eyes on the floor and counted themselves lucky if a guy gave one the girlfriend treatment. It meant a little bit of status.

They were somewhat aware of what was going on. The narcotics and chemicals and who-knows what else made it all a laugh, wholly normal, nearly unremarkable, but fully obvious. Brody would wonder, afterwards, just how they did it. He’d make some offhand remark about how stupid and hot Jasmine was getting, and she’d just giggle and suck a little harder. It was common knowledge they were all turning into breedstock. Some hidden subliminals? Some dominant strain of complacency in their personal blends of hormonal compounds?

Much later, Officer Brody would wake up and think: it was always more fun to laze around and fuck then do something about the big fuckslut conspiracy. Trying to alert the authorities would be such a hassle. And Jasmine was always up for anal.

It didn’t actually last long, that final, perfect glimpse of the future. Just four or five days after the girls returned from the frat party in collars. Not nice collars. Cheap, nylon collars. Not even in pink, in all sorts of colors. And not all the girls: Renee just didn’t come back from the final party. No one talked about it. She wasn’t missed, there was plenty of cooze to pass around. But perhaps it was a warning. Still, Brody changed out Jasmine’s forest-green collar for one he bought himself, a nicer, leather version.

But it was nice, even with those warning signs. The men walked around shirtless, dominant, at total ease. Kings of Hillgreen College. When not fucking they ate or worked out. They’d all become swollen, massive versions of their past selves, stacked with muscle and stinking with sweat. The girls could cum just by sniffing them. At night they were serviced by ballooned, cartoonish versions of the co-eds, their collars on, their eyes permanently glazed over with heat and cerebral softening.

Then they slept, and one morning, the authorities came and got the girls.

Some core tenet of protectiveness had him take an unprecedented move. The other men feigned nonchalance, even as even more muscular men rounded up the women. There was a sense of inevitability about it, the girls all in a line, all thoroughly naked. Together like that you could see how swollen and oversized their boobs had gotten, their big rear ends. Brody put Jasmine underneath the covers of his bed. Of course it was pointless, she kept giggling, and her nipples tented the fabric. But he did try.

“You want to keep her, huh?” The man in charge was sympathetic. He wore a poorly knotted tie and a white dress shirt soaking with his sweat and pheromones. “You even got her a special collar?”

“Her name is Jasmine,” Brody told him, ready to swing, even as his body counseled him not to. There were pherochemical signals at work, and they told him to stand down.

“Not anymore,” the man looked at a clipboard. “We had you boys down for basic bulls… but, you know what, why don’t you come with me?” He winked at Jasmine, who looked at both men with a fogged confusion. Her body was unsure who to fuck. “Heck, she can come too, right? We need someone for the drive.”

He’d lost track of Jasmine during his time in the Academy.

Too much to learn, and she’d drifted from man to man, working the room. But he had no doubt she was fine. They were all doing fine. He fucked no less than five times a day, he drove a new police cruiser with a big engine, and every girl in town got wet when he revved it. It was all for the best, and he had a sure shot for lieutenant.

So long as he could clear up this little distraction.

It was unnecessary for him to fold his arms, adjust his stance, clear his throat. Make a little adjustment to his pants that demonstrated, to all the women in attendance, that he had a dick that was clearly about a foot long. But the little wet sigh they all gave, it made it worthwhile.