The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Beryl didn’t give a single shit about anyone’s problems. She was not at all grappling with new and intense urges, or coming to grips with slowly turning into a basic piece of fuckmeat. Sure, she had gone through all that crap some time ago, just like every other new female arrival to town. All that pointless time, looking in the mirror, trying to think big thoughts.

But that was all ages ago. Beryl was 100% no-regrets sex toy and she had come to the meeting to fuck.

She’d woken, awhile ago, to the feeling of someone licking away between her legs.

About half the time Beryl woke up that way—to someone helping themselves to her body. This time it was the girl half of a couple that had stopped in a few days ago. They were traveling cross-country and had stopped by on the advice of—but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the girlfriend had her face buried into Beryl’s slit and was trying to find something with her tongue. She had the worried, wide-eyed look Beryl was really familiar with—the vague unease of the new person in town. The girl would keep that concerned expression, while getting her butt fucked all day, while getting her face fucked, until it gradually softened into full bimbo dullness.

“I had to—you tasted like something I’ve never—Beryl, you TASTE like—” Pointless apologies. Beryl pushed the girl’s face back into her pussy. She licked away.

Beryl really did taste very good.

Eventually some other guy who was not her boyfriend, probably, started fucking the girl from behind. Beryl looked at the man with interest. It wasn’t her husband. He had the overdeveloped muscles and ragged, hot breath of a male newcomer. Beryl gave him a smile. Really, what mattered was, he was a man.

She always checked to see if it was her husband.

Not that she bothered much with memory, these days. Beryl lived very much in the now with a slight nod to the future. But one of the things she had retained was arriving in tow with a husband, part of the construction team that had built the place. The crew had arrived fully-formed and tight-knit, and it was a shame Beryl couldn’t remember how all the sharing and swapping had started. Presumably there was an early period of eager parties and relationship drama before everything got indiscriminate.

Eventually hubby had gone from holy matrimony, to primary partner, to somewhere out there in the overall complex. They lived in an enormous complex of interconnected apartments. She had faith he was out there fucking his way through the circuit, and would someday arrive back at her. She just had to remember what he looked like. If she squeezed her eyes shut she had the faintest recall of a man in a t-shirt. It read, ‘PURDUE’. Whatever that meant.

“We’re not married, right?” Beryl said, suddenly uncertain. This guy was young, and had the fevered look of a guy who had grown eight inches of dick in a weekend. He didn’t respond, busy sinking all of it into girlfriend. They tumbled on top of each other, humping furiously. Beryl rolled her eyes. Newcomers acted so dramatic about sex.

She rolled out of bed. It took awhile.

There was almost nothing left of Old Beryl. It had been months and months of nonstop drugs, hypnosis, subliminals, mind-blowing sex, hormone-laced water, chemically-laced food. She had been set on a path of craven, constant breeding and low neural activity, and she had walked it for a long, long time. Or waddled it, whatever.

But there was sometimes a brief flash of Old Beryl from somewhere when her big new body flopped out of bed. Her huge, belling tits settling in, her butt bumping into items behind her, just the overall network of curves she had to move around, cum streaming down her tree-trunk thighs. When the cooler air outside the bedsheets prickled her skin, and she could feel every expanded, sexy inch of her. How creamy she was.

Then she might get a mental glimpse of her exercise-dedicated self, the twiggy one, proud of her thigh gap and clipboard-taut tummy. A vague memory of running 26.2 kilometers.

But whatever.

Beryl found a pair of shorts, size big-booty, and pulled them on. They were damp. She gave the maybe-husband a slap on the ass while he fucked away. It was time to see what the day would bring.

No one had cleaned the kitchen in probably over a month, and the surfaces were overloaded with discarded plates and cardboard containers. There was a sweet scent of sex almost everywhere in the complex, but here it was masked by other, unfortunate scents. Beryl looked at it with distaste. Usually the new arrivals had a period when, unnerved by their sexual energy, they diverted it into cleaning and other household tasks. A humdrum of chores that, in reality, let them not think about the additional inches added to their dick since just that morning. Beryl was enough of a wife to feel some residual disgust at actual mold in her kitchen.

There the boyfriend was, on the couch, while his girlfriend was getting noisely fucked by some other guy one room away.

He had his clothes on and was trying to do something with his cell phone. He’d already grown a beard.

“I just can’t get reception,” he complained, eyes fixed on the phone. “I went outside this morning and the fuckin van won’t start and I’m like, come the fuck on.”

“Uh-huh,” Beryl cooed. They were a sweet couple and it was a little bit of a shame girlfriend was getting absolutely reamed by some other man. They’d floated in late at night to a typical party, drunk all the drinks, smoked all the smokes, and had gotten a week’s worth of sluttification done straightaway. “Hey, big guy, Would you super mind cleaning up the kitchen a bit? Pretty please?”

Bless his heart, boyfriend already had perfect the annoyed glare of any man being asked anything by any woman. “No. I’m just trying to get out of this town. It’s...weird.” he said, turning back to his device.

In a way, going all the way through bimbofication to the other side lifted a certain veil. Like, boyfriend had to be able to hear girlfriend screeching, from just one room away. It was painfully loud. 90% utter pleasure and another 10% animal whine, the mind aware at some level that this wasn’t right or normal. She was probably getting drool all over Beryl’s pillow, pink-tinged spittle.

Beryl was pretty sure she had some alarming gaps in her grasp of the alphabet, but at least she wasn’t forced to block out awareness of nearby orgasms just to maintain a sense of normalcy.

“I’ll suck your diiiiiick if you clean up,” Beryl sang out. She was already getting on her knees. It wasn’t really necessary for her to say anything. But it was nice to say. At the level of scent, which was what really mattered, cocksucking was already assured. He could smell a wet female and was sporting a new erection. But his mind kept putting up a feeble fight.

“I have a GIRLFRIEND, you stupid bimbo SLUT,” he growled, while Beryl unzipped his pants. Poor boy, he was having such a difficult time with all of it. He was drooling just as much as his girlfriend, twitching as he was made more primal. Even Beryl could tell he was just typing nonsense into the phone. A blowjob would be a comfort. He was probably in that stage where a stud-ifying male tried to deny himself a nice cum. It just made them dumber and angrier.

She put her mouth on his dick. Out of consideration for his feelings, she started out gentle. “Fuckin… dumb…. stupid… slut,” boyfriend growled, stroking her hair.

Later, while he angrily cleaned, Beryl treated herself to some coffee.

Supplies were running low. Actually almost everything from the former days, when she could wear pants, was getting out of stock. Beryl received care packages at the door, of an unknown source, containing just a few staples. Milk, obviously. Usually still warm. Not worth thinking about the source. Packs of some sort of beige oat-ish substance that tasted like sugar pap. Some bags of extra-salty chips with no writing or logos, and overly-colorful candy. She hadn’t seen a vegetable or any fruit in a long time. Her food was all saccharine and medicated and it was sometimes nice to have a bit of her remaining coffee supply, stale as it was.

She’d never admit it, but it was sometimes just… not nice. But different. Not to have the taste of cock in her mouth.

Beryl had once asked a high-authority man, a man who wore a tie while he fucked, what the long-term plan was. Just pillow talk, but she was curious. She’d had some sort of advanced degree, once, in something or other. It had something to do with society. Poli-something. “What’re we all gonna eat when we’re all just fucking all day long?” she’d said. “No one is like, making food, or stuff.”

The man had looked her in the eyes and said “There’s always grass on the ground, if you get tired of cum.”

So right then Beryl had decided she was luckier than the boys. They didn’t even get cum.

At that moment girlfriend walked out of the bedroom, hair dishevelled. Beryl took a long sip of coffee. This promised to be entertaining.

The twosome, boyfriend and girlfriend, stared at each other. Her: cum dripping down both thighs. Him: cock still glistening wetly. Neither had a stitch of clothes on. They were both openmouthed, taking it in. Beryl was looking forward to this. No matter how many enzymes and hypnotics they had consumed, this just could not be blocked out. They both had obviously bigger genitals. And had been fucking around with other partners.

“Carrie?” Boyfriend said, staring at her pussy. It was bald and pink as a peach. Another man’s cum oozed out of it. It had been a fresh morning load. “What the fuck? What the.. What the FUCK?” really the man had no choice but to get mad, this far into his ongoing transformation. His dick started to get hard again. It was an entire fuck-or-fight response programmed into the boys. “You CUCKED me?”

Carrie went pale. In a few more days she would realize that the proper response was to fall onto her knees and instantly slobber away, draining any anger away with her tongue. But she wasn’t quite there yet. “I’m… Bailey… I don’t.. What is going ON?” Her big new tits wobbled about. She’d arrived with a sort of grungy look, including a prominent dyed-in black streak in her hair. She’d worn flannels. Truthfully they’d arrived for the drugs, not the sex. But as nutritionally deficient as the milk-slurry was, it was doing a good job filling her out, making her hyper-buxom. They were both eating almost continuously. Bailey had been eating nearly as much as he was throwing away. Even stuff with plenty of mold on it. The body had needs.

Overwhelmed, Carrie started to sob. Big fat tears rolled down big fat tits. Beryl tried not to roll her eyes. For one thing, she had a tummy full of this girl’s boyfriend’s jism. And she had had a relationship like that, right? It was all gone now, overwritten by urges, replaced by reams of information about how to squeeze a dick just so. But—she was pretty sure they had held each other, been supportive, all that. She had a wedding ring that her finger was now too thick for. It was a nice one. She rubbed at her pussy, thoughtful. Her husband needed to fuck it. Where could he have gone?

“Lets go, baby, lets get out of here,” Bailey consoled her, holding her close. “This place is—there’s something OFF about it.” They were both naked and covered in sex fumes. Beryl shook her head. What exactly was it that made everyone so accepting of all this? Didn’t Carrie notice that her BF’s dick was like a foot long, furred like an animal’s, and dribbling a ton of precum? She had started jacking it, apologetically.

They might’ve made it, Beryl reflected, if they just up and went. Just got out the door. Nothing was stopping them. True, town authorities had removed crucial components from Bailey’s vehicle. But no one was really keeping track, as far as she knew.

Beryl had this explained to her as well, when she was still harboring a spark of feeble resistance, trying to read some of her books with larger type. A man had flipped it out the window. “The ARMY is gonna find out about this!” Beryl had snapped, angered.

“Baby Beryl, don’t worry about it,” the man had told her. Maybe her hubby? Who knew. He mashed some boobs together to comfort her. “You think they start making everyone in town all hot and fucky if this isn’t already a done deal?”

The couple wasn’t helping each other escape, dithering around getting clothes and shooting each other hot, uncertain glances and eating lots of food. Complaining that nothing fit and drinking big glasses of drugged water.

“These won’t go—over—my titties!” Carrie moaned, trying to pull on one of her t-shirts. It looked three sizes too small, now. “Baaailleyyyy!”

Bailey was sporting major wood. He stared at Carrie’s big boobs. Beryl was surprised when he didn’t mash his face in them. Some willpower. “Just let them flop out,” he ordered. “We need to GO.” He undermined his own order by sitting down to rip open another tube of flavor-stix. He was going to leave the room with another inch on his dick.

They really did get out the door without fucking each other. It was a close run thing. Bailey’s cock had just flopped its way out of his undersized sweats, and Carrie had made a low animal moan deep in her throat.

Beryl knew how she felt. It was a really nice dick. But they’d bundled out, hands all over each other, to attempt an escape. Beryl wished them the best. Then she went and rode the guy in the bed. Watching still-transforming couples was always hot. They were so frenetic about everything.

In the brief post-orgasmic state that was as close as she got to thinking, Beryl made a decision.

It was time to go find her own spouse.

True, she had no clue what he currently looked like. But she had to trust she’d know him—smell him, if nothing else. She’d catch a whiff and just know, just know, that this was her man. There was no doubt in her mind he was nearby. Where would he go? There was tons of cooze here. Including her wife.

There was a little urgency about it, since she’d recently sprouted horns.

Just tiny nubs at the top of her head. And they felt really great to touch. But rumors abounded—once you got the horns, it was time to move on to the next stage of all this. What that was, she had no clue. Maybe a big grassy field where she’d fuck and be fucked. Milk and be milked. Probably not a lot of thinking involved. Maybe her husband was already there.

She’d have to check.

There was a flyer outside the apartment complex, when she finally made it all the way out, several months later. When she asked a pedestrian what it said, it was apparently about a missing person. Heck, she was looking for one too. And why not find some new people to fuck?

She gave the detective a big winning smile.