The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Part One — Vivian Powell!


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A Valentine’s Day themed writing contest yields very special prizes.


This story is a work of fiction; any apparent resemblance between the characters in this story and any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Do not read this story if you are under the age of 18 or if explicit sexual fiction is illegal in your jurisdiction.

This story contains mind control and explicit descriptions of a sexual nature. If any of these concepts disturb you, please find something else to read.

This story is a work of erotic fantasy. It is not meant to reflect real life, nor should it be read as an endorsement of the actions and attitudes contained within.

In the beginning, all power came from words.

Entire realities were created and shaped by words.

Stories were the ultimate power and the Weaver, being the keeper of stories, was powerful indeed. Not a god, though that confusion would be understandable. The first people still told stories as acts of fealty unto him.

Stories of the seasons, so that the seasons would be kind.

Stories of victories, so that their enemies would know defeat.

Stories of love (and lust), because people needed to celebrate their victories somehow.

As words became commonplace, because people started to toss them around without true meaning or intent, stories became common. In turn, the Weaver’s power waned, but never diminished entirely.

“What good are stories?” the Weaver pined, but with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a smile on his ancient face.

He knew, one day, perhaps this day, this story would be read.

And on that day, perhaps today, through some small sliver of belief, a fraction of his power would return to him.

All stories start with “What if?” the Weaver’s most powerful tool.

What if, for instance, the Weaver decided to host a writing contest for lovers on Valentine’s Day. A contest wherein the prize is completely decided by the writing… and everyone is a winner.

* * *


I’m a writer. I spend half of my time blocked and the other half of my time vomiting words onto the page. Currently, I’m blocked, so I’m scouring the internet for inspiration in the form of open writing contests. Preferably those with no fees to enter because, as a writer, I tend to be short on cash most days. Poor in actual money, I’m rich in my relationships. I have more friends than I could count, though my social media keeps tabs for me, and I have the love of an amazing woman. Thinking of Viv, I stumble across a Valentine’s Day writing contest hosted by someone called The Weaver.

No one celebrates love like The Weaver. As such, this St. Valentine’s Day, I want you to write me a story about your significant other. Tell me who you are and who they are. The story aspect though is for you to tell me who you want them to be. Unleash your fantasies onto the page and you could win a truly memorable prize to share this holiday. Send your stories to

A truly memorable prize would help me out of the double fix of being both poor and also being in need of a Valentine’s Day gift for Vivian. I don’t know how many people are going to enter this contest, but I doubt they’ll all have the 10,000 hours making them an expert writer, like me.

I crack my knuckles and compose, riding the wave of inspiration:

My name is Adrian Snyder and I’m a writer. My girlfriend is Vivian Powell and she’s a model. I’m not making this up or exaggerating her beauty. She’s an honest-to-goodness model and she’s the breadwinner in our relationship. She does swimsuit modeling, runway modeling, you name it, but I feel like the body pressure of her career has started to truly take a toll on her. I almost never see her eat anymore. It’s workouts and “shakes.” Not like the vanilla shake that we shared on our first date either. Her shakes these days should actually be called “green muck.” Since she’s clearly hungry all of the time, she’s also a bit angry and on edge. In addition to taking a toll on her and her body, it’s also started to negatively impact our relationship. Gone is the carefree and fun-loving Viv I met and fell in love with. She’s been replaced by a woman with singular focus on being fit and thin. I started to get worried the day I could see her ribcage. The dark mood that hangs around her like a cloak has also impacted our lovemaking. I’m worried that the lack of actual nutrients has negated her sex drive completely. I love her, but cuddling her is like cuddling a broomstick. I want vivacious Viv back. And I know how…

Of course, I don’t know how. If I knew how, if there was some plan or path to take, I would’ve taken it already. Thankfully, inspiration strikes twice.

From this point on, eating is an orgasmic activity for Viv — the higher the calories, the bigger the orgasm. I know she’ll worry about the impact putting on a few pounds could have on her career, so when she approaches me distraught at the prospect of that happening, I will explain to her that being a Plus Size Model is her true calling and she will happily accept this as the truth and she will finally love the body that she’s in. And, of course, all of those orgasms will make her more sexually active and adventurous. She will be joyful, carefree, and vivacious and I will have the Viv I fell in love with back in my arms.

I click send, expecting like most of my writing, to send it out into the void and never hear another thing about it.

I assume the immediate response is just an auto-return telling me my email has been received and will be considered… blah blah blah… but instead, it reads, quite simply in four words:

You are a winner!


I hate swimsuit shoots. I feel bare and on display, mainly because I am both of those things. The locations are typically all male and all male judgment, examining my body and speaking freely about what tweaks they’ll have to make to the pictures in post. Momentarily woozy, I escape to the craft service table. Not that I can eat anything there. The last thing I want is any bit of bloating for them to comment on. Can’t they see I’ve starved myself for them? I used to have C-cup breasts, but they’ve thinned out so much with the rest of me, I’m now bra-optional. Heaven forbid any part of my body jiggle. I decide to rage eat a baby carrot. The moment it touches my lips, I start to swoon. Am I that hungry? Is this carrot that good? As I chew, I feel wave after wave of excitement pulse through my body. I have to steady myself by keeping one hand down on the craft service table. As I swallow, my orgasm reaches its climax. The carrot has barely left my mouth and my lips have parted to let a moan escape. I don’t know what just happened, but I’m a little confused, a little scared, and due back on set. But really, I just want another carrot.

The photographer even catches me eyeing the craft service table during one of his shots. I hear him grumble to his assistant something along the lines of “typical model.”

I choke back my anger. I’m anything but typical. And screw you for your disdain towards me. All you have to do is set up lights and click buttons. When the shoot is done, you can do whatever you want, be whatever you want, eat whatever you want. I’m a model every day, every moment of my life and every single decision I make has to revolve around that.

I finish the shoot, get into skinny jeans and a tight white t-shirt, and then into my Mini for the drive home. I wear tight clothes because I have to advertise. My physique is my calling card and I never know when I could run across someone in need of my in-front-of-the-camera talents.

I drive past a bakery on the ride home. I don’t know why but I circle the block to drive past it again. It’s on the corner, so when I’m stopped at the red light, I can see everything they have to offer through the large window display. I shake my head no, telling myself I’m not stopping, but I circle the block again. And again. And again. No matter what I do, I can’t escape the gravitational pull of this shop. I’ll just go in, take a deep whiff of the wares, and continue my drive. I promise myself that this is exactly what’s going to happen. I get inside. I take a deep whiff, but my feet don’t propel me out and back to my car. Instead, they walk me up to the counter. The slightly older proprietor gives me a heavy once over, eyes noticeably dwelling on my chest. I look down to see that both of my nipples are clearly pointing out in my thin white t-shirt. Just the smell of this place did that to my body. The smell made me mouthwateringly aroused.

He asks, “Can I help you?”

My brain says, “No. No thank you. I don’t need any of these tantalizing breads or desserts.”

However, my mouth says, “Six chocolate eclairs, please.”


My phone vibrates to life with Vivian’s ringtone.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” I say and for a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call. The silence is broken by some sobbing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

This only triggers more crying until finally she calms down enough to speak. “I’m at the bakery on Belmont.” She says.


“I need you do to something for me.”


“I need you to bring me one of your t-shirts and a pair of my sweat pants. Not yoga pants. My sweat pants.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hang up and wonder what’s going on. I grab a clean t-shirt, a Ramones concert tee, and Vivian’s one pair of sweat pants, which I only find after some serious searching pushed to the back of one of her under-the-bed drawers.

I drive the fifteen minutes to the bakery she mentioned and find a spot right next to her car.

When I open the passenger’s side door, I’m struck with the smell of sex and pastries. Vivian looks disheveled, flushed.

“Get in!” She yells at me and I get into her car, shutting the door behind me. The smell is stronger now. I see one of the contributors, an empty pastry box, tossed into her back seat.

I look to Viv and she immediately pulls me into a passionate kiss. I can taste the sugar on her tongue and I can’t remember us having such a frenzied kiss. Definitely not in recent memory.

“You brought the clothes?” She asks, breathlessly.

I nod, still lost in the swirl of that kiss, and hand them over to her.

She has to work hard to get her plain white tee off. I don’t understand, but when it is off, I see that her breasts look bigger, fuller. I look down to see just the tiniest pudge at her waist. The button on the top of her jeans is missing, the zipper is all the way down, and she still barely fits in them.

She sees me looking at her… situation… and worry washes over her face. “Meet me at home, okay?”

“Okay.” I say, wanting to tell her that she’s never looked more beautiful but worried that this might not be the moment she’d want to hear that.

I turn to leave and she firmly grips my arm. “Bring a dozen chocolate eclairs with you.”

The look on her face is ravenous.

I watch her little car pull away only after she manages to tear off her tiny jeans and pour herself into the sweat pants.

Taking a moment to assess, I think back to that story I wrote. I smile, very much intent to buy a lot more than what she asked me to.

I get home with two bags in hand and find Viv on the floor in the kitchen. The heavy smell of sex in the air tells me that she’s been active. I don’t know where the sweat pants went, but it’s not like I care. Bottomless, I get a great view of her developing ass and hips. They’ve just pushed out a little. She’s no longer a waif. Her curves have started to return to her. Her breasts have started to blossom out past perky, tenting up the start of mounds in my concert tee. She has a bottle of chocolate syrup in her hand. She’s sobbing.

I sit down beside her. “Hey. Hey. What’s wrong, beautiful?”

“I’m not, though.”

“You’re not what, Viv?”

Only now does she make eye contact to say the word. “Beautiful.”

“Oh, honey,” I say, pushing some sweaty, matted-down hair out of her face. “You are so beautiful. You’re prettier right now than when you left this morning.”

“Really?” She says, she nearly accepts her changes, but then. “But what am I going to do. Models are size zero.”

“Not all models. You could be a Plus Size model?”

“What?!? No… I don’t know…”

“You would be the best. You would be the biggest Plus Size model in the world.”

“You think I could, Adri?”

I nod.

I pull the bakery bags to us.

“You’re just going to need a little work. You need to be a lot more curvy.”

She smells the donuts, danishes, and eclairs and licks her lips. “How curvy?” She moans.


She smiles. “That sounds… delicious…”

She grabs a donut and shoves it into her face. I watch both the orgasm ripple through her and the small growth as well. She nearly gotten to the point of jiggling and seeing this, and hearing her, get me hard.

I point to my hard-on and ask, “Can I?”

A new look of hunger sweeps over her. “No. Can I?”

She greedily pulls my cock out of my pants and takes it in her mouth. Her mouth is wet and I can still feel bits of donut, but she slurps and sucks like it’s her last meal. She’s never been a fan of giving blow jobs, but now she’s an eager pro. When I shoot my load down her throat, she shudders to another orgasm.

I watch her finish box one of the pastries while I recover. Seeing the changes definitely shortens my recovery time. I’m deep into her soaking wet pussy when she starts box number two. I feel her ass lift us up just a little with every danish and eclair.

By the time I cum inside her, she’s got a meaty bubble butt and two big jiggling tits.

“Remember when I said you’d be the biggest Plus Side model in the world?”

She nods.

“I’m ordering up a pizza.”

I reach for my phone and she stops me with her hand. I wonder what she’s going to say, but I smile as she sexily whispers, “Order three.”