The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Man oh man, that hurts!”

The woman was sitting in a plush red chair, bent over a little, cradling her right wrist in her left hand. Her right hand was completely swaddled in somebody’s shirt. There was blood on the fabric.

“OK, OK, take it easy baby,” said the woman beside her. “This clinic is really, like, efficient. They’ll see you right away.”

The woman with the injured hand, who detested being called “baby”, glared daggers at her companion. If there was anything worse than a painful accident in the middle of a work day, she fumed, it was being taken to the hospital by the office sexpot. She would have said something sarcastic, but her hand hurt too much.

Funny thing was, until a couple of months ago, Carmen had been a perfectly ordinary assistant librarian. Serious, courteous, efficient if a bit drab, she had worked away diligently at whatever assignments she was given, and talked about gardening in the staff lunch room. Then, without warning and to the astonishment of everyone in the library, she had hopped aboard the express train to bimboville.

It started one afternoon when Carmen complained of not feeling well. It was probably a touch of flu, she said. She had taken a sick day to go see a doctor. When she returned to work a few days later, she was transformed.

Gone was the shy, mousy Carmen. In her place was a bouncy, sexy, giddy whirlwind whose energy seemed endless and whose smile seemed irrepressible. She flirted with all the men. She giggled constantly. She abandoned pants and loafers in favour of steadily shortening miniskirts and flamboyant high heels. Very soon it was a rare day when everyone in the library didn’t know the colour of Carmen’s panties before noon.

The staff speculated endlessly about what could have come over her. A hot new boyfriend was a popular theory. It didn’t hold up well, though, considering how Carmen was carrying on with staff and library patrons alike. Nor did it explain why a previously quiet and serious woman was acting like a sex-crazy airhead.

Most of all, it didn’t begin to explain the tits.

The woman with the injured hand took a covert look at Carmen, sitting cheerfully beside her. She had her knees crossed, bouncing one foot up and down lazily. She was wearing a low-cut, stretch-fit minidress, her apparel of choice these days, along with filmy stockings and impossibly high-heeled sandals. The curve-loving dress strained to cover a pair of over-inflated breasts that could only exist in an adult movie or a horny teenager’s imagination. Carmen before had been neither small nor large, so well within the ordinary range that nobody was sure how big she was before the change.

Cosmetic surgery? That was another popular idea around the lunchroom, though it seemed completely out of character for Carmen. Yet Carmen’s V-necked sweaters and low-scooped dresses made it abundantly clear that everything down her cleavage was real. When someone finally asked Carmen about it, she just giggled prettily and said she was a late bloomer. The conversation didn’t get any further because a man nearby walked right into a bookshelf.

Carmen helped the man up. He sputtered something in gratitude, staring down her sweater. Carmen suggested coffee. The man accepted, breathless. Carmen didn’t come back for almost three hours.

Carmen smiled her dazzling smile when she saw her superior looking at her. “You doing OK? I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes.”

Sure enough, at that moment the blonde nurse at the desk called out: “Heather?”

“Oh, that’s us,” Carmen chirped unnecessarily.

She helped Heather to her feet, but her superior shrugged her off. “I haven’t got a broken leg!” she snapped.

Still holding on to her right wrist, Heather approached the nurse’s desk, Carmen in tow. The woman gave her a motherly look. “Does it hurt bad, honey?” she cooed. “Come with me, we’ll have Doctor Hardrod take a look at that.”

Heather glared at her. She hated being called “honey” as much as “baby”. The nurse was a spectacularly built blonde who apparently hadn’t earned her position by her knowledge of medicine. Her hair cascaded in golden tresses down past her shoulders. Her eyes were enormous and deep, deep blue. She wore a white nylon nurse’s uniform that skimmed low across a pair of mammaries as heavy and swollen as Carmen’s. Heather wondered briefly if she had stumbled into the Land of the Giant Boobs. Even the other young woman in the swank, feminine waiting room was heavy-chested.

It had hardly been Heather’s idea to come here for treatment. She wanted to go to the emergency ward at the local hospital. Instead, Carmen insisted that she come to something called the NewYou Clinic. She was very enthusiastic about it. Heather’s hand hurt too much for her to argue.

The nurse led Heather to a small examination room. “Have a seat there on the table,” the nurse said. “The doctor will be right with you.” She disappeared out the door, high heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

“Dr. Hardrod is like, a terrific doctor,” enthused Carmen, who had followed Heather into the room.

A moment later the door opened again. The man standing there said: “Hello, I’m Dr. Nelson Hardrod. You must be Heather. Oh, hello Carmen. Nice to see you.”

“Hiiii, Doctor,” Carmen replied, in her new, sex-laden voice.

The doctor was a young man, certainly not yet forty. He wore a white lab coat and carried a stethoscope around his neck, as if he were portraying a doctor on a television soap opera. He had a slightly sleazy look to him, Heather thought, especially when he surveyed Carmen up and down with undisguised admiration.

Eventually he turned his attention to his patient. “Well now, what have we got here? You’ve hurt your hand?”

“Yes,” Heather replied tersely. “It hurts like hell. I think something’s broken.”

The doctor approached Heather and gingerly began to unwrap her makeshift bandage. “Ouch!” Heather cried. “It really hurts!”

He backed off. “Hmmm, better let me give you something for the pain.” He fussed around in a cupboard for a few moments. He returned with a small plastic cup filled with a thick, purple liquid. “Drink this,” he urged, “it’ll take the edge off.”

Heather drank the liquid down. It tasted sweet. She handed the cup back.

Dr. Hardrod returned to unwrapping her hand. It didn’t hurt nearly as much this time. In fact, after a few moments she hardly felt it at all. He finished unwrapping her hand and looked at it dubiously. “What happened?” he wanted to know.

Heather sighed. “It was an accident. I dropped something on my hand. A book. A heavy book.” The doctor, she noticed absently, was rather cute.

The accident was embarrassing. It should never have happened. Carmen had wiggled into her office that morning and asked for help retrieving a book from an upper shelf. Heather had better things to do. She was Head Librarian. She told Carmen to find one of the shelvers to help her. She very nearly sent her home again to put on something less revealing.

Carmen had given her puppy-dog eyes and pouted that everyone else was on break and she needed this book like right away. Eventually Heather had relented just to shut her up. When she climbed the ladder to pull the book down (Carmen’s heels and hemline both proscribing climbing ladders) another book had fallen from on top of it, to land edge first on Heather’s hand. The burst of pain kept Heather from wondering why these two books were the only ones on the shelf that weren’t dusty.

She wasn’t wondering about it now either. The doctor’s painkiller had her feeling a little thick. The pain in her hand had subsided to a faraway tingle.

“I think we’ll need X-rays,” Dr. Hardrod pronounced. He wheeled a ceiling-mounted camera into position. He spent a few minutes taking shots from different angles. “Now you just lie back and relax for a few minutes while I get these developed,” he said to Heather.

Heather was content to do that. She was already feeling very relaxed. She lay back on the padded table and stared at the ceiling. She felt dopey, almost stoned. It was really very pleasant. What was in those painkillers?

She heard the handsome doctor chatting with Carmen. The voices sounded distant, like the murmur of waves on the beach at night. “. . . come on honey, why not . . . oh, yes, like that. . . yes, more, more . . . oh god yes, faster, faster! . . . almost there, don’t stop, don’t stop . . . Aaaaah!”

Heather wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed before Dr. Hardrod’s face re-appeared in front of her. His hair was mussed. “Heather,” he said, “I’ve looked at the X-rays. You have a fractured carpel in the ring finger of your right hand. I’ve bandaged it up for you. I think we can get away without a cast.”

“Now, ordinarily this sort of fracture could take up to a month to heal. I’m going to give you some pills. They’ll stimulate your tissues to heal much faster.”

He held up a pharmacy bottle full of small pills. They were the same purple as the painkiller Heather had downed earlier. The bottle bore a label from something called Volparnuit Pharmaceuticals, with an address in the Virgin Islands. “What, what is . . .” Heather managed.

“The drug is called N-HancDD,” Dr. Hardrod replied. “It’s new. With this course we can reduce your recovery time to less than two weeks. I want you to take one pill every evening before you go to bed. The N-HancDD will dull the pain too. Try not to move your hand too much for the first while.”

Heather took the pills. She looked at her right hand. It was tightly wrapped in a soft bandage. The ends of her fingers were free. The bandage was warm pink. “I . . . can’t straighten . . . hand,” Heather demurred, puzzled.

The doctor said: “You strained a tendon during the break. I set the bone with the hand in a half-curled position so it will heal more naturally.”

“Oh, OK.”

“You’re going to be a little woozy for a while. Carmen has agreed to take you home. Try to get some rest.”

“All right. Thank you Doctor.”

With Carmen’s help she got to her feet. She wobbled a little on the way out the door. Carmen stayed behind a moment to kiss the doctor—Heather could have sworn she kissed him—then led her outside to Heather’s car. Heather made it into her flat on her own and managed to get some of her clothes off. She fell asleep on her back with her bandaged hand outstretched.

Heather awoke the next morning feeling fine. It was only when she flexed her hand that she remembered the accident. She held up her bandaged hand. Who ever heard of hot pink bandages? At least it didn’t hurt.

She set about getting ready for work. Dressing with one hand presented challenges. Clothing with zippers wasn’t too bad, but buttons were difficult and laces were impossible. She decided on a simple pullover and slacks with some dressy loafers.

The matter of dressing was complicated by the need to wear a bra. Heather wasn’t particularly full on top, but she was hardly going to go without. Fastening hooks one handedly turned out to be a major undertaking. Besides, her bra was too tight. She thought at first she might be retaining water. It was the wrong time of the month.

Heather took a taxi to work. She couldn’t drive her car with one hand.

Having only one free hand at work slowed her down a lot. Nevertheless Heather was in a fey mood. She felt energized. She laughed at her colleagues’ gentle ribbing about her accident. She even forgave Carmen when she came by her office to apologize.

By the next morning, Saturday, her ill-fitting bra had become as big an annoyance as the broken hand. It was increasingly uncomfortable. She squirmed all morning. By noon it was unbearable. She took a taxi downtown and bought a new brassiere. The sales lady had to help her undress.

“Why don’t your try a sportsbra?” the woman suggested sensibly. “No hooks to fasten.”

“OK, good idea,” Heather replied. “but are you sure this is the right cup size?”

“We can measure you again, if you like.”

Heather struggled into the sportsbra. “No, this one does seem to fit.”

Heather returned home after shopping and cleaned her apartment one-handed. She stayed up late, too hyped-up to sleep. Eventually her hand began to hurt. She took one of the little purple pills and turned in. The pain had already vanished by the time she fell asleep.

Dressing in a sportsbra was far easier than trying to one-hand bra straps. Oddly though, the brassiere she had purchased on Saturday felt tight on Monday. Had she bought the wrong size? Heather looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. Her breasts did seem larger. This was more than water retention. She hefted one breast experimentally. It felt heavier. She brushed a finger across a nipple. The unexpected thrill that ran through her made her moan out loud.

“Meaghan, I’m going out for lunch,” Heather said to her assistant, around noon that day. “I need to pick up a few things.” In fact she was going to return the bra she had purchased two days before. It was definitely too small.

Meaghan said: “Hey, I like what you did with your hair. Looks cool.”

Heather arched an eyebrow. “I haven’t done anything with my hair.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, it looks . . . really?”

“I’ll be back by one.”

It was closer to two when Heather finally got back to the library. She didn’t like wasting so much time. As Head Librarian, she had many responsibilities. It had taken a while to find a sportsbra the right size. Heather had difficulty believing that she was so much larger. “I was only 34 inches yesterday,” she told the sales woman.

“Well, you’re over 35 today. Here, try this one. It will give you a bit of extra room.”

A bit of extra room was welcome. Heather was feeling very sensitive. The press of her too-tight bra against her nipples was immensely distracting. It made it difficult to concentrate on her work.

Heather bought a new top that better accommodated her new size. Impulsively, she also bought a new pair of shoes. Her old flats were starting to pinch her toes. She picked out a pair of dressier slip-ons, with a bit of heel. It was a narrow style but she found they fit quite well.

After work Heather stopped at the gym, as she did regularly. Athletic by nature, she liked to keep trim. She couldn’t lift weights with the broken hand, but the treadmill and stair-stepper were still available. One of the trainers tied her athletic shoes for her.

Today, Heather felt dynamic. She breezed through her normal workout, even adding a mile to her run. She found herself grinning.

That evening, as she puttered about the house in her favourite jade green dressing gown, Heather decided something had to be done. Her tits were driving her crazy. The slightest touch brought the nipples to attention. A gentle tweak was delicious. She had to shower carefully at the gym so the other women there wouldn’t see how turned on she was.

Heather relaxed on the sofa, watching television. She gently teased a nipple with her good hand. Single, and with no serious fellow in her life, her sex life was pretty quiet. Normally that didn’t bother her greatly. Tonight was a different story. If she was so sensitive upstairs, Heather reasoned, how it would feel if she touched herself down—oh sweet Jesus! She really was in a state.

She switched her attention to her moistening pussy. She pleasured herself urgently with the fingers of her left hand. She slumped on the sofa, legs spread, dressing gown falling open. She forgot about the television. She came, quickly and intensely.

The orgasm was so pleasant Heather decided to try for another. Then one more. Finally sated, and smelling intensely female, she licked off her fingers and headed to bed. She remembered to take her little purple pill.

The next morning Heather bounced out of bed before the alarm clock even rang. She ate an enormous breakfast. Her pajama top had become uncomfortably tight, so she undid a few buttons to give herself some room. That helped a little. The friction of the soft fabric against her newly sensitive tits was very distracting.

Eventually she shrugged the top off completely and finished her second bowl of cereal semi-nude. The cool air of the morning stiffened her nipples immediately. When she was finished she decided there was nothing for it but to have a little fun in the shower. That turned out to be a great idea. Heather’s shower was quite a bit longer than usual.

Wednesday morning found Heather standing in front of her bedroom mirror again, quite perplexed. She was wearing nothing but a towel around her hair. Something is wrong with me, she decided, and more than a broken finger. This was very odd.

Her pants didn’t fit. She had tried on three pairs, only to find that all of them were too tight around her hips. It was a struggle to pull them on with one hand. When she did finally squeeze into them, she found they were unfashionably tight around her bum. Had the dry cleaners shrunk them somehow? That would be a sensible explanation except that dry cleaning didn’t shrink things and her pants were also too loose around her waist. She yanked them off again, another one-handed wrestle, and looked at herself.

She looked different. Besides the swollen breasts, which appeared even bigger this morning than they had last night, there were other changes. Her hips had expanded. There was no question about it. At the same time her waist had shrunk. It was as if two inches of her form had migrated downward, filling out her thighs and rump, while drawing in her stomach. The net effect, she had to admit, was quite attractive. Very attractive. And her face . . .

Heather leaned forward to examine herself. She felt the weight of her newly engorged breasts. Heather had always considered herself rather plain. This morning she looked, well, pretty. Her cheekbones seemed more pronounced, her chin better defined. Her complexion glowed with health. The rubescent fullness of her lips couldn’t be her imagination.

“Well, this is . . . interesting,” Heather said out loud. Despite her perplexity she was pleased with the reflection. She winked at herself. She was tingling a little, in her breasts, and down below. She reached up with her good hand and pulled the towel from her hair. It tumbled down around her shoulders, already half-dry, and shiny. The locks were about six inches longer than the last time Heather had looked.

She turned her attention back to getting dressed. Slacks were clearly not an option. Her closet yielded a navy-blue pleated skirt that was easy to put on with one hand. The expansion of her hips pulled the knee-length hem up a few inches.

Knickers were another issue; she found a pair that sort of fit, but they pulled up so tight against her mons that the tingles quickly became unbearable. She decided to go without and rely on pantyhose. She would have to make another trip to the shops during coffee break.

Heather pulled her sportsbra on. It still fit, but she suspected it wouldn’t for much longer. Pulling a sweater over her head was easier than doing up buttons on a blouse. The simple white pullover was not nearly as loose as when she bought it. More tingles.

Pantyhose proved to be the breaking point. She got them up her legs all right, but working the nylon around her hips accidentally brought her fingers too close to her eager pussy. Heather gasped at the pulse of sexual excitement that burst from her crotch. She tried another stroke. It felt even better. Her nipples were swollen again.

There was moisture on her fingers. She couldn’t go to work this way. Already stroking with her good hand, the lithe librarian stumbled backward onto her rumpled bed. “Oh god I am so fucking horny, this morning” she muttered. “Just one (gasp) . . . one little cum . . . oh man that feels good . . . one cum . . . then (moan!) . . . I’ll, I’ll go to work. Oh yes!”

Heather was very late for work that morning.

Late Thursday evening, Heather sat in her kitchen, nursing a glass of wine. She contemplated the little bottle of pills sitting on the table in front of her. Could something so small have such big effects?

She took a deep breath. Her unconfined breasts jostled beneath the simple white T-shirt she was wearing. It was an extra-large size that she sometimes wore as a nightshirt. Everything else in her closet was too tight again. A pair of kitten-heeled mules dangled from her toes.

Heather’s new brassiere didn’t fit for two days. By the end of the work day she was squirming uncomfortably as the elastic straps began to dig into her shoulders. The moment she arrive home she had shrugged it off. The relief was immense.

So were her tits. Heather’s measuring tape confirmed that she had gained almost four centimetres since her last fitting. Struggling one-handedly with the tape measure set off a wave of tittie tingles that very nearly drove her back onto the bed again.

She was starting to draw stares. When she arrived at work that morning she was already aroused from the attention of the cab driver, who kept checking her out in the rearview mirror. Her coworkers watched her keenly every time she stepped out of the office. She could see the effort the men were making not to stare at her chest when she spoke to them. A few of them were successful.

Between the inefficiency arising from her broken finger and the distraction of her increasingly curvaceous body, Heather wasn’t getting a lot of work done. Using a keyboard with one hand was agonizingly slow. Notes written with her left hand were illegible.

Luckily, she discovered that her bandaged hand wasn’t completely useless. It had healed enough now that it didn’t hurt to touch, and the half-closed position meant she could lightly grip things, like a coffee cup, or even a banana for lunch. Even limited use of her right hand was a big improvement.

Still, there were a lot of obstacles. She had to get help carrying things, and opening files. It was frustrating. She still had her responsibilities as Head Librarian. Fortunately, there were plenty of men about the library who were eager to help.

To make matters worse, she was horny all the time. Handjobs in the shower and while she was getting dressed let her get through the morning, but by mid-day she almost always found herself seeking more relief in the ladies’. It got worse when she went out to buy new clothes, because the avid male attention she attracted turned her on like an aphrodisiac. She brought herself off again in the washroom of an office building, and again in the change room of an upscale boutique.

What was she doing in that boutique anyway? She had gone downtown to find some underwear that fit. She found some knickers that accommodated her womanly hips and bought several pairs. It wasn’t really necessary to choose lace or silk, but Heather decided she liked feeling sexy.

She had intended to pick up some pants too, since none in her closet were wearable any more. She found herself gravitating to the dress racks instead. Dresses and skirts would be a little more forgiving about fit, she rationalized, especially if she got something a bit stretchy. Maybe she wanted to show off her legs.

Back in her flat, Heather got to her feet and clip-clopped into the bedroom. Her boobs bounced perkily. She looked down at the bags of fashion clothing lying on the bed. These things really weren’t her style. Wearing them would only amplify the head-turning effect of her changing body. Fuzzily, she realized that she actually wanted more attention. The feeling of being sexy and attractive gave her a rush that was almost addictive.

Which brought her back to the question of the pills again. It didn’t take a genius to see that the bewildering growth of her breasts had begun as soon as she started taking Dr. Hardrod’s little happy pills. He said the pills accelerated tissue growth. Maybe they affected other areas besides her injured hand?

She held up her half-closed right hand, still swaddled in the pink bandages. She wiggled her fingers experimentally. It appeared to be healing well. Maybe she should stop taking the pills.

It would help if she knew more about them. One of the advantages of being a Head Librarian was that Heather knew how to find information. There was a computer in the second bedroom that she used as an office. She sat down, logged onto the internet, and began a search for N-HancDD. She brushed long hair out of her eyes.

An hour later, she had found nothing. That was surprising. The internet was crowded with medical websites catering to the insatiable public curiosity about drugs and treatments. Every drug imaginable was profiled somewhere. Yet every search engine she knew returned with nothing on N-HancDD. Nor could she find any mention of Volparnuit Pharmaceuticals. It was all very frustrating.

Heather felt tired. It had been a long day. She had blasted effortlessly through a souped-up workout at the gym. Other women looked on enviously as Heather bounced and stretched, her newly curvaceous body straining her shorts and top. The cute trainer who tied her shoelaces for her looked up at her with envy—and perhaps something more.

Now the effort was catching up with her. She felt irritable and frustrated. Why couldn’t she find anything on this stupid drug? Her hand was beginning to hurt. The broken finger ached dully.

Heather got to her feet. She half-stumbled on her flimsy slides. She looked down at her feet in annoyance. What had possessed her to buy these asinine slippers? They were decorative little trinkets, with a leopard-skin pattern and a single strap across the foot. Heather had rationalized that she couldn’t wear her old cross-trainers at home for the duration. She needed something without laces. Of course at the time she had been horny and she secretly thought the little slides looked sexy. Now she thought they were simply foolish.

Scowling, she shuffled back into the kitchen. It’s those damned pills, she thought sourly. They were messing up her metabolism. They were messing up her mind. She glared down at the bottle of pills still sitting on the kitchen table. She felt drained. Her hand hurt.

Abruptly she swooped down with her good hand, flipped open the bottle, spilled a pill into her other hand and popped it into her mouth. She swallowed quickly, before she had a chance to think about it.

Five minutes later the ache in her broken hand had disappeared. Ten minutes later Heather was dancing about the bedroom in her nightshirt and slides, gleefully unwrapping her new clothing while she rocked and rolled to the beat of a pop tune on the stereo. Two hours later Heather dropped off into contented sleep, one hand still inside her firm, wet pussy.