The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The surveillance footage was crystal clear. Five distinct angles on five flat screens. White timecode ticked off frames, seconds, minutes, and hours on the bottom center of each panel.

The recorders were silent except for an occasional soft click from a storage device.

The van’s interior was a comfortable seventy-two degrees. It made my nipples hard.

The seat before the screens was soft and plush and fit just right.

My panties and bra were balled up on a shelf in front of the screens. Pants neatly folded, shirt underneath them.

I watched as the night’s second group was brought in. Six of them, aged eighteen to twenty one. All as athletic as their sports scholarships demanded. Short shorts. Loose sports jerseys. Hair back in ponytails or short. Perfect suburban teeth. Smooth skin. Slightly taut muscles. Translation? Healthy to a fault.

Like the last group.

I stroked at my fleshy nub, fluid slick on my fingers. A slow, grinding motion designed to make the delicious sensations linger. Had to make it last because this group would probably take a while, too. They were taking their time tonight.

“Okay ladies,” said the coach, “we have some new training for you. Should dramatically improve your playing.”

The girls giggled. One socked another in the ribs.

Fiddling with the audio I adjusted it up.

“It’s a series of visualization exercises designed to improve your styles on the field. Focus and improve your technique overall, actually. Please, sit and make yourselves comfortable.” He all but gestured at the floor.

The girls tittered a bit but dropped to the mats littered around the room. Some cross legged. Some sprawled out. The tittering died down.

The coach closed and locked the door then dimmed the lights, staying by the door. He pulled something from the pocket of his shorts and squeezed it. Immediately a hazy, formless halo of light materialized in the room’s center, floating about three feet off of the floor. It was about the diameter of a hula-hoop.

The girls ooed and awwed at it for a moment.

And it began to spin slowly around an invisible axis at its center, flip-flopping over itself in space.

“Now, just watch the ring, ladies.” The coach said. “Focus on it. Concentrate on it. It has such pretty colors.”

Surveying the group he squeezed the thing in his hand again.

A second ring appeared, hovering inside the first, slowly spinning on a different axis of motion.

If I zoomed in on any of the girls I was certain I’d be able to watch the two spinning halos, one arcing inside the other, as a reflection on the surface of her eyes. But I didn’t. My hands were both busy now.

“That’s right. Just watch the rings.” He said. “Just watch them as they spin. Begin breathing deeply now, long breaths.”

The girls complied.

“Take each breath in and hold it. Hold it.” He paused. “Now release. Now breathe deeply again.”

He continued down this path for about three or four minutes then changed tact.

“Now, as you breathe in and out, slowly, tighten and relax your toes.”

He moved from toes to calves, from calves to thighs, from thighs to buttocks, from buttocks to stomachs, from stomachs to chests, from chests to backs, from backs to necks, from necks to foreheads.

Two of the girls had laid back on their mats. Two were still upright. Two had gone limp where they laid.

Each of them watched the rings in the center of the room, spinning one over the other. Spinning slightly faster now, slightly less translucent now, haziness solidifying into arcs of pure light.

“Good, ladies. You’re feeling so relaxed now. So very relaxed. Just floating.”

He squeezed the thing in the palm of his hand and four more rings appeared, spinning slowly in space, their bluish illumination playing over the girls’ relaxed bodies.

Six pairs of eyes watched the rings intently as they began to shrink to the size of saucers, dispersed from the center of the room, falling end-over-end.

In a moment each girl was raptly focused on a spinning ring that hovered before her face.

“Good.” Said the coach. “I think we’re ready now. Why don’t you all strip. I’ll be right back.”

He unlocked the door and exited.

The six girls slowly pulled themselves up from their mats, eyes never leaving the rings, and began to remove their clothing. Kicking sneakers off of tiny feet. Leaning over to peel off tall white socks. Sliding nylon shorts to the floor. Quickly pulling jerseys over heads. Sports bras following. Panties shed.

Six girls stood in a rough circle, naked, clothing spread out at their naked toes, a dim bluish hue from each spinning ring casting shadows on blank faces.

Their eyes had no hint of personality.

As I stroked my clit I was glad I had five screens so I could see every face, some from more than one angle. I was getting too wet and reached for my shirt to wipe my fingers.

In a moment the coach returned with a small cardboard box and closed the door.

“Can everyone hear me?” He asked, moving to the center of the circle.

A murmured set of yeses.

“Great. Now each of you are going to take one of these.”

Sleepily, each girl reached into the cardboard box and withdrew a shiny, lightly glowing object that looked like a dildo with a spherical end. Each object looked exactly the same and was pliant in the girls’ small fingers.

They stood staring at the rings, holding the objects.

“Lubricate your pets with saliva.” The coach said.

Almost robotically, six arms reached up, six pink tongues extended, and each girl began to lick her object.

“Get into it. Suck on it.” He said.

The girls complied, sucking on the objects with a bit of vigor, cheeks pressed inward, tongues swirling. Like pros.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Lay down.”

All six girls did, their naked breasts flattening on smooth chests. The rings followed the girls, hovering now over each upturned face. Eyes were locked on the rings.

“Good. Spread your legs.”

From five camera angles I was treated to both shaved and hairy pussies, some with large, smooth lips, some with long thin petals, one sunken back into the flatness between her open thighs. It was glorious.

“Now,” the coach said emphatically, “place your pets over your vaginas with the round end on the mat and the thin end directly over your clitoris.”

Hands shifted the things into place.

I zoomed in. Each object was sliding sideways or forward or down of its own will, finding precise placement. Each object was snuggling in.

One of the girls spasmed and released her object as it settled into place firmly, hugging her perfectly. Her fingers moved to it and began to stroke its smooth surface.

Another spasmed. She, also, began to stroke her object that had adhered itself to fill the gap between each thigh, wrapping up and over to where her neatly trimmed hair began.

Within moments all six girls were touching their objects. Stroking and caressing them. Eyes seeing only the spinning halos of light.

The coach smiled and squeezed the object in his hand firmly.

The rings vanished.

He moved over to the door and flipped on the light.

Almost in unison, the girls immediately thrust their hands into their laps and began to knead the cool slickness between their legs, some squeezing the spherical end tightly as if to pump something out of it. Their mouths opened wide and moans exited their throats. Backs pressing into the mats. Hips raising. Legs spreading widely, knees raised, feet firmly planted.

The room became an ocean of groans and breathy pleasure noises.

And they started to ask questions through their orgasmic haze, a distracted babble intermingled with lusty noises.

“Now ladies,” the coach said, as they listened as well as they could, “don’t fret. Just enjoy it. It’s too late to do anything else.”

A blonde managed to coherently ask what he meant.

“Well,” the coach explained, “your new pets are stimulating you so you can’t escape. You’re too overloaded with, well, sex, to do anything but let them fuck you.”

The girl’s moans and pleasures noises shifted then, a note of desperation creeping in.

“Let me explain something,” he said, undoing his belt. “You’re being replaced because you’re second-rate. You’re all just accidents. Heavy flesh. And heavy flesh has only one purpose.”

He paused long enough to drop his shorts, expose his majestic bald cock, maybe eight inches long, and get on his knees next to a brunette with tanned skin.

“You serve us. Our needs.”

He stroked his cock from semi-hardness to fullness, its purple tip shiny.

The girls moaned. A few came, stiffening, and then shivering with the onset of new pleasure.

“If you weren’t just, well, animals, you wouldn’t be enjoying this so much.”

He turned the brunette’s head to face him and pressed the cock into her young mouth. She immediately began to suck as though her life depended on it.

Suddenly, the objects began to swell obscenely and, one-by-one, the spherical ends popped off from the smooth translucent surface each girl was stroking. Inside each sphere between the girls’ legs a roiling motion occurred, a churning that expanded the sphere’s size. In mere moments they were like misshapen soccer balls.

I was on the brink of coming but quickly pulled my hands to stroke my own thighs instead, pinch a nipple. Tinker with the camera to zoom in.

From each sphere a thin tendril extruded, sliding across the dusty mats, creeping forward under spread legs, gently undulating over breasts and chests, and raising itself up, as if it were a worm testing the air.

“Good,” the coach said. “Ladies, if you want even more pleasure you’ll press the feeler against your forehead, right on the temple.”

Four of the girls—including the brunette working on his cock—immediately tore one hand away from their smooth pets and complied. In moments the tendril stiffened suddenly and pumped. Each girl went rigid for only a second and then resumed their mindless masturbation.

The coach said to the two unconnected girls, “Go ahead. Press it on. It will make you come harder.”

One of the two complied and, as her friend watched, her eyes rolled up and she let out an orgasmic shriek and trembled with pure lust.

“See,” the coach said to the remaining girl, “it isn’t bad. It will feel really good.”

She managed even in her writhing to lean up and spit toward the coach. It was futile, the saliva arcing outward only inches and dropping onto her chin instead.

There always seemed to be one holdout. That was very interesting, possibly useful. I zoomed in.

“I,” she gritted her teeth, “won’t.”

“But you will.” The coach said, emphasizing “will.”

He pulled his cock from the brunette’s mouth and walked on his knees over to the girl. With careful fingers he plucked the tendril from the air, brushed back her hair, and kissed her forehead lightly.

“Actually,” he said, “I lied.”

The moans of the girls surrounding her increased in intensity, their spheres now the size of two conjoined soccer balls. The girls weren’t writhing as much now, sweat covering their bodies in a sheen. It was as though movement required great effort.

“Your new owner can’t grow any further unless you attach this.” He said.

“I,” she gritted her teeth and shook her head, “won’t. Won’t,” she turned away from him, clenching her thighs together, struggling to pull her hands from her crotch, “put it there.”

“Oh, you will.” He said.

With a quick motion he rolled her onto her back and dropped his knees between her thighs, forcing them open.

I switched the camera angles again to watch from three positions. I was playing with my asshole now, thumb slipping inside my slit every so often.

He began to rub his cock against the translucent object that coated her most private of places.

She bit the palm of her hand. Hard.

“It feels good, doesn’t it? So very good. And I think you want it inside of you. My light flesh is so much better than any heavy flesh you’ve ever had.”

She grunted a no, weakly shook her head.

The tendril danced before her eyes.

“And your new light flesh responds so well to my light flesh.” He said. “Already it’s become part of you.”

Her pussy’s smooth lips parted like a mouth, every so slightly, and then clenched closed. Her eyes became vacant for a moment. But life came back to them soon enough.

He rubbed his cock against the lips and they parted again. He smiled.

Again, her eyes became vacant.

With one deep, pounding thrust he was inside her. Her naked, pink feet moved up to wrap around his waist, hips rising to meet his thrust.

“Your light flesh knows light flesh.” He said. “And you obey light flesh.”

She moaned, balling her fist, sucking on a finger.

He pumped rhythmically into her, his balls slapping against her thighs. Her breasts surging forward and back, forward and back in time with each thrust.

“Let your light flesh grow. Press it to your forehead. I’ll make you come.”

Her slitted eyes looked at the tendril for a moment. She was deciding.

And one of her hands caressed the tendril’s slightly firm tip and she pressed it against her right temple.

As her eyes rolled up, he quickly pulled out of her.

“Well,” he said, moving to her open mouth, “I lied again. Light flesh doesn’t pleasure heavy flesh unless it needs something. Besides, you’ll be coming again and again soon enough.”

I heard a loud pop in the room and quickly scanned the monitors, adjusting focus, maneuvering my view to where the coach was looking.

One of the spheres had popped and disgorged a puddle of viscous fluid onto the mats and now there were two petite, strong, athletic, short-haired blondes in the room. One stretching out from a fetal position, her stomach taut, her knees curled up beneath her on the mat, fluid soaking her body, discolored flesh surging into place. The other was writhing in sexual bliss, her eyes still rolled up, her mouth open in a perpetual moaning “O.”

They looked almost identical. If not for the discolored flesh, which was rapidly assuming a normal, healthy color, the girls could be taken for twins.

Sliding slowly, the girl from the sphere moved close to the head of the original twin. She began whispering in her ear. Stroking the girl’s breast. Sliding damp fingers around the tendril twitching at the girl’s forehead. The tendril that led back to her own stomach, where her bellybutton should’ve been but wasn’t.

She licked the girl’s ear and the girl came. She whispered something. The girl’s face took on a look of intense concentration and then relaxed completely. She whispered something else and the girl again appeared to be thinking intently. Then, blankness, a sigh, and a moan of pleasure.

I made myself come and I came hard. So very hard. And then I started stroking again.

There was another pop. And another. And another.

Soon, each girl had a damp twin lying next to her, stroking her body, whispering in her ear.

But something was different now.

Each whisper led to a diminished orgasm for the original girl and an increasing passion for each twin.

It went on like that for half an hour or so, and finally ended as each twin stood up, wiped any fluid from their bodies, and pulled the tendril from their stomachs. The flesh closed by itself around the hole.

Each of the girls lying on the mats slowly got up on their knees, pulled the tendril from their foreheads, and knelt before their twin, head bowed, hands behind backs.

Their eyes had a slightly vacant look about them.

“What took so long?” One of the twins asked the coach, running a new hand and new fingers over new, smooth flesh.

The coach pulled his pants up and zipped.

“We’re trying new techniques.” He said. “Sorry for the delay.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you get them cleaned up,” he said, “and put them to work? I’m running low on pets.”

“Sure,” a twin said, “pets?”

The coach replied, “A colloquialism.”

I watched the monitors as six naked girls, heads bent, eyes lowered, shivering occasionally as their bodies forced them to orgasm, followed six clothed girls from the room. Six of them had memories, desires, and a mission. The other six had only tightly focused desire. And churning life in their bellies that would be cared for time after time after time.

The next group would be in soon. I called in and then prepped the equipment for the next round.