The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Annika:

“Oh, fuck,” I thought as I awoke, “my fucking head.” Jesus, something must have happened last night. Too many drinks—god, maybe I was roofied or something, like Samantha had been last…

I jolted upright. Professors Rogers! He had been here, in my room. A dream?—and then I felt my breasts bounce with—hell, I don’t know, vivaciousness, and I lumped my head back down against the sofa.

So it wasn’t all some dream. Some psycho with an impossible machine had snuck into my room and fucked with my life. I giggled. Literal fml. Fucked my life.

I got up carefully, gingerly. I immediately realized I was completely different. I was like a superlatively graceful cat—like I had been a bowling ball in my previous reality. I mean, he had turned me into a fucking ballerina, and I could feel it, all this energy. I was gracile, supple, powerful, like a panther. A pert little ballerina, I thought almost giggling. This was so stupid.

I looked down and it was a totally different view, like night and day. I bent down to crab my calves, and there was no hint of any flexibility limitations. And then I ran my hand up to my thighs. They were perfect. Like God’s thighs.

And my hands continued up and fingered the hem of my pink shorts. My older-self had a thought that surfaced briefly—Gosh, those are short shorts—but my real self rolled her eyes. What a prude I had been. Such grotesque thighs then.

And so I had this little frisson of deliciousness. There was this sensuous aspect to it all that was driving me crazy. A ballerina, me. ME! And a sultriness came over me that made me feel a little dizzy.

I bent down and put my palms under my toes, folding completely over. And then I straightened and pulled a leg straight up toward the ceiling, turning gracefully on one foot to look at myself in the full-length mirror. I mean, I sort of knew what I was going to see—I had seen it every day, after all—but it was new enough I felt like I should have gasped as the appropriate response. Instead, I just smiled, teeth showing. I mean, I was nineteen now, and holy shit, was I stacked. I mean, I had seen my biceps before, obviously, but it was also new, like some sort of double memory.

I lowered my leg slowly, pointed perfectly straight. And my boobs were perky, sticking out of my shirt, the tops showing in the cup of the neckline. I bent forward, stretching out my other arm, a perfect arabesque, and my breasts were ballasting down and I ran a hand over them like I had a million times—and for the first time as well. I cupped them firmly. So perfect. I never had to look at a movie or magazine and ever once envy their tits.

I mean, they were perfect. Everyone thought so. Annika, a name synonymous with crazy tits, I thought to myself, pleased. As viewably demonstrated through my Facebook profile photos...

I grinned and stretched happily spite of myself. Part of me was nervous—that being happy wasn’t the appropriate response, that I was made this way, made pert or perky or whatever the fuck—but a larger part of me was more concerned with the fact that I used to be—or whatever tense was appropriate for shifted reality—old. Twenty-seven. And so flabby. I shuddered and bounced up and down delightedly. I could jump really high, I noticed. Really easily.

I forced myself to get a little bit more serious, even if my mind still felt a little flighty and delighted. I mean, I should really try to walk through all this, logically—physicist like. For instance, did I even remember any of my math and physics?

Focus, Annika. Yes. I still remember stuff. Calculus. Last week’s scientific journal. Thank god. Of course, everything was a little hazy. Like, I remember yesterday, with Professor Cornish? Some novel theory stuff, cutting edge, which had made me excited. Only, actually, thinking back on it now, it wasn’t really all that interesting, not really, I mean, something that three years from now would be an interesting blurb as a practical science article.

God, it was like that motherfucker zapped me to a communications major to my very core, I thought, walking into the kitchen. A major which I would defend to the death as the best major ever, my older (younger?) brothers’ mockery notwithstanding. I grabbed a grapefruit from the fridge and briefly compared in my mind’s eye to my breasts, before slicing it open voraciously. A little small.

But something on the counter caught my eye. It was my driver’s license—and on it, the new me. Annika Draper, nineteen, 110 pounds, five foot five, brown eyes and brown hair. Pert and perky. The photo was me with a brilliant hooked smile and perfect hair. I didn’t even know they allowed you to smile on those things. Next to the ID was a small glass taken from the cabinet, filled with jizz.

Probably not grapefruit juice, I thought to myself dryly, picking it up with two fingers, vaguely nauseous. Must be Rogers’. I looked at it curiously.

“Whatcha got there?” I heard Anastasia ask. I leaped in surprise.

“Anna! Fuck, you scared me,” I said, heart beating. Holy shit, did she remember anything from last night? Where we co-conspirators now? I spun around and looked at her. She was looking great. Not super gorgeous or anything, but put together, slim, with a flattering new top and a the sort of clutch she definitely would not have had before. Not exactly the Anastasia I knew, except for the eyes that were sharp and alive.

“Um, got something you want to tell me?” she asked looking at the glass of jizz.

“It’s not mine!” I squeaked, tossing it into the trash. My breasts were distracting me; I kept seeing them out of the corner of my eye. “How did… uh, how did last night go for you? You’re looking great.” I scanned her face—she had cheekbones now—they looked great, framed in her blonde hair—for any sign of recognition.

“Back atcha, girl,” she said cautiously. “Not that looking good is all there is to life or anything.” Obviously, Anastasia Petroff still had her badass feminist streak.

“Right,” I said, “I meant with all disclaimers made, of course.”

She smiled and looked into the trash. “Seems like you had a more interesting night than I did! The conference got done early, so I got back and hit the sack early. Slept like a stone. Boring, I know.”

I was looking at her so intently that she briefly looked concerned. But there was not a glimmer of recognition of anything out of the ordinary. My tits, my clothes, my fucking age. Apparently, this was as normal as the previous hundred mornings put together. I remember her being a little eye-rolley that a Sophomore wanted to go on a lease with a grad student—especially one as academically intense as her. And she was so glamorous, so old, I was always a little intimidated...

I didn’t say anything, I was lost in thought. She smiled a little confused, and readjusted her purse.

“Well, if you need to talk, I’ll be in my room!” she said brightly, with an un-Anastasia swish of her hair. “And, um, how about you take out the trash later.”

“Right,” I said, a little disappointed. I was kind of hoping we’d go on a grand adventure together. Combat evil together. Turn ourselves into superheroines. I stared at her ass as she walked away. Did it look different, or it was just the pants she had on? What sort of things had Rogers’ done to her? Made her more girly in appearance, for sure. But nothing world-changing, she wasn’t some Maxim poster. Changed her name—from Sarah, I thought, sticking out my tongue. Bland as fuck. But who knows what else? She could be pregnant with cows for all we know.

Or, shit, if she didn’t remember anything from before—than that means that I may not remember anything either.

I had a little chill. I would only remember things at Rogers’ convenience. Fuck, I could have been married before or something.

I felt like I should’ve been more outraged than I felt. Rogers, just waltzing into our apartment, screwing with our lives. But with the sun coming through the blinds, I just felt perfect and happy. Pert and perky. I jumped up and down to jiggle just for fun and did a little dance. My brothers’ would never believe it. Little social Annika, ballet-head, the smiley, emoji-girl, also equipped with advanced mathematics so theoretical that numbers were as quaint as typewriters. Maybe I should join the physics department just to make all the boys uncomfortable. Maybe I would, if physics had any sort of draw to me now.

I should probably run away, I thought, go into hiding. But I knew I wouldn’t. That must count as physically resisting alterations. What had he said? “That’s enough for tonight?” God, then there were more changes coming. I had an image of me being forced to rub on him, mad with desire. I shuddered. Talk about Jasmine and Jafar.

I could figure this out. It was just like a theoretical problem. I’d have to play physicist—just for a while. Find the loophole. Stand up, fight back. I walked into my bedroom to find my laptop. By the power of science.

But as I opened the door, I made a face. What a girly-fucking room. A bunch of cute shoes hung up in a mat on the door, posters of indie bands I loved dearly but had never heard of before, pink bedsheets. It was all so delightful. Pink—campy girly nineteen. I felt like a little adorable fucking unicorn. It made me glow with happiness. (And a little embarrassment… like being afraid to openly embrace something silly.)

I tried to head for my laptop, which was resting by my bed, but I got distracted by the mirror, a full length thing, that had obviously been put there to self-admire. Vain little creature. But why not peek at myself? How often do you get to examine a new you for the first-ish time? So I struck a pose in the mirror, hip out, amused at the absurdity. I laughed again.

All these memories, both old and somehow new. Leerers. Lecherers. Ballet recitals, with everyone’s father coming to watch, not just once, but twice, three times, surreptitiously staring at the seventeen year old with a pair of evolutionary jackpots, primeval things that would not be bound flat, everyone else on stage seemingly a little disconcerted by them as well.

The laptop could wait. I started going through my clothes, one by one, baskets full, stuff on hangers, dresses with the backs exposed and bras that fit perfectly. I must have an amazing new ability to thrift.

Everything in my life has fucking changed, I thought, amazed and annoyed. I was annoyed because that shouldn’t be fucking possible.

I threw the clothes I had woken up in into a hamper, and pranced in front of the mirror naked and did a beautiful spin, landing in fourth position. Yikes, my waist was nicely proportioned. Who knew a lifetime of specific exercise and perfect diet could change the way you look. I thrust out my tits out and clasped my bottom; I looked good. Really, really good.

I mean, like I had before, from back when I was ancient and wrinkly—the same face—fine enough, at nineteen, but not my greatest asset. My hair was taken much better care off, of course—that was what the army of bottles in the bathroom were for—and longer by like six inches. And my new musculature was totally amazing. I tensed my abs and stood on the tips of my toes and looked in the mirror. Hah. Better be carefully; someone could be blinded if anyone accidentally saw under my shirt.

I pulled on some yoga pants and some bright, name-brand work-out clothes, something that showed off my shoulders with straps. Time for my morning jog, because of course I did that now. I was practically bubbling with happiness. I could research this all tonight, research Rogers, reality manipulation, do everything later, after I cleared my head.

I headed out into the porch. It was a beautiful fall day, damp and colorful, and I pulled my hair into ponytail. Maybe I should message someone. Spill the beans on everything.

I pulled out my phone and opened Snapchat. I giggled again. I hadn’t even had this installed before. I mulled over the list of names: John, Isaac, Eric. Whoa, a lot of boys and none that I had known before yesterday. Cute ones, though. Some were college seniors, and I remember they had seemed so old and mature the day before, but that was before I had a twenty-seven year old aspect to my head and made them seem like snotling youths. What would I tell them? “help plz just had reality altered.”

Maybe I should commemorate it with a shout out to my followers. A budding Instagram model right here, yessir, that’s me. I hadn’t planned it, I remember, but the followers just came, anxious young girls and horny men—and then, a few weeks ago, my first sponsorship opportunity, something small, but already paid more than my minimum-wage teaching gig at CoreBarre. I double checked the memories by opening Instagram. Thousands of followers. Photos of food. Some extraordinary photo of me stretching over a barre, hair loose. Teasing pictures of me wrapped in a towel, the tops of my cleavage showing… But what was so wrong with that, exactly? It was all in fun.

I closed everything and threw on my jogging Spotify. Facebook messages and notifications were everywhere. Two thousand friends. What the fuck. And to think I had been lonely before—dating Tom, my only grab on Bumble, both of us desperate but not admitting it. Tom, I thought exasperated. Wonder how he got along in a reality without me.

I started a pretty well-paced jog. Since going to college, I had calmed down on ballet, no longer dreamed of it as a career per se, so I wasn’t so worried about losing my flexibility through running. As usual, I insincerely cursed my breasts for being just a tad too big for anything physical.

But this Anastasia Petroff thing was troubling, I thought. Obviously, changes could be made memorable or unmemorable if Anna wasn’t phased at all by being called Anastasia or by suddenly having the confidence and shape to fit into thinly tailored clothes. I, however, remembered all of my changes. Or did I? I had a little heartchill again, thinking how anything could be different if Rogers had wanted it, and I wouldn’t know. Like, I could’ve been some Chinese guy or something before.

I frowned but it came out more like a pout. I knew because I practiced it over and over in the mirror. I looked adorable doing it. Pert and perky.

I made a list as I passed into the park. He made me into a sensuous, sexy ballerina (I felt a little tingle at this), made my breasts large and perfect; made me a perky, cute, nineteen-year-old girl. Obviously, this had incidental effects as well, like my Instagram popularity. I stopped to do some stretching and limbering exercises, some bodyweight stuff. I loved stretching. I used to have a great Periscope following for my stretching classes a year ago. But Instagram just felt better to use.

Well, I thought, All in all, as far as reality-changes go, not such a bad run. In fact, one might be tempted to think I had been bumped up a few rungs, or else made some lateral career moves. I mean, who really wanted to be a physicist? Oof. And he hadn’t even laid a hand on me. At least, not while I was conscious. I frowned. Or, more specifically, not that he allowed me to remember.

And anyway, I was still mostly the same person, still mostly me. My favorite game was Civilization VI and not Civilization IV. I liked good movies, still read quite a bit. And I was no longer such a social bore.

I was holding a plank, when I saw out of the corner of my eye someone waving, and he came up. It was Henry, with his backpack on and a lopsided grin. He was totally in love with me, it was kinda cute.

“Hey Annika,” he said, smiling. “I saw you looking so bored, that I just had to come over and talk to you.”

“Henry, that’s awful,” I said smiling. He was a friend of my brothers. A while back I had told him I tried the Overwatch beta (not Team Fortress 2?) and had even tried D&D once with one of my high school boyfriends. And I think he thought that meant we had more in common than we did, because he tried really hard to be friendly. Always hallo-ing and inviting me to convention-ish things over Facebook and such.

I sat on a bench as he talked, my legs bent and tepee-d, with my arms wrapped around them, boobs squished against my thighs, my ponytail curling down to my chest. He was talking nonstop, about his computer science classes and latest gossip about mutual friends. I had barely known Henry before, but here he was. Before, he was just another scruffy-bearded LAN-party friend of my brothers, but now we were the same age. And, obviously, there was nothing weird about us talking together like this.

Of course, I was a little out of it. Maybe he could help me. Shoot Professor Rogers in exchange for a kiss. Kidnap me and take me far away.

“So what do you think,” I finally asked, “do you think it’s possible to control reality?”

“Boy, I wish,” he said regretfully. “I’d have the next Firefly season out like that. Among other things, of course.”

Yeah, right, other things. I tried to tell him about Rogers, but I found I couldn’t. Did Rogers’ thoughts influence how his words turned out? Or where they dictionary standard?

Henry watched me try to speak curiously, before finally shrugging.

“Well, when you see Nick and Addison,” he said, about my older and younger brother respectively, “tell them to start pulling some weight on our raids.”

“Hah, that’s not the story I’ve heard,” I said. “The weakest link, was the last I heard about you.”

“Lies! Don’t believe a word of it! Listen, I gotta run. Catch you later, right?”

“Of course!” I said, watching him give a light wave trudge off. All these boys, all the time. He wasn’t really my type—just not that well-groomed—always in a t-shirt, starting to paunch, if you looked carefully, and lose his hairline, even at nineteen, with intermittently tended facial hair. My standards, I thought to myself, jumped six dozen rungs in one night.

I went home and showered and went to my only class that day—“Theory of Modern Communications”—and absolutely no one was surprised to see me there. I slid into my usual seat, straight backed, with perfect posture, chest displayed. “Hey, Annika!” Professor Stilgoe said with his usual smile, like we were old friends. “My wife said you were a real killer yesterday, with the leg lifts.”

“She did fine!” I said smiling back. I apparently taught at the barre class his wife went too. Gosh, this was all still hard to get used too—all these changes—real changes, to reality for fuck’s sake—and it was really weird. I had always like Professor Stilgoe—he wasn’t awkward around me like the rest of my professors—met my eyes—made me feel mature and competent, and always with his charming polka dot tie.

As the lecture started (“Communications is the key suite of civilization…” Stilgoe said), my mind wandered. I tossed my hair unconsciously. I had put a cute ribbon there this morning, light pink. What, was I thirteen? Not too far off, I thought grimly. I had all these adorable mannerisms now, from the way I raised my hand, or leaned back to stretch, boobs free,—to the way I buzzed around group projects and in conversations, and flirtatiously looked people in the eye smiling and making them delighted by laughing. And everywhere the grace—so sensual. I don’t think a single person didn’t take a glance at me—everyone, every gender. I was probably half the reason people didn’t skip class. Thankfully, I had this bubbly personality that seemed to attenuate the jealousy.

We connected with our project partner, and I was excited—this was a good project—we had to collect surveys from students in the union and make a trifold poster of the results, just like we were fucking fourth graders. My physics self-was dismayed, but I was thrilled.

I sat down next to my partner, Rita. She was looking down at her notebook with intense shyness, sketching lifelike flowers.

“Those are really cool!” I said brightly, spinning the notebook around. And they were—photorealistic. She blushed madly as I flipped through her notebook. She was really talented—there were lots of faces, lots abstract curves of women and perfect faces of men and imaginative architectural scenes. “I didn’t know you were a genius artist!”

“Oh. I’m not,” she said, pleased and miserable. She was Chinese, from Shanghai, and like a lot of the Chinese students here, had picked an old-fashioned English name and was desperate for friends and social help. Her English was fine, but not exactly an asset.

We worked on our questionnaire. I was pushing for something interesting—“How have dating habits changed while in college versus high school?” but Rita was horrified. She acted like that would be like asking about penis size or something, only a lot more personal.

“You might be able to ask people that question, but I would be too afraid,” she whispered in genuine terror.

“We’ll do it together! It’ll be good practice, you’ll see!” and she slowly acquiesced, secretly pleased, I thought. I think she really enjoyed my company—perky to her shyness.

I looked her over as she flipped through the assignment handout. She was pretty enough, in a Chinese way, svelt and small, with large glasses and extraordinarily beautiful hair. But then again, like a lot of academic Chinese girls, her hair was bobbed up haphazardly, and she was wearing an overly large sweater with a logo across it.

“You have any plans tonight? You should come over, we can proofread our papers and practice our questions.”

“No plans,” she said, happily.

“No plans, huh,” I said teasingly. “I should set you up with someone! You’re too pretty to be single.”

I’ve never seen anyone blush so hard. “No, please—that’s okay,” she said stuttering, staring at the table. “I don’t think I could—I don’t think I’d ever—“

“C’mon,” I said, “you should get an American boyfriend! You’d improve your English in no time.”

She laughed in terror and covered her face in her hand. “Stop joking around,” she said, “we need to be serious or we’ll fail the project.”

“I’m not kidding!” I said, and I wasn’t. Some people just need matchmaker—and who better than I? We worked a little longer, and then we parted. “Tonight at ten,” she told me in confirmation.

“Till then!”

I sat in the union and ate my late lunch. (Carrots and broccoli and hummus—I had been repulsed by the pizza in the line.) And I had a short Facetime with my parents—my father, Harvey Conway, planting a loving kiss on my mother—“look at our daughter, Rachel, college and everything,” and he pushed his glasses back up his nose in delight and smiled with such love that I melted. And mom smiled at me—gosh, I loved her—and playfully tweaked dad’s nose—“sentimental as a snowman, he is!” she said, her usual response, practically radiating calmness and wisdom.

“I… I have to go…” I choked out and signed off. How could they not know I was different? And all of a sudden, it was like my old self broke through the fog of my new self, and I collapsed in fatigue. This was insane. Maybe I was insane. I was in the worse scrape of like anyone ever in the history of the world. I had had my identity effaced, and what’s worse than that? (Who cares? The pert part of me said dismissively.) And if I didn’t figure something out, Rogers might come back. And more than that, I wanted answers. What the fuck was going on, and how?

Oof. I missed Tom, my old boyfriend. Old in more ways than one—he was thirty-three. I made a face—he was pudgy and well-meaning and a little docile. But he was nice and kind and witty and I was sure he could help me figure things out. Maybe I should call him up. Hey, you don’t know me, but I’m pretty and pink and wouldn’t mind fucking. That wasn’t so bad.

No. I was embarrassed.

How did that machine work? Dimly, I doodled off the possibility on a napkin I got from the dispenser. 1) Rogers was a time traveler, 2) Magic was a thing, like in Harry Potter, 3) He was part of some X-Files like secret inner government test thing. Or 4), I was batshit insane. I circled #4 and sighed. In the back of my head, I knew I was adorable. Some fit girl sighing at a table, perfect, youthful skin, in a tight, light blue outfit with God’s pair poking out, tossing her ponytail in hopelessness.

Could I run away? Go home for a weekend? Was he done with me? Or did he have something more, more changes, more complete changes, scary ones that I wouldn’t remember? Would he erase my family? Make me love my brothers? And as if on cue, my phone buzzed. I looked at it.

“Be sure to be home at 9:00 PM for our nightly session.—Prof. Rogers.”

My heart sank like a rock. I would be there. I couldn’t physically resist. Not even, I guess, by not showing up.

“It’s only fair to give you some heads up. I think we’ll start doing some more interesting stuff—so come prepared. Maybe do some meditation or something. Couldn’t hurt, at least.”

I slammed my head on the desk. And then right after, in mocking fashion:

“See you soon. <3”