The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Morning two of Mark’s life as a medical guinea pig was conducted in the same small white room as before. The technician the first morning had been a slightly overweight forty-something woman; today it was a tall, nearly skeletal man with a completely shaved skull, wearing blue scrubs with sneakers. The very first words out of the man’s mouth after, Good morning, Mark,” were, “Break any protocols?”

“Nope,” came out smoothly enough.

Without any small talk, skeletal man took his blood pressure, then removed the wrist patch for inspection. The other man’s head bent forward, so close that Mark could feel the guy’s nose-breath on the palm of his hand.

“Keep your wrist right there,” the man said, opening a drawer and pulling out an old-fashioned magnifying glass. The proffered wrist was further inspected with the aid of magnification, which elicited a “Humph”. Skeletor turned Mark’s forearm this way and that as if to get better views of whatever it was.

“Anything wrong?” Mark had no idea what the nature of this research was; some drug, but they’d made a point of telling him he’d probably never know. They’d also assured him it was safe.

“I’m going to bring in a more experienced colleague to take a look,” Skeletor said, walking out abruptly and shutting the door behind.

“Busted,” Mark breathed out. He’d obviously gotten a real pill, not a placebo, and whatever connection there was between the pill and the patch had gone haywire, all because of one fucking beer. He studied the spot on his wrist and could see nothing, no rash, no redness, no colony of insects. Yet something must be happening, meaning one stupid pint of Guinness was going to end up costing him five-hundred dollars.

Skeletor opened the door after a couple of minutes, accompanied by a woman Mark had never seen. She wasn’t the sort of woman he’d expect to see here, either, tall and sleek in stylish heels and a skirt that ended well above the knee, with the sort of face you might see on a billboard for skin cream. Her hair, a natural dirty-blonde, was pulled back into some sort of arrangement that revealed a long and lovely neck, and something in the sculpted shape of her jaw told him to drop his eyes down for a closer inspection of her legs. What he found there was... Dayumm.

“Mark Mitchell? I’m Susan, a project manager.”

A project manager, not the project manager, but even so a step up in pay grade. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“Just want to take a peek at your wrist, please,” she said, and he obediently held out his arm, dropping his eyes to further admire those legs. It was only fair, as they were gawking at his arm. “I see. Would you say you have a fast metabolism, Mark?”

“Maybe,” he said, wondering what the safest answer would be. By build he was somewhere between ectomorph and mesomorph, the lean side of normal or the normal-ish side of lean. “I don’t run to fat, if that’s what you mean.”

“And have you felt any itching on your wrist, specifically beneath the patch?”

He could lie and say no, but somehow he thought they’d see right through that. “A tiny bit last night,” he said, choosing to downplay the truth rather than deny it altogether.

“That probably shouldn’t be happening,” Skeletor said to his attractive colleague.

“You haven’t experienced any itching anywhere other than the patch area,” Susan said, addressing Mark.

This came as a statement, not a question, in a tone implying that if he said he had, she’d hit some hidden button that would cause metal doors to slide down from the ceiling, the building on lockdown. Additional itching and burning had descended like a plague last night, first on the tip of his cock, then suffusing the entire thing, to a degree that he’d momentarily believed it might feel better to melt his equipment off his body than continue to bear the distress. But he wasn’t going to admit to any of that, was he?

Susan A. Projectmanager had changed the positioning of her body, resulting in a parted labcoat and a better view of her stems. Her ankles were exquisitely tapered, her calves full and strong, like she ran marathons when she shed her white lab coat. He tried to borrow something of that strength and solidity and have it resonate in his vocal cords when he replied, “Just the patch area.” It sounded firm to his ears, enough that he raised his head and added for good measure, full eye-contact: “And it wasn’t very much, barely worth mentioning.”

“More than a mosquito bite?”

The metaphor of fire ants and chiggers came back into his brain. “Not even,” he said, stopping there because he wasn’t sure he could say anything more without his legs involuntarily jerking like they wanted to run again from the burning itching horde.

Even as he thought he was getting away with, his rational self considered how it might be better to come clean and let these technicians know that one little pill and one misplaced pint and a millisecond’s contact of patch-edge to erection had made him run and jump like he had fifty million not-there insects surfing lava-trails up and down his pork-pipe. After all, his equipment was worth a lot more to him than five-hundred dollars. He’d gush out the truth in a heartbeat if he knew for certain he couldn’t keep his cock and eat better, too, right? But when he considered it, really considered speaking the words, the impetus to lie and evade was stronger.

“Okay,” she said, the single word aimed as much at Skeletor as himself. “Mister Mitchell, I want to be frank with you and say that it may be possible you aren’t as well suited for this trial as we’d hoped. I’m going to allow a second dosage for now, and you are to follow every protocol to the letter, understand? Come in tomorrow, same time, and it should be obvious by then whether you’ll be with us for the full two weeks or not. Andrew, apply a fresh patch, size ‘C’ this time.”

So only one day to endure the not-knowing anyway. He tried to meet her eyes to ask the one remaining question, the money question, but she had already spun on those very nice heels, and the best he could do was admire the view as she tap-tapped out the door.

“I take it I don’t get paid if I don’t make it to the end,” he decided to probe Skeletor, whose name he had learned was Andrew.

“You’d get paid for the two days,” Andrew replied. “It’s in the contract you signed. It would be fair.”

It would also be one-seventh of the potential five-hundred, which was only half a step above squat.

For the unthinking pleasure of one measly beer. Or, worst case, all that and a broken dick, too. He was taking a chance, possibly a big one.

So be it.

His nine a.m. Survey of Egyptian Art class was a snoozer. He only half-listened, thinking mostly about Susan What’shername and her elegant neck and her long, well-muscled legs. He also thought about what she’d said, that he might not be well suited for their research. Did that mean she knew he’d broken a protocol, because they wouldn’t have seen what they saw on his wrist otherwise? Or maybe, like the question about his metabolism implied, her concern was about type, like his chemistry and their chemistry simply weren’t a good match, tough luck.

He thought about that incredible dream in the morning, too, so uncannily visceral, like in having the dream he actually knew what Karen Corso’s breasts would look like and even feel like if she oiled them up and dangled their mass over his middle, letting them come down as his thing rose like an organic skyscraper between them. And Cynthia Gilwood’s voice in the dream, too, gone sort of tight and husky with pent-up lust, godfuckingdamn. The classroom was dark save for the images of one temple after another, so he didn’t need to worry that anyone would spy how his thoughts had sprung him a stone monument of his own. And, good to know, he’d swallowed his second pill hours ago, and here he was hard as the Sphinx with no fire ants in his pants or anywhere else.

He grabbed a slice of pizza between classes—no protocols against grease—and had a more enjoyable time of it in his Advanced Studio Drawing class. He was always more engaged in the studio classes than listening passively to lectures, and they had one of the better nude models today, an older woman named Gretchen. Pale of hair and probably twenty pounds overweight, she had a great personality, complete with an easy, teasing smile, that made her more attractive than she actually was. Best of all she was an artist herself, a sculptress, and she knew how important it was to find a pose she could hold for a good long time without the least moving about. Some of the younger models couldn’t hold a pose for fifteen minutes without a leg sagging or the angle of their head shifting, which made careful anatomical renderings close to impossible.

And then there was the Russian girl. He didn’t know her name, had only drawn her once. She was a dancer, obviously, and when you looked at her it was natural to think “erotic specimen”, not model, because this part fit into that part just-so, and all the parts could bend any which way and she could hold a pose the other models couldn’t even dream of taking for a fucking hour. In drawing them, he had decided that even the woman’s feet were erotic, strong and superbly arched, and when she walked there was a coiled lightness, like what touched the ground had the spriteliness of a six-week old kitten.

He hadn’t had the Russian girl once this semester, though he’d seen her modeling for other classes when passing by in the hallway. And once, just because she was so magnificent and he thought what the hell, why not tell her what she must already know, he’d stopped right in front of her when she’d been on-break in the hallway, all that sexy danciness wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, and he’d told her she looked like a goddess, and that the drawings he made on his own time were of comic book heroes and villains and that she looked like a super-heroine come to life, all she needed was a cape and a mask.

He remembered the look on her face, the slightly hooded blue eyes and the big wide grin, and all the time smiling and laughing in what he took to be a Russian way, saying “Dank you, dank you” a few times with enough of an accent that he left wondering whether she’d understood two words of what he’d said. Someone had told him she was a VIP, a very important protegé from Moscow or Kiev or somewhere, here on some special loan for a couple of years, taking dance or assisting or maybe even teaching it.

Why was he thinking about the Russian model so much? Because she looked like the Thunder Woman character he’d invented and he was Horny with a capital H after remembering the details of that morning’s udderly engaging dream. It had set a persistent tone, turning an ordinary weekday into Sexterday.

There was a two-hour break between drawing class and his twentieth-century art class at seven. She would be there, Karen Corso and her bazonga-breasted torso. Maybe someone else would feel differently about it, but he kind of didn’t even want to ogle tonight, not after seeing her so vividly in his imagination. In real life he wasn’t even on her radar to speak to; in the world of five-thirty or six this morning, she’d been his, all his, in a way where even the color of her irises or the pebbling of her engorged nipples had said, “If I tit-fuck you, I will come”.

He went home and showered between classes, and had a salad and some toasted bread for dinner, a somewhat healthy antidote for the pizza. And then it was time to file into the huge auditorium with half of the other art students in the university.

He saw her almost immediately, standing across the broad space, talking with a girl he didn’t know. His instinct was to stare, and he did so just long enough to note that she had on a simple white button-up blouse, translucent enough to make out the white of her bra. His gaze raked upwards across her face as he was in the process of tearing his eyes away, and damn if she weren’t staring straight at him. Not a reproachful stare, either, more like... He didn’t know what it was like. She’d never once held his gaze before, or most likely never gazed at him when he didn’t know she was, the arrow of desire only pointing one-way.

All of a sudden she shook her head sideways, not a “no” gesture, more like a spasm, or the way a dog shakes its whole body to transition from one dog thing to the next. A hand went to her throat, all with her eyes fixed on his across the whole width of the auditorium. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but he thought Karen looked confused, like her unknown friend had imparted some bit of information that she couldn’t understand.

She was’t any dummy, from what he’d heard. She was an art history major and he remembered someone saying she had a nearly perfect GPA, like who would figure the girl with the biggest tits on campus would also have one of the bigger brains. And there, just like that, was Cynthia Gilwood, next to Karen like they’d become real pals this semester.

The room was filling up and he needed to find a seat, and he lost sight of Karen and Cynthia anyway, a grouping of students temporarily blocking the view. He spotted Jorge and a few other friends sitting about ten rows from the front, but they hadn’t been able to save a seat for him, or hadn’t thought to.

So he found himself sitting a good forty rows back, where the crowd was much thinner because the projected paintings would be so much harder to see. The good news was that he had plenty of room to stretch his legs sideways, and the amplified sound was just as clear at the back as the front.

The instructor for this course, Robert Ludlow, was practically a legend, able to entertain as well as instruct. These nights were as much a public performance as a lecture, and tonight’s artist was Robert Motherwell, he of the enormous high contrast canvases with shapes that reminded one, if in the mood, of bull testicles or perhaps totemic decorated phalluses; or, if one were not in the mood, nothing much at all.

Mark liked Motherwell’s paintings, and fell into the energetic rhythms of Ludlow’s patter, the elegant little man like a stage magician not trying to fool the eye, but to open it. For the first time pretty much all day, he forgot about ants in his pants, and huge boobs and lovely long legs and even beer-broken itchy fire-dicks. All until something in the atmosphere changed to his right, a bit of body heat or womanly scent or even the peripheral glimpse of a rounded shape that seemed as big as one of the curving abstract shapes in a Motherwell painting.

His right forearm rested on the auditorium seat’s armrest, and a female hand came to settle upon it, light as a feather but hot like a rocket engine. He knew from the swelling curvature of a simple white button-up shirt with straining buttons that it was Karen Corso, newly arrived in the seat next to his, touching his arm to get his attention.

The touch of that hand was so unexpected, so unreal, that he knew without a doubt some life-altering event had transpired. In the space of one or two seconds a menu of possibilities came racing in—his mother or father had died; a mutual friend had died; a second 9-11 had come and this day would forever be known as, well, whatever today’s date was.

He turned his head. Good fucking golden globes, the size of those things powering forward, and all that bare cleavage showing and even part of her bra because... Mark gulped. Because half her buttons were undone, either unclasped deliberately or shot like projectiles from a few deep breaths during the time she’d made it from wherever else to here.

Her head leaned nearly against his, and her voice, in a whisper, came as a soft hot wind into his ear. The message, the life-altering message, began with the words: “I really really need you...”

He waited for the rest. I really really need you to listen, to pay attention, to stop ogling my tits from behind during class, what?

Silence, and more hot breath in his ear. And her left breast making contact with his arm now, lots and lots of warm pliable contact. “I... need... you!” she repeated, a tiny bit louder and staccato, like a native-speaker annunciating slowly and clearly for an uncomprehending tourist.

Impossible; it had to mean something other than what it sounded like she meant. But then more breath in his ear, no words, just a kind of ragged panting, and the hand that had been on his arm on his thigh now, going in, going up, finding the hard straining lump, molding to it and squeezing, the hot air in his ear turning into a little squeak, a high-pitched cry that somehow dripped of sex.

Karen Corso couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand it. Something happened inside, like a fuse that had never been properly installed suddenly falling into place to create a connection, many connections. It happened in an instant in the school auditorium, right at the moment she caught sight of Mark Mitchum, or Mitchell, or Merkel, whatever his last name was.

She couldn’t understand it because she couldn’t tell where it came from. It might have descended from above or welled up from within; it might even be called a vision, because she could see certain... acts, yes, definitely some very specific acts. But the visions, the stimulating pictures, couldn’t explain the drive, the hunger, not of food but of, well acting.

He was checking her out from across the auditorium, the Mark guy, which was nothing remarkable because there were probably fifty people, men and women, checking her out. Everybody did, ever since her big babies had passed the initial huge hooters stage way back in middle school, no big whoop. Only it was a big whoop, because she had to act, to...

She shook her head, but her head wasn’t the source of the problem. If it was a problem. But it was a problem, because she couldn’t pull her big babies out right here and shove them at they guy’s pants and...

What was she doing? Her right hand was at the top button of her shirt, setting the button loose. Better, one step better, but now it was at the second button, whoa, stop, stop, stop!

Motor control. Everybody had motor control and she had motor control, even though she’d never had to think the words before, never had to grab a hand, her own hand, with her will and order it to cease and desist. There, she’d handcuffed it, restored the proper order of things. She was in control, even though part of her, the boob part and the between-the-legs part mostly, wanted to march over there and do the gawker right on the floor.

Only she couldn’t, could she? She wasn’t prepared, had no lotion, no oil. What an idiot she was, leaving her apartment with no oil in her bag. Baby oil; the vision said baby oil, a tall bottle and it couldn’t be more obvious why she had to have it. She could almost feel her big babies slathered and dripping, two greased bigs ready for a cock-fight.

Cynthia appeared at her side, looking up. “You okay?” she asked.

“Kind of... dizzy,” Karen said, successfully finding a replacement word for horny.

They took adjoining seats, Karen at the edge where she could get away, get some air, get some oil, get to his... No, get a grip!

She stewed, unable to sit still as Professor Ludlow began his lecture. Motherwell this, Motherwell that, and well, where was the motherfucker sitting? it didn’t help matters at all that the shapes on the paintings, all stark in black and white, were sex shapes, organic circles and poles like tits and balls and cocks reduced to their most essential form. She sat straighter and looked to the left, looked to the back. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel him. He was way over there and back, maybe wiggling and squirming just like she was, aching like she was, the dark images of tits and balls and cocks getting to him the same way because tits and balls and cocks just went together, needed to meet, ought to be oiled and joined.

“Karen, sit still!” Cynthia whispered in her ear.

Sit still. She told her rear to stop moving, but it wasn’t her rear’s fault, it was just her bum trying to help out her boobs. The big babies were crying, were wailing, soundlessly throwing twin tantrums, demanding food, demanding him, demanding she act. They felt too big for her shirt, too big for her bra, needed freedom, needed oil and movement and something between them.

“I’ve got to do it!” she thought, only three heads turned in front of her, two women and a guy, and the guy kept his eyes on her tits too long. Cynthia leaned over to ask again if she were okay.

She said yes, of course she was undermined, but hell no. Her nipples, good God, harder than hard, tingling to beat off a band, the band of her bra at the back feeling wrong against her skin, the straps unwelcome on her shoulders. Her bras had to be special-ordered and they fit her perfectly, extremely comfortable, but not tonight. She had to shake her babies free from their cage, shake them in his face, over there, way back there. She had to oil them up and tit-fuck him, all there like genetic code, all there like an eleventh commandment, like critical homework due right now, right fucking now.

She was out of her seat in the cover of darkness, squat-walking with her back bent, deliciously aware of the weight of her chest, of her nipples so hard, pointing the way. Her big babies, oh yes, yes, the fuse had been set into place and they had come alive, they knew things, they knew the way. Sense organs—that’s what they were, sensitive sense organs, the pair working together with her...

“My vagina can’t be a brain.”

Had she said that out loud, too? She didn’t care, kept moving, knew it could be a brain, all of it. Magnets, too, sense organs pulled, aiming all the way to the back so she could cross nearly the entire auditorium.

At the very back, behind everybody, she rewarded her big babies by unfastening two more buttons. Her bra kept the goods from surging completely free, but the cool air on her hot flesh felt divine, so sensuous, my God there was so much of her and now it felt so sensuous, every pore like... She didn’t know what, like a little magnet and a little vagina-helper and a definite big baby helper, and an eager recipient of the oil, too, and an even more eager recipient of him, of his thing, of fucking deliverance and sliding slippery Nirvana.

She saw him, the tousled brown hair, the ears, his shoulders. She thought her tits would leap free of the bra, just push it out of the way or vaporize it somehow, but instead they tingle-cheered and the urge between her legs grew like a new life form emerging from primordial stew. She could smell herself, smell sex and want.

She was practically /bubbling/. There at the back, unseen by anybody, she went to war with herself, because this could be happening, wasn’t normal. Right? Right? She would never do a near-stranger, right?

And didn’t need to. She didn’t exactly have a boyfriend because she didn’t want one, but she had her boy-toy, Torey, Torey the Toy, ready to drop everything anytime she called or texted. She never expressed her needs directly, never called him and said, “I’m feeling really horny, come fuck me”, nothing that blatant. He called it being “randy”, feeling randy, and she’d adopted his language, sending playful texts like “Randy is here visiting tonight”, which would get him to her door and in her bed as fast as his feet or car could go.

Don’t need Mark the almost-stranger; silly, irrational, crazy, because she had Torey. She could text Torey right now, only Torey felt more like hisTorey, the past, done with that, out with the old and in in in with the Mark.

Her regular brain told her she had to get a grip, that something had to be wrong, that she should pick a chair and park herself in it and wait for this terrible weather event of irrational lust to pass, to dissipate. The rest of her, including all of her body, every inch, knew better, and demanded she keep moving. She shut her eyes tight and tried to fight, and that’s when she felt the full force of the pull, could actually feel that her breasts must be heaving out in a somewhat lopsided fashion, like her tits were lurching in his direction, his pole the north pole, her glands like tides and he was the fucking moon. To resist... Not possible, not unless she pulled a fire alarm and they dragged her away. She thought about that, tried to fix on the idea of it, on the actions required to make something like that happen, but then despair bloomed like inky dark flowers, a sense coming over her that if she didnt go to him, didn’t initiate her tits and the oil and his cock, the ear

th might slow and decide to spin the wrong way, totally wrong, everything everywhere totally wrong.

And she needed, wanted! So senseless to fight it, to cheat herself! Right? Right?

Down that aisle, stop at this row. Empty seats beside him; she could push him over the back of his chair and do him right there, set her babies free and smother him if she needed to. But no oil, fuck!

Three seats. Two seats. A good profile, no fragrance model but not bad looking, his attention on the screen down there. No tower in his pants, not yet. She smiled for an instant, her lips feeling large. She could feel his body heat; she could reach out and touch him. He knew her big babies had arrived, she could tell. No bright screen could outshine these wonders, and they were so hot, two burgeoning flesh-furnaces, radiating right into his space.

“I really really need you!” she whispered into his ear, and was it all there for him like it was for her? The oil, their naked bodies, his big thick thing rising up as her shining babies hung down...

He didn’t move, didn’t seem to understand. “I... need... you!” she annunciated with more volume, her hand going where it had to go to put a tactile exclamation point on the words.

Oh God fuck yes! He was hard, big and hot and hard and she squeezed, the feel of him on her hand like torches being lit inside her tits. The oil, they had to get the oil. “Out the door now!” she demanded, squeezing this Mark Somebody’s cock for all it was worth.

Past the other seats together, back to the back exit hunched low, out with their heat into the cool of night.

She took his hand and pulled him in the direction of the Rite Aid to get their oil aid. Her big babies flounced and bounced when she ran, were practically free from her shirt altogether, and she had to stop and shove his back against a brick wall when they were still a block from the store, the need for his touch too much to wait for. Her tits all over his chest, her nipples boring in like drill bits, both hands on his pants, on his perfect erection...

“Unh! Guhh!” she said, and she thought the entire picture had been communicated, that he could see how it had to be, the All of how and why they had to be together, now, tonight. Suddenly, like a line of script flashing with neon brilliance for both of them to understand, a coherent string of words appeared from... somewhere, maybe even from her aching hard nipples. “I’ll show you what kind of explosion!” she almost hissed, and somehow she knew she’d done it, she’d turned a key that could make him understand the urgency of her situation.

His hands were on the outer regions of her boobs and she eased the pressing into him enough that he could take better hold, squeezing, mashing, greedy fingers digging in through her bra.

“Baby!” she said, and like a psychic, like part B that fit perfectly inside part A, he said in a quivering voice: “Oil? A sixteen ounce bottle of baby oil.”

She almost came right then.