The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I... um... I’m sorry, I know it’s horribly inappropriate, but I have to ask... What’s your dirtiest sexual fantasy? Like, what REALLY turns you on?”

Jaycee couldn’t believe the words had come out of his mouth. In the middle of the Montreal Comic-Con. Right in front of fitness model Jenny Poussin, bound in a super-sexy Baroness cosplay that was just enough to contain her breasts.

Please excuse me as I die of shame, he was about to say even as he willed his body to become invisible, or tiny, or something, anything to get away.

But Jenny merely bit her lip and canted her head in thought. “I don’t know,” she said. Her eyes were glazed over. “Can’t decide between larger breasts and somehow losing control over my body in a sexual way.”

For a second, Jaycee gaped at her, and she at him, as if neither could believe the words that hung in the air between them. Then Jenny tossed her head and strode away.

Jaycee stared transfixed after her. Then a suspicion bloomed in his mind. He turned to Attitude, who was hovering just behind him.

“Attitude…?”

“What?” the faerie said innocently. “You asked her a question. It was only polite that she answer.”

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god! What part of that was ‘polite’? Why did you make me ask that?! She’s going to call security and they’ll lob me out into the street or even press charges before you can say—”

“Breathe,” Attitude advised. “And look at her. She’s not calling security. Actually, keep looking at her. This should get interesting.”

“Attitude…” Jaycee felt a sinking feeling in his guts, but also a rising motion in his dick, because whatever Attitude found interesting, usually his prick did, too.

“Shhh. Just watch.”

Jenny walked away with small, rapid steps that made her tight suit squeak gently. For some reason, her cheeks glowed the same red as the cobra insignia on her right breast. In fact, she was blushing so hard that it tingled. Or was the tingling a separate sensation? Never mind, it passed in a moment.

She found an a/c vent and planted herself beneath it to cool her face, and also to show off the way her long black wig fluttered in the current. The chill made her nipples harden and prickle. She felt like a star in a cross between superhero action and porn movies.

The Comic-Con visitors noticed her, of course. She knew they would. Her big boobs were always thrust out as if challenging the world to ignore them, and people—men and women alike—constantly failed the challenge.

Though she had to admit, people did not usually stare at her so openly… or so long… or with such a bemused expression on their faces. Was there a stain on her costume? Did her nipples show? She looked down and found, to her surprise, that her right hand was lightly massaging her tit in slow circles, all around the peaked nub.

Jenny snatched her hand back and straightened her tight top. It seemed a bit too tight. Embarrassment could do that to you, she guessed. She no longer felt like drawing attention, so she wandered away to one of the Marvel stands, where she stood admiring the cover paintings with her hands clasped firmly behind her back.

That is, until someone fondled her bubble butt.

“What the fuck?” Jenny whirled around, but no one stood behind her. She hadn’t imagined it, though. Had she? Was it her own hands again? What the fuck was going on?

The only answer she received was the small noise of a zipper being pulled down under her chin. She snapped her stare down. Though no one was touching her, her top’s zipper slowly made its way downward another half an inch. She grabbed it and pulled it back up. Her swollen boobs protested.

Swollen?

She touched her boobs under the pretence of readjusting her top. They felt normal. Well, not exactly, they felt stifled and prickly. When she tried to bring the zipper back up her breasts throbbed with the pressure and a single pang that shot straight down to her pussy. Then, before her very eyes, her breasts grew a little more. And her left hand left the zipper to pinch at a nipple again.

She gripped her left wrist with her right hand and pulled down, trapping her hands between her body and the Marvel table. What was happening to her? Why couldn’t she stop touching herself? Hold on! Her sexual fantasies! That’s what’s she’d described to that guy, and now it was happening to her?!

Her suit seemed to shrink on her, though in reality, she realized her boobs were again growing and nearly bursting out of the top. The zipper dropped again. The outfit became so tight that it hurt everywhere, on her boobs and in her crotch, and dizzy waves of pleasure began flooding her.

A moment later, her boobs jiggled free of the top. Wait, why were they jiggling? She looked down and found herself humping her fingers that were trapped against the Marvel table. Mortified, she looked up in time to see the seller staring at her with tilted head and soaring eyebrows.

“Need a hand, Baroness?” he asked with a smirk.

A hand, it appeared, was the last thing she needed. She managed to wrench her arms away and cross them over her bare boobs, but the pressure on her nipples turned to liquid heat in her pussy and made her knees wobble. Walking would be a real hazard.

She needed to get away.

Unfortunately, in her haste to do so she knocked into a Deadpool cosplayer, and lost grip of her tits. They jiggled free, larger than ever. Deadpool whistled. Jenny clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. Her fingers began pinching her lips, playing with her tongue, thumbing behind her ears. She couldn’t make them stop. Deadpool, very much in character, was reaching for her free-dangling boobs, and she took the only move available to her—she kicked him hard in the groin.

He collapsed like a rag doll at her feet.

Jenny’s bare, engorged boobs now drew open stares from all around, some humored, some appalled, but most downright lascivious. A security guard was beginning to close in on her from across the hall.

With a humiliated cry, Jenny hurried toward the only sanctuary she could think of: the ladies’ room. She burst inside and knocked on the first door even as her fingers took to squirming inside her tight suit, trying to reach her pussy.

“Get out!” she screamed at whomever was busy inside. She pounded on the next door, and the next. “Get out!”

The fourth door thankfully gave in under her hysteric pummelling, and she half-fell into the stall and locked it behind her. Her hands were tearing the cosplay suit off her body without asking her permission or obeying her brain. Her molten pussy gushed with approval. She barely managed to close the lid on the toilet seat, and then she collapsed on top of it, her suit in a pool at her feet.

Her hands were mangling her gigantic breasts, squeezing and pinching without mercy as if she couldn’t have enough of it, and the pain began to mingle with pleasure and radiate in shooting waves downward.

“Oh, no,” she cried as her hands began slapping her tits from side to side with a resounding smacking noise, “no, no, no…”

“Lady? You alright there?”

“Oh, god! Go away!”

Her left hand suddenly squeezed her right breast like a clawing beast and began to pump it. Jenny yelped. At least her right hand had stopped—but no, her right hand was diving down toward her exposed pussy.

“Lady?”

“Just go away! Please! Oooh, fuck!”

The last cry, because her traitorous right-hand fingers found her clit and twisted and pinched and pulled on it, and god, it was so intense that she thought she was losing her mind.

“Lady, I’m going to get security, okay?”

“No! No! No!” she shouted in panic. “Please don’t! I’ll be fine, I just need—I need—god, I need to come, I just need to come so bad!”

That baffled the woman on the other side of the door into silence, but Jenny had no time to feel relieved because her left hand joined her right at her pussy, pulling aside the inner lips, and her right hand dived inside like a heat-guided missile of nuclear proportions, three fingers at once, more than she was used to, pumping in and out in an ever increasing rhythm that jostled Jenny back and forth on the toilet seat. Maybe if she came, it would finally be over—but no, the angle was all wrong—she reclined back on the toilet seat and propped her still-suited legs against the door, opening herself wider.

Her right hand stopped.

No, Jenny realized, it didn’t quite stop, it just no longer moved in and out. Now it was pressing in four fingers with grim resolution, two knuckles in, now three, until her thumb tickled her entrance—please no, she thought, and luckily it didn’t—she felt gorged on the four fingers even before they began see-sawing, stretching her this way and that, and then cleaving together again and pushing and pulling, increasing the pressure until Jenny bit her lips not to scream out with wild pleasure. And worse, her left hand, no longer needed to prop open her pussy lips, now wandered down to her exposed butthole and started circling it with teasing touches that grew bolder and bolder, pressing in, so slicked with Jenny’s pussy fluids that first one finger and then another made their way past her ring, making her full, bloated, taken in every possible way, and that wasn’t all—they started thrusting in and out, in counterpoint to the fingers in her pussy, shaking Jenny’s entire body as she pleaded with every thrust, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, ooooh fuck!”

She came like a freight train.

She came like a fucking train wreck, all twisted body parts and screeching cries and pleasure so terrible she could not turn away from for the life of her. The dual pressure in her butt and pussy, combined with the pressure on her huge breasts as she doubled over to reach herself, pushed her relentlessly and mercilessly into the throes of orgasm.

And again. And again.

The aftershocks rippled through her body like cramps, so profound she thought she was dying, and her vision turned white.

Finally the last ripples evened out, her eyesight came back, and she found sitting doubled over on a toilet seat with her hands stuffed into her pussy and butt. She slowly pulled them out as if not believe she had finally regained control of them.

She hadn’t.

Her right hand rose to her face and tracked cum over her cheeks, while her left hand bent in two to clap herself twice on the shoulder, as if to congratulate her for a job well-done.

Once she relaxed enough to sit up, her hands fell to her side as if dead weights. They were hers to control again. She almost did not remember how to relay commands to those muscles that had acted against her (or for her) like that, but it came to her slowly, and she began wiping herself clean and then pulling on her suit. The garment was tight, but not too tight to contain her boobs, which had returned to their normal size again.

Well, normal for her.

The zipper was broken, though.

Then, like a well-composed lady who had not just taken her pleasure in public in the most humiliating way possible, she stalked out of the bathroom booth. She had no idea what had happened to her, but she was grateful it was over… and in some ways, grateful it had happened.

Outside the ladies’ room, the security guide was speaking with a young man with short, russet hair. The guard’s eyes seemed glazed over. Jenny remembered the young man vaguely, but she wasn’t sure where from.

She slipped out of the convention hall and hailed a taxi. All she wanted was to get home, pour herself a warm bath, and take a cleansing nap.