The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Camilla’s heart skipped a boy-hungry beat as her friend slammed the trunk shut. She asked her hard-working fingers nicely to kindly scamper on out of her vagina, but they ignored her. It felt like she was in a horror movie when she had to forcibly pry them out by the wrist, right as Kate opened her door.

It was a tight fit underneath her pants, tighter than it had been a minute ago, somehow. She covered up the loud wet pop of her retreating hand by coughing lamely, squinting and stretching as if she’d woken up from a second nap.

As she blanched at the trails of goo running down each wrist, her invisible bully giggled. What, it mocked in a babying tone, afraid your friend here’s gonna find out you’re just a dumb drippy ho? That you’ve been getting high on your own slutty little puss, jacking off in her car for the past—

“Hiiiii!” Camilla mewed, interrupting her hijacked head, surprised to hear her voice sail out in some rushed blend of country ballad and breathy sneeze, abrupt and squeaky. Actually, it sounded a whole lot like the one teasing her, but she was not about to admit that. She didn’t really need to wave, seeing as she’d been in the car with her for three hours now, but she was too distracted to stop herself. It was similarly impossible to conceal a giant, toothy smile that ran opposite of the worry and embarrassment she felt inside.

“Hi,” Kate offered curtly, looking put off a bit but not so unkind as to mention it. “Okay, so apparently our phones aren’t dead. We can still receive incoming calls. My brother says it’s—” She paused, a quizzical look forming on her brow, sniffing. Her hand was on the clutch. Camilla’s heart was in her throat. Kate sniffed some more, a little slower. The lines of confusion on her face settled, and she laughed a little, gathering the nerve to ask aloud what she wondered. “Were you just... masturbating?”

Camilla grew beet red, shaking her head in an emphatic “no”. Her thighs rubbed together impulsively, defensively. Pleading their case if she wouldn’t, desperate for her to get back to them and finish climaxing. She noted that they seemed to be a bit stuck, and only begrudgingly eased themselves apart. She spread them wide to make sure they would, oblivious to how that might look.

“Yes you were,” Kate harangued. She took her shiny, slick hand off the stick and proffered her evidence. The way she didn’t rush to get off the gooey mess gave Camilla gooseflesh. Go on, girly. You couldn’t be any more obvious, tramp. Come clean and then maybe you can cum dirty. “Noooo!” she squealed, to the voice and to Kate.

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” her old friend comforted, flabbergasting her by openly licking her fingers, sucking them dry. “I know you.” Camilla was at a loss for words, and didn’t try to speak. She was bombarded with all kinds of conflicting emotions, but found it was probably best not to focus on any, to let them coagulate into that irresistible catch-all of depraved need.

That became a lot easier when Kate reached into the shopping bag she’d gotten from out back, and pulled out a ridged, formidable-looking forest green dildo. “I didn’t think you’d need this just yet, but Brandon disagrees. Strongly.” Brandon. Her homecoming hero. Always acting like he knew what was best for her and her pussy. Like when he assured her after Thanksgiving game on those cold bleachers that he’d have no problem fitting a whole—

Wait! Nothing even close to that ever happened! Camilla convinced herself silently, feebly. “Thiss... neh-not right,” she drooled, hardly able to finish a sentence coherently on her own now, hindered even more by the return of her brain buddy. She couldn’t even hear herself talk, let alone think, over its new wordless melody.

La la la, blah blah blah, dah-dee-dah. Rinse and repeat. “Ssomethingss... happening... t’usss...” Her own legs ignored her misgivings, swung farther open as her friend unbuttoned her fly. She let her do it, utterly helpless and horny.

“Nope,” Kate shrugged, halfway amused. “I’m fine. Something’s happening to you. These pants are awfully tight.” She was met with some resistance when she went to unzip her all the way, then when she gave up on that and tugged on her friend’s pants to let her legs loose, unsuccessfully. Even with Camilla’s own simpering and submissive help, it took more elbow grease than it really should have.

“You’re awfully tight, too, y’know,” she added, grazing the girl’s folds, peeking out from the sides of the crotch on her suddenly outgrown panties, with a playful pinky. Her plain white underwear was now much too small, the waist of the pair pinching and making thickened tummy flesh puff out. “Look at these hips, girl!” Kate admired them, grabbing a generous hold of one, as if appraising cattle. “They just have family written all over them, don’t they?”

She opened the glove compartment and took out a tub of green gunk that looked and smelled so familiar when she twisted open the cap. “We’ll finish you off, for the boys.” Camilla sighed and swallowed as her old high school girlfriend applied the stuff to the big matching dildo, and inhaled languorously, dopey. Sparkling beads of sweat descended her forehead. Guess I’d better get used to being drippy all the time.

She considered her inability to resist as Kate helped her get her top off, to apply the cool salve to her now faintly reshaping chest, only just beginning to bud anew. Why were the two of them here, if not to get her a fresh fertile body, and send it straight to the farm to fill it with kids? That was why she was growing out here in the country heat, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?!

“Let’s get those tiny little undies off, honey,” Kate urged, and Camilla shucked them down happily. A fluffy and redesigned ass plopped out, breathing easy, jiggling back down onto the sopping seat. She let its cheeks wobble and dig in a little atop the wet cushion, taking a first good look at her lush new lower body, and knew one thing for certain: the only thing that was missing was a nice territorial cock to take charge of it all.

After having finished surveying her new maternal embellishments, she needed to pull her panties down again, upon noticing they hadn’t budged past her healthy thighs. They finally sludged down, ripping a bit on the way, to add to the pussy-and-sweat-dank pile of pants around her ankles. Kate readied the satisfying thing that at least resembled a dick. “Feel a bit better?” she asked, eagerly putting the last green touches of lube on it.

Camilla nodded, opening her legs generously to be prodded and play-pollinated. There was nothing at all to do, say, or think about it. No other point in being alive but getting bred. As the sloppy thing entered her, prepping her for the real thing, she harmonized perfectly with the tune in her head, accentuating the brainless line with some giggling. “La la la, blah blah blah...”

Camilla was still humming that silly, silly song when she woke up, yawning like she’d been comfortably asleep for half a day. Closing her extended legs, she was surprised at how slight they felt, and to find her seat and everything else around so dry. Where was that wall-to-wall soup that was finally guiding her to the light of sexy servitude?

She opened her sleepy but satisfied eyes when it became evident that she was fully clothed. Kate was gone and so was that fake but delicious dick. She could still kind of feel it, almost. Not really, actually. She missed it. That new Camilla, just beginning to blossom, no matter how unmistakable and tangible, was just another dream. It took a moment to remember that she ought to feel relieved instead of crestfallen. But then she couldn’t remember why.

Kate slammed her trunk shut and breezed back to the front of the car, talking on the phone again. Or was that still for the first time? “I couldn’t find it,” she said, opening her door and sitting down. “We’ll see you when we see you.” She shut her phone, put her seatbelt on, and met eyes with her friend.

“That was Brandon. Apparently, they have a wonky kind of service plan around here. If you have another provider than what they offer here, you can’t make calls, but can receive outgoing ones, at least.” It felt like deja vu. Having soft new thighs plugged with a plant-prick still seemed a lot more real than waking up to this. And it was so boring to need to recall who the real Camilla was!

In spite of slowly coming to, she drifted to her dream duty. Where the only kind of local provider for a girl like her was a hugely hung, answer-slinging patriarch. She smirked, getting wet again, failing to see how strange that was for her. “What?” Kate wondered, confused. She wasn’t sure why Camilla had that super-pleased look on her face if she was just freaking out five minutes before. “He wanted me to look for something. It’s kind of embarassing to mention what it—”

“No need to be shy!” Camilla yelped, wanting, beyond all sense, to will her inner sleep-slut real. Even if she now lacked the ample, man-magnetic curves of her vivid visions to justify her horniness, she was undoubtedly just as worked-up.

A powerful fog of denial crept in, keeping her from coming to terms with her subconscious. There was nothing unusual about being this turned on, she told herself, because all it meant was that she was ready to rut. Ready to let her natural biology do its bidding. So ready.

Fucking for family. It seemed beyond fulfilling, and most importantly beyond easy, to live out the simple life of a hot housewife. Much easier than taking too many classes and refusing to do anything fun. She balked. Wait a second...

“Just say it!” she cawed, shoving her inevitably returning conscience aside. “Your dildo, right? You can bring it out now.” She started to unbutton her pants, hoping to get on with it, before any more pesky real world obligation butted in.

“My what?!” asked Kate, wishing she hadn’t heard what she thought she heard. Her reluctance alone was enough for Camilla to close her cords right back up, deligitimizing her deluded notions and all the flawed logic that helped her cling to them. “Ewwww, no! What?”

Kate’s next admission all but erased her friend’s annotated map of that hovering, ditz-making dream world, making the girl deeply embarrassed. “It’s a picture of the three of us from when we were in high school, you perv!” She was joking around, but it still cut. “What is wrong with you?”

Camilla blushed, and to save face, told a little white lie, for the benefit of both of them. “I was just playing around,” she said, and it only appeased Kate because she was happy to simply ignore what happened and pretend like it never had. But not before getting one more sideways jab in.

“It’s probably all this heat and humidity, making you delirious,” she postulated. She sniffed and then drew a big breath in. “You know, I can’t quite place it, but the air smells like... cotton candy and milk, maybe.” I said that earlier! Me! Camilla complained, though wisely opted to keep it in. Did she? Or did she just dream that, too?

Instead of belaboring such a trivial point, she just agreed and listened intently. Kate brought her up to speed after starting the car back up, sending them tumbling down the dirt road at a sluggish clip, once more. Brandon evidently neglected to tell her that not only had Cherub Cove, his new place of residence, done some major road work earlier on in the week, but that a local holiday fell on the girls’ travel day, as well.

Taste of Summer was a climate-controlled heat treat exclusively limited to its citizens, turning their home into a town-sized sauna for its duration. The benefit being, Kate’s brother supposed with a chuckle, an opportunity for devout citizens to sweat out their sins. His amusement was a comfort. At least he hadn’t been brainwashed into believing in a strange sector of Christianity, like his roommates seemed to be, from what she knew about them.

At any rate, local laws seemed perplexing and backwards. Due to the confluence of this odd little holiday and the construction, it was two separate county counts of illegal to be found driving. Why Brandon couldn’t have simply warned her about this, or planned around it even, she had no idea. It “slipped his mind”. Still, he said, there was no use turning back now that they’d come so far.

He promised he’d call the sherriff guarding the gates of the township right away, to let him know his sister and her friend would be arriving soon. The cop was only recently assigned this position because of sharp increases in the number of disappearances of newly wedded women or schoolgirls, either by running away or (it was thought) being kidnapped. While Cherub Cove was coming to terms with its first real era of growth and transition, his job, for the time being, was to stop anyone going in or out.

He specifically kept a keen eye on those coming in: anyone he didn’t recognize, regardless of what they said or how they presented their appeal, got sent straight to the “jailbarn”. (The police, Brandon explained, had given up trying to reason with what they termed the “heathen element”, after a recent infiltration of a half dozen men disguised as priests, and their subsequent “stealing” of brides and daughters one late night.)

“Pretty stupid name for a pokey if you ask me, even if that is what it is, but our punishment is really minor,” Kate offered, as if this was all just part of a perfectly normal vacation, and Camilla would be fine with it. She wasn’t. She thought of all the writing she could be doing, safe at home in her apartment, far from the jumbled jurisdiction of redneck cops. “All we have to do is attend tonight’s mass.”

Kate braced herself for what she was sure would come. She knew her friend despised organized religion. Instead, Camilla barely let the news sink in, waving it off with a mutter of “That’s lucky,” governed by another accidental, heat-distracted, deep inhalation. Not five seconds ago, she was going to take Kate to task on how this place’s rules sounded more than imposing, its definition of what was unlawful edging dangerously close to that of a totalitarian cult.

Now, she was more concerned with the sweet scent in the dense atmosphere, and how it made holding onto thoughts impossible, than with what those thoughts actually were. She shut her mouth and stopped her nose before it could erase that worry. “Do you think we could roll the windows up, maybe turn the AC on for a bit?” she asked, plugging her nostrils with her fingers. “This air is making it really hard for me to concentrate.”

Though Kate didn’t feel the situation was as dire, she couldn’t help but agree on some level, and obliged. The only problem was, her automatic windows didn’t seem to want to budge. Camilla held her hand tightly on her face and squirmed in her seat, visibly upset again, close to another freakout. She trapped in a breath, and Kate tried to level the situation by putting their old road trip mix into the stereo.

When that didn’t want to co-operate either, the CD player refusing to clear the disc and spitting it back out (even after a few more attempts), Camilla’s frustration and fear amplified to a disarming degree, her face reddening from refusal of oxygen. It only got worse when the receiver defaulted to a decidedly loud, crystal clear radio broadcast of some conservative Christian talk show.

Or what sounded like one anyway: it had only the slightest conceit of one, in the form of a baritone male. Otherwise, it was clear after just half a minute that it was nothing but propaganda. “I can’t turn the volume down,” Kate groaned, now working up a feverish anxiety that almost matched her friend’s, “or turn it off!” The complaint only managed to crank up the tones of indoctrination.

“Contraceptive measures are only taken by hedonists and devil-worshippers,” drolled the deep man on the radio, tickling the eardrums of the two girls with its resonance. “I’m sorry I made you come here,” Kate admitted, plugging her nose now, too. “There’s something truly wrong going on.” She forgot not to breathe through her mouth, however, and fell right back into the slow rocky sway of the dirt road. “Good thing we’re almost there.”

Camilla’s breaking point came soon after, when the commentator used the phrase “breeding rights”, and was forced to let out her caged breath. “Yeahhh,” she agreed, doped out. The broadcast personality explained that only men had these rights, and she was hit with a giant blast of that sugary humidity.

It rushed down her throat like an inhaler burst of candy mist. Each of the commanding one-liners was punctuated by the plucking of a harp string. They had almost endured ten of them, and though every new one was more insulting and misogynistic than the last, they were all around the same length and gently rhythmic in this way.

Thirty minutes later, still ambling along the road but getting closer to their destination, the two of them had grown drippy and docile under the drinkable silk of the radio man and his awesome answers to every girl’s most nagging questions. Like what to do if you can’t stop letting off milk, or where to buy the holiest thongs. (How a flossed ass was, naturally, a blessed one.)

Both wore contented, dazed expressions, their mouths hanging ajar, waiting. Every other minute or so, the plucking of the harp string would sustain, its note getting colored with other, golden chimes. This signalled an invocation for refrain. “Eeee!” whinnied Kate, clapping her hands moronically. She didn’t realize that her car was still lurching forward, even without her hands on the wheel, propelled by the mighty magic of the road.

Neither did Camilla, who dribbled her own spit doodle of approval as the willpower-whisking tone started to fade. The two of them had both taken their tops off some minutes prior, flinging them, along with their bras, to the rocks and mud, because the radio man told them to. “It’s that time again,” his voice resounded, “time for total truth!”

A cloud of that candied country muck sheathed Kate’s car, enveloping every porous material inside it. It gave the topless girls goosebumps, more and more of them every time, right on cue. Their nipples pointed out like attentive antennae. Camilla resisted the animal in her, howling to unzip and spoil herself with a few of her fingers.

But she promised Kate she wouldn’t, even though Kate was fondling a boob. “Wait for Mr. Man-guy to say if we should or not,” her friend had said. Easy for her to say. She had boobs to play with in the meantime. Camilla was downright sophomoric in her jug jealousy.

“Girls are stupid, girls are dumb,” he said authoritatively. “All girls need is farmer’s cum.” He’d made this rhyme in enough rotations, and the two friends had lazily succumbed to more than enough of the sticky haze, that it was starting to feel completely universal. As elementary as water being wet, or America being a Christian nation. “Heyyy,” Camilla breathily accused, “yore a-mouthin’ them words!”

“No, I ain’t!” Kate flicked a nipple, blushing. “But yer makin’ the sign of the cross!” Camilla caught her fingers mid-bless and both girls giggled unstoppably for some minutes. One of them burped, and the other copycatted, lower and longer. Then they giggled some more. Then they belched some more. Then they bounced a lot.