The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Long Weekend ended.

Jaye had been through her own wracking, sex-soaked transformation. She’d left bedsheets a wet mess just like every other woman, seen her tits double and double again in size. And been further humiliated when her lips had early on gone plush and angel-bow, her skin clearing to a porcelain flawless. She’d figured she had caught Doll, and braced herself for the apparent blank, empty-headed life that meant. A deep subservience, a languid life spent waiting for men to order her how to pose.

But then she’d started to sing.

Jaye had prided herself on a throaty, sharp voice. It was naturally sarcastic. It wasn’t like there was a lesbian voice, per se, but her contralto was close.

And then she’d coughed once, twice, and when her throat cleared, she had the most beautiful soprano clear-bell voice. She’d shivered and developed perfect pitch. Jaye had heaved her new tits and new shining skin to the window, and felt it building in her chest. There was no stopping it. She pushed open the window, to the trees and the birds and the bugs, and sang. Sang beautifully, a nonsense song of ho-ha-hum. It was a good half-hour before she could make herself stop, her pussy soaking.

Now she even came with a songbird tra-la-la. She sang all day long, delighting in turning Smells Like Spirit into a cheerful aria. And then she’d thought to check the Strain list. There weren’t many things this could be.

In the long, long list of Strains someone had marked her strain as Songbird. But it wasn’t that.

She was a Princess.

Which was crystal clear when she examined her brand new eyes. They were very wide, innocent, oversized. She had lashes that scraped her cheek. And when she ventured out, into the sunlight, they throbbed underneath the rays. From then on Jaye lived in the dim spaces of her house under big sunglasses, and sang.

There were advantages to Princess. It was a Good Strain, really one of the best, if one had to get a transformative sex virus.

Most of all, she wasn’t dumb as shit. True, Jaye felt a bubbly enthusiasm and a certain silly innocence that was clearly chemical and viral. And she felt an extreme aversion to sitting down and doing, say, long division. That was time she could be singing to the garden. But she still basically felt like herself and was still basically intelligent. A giggly teen version of herself, say. Compared to the real dumbasses getting their pussies poked, braying as they came, she could live with it.

Second, she was still a bonafide lesbian. That was a true surprise—shouldn’t she be hunting for some prince with a handsome face and a big dick? Nonetheless she still felt her heart really race, her body really quiver, at the incredible female bodies just outside her door.

It all seemed to be frustratingly random. Of her closest lesbian friends, two were swiftly attached to men and thoroughly bred, both sinking into toy-like housewife lives. Apparently certain strains added an appreciation for female bodies, but in insultingly stereotypical ways. Every Amazon was willing to jump between each other’s thighs. That wasn’t progress, but at least it was something. She sang her rage out, and it came out like Amy Adams saying “fuck!”

As the Long Weekend closed up, her sunglasses on, her intellect essentially intact, humming a sweet tune, Jaye felt something most women weren’t really capable of anymore.

Guilt.

It was hardly fair that she’d gotten off so easy. There were women with cow teats and long, floppy tails. Girls with snake skin. Girls with boobs so big they had to walk with their tits gathered in their arms, like they were carrying in the groceries. And that was just the physical part—they were horny and happy, by and large, but oh so very dumb and mostly good for fucking and sucking.

Men on TV talked about finding a cure, but they said it with their eyes downcast. Jaye knew the score. They were just fine with the situation. They’d go home that night and some pretty thing would hand over a manhattan she’d spent all day learning the recipe to, and then start to suck his dick.

“MotherFUCKERS!” she hissed in her Broadway voice. There was a knock at the door.

One of the neighbor boys. “I’m not gonna fuck you!” she called out. “I’m still a carpet-muncher! We exist!”

“Miss Jaye?” the boy said. She recognized the voice—a kid home from college. He’d put on muscle, and, no doubt, some extra dick. “Can you help with something? We’ve got a lost girl and my Dad said you’re still, uh, smart and maybe you could help?”

She’d gotten a reputation, living in suburbia by herself—and a bunch of girlfriends—as a helper of missing cats, a good resource for gardening. That Lesbian. And now that apparently extended to missing bimbos.

“Bring her over,” Jaye ordered, and enjoyed watching him obey. She’d have to sing a song about making a man do her bidding.

She didn’t have to be a GOOD princess.

“Is she actually a plant?” Jaye said. The woman was a mottled green, with stringy yellow hair, and never had tits been better described as watermelons.

“I don’t think so, although she might think she is?” the boy reported. The bimbo had the usual blissed out smile of the thoroughly done over. “She said her name is Catherine. We tried to get, you know, an address and stuff, and she just said she lives in the ground. I don’t know. And you’re good at gardening, right?”

She was. Jaye squinted. Her big eyes didn’t like the sunlight. They weren’t even that attractive. Had whatever psycho designed the virus gotten bored? Jaye noticed a white drip out of the girl’s pussy. “You fucked her?”

The boy looked abashed. “I mean…. a little.”

“I’m gonna come find you when she delivers rutabagas,” Jaye said. The joke didn’t land. Maybe men just didn’t expect it. In fact, the boy looked a little horrified. “Alright, I’ll keep an eye on her. Put a sign out front. She could not have wandered far, right? She’s a plant. She plants. Yeah?”

“Oh, that would be great!” the boy said, brightening. “There’s so many girls all around and I know guys are kinda… taking… them, but it’d be great if a girl could keep an eye on them, you know? My friend Steve has got like a dozen girls and I’m like, Steve. A dozen.”

The drop of cum had killed Jaye’s interest. But it was just banked. She was still a virus girl, ultimately. She had needs. The plant girl gave her a hopeful smile. Who had she been? A 50-something housewife? A mom? A grandma? Now just another pussy, except green.

A really nice pussy, though.

“Bring them to me,” she said. “All of them. But don’t fuck them first.”

The house filled up with cooze. It was clit central, and it was… fun. Abominable, yes, and dark, but there was so much laughter and giggling and happiness and especially dedicated clit-licking from new experts. Jaye was thrilled. Of course, Princess girls always had a light heart and a song ready, but she felt truly pleased at the steady influx of women.

They came in all kinds, and especially those slut transformations that were socially undesirable or practically difficult for one reason or another. The bunny girls and their thirst to get bred, their constant air-headed giggling, their heady speed to get down on their haunches to get filled up. Cute little nose whiskers flicking back and forth. Peaceful, submissive cow girls, making the floor wet, busy milking each other. Teeny-boppers and heavy, thicc MILFs and every other type and kind of girl.

They found their way to her house by any number of ways and means. Many had just wandered off, free and happy, unsure what the future held but ready to bend over for it. They had addresses and names and phone numbers still up in their pretty new heads but had no interest in saying what they were. This was better. Alyssa, the only Robot girl Jaye knew, was in that category—still quite intelligent although with a limited emotional range. Robot didn’t really work—it gave the skin a silvery sheen, the girl a frozen affect, but it wasn’t really all that hot even if the man lusted in his heart for machinery.

Others were lost, really lost. In the chaos they’d fallen between cracks, maybe temporarily engaged as a fucktoy in someone’s house, until their welcome wore out. The sheep trio, with their adorable white muffs, their need to only fuck as a triple. She got a lot of the animal types—they were uniformly dumb and men treated them as jokes. Sad. She’d have to make signs that said “a Puppygirl is for life, not just Christmas.” They were rounded up and ended up with Jaye.

Last of all, the hard cases, the ones brought to Jaye by men who didn’t want to talk about it. She suspected there was a silent war going on in man territory—rough justice on those males who accumulated a half-dozen or dozen girls and… misused them. The good news was, they were resilient. And now they were hers.

It was not hard to make into a happy home, although it was a lot of housework. Everyone fucked and sucked and dripped and squirted and it was all very organic. Sex toys were scattered all about, clothes were treated as disposable and not all that necessary. Some of the more unfortunate animal girls had the occasional accident. Luckily they had a few Maids, thrilled to be of service, wielding bleach as they dripped and came from the joy of cleaning up on their hands and knees.

Eventually a group of men from the neighborhood came over and they all came to an understanding. Jaye would receive some funding, some supplies, some support. The two sexes could meet in the garden and in the backyard, so they could fuck. And an adoption protocol was put into place. Sometimes a man just stopped by, and was reunited with a missing daughter or wife, now a cold-blooded snake girl who had dutifully licked Jaye into an absolute frenzy just that morning.

There was a lot of licking going on. Jaye had moved on from guilt over that particular move very, very quickly. She theorized that part of Princess was being, well, a little Princess-y at times. A bit imperious, a bit queenly. And that meant new arrivals were required to get on their hands and knees and lick away until the mistress of the house came. They even put a little ceremony into it. There was something about sitting regally in her rocking chair, legs spread, the new girl slowly approaching, kneeling, and putting her little pink tongue out…

It didn’t take her very long to cum at all.

She was left on the doorstep, possibly late at night, and wasn’t discovered until the next morning. Alyssa brought her in with the morning grocery deliveries. Mostly cereal. The milk was produced on premises.

“New one,” Alyssa said, in her usual bored tone. It was unclear if she was bothering to wear clothes. Even when she did, they were silvery-sheen jumpsuits.

Jaye got a good look. “Huh,” she said, examining the arrival. Usually she was elite at figuring out Strain, not that it was a major challenge. A girl with a long forked tongue, reddish skin, that was a Succubus, for example.

But this was nonobvious. Really, the strange part was how… basic… she looked. The girl had shaggy brown hair, mildly large tits, and that seemed to be all. Jaye walked around. No tail. Standard butt. She sniffed—no scent. Actually, the only major thing she could see was that the girl had an unusual amount of body hair. Like, a lot. Even the animal virus girls that passed through weren’t really very hairy. Only the canine girls, and even then, as a cute and easy to ruffle fur. This girl had a wild and untamed thatch of pussy hair, a lot of underarm hair.

Honestly, she wasn’t cute.

“Anyone home?” Jaye said. “Name or anything?”

“Completely not there,” Alyssa reported. “Just shrugs when I ask anything.”

“Shrugs,” Jaye noted. “You in there, baby? You’re safe now, right?”

The girl met her stare, and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaye considered her. What was this? She almost looked unaffected by the virus, excepting perhaps the tits. The girl sat down and opened a box of cheerios with her hands, pouring them into her mouth.

“Alright, well, help yourself,” Jaye said. The scent part wasn’t totally true. This girl really needed a bath.

“Want me to round up everyone for the ceremony?” Alyssa said. She barely managed the vocal register to put a question mark at the end. Jaye eyed the new girl. She felt—nothing. Even yet another cow girl arriving with the same dumb smile and the same big boobs, the same brown felt patches, usually gave her a small burst of interest. Here it was… whatever. Unfair to the girl, possibly? Or more unfair to have her stolidly licking away at a girl with no erotic interest in her?

“Nah,” she concluded.

Girls who couldn’t remember their names, or wanted new ones, got them. Cow girls loved being called Daisy or Heffie or some other new identity. They seemed to need it, a brand new name they could sink into, the previous one of work days and financial stress fading into a distantly-remembered haze. But the new girl escaped categorization. She was smart enough to do chores, she could understand complex instructions, she just never talked, and had no interest at all in clothes. If left alone she’d just look out the window.

Eventually Jaye nicknamed her Brown.

Brown did have a very healthy interest in men. The issue was their lack of interest in her. She’d sit in the garden while the usual men stopped by. In the morning Jaye’s house got a lot of men on their way to work, who didn’t want to live with a girl for whatever reason. Throughout the day it was usually older retired men, and, increasingly, field trips from the local community college. 18 and 19 year olds getting instructed on home economics—care and feeding for your fuck toy.

None ever picked Brown. She probably could’ve gotten a fuck if she just made an effort, walked up to a man. Boys were hardly particular. But she simply sat by herself on the stoop, silent, waiting, and empty. She faded into the background. Occasionally Jaye would look at her and wonder: what strain do you have? Nothing fit, even Object or Chameleon. Objects held themselves rigid, however posed, and were vanishingly rare besides. And she wasn’t slowly re-transforming into something else. Even a gender swap didn’t fit. New girls tended to be pretty talkative. And why the body hair?

But Jaye didn’t think about it too much. It was busy, happy work. Fulfilling. She sang as she went, overseeing her busy army of industrious sluts, selecting duos and trios for the bedroom. It was—nice.

For a long time.

The bimbos started to leave.

Jaye had always half-expected it. The initial burst of lost and confused women was long over. Girls typically wore collars when out and about now. Life went on, which meant fewer abandoned women at her doorstep.

But then the menagerie she kept started to go.

She could hardly say no to the girls wanting to have a man of their own, even if shared with five or six other girls. In fact it was hard to say no to men generally, even with her favorable condition, her lack of sexual interest in them. If they passed an interview then Jaye had to say yes. And so her girls started to leave—first the better ones, of course, the Touch and Skin girls, the milder cases.

But then even the hard cases, the cow girls and the bunny girls. When fall hit and a batch of boys were off to college they wanted to bring a girl with them, just about any girl, and she had plenty on offer.

It was bittersweet. No, it was just sad. Yes, there was a happy moment when a Puppygirl walked off with a blushing 18 year old owner, her butt wagging. But it was brief. And especially sad was when the girl left without a backwards glance.

Ultimately Jaye didn’t have a penis, and that was that, as far as her girls were concerned.

Jaye sang less.

And then the government got involved.

It made sense, of course. And they were happy to formalize and legalize her operation, even increase the stipend. But it was less magical to work as a foster home on a government list. And worst of all, the government was finding spots for even her hardest to place residents.

“Alyssa, he’s perfect,” Jaye insisted, to her reluctant robot. “He’s a millionaire apparently.”

“I don’t know,” she said, flatly. As always. “He has dozens of robot girls. Hundreds.”

“You’re his server farm!” Jaye said, and that did the trick.

Alyssa left the next day. In a very nice Mercedes.

Eventually it got down to her, and Brown.

She still couldn’t bring herself to get a tongue-lashing from Brown. The woman was, actually, very hard to notice. She stayed out of the way as much as possible, did her own dishes, and lived in an upstairs room that Jaye never visited. She did spend a lot of time on the porch, hand on her chin, watching men drive by.

Jaye sang slow songs and drank too much wine. Which is what she was doing when the new social worker arrived. He was a very bright-eyed young man, right out of college. Men his age all seemed so happy. He wore three rings on his left hand. Three was a lot for a guy his age. He was healthy and barrel-chested and always smiling.

“Jaye!” he said, waving.

“You took my last girl a week ago,” Jaye complained, letting him in. She held her wine glass. The house was spotless. The last maid to leave had given it a bleach bath, and nothing Jaye did was very messy. The dildos and vibrators were all cleaned and sorted in their cubbies. The flimsy clothes were all in storage. “Why are you here?”

“Uhhh, not quite all, Jaye,” he said. His name was Bobby. “You said you have one more but I don’t have a strain listing? I didn’t see her last time I visited.”

“Oh, you mean Brown,” Jaye said, after a moment. “She’s kind of the furniture, sorry. Totally forgot about her. I have no clue what strain she has, I’m not even sure it is one.”

Brown was out back among the flowers, naked as usual. She favored them with her typical uninterested gaze.

Bobby sucked in his breath. “Hooooooooly shit,” he said, and then let out a low male whistle. “No fucking way.”

“No fucking what?” Jaye said, looking back and forth. Had something changed? It was standard Brown, standard dull look, standard nudity.

“Oh MAN!” Bobby was all enthusiasm, his professional reserve gone. “Oh wow, but it must be! The genital hair! Incredible!”

“WHAT?” Jaye said, in as annoyed a tone should manage, given her condition. It was still like a ringing bell.

“She’s a Pump!” Bobby said. He laughed. “The golden pussy! Ohhhhhh wow. SO rare, I’ve only ever read about her, and even then just because of the show. Amazing! Ahhh, you don’t mind if I have a go, do you?”

Who was she to deny a man? Bobby let his dick flop out and walked towards Brown with eager, boyish enthusiasm. She looked at him, hesitant, and then slowly started to bend over. She put her hands on one of the trees.

“The best cunts in the world,” Bobby said, lining his prick up. “Super, SUPER rare strain, it wasn’t even classified until a year ago. Wow! Apparently its like getting fucked by a really hot vacuum cleaner. This is so exciting! Bend over a little more, sweetie.”

He slipped inside of her. His expression went from eager anticipation to dull, absorbed shock. Jaye had seen boys nut in girls a thousand times. It was just part of their day. Bobby had three wives. He looked like his body was being absorbed. And he hadn’t even started to thrust.

“Oh… god…” He tried to wiggle. It was all so confusing. Bobby was acting like he was on the final stroke of a lengthy fuck session. “God.. ohhhhh god. Oh god!”

He nutted. It had all taken less than thirty seconds. When he pulled out, trembling, he fell over onto the grass. It took him a full minute to catch his breath.

“The golden pussy,” he said, staring at it with reverence.

“Are you messing with me?” Jaye said.

There was a TV show featuring Pumps, evidently. The premise was seeing how long a man could last when buried up to the hilt. The record was two minutes and three thrusts. In all of California the producers had only lined up two Pumps. When Bobby reported a third, Jaye got a call immediately.

“Oh!” the man said, surprised to be negotiating with a woman. “And what strain do you have?”

“Princess,” she said.

“Don’t let the House of Mouse hear you call it that. I hear you have god’s own vagina at your house. May we come and get her? She’s going to be a star.”

Jaye opened her mouth and realized—she was about to say no.

Brown was the last one. Her last girl.

She’d be alone.

No one to sing to, no one to lick her, no one to boss around. Just her and the birds and the flowers.

Only her and the clothes and the house.

Jaye said “just a second” and walked out back. There was Brown, still underneath the tree. Still naked.

“Brown?” she said, hesitant. She rarely talked at the woman. “Do you want to go be on TV, get fucked for entertainment?”

It was her decision. Jaye had to remember that. She was her own person, not Jaye’s.

Even like this, that had to mean something.

Brown smiled and nodded. Jaye felt a pit open up.

“Come and get her,” she said, helpless, into the phone.

The producers came by in a big flashy car and fucked her one by one. None made it much longer than Bobby had. They all looked like Brown fucked out part of their souls.

And when it was done, Brown got in their car without a backwards glance and off she went.

She was alone.

Jaye opened her front door.

Not a backwards glance.

She hummed something.

That didn’t have to be all bad, didn’t it?

She was a Princess, and she’d never gone on her own adventure, had she?

There had to be a lot of interesting people to fuck and suck out there. She had her brains, her body, her voice. Why had she shut herself away from it all? There were a lot of tongues out there.

It took her awhile to find her front door key. There hadn’t been much point in locking up. After thinking about it, she wrote out a sign that said “new sluts please wait inside” and left it open. Just in case.

Jaye put her sunglasses on. And then she went to the gym, to see if there were any amazon girls to ogle.