The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

IT’S FRIDAY! It’s an hour from closing bell on M. Mysti Nokkerswolein’s 18th birthday. The “M” stands for Milky.

She’s senior class president, but maybe she used to be Marisol Knoblauch, or possibly Mirabel Knoblauch. Or it could’ve been Knoughler? Maybe.

It matters less and less, when each wet and jiggly school day matters more and more. Her new life—her true life, is a life that’s been taking on nearly as much heft and relevance as her steadily fattening ass-n-titties.

Right now, Ms. Nokkerswolein is allowing her head to get abruptly rammed down onto the base of some impossible manmeat. She’s working it over. She’s become an expert. She isn’t too sure whether or not her eyes are just starting to water as she gags (honestly almost wretching), or if she is genuinely moved by how easily she’s been giving in…

To truly awesome new gender roles… to the shifted reality of a crazy new growing body... to her biological, holy, AmeriChristian imperative… Oh, how dutifully she’s learning…

Some… time ago, or another… She had received awards for whatever boring thing she did with her old stupid life. She donated to causes or pauses or... whatnot, good cancer or bad animal type stuff, too, gross un-American stuff too…

She was even involved in those… politicals... thingies. Most of St. Brittany’s Angels get spanked and cattle-prodded for that shit! She was permitted to have her own bank account! It’s really kind of insane to think about, not relying on an allowance.

She was also allowed to wear long pants, once. Allowed to cover up cleavage, or if not that, at least areolas. Allowed to walk outside after dark without the supervision of a man or three. Allowed to say “maybe later” to at least some impatient hardons.

After all, deciding when to take a break from sucking dick after dick after dick, every day, on into every night, was surely one of the most important responsibilities of being a lesbian. Right?

She’s in the middle of sucking her third dick today. It feels awesome. That new clit is growing, perfectly, on the roof of her mouth. The one that all girls in town start to grow, arriving in step with a host of other ReTeenin’ “smile-stones.”

It’s starting to heal, so pretty soon she’ll be able to cum just by blowing dudes! Who knows — could it be this one?

Mysti is crouched down now, at the bottom of the stairwell closest to her ex-boyfriend’s locker. It’s two lockers down from another ex’s, that’s how she knows. All she can think about, besides the blowjob at hand, is stuff like that. Lockers, notebooks, and other stupid thick sluts like her, jealous bitches, all of them, big and dumb and stupid and jealous.

The unsteady clack of her towering, fluorescent purple stilettos threatens to help a bunch of leaking drool and pussy juice to send her careening to the tile, right on her wobbly donk-meat. Asst. Principal Jock Jinkins clears a path before dick-smoking disaster can occur, and helps her onto her scraped knees.

She thanks him by yanking his sweatpants down, and starts giving him a reach-around tugjob. The small but growing crowd claps and whistles. There is a high-pitched girl cumming her fatty brains out, somewhere in the liquid, slapping mix.

“You’re the smartest slut in the whole fuckin’ school,” he grunts, steadying her with by grabbing her on her cushy side and plumbing her slit with some craggy, unsubtle digits. She chirps ecstatically. Every Christian super-female under the stairs gets goosebumps within a second of the “It” girl. They can’t help it. Some of them even feel phantom cocks in their own coozes and fists, that’s how religious the whole thing is becoming.

A foggy feeling burbles up. Ms. Nockerswolen can’t completely shake thoughts of Before… before whatever-it-was brought her to Doctrine. She thinks for sure she was a lesbian in her old life (or “Sin Neutero” as Our Family Way calls it), but then... why is it that she can only seem to remember cold, sleepless nights of perpetual singledom?

Those glitchy, grayed-out, elliptical moments of Before, the ones that included her kissing other women were actually more like platonic pecks, joyless, certainly NOTHING like any of the insatiable, hour-long, panty flooding makeout seshes she’d gotten herself into with a bunch of her needier bitches lately.

All of her closest, most supplicant girlfriends basically just call M. Mysti “mmmmysti” in her presence, if they can even stop moaning enough to say a single word, basking as they do in a nuclear assault of pheromones simply by stepping in the front door of St. Kim’s High. Since she’s the most popular young bimbo in school, her scent is capable of making its mark on everyone within a 500 foot radius, in fractions of a second.

It can be incapacitating. Girls often pass out. Boys grab random girls — they’re encouraged to, as the microclimate her fluids make causes a rutting hysteria that will lead to guaranteed penile rupture if not immediately addressed. Since becoming president, Mysti has already inspired 26 pregnancies just by bein’ Mysti.

Her syrupy essence is known to break past brick walls. Faculty are wont to privately discuss her particular privilege, that Man Plan’s labs deliberated at length about whether or not to allow her a public life, so potent was her initial conversion. Fortunately, everyone seems to agree that Mysti’s presence in the school and all around Doctrine is a net positive, and that her inevitable sainthood will unite and elevate the holy horny clergy.

There it is. Another brown-out at the sides of her skull. Lately, the nagging visions of a pair of curiously blown out back tires has grown dimmer and fewer. But it just popped up again right now. Like some gross old pantsuit that doesn’t even hug her hips.

It just doesn’t make sense. Neither did the notion that a drunk, shirtless cop confiscated her ID, her wallet, her purse, everything in her glovebox. No. She doesn’t know how to drive. Absurd. It’s just plum dangerous for girls!

Some unknowable, irretrievable gulf brought her to the “Slow, Smoked and Sanctified” town, one borne of of repeated instances of flagging agency and decimated decency. A couple dozen busted bras, too. About eight or ten dress sizes.

She could have sworn she was in her fifties, but being thick with youthful, fertile curves — with only slight, tight cellulite, not to mention a supple, tighter snatch that feels like new every time she bangs—bring her back down to the hard-won joy of her Re-Teenin’, and made “2-berty” in general, plenty more palatable.

Besides, the face in the mirror and on her new ID doesn’t look a day over 16. Rosy-cheeked all the darn time, even a pimple here and there sometimes. Just the plight of being a teenager. Then there’s the baby fat to coax along the imminence of any potential baby-making. Now that she’s come of birthing age, she can finally fulfil her duty as an American citizen.

“Gonna finally get yerself knocked up today, mmmmmmmmysti?” slowly coos Pammy Bovinez, a cushy, pearshaped cowgirl with even wider udders, heavily pregnant and looking just about ready to explode like a pinata with babies.

The intrepid journalist, the only active member of the school’s newspaper, Wobble, swallows the end of each word, mooing and leaking milk onto She’s got a shirt on, but the sheer maternal force of her excited empathy blasts her production right through her Man Plan tube top and onto the rickety old camera she barely knows how to use.

Accidentally dropping it, she bends over to retrieve it. But an industrial strength wide bottom half that hasn’t ever known (and likely will never know) the meaning of the phrase “thigh gap” prevents her, and so does her cartoon preggo state.

She’s a good lot of woman, and it’s just impossible. Some dickhead thinks he’s a comedian and kicks a big piece of the now-shattered camera to his buddy. “Smash that fuckin’ shit!” another bro burps.

Pammy moos in despair, feeling faint and outside herself. I used to be a personal trainer, I used to be a personal trainer, I used to be a personal trainer, she consoles herself, lumbering, sad but overwhelmingly craven, onto some acne-scarred sophomore’s rod.

“Just fuck my ass, okay?” she begs, though not 100% about what those words mean, or if they’re words. “Jusssssss,” she sings, as some manly slab of futility shucks down his basketball shorts and plugs her asshole.

Two other boy-men, having freshly tagteamed Mrs. Hipsoramma, the Bible Biology teacher, are jacking off onto Pammy’s back and hair, high-fiving, but it’s perfunctory. Their dicks are still dripping tablespoons of spunk from having finished barely a half minute before. Their aim will probably be off.

Everyone under the stairs is going under with that sweet, brain-bubbling mist of hot pink and deep red. In a few minutes, no one will be able to string a verb and a noun together before enjoy two or three hours of cleansing fresh air. They will likely fuck and suck four or five more times before what they’re doing even registers.

Mysti is distracted, though, concentrating on her world-redefining worship of two men. I am sixteen. No, I just turned eighteen. Right? Well, whatever. Definitely not some gross old lesbo anymore! I love being a girl, she muses.

She has a lot to be proud of. Apart from being senior class president, she’s on track to be certified Valedictorian of Beauty & Booty, and is a bonafide superstar of Christian Lady’s Track & Field for the church country college prep school.

Benji Fillsup, her husband and harem master, let her get ice cream first when he took her and her three other sister-wives this past Friday, that’s how proud he is of his latest addition’s sporting achievements. He patted her head! It was one of the proudest moments of her new teenage life.

She mastered the cow-tipping-in-high-heels obstacle course all on her own, and the requisite soap bubble blowing, gum bubble blowing, twerking and baking. Any plush contender needs to learn these athletic feats for meet mornings, while a track of sweaty boys run all around her, closer and closer with each lap. Cheerleaders just go “mmmm.”

Mysti’s head bobs hungrily on regional basketball star Hank Tankeroyle’s big red dong. She sees some important photos strewn onto the floor and struggles, with all her man-overruled might, to keep any more of a clutch of glossy 8x10’s from tumbling out of a Trapper Keeper, labelled “Home Eck / Famlie Planen” on the spine.

A couple broads go “awwww” at how cute her play-act at “dignity” is. Her ex pops his cock out of her face. He throws it between her tits for a second. They’ve been hanging all out, bare under an ill-fitting navy blazer, all this time.

The binder is nothing but pictures of messy, makeup smear-y BJ’s inserted haphazardly with the “help” of two or three other silly girls and a three-hole punch. They spent about forty seconds worrying about putting together the binder properly.

They spent almost an hour giggling about how awesome the term “three-hole punch” is to describe a girl. Some chick meekly squeaked that she thought it was “duh-deaning,” but when the other bimbos glared at her, she admitted she didn’t know what “duh-deaning” meant.

A few of the photos are sandwiched together and newly sticky . A dozen or so kids, huddled around impatiently in a tight semi-circle, building up to the customary post-lunch sex rally, are casually engrossed in the display. They happily grope their immediate neighbors’ sexy stuff, if not their own.

They have one thing on their mind, if they can think straight. Just how recently did she deep-throat some jock, and who was it? The boys wonder when they’ll get a go at her puffy, plum lipstained cockhole. It’s common knowledge that if they can extract at least five blowies from her, it’s a guaranteed entry into the Top 20.

“Betsy Twiss, care to join us?” Principal Jinkins, using every commandeering bit of his 6′6″ and 280 lbs., bellows to the new girl in town. She’s standing at the opposite end of the stairwell with her back to him and to the whole dionysian scene exploding around her, ignoring the authority figure as he nears the end of a handie he doesn’t actually give two shits about.

A lot of hisses and students of both genders screaming the word “bitch.” Betsy wears daisy dukes, Barbie flipflops, a pucca shell necklace, a surgical mask, and a wifebeater. It was the only one left in her rotation without a cumstain on it somewhere.

For weeks now, she’s resisted the girly-girl look literally every other girl at St. Kim’s wears, but is presently considering what a doomed idea this is. It all seems so hopeless. Her only confidant Dina Rodgers is the one other girl in her class that’s as new in Doctrine as she is. It’d been a thrill to meet another feminist, a real feminist, who could competently discuss things like intersectionality and trans rights.

Right now, Dina has retrieved a pink veined, foot-long purple vinyl dildo and is fucking herself silly on the bottom steps. She thought she’d have to beg the two dudes in front of her to spray their loads onto her face, but like with a lot of things, she realizes almost too late that she was wrong. “I’m Ditzy, what’s yours, ummm, names?”

Today was the first day Betsy was late, and so she not only had the temporary benefit of facial protection against the sex spores that have been slowly making her over into another brain-sucked cowgirl, but she also missed the morning prayer and Christian health and beauty video loop.

It gave her some terrifying perspective, even if she’d been hiding out in a bathroom stall for much of the day, evading the St. Kim’s authorities. The sex stew was the thickest in ladies’ room, but she didn’t have an option.

If she’d been wearing a bra, by this point, she’d have already broken that shit. She just sat there with her shorts down and her pussy poked, cumming like fifteen times, forgetting most of what she’d finally figured out about this evil place.

Being locked in homeroom every morning reinforced every bit of indulgent, permissive thought that she’d kicked out of her constitution at the end of most school nights and the beginning of most days. The afternoon stress-wipe loop and prayer drone then erased the memory of her ensuing miscellaneous sexploits. She knows that much. It’s just so much work to hang on to why this is important.

Betsy knows that it’s a big, big understatement to say that she’s undergoing a very strange, very potent sexual awakening. Sure, she isn’t changing her name this early in the game like Ditzy — or being nearly as much of a cum dumpster — but she hadn’t ever gone down on a guy, much less had sex until moving to Doctrine, and here, three weeks into September, she finds herself getting mad if the school week ends and she’s only gotten a few times.

The volume of jizz and milk flying around such a tight box of animal humans ensures that, even if she’s not directly involving herself, she’s going to slut her clothes all the fuck up. This could wind up being her filthiest tanktop yet. “What ’sackly do you think you’re tryin’ to complicsh… complico… O.M.G. Betsy, what the fuck is your deal?!“

Betsy stares down Silly Science bible teacher Mrs. McSupple, who is guarding the only other door out of there, with a bottle of Pink! brand pepper spray. The can is the size of an air freshener. It’s the only weapon she has. She’s in five-inch magenta wedges and overflowing an orange bikini with white polka dots.

“My deal,” Betsy wagers, shoving a mess of matted dirty blonde curls in between her ears, “is that I reckon I done deserve twice as much fuckin’ cock’n your stanky hooch-cooch git.” She looks horrified immediately. She certainly didn’t intend that accent! She wants to tell her teacher that she isn’t going to just give in and be another bimbo breeder.

It’s totally scary how her mouth is working against her brain. It’s even scarier to realize that she’s drooling, super thick and heavy, when she hears some dude’s zipper go down. She can’t really talk right, but hey,t she can suck cock. It’s grim, what her body’s doing to her. Notions of “respect” are being inverted. Cock is cool.

Mrs. McSupple giggles and spritzes some of the mind-molting stuff into Betsy’s face, and though she’s got a thin paper layer on, some of the pink goo can’t help but seep in. “You think you’re soooo smart, dontcha? Take a look at them titties, whore. They like twice as fat as yesterday. I bet you ain’t even notice that you producin’, baby.”

She picks up one of Betsy’s bloated boobs, squeezing a darkened nipple through the fabric, running thick, soft pink milk over the tips of her fingers. Betsy looks down, aghast. How could she have possibly ignored it? What the fuck? My tits are enormous! When did that happen?!

“The more you fight—like your abso-loopy pitiful attempt today — the more you become what St. Brittany and Our Family Way need your plush-plush to become.” Halfway through foggily yanking her shorts down, possibly for that unzipped dick, but really any dick (dicks are always fun and awesome), Betsy realizes that they’ve gotten so snug, it’s not possible to worm her way out of them.

It’s like her body’s starting to grow around her clothes. I must have put on fifteen pounds in that slut swamp bathroom. Her tummy plops out over the waistband. Her face flushes.

“You used to have at least some definition here. An’ I think you was certainly able to button up your fly jus’ fine earlier this week, if I ain’t mistaked. Now you foldin’ that shit over like the trashy bumpkin bitch you know — deep down — what you always been.” Mrs. McSupple pinches an inch on her student’s freshly fluffy belly. “Good girl. You a country slut now. Jus’ ’brace it. You growin’ yourself a niiiiice slutty ol’ body right here, girl!“

“Y’cain’t hide forever, baby. How many hours y’all spend in that fuckin’ muggy, pussy-damp ladies’ room, anyhow? Shoot, even when you smart, you dumb. That’s what you no-hip hipster bitches fail to re-o-lize. There ain’t no excape. Girls. Is. STUPID!! It’s what God wants. It’s what men want. And sooner or later, it’s what your triflin’ little nerdy ass want. An’ just like every other little slut what gets herself growed up proper in the church country school system, y’all sees that y’need it ’fore ya consider wantin’ it.“

Betsy growls and screams and shoves her bible teacher in her jugs, actually summoning enough frustration, managing to knock her to the ground. She grabs hold of the doorknob in a rushing flurry of anticipation, but is dismayed to find she can’t prop it open it all the way. Somehow this makes her pussy even wetter.

That smell… Wood Peck, the first boy she hooked up with in town, has wedged his ass between the door and Mrs. Supple-McBangbang’s, hungrily tearing off her bikini and destroying it for any future use, dogging the instructor into the floor. Both Wood and the bible teacher are laughing, cackling at her as they fuck.

“Wood, what the hell!” Betsy whisper-screams, her anger thoroughly neutered under the presence and musk of one of her favorite dongs. “I thought you liked me!”

“Liked you?” he scoffs, not missing a beat. It’s something that Betsy had admittedly found pretty hot the first couple of times they banged, the manly multitasking. He could talk to his boys on the phone and still ream her senseless, or even text the next slut to coordinate a post-fuck, cool-down fuck. He was a real rock star in bed.

Wait, come to think of it, no! That shit was horrible, and he was a fuckin’ jerk! The easy epiphany makes her angrier and hornier at the same time. Wood’s face tightens up into a crimson scowl as he nears completion. Two minutes. That was one great thing about Wood. He fucked you forever. “Liked you? Listen, I like weed, guns and football. I don’t even like sex.”

“Sex just somethin’ I gotta do, seein’ ’cuz I’s a decent Christian man an’ all. But if I did actually like it, I wouldn’t think twice about your skinny little ass, an’ I tell you this in truthful-like — I don’t. I thought it was cool to give you your first boobs, but you’re still way too cunty for a real man like me.”

“Oh my gosh, I am, like, so not cunty!” Betsy mews. “Gimme a break!” Everyone with an unoccupied mouth starts laughing. “Serious! I mean, why the ‘F’ should I give such a hoot ’bout my class president? She’s just ’nother fat redneck whore like every other sorry excuse for a girl in this school! I mean, Jesus Christ!“

The entire stairwell gasps, then starts thudding and grunting once again. Betsy knows that she’s taken the Lord’s name in vain, even if at the same time, she doesn’t see, and barely feels, that Ditzy has finished pulling her girlfriend’s hotpants down, and is now bathing her face in Betsy’s snatch.

“I’ll give her about two days before bitch stops pretending to read books in school,” Mrs. McSupple confides to Wood with a spit-bubbled smirk.