The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Vendatrix


Consciousness returned slowly to Tamantha. Waking became a process of floating upwards through successive layers of pink fog. Eventually she heard voices, sensed movement through her eyelids. Then she felt a gentle touch on her arm, and her eyes opened to look up into the eyes of a nurse.

“Wake up, Tamantha,” the nurse said soothingly. “Your operation is over. I want you to drink something now.” And the nurse cradled Tamantha’s head and pressed a cup to the patient’s lips. “Drink this, that’s a good girl,” the nurse said. The brew tasted slightly bitter to Tamantha, but she dutifully drank it down and almost immediately felt a surge of stimulation. She blinked her eyes to clear them

“It’s over?” she asked groggily.

“Yes. The operation went well, the doctor said he never had one go better.”

Tamantha looked down at the massive mounds on her chest, and wondered why they put some pillows under the sheet there. But when her hand slid under the sheets to pull the pillows off, she touched her own flesh. Tamantha’s eyes widened in surprise. Surely not. . . ! She pulled back the sheet.

Her new breasts were enormous. They rose like rounded melons, the nipples rising proudly at the summits of her gargantuan mounds. Tamantha stared at them with a kind of shocked fascination. “There must be some mistake,” she gasped to the nurse. “I wanted some enlargement, but these are just. . too much.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows and checked the chart. “According to your instructions, you said the bigger the better’, as it says on this chart. That is your handwriting, isn’t it?” Tamantha studied the preferred clipboard.

There it was. In her own handwriting in the Notes’ section. And she remembered the very words she repeated the same to the doctor. How could she. . .?

“Would you like to take a better look?” Tamantha nodded mutely. The nurse pressed a button that tilted the upper part of the bed to a sitting position. The nurse then wheeled over a large mirror stand to the foot of the bed, so that Tamantha could study her new bust in detail.

Big as they were, Tamantha had to concede that the twin mounds were perfectly formed. They jutted out firmly from her chest and jiggled pleasantly when she leaned forward.

“They look magnificent,” the nurse assured her. Tamantha, still in shock, looked up her. It was then that she notice the nurse’s breasts boasted the same rounded dimensions, almost like balloons ready to burst out of her tightly-buttoned white uniform. “The doctor did mine, too, and many of the girls on this cruise,” the nurse continued. That reminded Tamantha that many of the “hostesses” also sported enormous busts. That made Tamantha feel a little better, the fact that she wouldn’t stand out as some kind of freak. Almost made her feel more part of the cruise.

“Lie back, now,” said the nurse, “I need to lubricate your breasts to keep the skin elastic during the healing process.” Tamantha obediently let herself fall back. When she look down, she was startled and then amused by the fact there her breasts rose in the air like twin hills, with the nipples at the summit, completely obscuring the sight of her feet. She giggled. “Well the doctor seems to be good at what he does,” she said while the nurse poured an aromic-scented lotion in her hands and rubbed them briskly together. Tamantha noticed that she had difficulty speaking clearly, her lips seemed somewhat swollen.

“He’s the best,” agreed the nurse. “By the way, he noticed that your lips could use a little work too. So he did some basic collagen injections, it gives your mouth a fuller, sexier look.”

“He did what?—” began Tamantha, but before she could protest further, the nurse’s expert hands cupped her breasts and began massaging the lotion over her supple mounds. Immediately a warm current of pleasure flowed through Tamantha’s breasts and somehow found its way down to her loins. “Oh!” gasped Tamantha. The more the nurse worked the lotion in, the more powerful became the surges sexual hunger. Tamantha forgot all about the unauthorized work on her lips and just tilted her head back on the pillow, her eyes fluttering with wave after wave of erotic sensation. She had never experienced anything remotely like this. She became aware of the nurse’s comments, filtering through the mists of her amplified libido.

“Your new breasts looks so good, Tamantha. . . very firm, and yet so soft. . . the doctor has a special treatment for the nerve cells, especially here, around the nipples. . .” Tamantha, her eyelids fluttering, felt the nurse’s playing with her nipples as a new surge of sheer pleasure warmed her loins. She almost didn’t hear what the nurse said. . . “amplifies the sensation with special neuro-enhancers. . . you feel touching more. . . mmm, I can tell you’re very sensitive,” purred the nurse as Tamantha let out a sigh and spread her thighs slightly in response to her quivering loins. The sound of the nurse’s supple fingers working in the lotion made a slick wet sound that aroused Tamantha even more. A throaty moan escaped her lips. Tamantha looked down through her half-closed eyelids to watch the nurse’s fingers squeeze and shape the breasts, now glistening with the sheen of the ointment. For one half-mad moment, she even visualized a man’s cock sliding through the valley between her breasts, it’s hot, throbbing shaft slipping smoothly through the tunnel by the hands pushing her pink jello-quivering orbs together.

“The doctor also did some work on your labia,” said the nurse matter-of-factly, “giving them some form and support. Why don’t you reach down and touch them for yourself?”

Tamantha’s pleasure-fogged mind was beyond protesting the latest revelation of the unauthorized modifications to her body. Rather, her fingers slid down, over her flanks, over her taut belly, slowly between her thighs—and stopped short.

She could feel only smoothly-shaven skin where her bush had been.

“No . . pubic hair,” she gasped weakly.

“Naturally,” said the nurse. “We had to shave you to have unhampered access. It was a medical procedure, after all.”

Tamantha’s sense-addled brain could not think of any response. Well, the nurse was right. . .a medical procedure would require removal of hair. But what medical procedure? Her fingertips tentatively reached further down. And then she felt the changes.

Her netherlips had been augmented dramatically. Instead of the thin folds of flesh she was used to touching when she pleasured herself, now her fingers traced the loamy softness of those enhanced outer lips. When her moistened fingers slid deeper in, they touched a clit that was as firm as a rosebud and incredibly sensitive. A shudder of pure pleasure rippled through her body, amplified by the nurses continuing massage of her breasts. “What. . . what did he do?” Tamantha asked weakly.

“Oh, the doctor applied that same formula of nerve-generation around your clitoris,” said the nurse. “You’re now able to experience considerably more pleasure during sex. There, that should do your breasts for today. I want to check on your feet.”

Only then was Tamantha aware that she could not move her legs, and her feet felt some kind of odd pressure. When the nurse turned down the sheet, she saw why. Her ankles were shackled to some kind of bar across the foot of the bed. A metal contraption pressed her feet down past the heels, as if she were about ready to dance on her toes like a ballerina. She tried to move her feet, but the metal braces kept them pressed downward.

“During the workup, the doctor noticed you had hairline fractures in the arches of your feet and bruised your Achilles tendon. Did you ever do anything to cause that? Any hard falls or jumping?”

Tamantha tried to think back, but the sedatives seemed to fog her brain. “I don’t know,” she said confusedly. “I’ve been snow skiing before. . . fell sometimes. . .”

“That probably did it,” said the nurse. “The doctor thought we could cure it with a little traction on your feet, and some reduction of your tendon.” And with that, the nurse turned a ratcheted knob on each foot. With each click, Tamantha feel the pressure pointing her feet down increase even more. “That’s a little uncomfortable,” the helpless girl said.

“I know, dear,” said the nurse soothingly. “I’ll get you another sedative. Here, drink this,” she said, as she lovingly held Tamantha’s swollen lips to a paper cup with a tangy-tasting drink. “That will make you sleep. You’re doing fine. Now all you need is rest. Here, I’ll get you some music to listen to.” And the nurse slipped a pair of lightweight earphones over the girl’s ears.

Tamantha laid back on the pillow, her eyelids fluttering with sudden sleepiness. The music in her ears lulled her into a deeper slumber. And then her own synthesized voice whispered to her through the earphones: “. . . I love my new breasts. . . the bigger the better. . . I love it when mens touch my breasts. . . that’s what they’re there for. . . I love my new breasts. . .”

As soon as the nurse confirmed the patient was sleeping, she pressed an intercom to call the doctor. “Subject is sleeping with the conditioning tape, doctor.. She’s ready for further modifications.”

“Good girl,” said the doctor. “I’ll be down to scrub shortly. Prep the patient, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Before she had been a nurse in the ship’s clinic, she had been chief of surgery at a Philadelphia hospital—that is, until her staff convinced her two years ago to take a cruise, from which she never returned. . .

For Tamantha, the next few days blurred into one another—an endless cycle of deep sleep and groggy wakefulness. As she would wake up from the powerful sedatives, her fogged mind would dimly notice changes in her body—her feet being arched into almost ballerina toes-down form, her breasts even larger than the last time she woke (“The bigger the better,” she thought automatically), and her face—they were always working on her face, it seemed. These periods of wakefulness began with the nurse or doctor leaning over her, obviously intent on giving her the best treatment possible. Then another sedative and she would sink into drugged slumber once again, the earphones always snug against her ears, the voice (her own synthesized voice) molding her thoughts by degrees into total submissiveness.

Once she fought her way to consciousness in the middle of the night, and couldn’t understand why she heard whispers in her mind. Then she reached up and pulled the earphones. The nurse hurried over out of nowhere. “Having trouble sleeping, sweetie?” the nurse asked. Before Tamantha could mumble a reply, the nurse slipped a pill between her patient’s lips and gave her a paper cup of water. The last thing Tamantha remembered as she slipped back into sleep was the nurse slipping the headphones back on. (". . .makes me feel so sexy. . . I love high heels, it makes me look so sexy. . . I like men to look at my legs, so they have to look as shapely as possible. . . High heels make my legs look sexy. . . I love high heels. . .it makes me look so sexy when I walk. . . I love to wear high heels. . .") Her eyelids grew heavy and she slept again.

Then next time Tamantha awoke, she thought she caught of glimpse of her roommate Kira being taken across the clinic floor. At least she thought it was Kira. But the oriental girl had a filled out body that made her wonder. The oriental girl walked across the floor on towering heels, her breasts jiggling with each step, her black glossy hair swaying over her shoulders. Tamantha tried to call out her friend’s name, but her mouth was not working right. Kira tried to struggle out of bed, but medical restraining cuffs pinned her wrists to the bed rail at the side of the bed. The doctor noticed her weak efforts to free her arms, and he gently patted her hand. “There, there, best keep those on. They’re for your protection, in case the ship goes through rough water. Can’t have patients falling out of their beds.” The doctor opened a valve on an intravenous feed.

Well, that makes sense, thought Tamantha in her compliant state of mind. She took one last look at the girl walking out the door, led by two nurses. Was it Kira? The question swirled away in a familiar mist of drug-induced sleep.

The day came when they finally let her sit up. Tamantha’s head seem to spin. She looked down at the two mounds jutting forward on her chest. Well, it was not a dream after all, she thought. And no mistaking the size—like twin volleyballs. And no mistaking the sensitivity—she could feel the nipples hardening at the mere touch of the soft fabric of her hospital gown. The nurse helped her steady herself.

“There, you’re doing fine. You’ll feel a little lightheaded.”

“How. . . how long. . .” For some reason, it was hard for Tamantha to talk, it felt like her mouth was full. “How long. . . have I been here?” she finally mumbled. For some reason it was easier to think in words of one syllable.

“Oh, several days. After all, you requested the full treatment.”

Full treatment? wondered Tamantha. She slowly swung her feet off the bed and tried to stand. And almost feel into the waiting arms of the nurse.

“Careful, there,” said the nurse. “You may have to get used to walking in special shoes until the traction heals. Tamantha tried to stand, but her arches refused to let her heels down. She felt she could only walk on tiptoe. “Here,” said the nurse, try these.” And the nurse slid the girl’s feet into a pair of sleek high heeled shoes with ankle straps. Tamantha

“How. . . high. . .?” After all, she thought: (“High heels make me look sexy. . .")

“Oh, those are standard seven-inch heels. They should give your feet a lot of support.”

Support was not the word for it, thought Tamantha. Her feet seemed imprisoned, with her toes bent almost straight down. As the nurse led her across the floor, Tamantha felt like a new-born colt trying out its legs for the first time. She almost stumbled again, and barely caught a handy bed rail in time.

“You’re over-striding,” said the nurse, “Let’s try this.” And she reached in her pocket and pulled out a small silver chain. The nurse stooped down to Tamantha’s feet and expertly clipped the chain to a ring in each ankle strap that Tamantha had not noticed before. The chain only allowed her about 18 inches for each step. “That should help keep your balance,” the nurse went on, “provided you also arch your back—yes, like that—and sway your hips back and forth as you walk. That’s much better, sweetie,” she said, as Tamantha took her first mincing steps on her pointed toes with the hobble chain. The nurse was right—it did help to keep a precarious balance, but it took all of Tamantha’s limited concentration just to walk.

Tamantha stopped short when she caught sight of herself in the full-length examination mirror. She felt she was looking at a stranger, with a body that was a cross between a supermodel and silicone-pumped topless dancer. Her ripe, impossibly large breasts still jiggled from her last step, the nipples pressing hard against the loose hospital gown. Her torso narrowed considerably—liposuction work there, apparently, and what an improvement! Her hips swelled out again in almost perfect curves. Her legs seemed longer due to her perch on the high-heeled sandals. They had done something to her face, too—a definite improvement, she had to admit, in that it seemed to make her cheekbones higher, her eyes larger and more doe-like, and her lips—well, her lips seemed almost inflated. As a matter of fact, she tried to open her mouth as wide as it would go, and her lips barely parted.

“Wha’ haff you done to muh mou’?” she asked.

“Don’t your lips look luscious?” asked the nurse with an approving look. “And the boat dentist did some work on your molars while you were out. The roof of your mouth probably feels a bit swollen.”

As a matter of fact, it felt very swollen as Tamantha tentatively ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth. She felt like her whole mouth had been surgically reconfigured. Her palette now had a soft cushion that had been inserted over her mouth and fitted over her back teeth. But her tongue quickly encountered a soft arch of padding, that left her mouth more like a narrow channel about an inch in diameter. The tip of her tongue coursed over ridges and pebbled areas on that padding. She noticed that the mere touch of her tongue on that surface somehow triggered her salivary glands, and her mouth gushed full of warm saliva as if he had sucked some sweet & sour candy. She swallowed in surprise at the torrent from her hyperactive saliva glands and swallowed in reflex.

“Come along,” said the nurse. “It’s time we got you back to your cabin where you belong. After all, girl, you’re on vacation!”

Tamantha was given a tunic, as her old dress no longer could contain her enormous bustline. The nurse insisted she have one more sedative to help her nap when she got to her cabin. Tamantha swallowed the pill compliantly.

After being checked out of the clinic, she teetered along the cruise ship passageways on her high-heeled sandals toward her cabin in the bow, still very self-conscious about her new voluptuous appearance, the way the sandals made her back arch as she walked, and how she had to pull back her shoulders to counter the weight of her breasts, which made those two globes thrust out even more against the loose fabric of the tunic. When one of the male guests who had been ignoring her now caught sight of her on deck, he now gave her a new penetrating appreciative look that made Tamantha blush. She hurried on to the cabin and opened the door.

Inside was cool and dark. Tamantha saw a form curled up on the bed—it was Kira, sleeping like a cat, apparently back from her stay at the clinic. The oriental girl was half-turned on the bed, the satin sheets hugging her form, her black glossy hair cascading over the pillow. She was wearing her wireless earphones. At the foot of the bed stood her own high-heeled sandals; apparently Kira needed traction too, thought Tamantha.

Tamantha slipped under the sheet on her side of the bed, and out of habit, slipped on her own earphones. So good to be back in her own bed, she thought, next to her friend. She fell asleep remembering how stirred and excited she felt at the look from the male guest—nobody on board had looked at her that way. She snuggled closer to her friend’s warmth as she drifted into a deep slumber.

In the deep control center of the ship, Andre studied the infra-red view of the girls’ cabin. As soon as Tamantha’s eyelid’s fluttered as a prelude to sleep, Andre said, “Start the tape.” He leaned forward to the monitor to catch the subjugated girl’s reaction,.

The wireless earphones carried the synthesized voice of Tamantha direct to her own ears. It was if she were hearing herself in her own mind—which, of course, was the whole point of the procedure. It began as a barely audible whisper: (“I feel so relaxed right now. . . .so very relaxed. . .so relaxed knowing how good I look now. . . the nice people in the clinic helped me to look this good. . . I feel so sexy when I look this way. . . I love my body looking this way. . . I love my large breasts. . . I love my large breasts. . . I can’t wait until they’re played with. . . that’s what my large breasts are good for, to be played with . . .that will feel so good. . . that’s what I’m good for, to be played with. . . I can’t wait to show off my new sexy body. . . I can’t wait for my sexy body to be played with. . .mmm, the very thought of it makes me so wet. . .” The sleeping girl stirred, her body strummed by the implanted arousing messages. Her hands began to move across the top sheet to her breasts. (“I love to feel my breasts played with, I want to feel my nipples touched. . . .") Her fingers slid slowly, tantalizing up her thighs. Then she slowly pulled the top sheet over her body, uncovering her breasts. While the tape coaxed her deeper and deeper into sensual compliance, her hands slid up her taut belly and then cupped her quivering globes. (“I love feeling my breasts massaged. . . oh, yesss, that feels so good. . .") whispered the earphones, while her hands went to work kneading her soft and pliant breasts. The tropical warmth in the room was matched by the rising heat in her body, and soon a thin sheen of sweat on her undulating body could be seen on the monitors.

“Activate Kira,” ordered Andre. A technician tapped on the keyboard in front of him, and Kira’s earphones also picked up the same subliminal messages—in Kira’s own whispering voice. In no time at all Kira’s hands were also at work, stroking and caressing her breasts until her nipples were just as stiff and sensitive as her friend’s. The whispered instructions continued, until both girls surrendered to the trance-induced haze of sexual abandon, as their hands and fingers caressed their bodies closer and closer to climax. The waterbed undulated by the slow gyrations of the helplessly aroused girls, and the rolling rhythms of the water seemed to amplify the coiling spring of their lust.

Andre darted a glance at the brain-wave readings picked up by the earphones. “They’re close to coming,” he said. “Do the switch. . . now!”

The technician tapped on the keys again. Gradually, the message in Tamantha’s earphones changed. (“I love touching my body. . . I love the touch of warm skin, it feels so good. . .Kira’s my friend. . .I love Kira. . .I would love to touch Kira, that would feel so good to me . . . that would feel so good for her, too. . .it’s good to feel this much pleasure. . . it’s good to give pleasure to my friend. . . I want to touch her. . . her breasts feel so good. . . “) Kira’s earphones whispered the same message about her friend Tamantha. The friendship both girls had for each other was molded by Andre’s staff into lesbian lust. The half-awake girls drew close to one another, and soon were wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing and stroking one another. Kira’s mouth slid between the valley of Tamantha’s voluptuous breasts, with the oriental girl’s black glossy hair draped over Tamantha’s chest. Tamantha’s hands were sliding down the sweat-streaked flanks of her friend Kira. Their body rhythms melded into one slow, unified pulsing of mutual need that began to pick up speed as their earphones urged them to pleasure each other.

Even though Andre had seen this same scene replayed dozens of time, he could not help but get aroused himself, at the sight of the two beautiful women exploring the pleasure their sexually- modified bodies now offered—and now totally under his orchestration. He knew they would function best as sex slaves if their inhibitions were first dispensed with; what better way to crack their core of their prior personalities than to make them lesbian lovers?

“They’re both approaching orgasm, according to the readouts,” said a technician in the background.

Andre said, “I will tell you when to bring them back down, and I won’t need your control panel to do it. I can tell when a woman is near the peak.”

“How so, sir?” asked one of the technicians, a new one fresh from the island.

“I’m French,” answered Andre. He waited until the moans of the women reached a level of husky, frantic need. “Now,” he said. “Bring them back down now.”

Once again the message in the earphones changed. Soothing, calming, it urged to them to relax. . . relax. . . save it for the men. . . The girls slowly fell apart, their breasts rising and falling from their exertions. Andre imagined how their libidos were still churning with unsatisfied lust, how primed they would be for later use.

“Ah, bon,” said Andre, nodding in satisfaction at the image on the monitor of the two women drifting back off into sleep. “I’d say our little cabbages are primed for the next stage. Let’s give them something new to think about—transmit protocol five.” The audio tape technician tapped in yet another message that was soon whispering in the earphones of the slumbering girls.