The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“A what?”

“A sex virus.”

A projector buzzed atop a makeshift stack of books, but otherwise the living room was totally silent. This was a lecture in pregnant pauses, as each declarative sentence landed in a pudding of disbelief. Mom looked derailed. She rocked side-to-side, back-and-forth, folding and unfolding her hands. Words perished inside her mouth, making her look like she was gulping down everything this man was telling us. Slides of huge-titted women buying groceries, anatomical bisections, and men with suspicious logs in their pants rotated on a canvas of future misery.

He came from the local Center for Disease Control affiliate wearing stretched business casual. If not for his sedated, overly-professional affect and short stature, the man was positively fearsome. A knuckled ridge of abdominal muscles could be seen through his sweater vest. He looked like the kind of person that carried big rocks for a living, not make house calls to eulogize what seemed like the end of our normal lives.

“It goes by many names. It’s much like marijuana in that I wont embarrass myself by trying to legitimize every possible slang for it, though . . . popularly dubbed ‘Pork Fever’. Bit of a pun linking its origin as a pig stimulant with its effects on human behavior. . .”

He introduced himself as Ryan Tubers. He had the tendency to over-explain things. An imposing amazon sat on one of the bar stools we had pulled out. She was a tall glass of black woman. A charcoal goddess of the hunt, someone that brought down antelope with a headlock. She was introduced as Ryan’s wife and assistant and waved at them all cheerfully before engrossing herself completely in a dog-eared paperback. Her name was Donna. I sat locked-in with my family in the living room, watching Ryan slowly click through slides of what our future was supposed to look like. Apparently there was going to be quite a bit of fucking.

My father is a planning technician with the city, an inoffensive office drone and government bureaucrat making enough money to live the quiet suburban lifestyle of his parents. At 43 he had a gut, a stable marriage, and three kids in the process of going to in-state college. Mom embraced public education with gusto. She taught three periods of geometry and algebra at the local high-school and for years maintained an absurdly high level of energy and organization. Lately the years had been dragging her slowly toward the potato shaped lumpiness of her colleagues, but she still ran everyday and had carried the mantle of an attractive fit woman longer than most. Together they sat holding hands in the plush black leather couch comforting each other, dad meeting Ryan’s eyes with calm reproach and mom with a hostile glare.

“Pork Fever partially describes the symptoms of the disease. Each one of you has been tested, and retested. The diagnosis is not wrong. In the next week, you WILL get a mild fever. This includes sneezing, coughing, dizziness, weakness, exhaustion. . . basically you’re going to feel like crap for a day or two. It is during this fever that the disease is infectious and for that reason this house will be quarantined and monitored. If you’ve ever seen exterminators come and bug bomb a house, that is what’s going to happen here. All your neighbors are going to see, is a big stripped tarp cover the house. It will look like you’re being fumigated. It is also during this time that the majority of changes begin to take shape.”

The other shoe dropped. This is what everyone had been waiting for. Up until now the conversation had waddled around the logistics of the event. Who were these people, what authorities did they have, what they were going to do, how were they going to do it, what we should tell our bosses, our schools, our friends about what was happening. Everyone had heard of Pork Fever. This wasn’t something new to us.

The first cases appeared on the news about two years ago and had caused an ongoing riot amongst the pundit class ever since. Much ado had already been made over just how perfectly it seemed to fit the cultural ethos of the nation. Hapless citizens were being stuck down in the street with a mysterious illness. It puffed them up, plumped them out, and made them. . . insatiably horny. Patients reported massive expansions of their sexual features and a hungry, giddy desire to use them. Social conservatives salivated at the uncontrolled promiscuity of the new generation’s secular youth. Liberal blowhards savaged ineffectual republican nonsense about the role of religion and stuffy sexual-education borrowed from a nunnery. On and on it still went. It made for delightful television. White knights and their horny housewives was the new model of raunchy sitcoms. Media had by in large become heavily edited reality television of young nymphomaniacs.

Molly Cauldwell had been the first case. Some office worker at a temp agency. She called in sick and three days later returned to work with tits three sizes bigger and a serious need to suck dick. The first reports read like a centerfold article from a playboy for accountants, something the news anchors chuckle through. Disgruntled employee comes to work not to shoot up the place but to have them shoot on her. I can still remember the amateur footage they looped of her being hogtied out of the building, spunk dripping off her face. Uncensored versions could be found within the hour. She was now a pretty big name in the porn industry apparently, not that I knew. . . from. . . personal experience? It’s what I heard.

“You sound pretty certain. Do you know what’s going to happen to us? You know. . . physically?”

This question was fielded by my older sister, Amy. She was an odd one, hard to figure out. She loved video-games and Netflix. BBC America had to be 80% of her cultural education with fetishistic approval of Sherlock and Doctor Who. Growing up my brother and I would tease her endlessly about being short, not really something I’m proud of but at barely over four feet it’s hard not to think how much it might have ordered her thoughts – that and being constantly mistaken by strangers to be younger than us. She had the body of someone who slouched a lot.

“Unfortunately I don’t. I realize that it is precisely these potential changes to your body and your attitude that probably seem the most scary. I can only assure you as to the medical safety of this event. No one has ever died as a direct consequence of having this disease, it is non-lethal. On top of that, you and this house will be constantly monitored my medical professionals.”

“I also realize just how intrusive that sounds.” Ryan quickly added, quelling my mom’s immediate ramrod straight hand-raise.

“Your house is not going to become ground zero for some kind of medical experiment or E.T. extraction point. No doctor or physician will enter your house without your explicit consent. What we are asking for is that you upload an electronic journal of dietary consumption and basic bio-rhythmic facts at the end of each day. On top of that, the house has been installed with subtle cameras, these cameras are not permanent features of the house and will be removed when the quarantine tent comes off. This footage is property of the CDC and will not be sold or shared to any other organization without your explicit consent.”

“Getting back to your original question though.” He said nodding to Amy. Amy studied the floor as Ryan stared directly at her, suddenly not wanting to be identified.

“Pork Fever exaggerates external and internal sex organs. As you can see here.”

The projector slides flipped to a series of before an after shots. Pork Fever had ravaged the weight loss racket, and the images were a big reason why. Pork Fever was like a horny teenager with photoshop. The before pictures showed frightened sterile men and women with ghostly flat affect. The pictures were gray and drab, and the people in them were not Hollywood beautiful but a whose-who portrait of middle America. Homey faces and underarms that swung with belts of loose flab. All of them worried with a hollow soviet resignation. Without the after picture, they all looked ready to be led out behind the building and shot.

But the after pictures were something else. A sullen, thin haired lady who looked like she was shoplifting Drew Barrymore VHS tapes became a radiant, sunny vision with thick blond curls tumbling down her shoulders and perfectly straight teeth. She wore a top that showed healthy pastures of lovely boob and sprayed on yoga-shorts whose legs ended almost above the crotch. She was looking somewhere slightly above the camera, grinning widely not a care in the world. She didn’t just match up with a checklist for normative beauty, she looked . . . fun. Genuinely happy.

The next set were of a man in his mid forties. Gray hair had just started to make an appearance in his clipped beard and temples. He looked like the branch manager of a retail outlet or rental service. He was wide but not out of shape, probably walking his dogs was the most exercise he ever got. The after picture showed him with a shit-eating grin showing off what looked like fat-pants. A thin, steely body pushed a pair of clown trousers out almost a foot of empty space away from his body. The head of a fire-engine red cock could be seen poking slightly over the belt. It looked huge and ready.

“So while I cannot predict specific individualized body changes, I can overview typical scenarios. On average, breasts tend to grow two and a half sizes for women. The clitoris grows approximately 50% larger.” Turning to the boys. “The penis grows on average 25-33% larger.”

“These are also blunt averages. Some people notice no change whatsoever. Others far outweigh the norm. Contrary to many of the myths you might have heard, ultimately the body changes are not main function of the disease progression. You may have heard the old joke about how the Brain is the largest sex organ? Well in this context, it is unapologetically true.”

“Everything you know about who you are, including your sensory experience of reality, is stored and codified by the solid state memory system of your brain. Ideas, feelings, emotions, and reactions to external stimulus are all mediated by a mechanical process. That is, real moving parts in the biochemistry of your mind. In a neuro-typical human, this creates the illusion of stable personality traits and consistent narrative structure we use to determine who we are and what reality we might expect to see. What I can say, definitely, is that this process will change.”

“Who you are and what you feel is in a large part the result of the specific material configuration your brain is in right now.”

Ryan was rapidly losing his audience. My father studied accounting in college. My sister currently studies architecture with no signs of abating. My brother studied economics and my mother was a homemaker with a knack for arts and crafts. The house was too large now that all the kids were in college, too expensive to maintain and impossible to air-condition. The only reason the four of us were even in the same room with each other was for Christmas. Some Christmas this was shaping up to be. I was set to graduate in psychology and hung on every word.

“The neural pathways to and from erogenous zones dilate ten fold. Data processing centers responsible for interpreting tactile stimulus, as well as certain smells, may actually invade portions of the frontal lobe.”

Claire gaped, horrified. On screen a well proportioned brain bulged rapidly. Pink and orange disks labeling different lobes glided against each other like tectonic plates. A node labeled “Sex?” conquered lands like a Feudal king, driving the other Germanic sounding lobes in hasty retreat.

“We’re going to be lobotomized?!” Jon suddenly raged.

“No. I assure you. This is a change I have experienced myself. Alarm and disgust are a usual response – and I emphasize with your concern for the health of your family.”

Ryan was on his toes as he said it. He looked ready to hug each and every one of us for hours if necessary. He was ready to impress just exactly how much he was here for us, with force if necessary.

“Every particle is encoded with a limited amount of information. All matter has both a geometry and an internal model of their own functioning. Humans experience decoding this information as the physical process of memory and consciousness. The genes of your life will survive. This is not a death sentence. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Darkest before the dawn, that sort of thing.”

At that, Dad’s eyebrows came together in a suspicious shrug.

“I. . . uhhh. . . I don’t mean to attach a religious context to the meaning, I’ve uhh. . . just found it to be a useful metaphor.” Ryan looked a little sheepish. Jon and Ryan were both mid-career government men. The good ones tend to be overly diplomatic and Ryan was well-ammoed with morale boosting remarks.

“This might seem like the worst case scenario for you. Quarantined to your house with your family, it’s natural to worry about what that will mean. This situation might not be ideal, but this is about making lemonade out of lemons. I hope this presentation has reassured you that infected persons can make calm, reasoned decisions about the outcome of their own lives. My wife and I were strangers when we got the news.”

Eyes slowly swiveled back to the muscled panther of a woman stealthily turning the pages in her book. The cover featured a crew of shirtless deckhands with the words ‘The Lusty Sailor’ in swirling gold print. It looked a bit beat up, like more than once someone had a fight on top of it. She looked up and smiled adoringly back, ready to cradle a whole village worth of squabbling infants.

“We were both studying the disease in Atlanta. Two graduate students getting their first taste of real work. I volunteered for the project because. . .”

Now it was Ryan’s turn to study the floor. It was a lovely hardwood.

“Because I was probably still a little bit immature about the whole thing. It was all very sexy news. I was a young man looking to change things and Pork Fever was so out-there. So anti-establishment and so provocative. My wife here was the smartest, kindest, most exotic beauty I had ever seen. There wa—”

“Honey, here let me tell the story.” Donna said standing up and placing a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. Strong as he was, Donna looked like she could fold him up and put him on the highest shelf.

“Sure thing love.”

“Great. Ryan was the scrawniest creep you ever saw. Passionate about the most obscure, unimportant, and standoffish politics you could think of and I barely noticed him as anything more than yet another entitled loser. I don’t think I learned his name until two weeks after we met.

Ryan chuckled at his own description.

“Anyhow, a clean room we were responsible for wasn’t fully sterilized. We were trapped by ourselves in the fourth floor a CDC office building over a weekend. No one knew where we were, what was happening to us, or if we were okay. I remember thinking about my own mother back in my country, telling our friends from the neighborhood about her tiny smart daughter making her way in the States.”

“When the changes started I was so angry. I blamed Ryan, I blamed the CDC. I was angry and frustrated for getting myself in this situation.”

“You should have seen her! She was like a hulk or something. Ripped a desk clean out of the floor! It was bolted in and everything. A real terror.”

“Thank you Ryan.” She said smiling, their eyes met and the feeling of mutual love and respect was palpable.

“But Ryan fed me and listened to me. We survived together, scavenging corn-nuts and pop-tarts from the vending machines. We shared stories about our lives, talked about how we were feeling, our concerns about the future. I was only about a hundred and twenty pounds when this ordeal started. I came out of it as you see me today.” Puffing up her chest proud and beaming down on them like a queen. She had to be between two or three hundred pounds now, at least seven feet tall with muscles drizzled over her like ribbons of mousse. A clearly visible camel toe pinched the inside of her jeans tightly and her meaty dark brown tits jostled effortlessly. She probably carried the car over here.

“Don’t think of this as the end of the world—or even as a setback. This is an opportunity for you to bond with your family in a safe environment. These are people you know, you all have rich histories built on trust and kinship. You will even have some time to prepare; if you’re smart and plan accordingly, there will be more than enough time to put your affairs in order.”

Ryan nodded solemnly. The mood in the room had been diffused somewhat.

“My husband is best with the nuts and bolts of the disease. Perhaps I can fill you in on some of the big picture questions, yes?”

My family bowed grimly, Donna took it as a good sign.

“Over the next day or so you will experience typical flu-like symptoms. Your nose will run like crazy, your throat is going to close-up with mucus-y cobwebs, you may feel sweaty or nauseous. You may feel lethargic or tired. Drowsy. Medically, the concern for your handlers is going to be the severity of these conditions. In rare events, certain people have had dangerously high temperatures, diarrhea, or or blood sugar spikes as the pancreas is taxed. These events are highly unlikely and do not represent our reasonable expectations for you. You’re probably not going to be able to keep much down, so we’ve stocked you up on canned soups and bread. ”

At the mention of diarrhea Ryan gave a rueful snort and physically pulled back from the conversation. I was not curious about the outcome of that particular case. However, sensing an opening, Ryan once again took the lead.

“It is during this time that you will have an opportunity to make arrangements with your family, friends, or place of employment. This disease is officially recognized by the United States government, it’s why all this” Tossing his hands around the room and pointedly eying the occasional passing workman “is happening. You are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. You cannot be fired or made to accept reduced compensation simply for contracting this disease.”

“There are a lot of myths out there surrounding this disease. Unfortunately, many people hold unhelpful puritanical views of your condition. You may experience discrimination personally and professionally as a result. This is not lawful and should be reported. Failing that, you have every right to seek legal action.”

This conversation took a weird turn. Chris and I exchanged glances. The whole family wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this overt political message inserted in the middle of a medical walk through. We had all heard about the sex. The sexy sex that sexed. None of us had really bothered to think much farther than that.

“One popular misconception is that people with Pork Fever should accept less access to criminal justice as a result of their condition. That Pork Fever will make cases of rape less believable, or that victims will not be taken seriously at a trial.”

I hadn’t even thought of that . . .

“Several legislators in our government have even made public statements endorsing explicit housing policies and mortgage lending practices that restrict your ability to purchase homes in neighborhoods that you should otherwise be able to afford. I personally view this as nothing less than an attempted ghettoization of an already disadvantaged minority group.”

Donna tisked and rolled her eyes – just like old times. It was important stuff and effected her personally, but the speech had been done before and Ryan could work himself into a lather if you took him too seriously.

“What is going to help you through his disease is not purely pharmaceutical. It is important to have a social support network where you can freely discuss your needs and organize to protect yourself against threats to your liberties.”

Ryan scurried back to his duffel bag of supplies. It was stained and sorry, probably used to transport sweaty clothes out of the gym. After some routing around, Ryan re-emerged with a small stack of business cards. He passed them into the limp hands and stunned faces of my family. No one seemed eager to hang onto the thin cards and fumbled with them like being handed a gooey brownie with no napkin.

“Think of these cards as a cheat sheet. They contain my contact information, Donna’s contact information. . .” She smiled and waved, as if we had forgotten she were there. Only my sister Amy and I wagged our boneless hands back at her.

“As well as the names and contact information of several local chapters of different advocacy groups. Just like with any union or special interest group, each one has particulars specific to it. So rather than one redundant collection of grubby busybodies, this list represents a broad spectrum of possible organizations, any one of which might fit your needs.”

Some of the names I recognized, though mostly through ridicule that didn’t seem half so clever anymore. The media loved putting a spot light on the unintentionally pornographic habits of Pork Fevers, and positively leaped out of their seats for vapid distractions from the crumbling edifice of American democracy. The Teat Party, Aporn, Code Pink Pussies, Isolactationists, The Occreampie movement, Cocks Without Borders. The somewhat unsettling Birthers. The evening news provided generous panels for talking heads continually re-explaining their political purpose over heated orgasmic cries. Which was fine, the more forward thinking of them were level-headed pragmatists and could usually manage to articulate their cause without too much giggling.

“Over the next day or so I recommend that you do some research yourself to see if this is might be something you’re interested in. Remember, time is of the essence. Within two to three days you will begin to experience something called ‘Peaking’.”

Ryan and Donna shared a glance and chuckled knowingly. There was obviously an inside story to that exchange. It didn’t go unnoticed and caught everyone’s attention.

“This is after the flu symptoms?” It was my brother Chris’s turn to speak up.

“What? Yes actually. Your flu symptoms transition your body into the Peaking stage of this disease. During this ‘Peaking stage’.” He actually used finger quotes when he said it.

“And lets actually just skip over these next few slides.” Ryan brushed past the next few slides in a blur, thumbing the arrow keys carelessly forward. Slender palms held back a crush of inundated muscular bodies under the banner ‘Are monogamous relationships for you?’ The next one simply read: ‘How many dicks are too many dicks?’ above a woman holding three billiard balls in her mouth. A third featured a trio of lovelies sucking ruthlessly at their milkshakes – making fish lips at a passing pair of bulging male blue-jeans. The slide was titled: ‘Help! I can’t stop sucking cocks!’.

“Anyway, back to your question. Your sensory neurons will fire much more frequently as the disease lowers the action potential necessary for chemical and electrical reactions in your body. Axons wont fire with greater intensity, that’s not how biology works. What happens is the refraction period shrinks alongside a lower threshold for activation. This increased signaling will channel into new receptive sites in the brain cortex Your body will connect greater frequency stimulus with data processing centers specifically designed to attach cognitive weight to this input.”

Ryan cupped his hands and smiled obliviously at each of us in turn as he spoke.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dad said it slowly and carefully. He was clearly getting angry again. Dad was a nice man but he could explode if he thought we was getting duped. Jon had a radar for getting the shit end of the stick and reacted poorly to it. Not his best quality.

“He means it makes your clit swell up like gumball.” Donna looked ferocious in her sensible cardigan. Savage canines clicked together in an ivory phalanx, her mouth made a crescent moon of dangerous scissors from ear to ear.

“When you Peak, all you can think about is having man after man dip into your willing holes. It’s like having itching powder stuffed down your pants. Everything gets inflamed. Your tools will be aching to nut all over some shameless slut. You get so god damn horny all you can do is curl up and cry, abusing yourself raw.”

No one was prepared to challenge her.

“Uhhh . . . what she means is—”

“Your tits are going to surge in so fast you may not be able to catch them. Two wiggling torpedoes with steaming nipples. You might want to wash down every knob in this place because you are going to ride all of them. Boys, find some buckets because you’ve never cum so hard in your life. You’re going to make gallons of the stuff.”

Donna’s khakis darkened around the crotch and a heady scent filled the room. It smelled like working all day in the heat. Accomplishment, jungle and roasted meat wrapped in aged tobacco leaf. A purple cigar of hallucinogenic decadence. Brian’s mouth flooded with saliva and uncomfortable arousal. There was similar prickly re-adjusting in my siblings seats.

“You’re going to fire into each other again and again—grunting like animals. Ripping up the carpet wild. Your bright little pussies are going to shake hands with every prong you meet. Pink folds smashed, bruised and furious for another pounding. Painting your writhing bodies with mind-dulling jizz. You’re going to throw your man on the floor and ride him like a ranted mule, pinning him to the ground with your hot clamp. Cumming til your fucking blind from orgasm—”

Donna was standing now and had moved forward step by step, stalking prey. Her Khakis stained almost to the floor and a frankly cannibalistic look in her eye. Just before she could pounce Ryan intervened.

“Sshhhh, shhh.... Donna it’s okay. We’re not in the cave anymore. We got out remember? We made it. . .”

Mom lifted herself off the couch with fright and the rest of us flattened into the cushions away from the snarling wide-eyed Donna. She just stood there puffing, her fists like two clay bricks and her face a smokey wine. She could peel trees for a living—and as tough and naily as Ryan looked, Donna could ragdoll him in seconds.

“She, uhh. . . she is right though. Expect the best, prepare for the worst—kind of thing.”

Dad found his courage first. “GET THE HELL OUTA MY HOUSE!”

“Right sorry.”

Ryan switched off his projector and packed up his supplies in a dash. They clearly started fucking in their car on the street. Donna howled wolfishly and neighbors from across the street peered through slanted shades at the rocking vehicle. It wasn’t until the passenger side windshield began to splatter with white streaks did Jon run out to chase them away. Ryan’s car backfired once before it peeled out and a few other windows were already opaque with dried gunk. For a government science hotshot, the guy had a shit car.