The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The sounds of construction, kids playing, motors revving, and skateboarders rolling eventually nudged Jess awake. She yawned slowly, itself quite the curious task. Her lips felt coated in something fruity, and her mouth was all sticky and hot, like she had gone to bed right after drinking a liter of strawberry soda.

She burped, then yawned again, low, and moaned, feeling pleasant. It was actually grape soda, she remembered softly. Glorious Grape, locally bottled and highly alcohlic, though you’d never guess. How many did I drink?

The heavy, pudding-ish texture was... different at first. After a six pack, though, she was too busy gummily shooting/slurring the shit about boys with Trixie to notice that she was sweating translucent purple. Or that the discharge disappeared as soon as it came, erasing any body hair it touched in the process.

Jess smiled and kicked her feet on top of the fuzzy pink comforter. She saw the alarm clock a foot from her satisfied head, and at first didn’t want to believe it. “1:53?!” Her mind raced and fought to come back down to earth, while her body barely moved, save from a subconscious caress of her thighs.

They seemed smoother or something, she considered, before she realized she was alone. The musician felt it out. The deafening silence she detected in the apartment was mortifying. She tried to piece together what had happened.

She sat up, groaning at the smudge of pudge around her waist that sat up with her. “What did we get into, babygirl?” she asked herself reflexively, startled at a sassiness she never used. I must still be in dream mode, she convinced herself, foggy in her recollection of the number of different men that populated her sleep. But she was still kind of high, so she lost them all. All she could grab were fleeting visions of loads of tan muscles, burly hair, and overalls.

The one constant through all of it had been her breasts. Somehow in her dreams they were enormous, even bigger than Trixie’s. Trixie. Jess shuddered at the thought and name of that woman. That sexy goddess, she thought in passing envy, clutching her chest to make sure she still had “tiny tremblin’ titties”, as her hostess called them. Snapping the spandex shut around them, she knew that she did, even though they were kind of puffy. She put her hand down on the bed, and the bottom of her palm made something roll.

This shock nearly plunged her out of her skin. A beet red dildo, realistically engorged with “blood”, shuddered at her touch. She got goosebumps and, peeking at them, saw that her soft skin was still a milky white. She was sure she had to have been in a tanning booth, because what else could make her skin feel so tight?

She inserted a memory, just in case, of Trixie shaving her. She pulled on some fabric. That explained her smooth legs and her hairless vadge. She felt the breezy country air tickle it, and, fear now beginning to outweigh arousal, refused to let her straying fingers go anywhere near it.

She tumbled back down upon the bed, barely aware that her hand was still on the strangely, organically rhythmic vibrator. Tickling the tip, even. “No, no, no!” she chirped, clearing the rest of the sweet muck from her throat. This isn’t happening!

Figuring she acidentally turned the thing on, she fumbled for an off switch. In no time, she knew there wasn’t one, and was absently stroking the imitation (but nice-feeling) pubic hair that bristled from the base. It was handily equipped with a very lifelike scrotum.

This thing’s balls are almost twice as big as Jude’s, she guessed. Did she already get to feel the girth of the play-shaft? Last night was such a blur...

Suddenly, she forced herself to feel skeezed out by the fake wang’s realistic throbbing, hiding it out of sight underneath the covers. That wasn’t enough, though, because then she couldn’t stop staring at the thing as it spasmed and made indentations in the fabric. Drooling, it took her a couple seconds to remember how to make her lips not pucker and pout. Somehow that had become their restful state.

Jess managed to let go of the cherry-smelling dick-thing and stood up in front of her hostess’s ornate, pastel mirror. Her nipples seemed to be more attentive than her eyes, and they poked out in rapt attention through the tight maroon fabric of her leotard. The color was complemented by the brighter, candy red of her lipstick, those soft things back again in their pucker-and-pout formation. She held a newly manicured hand, with lime green french tips, up to her mouth. Even half-touching it made her wetter downstairs.

The singer gave in only partially and licked her Skittle-tasting nails, also trying to put in work scratching a newfound mole, recalling her hostess placing it there as a “cherry on top” for her makeover. She managed to flick it off her upper lip, and a slightly bigger one popped out on the same spot.

She had to admit that it did lie there perfectly. Even if it felt like some kind of biological brand. Beyond the mascara and lipstick, it slutted her face up nicely. Jess begged her reflection not to look so damn good.

When she caught herself beginning to wonder why her hair growing and curling into its redness should worry her, she stopped looking into the mirror altogether. Otherwise, she was just going to get overcome by her narcissistic wetness. On the endtable, by the damning clock, there was a note in dark magenta ink on light pink paper.

“Jessica,” it read, “Got a call from the bar to come and get your car before it got towed. You looked so calm and cute, I didn’t want to bother you with it that early. Be right back with it, Luv, Mama Trix.” Jess sighed.

So not only did this celestially curvy lady still have her car keys, she had her car now! “P.S.,” the note went on underneath a rouge lip imprint. “Feel free to smoke the blunt I left on the kitchen counter. You’re the funnest guesty ever.” Jess shook her head, still stupid and stoned from the nighttime shenanigans. The clock read 2:35 and nearly gave her a panic attack.

That can’t be, I just got up! She checked herself out in the mirror again. Her eyes screamed for help, but her lips were pursed with sexy promises. This time, when she started to get wet, she understood that part of it was that she really needed to pee.

Flouncing to the adjacent bathroom with a sultry step she seemed locked into, she shimmied out of her straps and pulled her leotard halfway off, sitting down on the toilet. It was then that she remembered she didn’t even have her bag with her to change out of this ridiculous thing and into some clean clothes.

A quick peek around the room told her even last night’s clothes weren’t there. When she finished and scanned the living room, stepping in and looking deeper and finding nothing, she minced to the kitchen to at least get stoned. It was all she could do while she waited.

Ass glued to Trixie’s luxurious purple sofa a half hour or so later, Jess hazily popped off another tab to another Cherub Cream. She had taken three from the fridge since they were all her hostess had, and because she was surprisingly starving. I must have cleared her out with that four-course meal, it dawned on the girl. She didn’t know exactly what was in these Cherub Creams, but they were thick in consistency and seemed to do the trick. And she liked the name. It was kinda cute.

Also, getting a bunch at once this way, she wouldn’t miss any of the action in the weird, sexy-silly soap opera that held her attention firmly on the TV. She slurped, getting a good pull, and finished the tube in record time. This one filled her to the core, and made her tum-tum feel even tighter.

She rubbed it as she continued to watch, wondering whether or not Clem was finally going to trick Ginny into “helping him out with his zipper”. Jess identified with Ginny because they wore the same leotard, except Ginny’s was royal blue and gold.

She could hear her phone buzzing as she thrummed with envy on the couch. As if they were her only choices, she deliberated between getting up and answering it, or boring some fingers into her snatch. She chose what she thought was correctly, creaming around knuckles and venturing that even if it was her boyfriend on the phone, he couldn’t fuck her like Ginny was getting fucked now on the TV, so why bother. And even if somehow he could, he wasn’t as big as this dude Clem. She marvelled at her airtight logic and assumed more would come, right after she did.

Seconds after her phone stopped buzzing, she realized she should probably go back to the bedroom anyway to retrieve that bucking bronco of a vibrator. There was no way she and Trixie hadn’t done some stuff with it, she thought. “I can’t wait to leave this horrible, horrible place,” she huffed, neglecting to check her calls, plopping back onto the sofa, guiding the thing in as it began to flex tastily inside her.

At around 3:15, Jess had finally cummed and was letting the dick slow its thrusting down until it got calm. She tickled the balls, just so the shaft could jerk out of reflex and give her a little reminder of how great the play felt. It made her giggle.

In her reverie, Trixie unlocked the door and ambled in, throwing the musician’s car keys on the coffee table, next to the empty Cherub Creams. Her eyes followed an easy path to Jess’s naked crotch, leotard pushed aside to better welcome her old magic cock. Not the most ideal position of opposition.

“I see you’ve been making yourself comfortable,” she laughed half-mockingly. “I got two cases of those... meal replacement creams for you, babygirl.” Trixie sat right next to Jess and helped her get the big dick out of her. It was receding in size slowly but surely and had enough give to eventually slide out. “I had a feeling you might take to ‘em. They’re in your trunk.” The musician looked up at her with unbridled adoration. “They good, ain’t they?” her hostess asked her.

Jess grinned and nodded feverishly before pausing to try and remember what had been so ugent before she got stoned and fucked herself while watching country soaps. “I mean, no!” She shot up, straightening out the bottom of her get-up. She didn’t remember it being so tight around her hips the past night.

“You got me high as balls and forcefed me like some sick pervert!” She looked at her tiny little belly pudging forth, ran her hands along her newly thick hips.

She wasn’t the biggest fan of these new discoveries, even as each one made her hornier and hornier, again. It was a sort of bean shape and she felt guilty about finding it absolutely adorable now that she really thought more about it. But she didn’t want to tell her that.

“I feel so fat,” she whined, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as if it proved something. Jess knew there was something beyond strange going on, making her so ditzy and horny and lazy, something other than that whole blunt. “And I look so hot!” she blurted, betraying her stupid meddlesome brain.

“Why don’t we go to the gym, then?” Trixie suggested. “You’re already dressed for it.” Jess managed to find a halfway reasonable out. “Soundcheck is at six,” she told her hostess. She still had at least a couple of hours on the road, too. She didn’t really have time. “So we have some time, then, right?” Trixie asked, hopeful.

Jess sighed. Mama Trixie did go get her car for her, and she didn’t even mention any towing fee. And had given her so much weed, food, and a place to stay. Just this one last thing, she assured herself. “Fine,” she said, sticking a sticky finger between her candied lips.

“I left a pair of cute orange trainers at the foot of my bed ‘cuz I had a hunch you’d want to work out in your cute little leotard,” Trixie cooed. “You go put ‘em on while I start the car,” she said, picking up the musician’s car keys and twirling them on her finger. “What?” she asked the girl arrogantly.

“You think I’m gonna let you drive? Honey, you’re way too blazed.” Jess nodded and accepted this blindly, too distracted now by the prospect of new sneakers to complete her kinda-sexy excercise look. She was already in there tying her laces as her hostess called out one last thing from behind her shoulder.

“I knew you’d eventually come around to that magic cock,” she giggled, mortifying Jess and making her heart drop. “I honestly can’t believe you lasted the whole night. ‘I’ll just wait for my boyfriend.’ ‘This is where I draw the line.’ Yeah, right.” Jess gulped.

Despite the warnings of confusion, she’d never looked or felt this good in her entire life. She’d be a show-stopper that night no matter what, and felt entitled to a little excercise time. I wonder if Mama Trix has any armbands around here, she thought, as she pulled her back into a ponytail with a scrunchie. That would really make the whole gym bunny look.

Stepping out a few moments later, Jess saw Trixie’s opulent, cartoonish sunglasses frame her cute little button nose. Silver hot pants were almost getting sucked up by her butt, and a tight ribbed tank that said “MILK” in university font gave her big breasts little support. She was chewing on gum, waiting.

When her hostess didn’t smile, Jess dreaded that something was up. Trixie offered her new girlfriend a stick of the gum. It tasted like warm apple pie. No, “It tastes like a sour apple cream soda!” She looked up and saw that she still wasn’t smiling. “What is it?” Jess asked her, a little worried.

Trixie moved aside and leaned onto the back of a cheery pink pleather recliner. There was the touring musician’s instrument case, split almost directly in half. Jess couldn’t hide her tearing eyes, and didn’t even care enough to. She sobbed and sobbed into Mama Trix’s shoulder. Still with heightened, luxuriating senses, she burrowed deep into it, trying to sniff in all the melange of tangy citrus, berry deodorant, and sun-dappled sweat.

Trix was grinning above Jess’s cradled head, kissing it, running her fingers freely through her new red curls.

“What is this again?” Jess asked in the passenger seat after slurping a healthy amount through the electric blue bendy straw, safety buckle sort of chafing against her softened arm. “A Family Freedom Frostie?”

It wasn’t the question she had wanted to ask, but she was finding it hard to remember when Trixie’s jugs danced around like they were doing, nips firing off wildly in every direction while the car slogged along the rocky dirt road. Plus, the ice cold drink was pretty damn delish, a frozen white mocha thing with a hint of mango.

“You sure are catchin’ on,” Trixie beamed, “yup! A Triple-F with two extra enhance-o shots,” she wagged her finger, “but you’ll catch on to all of our lingo sooner or later.” Jess’s skin crawled. That sounded like some sort of dialogue from a lost sex cult episode of “Designing Women”.

Even so, she didn’t feel like arguing and compromising her hopefully quick exit, opting not to remind her of her departure. She was just going to do this one last thing, and then she’d be on her way. She even promised to call Mama Trix once she got to the city.

She chuckled, sipping the dregs of her 20 oz. cup. Family Freedom Frostie, she repeated in her head. Abilene Cowgirls, a coffee chain whose billboards she saw around the highway near Poren Springs, had a location on the way so Trixie convinced Jess to let them get drive-thru, treating the girl for a millionth time.

“Wasn’t that cashier cute?” she asked the girl as she tore into a lemon-lime cheesecake muffin. Her new artsy New Englander friend opted for just the drink, having had all those Cherub Creams back at the flat, and one more already just on this car ride.

“I guess,” Jess said, even though she had only seen this supposedly cute girl’s whopping tits plunging out of a low-cut, cow-print uniform. Trixie’s done-up halfro was in the way, too. Whatever face the barista might have had up there was likely made irrelevant by those hooters, regardless.

“But you’re totally hotter,” Jess inanely complimented her. She didn’t even have to open her wallet since she got offstage the night before, really. She was grateful and began to feel pampered, and worse, preferred it. But it was like being pampered in the wrong way, or something.

Pamper guilt... Wasn’t that mentioned in a commercial Jess had watched earlier when she was snacking and snatching? A stern-looking reverend standing at a glowing, hot pink pulpit—warning with some fairly disturbing intensity about what might happen if St. Brittany’s corn-fed flock didn’t stock up on Potty Poopers brand diapers during the Chow-Barn’s 3-for-1 sale.

She took a long drag of one of Trixie’s fun fruity cigs. Just this one last thing. You can do it. Work off all these empty calories for a little bit, make a showing, and you’re off. “Can we maybe do something about my banjo?” she requested timidly. Trixie blew a bubble and ignored her.

“But McKay said he’d reimburse you if you could take me to a local music shop and get a new one,” Jess said, fiddling with the shiny gold bangle Trixie goaded her into wearing, then ran her fingers along the soft feel of her foofy, ruffled white socks.

Her record label’s president had been very accomodating about her damaged banjo. Checking her messages soon after stepping in the car, she saw that it was he who had called her (of course it couldn’t have possibly been her boyfriend or anything), and Jess had told him an abbreviated story of her wild, wobbly night. That apparently ended in the late morning with somebody running over her case. “C’mon, you know I didn’t want—”

“Jesss,” Trixie hissed in the driver’s seat, like it was the most obnoxious name on earth to her, “Don’t worry about it.” She looked relieved as she pulled into the parking lot. “At least, not now. We’re here. Honestly, I think it’d do you plenty good to sweat out your frustrations.” She lowered her sunglasses to share her warm gaze at Jess.

“Look at you,” she said in awe, straightening out the silk bow she put in the singer’s hair before leaving. It was a finishing touch after they re-applied mascara that had run wet with tears. “My superstar bestie!” Trixie squealed, unbuckling.

She hugged Jess and held her close, excited nipples grazing confused ones, huge boobs mashing up against budding bitties. Trixie’s hoop earrings were hitting Jess’s neck as she whispered into her ear, soft and sultry, “You make my pussy purr,” she teased, the words sounding wet and hot, consonant-heavy.

Jess’s own pussy understood those words so her head didn’t have to. She didn’t keep Mama Trix from lightly kissing her neck but was planning on stopping her if Trixie’s lips got any higher. Then she felt them on her chin and forgot why she didn’t want them there.

Somehow, she managed to squirm free from the fun sexiness, and stood at the side of the car, checking her look in the reflection of Mama Tease’s car windows, puckering to make sure her lips looked rad. “C’mon, Trixie, puh-lease can we get thith over with!” she called, feeling exposed in the warm air wearing only a leotard.

“Trixie?” Jess peered into the driver’s seat. There her devoted hostess was, blubbering helplessly. The sobbing shook her boobies, and it suddenly made sense to Jess why random guys would want to stick their face in them. They took up some room, and even as she sighed in exasperation at the woman behind them, she had the urge to motorboat now.

Jess opened Trixie’s door and got down on her knees, putting her head innocently in her lap. The act of supplication must have made her butt stick out, because in a pickup tumbling by, a few rowdy shirtless dudes soon snapped a towel smack onto it. Someone in the truck cranked up the radio, and it was, embarassingly, “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry.

“..and I liked it!” she sang as the men rolled further away on the gravel, hooting. Jess giggled, and so did Trixie, through her tears. “This is so stupid!” Jess cried, halfway because of the insipid, culturally void “irony”, and halfway to lessen the apparent gravity of the situation.

“Should we?” she asked Trixie, already freeing the woman’s mammoth mams, lingering on the second strap. Just this one last thing, she repeated, twisting one of Trixie’s nipples gently. “Should we what?” Trixie asked, sniffling.

I’m practically right next to Philly, Jess deceived herself, just this one simple thing. She couldn’t take it anymore, and climbed on Trixie as best she could with the door open like that, half-grinding on her lap and making out so sweetly, slobbering away the salt of Trixie’s tears.

When one of them pushed too hard on the steering wheel, the conspicuous sound of the blaring horn made the hot and horny girls adjust. Jess got back down on her knees at the side of the car, felt them scraping on the road as she was kissing Mama Trixie’s titties now, sucking at either nipple when she thought the woman was giving off milk.

It felt natural and totally right to let it flow down her throat, like a baby. “Jess, we, -oooh-, maybe we should start our workout soon.”

“Sshhb—just one more minute,” Jess said, letting go of a boob for a second, letting milk dribble its way down it and splash on her chin, too. She was going to get this over with. To brighten Trixie’s mood. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She changed her stance slightly, and in doing so let Trixie’s abnormally gushing nipple spray all onto the seat and all the way down to the floor mat. Whatever. She’d worry about cleanup later. Just one last thing.

“Nope! Nuh-uh, no thank you,” Jess sang, trying her best to not look in the rearview mirror as she drove away from Trixie and her friend Sandy, who were slowly jogging with all their extra curves, calling out and trying to convince her to stay and get treated to an early dinner.

It was 7:30 and just starting to get dark out, but more present than the worry of being late to the gig was the worry of never seeing Mama Trix again. Jess allowed herself a few tears, but desperately tried to get a grip. She was on the road. She was doing the right thing.

Even if her body was telling her how right the full workout had felt and would continue to feel, she wasn’t so brainless that she didn’t recognize how wrong it was in actuality. Even if she was losing any grip on the events of the day. It had started, innocently enough, on a balance beam.

The old high school gymnasium had been converted into a 24/7 fitness room and was filled with balance beams, jump ropes, and trampolines. After walking a beam carefully and proud, she was on to the trampoline. Working up a sweat there, she felt inadequate all of a sudden, wishing she had more bounce.

The final station of this part of Trixie’s customary workout would only deepen her low self-esteem. She had to jump rope in front of a council of about twenty seated judges, all of which were total, already well-blossomed, women.

Even though she could swear that there was more of her butt to go around, and that it had a little more give as it cutely jiggled, they booed her the entire time. Jess’s boobs were just too small for them, and the resulting look was pathetic, a waste of a trampoline.

“They’re going to be disappointed, but harness their disappointment, let it motivate you to work harder,” Trixie had warned her. She obviously never had a problem with trampoline time. And she was even joining in on the humiliating jeers in the front row, shouting, “Flat whore!” and play-gagging.

Jess tried her best to take the insult as positive reinforcement, but had far from positive feelings about noticing Trixie still had her keys, strewn just a little too far from her seat. She shut her eyes and kept on jumping, trying not to cry from all the booing and laughing, soldiering through this part.

Downstairs was where the really good stuff was. All sorts of weird, strenuous-looking equipment. After jumping jacks, toe touches, and about twenty minutes on the treadmill, she wiped off her sweaty body and asked Trixie, “What’s next?” Her hostess and gym instructor led her to a corner of the flourescent-lit basement.