The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Two miles down the interstate, Jess saw the light of a little country gas station and remembered she’d needed to tank up once she made it to the club the night before. “Phew,” she husked. That seemed like ten years ago.

She pulled off at the exit, and right next to the off-ramp, was greeted by a weathered wooden sign with a hand-painted, old fashioned bombshell enjoying a Cherub Cream. “Welcome to Cherub Cove, Good Church Country Since 1887.” She took the beat-up billboard at face value, neglecting to see a Clear Channel tag at the bottom.

Pulling into the lot, she could see the attendant, who she assumed to be Clyde from the name of the place hanging on a rickety sign over the station. He was standing just outside the door, puffing on a corncob pipe. She rolled her windows down and unlocked her doors, poised to get out.

He ran up. “No, ma’am,” he chivalrously offered, “pretty little thing like you shouldn’t move no muscle,” and he unlatched the handle at the side of her car, pumping her gas for her. “Were you planning on picking anything up from the convenience store?”

Jess struggled to slurp down the red candy drool that was practically gushing from her. “I guess just something to snack on if you got it,” she muttered, feeling conflicted over this princess treatment. After he was done pumping, he came back not a minute later. Jess thumbed through her wallet to pay the nice man, trying to find a couple twenties.

He reached in and clasped her hand shut around it, holding out a candy bar in his free hand. “Uh-uh-uh. You look lost, little lady. Gas and that Big Bitty are on the house.” She unwrapped the king-size candy bar savagely and took a healthy bite. “Where’d you say you was comin’ from?”

“I didn’t,” she said, around a mouthful of berry nougat. The chewy treat was hard to eat, but seemed to be sopping up her excess saliva. Unfortunately, within the same process, it was making her horny again. It sure picked away at her hunger, though.

Upset that her arousal hadn’t subsided since leaving Trixie and her hot friends, she told him “Poren Springs” between bites, and that she was a musician on her first east coast tour, and that she was thankful for the free stuff but really had to get back on the road. Lest she do anything rash and slutty. She left that part out, of course.

Eventually, he backed away from the car to let her finish eating, wishing St. Brittany’s tidings upon her on her trip. St. Brittany. Everyone mentioned her around here. Jess had never even heard of that particular saint before, and she was raised Catholic. She made a promise to eventually ask her mom, preferably whenever she was feeling less sexed-up and not stuffing her face.

When she was halfway down the candy bar, she saw that the attendant was still peering into her car, and it creeped her out. So she pulled to the side of the station, out of his scope, and took some deep breaths. Simply finishing this rich candy bar was proving insanely difficult. That it made her more turned on with each bite made matters more pressing.

She kept on chewing and working it down her throat, checking the lone new message on her phone. McKay had called her sometime during her workout. “I just got off the phone with Darren,” her label rep said. Darren was the student who organized her Philly show. She never saw it before, but with some time away from her computer, she remembered him being quite cute. Some crumbs landed on her lap as she wondered about his stamina.

“I don’t know where you are, but you weren’t at soundcheck. I can only assume by your silence that you’re on your way. Remember, show starts at 11. And if you don’t already have a new banjo,” the word nearly made her choke, “I e-mailed him instrumental tracks for your set that he can run through a PA.” That was easy enough. In reality, replacing the instrument hadn’t crossed her mind whatsoever in at least a few hours. “Be safe.”

Once she plowed through the rest of the Big Bitty, Jess felt an emptiness trickle in and spread out through the whole of her body. Then a soft heat travelling through her erogenous zones by way of pinpricks.

She needed to cum soon. She didn’t want to, as she was out on the road, on her own now, getting later and later. But she had to. There was no way she could get back on the highway in this state.

First, she ran her fingers along the inadequate fabric shielding her snatch. That didn’t work, so she pulled it aside and dug in. It still didn’t adequately make it any better.

Thong around her ankles twenty minutes later, grunting and restless, she had four fingers pounding in and out, only getting more worked up. Someone knocked on her foggy window. She rolled it down, reluctantly.

There Clyde stood, dick out, with his fists at his sides like Superman, grinning ear to corn-husking ear. “Couldn’t help but hear ya. Need some help?”

He’s so huge, Jess thought ashamedly. Maybe one quick ride, and if I get off super-fast, it won’t be cheating? Then she remembered the strengthening correlation between feeling good and being misled.

“No, I should hope not,” she said, affecting a southern accent of her own. “Thanks anyway.” She left her window down and let the man continue jacking off though, spurts of semen landing on the trim of her door and all the way to her seatbelt.

“I’d... love for you to help me... help ya, honest to St. Bethany,” she told him. “Brittany,” he corrected. “Yeah, Brittany,” she sucked. “Wha’d ah say?” Clyde batted away the question, pulling his overalls back up, and started back to his post.

“’Course, I never even heard uh no Saint Brittany before I come here or nothin’,” Jess continued, in a conversational tone, behind his back. Her voice cracked and melted into a smooth molasses rasp, like a bad Carolinian summer stock actress in a Tennessee Williams play. Hearing herself made her jump. This is weird... But weird is hot! Duh!

“Now, all that’s runnin’ through my brains is family way this, and ever-lovin’ livestock of the covenant that!” She popped open a Cherub Cream as the man stopped in his tracks. “Ah haven’t even been here a damn day and these my titties! Can you believe it?” Naturally, she didn’t mean any of it, just grabbing clusters of buzz words she’d heard around Trix and her friends.

(Well, except for the titty part. She was an artist, though, and performing came naturally to her. Just like being on the stage. What was awkward was how it was coming out of nowhere. Why did she want to play dumb belle for this random old fart?)

Clyde turned around, strolling back up to her, slowly. She leaned up and out of her car, hefting her boobs out of their meager cups and cradled them, pushing them together. It was like she hadn’t truly noticed their new presence until she got out of Poren Springs. It didn’t feel right to just grow tits, sure, whatever, but she was far from wishing them away.

“Ready to give me a titty-job with them thangs?” he asked, pulling his pecker out again. It looked amazing. Jess smacked herself. Amazing meant awful somehow! She had to remember that. It was like Opposite Day, but with fucking!

She knew she was advertising herself, too, so his randy request wasn’t so unfounded. Her dress still held on tight to her bust, even without the pestering bra. Men really are persuaded by a hot bod, ain’t they?

“Yeah, you’d like that I reckon,” Jess said, sounding play-bored. “But I’m a growin’ angel. You can still watch a growin’ angel, y’just cain’t touch her.” She hoped that was an accurate recalling of a rule from Mama Trix’s questionnaire and info packet.

She didn’t want to look unfaithful in front of this dim-witted, God-fearing man. Ugh, why do I keep on flirting? She couldn’t seem to get her tits back in place and frowned, frustrated. All these new problems. A tour was hardly the time for all these new problems.

She wriggled out of her dress and unclasped her bra, throwing it to the ground, not figuring Clyde to be the kind of pervert that he was. So, not only was he peeping at her, he scooped the underwear up almost immediately. “You sure must have a gallon of cum in ya,” she sighed, lighting up a cigarette as he started jacking it again.

Jess gazed at her pretty fingernails as she absently dialed the number written on her glovebox. “Ooooh, why can’t I stop funny-talkin’?” she whimpered, waiting for the line to connect, uneasily taking drags of her cig and worried that something very wrong was happening. It felt like her mind was harpooned, locked into destroying itself from the vagina up. Clyde’s grunting got so loud that she couldn’t hear if someone picked up or if it was still ringing.

“I got a problem,” she hesitantly said, disappointed at the idea of inconveniencing Mama Trix. “I forgot to ask you if I could borrow something.” She took a tissue, and, pursing her lips onto it, got all the sticky red lipstick off. Her flirty pillows felt soft and looked natural, but had an even more vivid red tone to them. Like she was a born coquette.

“Ha, yeah, girl! I should’ve known you’d know what I was talkin’ about.” She laughed over the phone to Trixie, but looked in her mirror and saw that she was gritting her teeth, about to cry. Trying her best not to smile, or smooch her reflected image, she scanned her messy mind for reasons not to want those lips forever. They were just hot, juicy, sexy lips. No big deal.

“No, Trix, I’m not suckin’ on anything,” she chortled, wiping a tear from her eye. She winked at herself and turned her face to either side, to get views of her perfect face at different angles.

“Do your kissin’ lips ever feel wet like your fuckin’ lips?” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and was working it like a toddler, then pulled it out when it started to feel amazing again, like so many things. She squeezed her thighs together. Just one last thing. “Nevermind, yeah, we’ll talk about it more when I get back.”

Jess breezed down the interstate, Trixie’s magic cock bearing balls deep in her, thrusting along with the beat of some inane pop trash on the FM. She’d clocked miles in what felt like no time at all after swinging back to retrieve the thing.

“I wanna be a girl / I wanna wanna be a girl / I wanna wanna be a fun girl / I wanna wanna be the best girl / Oh yeah”, she sang along to the so-far 23-minute long song. It was nothing but that “chorus” repeated over and over again, with instrumental breaks that signaled key changes, overlayed with the sounds of ass slapping and girl-cumming. Now it sounded like some dude grunting on the downbeat.

In line at a toll booth, she put her favorite bandana around her neck and got her pink-rimmed glasses out of their case. Jess put them on while she checked herself out in the mirror, looking like a nerdy Veronica Lake after a hormone bath. She took the vibrator out, trying to tame it as it moved on its own accord and made a break for her thighs.

It was time to give it a rest. It had already done its job twice. She wanted to seem indie and mature for the show, because that’s who she was, or something. She looked herself over and felt startlingly improper. Her dress’s hem totally exposed her pussy. Sandy straight-up lied to her.

The singer lamely held a pair of bright orange hot pants (that somebody left on top of her bag) bunched up around her crotch in an unsuccessful attempt to cover it. Her hips and ass were still exposed in the weak act.

“Thongs are weird,” she said to the slowly powering-down dick in the passenger seat, as if it could listen.

Unfortunately, she didn’t realize that she had rolled up to the attendant already and that he was listening, too. And watching. Once she did, she tried to defend herself like it was perfectly normal. Blushing with the color of a ripe tomato.

“Well, they are!” she told the man in plain grey uniform. He looked unimpressed. Was this lady actually getting mad about lack of coverage from underwear that was at her feet? He sniffed the close air seeping out of her car, and his heart dropped when he saw white splotches of what looked like milk, or worse...

“Cherub Cove is back the other way, ma’am,” he said, laughing. Jess mistook it for a helpful laugh. “Sweetheart,” she husked, fake country accent getting realer and realer despite her misgivings, “I’m-a play a show in Philadelphia in like a hour or somethin’. You got the wrong lady.”

Jess pulled up her thong and was wriggling through buttoning her hot pants up, too, as people in the cars behind her began to honk their horns, getting restless. She caught the operator looking at her and assumed it was in lustful appoval. “Ma’am?” he tried. She smoothed the bratty short shorts around her thighs, and the tight cut made the new flesh of them pool out too obscenely.

I look weird with hot pants on under a fancy dress like this, she convinced herself, hurriedly. “Yes?” she asked, pulling them back down, the elastic of her thong being taken down with them. “A dollar sixty-five,” the man said, uninterested.

Further down the road, she pulled into a rest stop, hungering for at least some coverage down below, before she made even more of a fool of herself, and maybe an iced coffee. And maybe a muffin or a burger, or something.

“Nevermind, I—” Jess grumbled into the phone, sticking her teensily flossed ass out further as she rummaged through her back seat, and flung the contents of her bag across it. “I found ‘em.” She had to spend some time anxiously convincing Trixie that there probably were some girls, and maybe even guys, that might not take kindly to that much booty on display. She stammered through a a weak defense of her definition of proper.

She worked the ribbed white cotton panties on as a woman and her young son walked by, the mother attempting to shield his eyes, surely having to explain the situation away in a moment or two. As soon as she got the slighty more conealing undies on in a nice fit, desperately pulling her red dress down in hopes that its snugness was caused by how she was seated in the car, Jess noticed her crotch was already soaking through.

“Yesss, Mama Trix,” she sighed, wanting to get on with her fourth phone call to or from her since leaving. “I’ll try my best not to preach too hard tonight.” Her hostess, since the workout, had consistently urged the singer to keep quiet about her changes and new, brainwashy faith.

Truthfully, even though she was fired up and halfway ready for some inane, sexy sermonizing, it was getting harder and harder to remember all the particulars of her time in Poren Springs anyway. Or how much enough of it was already implanted. “I love you, too, Mama Trix,” she said, lips grazing the phone in an almost-kiss. “You go with Britt, too!”

Jess barely heard the ringing of her phone over the loud music, that silly, ditzy song still pounding through the car stereo some fifteen more miles ahead. Her fingers were deftly seasoning her panty-soup, and the fright over her constant horniness bounced along into pride with the banging beat.

Pride that she’d somehow refused the crushing need to put the magic cock back in. She unkinked the twisted, sticky fabric, smoothed it over her pussy, licking off a finger or two as she checked her cell out. It was her boyfriend. It was actually her boyfriend! She freaked.

The touring musician was almost about to call Trixie out of reflex, to find out what she should do, before she (wisely, she thought) ignored him altogether. How could she possibly recap, as late as she was, and as still in the dark about so many things herself? She tossed her phone onto the seat and shifted her concentration back on the road, refusing to give in to her tricky fingers’ process.

That long song was getting better, anyway. She turned it up. The song would make everything better. It had to have been the same singer whose songs were wafting out of the ceiling of the gym, at almost subsonic decibels. “I wanna be a slut,” she sang/chanted, wanting to keep up with the shifting lyrics.

“I wanna wanna be a slut / I wanna wanna be a dumb slut / I wanna wanna be your cum slut / Y’big man!” Jess ran her arm out her open window, grinning at her private karaoke, feeling so free. She was so distracted that even if she had seen that her iPod was missing, it wouldn’t have made a bit of a difference.

Within no time, she breezed right into the city, and eventually found some parking a couple blocks from the house show. Jess turned the volume knob down and didn’t seem to hear that it did absolutely nothing. She also didn’t realize the radio was locked to whatever station she had on. She felt much, much too amazing to notice dumb crap like that.

The far proximity afforded her a tiny bit of grace as she immediately tripped out of her car, one of her heels somehow caught on the damp thong thrown carelessly on the floor mat.

There was, thankfully, nobody around to see her tumble, or the quick, supernaturally sci-fi speed at which her skinned knees healed. The new, perfect flesh that formed around the cuts looked remarkably pliable, and her knew knees shone in the city night.

Satisfied, she noshed on a Cherub Cream as fast as she could, nearly forgetting to stuff a few tubes in her purse for later.

“Yer all so sweet! Thank you suh gosh-durned much!” Jess shrieked, absolutely delighted. It didn’t occur to her that it was quite the turnaround from the night before, all these adoring... I actually have fans, she told herself. She simply picked her wedgie and took another ridiculous bow, her practically mooing, lily-white tits hanging kind of low off her chest for the first time ever.

Not anything like Trixie’s, surely, an appraisal which kind of worried her because, a) why was she holding herself to the beauty standard of that woman, and, worse, b) why was it so easy to do just that? Whatever.

She was here now, and she put on a hell of a show. Jess treated the den like a tucked-away jazz nightclub, gliding sultrily across the makeshift stage, free to dance around as she had no instrument to impede her. Most of it was crunk, totally ghetto maneuvering. Moves that she had little to no experience with but was making do with them swimmingly.

The banjo-free backing track afforded her all the room she needed to rock just a mic and her hips, and the studio recording, with all its booming rhythm section, was intact. It was such an easy setup, the singer wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. She had spent so much time in concerted effort to impress her audience’s minds, when she was really overlooking wooing their bodies was half the battle.

The way “Native Tears” bled into “I Wanna Wanna Be a Girl” was magnificent, a call to the dance floor, a fever rush that extended down from the stage and into the hearts and overpriced denim of the crowd. Though still a newbie to the song herself, the crowd seemed to recognize it and consider it an ironic tribute. At least she hoped that’s how it came across, and why Darren had snuck it in there.

She belched openly and tugged at her sopping, sticky panties, sweatily surveying her fanbase. It was Jess’s night. She owned it, Trixie or no Trixie. She blew a kiss to the crowd, staving off her stupid brain at least for another moment. “We love you!” someone shouted as others whistled, most of them applauding as if in rapture.

She blew another kiss and, without knowing why she was doing it, or caring, pulled her panties down, the elastic finally unchafing. She let her booty bounce and wobble like a jello mold into better view under her now-skintight red dress.

Jess wrung her white cotton panties dry onstage, much to the delight of the laughing audience as gobs of her juices splashed thickly onto it. She held the dripping undies up, miming with her shoulders, “Can you believe this?!”

A tiny, introverted-looking hipster-y guy caught them when she decided to throw them behind her head, aimlessly, adorably. He had his face buried in them in no time, then even using the garment to, with all hope, hide his growing hardon. The kid walked to the stairs, horny but conflicted. Soon, two girls followed suit, suddenly quite interested.

Neither the flustered, randy audience nor its hapless entertainment had the slightest clue that the young songstress was pumped full of all manner of inhibition-lowering, invasive pheromones. Subtle but present little helpers that made their way with tremendous force to the pleasure centers of anyone within a twenty foot radius.

For the members of the crowd who hadn’t heard of Cherub Cove and all that, it would be only a matter of days, perhaps hours, before internet research told them the answers to those certain unaskable questions like “How did my dick triple in size?” or, “Why do I get so turned on whenever I notice a guy staring at my new titties?” On this night, they weren’t ready for the truth, except to maybe cling onto it viscerally.

She tried not to stare too obviously at the two girls sharing handjob duties for the geeky dude lucky enough to catch the musician’s underwear. She did a bit of a once-over of herself, trying her best not to linger too long on her exploded curves, for fear of getting even hornier or worse, freaked out. Especially considering she had opted to wear the trainers with the sexy little red number, Jess felt terribly clumsy since leaving Poren Springs and she nearly fell off the foot-high stage. It was almost embarassing.

Sure, a few people laughed, but the crowd just cheered louder. She idly wondered if she should have gotten her balance tested by those boys at the gym. I just have to remember to use my brain, that’s all, she lamely comforted herself. Even though her body was being shown off well by her outfit, and assuredly did the legwork for her quasi-performance.

Those childish, clementine-colored sneakers. They cemented an image that was humble, more down-to-earth, but still fashionable, enhanced by the strapping, ever-tightening red dress. It was a smart, rebellious look that converted the women in the audience who thought it was ironic comment on something, and the jumping jacks she did toward the end of her set converted the lot of the men, for obvious reasons.

It was quite the performance workout, and she surprised herself with how addictive excercising was, that she’d just lapse into it even onstage. She spied a spray bottle, purple and translucent. It must have had glitter on it to shimmer and sparkle as it did.

Thinking it filled with water, she thoughtlessly sprayed her face, neck and chest, but all it did was make her already-sticky skin stickier. And splotchier. Rubbery spots had formed where the mist hit, fully clear and colorless. Jess held it up with a familiar anxiety.

“Frecklespritz?” Lilac-scented? A burgeoning bimbo in a many-buckled snakeskin-pleather catsuit snatched it from her hand. The pink, chintzy hoops dangling from her ears were the only hint of any softness in her soul, and she gave off the vibe of a diabolical Janet Jackson.

“You weren’t supposed to see this product until tomorrow,” she reprimanded Jess in a cold voice. Who was this woman? Before the singer could start to get really skeezed out by whatever her deal was, she felt an arm around her shoulder. Phew.

“Hi, Darren!” She felt rushed in a strange way, and pecked him on his angled cheek. The ice queen tottered away with two other, similarly clothed minions, standing a foot shorter each, and with identical black bows at the back of their short locks. The mystery lady towered above them, her height advantage exacerbated by a massive beehive hairstyle.

They acknowledged no one, nor gave any goodbyes as they strutted out, like high-fashion military. Jess was barely conscious of being led up the stairs by the boy who set up the show for her. “Who are those—” He covered her fluffy mouth with his class-ringed, unexpectedly manly hand.

“Loved your set tonight,” he smiled, “just want to get that out of the way.” Darren had the nerve to let a couple thick fingers press playfully onto her lips. Jess had the spunk to seal her lips around one and suckled like she had a pacifier in them. It fit wonderfully, almost funny in its perfect feel.

She soon had her hand in his, gleeful and trusting, beyond the point of their mere internet correspondence beforehand. Never having met each other in person, they had swapped MySpace comments on one another’s band pages without so much as a phone call before Jess left Boston for the tour.

The singer assumed he was taking her to his studio, to maybe illustrate how he remixed her instrumental tracks so irresistibly. “That was just my sister and her friends. They’re just jealous.” Jess sniffed. That didn’t exactly get to the root of why she asked.

It also didn’t seem possible, something she knew even in this state. This woman was black. Darren was either Irish or Scottish, but definitely an alpha ginger. She flared her nostrils to get more of his weird, hauntingly familiar, primal scent making its dumb, blocky presence known.

The most potent layer was that of overworked, over-hung farmer that curiously reminded Jess of Clyde and the boys at the gym. Quite unusual for this college boy all the way in the city to have that country aroma basically gushing out of him.

“Well, awright,” she said, forgetting what she was really talking about, let alone about the weird spray bottle or its name, or its even weirder owner. A sizeable portion of the words she uttered over the course of the day were habitual, practically meaningless, and usually not what she intended to say. The imprinted inclination to get chatty. “I juss love it here in Philly,” she sighed, sniffing.

Fresh flowers, Trixie’s cigarettes (she couldn’t remember lighting one but was half done with it), and her own sweat and juice mingled together so mystically with Darren’s inexplicable, hard-working musk. “Why’re we in the bathroom?” she whined as he locked the door behind them.