The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, the last human male on Earth was born. Sanchez woke with that thought, thinking it was a dream, then remembered it was real.

Sanchez was grabbing a quick bite at the Almeida eatery when the girls came up to him, all giggles and youthful bloom. One was wearing a shiny violet party hat bearing cheerful birthday script.

“Excuse us,” the hatless one asked, with excessive formality. “Do you work here?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sanchez answered.

“Well, I’m—we had a spill over at our table a minute ago; I think maybe Naomi got a little carried away ‘cuz she’s turned eighteen today. She’s being a nonstop spaz!”

“Mmm-hmm,” repeated Sanchez. “It’s my lunch break. Not on the clock.”

“Okay,” said the birthday girl, Naomi. “Long as you don’t yell at us later over the mess.”

Sanchez waved his hand, indifferent. “Someone’ll get it eventually. I’m not even responsible for this wing of the mall today.”

“You mind if we sit down a minute and finish our shakes, then?” asked the other girl. Her birthday hat waggled on her head. She glanced around the crowded noontime eatery. “I think we just messed up the last free table.”

Sanchez hesitated to offer the girls the two empty seats, and scarcely masked his reluctance. Any reader a hundred years hence will likely be struck at the cold way the middle-aged, underemployed Sanchez treats the spritely, attractive teens in our story because we hope, dear future reader, that you live in a society when most men would savor such an encounter, even if for lecherous reasons. Especially the young ones, who in their overabundance reminded everyone else of humanity’s terminal dilemma.

The girls plopped down and Naomi tugged off her Burger King shake. “Yup. Old enough to vote as of this morning.”

“If we still voted, that is,” her friend corrected. “I think it’s so funny you were born right on Transition Day.”

Just as the sun was going down, the girls texted their parents that they were off to see a movie with the squad and wouldn’t be home till late. “Señor Sanchez,” Naomi asked. “We bought this,” she fished a box out of her purse, “movie, R-rated movie and our parents wouldn’t let us watch it. Well, they probably would but it’d be weirdsville, so we were wondering, do you have a TV we could watch it on?” Sanchez hesitated again, a hesitation he failed to disguise. “Oh, no,” Connie added. “We’re fine, we’re coded.”

They’d hung around, dawdling the way their sort did—first coaxing Sanchez on an errand to check out the Dahlia springwear layout (they both picked up a few things appropriate to the season), then chatting in a local playground about matters relevant to graduating girls. This made Sanchez nervous but as long as they had their barcodes, everything would be okay. Since Naomi was wearing a bare-midriff top, Sanchez could see hers: on the small of her back, now that you could get them customized, like license plates. A liquid-dark purple dragon with the barcode slashed across its golden belly. He’d first glimpsed it as she’d strolled ahead of him on the way to Dahlia’s, then had had a chance to study it after, uninterested in getting on the playground swings himself, he’d gotten stuck servicing both Connie and Naomi with pushes. She would sail rearward toward him in an upturned rainbow of red croptop, white shorts, violet dragon and pink flesh and he’d see as she hung stationary at the uptick of her swing that the ink on the tattoo was still wet. She must have had it done just that morning, at the mall, most likely. And sure enough, she left off from chattering with Connie to ask him, “Don’t smudge it, please! I just got it.” Then to Connie, with a giggle: “I don’t know. Do skincodes smudge?”

They paid little attention to Sanchez as he nudged them out and back, first Naomi with her smudgable skincode and then Connie, in her swirling knee-length girlskirt whose seat had come untucked from under her bottom in the wind as he’d swung her, offering him a pantyflash every time she sailed through the beginning of her swing.

He thought of a sly plan. Looking this way and that, he subtly eased back on Connie’s altitude. Naomi absent-mindedly kicked back her swing to match. Behind Connie, Sanchez squared his stance and pressed his hips almost imperceptibly forward, so that when Connie reached the rear extremity of her arc, her haunches brushed over his tingling lap. Her bottom looked and felt narrow and plump at once, lean with the set freshness of youth but rounded and measuredly ample as well in the overripe way of girls just turned into women.

An hour later they were back at Sanchez’s apartment. It was like that lately, particularly with the ones just hitting the age of majority. With the surplus of them and nothing much to do—the twenty-something and even thirty-something guys got snapped up pretty fast these days—girls tended to just hang around after the yoke of jealously enforced anti- statutory-rape laws was lifted from them. They’d follow you home a lot of times, and that’s what happened with born-ten-years-after-End-of-Boys Naomi Oakes and her friend Connie Serviers.

Soon enough Sanchez found himself loading Naomi’s copy of Road Trip: The Next Generation into his 3Way player (so named because it was an upgrade of the classic Blu-Ray technology but offering glasses-free 3-D visuals) as the girls settled into his couch with a snack of stove-cooked popcorn in aluminum foil. They’d dogged him all the way back to his modest apartment across the street from the mall parking lot. Sanchez had thought of sending them packing—this was all he needed, another eighteener tagging along with him all day—but the sensation of furtively rubbing Connie’s tush against his groin convinced him to tolerate the company of these uninteresting, dime-a-dozen fillies. Or really, it was less that it changed his mind than that it coaxed his body to compel him. However commonplace girls were in this society, however banal their concerns or insipid their commentary, their flesh offered a fascination that its abundance didn’t abate, but only stoked and empowered.

Having popped in the 3Way disk, Sanchez turned and saw Connie and Naomi simultaneously scootch to either side of the sofa, clearing a place for him. Having come of age before the transition times, Sanchez had long ago grown accustomed to stand-offishness from the fair sex, and this openness so many young girls had discovered—as a result of their growing commonness—still caught him by surprise sometimes.

As the menu came up on screen and Sanchez hit “Play Feature,” first Naomi and then Connie got him by his respective wrists. Each draped his arm over her shoulder and they leaned their cheeks against him as the movie started. He glanced quickly to the government CCTV camera in the room’s upper corner where two of the walls and the ceiling met. They’d be getting this, of course, the way they got everything. He wondered if he should ask the girls to scan their skincodes yet.

“Thanks for letting us come over,” said Connie. “Sometimes it seems like no one ever wants us girls around anymore.”

“It’s not that so much as there’s just so damn many of you,” Sanchez assured them. In fact he found girls Connie and Naomi’s age deeply enervating socially. But physically he felt a stiff ache in his loins that no amount of disdain for these females would diminish. “It’s all about the milk of human kindness, ladies,” said he. He gave them each a comforting squeeze on the shoulder that drew them closer to him.

Road Trip: The Next Generation came to an unsatisfying close (Christ, could Tom Green give it up already? What was he, sixty?) and Sanchez had nearly fallen asleep from boredom, while the girls had curled giggling like twits. Who could blame him for getting sleepy? Slipped between these two. Course he couldn’t quite manage to nod off. What they say about sleeping with the light on.

After the movie they both got up for something and Sanchez snoozed on the couch. It had been a long day. When the girls came back he heard the clank of glass and peeked through slits to see a bottle of his cheap red. Sanchez couldn’t be bothered to get up. When they both sidled back up against him, they each had a glass of wine. But he didn’t care. Strange thoughts. He…

“You know what?”

Started awake. He felt something on his lower belly that at first he wanted to swat—it was too close to his dick for comfort, frankly – but saw as he raised his hand that it was only Naomi’s head. She’d apparently fallen asleep and slid down the front of him. Her mouth was pressed against his belt buckle.

Connie was tugging at his arm. He must have really nodded off because the girls had actually dressed for bed without his noticing it. Naomi, with her head slouched down toward his peter, in a see-through pink negligee over tiny matching underbritches. Connie in black bra and black-and-white briefs, both girls slippery as dolphins with their bare, primavernal skin pressed against him.

“Shh,” shushed Connie, pointing at sleeping Naomi. “You know what?”

“What?”

“We forgot to ask you if it’s okay if we spend the night.”

“No, sure,” he rolled his eyes, “that’s fine, just don’t break nothin’.”

“And, um, I left fifty dollars on the table for the wine and for letting us use your TV.”

“Yeah, guess I’m not a role model.”

Connie started playing with Naomi’s hair again. They’d been playing with each others’ hair all night. “It’s pretty late, so we went ahead and got dressed for bed. It’d be okay with us if you did, too.”

“I’d love to, but your bee eff eff kinda sacked out on me.” Sanchez twitched his hip just so, jostling Naomi’s head to indicate her. Her cheek slipped from its perch on his belt buckle and slid down his groin. Her limp lips sideswiped his shaft through the lap of his trashman uniform. “Sound sleeper, this one.”

“Yeah. Like a rock. She doesn’t drink much as a habit, neither. I think the wine might have gotten to her.”

“She’s really living up this eighteenth-birthday thing, huh.”

“Got wined up, got skincoded – usually a girl puts it off a few weeks but Naomi seems likes she likes the idea of getting it.”

“She do anything else special?” Sanchez asked, it coming out sleazier than he’d anticipated. He and Connie would both know exactly what he meant. But Connie just giggled.

“Oh, no. I mean, when would she have? I was with her most all day.” She tugged at a loose string on the sofa cushion and studied it, dodging eye contact. “Actually, we were sorta hoping you’d… You know.”

Sanchez fondled the pink dragon in the neck of Naomi’s hourglass figure. “She’s halfway bare-ass already, she’s been coded and she’s tasty enough to make me hard. Sure, I’ll eighteen her.”

“Can you do me a favor though, and…” Connie fussed with a stray thread in the sofa cushion, dodging eye contact. “Let me watch?”

“Huh? Watch? Why?”

“Well, I got eighteened a couple of months ago, but it was really, I dunno, fast. He did everything I guess you’re supposed to, well, he did…” She rolled her eyes in embarrassment. “That thing and all. But that was about all he did and it was over in like a minute. I thought it would…” she looked off. “I mean he never even touched me, really, he just went right for,” she gestured modestly, “you know, down there, and it didn’t really count for much except him leaving this sticky gooey disaster up me that didn’t dry up for hours!”

“Poor little missy,” said Sanchez. “Did he bend you over like a dog?”

Connie looked shocked, as though Sanchez had read her mind.

“Yes.”

“Like you were cellmates and he was playing you for top bunk?”

Again. She was blushing.

“Yes. But I still don’t know what it’s really like to, you know, get eighteened for real. Is it supposed to be so humiliating?”

“I’m afraid so, little Connie.” Sanchez settled his hips to balance Naomi’s slumbering face more squarely in his lap—this was getting to be a real juggling act!—and clutched Connie by the shoulder firmly enough to still a faint trembling that had started working through her, but which Sanchez hadn’t noticed consciously until his own hand silenced it.

He cupped Connie’s light right breast, pumping her doughy girlflesh like a fruit he wanted to massage into ripeness. Her meat was cool but cooler still was the silky nylon of her noire bra-lette. Working the garment like a bellows coaxed up the fragrance of laundry and Secret antiperspirant. “Don’t be afraid, my fawn,” Sanchez oozed. “It can feel better than a massage.”

Connie rested her dinky hands on Sanchez’s shoulders, although through his thick uniform he could scarcely feel it. Doubtless its sandpapery outer texture afforded Connie little animal comfort, and that seemed not to be what her touch sought. Something in its hesitation and tenuousness spoke to Sanchez of simply seeking balance.

As Sanchez worked Connie with his left hand, his right slipped down between his legs and, bending awkwardly, gave Naomi a set of taps on the cheek from above, so that a couple of times his whipping fingertips caught her fragile jaw.

“Wake up,” he urged, spreading his thighs and settling man-of-the-house style into his seat as Noami lifted her head groggily, coming to, and he unzipped himself from mid-chest with his tap-hand. Then, turning his attention back to Connie, he accelerated the rate with which he played his finger over her kitteny briskit through her shimmering top. Not knowing whether to swallow her neck first, like a vampire, or her shoulder, like a bird of pretty prey, Sanchez split the difference and descended on the crook of Connie’s neck. Her shoulder’s tendon twitched over his tongue. He wondered if it was possible to leave a hickey here and decided to test it out. He sucked hard, tenting Connie’s shoulder between his cheeks. He felt her blood vessels pop through the skin in his mouth. Locking the skin with his suck, Sanchez pulled his head back to let the pinched flesh stretch free and it was blemished. “Ah!” Connie suspired, confusedly. It helped that he’d left the drugged wine prominently in the fridge, suspecting days ago—correctly, as this experiment had borne out—that it would function well both as bait and alibi. After all, he’d only put it in his refrigerator; it hadn’t been his idea for them to drink it.

Her skin smelled and tasted like talcum powder.

Meanwhile, Naomi was now, rather fussily, coming to. Her eyes cleared to focus on Sanchez’s thumb and forefinger bringing his uniform’s outsized zipper to its full out position. “Oh, my God!” Naomi cried out, doubtless at the sight of his penis, fully erect and creamy at the tip, which sprang out of his unzipped overalls. After all, Sanchez mused, she’d probably never seen a grown man’s penis. Between the barcode laws and the advent of private-residence CCTVs, the prohibition against sexual information of any kind reaching anyone under the age of eighteen under any circumstances was nowadays rather strictly enforced. Well, now was her chance to learn.

Thinking of barcode laws and sexual prohibition laws and CCTVs, Sanchez glanced up to see the RedEye under the camera in the corner of the apartment flash smoky lasers about the living room, find the small of Naomi’s back, and sweep her pink dinosaur tattoo with a wobbly luminescent reading bar. The CCTV unit had taken the liberty of scanning Naomi since both she and Sanchez had forgotten.There was a faint click and the RedEye blinked. Recognized. On his nearby, absently-left-on laptop, the smallfry’s statistics autoflashed to the topscreen. Naomi Sabrina Oakes, 16 Harrington Lane, daughter and possession-slash-dependent of Patrick and Lee Ann Oakes, blah blah, age exactly eighteen years, nineteen hours, twelve minutes.

Wrist coded, barcoded and redrugged. He skimmed. School disciplinary record. Well, well. He might enjoy browsing that while he took care of business.

The zipper bit at the base of his cock and, cursing, he straightened his spine to fumble a buck-knife out of his pocket. Both Naomi and Connie’s eyes flashed fear when Sanchez unfurled his blade and it caught the light—after all, for all their pretense that this sleepover with Sanchez was only a fun game, the fact remained that they’d let themselves be lured alone with an older man about whom they knew quite little. In fact, they had been doing the luring. But Naomi, just coming to, and Connie, already transported by the intimate contact and the wine, didn’t exercise much judgment.

Sanchez reached around Naomi and flicked the crotch of his uniform, just under his balls, with the knifepoint. The garment’s fabric split and the zipper switch flew across the room, hitting the wall with a ding. His blue testicles sidled and settled, free of the constriction of the uniform. He set the knife on the end table and the two girls relaxed.

“I heard you’ve been wanting to find out what eighteening’s all about,” Sanchez said to Naomi, who was gazing blankly at his stripped, red stiffer. “Is that right?”

“Um, yeah. Is this it, Connie? It has to do with getting his thing out and putting it in my face?”

“Well, when I did it, he stuck it in my peehole,” said Connie, slipping her painted fingertips between her thighs with a moan. “It felt really good, I guess cuz of the redrugging, but it was over so fast. If he’s putting it in your face, I don’t know what he’s got in mind.”

“I’ll show you what I have in mind.” Lifting his hand from Connie’s titty, he got Naomi by the hair and squared his root with her glossy, wet peach lips. “Say ‘ah.’”