The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Privates John Roberts, Lucas Cassidy, Damien Corrina, and Andrew Shay had only been in the Marines for a year before they were inseparable. The best of friends, they did everything they could together: lifted together, ate together, played ball together, bunked nearby, everything.

John had entered the Marines cocky and determined, just one in a line of a long family military heritage. He knew in his heart that he’d excel and be promoted and establish a long and successful military career. Deep in his heart he pitied his three friends, knowing that they were likely to stay Privates for long after he himself began his climb up the ladder, but for the time being he was glad for their friendship.

Lucas had entered the Marines to get money for college, but with an inauspicious start. He’d been scrawny all his life, and the beginning of boot camp had just about done him in, but after he met John, Damien, and Andrew, things had started looking up. They helped him out with his training and it wasn’t long before he started to pack on some muscle and build some aerobic endurance. He knew he’d never match some of the Marines’ most impressive recruits, but he did well for himself, scoring above-average in all his drills.

Damien was in the Marines essentially for lack of any alternative. He’d been in and out of prison all his life, and didn’t have much of an education, so his job prospects were pretty slim. That said, he had the frame of a football player and had always worked hard to keep his body in peak form, so he was sometimes able to get work in construction, or moving, or some other manual, relatively tedious, profession. None of those ever turned into anything long-term, though, so he finally bit the bullet and enlisted. Once he got in, he met the other guys, and needing some camaraderie, started hanging out with them more and more often.

Andrew was an idealist, a happy-go-lucky type who was rarely disliked by anybody, and joined the Marines confident he could make a difference and serve his country in difficult times. He was a handsome blonde boy with a muscular swimmer’s build and a winning smile, all of which just made him all the more likable. Once he met the other guys, it was really just a matter of time before they became close friends.

After North Korea ran their series of missile test-launches, even with the failure of the Taepodong-2 long-range test, the world—and especially the United States military—started worrying even more about Kim Jong-Il’s psychotic regime. Nobody was quite sure what would happen, but the Marines in particular knew this could only mean more demands on their ranks. John, Lucas, Damien, and Andrew soon saw their whole unit’s training regimen doubled, their exercises all the more intense, and while it left them so exhausted they could barely crawl into bed each night, it produced results. The four, and the rest of the men in their unit, were bulking up fast, learning quickly, and fast becoming formidable fighters, walking tanks with buzz-cuts.

Along with the training, the men were required more and more often to report to the troop medic for regular checkups. “We just want to be sure you’re in prime fighting shape,” they were told.

A few months in, their medical visits were modified a bit. Andrew was the first one in for what he thought was his regular checkup.

“Now, Andrew, we’re starting a new program: we’re going to keep photographs of all the Marines on file to track their progress. We’ve got a lot of different squads trying out a lot of different training programs and we don’t want to miss this opportunity to gather some data and track our results.”

“That makes sense, I guess, Doc,” Andrew replied, and shrugged.

“Good. I’m going to need you to strip and change into this,” the doctor replied, and handed Andrew a white jock strap.

“Really? Just for tracking my progress? This seems awfully, uh, revealing, Doc.”

“Yes; we want to make sure we capture all of your muscle definition on the film,” he said.

Andrew hesitated slightly but went ahead and stripped off all his clothes. The doctor watched as he lifted his shirt off, revealing his bulging abdominal muscles, his now-huge pecs, each side of his chest a bulging slab of meat thanks to the intense workouts they’d been doing, and his arms, each the size of one of the doctor’s legs.

He watched as Andrew dropped his pants, his tight white briefs stretched so thin over his swelling ass cheeks that you could just about see through the thin cotton. “Those squats sure do work,” the doctor chuckled to himself.

He kept staring as Andrew slid out of his briefs, his flaccid penis hanging down alongside his leg, and his full ball sack swinging back and forth as he turned and reached for the jock strap. He pulled it on and stood back upright, his cock and balls now snuggled up in the mesh cup of the jock strap, and his smooth ass framed by the straps, and otherwise completely exposed.

“Very good. Now we’ll begin.”

The doctor proceeded to take photo after photo of Andrew’s impressive body, having Andrew pose and turn and look this way and that. Andrew played along until finally the doctor told him to bend over fully and touch his toes.

“What is this for, Doc? I mean, this jock strap doesn’t hide a whole lot.”

“We need to track your flexibility improvements too, Andrew. Do as I say, and really bend over as far as you can so we have an accurate impression of your current hamstring flexibility.”

Andrew was really not comfortable with the idea, but the doctor had rank on him, so he knew he really had to do what he said. Plus, the doctor’s words made sense; Andrew just didn’t know why he couldn’t wear a pair of boxers instead. He stood, thinking.

“Do it NOW, Private!” the doctor barked.

At that, Andrew instinctively obeyed, and bent all the way over, holding onto his feet with his hands. He could feel the cool air against his tight, puckered asshole, and looking backwards through his legs he could see the Doctor snapping photo after photo of his backside, ostensibly of his hamstrings, but Andrew blushed a deep crimson as he held the pose, knowing that every one of those photos very clearly showed his very-exposed asshole.

The doctor kept walking closer and closer, until finally he was basically holding the camera inches away from Andrew’s asshole, pointing it directly into his crack.

“Doctor, what are you doing?!” Andrew finally asked, exasperated, his frustration getting the better of his urge to cooperate.

“Andrew, I’m photographing all of you. It’s very important for our program that we send them pictures of everything they care about.”

“Who? Send pictures to who?” Andrew yelled, his patience nearly at an end.

With that, the doctor’s expression went cold.

“Very well, Private, stand back up.”

Andrew, relieved, stood back up, but the sudden rush of blood away from his head left him dizzy and seeing black spots in his eyes for just a moment. By the time the disorientation passed, he saw the doctor press a clear plastic breathing mask over his nose and mouth, and Andrew drew a breath without thinking, tasting an odd sweetness to the gas he was inhaling. He felt woozy and light-headed as the doctor told him,

“Private Shay, you will never question an order given to you by me or any superior officer, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Andrew said, faintly, inside the mask. It came out muffled, but still comprehensible.

“Good. When you get back to your bunk, you will dispose of all your underwear except for this jock strap. You will wear it every day. You may wash it once a week, but not more often. You will continue to report for your medical checkups, and you will not think it strange at all when I photograph you or do anything I wish to you. Do you understand me?”

Andrew fought the words in his head, but they echoed inside him, growing louder and louder, and the more he fought, the louder they grew, until finally he couldn’t bear it.

“Do you understand me, Private Andrew Shay?”

Breathing ever more heavily, his eyelids finally sagged shut and he gave in.

“Yes.”

As the weeks passed, anyone visiting the unit would have noticed some rather pronounced changes. All the Marines had started wearing one jock strap each, and washing them rarely. The whole compound, especially the bunk area, started to smell very strongly of male musk. The rank odor of warm, sticky, sweaty male cock and balls, packed into the dirty mesh pouches of the jock straps, washed out of the room like a wave every time the door opened.

None of the Marines seemed to notice, though. Their dispositions had gone kind of slack. They all seemed mostly normal, but a bit calmer, more agreeable, and during training they pushed themselves harder than ever at the barked orders of their commanding officers. Never had the world seen a more coordinated, obedient, high-performing team of soldiers.

The medical exams continued, and the doctor’s orders became ever more demanding, but the soldiers seemed not to notice or care.

“Damien, I’ve heard back from our leaders that you need a little more muscular flexibility in one very important area, so we’re going to begin a series of stretching exercises every time you come in, and I’ll give you the device to use yourself every day.”

“Okay, Doc, whatever you say,” Damien replied, slightly dreamily.

As he spoke those words, the doctor thrust a couple fingers into Damien’s asshole and pried it open wide enough to slip in a metal device like chrome tongs with a circular base. He withdrew his fingers and Damien’s asshole clamped back shut on the curved metal circle.

“Relax, Damien, relax like you’re pushing down, trying to take a really, really big shit, Damien. Push.”

With that, the doctor grabbed the tong handes and started prying them apart, stretching Damien’s asshole wide open. Damien grunted in pain but managed to keep pushing, allowing the forceps to widen his hole even more. The doctor grinned wide as he changed his grip on the tong handles to give him even more leverage, and started pulling even harder. Damien’s asshole was stretched to a 4-inch diameter circle, and still the doctor pulled. Finally Damien couldn’t take it anymore and screamed.

“Jesus CHRIST, Doc, what the FUCK?!”

“Now, now, Damien, it would seem that someone hasn’t been listening to his obedience tapes every night while he’s been sleeping like he was told to.”

The doctor pushed the mask over the nose and mouth of a frightened, tearful Damien, and smiled as he began talking softly in soothing words into Damien’s ear. Damien’s expression went slack, gradually, and finally his eyes sagged, then sagged again, and finally shut. The doctor left the mask on Damien’s face and went back around behind him, grabbing the forcep handles once more.

March 14th, the squad’s commanding officer, Corporal Jensen, awoke them all at 4am for a surprise inspection in the bunk room.

“Privates, I want you to know how incredibly proud I am of you and the work that you’ve been doing over this past year. You’ve all been very disciplined and very obedient.”

At these words, Lucas Cassidy, still sleepy and generally zonked, had a spontaneous orgasm, spilling a large load of cum into his dirty jock strap and shaking a little bit before standing back at attention.

“I have some good news for you,” the commanding officer continued.

“The Marines have been infiltrated by the North Koreans,” he said.

All the Privates’ jaws dropped in shock. Even with their obedience training and generally placid, drugged demeanors, none of them could believe what they were hearing.

“You see,” he continued, “The North Koreans realized that they would not win this conflict with force, but with cunning. Their failed missile test was staged, to give the United States a false sense of security, while Korean spies worked their way into the highest levels of our military. And they did, troops. We’ve been grooming you all for a very special assignment this whole time.”

By this point, all the Marines looked shocked, and some looked a bit ill.

“We of the United States Marines were cocky and smug to believe that we could overcome such a power as North Korea, so our new Korean Masters have come up with a plan to reward us in kind for our arrogance.”

At the phrase “Korean Masters,” one of the Privates in the back grabbed a trash can and began vomiting into it.

“North Korea has a sizable population of homosexuals, who, by their regime, are viewed as repulsive, as outcasts, as shameful.”

As he said this, a pudgy, 18-year-old Korean boy walked in from the door and over to Jensen’s side, smiling.

“So, how incredibly shameful,” Jensen continued, growing visibly flustered, and starting to shake a little, “How incredibly shameful, how very, very dirty and naughty and shameful it would be for us, big, strong, American Marines to be brainwashed and trained to be sex slaves to the needs of all of Korea’s homosexual young men.”

The Korean boy standing next to Jensen unbuttoned Jensen’s pants, which dropped to his ankles. The boy reached behind Jensen and inserted two fingers into his asshole. Jensen began to moan a bit as he continued speaking, as the boy smiled a wide, mean grin.

“Every one of you—ooh, ah... uh, every one of you will be assigned an owner,” Jensen went on, squirming and rubbing his legs together, thrusting his ass back deeper onto the boy’s probing fingers, “and all of you will find a heavy rubber sheet under your bunk, which you are—oh, oh God, ooh, uh, which you are to put on your bed for ease of cleanup.”

Some of the Marines were still standing at attention, but shaking visibly, fighting their conditioning. Most of them, though, had broken free of the conditioning and had run to the door, trying to escape. It was locked, and so they pounded on it, shouting and screaming, desperate for a way to escape.

At that moment, the Korean boy finger-fucking Jensen put on a small rebreather mask, and small jets mounted in the walls and floor of the room let out a collective soft “hiss” as a clear, colorless gas began to flood the whole room. It tasted oddly sweet, and the Marines’ pounding slowed and screaming subsided. Some started to cry, but most just slowly stood back up and walked back to their places, eyes glazed over, expressions totally slack.

“That’s more like it, Marines. I am your commanding officer, and you worthless fucking pigs will do what I say!” Jensen barked, still grinding against the Korean boy’s fingers.

The jets stopped, the gas drained from the room, and all the Marines were standing in their original places, obedient, minds like open books.

The doors clicked and swung open, and into the room walked a host of 18-to-25-year-old North Korean boys, some thin, some fat, most walking with at least a slightly-girlish lilt, all smiling broadly. Each held a stack of photographs, and glanced at them to find the Marine they’d been allowed to choose, like a new pet—a new muscle-bound, jock-strap-wearing, buzz-cut pet, that is!

As the boys walked to their new Marines’ sides, they casually began groping their new hunks of meat. Andrew stood still, his thoughts racing but his external composure still that of an obedient Marine, as the boy who had chosen him gave his buttocks a good squeeze, then walked around in front of him, smiled coyly at him, winked, and rubbed his body up against Andrew’s muscular frame. Andrew felt the boy’s hard erection against him as the boy humped his leg slowly while groping Andrew’s cock and ball sack through his jock strap. The boy reached his other hand around and slid his fingers up and down Andrew’s exposed ass-crack, and finally thrust two of his fingers directly into Andrew’s asshole.

“Marines! To cement the bonds of our new slavery, we will all climax in unison to the stroking fingers of our new masters,” Jensen shouted.

The Korean boys all reached into the dirty jock-strap pouches of their new american man-pets and began rubbing their cocks up to attention. Those who weren’t already fingering their Marines began to do so. To the horror of most of the Marines, their cocks rose rapidly to full mast, swelling full under the touch of these girlish fags from their most hated enemy. Many of those standing started crying again, unable to help themselves, wanting so badly to do something, but able only to stand still and feel their brains turned to mush as they became shameful gay sex slaves to the most shameful caste of their new conquerors.

“I enlisted to help serve my country!” Andrew thought, fiercely, in his head, trying desperately to cling to his identity, “I want to serve the United States! I want to serve the United States! I love my country! I want to serve this—wait, no, this country, what country? I want to serve this boy. No! I... no! I want to serve this... I want to serve this boy. Oh, God, his hands, his fingers in my ass... I love my—my master. I love my master.”

Just as his last free thought finally dissolved, Andrew shuddered and came, shooting ropes of cum into the air, all over the back of the Marine in front of him, all over his own jock strap, and down onto the cement floor.

He wasn’t alone. Every Marine came all at once, some going weak in the knees, some rolling their eyes back, all of them moaning aloud. The already-musky smell intermingled with the new, fresh scent of the cum soaking the entire room.

Their new lives had begun.