The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Seemingly lost in a void of fog, a tall slender woman wrapped snuggly in a long black gown ventured across a dead grassy meadow. The mist choked out the sunlight around her making any sense of direction impossible. Fighting the dread that would overwhelm most venturing out on the property, she pushed forward hoping to keep her bearings as she got further away from an abandoned Victorian manor she had left somewhere behind her in the void.

Her dress swathed her legs so tautly down to her ankles with such structure and firmness that it forced her to take the shortest of hobbled strides. Brisk wind swirled leaves around her pushing up harsher along her body to play with the wide brim of her tall cone-shaped hat. In the distance, a slate tile crashed to the ground from the manor’s dilapidated roof and instinctively made her try to turn to see, but her rigid dress wouldn’t allow her to twist her waist or even her shoulders. She almost turned her neck, but too much of that was getting to her as it already ached from previous things that caught her by surprise. She missed the simple things like looking behind her without taking several awkward rapid steps.

Taking a deep breath followed by a sigh, she felt her cleavage forced to raise and lower against the stiff corset underneath her dress. The long hugging sleeves did nothing to provide enough warmth against the cold. She rubbed her arms as she thought how the dress felt tighter everyday since the house came to life in anticipation of the coming Halloween. She resented having to wear the damn thing. It was such a curse to wear, an actual curse in fact, with magic that forced her to occupy its limited volume for the rest of her life. She avoided bringing-up those memories and focused on picturing her location on the grounds. She couldn’t afford to get lost, so she tightened her grip on the brim of her hat holding it against the wind and resumed her journey towards some overgrown gardens that clearly had seen better days long ago.

The soft wet ground made her excursion harder as her high heels sank into the soggy soil accumulating a stack of harpooned leaves. She cursed her hobble skirt and tried to calm herself after a low hanging tree branch kinked the pointy tip of her witch hat. Her nylon covered toes began to feel the surrounding cold wetness that her thin strapped heels were helpless to insolate against. Almost pouting, she stepped in place a few times trying to remove the leaves skewered by her stilettos. She couldn’t reach them by bending over or by lifting a leg up. Her restrictions led her to try a couple times to rub one heel against the other and then give-up. It was hopeless.

She muttered to herself as she grabbed her hobble skirt at her thighs giving the gown a strong pull up her legs, which barely lifted the gown even a finger’s width. It seemed to give more than that and she smiled thinking she could finally take some more satisfactory longer strides. In reality, the next few steps where only quicker but the same distance as before. The extra speed led to a loss of balance and forced her to stop. She had to be careful, if she fell over, she wouldn’t be able to get up. She imagined herself being forced to endure the embarrassment of rolling across the property like a log.

Focusing on her goal and taking on the patience required, she eventually approached a lonely scarecrow in the center of a hedge lined deserted garden. She minced her steps more and stopped with her arms thrown outwards to steady herself. Finally stable, she withdrew a crystal perfume atomizer bottle from her prow of cleavage and aimed the tiny sprayer at the decomposing farm clothes stuffed with hay. A few squeezes of the atomizer’s little red rubber ball sent a glowing green perfume onto the molding potato sack head and hay-bunched hands.

The scarecrow slowly sagged as if getting drenched in a heavy rain. Its arms strained against ropes that bound its wrists crucifying it to a rusty metal pipe cross. The potato sack head and limp body continued to slouch lifelessly down. It took a couple more minutes, but the green mist somehow took affect. The scarecrow lifted its face up, saw the mysterious woman, turned left and right to look at its tied hands. It struggled, wreathing violently against the ropes. Several clumps of hay began to fall to the ground until it yanked its hands free and stood seven feet tall towering over the witch.

“Come with me,” said the woman in black.

The scarecrow gathered its thoughts. It looked down at its hay stuffed overalls and its flannel shirt. It then tried to see through the fog. It felt cold and lost. It craved having someone to hold it. It looked at the witch waiting there. She was as cold as the wind, detached as the standing scarecrow itself, and though stunningly beautiful, somehow ruthless. She was dangerous and addictive to look at. Men would die for her and not know why.

The witch turned away, took several tiny hobbled steps, stopped and without looking back impatiently said sharply, “Well, keep up.”

The Scarecrow lurched forward. Several times on the walk, it paused finding no problem in keeping up with the lady in black. It was actually harder to obediently stay a few steps behind given the slow procession. The pace forced it to pause after every few steps allowing it to spend those precious moments watching the lady’s swaying hips as she struggled with her tight skirt to navigate every little uneven feature on the ground. The trip was slow, but entertaining and very hypnotic.

Seeing the house come into view, the scarecrow realized the destination and settled back to figuring out its new body and getting ready for whatever was ahead. It twisted the hay coming out of its shirtsleeves giving form to its hands. It then realized it accidentally made more fingers on the left than the right. It made more adjustments. With its new fingers, it felt its face again and fixed its straw hat. Taking a few more steps and almost bumping into the witch, it switched back to watching how the witch’s skirt hugged her ass and thighs. The garden guard even secretly reached out to her butt cheeks and gently brushed some hay over the curves to sense every tactile detail. The woman didn’t seem to notice, so the urge to do it again rapidly returned.

On examination, the gown was actually a thin black material covering something firm and smooth underneath, possibly – no, on second thought, definitely – constructed with lots of corset boning. Was she wearing leather under there? The tall scarecrow leaned forward while they walked trying to answer the question. Scarecrows, after all, do not have much else going on to think about. It’s face was so focused on the undulations of the witch’s rear that if it had had a protruding nose of any kind it would have been touching the outward contours of her rear end. With such a close examination, the theories of the black dress and the body underneath continued. The gown was stretching over corset lacings in the back that cinched the woman from a point between her shoulder blades all the way down to her ankles. Seemingly hundreds of black buttons from the nape of her neck formed a series down her back and to the ground closing the outermost layer. The scarecrow wondered how long it took the woman to don the outfit in the mornings. The long sleeves and all the buttons must have required some assistance.

There was pause as the witch handled some more of the uneven ground before her. She made a little detour around a rock providing another temptation to brush against her body again. When the witch made a sideways glance, the attempt to cop a feel was quickly retracted with a fain of innocence.

“We’re almost there,” she said pointing to the old manor showing clearer now through the lifting fog.

As they approached, a back door left open behind the house became visible. Across from the door, a carriage house stood that had been renovated into a garage during the 1920’s. The scarecrow wondered how it knew that, but then focused on the wild wind slamming the back door violently against the mansion’s outside stonewall. More wind whistled through a broken-down greenhouse missing all its glass panes that had been shattered to pieces by visiting vandals over many decades. The witch ordered the scarecrow to force the rusty greenhouse door open.

They entered.

Her heels clicked on the cement floor. She took center stage and posed like a conductor with a long wand in her right hand. Watching from behind, the scarecrow was confused to see that somehow, despite the tight dress with no place to hide anything, she had somehow gotten hold of a wand. Where had she hidden it?

The scarecrow studied her more carefully as she performed a series of wide sweeping motions with her arms. Glowing energy built around her and then magically all the scattered glass chards were sucked back into their iron cast frames perfectly restoring the structure. Electric lights flickered on. Cold air turned warm. Dried plants came to life. A lush green garden formed around them.

The witch turned to the scarecrow, pushed her wand down her ample cleavage, and gave a gentle caress to her obedient creature’s face. She carefully pulled off its straw hat, tugged off its potato sack and swatted to the floor layers of decaying hay underneath encouraging the scarecrow to help. They both scraped at layers of hay discarding much of it to the floor.

“You can actually talk now,” said the witch.

Straws of hay kept falling. Clumps and leaves piled around their feet. The once large head of straw came apart in layers revealing a beautiful brunette woman’s face. She was twenty-something and looked a little confused.

The witch smiled: her first indication of any kindness. “Don’t worry it’ll comeback before you know it.”

“Am I—am I done? Is my contract over?” said the girl as her human hands with long perfectly manicured nails took shape from the crumbling rotting hay. Her flannel shirt ripped apart as her tall slender form of perfect femininity pushed from the hay that had stuffed the overalls. She ran her fingers through her long dark hair shaking out the last loose straws.

The witch let the naked servant adjust to human life again, but just for a minute. “All Hallows’ Eve is coming-up quickly and you are going to close out your contract by helping me.”

A thick fog bank rushed across the lawn engulfing the greenhouse. The witch pursed her lips thinking about or maybe worrying about something. The naked girl wondered if she should worry too, or was it just contemplation? Her memory of the witch’s cruel punishments started to comeback. The girl somehow knew to give-up on guessing what was next. She remembered never being able to predict it before. Instead she enjoyed the feeling of being untied, re-animated and allowed to move again. Years had flown by as her straw body sat immobile in the garden. Now she had form and muscles and movement.

“I’ll have to hurry,” the witch said. She took in one hand the scarecrow’s potato sack from a bench of plants behind her while she plunged the fingers of her other hand between her plump breasts to extract her wand. She waved the magical twig over the potato sack suddenly giving the bag some bulk and weight from items magically created inside. From the sack, she pulled out some clothes and a pair of high heels. “Put these on. I have to greet a visitor.”

“Lederhosen? Suspenders. Shit, I don’t have to fake a German accent do I?”

“No silly. Besides, that’s not German. That’s a Pinocchio costume. He, in fact, was Italian.”

“Great. I mean: gracie.”

The witch began to leave.

“Uh, wait,” the frightened brunette said, “I mean pardon me Mistress Wicky—I remember your name now. You said ‘he.’ Putting this on isn’t going to turn me into a guy is it?”

“Didn’t you see the heels? You’re going to spend the week as Pinocchia, not Pinocchio. And just call me Wicky. I feel like we’ve known each other, well, since forever.”

The witch left the greenhouse and entered the Victorian manor through the back kitchen door. As she entered an adjacent butler’s pantry lined with many built-in cabinets and drawers, she found and picked-up a black cat taking a nap. “Snuggles. Bad girl. We have guests. Now Move.”

The black cat jumped free of the witch’s arms, landed silently on the floor and ran through the great hall to the foyer. As it approached the front door it began to transform into a glossy latex covered woman with a dangling long latex tail swinging wildly around her shiny legs from the momentum of her wide swaying hips. Except for her human eyes peering through a rigid cat mask that covered the top half of her face, she was coated in black liquid looking latex from her hooded head to her covered feet. No skin showed even around her eyes and her eyelids, which were painted a black matte color. Her mouth and nose were smoothed over and sealed shut leaving her mute. Two pointy ears projected from her smooth head completing the cat woman look. The sexy animated nature of her dark silhouette moving through the house made it clear that she had speed and boundless energy. When she grabbed the front door knob with a latex covered hand, she looked back at her mistress for permission. The witch nodded and the cat woman opened the seven foot wide, bank-vault-thick oak door letting volumes of tulle fog rush in past her black mercury coated legs.

The stormy weather from a minute ago was now a silent fog with no visibility beyond the front porch. Snuggles stayed at the door searching for any movement. The silence broke with a faint rustling noise emitting from the fog. The noise increased becoming more of a fast collection of slapping sounds like several sheets of paper stuck into a fan. The cat woman angled her head continuing to stare into the blinding fog.

“Get away from the door you silly cat,” Wicky yelled. “Let them in.”

A coffin hovering above the ground broke the fog. Snuggles jump back landing on her rear. She paddled back sliding her rubber suit across the carpet as six large bats carried the hovering pine box by some primitive rope handles. They helicoptered the casket through the wide doorway into the great hall. The catgirl flipped over onto all fours and scampered off. As she leaped across the wood floor jumping into the dining room, her body transformed into a running feline form.

The team of bats madly flapped harder as they gently set the coffin down on the oriental carpet of the great hall. Within seconds the bats grew in size transforming into men suited and hooded in latex. Short capes hung from their shoulders. Their faces were smoothed over with the glossy hoods leaving them unable to see or speak. They kneeled with their heads down pointing their triangular ears towards the witch. The front two remained motionless as the two furthest back stood to lift the box to an angle letting the middle two to undo a large chain.

“Well, well,” said the witch, “I wasn’t expecting anyone so soon.”

The coffin lid creaked open revealing a sexy French Maid with layers of short flouncy white petticoats under a black silk short dress that radiated out from her cinched waist. The corseted costume with its black long sleeves and silly tiny white apron squeezed together a double D-cup cleavage and reveal most of her mesh nylon covered legs. She stepped out of her delivery package and curtsied. “Bonjour, I return. No?” she said in a fake accent only cast in porno movies.

“Oh my, it’s you Francette. I forgot this was your last trip here.”

“Oui oui. I, as you say, am done. No?”

“Yes of course. Everyone seems to be wrapping up this year. You’ll just help me with the party this week. Then poof. That will be all.”

The French Maid’s anxious breathing caused her breasts to rise and fall quickly as she stood there holding back a pending question. She was nervous. One week and then, as the witch said, “poof.” She didn’t know if she liked that verb when it came to witches. The coffin lid slammed shut behind her sparking a short jump from her to the wall near the grand stairs. The latex batmen transformed back to vampire bats and began hovering with their rapidly flapping wings. They lifted the pine box and carried it out into the fog.

“Come with me child,” said the witch lifting her hobble skirt just a bit to attempt ascending one step of the grand staircase – an action that did not look possible. “Normally, I have staff to help me.” She grabbed the hand railing and gave a quick jump up to the first step. She repeated the action for the second and third steps.

Francette looked at this and then the dozens and dozens of steps that curved up around to a second floor and then further up to a third floor. This was going to take time. “Should I, do the escort of you et the stairs? No?”

The witch stopped at the fourth step.

Francette quickly glanced back to the floor. She had improperly shown that even her, a maid in a stereotypical fetish outfit, thought the witch’s hobble skirt was a bit much. Hopefully she had not been too forward. The fact that the witch was taking a closer look at her quickened her heart rate.

“Hm,” said the witch. “I see your master has been sucking on you a bit harshly.”

Francette looked-up to see her mistress pointing back at her two deep puncture marks on her neck. It was embarrassing. She instinctively placed her hand over the bite marks to hide them from her mistress. “Oui. I taste the: ‘so good.’ My master said to say ‘merci beaucoup’ for the monthly herbs you feed to the me. No? They so, so, bonne-bonne.”

“My customers love it. I know.”

“He ahn fack this morning ravish the me. No?” Instead of continuing to touch the marks on her neck, she rubbed her rear pushing her flouncy skirts up in the back and showing some of her garter belts from behind. It was after all, the part that hurt more.

The witch raised her eyebrows at this clearly wishing to change the topic. “Very well then. My customers do love the herbs I feed you girls. Come-up stairs and we’ll get the new staff up and working.”

“Oui, mistress. You said ‘new,’ Mistress?”

“Call me Wicky while you finish your contract.”

Wind pushed the open front door against the wall with a bang that forced the maid to jump again. Wicky flashed a look of anger and then gathered herself. Such people who hid their anger left Francette feeling unsettled. She liked consistent personalities and not people who could fly off the handle instantly for the smallest things. The witch obviously hated when details were missed.

“Snuggles!” the witch yelled. “The door. Stop napping.”

The latex cat woman ran in from another room, slid her latex feet across the floor and then slowed to a stop near the banging door. She began the chore of pulling the massive door enough to overcome its momentum, but the sound of more bat wings approaching from outside became a greater issue to consider. She stopped and listened.

The witch took a breath of frustration. “I gave Snuggles an absolute fear of vampires to keep her out of the way.”

The maid nodded. Sure enough, just the sound of bats sent Snuggles awkwardly dropping to the floor, twisting her body around, and pawing furiously several times in place as her frictionless outfit denied her needed traction to get away. She transformed into a cat and dug her claws deep into the carpet to thrust her forward. Once again, she darted under the dinning room table.

Francette hoped she hadn’t done anything wrong. She looked for approval and saw Wicky clearly also wondering who the visitor might be. Were Francette’s bats coming back? But why would they?

“Did you forget something Francette?”

“No. That must be the someone else. No?”

Bats carrying a fancier more lavish coffin with golden metal handles absent of any wrapping chains flew into the great hall. The same type of batmen transformed following the same lid opening ritual.

The witch tried to move down one step fighting her floor length hobble skirt. She settled on doing a little jump with both hands holding the railing. She repeated the maneuver.

Francette couldn’t see into the opening coffin from her vantage point. Who was this? She wanted so badly to look.

The witch though could see the person’s identity as the coffin door creaked open. “Oh my, Vamps!” said Wicky with a squeal.

A woman emerged from the coffin wearing a top hat and a long cape that was pulled back intentionally to show-off her body clad in a magician assistant’s tuxedo with long mesh nylon covered legs below a short jacket and golden cinching vest. Slivers of white French cuffs showed from under the ends of her jacket sleeves. Long coattails finished off the theme of the outfit. She smiled at the witch and rapidly took several cutesy high heel baby steps over to the stairs. Both women did the Beverly Hills fake, don’t mess-up my make-up cheek-to-cheek air kisses as they pretended how much they missed each other.

As the vampire and witch talked, Francette tried to make herself invisible since she had not been given permission to leave. She kept her head down, clasped her hands together on top of her little white apron supported by all the puffiness of her skirts. She peered up only with her eyes to sneak a look at both mistresses. She wondered if the vampire had just mocked the witch by doing the little hobbled steps. Surely the witch would have a retort to that, but she seemed to be blowing it off. That wasn’t very authoritative for a dom. After all, everyone should play the ‘part perfection—no?’

The maid remembered her role over the past year as a blood slave, the monthly herb feedings, the monthly trips locked in a coffin for transportation, and the force feeding by the most awful woman assisting Wicky. At least those sessions would stop, but she wasn’t looking forward to working at the manor even for a week. Every visit she felt a presence somewhere in the house. Maybe there were ghosts. Maybe it was the house itself.

The maid listened to the women talking.

“No really, Wicky. It’s just been too long,” said Vamps.

“So sweet,” the witch said switching quickly to business. “But where’s your blood slave? He’s due for his monthly herbs.”

“Oh, it’s terrible. I just couldn’t stop myself. At first I thought it was because of the holiday season and all, but I think his herb dose was watered down a bit. I needed way more blood this time.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Let’s fix that then.”

“Well, I just needed everything he had to give me. What can I say, I required the satisfaction, but he just couldn’t take it.”

“Vamps, what are you saying?”

The sexy vampire snapped her fingers. One of her latex covered slaves stepped forward and kneeled holding-up a large glass jar filled with bones and a skull.

“Vamps! He was only on loan to you.”

Vamps shrugged. “I need a new one. What can say? It shouldn’t be so hard especially to help your favorite landlord—who by the way feels a little neglected.”

“It’s been busy. You know, the full moon coinciding with midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. The last time was decades ago.”

“Yes, it was back in the 1950’s. Ah, the cars back then had such large trunks. Anyway, I need a blood slave with that extra good quality. Whatever secret herbs you feed them, hmmm, is just so yummy.” She looked at the maid and sniffed. “She’s running a little low, but I can still smell the flavor from here. I’ll take her. In fact, I’ll take her now.” Suddenly Vamps blurred across the room.

Francette found herself in a strong hold before anyone could move. Fangs appeared. The vampire’s eyes rolled back like a biting shark. The fangs sank in deep.

Francette held back her screams. She learned the hard way that showing terror only makes a vampire suck harder and take even more blood. She silently looked at the witch pleading with her eyes, ‘Please stop her. Please.’ Her eyes were teary, but the witch just shrugged as Vamps pushed in deeper and sucked blood for a full one Mississippi, two Mississippi, all the way to a ten Mississippi count. Francette felt so light headed. She was sure she looked pale white.

“Ok! Stop! This ones’ done,” Wicky said. “I need her this week.” Turning to the maid, she added, “Francette, run upstairs.” Looking back at the vampire she said, “Vamps, let’s go to the library and we’ll see what we can do. I’ll see who I can bump from the delivery list.”

“Excellent Wicky! That’s what I want to hear.”

The two women walked across the foyer. The vampire dabbed her lips with a silk handkerchief. The maid ran pass the large landing up to the second tier. She leaned over the railing barely able to hear the women below talking: “But it’s Halloween,” said, maybe Vamps’ voice – no maybe the witch said that. She leaned over further pressing the railing into her corset. Being ‘nosey’ had kept her alive so far. She would have to be careful here though.

A drip of blood from her punctured neck fell to the wood floor below. The tiny splatter stopped the distant voice instantly. That meant it was Vamps who was talking and the blood drip probably sounded like a thunderous explosion to her vampire ears. Only she would have heard that, not the witch. The maid thought it best to leave. She rushed down the hallway to the back door leading to the servants’ section.

In the greenhouse, Pinocchia stood in her lederhosen costume. Garter belts peered out from under her red short shorts with gold embroidered edges. She played with one of the tiny garter belts getting it to attach to her mesh stockings. Her white short puffy sleeved blouse strained to hold in her boobs. She tugged at the tops of her suspenders pulling them over her shoulders. In a reflection showing in the green house’s glass, she noticed how the bright red straps crossed right over her perky nipples. She wished the costume had included a bra. She felt naked walking around without one. At least the suspenders made the costume semi-descent. She regretted thinking that—her standards had certainly gone down. Her high-heeled wood shoes, carved like Dutch shoes but sexy, clicked against the stone floor as she felt something move over her hand. By the wall, towering sunflower plants with their head sized blossoms of seeds looked at her. Had they moved? She looked at her hand. She must have brushed one. The flowers each had a pair of strange long leaves hanging down from about shoulder height. They were positioned just like human arms. Regardless, she could have sworn the flowers had been facing the windows a second ago.

“Nah,” the girl said to herself as she focused back on her costume and putting on her white gloves. She thought about the costume’s theme. It was slutty and she vaguely remembered wearing some slutty outfits before being forced to wear the unbearable scarecrow costume. She remembered the itchy hay and how she was frozen unable to move as she was forced to watch the world pass by—and all this while the hay itched constantly. There was no sleep. No escape. Just itching. She clicked her wood shoes together trying to think of something else. The shoes were cute: wooden high heel shoes. Who would of thought of that? Of course, Pinocchio was a wood puppet created by an Italian, not a Dutchman. Funny she should now remember folktales.

The idea of a puppet stayed in her mind until she altered the mental picture with her situation. Was she going to be made into a wood marionette? She panicked. No! No! She already put in her year. A full year! She couldn’t remember it, but regardless there were also the many years semi-dormant scarecrow! She was supposed to be made youthful forever—oh no! A youthful girl puppet! Her heels clicked madly around the greenhouse as her mind raced with what could happen to her. It’s one of those witches’ tricks; one of those false promises; one of those bad three wishes of a supposedly thankful genie; a deal with the devil. She tried to remember how the bargain was phrased. A year of servitude and—and—she started to pull at the gloves, but they wouldn’t budge. She pressed her high heels together and tried to wedge her feet out of the shoes. Failing that she tugged on her undersized hat pinned in her hair. Nothing was removable.

“Crap! Crap! I don’t want to be a wood puppet.” She began to breath heavy. She leaned back pressing her butt against the edge of a workbench, resting a hand on her breasts trying to calm herself. It was then she felt a tiny hand rest on her shoulder.

“Ah!” she screeched turning on her heels, stepping back and back until she almost fell over a flowerpot table on the opposite side. What touched her was a sunflower, not only alive but somehow sentient. It offered comfort with its little leaf hand extending towards her. The flower turned to another one of its kind and they began to quickly sign language each other. They both looked back impossibly expressing a look of pity for the girl who thought she might become wooden marionette.

“Pinocchia!” said a loud voice.

“Ah!” the frightened girl yelled again. She couldn’t take any more shocks.

“Pinocchia, what are you doing?” asked the witch.

“Wicky, you’re not going to leave me as a puppet forever are you?”

“What? Silly, no. The deal was one year of active work, and sure, several years inactive, but one year active none-the-less. I’ll need your help this week and that’s it. Tomorrow, you help me with invitations. Of course prancing around dressed like that all day—well that’s your problem.”

Pinocchia tried to think of loopholes. It hadn’t been one year, but one active year with several frozen in hay. It hadn’t been eternal beauty but humiliation and transformation. “Is that truly, really, totally it? Help with invites and then just the party?”

“Relax, Pinocchia. I only screw over those that deserve it. Our guests include the rich, the vane, the naive and the irresistibly criminal.” She took a pair of metal clippers and snipped off a nub from a tiny pine tree bonsai plant. “Pinocchio is a name partly from the Italian word for pine: ‘pino.’ Come sit.”

The change of subject wasn’t helping. Pinocchia looked at the motionless sunflowers and dragged a tall stool away from them. Its metal supports screeched across the stone floor. She sat her self down feeling the cold metal seat against the bare tops of her thighs not covered in stockings.

Wicky swayed her hips as she approached with her hobbled walk. Cloth tentacles radiated out from the bottom hem of her floor length skirt dragging dust and leaves across the floor. She reached out to caress Pinocchia’s face. “So pretty you are.” She pressed the fresh piece of pinewood against the human puppet’s perfect button nose. “There. Tell me you trust me.”

“Of course, I trust you.” Pinocchia’s eyes converged to look at her growing nose. The tip grew out like a hot dog. “No! No! Why!” She stood knocking the stool over as she looked cross-eyed and touched and felt and tried to verify her extended nose. It wasn’t wood. It was human skin and she could feel every bit of it. It was undeniably her nose pointing out from her face.

“Anytime you lie, it grows. Not being able to lie might make this week’s work a little difficult, but you’ll figure out a way. That is unless you want to be a scarecrow again.”

Pinocchia vigorously shook her head “no.” Each move of her head swiped her nose on a wide swinging path making her even more self-conscious than the bra-less costume she had already donned. She turned her face side-to-side again but slower. It was like a tiny baseball bat attached to her face. Damn it! Why couldn’t things be simple?

Wicky gave a smile of satisfaction. “Now when All Hallow’s Eve ends with the dawning sun, you’ll be forever youthful and beautiful as promised. The only catch is, you’ll want to avoid lying for the rest of your life.”

“But I thought you only did these things to people who deserve it.”

“Come-on, you’re going to help me trick some unsuspecting beautiful people into coming here for a charity party with my clients of vampires and monsters. Don’t you think that’s slightly bad?”

“Hm,” she said weakly acknowledging her compliance in the deceit while she continued to touch her long tubular nose that she could wrap her hand around like an erect penis. Of course, if she hadn’t been threatened with magical imprisonment she wouldn’t be tricking these ‘beautiful’ people. She held that thought back.

“You know you deserve this, Pinocchia. Say, yes.”

Pinocchia cringed not knowing what would happen next. “Yes.” Nothing changed.

“Yes, what?”

Crap! She built-up the nerve to say the full thought. “Yes, I think I deserve this.” Another spurt grew making her nose almost twice as long and twice as wide. “How do I undo this? Come on!”

“Relax. All you have to do is have sex.” The witch stood with her back to the sunflowers. “Undo me girls.”

The sunflowers frantically opened the witch’s gown in the back undoing button after button. Their leaves pulled and popped the black beads down her spine from her neck to her waist and over her butt. Enough leeway was gained to let the black material freely slide off and fall to the floor once they helped the witch extract her arms from the snug long sleeves. Underneath she wore heels and a leather corset dress that wrapped her body so tightly it fused her legs together down to her ankles. The sunflowers worked harder in the back to loosen laces running the length of the hard shell. As the encasement pulled free, the witch rubbed her bare breasts and shimmied out of her panties, garters, and stockings that were hidden underneath. The sunflower leaves pulled the sexy accessories down her legs. “It’s been a while since I had something unique to play with. Of course, you can’t deliver invitations to humans with a nose like that now can you?”

Pinocchia thought hard. It had to be a simple statement of fact. “No.” She gave a sigh of relief when her nose didn’t grow any further.

“Well,” said the witch holding out her arms like she was expecting a warm hug.

“Well, what?”

The witch laughed apparently happy with her freedom from her dress. She was excited to take a few steps and stretch her legs. She giggled when she kneeled down to pick-up the potato sack stuffed with hay. Then she looked more sinister and threw it on the floor at the puppet girl’s feet. “For your knees, darling. I’m going to make you work for it.”

“I don’t understand. What?”

“Fuck me with that thing, silly.”

As the witch leaned against the workbench in front of the sunflowers, it became clear. Pinocchia knew it was this or the garden: this or years of itching as if ants were crawling everywhere. She kneeled onto the soft sack, and with a short crawl, she scooted the sack over to her mistress and looked up.

The sunflowers lifted Wicky a couple inches off the floor and pulled away the stockings.

Pinocchia tried to help but the sunflowers were already fast and efficient. One sunflower leaned down and handed her the panties and stockings. She looked at them and thought they should probably be kept somewhere clean, so she stuffed them between her boobs and aimed her long nose upwards, grabbed the backs of her mistress’s legs to get a good stable base as she probed her mistress’s crotch finding the right place to slowly push her long sausage-shaped nose deep inside.

“Nice,” said the witch rolling her head back and closing her eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get out of this damned dress. Wait, Pinocchia.” Her hips turned slightly. “Yes right there. Keep going. Faster. It’s going to be a work-out for you.”

Tiny high pitched shrieks came form the chorus of sunflowers behind the witch. The crowd of sunflower-seeded faces turned their flower petal heads to kiss each other. A potted plant orgy began as the sunflowers celebrated their freedom from their dried shriveled stalks and now begged to feed off the sexual act before them. Their leaves wrapped around the witch’s body as she leaned further back into the tall plants. She moaned enjoying the mosh pit and the blissful thrusting from her lovemaking marionette.