The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Hiiii, Mr. Robinette,” purred the thick sex kitten that vaguely looked like… Which of his daughter’s friends did she look like? Hmmm… It was hard to think. Her smell seemed to overpower his brain in two seconds flat.

Her pink hair was practically glowing in the early evening sunset. Like it was made of cotton candy, and sunlight on fire. It was indeed only then that he noticed them. The jugs. Those thingies.

“Hi, eh… Janelle, is it?” She nodded for a heartbeat, then pushed herself in with the receding sun. Tits first. Chewing on a big neon green puck of gum. Did she brush a fresh mani across his crotch, in the process? Or did he just want her to do it?

Ugh!

He tried to get a hold of himself. He could practically hear this bit — no. Stop it. He could practically hear this human being’s cleavage, as it sloshed around in a plush faux-velvet choker top.

The thing was navy blue with gold, no, cheap rusty brass-like piping, some rope and fringe elements at the neckline. It was some weird kind of, like… throwback fetish gear. Something was off about it… This kind of staid naval gear hadn’t been anything to throw a dollar at in many moons, decades.

That didn’t account for the totally indecent cut of the outfit, though, up top as much as down below. Matching denim daisy dukes that were all kinds of indecent, too. It was kind of bizarre.

She looked like a seaman’s slag, with a slightly sleeker, more plump Kardashian look. She even wore a shiny little pink leather cap. Fuzzy purple leopard print sex cuffs dangled from her waistband.

She tried to air out her thighs but they pretty much immediately stuck back together. It was evident that “Janelle” was getting herself quite wet and distracted. Overly, gaudily tan and getting pre-fat, not his style at all, so why was it that this girl was getting him super hard? What was going on!

Just ignore it. This wasn’t something he’d seen any kind of real person wear, outside of hookup Halloween parties and like, whatever the boudoir equivalent of Skymall was. It was tacky, but somehow kind of chic, and expensive looking. The heels, too. New money style.

Plus, her titties were real big. And braless — or else she was equipped with some seriously fat power nipples. Mr. Robinette stepped back, ignoring… whatever it was, and quite awkwardly. Just letting her do her thing. “Andrea, your… your f-riends are here!” He hollered from the bottom of the stairs.

He took off his apron and puttered about for a half-step, picked up the feather duster from the end table, hoping that a girl — a girl who was probably barely 18 — wouldn’t notice him cleaning. Or that he was sweating. Jeez. Hang on.

Why would he care, anyway? Why should he? Besides… This girl looked a bit too old to be Janelle. Maybe, her older sister? Yeah, that’s right. Yeah, a junior in college, maybe even a grad student by now. Jenny was her name? Jenny.

She was wearing a gaudy emerald navel stud in her pudgy, bronzed little belly. It looked new, like some fresh college weight. A girly beer gut. The piercing looked almost like a ring pop, sticky with a viscous sheen, and was even oozing neon orange fluid.

“We’ve got to get that wife of yours onto some good-for-gosh, ol’ fashioned Pink Rubby,” Jenny-maybe-Janelle said. She started rubbing the sugar sauce onto her fluffy stomach, and began to mewl like a true sex kitten. What the fuck!

And that’s when it hit him. Stupid idiot. This wasn’t Janelle. No way. How could he have missed it? The voice was different, sure, but the cadence was unmistakeable. (That is, when she was actually successful at forming a couple words and stringing them together.)

Then he took in the beauty mark above her lip, and by the time that tiny little divot of a scar on the bridge of her nose registered, the slight peach fuzz did, too. The subtle unibrow. Yup. “J-Janet!?” he asked, aghast, the wind knocked straight out of him. “You’re… Janet? This is… What on earth HAPPENED to you?”

“Love happened, baby,” she husked, like sweet bimbo thistle. She took out her gum and threw a gobful of the stuff onto the wall behind her, right atop the mantle, somehow landing on the glass atop a framed picture of his family, dangerously close to where his wife was posed, underneath an old oak tree.

He didn’t stop her, or admonish, or pick it up. There were pressing matters at hand. A flesh toy. Pressing into his shin with a barely concealed, chubby new animal ass.

He was too caught up in the idea that she definitely, for sure, had to have noticed his bulge. “I love cock,” she admitted. “And you’s a… like, widower. Lemme see what you got in them pants for me to work with, kay?”

Janet Reiss was 65, and now she didn’t look a day over 21. A 21-year-old who looked as if she’d been baked and basted over, in a very fruitful re-puberty, about half a dozen times — five of which had to have been in the past two weeks.

“Andrea!” he screamed, but then realized she might not have even driven home from her dorm yet. Yeah, seriously. Why was he under the impression that she was home?

It wasn’t even noon yet! He looked down in awed, rapt interest at the wet mess of platinum and pink curls working his bone. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her lips and throat, and that was enough. It only took a few seconds. He could hear her fat tits slamming together as she bobbed like a cheap motorized toy.

Or was that her big asscheeks clapping?

Whichever. He nutted all over his daughter’s friend’s mom’s new double chin. “That doesn’t mean we’re married,” he said. Fuck! Where did that shit come from? Married?! Still, the fact that she was pouting at hearing that?

Well, that was just about getting him hard and protective, all over again...

Andrea came home about halfway through Mrs. Reiss and her dad’s second full-bore fuck session. It was their first evening together as a “Christian law married” couple after all. Everything was going according to His plan.

“We’ll explain away everything, sweetheart,” her dad said, even as he buried what, eight solid inches of dong, all up her friend’s mom? How could she handle it? But, she totally was, it was insane. She

Wait. Away? “We’ll explain everything away,” what the fuck! What was — Ugh! It was so frustrating, struggling to keep her head in the game and actually hold a thought for more than a few fucking seconds, Jesus Christ.

Andrea furrowed her brow, turned away to the mail on the kitchen table, and tried to rid her brain of the image of her father’s dick. It wasn’t easy. She picked up a junk mail item addressed to an “Andey-Anney Robesoft.”

“Don’t worry,” Daddy said. Daddy? So big. Andey-Anney Robesoft? Oh, right.

She wasn’t Andrea Anya Robinette anymore. Now that she was a bimbo, and making her dad into a himbo, and making her friend’s mom into her sister-bimbo wife, she needed a fun, little new dumb-people name. The words of her therapist rattled around her skull.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Dr. Hanko had intoned, “but it will be rewarding. Or so I’ve heard. Being a bimbo slut, I mean. Like, literally choosing to transform yourself into breed-meat. It’s a terrible, difficult choice.”

Andrea could tell her therapist was hung like a fucking mule, even before he whipped it out, audibly, under his desk, wheeling out, in front of her, basically. Jacking it wet, eventually, so wet, a couple feet in front of her, right in front of her eyes. Oh, God. Right in front of her face...

“Sure, more than six hundred thousand women in the city have uh, ‘grown out’ over the past couple of years, and that’s tempting. I’ve been tempted. But you’re going to have to give up a ton of concepts and ideas you currently hold dear.”

Maybe it was the first true blue side effect of willfully bimboizing yourself, she considered, but she honestly didn’t have any clue that all the IQ loss, all the emotional IQ loss, the vocabulary… decimation, basically?

She didn’t know it was like, for real permanent. She had cried a whole bunch. It was tough. And now she was frustrated and horny as fuck, and doing her best. Or trying to. Trying to not give up… trying? God! She was so wet...

Trying to pretend like everything was normal and peachy keen, and that she didn’t have a hot pink snatch, glowing watermelon red, ripe and easy and tasty, just like a fresh Georgia peach, prying her thighs open at the slightest invocation of some peen…

Sister Jasmine told her that it was all part of the ritual, that the family that worships together and freaks together received the spoils of heaven together. Simple Christian animal biology, really. But not her dad, surely, right? There was a lot of hot new fun in all these new church rules, but, like, come ON!

So. Why was it so hard to just open this letter from Senator Baby Pink and see what she wanted out of her, Andrea Robe-n-whatever, as a loyal voter and soldier in Our Family Way? She opened it fine with her long, french tipped nails, but she just couldn’t seem to read it. Words were so dumb.

“Oh, my fuckin’ god, your pussy feels so good on my johnson, baby,” she could still hear her dad. He was boning the shit out of Mrs. Reiss. She was able to tune them out, clench her wayward thighs together. She tried to ignore those first few ripples of cellulite and read. But then she remembered she couldn’t really read.

It had been what, five weeks, since she last set foot inside a gym? She tried to pull down a straining miniskirt, but it was useless. Her dad would have to see his daughter getting some pretty fat thighs. No phat about it. Pure fat. She must have put on twenty pounds in the past month, it was ridiculous. Mostly in her ass, tits, and brains...

Andey-Anney patted her pussy through her pale pink glitter bedazzled panties. It took her the next eight or nine minutes, and a good old fashioned orgasm, to remember that she should feel strange, sad, maybe frightened that she’d just masturbated to the sounds of her Daddy getting his nut off.

…that she should ever be made to feel self conscious that her thighs were, ugh, too fat for her… her Daddy?! Ugh! She couldn’t spit that last word out soon enough. She couldn’t wait for it to be burned out of her brain. Or was it… into her brain? Into, into. Right. Because of the… penis… or something. Whatever.

DADDY!

It was funny, what all the slut building chemicals inside of her were conspiring to accomplish. Getting dumb was mostly kind of fun. You used to know stuff before, but it’s like all that room, all that wasted space gets reformatted. And then your fat and pretty little kitty gets to be princess in all that brain room.

What used to be a comfy, measured approach to life, and understanding and nuance, are now fat pink breeding zones, like your brain is halfway made up of just fleshy, angry libido.

Feminism, gender theory, reparations, religious wars? Every time you think of anything difficult, it gets replaced by a hot pink puffy brain cloud, and then a world class bimbo-pussy twinge. Andrea used to think about smart girl things, but Andey-Anney knew better, how to have a better life. It involved a lot more cock.

“It’s like a cartoon now,” she moaned, and opened her flip phone on the third ring. Her dad’s plan didn’t allow for a smartphone anymore, it was a bummer. “Everything! Life is like a cartoon now, Derek,” she moaned to her boyfriend over video chat.

“Do you see my lips?” He could hear them before he even looked up from examining his own puffy, swollen member. His cock definitely felt a lot bigger. More veiny. He noticed her tits first, they looked veiny too. Then…

“Yup!” He said, blushing as they both noticed his hand knock up against his computer desk, and a vein practically bulge on his forehead. He had cummed pretty much the second he saw them. Big, fat, distracting, juvenile. Slut lips.

There were no two ways about it: Andey-Anney had gone and gotten her plumpening self some all-American slut lips. “So, those are permanent, or what? I still haven’t finished reading the brochure, I’ve just been jacking off all day! I haven’t even asked any bimbo on the street for head yet, promise!”

All those words at once! Don’t look like you’re getting a headache, just concentrate! Giggle! Giggle or something! The poorly connecting giggle came out like a squeak. “Honey, you’re so gosh-darn sexy with all your words you’re talkin’, but ain’t you know somethin’? I can’t ‘member what that ‘permy-ent’ word mean no more!“