The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Y B Lonely?

By Captain Eazy

3

Sandy was more or less trapped at home until five-thirty every afternoon because her mom drove the family car to work. Toward the end of the second week after graduation, though, she started to think that she should do more with her day than just lying around watching stupid daytime TV or spending hours surfing the web on her computer. She didn’t want to start college dumpy and doughy—they said every freshman gained fifteen pounds, anyway!

So she decided, very virtuously, to take up jogging. Or at least intervals of jogging separated by long, long walks. That Monday morning she suited up in a pink tank top, black Lycra stretch pants, and white walking shoes. She tied her blonde hair into a ponytail and found her old high-school tennis team headband—it didn’t match, because it was tiger-striped to mark her as one of the Tauntonville Tigers, but it would keep the sweat out of her eyes. Then she strapped on a stretchy belt with a holder for her water bottle and another for her MP3 player and set out down Maple Street, heading for the city park two whole miles away.

At nine, the neighborhood was quiet. Everyone who was going to work had already left, and those still at home were either sleeping in, breakfasting, or pottering around the house. Sandy sighed. She remembered when their neighborhood had been lively every summer morning. Back then all the houses were owned by young families, and she’d always had kids her own age to play with. Not Eugene, of course, who was, well, weird, not into baseball or biking at all, but more interested in studying bugs and building stupid little crystal radio sets. But on the other side of her house Diane and Jack Bellona had lived, and across the street there had been Vicki Martles, and Lyda Verner had been just down the street, and past her Tony Clark—none of them left, now, except Lyda, and she was off in Europe somewhere. Every other kid that Sandy had played with had moved away, or—she sniffed as she thought of Tony Clark—had turned out to be an asshole who wasn’t worth her time. No use fretting about Tony, though. He had gone off to college, taking summer classes and getting and early start and probably trying to nail all the co-eds, the bastard.

Anyway, the nature of the neighborhood had changed, and now except for three or four families, older people had moved into the houses, retired folks who didn’t have kids. Too bad. It made the neighborhood quieter not to have little kids around, but it also made it a little lonely. At the end of Maple Street, where it dead-ended into Centennial, Sandy turned right and broke into a jog, enjoying the music and the cool—well, coolish—morning air. It was turning out to be a hot summer, but right now the breeze felt refreshing. She mentally hummed along with some of her favorite tunes and jogged until she began to gasp for air, and then she slowed to a walk again. Down Centennial to Park Drive, then cross at the light and another half-mile to the city park. Here there were plenty of kids, screeching, chasing each other, playing softball, flying on the swings like the bewitched followers of Peter Pan, and lining up to splash in the pool, which was due to open at ten. Sandy made a round of the park, then headed for home, satisfied that she had managed a pretty fair workout. If she could do that every day, she’d start college as buffed as, as, well, as Gene. . . Eugene. She wondered when he had lost his terrible acne, when he had started working out. He had to be lifting weights or something.

She reduced her pace to a stroll when she got back to shady Maple Street, cooling down on the way home. She saw the delivery truck from far down the street and at first thought it was outside her house, but as she got closer, she saw that the brown-uniformed driver was stacking up box after box on the porch of the Stottards’ house. Gene, in cut-offs and a T-shirt and sandals, stood on the porch signing for the dozen or so cartons, and just as Sandy got to the edge of his yard, the delivery van drove away. “Hi,” she called.

Gene had just picked up a big, apparently heavy box. “Oh, hey.” And then a breeze slammed the front door behind him. “Damn! Uh, Alexandria, would you please open the door for me?”

“Sure.” She jogged to the porch, opened and held the door and said, “But call me Sandy.”

“Okay.” Grunting, Gene turned sideways and crabbed his way in. He was back in a minute. “Thanks. Computers.”

“All of these?” asked Sandy in surprise.

“Well, computers and computer equipment. I’m setting up some new servers.” He picked up another huge box.

“Let me help,” Sandy said, lifting a smaller box. It wasn’t very heavy.

“Okay, thanks, but the house is a mess,” he said.

“Won’t bother me.”

She had never been in the Stottards’ house before, as far as she could remember. It really wasn’t a mess at all, or at least the living room wasn’t, except the morning paper was strewn over the sofa. She followed Gene down the hall and then into a room to the right. At one time it had been one of the house’s three bedrooms—Gene’s house was almost identical to hers—but now—

“My God,” Sandy said. The room was half-full of whirring, humming computers. And it was cold. The house had central air-conditioning, but a window unit was chilling this room even more. The left side of the room had been equipped with floor-to-ceiling shelves and plenty of electrical outlets.

“They’re gonna go there,” Gene grunted as he set his box down.

“How can you afford all this?” Sandy asked.

He shrugged. “I told you, I’m running my own business,” he said. “I do Web hosting, I design sites, I’m in high demand to create Web ads. I’m kind of rich, I guess.”

“I guess,” she said.

They ferried all the boxes in, and then Gene said, “Thanks. Want a Coke?”

“That would be great,” Sandy said. She was sweating from the exertion.

Gene brought her a frosty glass. She sat on the sofa in the living room, and he sat next to her in an armchair. “You smell nice,” he said.

She almost choked on her soda, and then laughed. “I smell sweaty!”

“I like the scent,” he said. He lifted his glass as if toasting her. “Thanks for the little show the other night.”

Sandy felt her face turn flaming red. “Oh, God. I don’t know what got into me.” She looked down at the floor. “Not that I’ve got a whole hell of a lot to see.”

“I thought you looked nice.”

“Yeah, Mom looks nice,” muttered Sandy. “I wish I had her boob chromosome, or whatever it is.”

“Really?” asked Gene in a polite tone. “You want to be, uh, bigger?”

Sandy shrugged. She was damned if she was going to discuss her bustline with a geek, even if he was a nicer geek than she’d supposed at first.

Gene got up and left the room for a moment. When he came back, he handed Sandy a print-out on a piece of computer paper. “Check out this site. I did work on designing it and also on some of the products.”

Sandy read the URL. “What is it?”

Gene sipped from his Coke. “Just a Web site that might let you do something about being a little more, you know, bustier.”

When she left, Sandy took the piece of paper with her. She kept thinking about Gene—he really had become a good-looking young man. Without his glasses and his pepperoni-pizza complexion, with nicely developed shoulders and abs, he really was—well, maybe not hunky, but definitely not bad. But still, she thought, he was kind of a geek. Any other boy would have seen her impromptu strip show as a come-on and would have made a move on her. Gene just seemed to take it mildly in stride, without questioning. He was—she giggled—a nice boy.

That afternoon, after her shower and her sensible lunch of salad and tomato juice, Sandy settled down at her own computer. She had the URL that Gene had given her, and she decided to check out the site.

Huh. It was WholeNooYoo dot com. A site that hawked vitamins, exercise programs and equipment, health foods, yada yada. It didn’t look very interesting—until Sandy noticed the tab that said “Enhancements Etc.” She clicked on it.

And had to grin. “For Him” had a range of penis-enhancement nostrums, and photos of very interesting looking guys. “For Both” was, well, kind of kinky. Some sex toys and stuff, and something called “ReJuve,” a system guaranteed—GUARANTEED!!!—to make anyone twenty-five years younger or YOUR MONEY BACK!!!!! Operating on the general principle that anything with more than one exclamation point was not to be trusted, Sandy shook her head and clicked to the last section, “For Her.”

Hmm. There was something here—“Breast Enhancement System.” A combination of nutrition and stimulation...development over a period of two weeks...two cup sizes...increased sensitivity and.... Two hundred and fifty dollars.

No exclamation points at all.

And there were before and after photos. Something had happened. The before column showed girls with less than she had. The after columns showed the same girls looking, well, spectacular.

Two hundred and fifty dollars. That was a lot of money.

Of course, she had her college fund. She hadn’t touched that.

But it would be throwing the money away (Guaranteed or your money back), and her mom had worked so hard for it.

But...

Something had made Gene look a hell of a lot better. and he had recommended this site.

Sandy got her purse and found her debit card. She filled out the online order form: two hundred and fifty, plus fifteen shipping and handling. She slowly typed in the card number. She felt her face turning red with the inner conviction that this was some kind of scam, that she was being an idiot.

And then she pressed Enter and the thing was done.

4

Sandy really didn’t think about the transaction again until the following day, when she returned from her jog. She fumbled her door key from her fanny pack and unlocked the front door of her house when she heard Gene call her name.

She looked up, surprised. He was walking across the lawn with a largish cardboard box in his hands. “This is yours,” he said.

He came up on the porch and handed it to her. She saw her name and the return address and blushed. “I—I just—”

“It came this morning, and when the delivery guy couldn’t find anyone in at your house, he dropped it off at my place. I guess you noticed he knows me pretty well.” Gene grinned. “I signed for the package. Is, uh, is that what I think it is? You took my advice?”

“Um. Yeah, sort of,” mumbled Sandy. “But I just ordered it yesterday!”

Gene leaned in close. “Be sure to save the before photos,” he said in a confidential tone. “If you send before and after photos in and they use them on the site, they pay a thousand bucks!”

“I—I wasn’t planning to take photos,” Sandy stammered.

Gene looked surprised. “Oh, you have to. It’s part of the kit—wait a minute. Do you even have a webcam?”

Sandy bit her lip and shook her head.

“I’ll get you one. Be right back.”

Sandy opened the door and rushed to her room, dumping the stupid box on her bed. Damn! She’d already made a fool of herself, and now Gene knew that she wasn’t satisfied with her, well, her bustline. She heard a tap at the door and yelled, “Come on in.”

Gene brought a little spherical camera with him. He connected it to the computer. “I think you have to take about five or six photos to set up the bust-development system,” he said. “You don’t have to show your face, of course, but the web site won’t pay for anonymous photos. Well, you know why—too easy to get one flat girl and one busty one and cheat them out of the money. Open it up. I want to see what’s in there.”

Well—he’d already seen her, and he knew what was in the box, and he wasn’t exactly drooling and leering. She sighed. With Gene, she supposed, it was like an ant farm or a model volcano. Just kind of a science fair experiment.

She opened the box and started to unpack. Three CDs in paper sleeves. An instruction manual the size of a small paperback. Three bottles of vitamins and food supplements. Two medium toothpaste-sized tubes of something called contact gel. And a floppy, rubbery garment made of something that felt like very thick vinyl, the translucent gray color of a milk jug. It looked like a really short sweater, and it was much too big for her. It had four jacks, two directly under the breasts and two nearly under the armpits. A moment later she dug out a coiled USB connector, four-headed at one end. “What does this do?”

Gene the geek was cross-legged on the floor, reading the instructions. “Okay,” he said. “First, we load the CDs. Hand me the yellow one. That’s first.”

With a sort of helpless feeling, Sandy did as he asked. He loaded the programs, one, two, three, and left the red CD in her machine. “Now you have to input your photo,” he said. He looked up. “Let me take your pictures?”

No, she wanted to tell him. To her utter astonishment, she heard herself giggle. “Oh, why not? You saw what little I have already. Don’t make fun, though.”

“I’d never make fun of you,” he said. “Okay, you have to be topless. Uh, you’re kind of hot from your jog. Shower off and put on some pajama bottoms. Be sure to dry yourself well.”

“Okay.” Sandy dug out some pajama bottoms and went into the bathroom, feeling weirdly docile. She took a hot shower followed by a cool one, dried carefully, and then put on the pajama bottoms. At the last moment she draped a towel around her shoulders before going back to her room. “Uh, what do I do?”

“I’ve got to get photos of you left profile, three-quarters left, head-on, three-quarters right, and right profile,” Gene said. He made an absent-minded gesture, as if he were punching his glasses back into place—the glasses he no longer wore or needed. Sandy found that oddly endearing. Gene nodded toward the bed. “Stand right over there. Keep your back straight. I have to line up your profile with the guidelines on the screen. Drop the towel.”

Sandy went to the place he had pointed out, took the towel off, and stood there topless. She couldn’t see him, off to her side, and that helped. “Like this?”

“Yes. Back straight. Okay, hold still, now. I’m lining it up. Okay, good, got that one. Now turn toward me. . . little more. . . little more. . . that’s great, stop there. Back straight. You can smile if you want.”

Now she could see him, not looking at her, but at her image on the computer monitor. Hash marks had to be aligned with the bottoms, tops, and sides of her breasts, and a crosshair centered over each nipple. God, they looked so teeny. Sandy forced her mouth into a rictus, more a grimace than a smile.

Then full-on. Then another turn. Another one, and Gene said, “Okay, that’s done. You can put something on now.”

Sandy draped the towel back around her neck and let it hang down over her boobs. “What now?”

“Hmm. . . .okay, go ahead and take one capsule from each bottle.”

She pulled a pajama top from the bureau drawer, took the medicine bottles to the bathroom, and took the pills. She heard Gene say, “When you finish, come here. It’s your turn.”

Sandy pulled on the pajama top and buttoned it and came out to find him no longer sitting at the keyboard. “Sit down,” he said.

She did. He told her what to do, what keys to hit, what selections to make with the mouse. Her digitized image showed up in a doll-like computer rendition, not really looking like her. That made it easier.

“Now,” Gene said. “Pick out how you want your new boobs to look. This slider determines how full they are. This one adjusts to the, uh, the perkiness you want. This one’s for the nipples.”

Sandy, blushing hotly, played with the controls, giggling when the Sandy-mannequin on the screen suddenly ballooned out to a double-D cup. “Not that big,” she said.

“No, I’d say that’s decidedly excessive.”

But she did want full breasts. And perky ones. She settled on a luscious D-cup, but carried high and firm. She could make the areolas and nipples similarly shrink or grow. “What, uh, what do you advise?” she asked shyly.

Gene shrugged. “I like ‘em big,” he said simply.

She settled for something roughly the shape of a small strawberry. “Now what?”

“Now you plug in the shaper.” Gene gestured toward the vinyl shortie sweater. “I’ve got the USB here. Bring it over.”

She did, and he plugged the four smaller jacks into the garment, then connected the USB end to the computer. “Now you have to put it on,” he said.

“Okay.” Shucking her top was much easier this time. She pulled the weird rubbery garment down over her head—ouch, it caught her ponytail—and struggled to get it smoothed out. It hung on her like a tent.

“Everything lined up?” asked Gene.

“Seems to be.”

“Okay. I’m activating it.”

“What does it do—oh. Oh! Oh!

What it did was to change shape, becoming snug everywhere but her breasts—there it pooched out into voluptuous tits! And it felt sort of tingly, too.

“That’s pretty much it,” Gene said. He exited the program. “Okay. Tonight you rub that gel on yourself, then pull the shaper garment on. See this icon on the screen? Okay, you plug the USB cable into the garment jacks—just leave it plugged in, I’d say—and then attach it to the computer, just the way it is now. Click on the icon, and the CD will play you some sleepy-time music. Then just get into bed and let the shaper go to work. The cable’s twelve feet, so that should be plenty long enough to reach to your bed. There are subliminal suggestions in the music, so you’ll sleep on your back while the shaper is working. In the morning, click the icon again to shut off the program, unplug the USB, take off the shaper, and see if you’ve grown any.”

“Not overnight!”

“Says in the manual you’ll begin to notice a change after the first night. It may take up to two weeks for the full effect, though. I want you to promise me one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

Gene grinned. “Let me take the ‘after’ pictures, too!”

* * *

Gene went home, but for some reason Sandy didn’t get dressed. She felt sort of. . . light-headed. The meds, maybe. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was just sort of. . . dreamy and floaty. She did some Web surfing, read a little, watched some dumb TV, and finally got into her clothes just before her mom came home from work.

“Hi, Hon,” Sylvia said to her daughter as she came in. “What did you have for lunch?”

“Nothing much,” Sandy admitted. “Just a banana and some milk.”

“In the mood for a pizza?”

“Sure,” Sandy said.

“Good. I’m way too tired to cook.”

They ordered the pizza, and Sandy said, “Mom, you work too hard.”

Her mother had Sandy’s blonde hair, though hers was prematurely faded, and crows’ feet and wrinkles on her neck that made her look far older than forty. She sighed. “Takes hard work, Hon.”

Sandy nodded sympathetically. Her mom was exactly as tall as she was—five-five in bare feet—but outweighed her by thirty-five pounds. Five pounds, her mom joked, was pure boob. Sylvia had a nice 36-D bust that would have been more striking if she had the time and energy to exercise and take a little off her waistline.

They ate, then Sylvia went to her bedroom to catch up on her email. Sandy went to her own room, watched some TV, and then got ready for bed. She opened a tube of gel and spread some on her palms, then ran her hands over her breasts. She gasped—it tingled! It felt nice. Then she followed Gene’s instructions. She adjusted the volume on the computer speakers to a very soft level and lay in bed, listening to the low sound of New-Agey music, not her favorite, with a background susurrus that was vaguely like distant surf, except she could sort of detect a few whispery words here and there: “relax,” “still,” and one or two others, nothing coherent.

Sandy was just thinking that this would never work, that she was too curious to nod off, when she plunged straight into deep sleep.

And the Dream.

It seemed to her. . . .

It seemed she was in a kind of fog. A pleasant fog, smelling of mint. She breathed deeply, letting it flow into her lungs, into her blood.

“Oh!”

Her. . . her tits had grown. She had real tits. Big ones! And the nipples poked proudly out like small strawberries. In the dream, Sandy touched herself to make sure they were real, and she jerked as an orgasm ripped through her—just from touching her nipples! She felt hot, felt warmth and wetness between her legs. Then, without transition, she stood knee-deep in a fountain, a clear crystal pool—not a man-made fountain, but a natural one, with water bubbling out fresh and warm. She languidly bathed herself. She could see nothing but the pool—the rosy, minty fog was still dense. Sandy let water dribble in rivulets down her new tits, sighing at the soft liquid touch. She quivered as it found its way to her crevice, dribbled in teasing rolling droplets over her eager clit.

Something touched her left cheek, quite tentatively. It felt like an insect or a leaf, but when Sandy reached up to brush it away, her hand found a springy, taut cylinder of flesh. . . a boy’s erect cock. “I can’t see you,” she complained.

The cock pulsed in her grip. It wanted attention. Poor thing. Sandy turned a little and sniffed it. It smelled wonderful, fleshy and inviting. She started to stroke it. Her questing hand found the dangling balls. Funny, she couldn’t see them—just the tip of the cock, purple and glistening. Even her hand vanished in the billowing mist. Sandy began to lick the helmet of the cock. Her tongue lapped the tight, smooth flesh, questing, finding the slitted opening from which a salty, slippery liquid was already oozing. Poor cock.

Sandy opened her lips to it, shielding her teeth. She bobbed her head, closing her eyes and savoring the taste and the texture of the cock. Her hand cradled the boy’s balls, swollen in their sac of flesh. She sucked, trying to draw more of that liquid from the slit. It tasted so good.

Something tapped at her right tit, and she reached with her free hand to find another cock, bobbing and throbbing. She casually began to stroke it, feeling it grow tighter and tighter. Just a minute, little cock, I’ll make you feel better— she gulped as the one she was sucking suddenly jerked and throbbed, shooting a hot, delicious gush of cum into her mouth. It pulled away form her mouth and from her hand, and then she began to suck the other one—just as a third cock touched her left nipple. Giggling, Sandy sucked and stroked five cocks, six, a dozen! She swallowed their cum, she felt it jet hot onto her new tits, felt it splash across her face, into her hair, felt its hot drool down over her belly. She was on fire to fuck one of those cocks, but she couldn’t step out of her pool, couldn’t move, that would be wrong, and so she had to service them in other ways, but they were delicious ways—

She woke with a gasp. Dawn light was coming in the window. She was still lying on her back, just as she had been when she dropped off to sleep, but she must have been writhing—her pajama bottoms had been pushed down to her knees! And she was lying in a wet little pool that had leaked from her pussy. Groaning, Sandy fingered herself to a climax, and for a moment she lay gasping. Then she kicked off her pajama bottoms, got out of bed, and clicked on the program icon on the computer screen. When it signaled “Program Ended,” she unplugged the USB and tugged the shaper off.

And looked down. Her breasts, gleaming with sweat and the gel, were—

Well, bigger. Not D-cups, but bigger! Sandy tweaked her nipples, and to her disappointment, they weren’t nearly as sensitive as they had felt in her dream.

Well—not yet, anyway....

TO BE CONTINUED