The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the car, uncertain of where to go or what to do, his cock compelled him to act. He sat with it unzipped, unleashed, rising out from his lap like a majestic totem, streaming precum and harder than he’d ever felt it before.

Before—between the raucous wake-up call, escaping, arriving at the office and escaping again—he hadn’t really had a good look at his cock. It had felt big and hard, sure, but he just thought he was especially turned on because gloriously stacked supermodel-esque beauties were worshiping him with their mouths and begging him for more.

But now, in the garage’s dim light, he took another look. It was bigger. Much, much bigger—longer by at least three inches and thicker in diameter by at least another inch and a half. How had he grown such a monster? What the fuck was happening?

Gentle, groaning, he wrapped a hand around it and stroked just slightly. He was so hard. Precum shot out like a cannon, streaming upward and then splattering over the steering wheel and his hands and shaft.

It was perfectly possible, he realized, to make himself cum. There was plenty of material to work with from his recollection of today. Addalyn’s mouth. Abigail’s begging. Marisa’s imploring. Gale’s…fuck…Gale…

Why couldn’t he get the thought of Gale sucking him off out of his head? She had been so spectacular at it. And—like a drunk who threw away half a liter of vodka on his way to a recovery center—he could not help but wish he’d had the presence of mind to go further before he had known it was her. God, if he had just been able to fuck her sweet, tight body before he had known who she was…

No, no that was wrong.

And the feeling of wrongness only intensified when he stroked himself thinking about it. Something stopped him from making himself cum by himself—it was almost revolting. And it wasn’t just the sapping engineer team of Gale-type-thoughts drilling under the walls of his brain that made it feel wrong; it was the fact of him stroking himself to a finish at all.

Like he needed—like he had earned—a gorgeous woman to absorb whatever cum he created.

What he needed, perhaps even more than he needed to cum, if that was possible, was someone to talk to.

He needed someone who wouldn’t want to fuck him. Someone he could trust to tell him the truth.

He drove up to the Fontaine Law Office in the middle of the afternoon. It was windy, and he wished it wasn’t—every time the warm breeze blew into him, his overly-sensitive cock mistook the sensation as someone tugging it into action.

So, staggering with lust and struggling not to stop and grind his palm against his straining oak, he entered Ella Fontaine’s office.

She was his oldest friend; they went to law school together and had run their year’s most successful study group. After graduating, they ended up at the same firm—under “good old Hartman,” which is what they had called the vicious old bastard who had paid them next to nothing to grind their fingers into dust writing him briefs—and shared long talks about opening up a firm together. It had always been friendly and easy between Stephen and Ella because she was a committed lesbian and let him know that on their very first meeting. They became best friends fast, and relied on each other for help with their growing client list across town.

Nonetheless, they had suffered a falling out years ago when—too drunk at a party—he’d made a clumsy at her.

Something of a pattern, that. Perhaps he should look into it.

No time now.

Inside, some young thing was bent over the front desk wearing a tiny white skirt and tall, tall white heels. Her delectable ass, perfectly sculpted in the form of a heart-shaped bubble, shifted this way and that as she searched for something inside a drawer. He groaned audibly. This was the last thing he’d wanted to see. He had to take hold of the door frame just to not rush forward and start molesting this poor young woman whose only indiscretion had been dropping her pen.

Stephen’s office was small; Ella’s was practically a coffin. They shared a similar structure—small waiting room and an office in the back—but Ella had never, to his knowledge, made enough to afford a secretary. She had moved into divorce lawyering, the last he heard. The lobby had three men in it, all staring helplessly at the display of the gorgeous blonde before him. Stephen looked over at them and they immediately averted their eyes—not from the blonde, but from him.

It was strange, like they were intimidated. It was not a response he was used to; Stephen had been beat up so many times growing up that he had built up his argumentative skills particularly to respond to bigger, stronger men bullying him around.

The blonde, in front of them all, bent over further. Her panties—or perhaps the absence of them, judging from the total lack of lines in her skirt—would soon be visible.

He cleared his throat, hoping to encourage her to stop what she was doing. Instead, she bent over further, giggling, flashing her pink-wet slit, and then rose up vertebrae-by-vertebrae like a yoga instructor and shot her thick blond hair back in an elaborately sexy toss.

“Oh my god! Stephen! Thank goodness you’re here!”

The blonde—only more stunning now that she had turned around—smiled and leapt towards Stephen, giving him a long and intimate hug. Her breasts, plush and plump in her tiny sweater, crushed fetchingly against his chest. She smelled like fresh strawberries. Stephen’s cock urged against the confines of his tros, sliding up against her thigh. The way she giggled and pressed off of him made it ambiguous as to whether she was just friendly and airheaded or actually feeling him up; either way, her fingernails raked against his shaft and pushed a long heated sigh from his mouth.

She braced his shoulders. “Now, how are you holding up? Has that bitch made any more demands?”

“Bitch?” He blinked. “Demands? You mean Marisa? No, I mean…I think our marriage might be okay…”

Her laughter was intoxicating; he felt like laughing because she was so pretty as she did it.

“No, no,” her smile faded after a moment. “The bitch! You know, Rhonda! I couldn’t believe it when I heard they picked Ladwell as the judge, could you? I mean, she doesn’t have a prayer once this thing gets to court, but—”

“Sorry, stop.”

He held up a hand, and the blonde beauty obeyed him immediately, mid-sentence. Rhonda Sullivan was the leading partner at his rival law firm, Hanson & Hanson. They’d competed for clients for years. Was she suing him? For what?

What was going on?

In front of him, the blonde waited patiently, happy to stare at him and soak him up with her bright sea-blue eyes.

It was her eyes that gave it away.

“Ella?”

“Yes, sir?”

Sir. What the fuck was she doing calling him that?

No, no, that’s the second question. The first question was obviously what the fuck was Ella doing looking like that?

“Ella…” he shook his head. “We have to talk. Privately.”

She nodded, taking his hand and guiding him to the back office. Her fingers were soft and long, a far cry from the stubby, utilitarian sausages that the Ella he knew had. This woman—this girl—looked barely legal, just like Abigail.

Just like his wife.

Oh god, had they gotten to her too?

“Ella,” he said again. “This is important—”

“I know,” she nodded, sliding up on her desk. “I can smell it. It’s been hours for you, hasn’t it?”

“No, Ella. Something’s happened. You’ve changed, and—”

“I know,” she nodded, tugging him toward her.

Her hand pushed him up her flimsy skirt. He could both see and feel quite suddenly that his presumption about her lack of panties was correct. Her pussy was tight, wet, and beautiful. Perfectly waxed, shining, waiting for him. Somehow his cock had left his zipper at last. Had he unzipped himself or had she? Did he care?

Her skirt pushed up higher, almost like a string belt. Ready and willing and waiting. She slipped up on top of the desk and slid her legs around his waist. Precum dripped from his cock down onto the surface of the desk, mixing with the quickly forming puddle of her heated juices of arousal.

Right above her pussy was a curious tattoo. It looked a little like the letter H, but the edges were more diagonal and the line through the middle was a crooked slash. It seemed to glow as he approach, though surely that was just the light.

“I know I’ve changed,” she continued. “I used to be able to last for months without you,” she whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck. “But it’s been days and I’m losing my mind. Please fuck me? I promise I’ll get you the best settlement possible.”

His cock hovered right above her entrance. God, he wanted her. But he was so confused.

“What do you mean, settlement? What is happening with Rhonda? And w-with you, and with Marisa, and Abigail, and—ohhhh fuck!”

She had edged herself forward toward his cock on the desk, sliding easily from the sudden and constant lubrication of her own juices. Her pussy lips kissed his cockhead just as she reached up and kissed his chin. Her entire demeanor was so wholly submissive and seductive. The tattoo over her pussy shimmered and sparkled. That was just her sweat sliding over the pattern, of course.

Desperately, he tried to keep his wits about him. His cock was inside her, but only just so. He could still pull out and call this whole thing a misunderstanding.

Ella tossed her hair to one side, licking her lips and settling her wide-eyed gaze on him with a deadly mixture of avarice and lust.

I’m trouble, but I can keep a secret.

That’s what she d.

“Wh-what about Rosie?” he asked. “Your wife?”

“She-she’s at home,” Ella whispered between kisses. “She won’t be able to make it before you fuck me stupid. Please don’t stop!”

The fact that Ella described her wife’s location in of inconvenience for him—he wouldn’t be able to fuck her before he fucked Ella, because he so obviously had to fuck Ella—instead of trying to persuade him that she would never find out really hit home for Stephen. Ella didn’t care if Rosie knew because in this crazy world he had entered, he apparently fucked Ella and Rosie at will.

Her heels, resting on his rear, patted him forward. Her legs were strong, toned, long. Suddenly he was inside her in earnest, gripping her hips, and plunging his manhood deep up inside her utterly tight entrance.

“Fuck!” she cried. “Oh my god! You’re bigg-bigger than ever!”

She was so fucking thin. Her slender body rivalled what he ed of Marisa or Gale this morning. It was so simple to wrap his hands around her waist and take hold, and he immediately had control of her entire body weight.

He could—and did—twist her this way and that, and she contorted her body appropriately, twisting herself to let him see her entire slim length, positioning herself like a model on a magazine cover to best display her many angles and tilt her tits or ass or jawline at him in the most fetching way possible.

Constantly, constantly trying to make him harder and to have him lust after her lusciously transformed body even further.

The more he drilled into her body, the more he examined her—unable to stop himself. He roamed over her tight, soft skin with his hands, toying with her tits and especially her nipples. They were shiny and glossy like the rest of her, but wet also.

She was leaking milk, he realized after a moment. Leaking hot, fertile milk because he fucked her, because her body was so driven by the need to be his breeding instrument.

“Please,” she whimpered, as if reading his mind. “I need your babies. If you fuck a baby in me, I’ll get to be around your cock all the time, please…”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, and she cradled his head down to her tits.

“You can taste it,” she urged him. “Taste how good I’ll be, Daddy…”

He couldn’t stop himself. A part of him tried—thoughts of Marisa, her transformation, loyalty to his wife in this one way despite all the numerous instances of infidelity he had engaged in already today.

But a stronger part of him—the cock-leading part—leapt full-bore into owning this bimbo blonde who so clearly wanted him to run her life.

He sucked on her nipples as she called him Daddy, the taste overwhelming the pleasure centers of his brain. It wasn’t normal milk, just like none of this was normal anymore—this was special somehow and it made his need to cum overwhelm whatever control he may have once had.

Standing up straight, growling, he pinned her down to the desk with his and almost violently choking her around the neck. Ella loved it, squeezing his arm tight, as if daring him to choke her harder.

Her eagerness, the milk, her silently mouthing the words Please, Daddy? over and over again sent him over the edge, and Stephen came inside of her tight, wet pussy.

As he did, his grip relinquished just enough for her voice to come back, and she came loudly—screaming his name.

“You’re the fucking best, Master!” she cried. “You’re so fucking good! So. Fucking. Good! Oh my god, oh my-my god, my god! Yes, Daddy, yes!”

“Ella…” he moaned. “Oh fuck, oh god, Ella…”

“Master! I love you! I love you forever! Forever!”

Just when he thought he couldn’t keep going, when his orgasm was totally done, that pronouncement urged even more from him—a final spraying of his heavy seed down in the beautifully tight canal she was swearing was just for him.

Finally, though, she settled down, kissing him loudly on the neck and shoulders, making a long show of raking her nails over his back and biting him possessively. It was all very theatrical.

The door, he noticed suddenly. The door to the front of the office—she had never closed it and he had been too turned on to notice. The men in front had been watching the whole time. Two of them were on their knees, dry-humping their hands as they watched.

“M-mistress?” one of the men called out. “Should we go?”

Ella sneered, calling out the door. “Shut the fuck up, worm.”

Her change in countenance was extraordinary. She had been so worshipful toward Stephen—so utterly impressed and seductive and needy. Raising her eyebrows just so.

As she turned towards those in the lobby, though, her expression became entirely contemptuous. Sneering wholeheartedly. Eyes narrowing down to murder-killer slits.

The men in the front, cowed, resumed their silence. They were crying, he realized. Crying because he was fucking the girl they wanted.

He knew he should feel bad. But instead it only emboldened him further. He gripped her tits, her ass, hard as he could—squeezing for her attention.

Just as quickly as she darkened, she brightened again, looking back up at Stephen with need and reverence.

“I’m sorry about that, my love.”

“Mistress?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Not my idea. But one of them started doing it and I just kind of ran with it, you know? Weak little boys like a strong woman to tell them what to do. Not like you, though. You’re the strongest. Ungh.”

She took a hold of his cock, which had exited her cunt only to rest against her belly now, still streaming and hard. Stroking, holding him tight against her rock-solid abdomen, she looked up at Stephen with deep, unreserved lust.

“So strong,” she whimpered. “Won’t you show me again how strong you are?”

There were so many questions he still had—this business with Rhonda Sullivan, what had happened to Ella’s wife, what had happened to the women and men in this town, and probably most importantly, what was going on with his wife and daughter…

But Ella was soft and hard in all the right places, warm and willing as he was between her legs, and stroking and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Problem solving could wait. He slid inside her again and listened to her confess her undying love once more.