The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Julia was showered and dressed before my eyes opened in the morning, standing beside the bed with clouded sunlight easing through the windows behind her. She looked beautiful but also like a much toned-down version of the muscled sex-bomb that she was, in a black ankle-length skirt and a dark blouse with a jeans jacket over it.

“There’s coffee downstairs, and a blueberry muffin for you. My studio address is on a post-it on the kitchen table, and also the key-code numbers to get you into the building. Put those into your phone and meet me there at noon.”

“Noon,” I said, clearing away cobwebs. I could tell that it had stopped raining outside, and an art deco wall clock said it was 8:12. My dick hurt, or throbbed, but in a weird and thoroughly satisfying way, like it had been way overworked or had even gone through a fortifying surgical procedure, and would need some time to recover.

I opened my mouth to say something. Maybe it would be a simple good-morning, or perhaps I needed to tell this woman that she had given me the best sex of my life.

Before anything came out she backed up a step and turned her head to briefly peer out the window. Then, “You’ll need to be out of this rental by ten, and you’d need to leave by then anyway to be on time. Don’t keep me waiting.”

I nodded my head. “Got it. I will be at your art studio at noon.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “I guess we’ll just hope no one ever notices your stuff up there. I wiped more of it off that wall,” she indicated with a directional movement of the head. “Quite a launch-tube you have there!”

I was trying to think of something clever to say when she spun on her sneakered heels and disappeared.

I sat up and listened to her footfalls going down the stairs, fast and heavy. Then came sounds of the front door opening and closing, followed by her car starting. I rubbed my eyes and came up with a mental checklist—shower and change into new clothes, coffee and muffin, call Gina for an update on the day’s cancellations. Then I’d drive even farther away from home so I could look at paintings made by the most fuckable woman in the whole goddam world. And then figure out a way to hypnotize the living shit out of her.

I didn’t quite follow my mental checklist in the original order, choosing coffee first, then the shower. My balls and dick were tender when I lathered them, and when I looked myself in the face while shaving, I thought I looked either shell-shocked or haunted.

I carried the muffin outside where it was hot and muggy, the night’s rain doing nothing to cool the air down. Once in the car with the air conditioning going and Julia’s studio address entered into navigation, I spoke briefly to Gina, who said she’d managed to get hold of everyone for the morning’s cancellations, but still wasn’t done with the afternoon clients. She didn’t ask, but I could tell that she wanted to know what was going on. I wasn’t about to tell her that my dick felt skinned and was making all the decisions for me today.

Navigation guided me on a circuitous trek northward, the highlighted route instructing me to stick to secondary roads, avoiding the horrors of D.C. interstate traffic. The pavement wasn’t always smooth and several times I had to change the positioning of my legs as I drove, because of the sensitivity of my entire groin area. It really was like that region of my body felt battered, or maybe even shredded, which made sense when fucking Julia was the sexual equivalent of enduring some once-in-a-hundred-years weather event. I wanted more—how could I not want more—but I wondered if engaging with her too many times over, say, a long weekend, could have me needing medical treatment to ever walk normally again.

The miles ed and thoughts came and went, and eventually I let out a loud, “How could I not know?”

I might have been asking my Audi how I hadn’t known that there were women walking around in possession of sexual talents that equaled or sured what I was trying to bring forth from my hypnotized lovers.

Julia was a teacher, and in just one night she sure had given me an education. I wondered if she had studied somewhere to learn to do the things she could do—I was pretty sure there were books about mysterious sexual secrets of the East, and could that be a real thing? Or maybe, just like being disciplined enough to pump iron every day, she regularly went down on huge cucumbers or dildos, with every Sunday and Wednesday being “cunt day”, where her freakish vaginal muscles got their regular workout.

I pictured Julia’s thighs tensing with enough force to turn a watermelon to pulp, and a lightbulb going off in her brain that maybe she could just about turn hard penises to pulp, too, by similarly developing vaginal muscles that most people wouldn’t believe even existed. Then I pictured her as I’d seen her this morning, hiding her wondrous body by dressing ultra-casually in the long black skirt and sneakers, with the rather frumpy jeans jacket covering whatever blouse she had on. The jacket, no doubt somewhat oversized, was there to obscure just how busty and massively muscled she was, while the length of the skirt served the same function when it came to her lower body. This must be how she presented herself to the world almost every day, like she was a short and stocky former cheerleader with little style sense. Meanwhile, an almost unbelievable body lurked beneath the layers, in possession of sexual capabilities that rendered it the biological equivalent of a concealed weapon.

I drove on, and it seemed for a time that my thoughts were scattered to the winds, no clear focus or objectives in sight. There was one objective, though, which I might as well accept as the overarching all-important goal in my life right now—develop an effective plan for getting Julia into the immersion state.

We would be on her turf today; there was no getting around that. I had no idea what her art studio would be like, other than what she’d said about there being some portion of the space devoted to exercise. Hopefully her studio would be private, and maybe there would be a couch there, where she drank coffee while contemplating the needs of her latest painting project.

I pictured her lying back on that couch, great big breasts rising, her massive legs stretched out with her thigh and calf muscles looking like she squat-lifted boxcars every day. And then my voice going in, stripping her conscious thoughts away. Just that one mental picture had my cock beginning to stiffen again, and it didn’t exactly hurt, but close enough.

I made myself not think about hypnotizing Julia, by paying more attention to my surroundings. Navigation showed that I’d be crossing over the Potomac River in just a few minutes, and traffic was definitely becoming more dense.

On a whim I called Grace’s number, and was surprised when she picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, good timing, I was about ready to call you.” Her voice sounded bright, maybe even happy.

“About something in particular?”

“I know you’re already aware that The Movement Machine’s final performance of the season starts next week, on two successive weekends.”

“Right. I’ve seen some of the ads around town.”

“Quite leggy, aren’t they?”

“They sure are.”

“The opening performance is a week from tonight and I have this inside connection for scoring two free tickets. You’re going to be my date, right?”

“Next Thursday… Sure. Text me details so I can put it in my calendar.”

“Will do. And, just curious—it sounds like you’re driving, rather than therapizing?”

“You are correct. I’m… Shit, Grace, I think my whole world has shifted on its axis. I just spent a night with Julia, at a little Airbnb halfway between us.”

There was silence, then, “C’mon now, don’t keep me waiting. Bra size?”

“I completely forgot to look. Sorry.”

“Total bummer! Unless you’ll have other chances, that is. Will you?”

“I’d better.”

“Uh oh. Methinks someone sounds a little more than smitten? And just saying, didn’t I tell you I’d cracked your code, and that I’d found a woman you’d go completely ga-ga for?”

“You know all; I have no problem itting that. The only problem is… I don’t really know what to say. Seriously, I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Michael, are you okay? I want to say I’m happy for you, but you sound… Something.”

“Shaken, right. Or devastated. I’m… Grace, to be honest I’m freaking out some about this, about her. She’s fucking incredible!”

“I know by now that you won’t give me juicy details, but I have to know. Which one is it that has you sounding like this—all of that muscle on her body, or the sex?”

“Both. They’re kind of the same thing with her. I think… I don’t know, Grace. I might need regular physical therapy now, just to be able to walk normally.”

“Hah! Sounds like me with Lucinda. If it’s any comfort, I can tell you that time heals all sex organs.”

“Good to know.”

“So another question—when were you thinking of saying thank you?”

“Shit, sorry. Thank you. A million thank you’s.”

“A million sure does put you in debt.”

“It might be worth it. It will be, if I can hang onto her.”

“Not a given, I take it. The distance?”

“That, some, but it’s mostly how off the charts she is, and that she knows it. Also, she’s kind of secretive, or reserved.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

“She’s invited me to her studio to see her paintings; that’s where I’m headed right now. I hope they’re good, so I don’t have to pretend I like them.”

“But you will pretend if you have to—is that where things are?”

“Definitely. Fuck, I’ll even buy one, if that’s what it takes.”

“Good luck up there. And hey, a shot across the bow—I’ll never forgive you if you ditch me as your date for the Movement Machine performance, because you can’t be separated from your new fantasy babe.”

“I won’t let you down, promise.”

“Great. But now I’m going to have to let you down, because someone is calling through. Talk later.”

Somehow that short conversation settled me down for the rest of the drive. Maybe it was just saying out loud, even indirectly, that Julia had gotten under my cock’s skin like no other woman I’d ever known, including Mira. Maybe it was the simplicity of the mission I was on now, to hypnotically bind Julia to my genitals the same way I’d done with others. If I could accomplish just that one thing, I’d have the power to make everything else fall into place.

I turned onto a smaller road when directed to, and that took me to an old industrial area outside of Bethesda. I didn’t know anything about the history of this area, but it looked like early and mid-20th century brick factory buildings had largely been converted into upscale condos or co-ops. Julia’s building, quite large, came into view on the left, and in carved Times Roman letters on the front it proclaimed itself to be The Pencil Factory. At the side of the building there was a generous guest parking area, and I pulled in feeling pretty certain that it had been many decades since anyone nearby had ever manufactured pencils.

Just half a minute in the oppressive heat had me wishing I’d packed summer shorts and a linen shirt. I got into the building via the correct key code numbers, and it was blissfuly cool inside. The look of the building’s interior was austere, with concrete flooring and unadorned drywall all around. Other than a muffled grinding sound coming from behind a metal door, perhaps a woodworking or jewelry-making shop, there was no immediate sign of life.

A wall map showed the layout of the building, and I saw I had a choice of elevator or stairs up to the second floor. I took the nearest staircase, and that delivered me to an intersection of long corridors leading in three different directions.

I knew from the downstairs map that the central corridor, which stretched into darkness, would bring me to unit 238, Julia’s space. Overhead lights switched on as I went deeper and deeper into the depths of the building. Seeing that I was getting close, I thought about calling her, but then I was at her door and knocked instead.

“It’s open!” she called out. “Lock it behind you!”

I opened the door and stepped into a very strange room, or the partitioned portion of a larger room. Several paces ahead of me hung a tall and very opaque gray curtain, going all the way up to a hanging metal bar near the ceiling. To my right was the kind of exercise equipment you might find at most gyms, including a set of barbells with weights of almost preposterous size. To my left was another curtain, this one translucent white and hanging from a much lower bar. Through it I could see the shapes of a dresser and what might be a standing wardrobe, plus a full-sized bed.

“Welcome to my inner sanctum,” she said, stepping through a nearly hidden partition in the tall gray curtains.

“Jesus!” came out of my mouth, because she was wearing super-short cut-off denim shorts, and some sort of clinging yellow sports-top with a plunging neckline. Seeing her unreal muscles and voluptuous curves like this was like a sucker-punch to the nervous system, with the immediate effect of stirring my balls.

“I sent Jesus out for His lunch break,” Julie quipped. “It’s just me here, and now you.”

Instinct told me to close the distance between us, pull her shorts down and then drill, baby, drill! My head-brain knew that wasn’t the right move, so I stood there awkwardly frozen.

Julia smiled in a knowing way, and stepped closer. Her right hand slipped into my left pants pocket, an action that had my cock stiffening instantly. She didn’t fondle me, though; instead, she extracted my phone, holding it up for me to see.

“No phones go in to where my paintings are. Hardly anyone gets to see what I’m working on, because… Well, are you ready to look at some art?”

I nodded yes just as she took my hand, pulling me to the slit in the curtains, and then beyond.

What do I tell you about first, the paintings themselves or my body/psyche’s reaction to them? Because these were paintings that sucker-punched in a very similar way to being overwhelmed by Julia’s uber-fuckable physique just a few seconds before. Only enlarged, because the paintings were enormous.

The woman had a size fetish that included the way she regarded her own body, and here she had the volume dialed to max. The paintings were porn, or art-porn, or maybe art in harmony with porn. Or perhaps they managed to leave pornography in the rear-view mirror, becoming something totally new, a revolutionary movement in art that could put all the makers of erectile dysfunction drugs out of business.

The subject matter was Julia’s body, very close-up so the giant canvases had large curving areas of her flesh, and then ive colorful areas of non-flesh, or non-Julia. The painting at the far left, a vertical format measuring perhaps twelve feet tall and nine feet in width, was a profile view that had part of her chin at the top, then her neck and on down to a clavicle and one enormous breast. The painting next to it, the same size, was a completely symmetrical view of the front of Julia’s midsection, her naval at the top, and then her shaved triangle, and on to the astounding thigh muscles.

Those massive muscles framing her delicate vagina… The lighting was dramatic and contour enhancing—what did they call that? Chiaroscuro, some memory bank responded. Used to great effectiveness here, the giant breast on the left canvas showed its roundness the way we might know a planet’s curvature by the light of a distant sun, while in the second painting Julia’s belly-button and the surrounding musculature looked fucking edible because of the lighting. Her painted pussy, proportionally correct but no longer small at all, looked so real and even beckoning, like at this scale it wanted the viewer to reach in and penetrate her not with a finger, but an entire arm.

And then the next painting to the right, even grander than the other two from being just as tall but easily fifteen feet across, a sideways view of Julia’s naked ass swelling upwards in a lying-down position, on to the thighs and then to her insanely full calves and dynamic feet, bent so they angled up towards the painting’s top left corner. You could lie down on that ass cheek, or use the front of her foot and calf as an erotic sliding board. Or, the way I felt just then, you could jack-off and splash any one of the paintings with a relatively tiny amount of semen.

Somewhere in my brain there were more distant art-thoughts, like noticing that these paintings might possibly be technical marvels, because there were rhythmic brushstrokes of multiple colors that became flesh in light and flesh in shadow. This was far from a narrow-minded approach of buying huge tubes of pre-mixed flesh color and bending it up or down with white and black; it was color and more color and even more color, manipulated so your eyes somehow felt that paint became flesh and tendon and muscle.

I had a brief thought, that Terri Thorngood’s superpower fetish would spike to the heavens if she saw these paintings, with the body parts of a gigantic woman who looked like she could pick up and curl kitchen appliances. And somewhere there was the assessment that my overworked penis was its own kind of technical marvel, because its need for a mercy time-out from fucking was just over. Now, there was only wanting and wanting and wanting, which meant it was hardening and hardening and hardening.

“I can see that you like them, just the way I want them to be liked,” I heard from my right.

I turned my head, and there was Julia stepping out of her shorts, the incredible thighs and calves depicted on canvas right there in the room with me, much smaller in scale but genuinely in the round.

And they were available. I knew that from the way her hands traced up her thighs and curled in towards the center, touching wetness. I knew it from the way her eyes were locked onto the crotch of my pants, fixed upon the erection that felt as though it might keep growing until I was equipped to fuck any one of the monumental Julia’s in the room.

And I knew she was going to fuck me again when she said in breathless tones, “I want to do a painting of your cock towering up between my legs, my juice dripping down on you!”

That all took place by going through two curtains this time, to the bed I had spotted before. What I had failed to notice through the obscuring film of the white curtain was the array of cameras in that space, many of them elevated, and all the lights spread around in every direction.

Julia stripped me and guided me to lie on my back in a precisely determined location. She brought several remotes onto the bed with us, and by deftly pushing buttons she manipulated the lights so that the room was mostly thrown into darkness, while target lighting threw all the wonders of her insanely pumped form into stark relief. It was erotic nakedness like I had never seen it before, and I also had a view of my towering cock, somehow reminiscent of a lighthouse with its circular form catching faux-sunrise light.

I knew I didn’t have to worry about being compromised or outed in any way by being photographed like this—my face, and in fact most of my body, was never going to show up in any of her photos. Probably the same with her hands, which held at least four remotes between them.

As she had indicated, she positioned herself onto her knees above my glowing phallus, and there was a moment where she closed her eyes and rolled her head, and I heard shutters clicking, very fast. She brought her pussy down and forward so it touched my highest point, and when she lifted a few inches, and damn if there wasn’t a viscous trail that came into being, male and female genitalia connected by a shining liquid bridge.

Cameras clicked furiously and Julia brought her pussy into again and again, and soon there were multiple bridges, some intact and others broken. Right in front of my eyes she was creating gooey sexual stalactites, and I could only guess how closely her cameras were capturing these bodily formations.

She let go of some remotes and brought that hand to my cock, wrapping around the shaft as far as her fingers could go. Cameras kept clicking and her hand looked so tiny, powerfully formed yet also insufficient, and perhaps that was exactly what she wanted to show. There was a different sound, possibly a zoom lens retracting or advancing, and she shifted her legs, weight on one knee now, the other leg with a foot planted. The flexed calf muscle of the planted leg was fucking enormous, and shutters clicked again, capturing the sight. She tensed that same calf muscle to lift more, bringing her pussy down onto me more forcefully this time, the tip of my dick parting membraneous gates.

I gasped, and she gasped, and she leaned forward so I would go in deeper. More friction, more gasping, and cameras clicking as Julia made several little crying sounds, working even more of me inside. Then a fresh flurry of camera clicks as she activated her interior muscles, the sudden intensification and the noises making me think of a blender or food processor. The eye-popping pleasure had me making noises, too, helpless uncontrolled sounds coming out of me as she increased her inner speed, her inner genius. I wanted to stay completely still for her but it became impossible, my head thrashing side to side, my butt jerking up in something like a spasm of otherworldly delight.

“Not yet! Not yet!” she shouted, and I had to shut my eyes, trying to hold out a few more seconds as mental pictures flashed of my hard cock being twisted like dough in some industrial kneading machine, not harming me but transforming me, making me keep rising, turning my balls into smoking steaming caldrons of thick and creamy sex soup. I heard camera clicks and Julia made angry and wild animal sounds, and then she was hotly bathing my twisted cock and freaking ripping the spurts out of me, forcing me to come, and almost immediately afterwards forcing me to come again.

At some point my cock wanted to cry, and it wanted to sigh, and maybe even laugh hysterically. It wanted there to be a nearby shell that it could crawl into for safety, but not to get away from anything because it was so hooked on this, so utterly in need of this. What Julia could do with her interior muscles was life-giving, was both food and drink and a previously unknown unfathomable form of energy.

I felt destroyed by it, yet also built up by it. I lay there adrift and not understanding, but also completely certain that life had become meaningful for me in a different way.

This was it. It couldn’t be all, or The All, because no single part of life’s fabric can be the entire thing. But closer than anything else I’d ever experienced.

“Somewhere in there, eventually,” Julia said, softly, breathlessly.

I waited for her to finish the thought, no hope of my mouth working yet. My balls had been drained, and volition, too. I doubted I could even open my eyes yet, and didn’t try. All I could do was breathe, and listen.

She eventually finished, “There will one hell of a painting, with me connected to you. It’ll be the largest one yet, and when people see it one day…”

They will be so horny, my mind finished. They’ll come in their pants, or under their skirts.

“They’ll rush out of the gallery or museum, desperate to fuck someone or something fast,” she finished, pretty much on the same page.