The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When Jordan suggested they meet up at his place for a little music and perhaps a film (not a superhero flick, Mary made it clear about her allergy to them) she readily accepted. It wasn’t as if the guy was a pervert with ulterior motives, she felt safe in his company.

And Jordan’s house, tucked between two larger ones in Kingsley Avenue, spoke of a fellow doing pretty well for himself. Not a squalid bachelor pad littered with junk but rather a home that was sparkling pristine. The general colour scheme was of soothing grey and white, whilst the pictures on the walls, a few by Norman Rockwell and Vermeer were a delight to ire.

“Sorry to bring it up,” Jordan asked as he handed Mary a glass “but would you call me handsome?”

“Sure,” she grinned “No hint of a receding hairline, no wrinkles or grey hairs, and you spend time at the gym so no belly. If you’re feeling insecure over your looks, don’t be.”

“And are you okay with how you look?” he asked easing into his chair.

“You know what?” Mary laughed “I am. I don’t have to deal with backpains like a few big-boobed girls I know. Plus, I don’t like wasting time worrying over makeup or fashion trends.”

“You never get jealous of other women?”

“Nah,” Mary reflected without shame or pity “I feel happy for a girl if she’s pretty, feel sorry for her when some sleazebag flirts with her, and by and large I’m happy to be left alone. Sure, I look a little undeveloped and sometimes I get mistaken for a boy, but whatever. Being ugly frees me from obsessing over my appearance.”

“What are you talking about?” Jordan said in a way that was more perfunctory than convincing “You’re not ugly, you’re a perfectly good-looking lady. Alright, you’re not a supermodel but you look fine, trust me”

As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and Mary with some mild curiosity saw him pull out a…

And something not unlike another intense migraine struck her…

“You’re beautiful,” came Jordan’s booming voice “you’re proud of your large firm breasts, proud of your wide, fertile birthing hips and tight roomy ass. You’re grateful for your buxom, hourglass figure and love how stunning your face is. Listen to me Mary, you have the looks of a goddess, a first-class supermodel and you take joy in this fact, revel in it!”

There was the sound of fingers snapping and Mary shaking herself out of her dizzy spell, was unable to recall what just happened. As her vision cleared, she saw Jordan place something into his pocket.

Whatever.

Jordan then announced that it was criminal Mary had never listened to Richard Wagner before, thus he streamed “The Flying Dutchman,” which left Mary feeling as spellbound as he clearly was, afterwards they watched a German silent film, Dr. Mabuse, for Jordan was a devotee of Fritz Lang and Mary had to it this was an amazing experience.

Afterwards Jordan served an excellent meal of chicken and rice before calling Mary an uber. When the outline of the white vehicle appeared between the living room blinds, Mary rose on wobbly legs, thanked Jordan for a wonderful evening, before hobbling to the front door and…

She caught sight of herself by a mirror in the hall, seeing the same skinny runt she’d always been, and strangely enough, a voice at the back of her head told her this was wrong, that this woman wasn’t her.

Mary blinked and thought it ridiculous but this feeling, not unlike déjà vu still persisted as she glanced down at her tiny chest. Shouldn’t her boobs be bigger?

But she had always been flat chested, hadn’t she?

Stupid thing to worry about really. She’d feel fine in the morning, too much alcohol, had to be.

Mary yawned gently, content for a moment or two to gaze up at the sunlight seeping in upon the ceiling. Still the day beckoned so she stretched out her arms, flung off the covers and rose on steady legs, juggling between having toast or cornflakes for breakfast but all the same she still felt a bit off. Felt bloated, off balance and as she rubbed her eyes, she glanced at her bedroom mirror.

And then froze.

Her first thought that a poster depicting a professional model hung on the space where her mirror had been, and just to be sure, Mary stuck out her tongue at this beautiful model, and the model did the same thing. She then waved a hand and once again the model mimicked her action perfectly.

After looking down at her own body to confirmed that yes, this was her, Mary screamed!

Gone was the ill-defined slab of meat that had been her figure, instead large breasts gracefully jutted out from a firm ribcage, while a flat stomach narrowed to enviable hips and a plump backside.

Mary’s now shapely legs weakened as she slid down to the floor.

She had changed overnight into feminine perfection itself! Not possible, not possible! Staring back into her mirror to confirm yet again that this was the new her, Mary noticed the changes in her face. No bags underneath her eyes, no yellowish stains on her teeth, her acne scars had vanished too. Instead, her eyebrows were thinner, her nose was a cute little button, and her lips were soft and kissable.

God, she was going mad right? What other explanation was there? A magic spell, an advanced medical procedure? She had always been a scrawny, plain faced girl.

Hadn’t she?

Rubbing her temples, Mary ed her mother assuring the eleven-year-old her, not to worry about big boobs and the backpains they brought: “Honey, everyone in your family have been ironing boards!” but this memory felt faint like a dream you soon forgot.

Another memory, in conflict with the first, sprung from the recesses of her mind, of her being thirteen years old and throwing fits. “Mom!” she had whined “why don’t I have boobs? Will I ever grow up.”

“You’re going to get boobs,” her mother assured her “and they’re going to be massive. Every woman in our family has huge breasts so don’t you worry.”

And sure enough, she recalled beaming with pride as her chest expanded at fourteen and…and…

The confused Mary then leapt to her phone, charging by her bedside, and frantically flicked through her photo album, trying to find the images taken during her high school days. The ones depicting her as the hopeless dork, playing D&D or Mario Kart during recess but…

That geeky girl wasn’t to be found, instead, unfamiliar scenes, that she sure as hell had never lived, greeted her. A feminine angel in a cheerleading uniform held high her pompoms, the same angel hanging out with a host of preppy friends at the Gap and then looking utterly divine in a silver dress during prom night.

“God, who is this stranger?” Mary thought “Is she supposed to be me?”

As she flicked through her album, she felt a throb in her skull as the alien photos began to feel more and more familiar.

One picture showed the beautiful girl standing outside a theatre, excited to see the Marriage of Figaro but a fading memory, almost too dim to recall, told Mary this was when she went to see Avengers End Game. At the same time though, she ed seeing Mozart’s commedia per musica that night and loved every minute of it. This new memory that she kept insisting to herself was fake, somehow felt more real.

Another agonizing throb in her head caused the worried woman to retreat back to her bed, her mind churning with all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts she couldn’t bring herself to call memories.

This was a bad dream, a bad dream she’d awake up from…had to be…

Mary yawned delicately.

Sitting up, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror and smiled perhaps with a little vanity, but she never failed to take such satisfaction at the sight of the great beauty greeting her.

Picking up her phone, she was surprised to find her album had been left open and flipping through the images, grinned at her younger days. There she was as head cheerleader; and there she was on prom night as homecoming queen.

Good times but right now she had to get ready for work.

The studio, ground floor on the towering Deco building beckoned, and as Mary drove up to the entrance, the security guard at the gate didn’t even ask for ID, he just buzzed her in with a dreamy expression.

Strutting into the studio, Mary found the award-winning photographer, Mark De Gaul barking orders to the lighting guys, whilst Helga Otto famed costume designer was counting the outfits on display.

“Oh darling,” De Gaul said in his soothing French accent “bang on time. It’s an honour to work with you.”

Mary knew this sycophantic crap was standard practice in the industry but hell, when directed to a cutie such as herself, a line like that was utterly sincere.

“Thanks darling,” she replied, flashing him an award-winning grin “Let’s shoot this thing.”

Emerging from the dressing room, Mary, clad in a tight pink bikini that clung to her perfect figure, proudly marched onto the stage, and lowering her designer sunglasses, shot a wink to the audience, which happened to consist of a million guys awkwardly adjusting their pants.

“I’m all ready for my close up” she giggled.

God, how she loved her job.