The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I could do anything, you know.”

With a start, the woman nearly jumped. Dropping her lemon into the bag, she replied to the sudden stranger beside her, “Oh really?” and cleared her throat. Her blue eyes looked him over cautiously. The seemingly young man was dressed in a dark blue (or was it black?) jacket and navy jeans, and looked like the world’s most... existent person, to say the most. Very charming. “Look kid, make it quick,” she dropped another lemon and began rolling her cart away, “I don’t got time to be in a prank vid, or whatever it is you kids do these days.”

“Say that again, but more nicely, like you don’t mean it. Like a switch. One foot in a different room.”

“Um, I’m...” The woman had to fight every bone in her body to keep from staying there. “I’m... so sorry, hon, but...dammit, I need to do these stupid errands, and, well, I can’t really stay here even though I want to. I need to go. Do stuff that’s really important, because yeah. It’s priority, I guess.” She bit her lip, feeling herself fuming. The way life always made things inconvenient was distressing... she had to be providing for her stupid kids and stupid family and stupid husband instead of making time to hang out with this stranger she just met in the middle of the day at the supermarket. What was this world coming to? How could anything else be more important than that? She looked at her bag then spat on the lemons thoroughly, then wiping her mouth looked back up and smiled at the charming stranger. “Oh, don’t worry, that’s how they like it,” she chuckled over her intense sadness as she knew she had to leave his company soon.

For what seemed like the first in a long time, though maybe that was just the vibe he gave off, the young man smiled back, showing some actually decent pearly whites which nonetheless were greyed under the shadow of his hood.

“I’m sure it is,” he grinned.

A woman around her early 30’s, still young-looking and vibrantly innocent even with her tight, fleshy body, walked down the aisle looking for a bag of dog food. She tapped her chin ceremoniously, making careful assessments of each brand. Some, after all, were suspect. You never knew when companies were in it for the money, after all. This extended to even the most micromanaged situations, like, you guessed it, hunting down pet grub. You couldn’t be too careful, and if there was one thing Tiffany had learned to be since all those wrist-flicking, belt-lashing years ago, it was careful.

A hand suddenly slapped her ass while she conveniently leaned down to check some of the finer text on a bag in the bottom shelf, and she unzipped and pulled down her pants, wiggled her bottom, and cried out, “A one a two a three a four, this is—oh my gosh, what am I doing?!” She quickly pulled her pants back up and zipped them, but didn’t feel embarrassed. She turned to see a store assistant adjusting some shelves behind her, then decided she should talk to him.

“Excuse me, sir.” She came up to him with an inquisitive look in her face.

“Yes?” the glum-faced young man asked as he turned towards another clueless customer.

“You’re supposed to help customers, right?”

The assistant sighed, not liking the possibilities here. “Yes.” He neglected to ask ‘why’.

“Well, in that case, I was wondering...”

“Yes,” he repeated.

“Can you take your pants off, masturbate reeeally fast and then point your penis into the mouth of that girl over there?” Tiffany pointed at a pretty dirty-blonde haired girl working the register by the front of the store who was currently smiling at another faceless man probably cracking some lame joke or something. Happened often in the pretty girls’ lanes. Beatrice was no exception. And definitely pretty. “Um, get it open, though. The mouth, I mean. Make her swallow that deposit, would you?”

The glum-faced asisstant sighed and nodded. “Yes.” He began to remove his belt and unzip his pants. The things I do for honor, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes as he shucked his pants away and began fondling his penis through his plain boxers before removing it and stroking it fiercely. In a couple seconds he suddenly looked like a different man, at least in terms of motion—whereas before he was just a sulking zombie, now his body was coursing with pleasure and technique, even though he’d never been much of a sexual raconteur since, well, ever.

His face, on the other hand, had on the same lackluster expression—except this time with an undoubtable furrowed brow, bitten lip, and half-closed eyes as he didn’t try much to contain his pleasure. A light groan left his lips.

A pair of girls passed, looking barely 18. Their conversation went something like,

“Hey, Sandra, what did you think of Kelly’s hair last night?”

“Hm. I don’t know, wasn’t paying attention.”

“Ohho, girl, good one!” A chortle. “You know you were looking. Everyone was. That texture, shape... I mean, she looked pretty good for once, didn’t she? Wonder what product she used.”

“Hey, who knows, who cares. If she’s got to use 5 bottles of this and that plus six ounces of makeup just to get decently pretty, she’s basic. Simple, Fran. No offense or anything like that...”

“Hey, Sandra, look!” Fran cut Sandra off, arm strethced outward.

No, she wasn’t pointing at the gentleman jerking off, that was heartwarming and appropriate. (Indeed, masturbation was heartwarming and appropriate, but moreso in public. Or at least, for these 5 minutes anyway.) The slender lady friend was, in fact, pointing at her partner’s chest. The right breast, specifically.

“Um, Fran..?”

“Sandra.”

“Fran.”

“Yes Sandra.”

“Why is your finger two inches away from my... my... ow!” Suddenly, Sandra felt a sharp tingle in her temples and she stomped her foot, shaking her head. Agitated from such a random irritation, she continued, upset, “Dammit. Fran! Why is your finger only two inches away from my breast?!” With a glare Sandra grabbed her friend’s arm then shoved her hand onto her B-cup boobs. “Don’t be weird today just ’cause Olly turned you down again,” she whispered looking around her for weird looks. “Keep your hands on my self, ’kay?”

Fran scoffed as her friend let go of her hand and she got back into the groove of groping and squeezing. “You’re one to talk, lezzie,” she teased as she brought her other hand onto Sandra’s crotch. Sandra thrusted out her hips to accommodate while answering.

“Huh? Me, lezzie? What makes you think that, weirdo?”

Fran rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know. I caught you looking at me through your camera the other day you know. Taking some secret pics or what?”

“No, Fran,” Sandra shot her down placidly, “I was not trying to sneak random pics of you. I was taking pictures. Normal ones. You know. In a totally non-homo, lesbo way?”

“Whatever you say, secret lover.” Fran felt her heart flutter, knowing that Sandra didn’t and probably would never figure out the feelings Fran had for her, and with the upfront teasing, probably never would. She espoused smarts, but when it came to her own ‘close friend’, didn’t suspect a thing... Fran grinned to herself and bit her lip as Sandra did the same for her own reasons behind Fran’s rollicking palms. Fran just wished, one day, she would be able to express her deep feelings... somehow, without being too severe. But when the time was right, she’d know. For now, she’d just uphold the routine and finger her friend as usual, every minute of every day they were together, to keep things from feeling off-base and unnatural. Slow and steady won the race, after all.

Meanwhile, Beatrice was calling for the next customer to come up to the register when suddenly George ran up to her half naked with a pressured look on his face.

“George, hey! What’s the matter?” Her cute button nose scrunched when he ran up to her as she scanned a bag of beef jerkey from a frail-looking grandpa and carefully set it aside. “Excuse me, sir, but I need to play a game, kind of, more like tend to my co-worker here really quick, hope you don’t mind. Everyone waiting,” she addressed some of the men and women waiting in line, “I suggest you just start masturbating, okay?” With a grumble they agreed and let down their pants or felt up their bras or both either to themselves or the nearest bored-looking person next to them.

Turning back to George, Beatrice stretched her torso a bit from side to side, and wiggled out her hands. Then with a nod, she made a motion of zipping her mouth closed and tossing the invisible sodding key, then beckoned for George to come—perhaps too literally. Especially as she began to fondle her breasts in front of him.

With a moan he tried to corner her but, a gleam in her eye, she stepped swiftly backwards, vaulted the register and dashed towards the aisles. Turning back she winked at him and waved him over, beyond the heads of the group in line still masturbating leisurely. George’s hand continued to violently whack his meat off but it made it hard to really move—as a result he had to commit to a lame type of duck waddle while also thrusting his own pelvis and he looked like such an idiot doing it he was so glad his aunt wasn’t here to roll on the floor laughing a couple times. Before seizing up, anyway. “The things I do for honor,” he grunted through gritted teeth, only to end in another saccharine moan. Forcing himself forward, he ran around the counters towards Beatrice who wwas now slapping her ass in his direction. And then carressing it, and then slapping, and then carressing again. This was no damn deposit—this was desperation!

“Beeeatrice!” he half-moaned, half-proclaimed while running head—or rather—penis long towards her, stumbling through a family on all fours, a woman spitting into a bag of tomatoes, a stoned priest, a pair of friendly girls, and an inconspicuous-looking man in a jacket (wasn’t it summer?!) who ended up falling below him as he crashed onto the floor from above. “Damn, sorry!” he apologized, all the while still whacking off and getting himself back on his feet.

“No worries, George,” the man in the jacket replied. Then, hand and all, he reached for George’s penis and pulled it, somehow reaching the opposite end of the aisle after a single blink and along with it George’s penis. “There, now you have a very long gun. Shoot it, damn it! Shoot it! SHOOT YOUR GUN GEORGE! SHOOT THE GUN! SHOOT IT AT THE BITCHY BLONDE AND SHOOT IT GOOD! MAKE HER FEEL IT! MAKE HER SORRY! AND MAKE HER—”

George was still stroking somehow as his abnormally large penis immediately became erect again and shot up towards the ceiling, breaking through the flimsy structure. Some other staff looked up with wide eyes.

“Damn it George.”

“That’s coming out of our pockets.”

“FUCK THAT’S HUGE! I’m so wet!”

“DAMN IT GEORGE!”

“Damn that dick.”

“DAMN IT GEEOOORGE!!”

A flood of voices and outcry took over the market as George’s dick suddenly took down the whole ceiling, spurring those inside to duck for cover, while Beatrice somehow found her way up on top of one of the aisle racks on the other side of the store with the innate purpose of taunting George.

George’s hands, on the other hand, could barely fit around his member, and yet, somehow it did—somehow it worked, bending and warping while retaining physical integrity, and he continued to stroke as it tensed and hardened to the sight of the ever bubbly, beautiful Beatrice, who was now mooning him from her unstable perch with a giggle. Finally, she seemed ready to open her mouth for a laugh before firmly locking her jaw shut. George began to lose hope, and was about ready to erupt. In a storm of passion he roared and continued his run towards the opposite side of the store, his dick as thick as a tree trunk in front of him and now pointing almost directly up as he sprinted towards the bank in which his sperm needed proper refuge.

“Come on, Sandra, we gotta get out of here!” Fran panicked as they tried to avoid all the collapsing rubble. “Wait! I mean,” Fran backtracked, “Sandra, we gotta get you out of those clothes!”

Partially paralyzed, Sandra nodded through her expression of fright. “Agreed,” she obviously concurred as they stopped running only a foot away from the exit and began stripping her out of her tight top.

The market was falling apart now as George’s dick was about to implode, and Beatrice gave an oddly comforting look his way as he approached her from below, and suddenly, a flash of memories went through his head.

The first meeting. Discussing the recent movie that came out. Her disdain. His disdain at her disdain. Her attempt to be polite anyway.

Throughout the months, as she tried to teach him the ropes. Him screwing up. Her staying vigilant, even when he kenw she might have been cursing under her breath in the break room. Actually, no, she did that even he was in front of her.

When he accidentally dropped the Coke liter and it went all over her blouse, and he tried to get a tissue and wipe it, and she slapped him and accused him of sexual harrassment. And then he explained himself and apologized and later that evening so did she.

And the day he fucked her...

...wait...

...the day he fucked her?

“GEEEORGE!” A horrid voice tore through George’s random story flashback and he was suddenly face to face with his manager.

“Mr. Submen?!”

Before he could say anymore, Mr. Submen, thick frame and glasses and all, slammed his hands against his shoulders and with an impressive strength began to effortlessly move him backwards the way he came—or, upon further evaluation, right out the exit. “George, when will you ever learn!?” the man growled, steam appearing to rise out from his very pores. “You don’t belong here! You aren’t needed here!! And you are nobody!! AND NOBODIES DON’T FUCK BEATRICE PENSEY!”

Despite his resistance (and big cock, albeit artificially), George found himself unable to overpower his manager as his feet were helplessly dragged across the floor towards the exit ’til they were only a foot or two away. With eyes closed, he decided it was it, and began to let the natural bodily functions of sacred creed and soul fulfill the end of the bargain he’d failed to complete all the way, as his penis twitched and began to release. It was true.

It was all true, he thought.

“Geeeeeorge!!”

Broken out of his slump by a sudden, familiar cry, George the glum-faced shelf-adjuster jerked his neck to the sound of the voice when suddenly, he gasped. There was Beatrice, still perched on the top of a now swaying aisle rack, but not alone—there was the woman from earlier stiffly positioned behind her, and who’d asked him for his help on this very situation in the first place! And she, if the gods be true, had Beatrice’s mouth wide open, two fingers strategically pinched around the dirty blonde’s nostrils.

“Don’t forget what you told me, ya jerkk..!!” Tiffany cried out with a stifled grin, although about to lose her balance.

“That’s right!” George exclaimed with renewed conviction. “Our... job... is to help the customers!!”

With a fierce shove and bite on the hand, George managed to get Mr. Submen out of the way and, remembering the words of the strange man in the jacket, rolled his penis down at just the perfect angle, lined it up with Beatrice’s lovely, open mouth, and launched the rocket into bullseye country. Struck with an instant wave of relief, George collapsed, his penis receding back to its normal size as well, while Beatrice, on the other hand, was shot up into the sky, and through the atmosphere in blinding speed until like a flurry of comets the sperm caught the wind and sprinkled itself over the sky, and rained across the city, and the state, and the earth, as George was swallowed deeper and deeper into a state of bliss.

“...in there! Hello! George. Birdbrain. Imbecile. Bucket of bolts. George! Dammit, GEORGE JAY CHROME!”

With a start, George felt himself snap awake and he quickly stood to his feet. His head was aching as he did so, and as he looked back, he realized with horror that he’d fallen asleep against the wall of the storage room. He quickly returned to Mr. Submen with hands up as if for surrender, and began mouthing his apology when a hand stopped him.

“Save it. Just save it.” Grumbling, the typically grumpy manager took out a pack of cigarettes and sighed. “It’s been a long day for me anyway. I’m just going to go out and take a nice long smoke. You’re getting another pass for now, Chrome. But next time, you’re through. Got it?” With a raised eyebrow, George watched Mr. Submen open and close his hand studiously while leaving. “Oh, and head to lane 2. Think Beatrice needed your help with the register or something.”

As Mr. Submen took the back exit, George shook himself in an attempt at recollection. Then, dusting himself off, front and back, side to side, he patted his crotch anxiously and, sure he was as normal as can be, walked back out into the light-filled, noisy, lamely soundtracked supermarket.

Once he finally reached Beatrice’s lane, however, she caught his eye mid-exchange with some surfer dude and smiled. A different smile, this time—one that didn’t seem reserved for nameless faces or lame jokes. Something deeper, and more piercing, somehow, and also—feeling a quick shiver through his body, George felt his own happy organ come to attention, and his eyes widened. There was no way he could be sure at that moment, but... it definitely felt bigger. And longer too.

With a self-conscious look around him, George turned to see anything. Anybody. Something to confirm if this was the reality or the dream. Not as if he’d know which was which. To his cluelessness, he also missed the appreciative glances and flirtatious looks being sent his way by the other pretty and average women alike, and even some men, as he turned around searching the store like a cute dork.

Then, he spotted him.

That same drab jacket.

Those Monday jeans.

And before he could say anything, though he knew there was something to say and he was someone to say it to, the person had already walked out the sliding doors into the open, and with a prickling feeling, George felt the worry about the strange man slipping away.

After all, he thought with a slight grin and pep in his step as he made his way back to Beatrice who was caressing her legs covertly, it was time to start helping some customers.