Pink Zone Warning

by T. MaskedWriter

Copyright© 2017 by T. MaskedWriter

Mind Control Sex Story: In the aftermath of a terror attack, Larry is worried about his friend.

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Mind Control   NonConsensual   Slavery   Heterosexual   Fiction   .

*”Love bomb, love bomber.
It’s a-comin’ on strong.
Cant’ take it anymore.
Come a-rockin’ through your door.”*
-AC/DC, “Love Bomb”

Larry raced through the practically deserted streets of his neighborhood. The boss had sent everyone home when news about the attack reached them, and he was pulling out of the parking garage when Jill’s first text came.


Curiously, or perhaps not, getting home had been easier than expected. Unlike most terror attacks, the bulk of the traffic was coming TO the city rather than driving away, Fearing the worst, he violated one of his own rules and responded to her text while driving.

“OMW Use your key, lock self in. Close blinds lock windows. Don’t answer door whatever anyone says, even if say me or Brent sent them! Have my key, anyone claiming need help LYING! Barricade self in bedroom if they try break in. STAY SAFE!”

When San Francisco, Paris, and Athens had been hit, nobody was surprised. Stupid TV comedians even made jokes about “How can you tell?” Now their 4th target had been Portland. He couldn’t believe they’d strike here, in his city. But then, that was the point of a terrorist attack, wasn’t it? To show they could strike anywhere?

As he turned off of I-5 and into his neighborhood, she sent another text.


He’d tried calling from the freeway, but when someone did answer on Jill’s end, all he could hear was moaning, panting, and wet, squishy noises.

Away from the freeway noise, he thought he could hear moaning again in the distance, but told himself that was probably in his head. Still, if Jill had been in the zone and made it all the way back to his place...

Traffic was almost gone as he stopped for a red light. A nightmare flashed in his head of a gang of naked women of all ages setting upon his car, pressing their bodies up against the glass, frantically tearing at the locked door handles and pounding on the windows; screaming with mindless need for his cock.

He only knew what the media had told him about the attacks. Goodallazine was an artificial pheromone that had been developed to encourage endangered species to breed in captivity. (The first successful trials had been on chimpanzees, hence the name.) A militant “Men’s Rights” group had stolen the formula and claimed to have weaponized Goodallizine and made it airborne.

Their hooded leader had released a video claiming that any woman past puberty who breathed it would become consumed with lust for the first man she could get her hands on, and that once his sperm was in her body, she would be bonded to that man and become his willing sex slave for life. Later interviews with victims showed the women happy and content in their new lives as their owner’s insatiable sluts, (They often referred to them as boyfriends or husbands, but “master” was becoming disturbingly popular, and terms like “fuckdoll” and “dicksleeve” were also gaining popular usage.) Many had been able to return to their original lives and jobs, with the exception of being unable to keep their clothes on or their hands from roaming in their new mate-for-life’s presence, and the near-constant pining for his body in his absence.

Larry remembered seeing the terrorist leader’s video. Various women shamelessly took him from behind or sucked him off on camera as he prattled about San Francisco being chosen as the first target to make some kind of statement about lesbians and other women across the sexual spectrum not being safe from its effects. A famous lesbian musician was the last woman in the video to strip and smile for the camera as he plowed into her and concluded his manifesto with talk about “the days of sex being a female-monopolized commodity” being at an end. It disgusted Larry then, and it did now as it replayed in his mind.

He stepped on the gas and ran the light, and the next four lights, as images of Jill helplessly bouncing up and down on the finial of his staircase’s banister, or on her hands and knees on his kitchen floor, trying to shove a carrot or cucumber deep up into herself played in his head and terrified him, especially because of the slight stirring in his loins that they also caused him. He’d been speeding all the way home, and he’d been able to make it in record time due to the traffic. He’d seen that on the news after the other attacks as well. Fewer people fleeing the cities and men flocking toward the cities looking for fuckslaves. Reports after the other attacks also spoke of underground slave auctions and secret brothels where the only rule was “wear a condom and you can do anything you want to ‘em” as women jumped from man to man, howling in frustration and denial of the seed that was all they craved.

Thank God his closest friend had been able to get out of the city in time as well. Jill biked to work, and her workplace was on the outer edge of the “Pink Zone Radius.” (Some newscaster had used that term instead of “hot zone” after the Paris attack and it had stuck.) He could only imagine her making her way through back alleys and side streets to his house, avoiding any man who might approach her with malicious or even misguided noble intent; touching herself or riding down bumpy trails for some semblance of relief from the need that her own body screamed for her to fulfill and her own mind’s seconding of the motion.

He thanked God again that he’d given her a key years ago. Jill lived with Brent, her boyfriend, about ten miles further away from the city than Larry’s house, so it made sense that she would seek shelter there. He’d never particularly cared for Brent and the way he treated Jill, but kept it to himself as best he could. They’d been together for two years now and whenever she tried to put a positive spin on the ways Brent kept her under his thumb, Larry tried to put on a smile and pretend to be happy for her. When he’d spot Brent around town without her and see him coming on to other women, it took all Larry had to keep from punching something. He’d often wanted to tell her that she could do better, but never did, because he knew that no man had ever said that to a woman without a silent “like me, pick me, dammit” at the end of it.

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