Most people think treasure hunting is something that happens in books about pirates, but Harold knows different. Treasure is everywhere. This weekend, that treasure comes in a box of discarded junk, a circuit board with a strip of masking tape bearing the words, "Slut Box."
His early experiments with the weird little piece of tech don't quite go as planned, but Harold is nothing if not persistent. Soon, he comes to realize the true power of this bit of attic junk, and his family will never be the same.
[This story contains themes of brainwashing, incest, Noncon, and full family transformation. If these are not themes you enjoy, please don't read on. If these are themes you enjoy, you'll probably like my other works of family mindfuckery.]
One: Box of Junk
Saturday morning was Harold's day out and he spent it at garage sales. Most people thought that treasure hunting was something that happened in books about pirates, but Harold knew different. Treasure was everywhere, you just needed to know where to look.
Harold had discovered his favorite fishing lure at a garage sale. He'd acquired his table saw, his lucky rod, and a diamond ring someone's kid had mistaken for cubic zirconia. One of the best finds had been in a box of old VHS tapes, where Harold had discovered a genuine incest vid featuring his former neighbor and smoking hot daughter, both of whom had long since moved away. Still, he beat one off almost weekly to that tape, which was tucked away in the confines of his basement safe.
Today, Harold was four streets away, peering into a box of junk. It was a collection of cables, an old Walkman, and various bits of electronics. Harold, however, saw value. The price tag was pocket change, but the Walkman alone would fetch a good $30 online to some retro enthusiast, even if it didn't work.
"$3 for the whole box?" Harold asked the hottie sitting bored and fanning herself behind a folding table.
"$3," she said. "It's my brother's old junk. He moved to Thailand and left all this stuff behind."
Harold hadn't asked for a backstory. He forked over $3, picked up the box, and took it into the shade to paw through it. At the bottom of the junk pile, he discovered a... well, a thing. An electronic thing.
The thing was little more than a circuit board, attached to a string of red, blue, and green lights. Soldered to the side of the board was a lapel mic. What caught Harold's attention was the fading strip of masking tape on the board, which read, "Slut Box." The label made Harold chuckle, but he couldn't see how a mishmash of wires, lights and a microphone constituted a Slut Box.
He turned the thing over in his hand, found a rocker switch on the board, and flipped it. The lights all came on at once, powered by an aging AA battery.
"Huh," Harold said.
"Input command," the board squawked from a tiny speaker.
"Huh," Harold said again.
"Input command," the board prompted once more.
Slut box. Input command. Funny lights. Nah. It had to be a bunch of bullshit. He'd seen shit like this on some TV show, where people got reprogrammed with flashing lights. Some CIA conspiracy thing. TV bullshit.
He glanced back at the hottie behind the table, fanning her herself, sweat glistening on her skin. It ran between her immense cleavage, making Harold's dick harden. What could it hurt?
"Input command."
Harold pressed the button on the mic and said, "Show me your tits."
The lights all flashed in unison and the speaker said, "Program complete."
"Huh," Harold said.
He located a red push button, looked at the hottie once more, and walked over. She looked up at his approach.
"We don't give refunds," she said quickly.
"No need, darling," he said, holding up the Slut Box. "Your brother ever show you this?"
The girl looked at the Slut Box. Harold pressed the button. The lights ran through a sequence, and the girl stared, immobile, entranced by the dancing lights.
"Sweet Jesus on a bacon sandwich," Harold whispered as the girl lifted her shirt, revealing her magnificent, braless tits.
Harold quickly backed away, snagging the box of junk and waddling around the corner. As he glanced back, the girl still held up her shirt, displaying her breasts. An old woman gasped and pulled her husband away roughly by the arm.
Harold cradled the Slut Box like gold, sweating, and thoroughly finished with perusing garage sales. He'd found treasure. Real treasure.
Two: Happy Wife
Harold sat at his worktable, the Slut Box in front of him. It wasn't bullshit. He'd reprogrammed the girl to show him her tits. Sweet Lucifer on an eggroll! She'd looked at the lights and showed him her big, glorious, college slut jugs!
Before doing anything else, the Slut Box had to be protected. Harold covered it in static-resistant cloth and set about fashioning a case. That exposed board was far too risky. A drop of water, and poof. No more Slut Box. How had it managed to stay undamaged sitting in that box? Why had the kid left something like that behind?
It took him nearly two hours to handcraft a case for the board, which he carefully mounted inside. Once closed, only the switches, lights, and microphone were exposed. It was, if he had to say so himself, fine work. He replaced the battery, flipped the switch and giggled like a child when the lights flashed on brighter than before.
"Harold!" his wife's shrill shriek came from inside the house. "You didn't do the lawn!"
It was then that Harold knew he needed another test. Just how powerful was the Slut Box? What could it actually make someone do? Could he, for instance, turn a cold fish of a wife with a hot body into a cockslut? He flipped on the power. There was only one way to know.
"Input command."
"It's good to share responsibilities. Today is your day to mow the lawn. You need to do it in that ridiculous bikini that Sally gave you as a gag gift for that Cabo trip we never went on."
The lights flashed.
"Program complete."
With shaking hands, Harold walked into the house. His wife, Carol, stood behind the kitchen island. She wore her hair in curlers, and her face was plastered with a disgusting cucumber mask. As usual, she wore a baggy two-piece loungewear set.
Harold and Carol, though, had three children. The two girls, Olivia and Rachel, and their son Zach. Harold knew that beneath that baggy shit there was a body that was still hard. Carol worked out religiously. Unfortunately, it wasn't so that she could share that body with him. Hell, he was lucky to get a fucking handy once a month.
"You were going to do the lawn first thing this morning," Carol nagged. "You went out buying shit again, didn't you?"
"Well, I found something cool," Harold said and flipped the switch. "Take a look."
Carol sighed and raised her head. Harold held up the Slut Box. The lights flashed. Carol stared. Her jaw slackened. She continued to stare as the lights flashed. The Slut Box pinged.
Carol shook her head and looked down at her baggy clothes. She then looked at Harold.
"Weren't you going to do the lawn this morning?" he asked.
"I... I was," Carol said. "I just lost track of time."
She left the kitchen. Harold sat at the table, sweat on his forehead. Had it actually worked? All of it? Would she--Carol returned a moment later, wearing a string bikini so small that it showed everything.
"Wow!" Harold exclaimed.
"What?" Carol asked.
"You look great, hon."
Carol looked down at herself, nearly nude, and said, "Keep it in your pants, mister. I have work to do."
He watched her glorious cheeks jiggle and her big tits wobble as she went out the back door to the shed.
"You sure do, darling," Harold muttered. "You and me both."
***
It was the most relaxing Saturday afternoon Harold could remember. He sat in a deck chair and watched his wife's jugs bounce as she drove the riding mower. The Slut Box was safely tucked away in his safe, and in his lap was a pad of paper. There were many things to change, and his mind ran a mile a minute.
