The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

F.W.F. Newsletter, Fall 2012

by Cristina Prince

1. “The Childish Chant of Our Family Way”

There are numerous important things you need to be made aware of, since last I wrote. I’m sure you know plenty of precautions to take in your day-to-day lives already, but there are a host of new dangers out there. The game has changed, now that those in control have drastically cut down the amount of people playing.

Before I can send off more dramatized accounts of the recent, all-too-real past, and all that has managed to escape us in its wake, I feel obligated to share my new information, and include a few anecdotes from my own experiences. I’ve never felt comfortable exposing my brushes with Our Family Way in the past, least of all to myself, but the situation is beyond dire.

We can, and need, to reclaim what we’ve lost. I write for all you strong, untainted women everywhere, still clinging on, to whatever scraps remain of the world we knew. I want you to know that you’re not alone in resisting this mass exodus of sanity and decency.

That’s not to say I’m unaware of the handful of my male readers. You’re valued, too. By wanting to get more educated about our global crisis, you prove your restraint. Use your new knowledge wisely. Most men are historically more susceptible, morals and respect nonwithstanding. It’s just built in to your biology.

An unexpected, unimpeded shift is rattling our storied species, the likes of which this planet has never seen. A false harmony in humanity, happening much too quickly to really register, is spreading easier than the tottering thighs of so many nation-building nymphets.

You can call it what you want to. I’ll just call it what it is. Most of the globe is all too gleeful to insult their instincts and drape themselves in the licentious law of the Lycra Curtain, happy to get smothered and covered in it, as it were.

Culturally, we are all entering The Hot Pink Ages, where any darkness or rebellion is repainted in a cheerful neon hue, speckled with reason-raping giggles. Modesty and open-mindedness are all but crushed under the five-inch heel of Cherub Cove’s aggressive PR inundation.

What the blind-led blind seek to stamp out, by adhering to the shady tenets of Man Plan, can never go away forever. Blades of grass poke through the pavement. I’m still confident this only looks like the end, because we can’t yet contextualize what’s taking place. There’s too many bouncing biddies and throbbing boners blocking the view.

It sure is rough out there, but it’s the only world we have. All I aim to do is tell you what’s being done to it, behind the scenes: to show you what’s really swelling those behinds in jeans. Without added sweetener...

A decade from now, even for the handful of us protesters still holding strong (likely exiled to tundra and caves by then), the idea of a whole world that actually needed to deal with aging, wars, and disease, will start to seem like a darkly distant dream.

It’s going to feel mighty strange, as well, to dimly try and place a time when a forty-inch butt wasn’t on the small side of average. It’ll be one of those faint half-memories, of which we’ll try to convince some intimidating group with half-and-half-leaking mammaries. Although, who knows?

Maybe ten more years of this “forward” march into ovulation oppression will actually yield the church some real results from its population control chant. I’m sure you know the one. The one that clearly and jingoistically outlines the manifest destiny of which Our Family Way is at the finish line. It’s everywhere.

I’ll give you a hint: its lines are the only text the dumb-and-loving-it new guard will permit on interstate billboards. Besides those with the number 6969: the emergency hotline for the proper procedures in handling, should you come across one, a stray “Skinny-Sinny”.

(To let motorists know what those are used for, the digits are superimposed over a picture of a particularly homely, borderline anorexic lady. Though lately, with the median national bra size being an almost-unbelievable G cup, most of these have been updated with a new girl. She’s cute, I’d say, showing a healthy amount of cleavage by my standards. Next year they’ll probably have Anna Nicole Smith up there.)

The Brittany Basters did their own mall rock version of the chant. A bill was passed in May, authorizing it as the official introduction and addendum to the pledge of allegiance. Impoverished people in third world countries who can’t speak a word of English know it by heart, phonetically.

It stands as a worldwide symbol of what American freedom truly means in this day and age (that is to say, the polar opposite), acting as a tuneless anthem for this brand new era in the U.S.A. It’s broadcast three times a day on every TV, radio, and loudspeaker.

Unless you’re doing God’s life-giving work and engaging in fertile intercourse, one is required by law to take part. Everyone hears, and recites, the same sixteen refrains of it each airing, no matter what the channel or configuration.

The walls in my apartment are thin, so my next-door neighbors, who were whisper-silent and respectful when they first moved in, took to banging loudly if they could hear I was watching Channel 38JJ (for research) and dared to turned it down when it came time to chant. I, obviously, refused. They let it slide for a little while.

I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. Eventually, a couple nights later, the two of them doubled up on their efforts. They pushed their bed against the wall and now they had started to bang: louder and longer than they did on a typical evening after primtetime chants. I’d been unfortunate enough to overhear people having sex before, but their rabid fucking sounded like it was coming through a guitar amp.

I’m talking hours, too. When the two hour mark came and went, I pretended like their incessant mating was getting me off so much that it made me jealous. I cried out in faux-orgasmic ecstasy, alternating between “Fuck!” and “Yes!” Sometime later, they had calmed down and I was relieved, hoping they were under the impression that they had converted me into a newborn-again cherub.

I still declined to chant the next night at 7:55, however. So they only started to do it at a higher volume, and, thus, I had to match with my own intimate imitation. They hadn’t had enough until it was almost midnight. I was moaning so much that my performance was making me hoarse. It was worth it, though. They thought I had come four times!

By the time two weeks of enduring this nightly intrusion had passed, I decided I’d placated these nitwits enough. I came to this realization when I noticed my little show had devolved into something unsettling. That I hadn’t taken a single moment to examine it before than was even more unsettling.

Not only had I begun to supplement these mock masturbation sessions by chanting along whenever they did, giving in to that unconsciously, but I legitimately looked forward to saying those words. I thought I had fooled them, but it was the other way around. I called off dinner plans with an old friend so I could prove to these sex fiends that I thought chanting was like, totally cool.

It didn’t get through to me that, even with my diligent recitation, they still humped just as obnoxiously. I started to enjoy having to match them, even though I should have already satisfied them. It was like a game, all of a sudden. Who could get louder, them or me?

Moreover, I found I got so worked up by faking it, that I wound up needing to do it for real after the third or fourth night. I can’t really remember which, because the first night I actually put a few fingers in me, I told myself it was only to better act the part. I guess I thought it would be more believable that way? Don’t ask.

I’m a little fuzzy on if I genuinely came then or the following day, but I’m 100% positive I was cumming like clockwork by the end of that second week, eventually timed alongside all the scheduled daily chants. The day I got fed up, I actually called out of work so I could just splay on the sofa, watch television and rub several out, wearing nothing but a snuggie.

I was conscious enough, that I would normally not do that sort of thing at all, especially with the knowledge that the two of them were never even around in the afternoon, but it just seemed like the next step. I tried to rationalize what little sense it made, the second I got off the phone with work.

The TV was switched on already, at some point, and so I swiftly distracted myself in it. Bleach Valleyball was on, the Malibu Mounds facing off against the Jacksonville Jiggle. Sometime during that, I think, I kicked off my lazy stroke session. When the telecast broke for chant, it was the first time I came during one. None of this seemed like such a huge deal.

Instead, I knew something was up hours later, when it took me a few extra episodes of the late-night syndication block of “Moo’s The Bess”, to finally reach my sixth orgasm for the day. I pulled the plug on my TV set. I was ashamed that it had even taken me that long to come across that simple solution. The game wasn’t fun anymore. I felt dirty.

What really clued me in wasn’t the length of time that I’d been going to town. It was that I came so viciously and loud that they were laughing at me through the wall, hysterically. Cheering me on, even. It was quarter after three in the morning. I had woken them up.

“Slut!” my sleepy bimbo-neighbor rasped, muffled and giggly. Then they did the chant ten times. I was already failling in line by the end of the first. I didn’t notice that I’d started fingering myself again until after we all stopped.

“Goooood-niiiiight!” she sang. I was so disappointed in myself that I’d wasted half a month letting myself get primed for cherub chores. They had won. This round, anyway. “...sssslut!” Fuckers.

Butt-fuckers, mostly. What I’m about to talk about is verging on “way too personal” territory, but it should give you an idea as to how powerful sensory bombardment alone can be. It can significantly alter habits of a normal sex life, even if you’re not infected.

Just about every time I heard them go at it, the dude would say, “You like that big dick in your ass,” repeatedly and at an even rhythm. The first time I heard it, it was more of a question, and I just kind of rolled my eyes, still trying to ignore them. Nothing like an affllicted couple to use cheap porno talk.

By the end of the first week of my appeasing them, he’d said it so often that I figured I’d feel around in mine, too. It didn’t ever appeal to me all that much before, but she sure sounded like she was having a good time. It felt nice. I never knew what an edge it added to masturbating.

The final night, I was practically ramming my asshole with the dildo I used to keep hidden in a sock drawer, reserved for special occasions. I timed it perfectly to her mechanized grunts. I did my best to hold down infiltrated thoughts that neighbor dick was probably far better.

After that whole ordeal, I haven’t been able to shake that suggested fondness for ass play. Any guy I meet at work, or wherever, and take home, has to not only pass a screening from my F.W.F. testing kit, but definitely show at least a little bit of love in that department. I don’t have much down there, but...

I don’t really see a problem with my taste for anal, even knowing how I acquired it. Except when I begin to imagine myself huge-titted and pregnant like my neighbor. I get to feeling conflicted. When I start to hallucinate, and can see and feel giant hangers swinging off my chest, that’s when I have to tell whichever dude it is to stop. There’s influence, and there’s influence.

Though they moved out almost a year ago at the beginning of many urban Man Planners’ migrations to rural and suburban areas, my neighbors are still annoying me. Their apartment has stayed empty ever since, but sometimes, I hear the rarer and rarer clattering of heels and bangles coming up the stairs to my floor. They’re nearly always accompanied by the sound of impatient, plodding workboots, and my heart skips a beat.

It’s shameful, but without fail, I think it’s them for a split second, all these months later. Every time the almost militaristic chant pops into my head, I hear it in that little tramp’s sing-songy squeal. Sometimes it resonates in my skull clearer than it really ought to.

As if there had been never been a wall between us.

Bigger and bigger—boobies and butts / to make the heathens our holy sluts! Bigger and bigger—muscles and dicks / to satisfy our family fix!

I sure hope not. I like my little butt just fine. It’s sick how twisted around everything’s become, but in bubbly, bimbo-tacular 2012, just having plain, slight features is something revolutionary in itself. Busty brides hiss, shriek, or even begin to faint at the sight of my B-cups, glaring at me as if I had serpents for arms.

Not having an ass is punk. The first crop of kindergarteners at the recently opened Eggdrop Elementary, across the street from my building, literally think I am one of the devil’s daughters.

“She made her booty disappear with black magic!”—“I heard Jesus took it away for not letting him play with it!”

If I wasn’t so mortally repulsed by all they represent, I might be flattered that I’m prime real estate for their fathers’ snatch-sniffing bullcocks. Their honed horniness is that much stronger within a 500-foot radius of a Skinny-Sinny. I can’t walk out onto the street when school lets out.

They get one look at my slim hips in baggy clothes and calculate their advantage with their cocks. If I didn’t have my surgical mask at the ready, I’d sniff them. I doubt I’d get a bonus of my own, either, not the kind I’d want.

All you Ladies of the Lack across cyberspace, make sure to have some good central air or AC going on, if your area calls for it in the summertime. My unit crapped out a couple of weeks ago, and since the semester is just newly in session, I have to wear the mask to bed if I’m to keep my windows open.

I can still smell the faintest bit of milky-man anyway on occasion, from the times I need to take it off, for abbreviated showers or meals. I toss and turn at night all the more if I think I hear someone chanting off in the distance.

It can slow down and confuse my writing, too. I have to remember that a good lot of aspects to the church aren’t bad at their deepest core. It’s how they’re brought about and what they’re used for, how they’re manipulated, is what ought to be evaluated.

It’s just that time is running out for that deeper look. Meanings shift naturally on their own. St. Brittany’s makes it their goal. That’s the real evil.

A big dick used to just be a big dick: delicious on its own accord. Now I look at one and it’s like, “If I suck this, is it going to make my mouth all puffy?” There are so many new rules.