The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

F.W.F. Newsletter, Fall 2012

by Cristina Prince

2. Virile Videos

After only half of a decade since Cherub Cove humbly began as a small commune of about thirty, its mission is revealed to the Family Way Fighter’s eye, quite clearly, as one of total reality robbing. They thieve millions of their memory, and train them to believe instead. Sure, when you consider their mandate on its face, it can look like a paradise on earth.

The recent spate of television ads for Va-va-womb! tummy-puffing lotion are the perfect propaganda for these guys. The technicolor green of the verdant hills, the impossibly buxom milk maids frolicking along them, their midsections soft, white, and playful: all are doubtlessly idyllic, if exaggerated.

But this is not real life. You know it and I know it, despite however many church-appointed “scientists” go on church-created daytime talk shows to claim otherwise. There’s absolutely nothing, anywhere, in the good book about cow-belles, SecondPuberty, or neon nipple pox!

It’s all modern and hush-hush: distracting baubles of genetic and hormonal fuckery that Dr. Al Screuyubisch (author of “The Yearning Tush: How the Old Testament Can Boost Your Caboose”, the spill-safe picture book for adults) won’t admit don’t come from some ancient tome thousands of years ago, but rather a secret, state-of-the-art research facility in 2006.

If these mind-morphed morons could cogitate a single thought that hadn’t already been stuffed into them, or if they’d at least kept a real bible after the watershed weekend that was the “Book-Burn / Look & Learn” summit last 4th of July, they might not lap up such glaringly obvious horseshit. They love it, though, almost as much as sneaking some barbecue in the pews before lining up to receive cunny-union.

Converts will do anything to maintain their new lives. The least they can do is shut their consciences off. It wouldn’t require half a minute’s effort to flip some pages and find out there was no such book as “Pardon My Seed-Feedin’, I’m Just Peen-Eatin’ & Cock-Seatin’ While Fartin’ In Eden” in the bible, but no one raises so much as an eyebrow.

They’d just as soon wait for “Cock-Seatin’: The Movie”. Everyone hates reading now, anyway. They’d rather be told and shown, preferably with some kind of sexual aid. Most people just call it “watchin’ the bible”, but Dr. Screuyubisch’s tremendously successful “edutainment” TV show, “Bible’s Best Breasts”, furthers the new narrative. With boobs!

If you’ve never caught it in syndication, I’ll give you the (anti—)skinny: every single woman granted her own half-hour profile, from Eve to Ruth to Abigail to Esther, is equipped with whopping clay potter’s jugs, never any smaller than an H cup. Last time I checked, no Judeo-Christian God was a sexploitation director, but okay.

If you’ve seen one of these things, you’ve seen them all. Sometime within the first five minutes, our scriptured heroine trips while climbing a cliff, or steps too soon to intervene in a dagger fight. Anything to rip open her cloak. There always seems to be honey around. It never fails to cover the entirety of her biblical hooters.

Each episode ends with a feast scene of some sort that, without fail, descends into an orgy: a whole lot of men getting greedy with this week’s legendary lady. These installments, despite the formula, are really quite abstract and have little to do with story or allegory. It’s more a series of psychosexual cues and subliminal flourishes.

If you’re not already a a transformed convert, it’s hard not to notice the lack of any dialogue or narration. The only kind of unifying motif in the program is that every time it cuts to a new scene, the “Bigger & Bigger” chant is intoned. Thus, the conditioning the show imparts on its viewer is a one-two patriotic and religious double-whammy.

Yet, Cud College will dole out a degree in bible studies if the student merely finishes viewing the first season on DVD. Not a thing is accomplished from watching “Bible’s Best Breasts”, save for enjoying some tight close-ups of big bosoms, getting a bit less curious about reading, and a little more loyal to Our Family Way. You’re a fake expert of a fake show.

None of this shit is real. If we just go on pretending that it is, the way those hillbilly hypnotists want us to (by pre-empting any useful discourse with some reductive bullshit that has no meaning, like: “gloria holes are the one and only path to godly nastiness”), we lose reason, nuance, and understanding.

We’re left with only cowgirls and bullboys and pussy-pounding parsons, with all the subtlety and history of a porn addict’s refreshed web cache.

Bottom line, there’s more than just a little whitewash to these promises of perfection. There’s giant, clumpy gobs of it actually, and once you get stuck, you get fucked. Once you get fucked, you get bred. Once you get bred, bam! Your clit stole your head.

By the time you feel sated, you’ve already procreated.

I’ve gotten e-mails from some of you male supporters, admitting that you actually use my parables as stroke material. That’s fine, I suppose. If you can get off on the terrible truths I expose, I guess you have some expert compartmentalizing skills. Though I do wonder about you sometimes. I don’t know if I could find pleasure in something so sad, so horrific.

If you so fetishize the blooming and busting out of most ladies everywhere, and can recognize what the implications are for them mentally, why not go and find one of your own, see for yourself? Even if you tried to help save and woo a Rebel Rosie (just about the only nickname those hicks have given girls like me that I don’t mind), I’m sure she’d eventually find out all about your yen for lusty, lazy young mommies. Then where would you be?

Shit, what am I saying? Of course I don’t want you to do that. Maybe that was a bit too harsh. This is my life’s work, after all. Call it a knee-jerk reaction. (Get it? Durrr, that’s the last I’ll pander to you horndogs.)

Just because I’ve considered myself an ardent feminist for years before all this was going on, and it was men that surely created this whole mess, doesn’t mean I should resent every one of you. Naturally.

Take it any way you can, fellas! If you make sure you actually learn as you jack, I don’t really mind. Though, really, boys. Honestly?

Please refrain from sending me photos and video of you beating your meat to my work. I see enough penises every twenty-two minutes, like clockwork, from those hardware-freezing pop-ups for Channel 42F, soldered onto every single webpage. I feel like I could be making such better progress if I didn’t have those unavoidable distractions, so spare me yours. Thanks.

And just when are they going to show a new ad again? That same promo for season two of “Cherub Shore” has been up for weeks and weeks. I’m bracing for it to pop on anytime now.

How many times does JCUPP have to pat her beachball stomach and tell us, “This mah fourth up in here!”, only for The Spermination to retort, “Then I’m-a go back-n-forth up in here,” playfully stroking her tanned tyke-feeders? (Then the preview jump cuts, to JCUPP inviting his foreskin-equipped, equestrian dick, well... all up in there.)

Sometimes (more and more now, considering it’s always the same freakin’ ad), I catch myself mimicking the Slicki Shimmy in my computer chair. Well, a much, much tamer version of it: I never wear anything but pants, for one. The quick clip, of my second-favorite character doing her signature dance, butts in, literally, three times during the preview.

Picture something like the Twist, but more crunked-out and suggestive, performed in the snuggest, briefest mini—”skirt”. Riding all the way up her drippy, shiny ass, not halfway through its first gyration.

The freakiest part is when I lapse into it without the ad even being on. It’s like my little hips can anticipate the teaser faster than my mind can. Very disturbing...

But really, I’m on top of it. There’s no way I’d let myself be trained. It’s not as bad as I’m making it seem. Even if I did eventually learn to do the Slicki half as hot as she does, I would never, not in a million years, wear lubed clothes like the SlickiSkirt. Really, now. A lubed mini. Please.

First of all, they retail for almost two hundred dollars, and second, I’d have to keep buying GigglyGoo for it. You know... to keep it fresh and juicy. Just too much maintenance for a garment, even if it does promise to “plump up your buns for some creamy good fun.”

Even if the thing does come with a free chance to win a visit to the godly gang’s house during one of next year’s tapings. But then there are all these other figure-shaping food accessories they recommend, too, like...

Wait. Why am I even typing this all out for posterity? It’s bad enough that I simply know all this. I, regrettably, did give it some serious consideration one restless and drunken night, when I must have accidentally poked the digital Slicki in her gut, as she dipped and drizzled all over my touchscreen.

(That’s just a theory, because I know, on a number of occasions, I’ve at least had the urge to do that. I can’t really hate on her anymore, not after over five hundred replays.)

Only with hindsight do I know to steer clear from my computer when I’m tipsy: not knowing how I got onto the checkout page, I had almost clicked the “confirm purchase” button. My cart was loaded with not one, but four SlickiSkirts, all the accessories, two years’ worth of FreedomFarm food vouchers, and the Reverse Cowgirl Workout DVD... apparently my own plot of land in Cherub Cove, and a raised ranch, too!

If my cell phone hadn’t rung at that exact second, I would have cleared my whole bank account and maxed out both of my credit cards in a total trance. How could I have been so stupid?

I clamped my drooling, open mouth shut and turned my PC off. I felt a cool chill. The crotch of my best khakis was flooded through. I wanted to air them out, but just bringing my fingers a few inches away made me shudder and double over, needy.

I’m no prude. I know arousal. This was different, deeper. Uncivilized. I knew I was showing the early signs of infection. Depressingly enough, it wasn’t my first scare.

The first night is the toughest, and it breaks most girls. But if you pull through the whole of it without penetrating or touching your vagina in any way, you can wake up clean. It’s important to at least try and remain calm, and to understand that your body is working overtime on sabotaging you.

It would need some determination. I had to take a long, icy shower to destroy those dopey, intense hornies. They only rematerialized later on, when I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind was working, alright: dangerously and sluggish, but awake. In other words, not at all how I needed it to.

I had to keep remembering why it was not okay to let my fingers dance around in me for a few seconds, like they seemed hell-bent on doing. I knew it was an awful idea, but I stripped totally naked and grabbed a toy out of the dresser. Just to prove how strong I could be.

In seconds, I’d forgotten why I did this, and almost persuaded myself that it was impossible to catch the Family Way Flu through a commercial. That I needed this, deserved it. Until my mouth didn’t water, but gush, like a faucet at full blast. All from just a little glance at the dildo.

Then I was determined to resist. It was getting more than ludicrous. My spit storm made a swamp of my bed in no time. I kicked and fidgeted with that vinyl rod in my grasp for hours, planting it upright on my sheets, steadied it as best I could with wet hands, imagined that if I kept jacking it, the rhythm might eventually lull me to sleep.

Slobbering more than I’d thought was humanly possible, unendingly, I did my best to blot out mental video of a nondescript, sculpted and sexy hunk’s stomach. I couldn’t, though. It was way too hot.

It flexed and coursed its magnificent muscles, in dreamy liquid half-speed, to offer up an absolute pole of a prick, so deep into my giantess-sized onion booty. Mine! I certainly didn’t have one for real, but now that something allergic in me could conjure one, I fell deeper into the imaginary (but vivid) ass ravaging my mystery man permitted me.

Somewhere, I could make out the sound of a baby wailing. Then another. Our kiddies, no doubt. We were just equipped for it, dreamboy and I.

Something in that notion brought me back down to my soggy struggle, gave me the idea that I could use my dildo as a pacifier. I suckled happily on it, and this stopped up the oral overflow, quelling it to just the odd drip here and there.

I couldn’t really rationalize the big regret that came, just as I started to finally calm down, but that didn’t make it go away—I hadn’t sprung for that Total CherubCare Package earlier!

I just kept right on sucking though, as I imagined my big strong husband rocking me in a cradle, then carrying me home in his burly arms. He was a giant, swooping me away from the city and back down to church country in four quick paces.

I woke up the next morning, barely believing any of that shit had actually happened to me. But I realized soon that things were fine, that my purple toy was safe under my pillow. I had done it.

I had won the right to me. My mouth was raw and sore, but it wasn’t such a big deal, especially when I considered what my whole life could have turned out to be, had I not shown restraint.

It did take me a minute or two to remember that big centaur butt wasn’t real, though.

You didn’t really need to know all of this, I apologize... It is useful, though, in explaining how even their less expensive ad buys are way more effective than you’d think. I guess. I hope?

Like right now. It took me more than ten minutes to write those last two sentences, because the porno-promo got replayed an extra three times, back to back. I’m crossing my fingers that it’s back to just one stupefying skin-spin, the next time this holy smut fills my monitor.

I can’t imagine devoting even more time to this chintzy, bankrupt crap. How anyone could possibly enjoy this show, especially so much that they’d want to buy overpriced merchandise or, yes, win screen time, is beyond me. (Then again, so is shampoo that makes your hair an erogenous zone.)

It’s bad enough that it already takes at least a minute or two for me to shake the lingering image of that dumb, disgustingly over-developed farm-bro, The Spermination.

He’s so pathetic. And now there’s talk of him running for governor! It’s pretty ridiculous. Trying to rap and play the banjo at the same time. Hand-laundering his longjohns on a washboard.

Working out in his stupid overalls, showing off his... real pretty-looking, scrumptious abs... I’ll only have to give that perfectly chiseled midsection one little kiss. Just a droplet of his saintly sweat will immediately make my hooters really pop to perfection...

He’ll get them so enormous, JCUPP will sob with jealousy and try to fight me, but then we’ll kiss and make up, suck each other’s soaked cunts... Heavy jugs flopping and flying all over, as we gently titty-wrestle atop the pool table, like puppies at play. Our milk overflowing in the side pocket...

Ugh! Do you see how much it throws me off?!

Truly annoying. Admittedly, though, if I can still access legitimate websites, the pop-ups aren’t the hugest price to pay. But I miss those months where they only came onscreen every hour and a half. I can barely remember that sliver of time when it was a mere daily intrusion.

I can’t even imagine booting up a computer and not having them there. The bitch of that being, they were only introduced a year ago. They’re so intrusive and annoying. I hate them.

I can’t stop thinking about them. Some of them are really cute.

You know, in an evil sort of way. Another funny little one was that 50s-style cartoon of an instantly hardening little penis, that grows monstrous lickety-split, enough to jut right out of the frame.

I know that jingle well: “Think with your dick and it’ll get big quick / A cherub ain’t choosy but loves it thick!” Half from the amount of times I had to watch it, and half because I really think some of you pervy boner-boys take that message to heart.

Guys: again, my e-mail address is for serious advice, clarification, and general Angelically Abstinent Associated inquiries only. This does not mean high-res pics, magic eye or otherwise, of your erections or anyone else’s.

I guess this is a good opportunity to call one of you out in particular. Whoever sent me the note with the subject, “Poren Springs attempting imminent domain on my mom’s house, or FORCED FERTILIZATION! HELP” (I opened it before realizing the sender had blocked their identity), kindly piss up a rope.

It took me forever to figure out what that weird watermark was, on the JPEG you attached, of what I thought was just an innocuous country home. I didn’t notice how ridiculously long I was gazing at it, until after I caught a breath from my finger-fed, screaming O.

That flushed, glazed face looking back at me in the mirror hung around for hours, even after I put a little makeup on it. Not fucking funny!

That made me so bummed for the rest of the night, I didn’t finish writing down a list of about thirty Planned Parenthoods, that are posing as fronts for Our Family Way. When I went to complete it the next day, it’d been taken offline, and the site that hosted it just directed me to the Angelwear webpage.

I was going to make do with the four addresses I managed to commit to ink, but the paper was ruined, still doused from all the drool that I’d rained down on it the night before. I could only decode a fraction of a word. I was more than a little disappointed that the legible letters spelled out “ass”, and that it amused me way longer than it really should have.

And then, Slicki hopped hers onto my monitor, doing her ditzy thing.

Anyway, where was I? (As much as I hate to confront it, lately, I can get pretty tangential when I start thinking about butts and penises.)