The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

F.W.F. Newsletter, Fall 2012

by Cristina Prince

6. The New Angel and Her All-American Ass

As is the mortifying case more and more often, while we find ourselves flung against our brightest hopes into a hijacked future, there is a heightened likelihood, that even the most well-educated in this subject among us, are being hoodwinked and led out into dangerous back-alleys of deception.

I doubt I really need to open up more fresh, deep wounds to you, but I feel obligated to talk about one more thing. If you’ve made it this far, you are probably one of the few remaining proponents of my cause. (And if you’re not, just know—your days are numbered!)

So, you are likely familiar with Molly Reilly. She was that operative of mine who, among other efforts, fought to keep petite sizes on sales racks and won. Remember? It was our first big coup. “The United States is not some fascist factory farm,” began her big speech, concluding with the memorable summation, “Man Plan doesn’t have my plan!”

We really thought our movement would gain momentum when we posted our taping of it, and it seemed to be going viral. It made it onto some cable news shows, even. We got more donations that month than our usual pittance, and it helped us out considerably. Then St. Brittany’s Cyberaser embedded hypnotic, subliminal coding onto our videos, and we lost all those supporters.

Some gave us nasty calls and e-mails, blathering about the blasphemy and bridal upheaval it threatened. Rocks and foot-long Banger brand dildos were thrown through our office windows. The honeymoon ended just as it started. Even at its peak popularity, though, it only mustered just under a million views. That was several months after it was uploaded.

A choppy, twelve-second clip of porn-popster Shay-Belle going grocery shopping, debuting on the same day as ours, reached five times that amount in its first hour. (You may have guessed the one: eleven seconds of it were devoted to an upskirt shot of her fetching a teensy, electric orange thong from “Church Country’s Most Recognizable Ass”.)

Well, yesterday, I saw Ms. Reilly (now Mrs. Roly-Cotton) on C-SPAN. It was the same topic of debate that gave her notoriety. She was on the opposite side, now. I could guess as much before she’d even opened her lips. Her tits were each about twice the size of my head, now. My heart sunk.

From flat to ginormous, the poor thing. That’s usually how it works. When she breathed in or out, they wobbled. When she burped, one of them got jostled so much that it popped out of its inadequate sheath.

There was so much whistling that a gavel had to crash down, for nearly a minute. I had to crib this indelible scene for one of my dramatizations. Lawsuits have kept me from finishing that one.

She stuck it back in, mercifully. The cut of her cow-print, scoop-neck shirt was low enough to expose the tops of her nipples. (No, I don’t own an HD TV.) It reminded me of how, during cold winter months at our office, she had a habit of perking out. Brianna, our web designer who had a not-so-secret crush on Molly, would always poke fun at how tiny and cute they were.

Well, they’re big and fat now, deep and brown. They were oozing milk through her top, making it stick to her breasts. I couldn’t help but notice. Seriously: the cameraman held a tight close-up on those puppies for what felt like an eternity, and I could have sworn it was audible when her nipples hardened under that straining shirt.

Plus, I knew her. I did at one time anyway. Even though this was not the Molly Reilly that seriously talked about assassinating prominent St. Brittany’s operatives. This new Molly Reilly, with her new extra last name, was but a lone bimbo blip, one of the infamous billions, saved and enslaved.

Her short, straight and severe, raven black haircut was gone. The big and bouncy coif of fluffy blonde curls shone with too much hairspray, edging past platinum into silver. The bumptious style complemented her ultra-zaftig figure, if gaudily.

You could probably fit a poker chip between her two front teeth.

She spells her first Mollie now, too, evidently. I’m guessing she dots that new “i” with a dopey little heart. Or possibly a spurting cockhead...

“I don’t see why any decent Christian-Amur’can wife-an-mawma’s gotta put up with all that skinny-mini traaash,” she complained with a thick twang. “It jus’ ain’t natural!” She crossed her arms in defiance. The camera zoomed right back to her chest, as the flesh on those ridiculous things got smooshed every which way, veiny and nearly snow white.

“If those bitches wanna keep on bein’ so itty-bitty and unhealthy-ful, then let ‘em. But they’s gonna hafta buy our clothes-es and wear ‘em all baggy-like, until ‘ey come ‘round to the salvation an’ fit into ‘em...”

“An’, like, y’know.” she paused. Rasping out a bimboized birdcall of a chuckle, soaking in the silence of everyone’s concentrated attention at the fatty fleshpot they assumed was going to be a slender Rebel Rosie, she went on. “They always do. An’ real soon-like, ruther than later.”

I wondered, if she got her way, how long it would take before simply wearing clothes that fit me would become outlawed. “While I do like the sound of your voice,” a senator flirted, “may I remind you that there is to be no food or drink within these walls?”

Between statements, she was slurping her way through an xxxtra-large Family Freedom Frostie, the most popular soft drink in the U.S., (and one of the first big mami-making products approved by the FDA) with piggish abandon. In her rush to finish it now, she shut her eyes, dark with heavy purple shadow, and puckered to get the last gulp.

This sultry vibe dovetailed with the drink’s trademark: an ultra-wide, peach-colored straw. She looked like a cock-sucking slut! (But then, all the girls who drink them do. That’s kind of the unspoken point. It’s why those straws have purple and blue “finger massage ridges” along the sides. Malls and downtown sidewalks grow more and more cramped each day, crowded with chicks showcasing their finest BJ styles.)

Not even a year ago, she admitted to me that she’d never gone down on a guy. It freaked her out, she said. Now, she bobbed her head on the thick straw, pursing her candy red lips over it in a tighter seal, mewling as it slid further up and down them. It was hard to tell if she was just playing up her role, or reflexively reverting to her usual “womanly duties”.

One thing was crystal clear: she couldn’t possibly have a single problem with it any longer. She licked the white fluid off her lips and smacked them, sticky with highly caloric, hormone-heavy refreshment. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, and I could hear her coated lips as they pulled apart.

Either her mic was really sensitive, or that was one thick shake. She guided some runaway droplets from her chin up to her mouth with a long-nailed finger. Then she fellated that, too, favoring the politician with a drugged-out, sleepy-eyed smile.

“‘Atta girl,” the senator beamed. He leaned over to a colleague, away from the mic, but the broadcast still picked it up: “I just wanted to see her suck like she oughtta. Those lips. My god, man... And then I’d just wrap those jugs right around...”

The programmer had the foresight to mute his mic and cut back to Mrs. Reilly-Cotton, who was still mouth-fucking her finger, working it luridly. She was pivoting her waist, moving her slow, slushy udders back and forth. It looked to me that this was something she did whenever she felt happy. Like a dog wagging its tail.

At this point, I just knew she downed a lot of dick in her new life. More than even the usual cherubs, who are all fans of giving head. It simply made sense: just like her tiny nubs had plumped up, each grown bigger than a dozen of her old ones, her distaste for oral had inverted into addiction. And the way one phallic thing seemed to remind her of another only accented this 180.

The microphone in front of her was the newest link on her chain of interest. She had the blankest, most unfortunate cross-eyed expression on her face as she slunk down a bit in her seat, to prop her face below the mic. My old partner in crime, maybe still somewhere in there, smothered under all that superfemininity.

My old partner in crime, thoroughly inflated and mind-fucked, curling her eager fingers around the bottom of a microphone, about to give it a blowjob, easing open her lips, closing her bedroom eyes. Ready to drive yet another nail into the coffin of real, pre-cherub progress for women. But then—

She stopped. Now she looked confused, disoriented, as if she was registering what was in front of her. It was an abrupt shift, as if she had a hiccup in her hard-wiring. Then I saw a familiar look, and for the first moment in all the time I’d been watching this pathetic excuse for a hearing, I felt like I recognized her.

That smirk! It wasn’t the sexualized one she’d shown a minute ago. This was the same one she had whenever she’d come up with the perfect rebuttal to some nasty e-mail we’d received. The one she’d employ if a guy was coming onto her and, in an effort to sound smart, used a word improperly.

I wanted Molly to say something. Like magic, she opened her mouth. This was our moment, I was sure of it. In a flash, I conjured up spy stories. That she knew they wouldn’t let girls like us on TV, and so she’d go undercover and subvert the unstoppable momentum of Our Family Way, from the inside.

I swore I saw the wily and angular face of the old, scrappy, real version of Molly, trying her best to bubble up for air, beneath her new chubby cheeks, her contented double chin. She laughed, boisterously, and for the first time since I tuned in, she wasn’t wowed to diversion by the bovine movements of her ridiculous boobs (though she certainly had her work cut out for her now).

Not that chirpy kind of schoolgirl-on-speed giggle like most cherubs, either. No. This was Molly. She was amused that it took her that long to remember what to do with a microphone. It was like those moments back at the office, those nervous bouts of amusement at spending two hours trying to find a slip of paper a few inches away from her.

I couldn’t believe it. Something had returned in her eyes. They were tearing up, and she looked overwhelmed, as if waking up from a living coma. She had nothing to say, or couldn’t find it, so she straightened her hair nervously. Molly hesitated in front of the mic, unsure. It chirped with feedback.

Her voice was shaky. Not quite her old one, but hardly as cornpone-squared as a cherub’s. “I’m... I don’t know what’s going on... Who am...?” She kept looking straight ahead, as if still taking in her surroundings. The senator looked amused.

“You’re just another bimbo-mommy, sweet pea. You took it upon your silly little self to make it a little harder for heathens to help the devil in his work. For that, I extend my sincerest hard-on.” Molly, despite still wearing a look of perplexity on her face, blushed. “If only all the women of this great Christian nation could look half as good as your boobs.”

With a titter and a tit-wag, that brief glimpse of my Molly disappeared. “Thanks, daddy! It’s an honor to serve my church country. I truly feel breast—” She held her hand to her pillowy cleavage in mock embarrassment. “I mean blessed! I’m, like, such a dumb-dumb today!” She took a swig of the glass of water on her podium.

It almost immediately “fell” from her grasp, dousing her aforementioned assets. They boogied as she blew a chilly raspberry with her juicy red mouth, collapsing into herself, sensitive skin pricking up. “Of course you are,” placated the politician. “You’re a dumb-dumb everyday! Just how Brittany wants you.”

She beamed and giggled some more, fully back to her bubbly new ways. Molly yanked her skintight rubber mini up the jolly rear end it trapped, exhibiting an equally tight pair of bikini cut undies, with an American flag on the ass. She swung her butt back and forth, and soon there were enough bright flashes to act as a makeshift x-ray on the over-stressed fabric.

Molly didn’t need to turn around to know that every set of eyes was glued to the curvature and cleft of her cheeks. She did anyway, though, blowing a thick-lipped kiss to the cameras, tossing a flirty wink at the members of the press and the viewers watching at home. She crinkled her nose and impulsively tore off her top, throwing it behind her to some lucky intern.

The rest of her extravagant new body shook along with her hooters, as they sagged ever-so-sweetly into freedom. The rubber piece remained lodged where she left it, tucked atop her jiggling donk. The elastic waistband of her patriotic panties struggled, stalwart in its effort to tame all that fluffy booty.

It was so threadbare that cushy hip flesh pooled out of tiny pockets in the fabric. The faded, worn quality of the underwear struck me as odd, considering the notorious bimbo-mommy preference for all things shiny, synthetic, and brand new. Then I remembered.

These were a gag gift from Brianna, the chick who used to flirt with her back at the office! Molly had hung the panties on her cubicle with thumbtacks, because she’d never wear such a thing, even in secret. They were way too big for her, too. They had hung there for just a few days before even Brianna got sick of them.

The inflated memory onscreen looked to be doing a stretch routine. So, new Molly was honestly outgrowing a size large?! Before I could return to my weird inverted nostalgia, she grabbed her elevated ankles, shimmying her fat ass, popping it out forcefully.

The thoroughly tortured novelty undies burst, emphatic, a monstrous rip running diagonally, from stars to hind stripe. I don’t know if they tore open with an actual bang, or if that was added in the control room. Someone let out a whistle that hung long, like a firework. “She’s soakin’ wet!” cried a reporter.

Naked cartoon Molly shuffled some papers to look smart. The concerned citizen-cherub fidgeted, rabidly clicking a ballpoint pen, putting it up to her lips as if to feign an actual thought. Predictably, this made her drift off and fellate. One of the photographers slapped her big behind amicably, out of encouragement.

The sexy shock plunged her forward, made her porky nipples spit out spoonfuls of milk. She turned beet red and squeezed her naturally-touching thighs tighter together. She met eyes with the senator. He looked to be concentrating deeply, both his hands below the table.

Her goofy grin retreated, going soft and coy. Her dusky eyelids lowered incrementally, like something in her was powering down. She bunny-dipped and pulled her busted panties off, past her knees, but too caught up to pluck them off a high heel.

Molly bent forward, letting her chubbed-up cows slosh back and forth. They bounced into each other in slow motion, sleepy beasts of burden. She attempted to pick them up, but her hands got engulfed in the lily-white plenty. My guess is she’ll be a Wheelbarrow Wanda by New Year’s.

She was still leaking, idly running slippery circles around her areolas with her fingers. A tendril of drool gracefully fell off her droopy bottom lip, as she located the right words for her closing statement.

“I can suck some cock now, right?”

I’d seen more than enough. I clicked the TV off. I started sobbing. Hmm... I always wondered (Not!) what happened to her after she dropped off the face of the earth, following her covert, investigative dinner with the CEO of Angelwear. The one I specifically warned her not to go to.

This can and will happen to anyone. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this happen to everyone.

...Actually, though, if I can be straight with you, I must admit that I continued to watch the broadcast. I wanted more of the trainwreck. I called up Brianna, who I hadn’t seen for quite a while, to see if she was near a TV. She wasn’t, but she was close to my building: two blocks away, picking up some butcher paper at Old College Ave., an art supply shop.

We agreed we’d wait to officially catch up until after we watched the hearing. She couldn’t resist commenting with her famous snark. “She’s a big ol’ cuss now, huh?” Molly was riding the well-hung senator, her cheeks lifting and crashing dramatically. Bri lit a joint and offered it to me. I took a pull from it without hesitating.

“Look at that zoo animal go!” I wondered why there seemed to be a little more resentment in her tone, than simple disappointment, at the sight of our old friend’s turning. “Kind of mesmerizing in this gross way, right? Left, right, left, right. Up, down, up, down. She loves it,” Brianna said, sucking in a healthy toke. “She just had to bring forth the fat fucking whore from within.”

“Do you believe in self-actualization, honey?” I don’t know what was in that joint, but it was knocking me the fuck out. “Do you work a cock like that?” I thought I heard her ask me. I just imagined an ocean of grandfather clocks, their fully operating pendulums surrendering to currents, and let the rhythm of Molly’s huge ass take me wherever it was going...

...“Brianna! Do you know what you’re doing?!” I cried a few minutes later, when I noticed her peeling off her cargo shorts. “Sure I do! It’s fuckin’ hot in here!” I had to agree. Early fall in the afternoon, so many flights up, was torture when you couldn’t crack open a window. I wasn’t quite getting behind this glance she was giving me, though...

...I started to feed from between Brianna’s thighs right as our old colleague got a hefty facial, live on national television. Bri came to a climax of her own a little while later, right along with my ringtone, an electro-pop rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. (It was my mother. She’d definitely have to wait.)

She likely would have returned the favor if she hadn’t passed out. Lord knows I’ve had enough orgasms today. She’s fast asleep on the sofa behind me, as I get the last of my own story in. I don’t know if I’ll have the guts to tell her, whenever she wakes up, that our whole encounter was captured on video. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

That’s another thing that slightly worries me. To make money these days, I cam for a site called “Rosie’s Rebel Room”. While I acknowledge the ethical implication of taking money from those I wish to destroy, church countrymen and their cherub cuties pay really good dough to watch a girl who still has some fight.

Though their teasing can sometimes get a little cyclical and hypnotic in all the expected ways, I know what to expect due to my brushes with their kind in the past. It never gets too out of hand, some of my viewers can even be sort of helpful. This nice girl, Tabby, even taught me how to squirt! They’re not all bad.

Not too long ago, I clocked a thousand hours, which made me eligible for free health insurance. I ignored Tabby when she pleaded with me to get checked out at something called the True You Clinic. I truly didn’t want to wind up like her, even though she was sweet to try on at least a dozen super-tight, pre-infection bras, patient with me and my inability to cum until she yanked on this teeny, magenta-on-white polka dot number.

Sure, it’s a risky way to earn a living, and I’m developing new tastes and desires I never dreamed I’d have. At least it gives me the wherewithal to keep up with my documentation of this worldwide evil. I find I can’t get through a single paragraph sometimes if I’m not fingering myself at least a little, though, or sitting on a dildo the whole way, grinding along. I guess it’s not so bad if it helps me get the word out.

Dr. Hardrod (I know, the name makes me laugh, too!) seems to think it’s because I might have some new variant of Family Way Flu, which he and his fellow practitioners over at Calving Medical have dubbed the “cherub cold”. At first, I got really concerned, but apparently, my previous history with the greater disease makes my risk of inflammation very low.

It’s easily treatable, and he started me off with a light, easily manageable prescription to Energy Gulp! in order to calm the effects of the extra amount of pep from a cold like mine. I know, it doesn’t make much sense, but whatever. I trust my doctor. He’s one of the only M.D.s in this city not associated with St. Brittany’s.

It hasn’t really been effective for that, even makes me twice as horny throughout the day, but I can’t deny that it really tapers the drain I feel after I do end up cumming. I have been tossing and turning at night more than I normally do, too.

But lately I’ve just taken to turning on my computer, powering up the webcam, and masturbating as long as new viewers sign in and call me nasty names. The more debased they make me feel, the harder my orgasm. They know it, I know it. It’s win-win, really.

Hey, if I can get paid—why not, right?

There’s been some minor swelling in my lips since I started taking my daily three bottle dose, and a barely noticeable bump in the old brassiere (two cups is nothing, really), but besides my eyes turning sky blue and my hips flaring out so much that none of my pants fit, I feel totally fine. Honest!

Doctor says my changes should be taken lightly, almost like “placebo” side effects. I’ve been told that a recent doubling of this dosage may cause a bit more puffiness, but that I shouldn’t let it worry me, on account of my weekly $2,000 Angelwear vouchers finally getting authorized.

Not a moment too soon, either: all of my old clothes are basically ruined. (My viewers always thought they were ugly, anyway, and I can’t help but agree with them nowadays. They log out whenever I wore pants, and I didn’t get paid.)

This means I can safely wear my SlickiSkirt (fully lubed, even) and accessorize with a vibrathong and one of those nipple-massaging TeenyTopz, without ever worrying about infection. I can even indulge in a cher-broiled cheeseburger, with extra slutspread and man-mayo, if I wanted them! Doctor’s orders!

I’ve been eating two for lunch and three for dinner everyday now.

I used to wash them down with a large Family Freedom Frostie, just because I thought it was funny that I could get away with it. When I told Doctor Hardrod about that, his eyes bugged out of his head, looking like he was going to warn me about some drastic counteraction or something. Instead, he calmed down, smiled at my cleavage for some reason, and suggested I might like the xxx-large even more.

When I first came down with my cold, I had it on good faith from him that I’d get over this in less than two weeks. Three came and went, and he told me to just wait it out for another two. I’ve had this stupid cold for almost three months now, and at my checkup yesterday, he said that mine is a rare case, that I should prepare myself for another half of a year, at least!

Oh, well. At least I can have some fun pretending to be a bimbo. I’ve almost got the boobs for it. If this thing hangs around as long as he says it could, will anyone believe that I’m not?

He also assures me that I don’t have to be scared of any drop in brainpower or IQ. As long as I keep cumming dozens of times a day and not go back on birth control, I can still hold on to my mind. I really gave him a piece of that mind.

How dare you? I thought. He’s always pretty intimidating in this way, but it’s easier to talk with him when he’s running the gyno portion of his checkup, especially this last test. He finally fucked me like I’d begged him to last time.

While he bent me over for some routine examination doggystyle, I asked him to explain how going off BC made any sense if I was growing such a breeder body. I wondered if he even remembered telling me I was perfectly fertile.

My question, even though he keeps saying he’s more horrified than aroused by my allergic reactions, made Dr. Hardrod’s cock spasm, and he shot his wad. It felt all warm and wet inside, and I started to freak. I told him I thought the condom broke. I was more than a little suspicious at how he responded.

He told me the feeling of euphoria that made me pink from head to toe wasn’t Rutter’s Rapture, and the creamy stuff oozing mercilessly from my nipples wasn’t “first timer’s milk”. These were only benign reactions my body had created to trick the cold into thinking it was doing its work, he said.

I stared right at the open flap of latex still clinging to his “little Dr. Hardrod” (He claims I’m not the first patient to call it that, but I doubt it). He ripped it off, told me that had only happened after he pulled out, and buried it under a pile of shredded panties in a wastebasket.

He had me spread my legs and pointed a light at my vadge. It was dribbling something white, quite plainly. “Well, the good news is that most of the cum actually stayed inside. It’s when it all stays inside, or all falls out, that you’re primed for the blessing. I’m... impotent,” he admitted.

It still doesn’t make much sense to me, especially considering he lapsed into church lingo, that he’d tell me all that just to admit his inadequacy. I especially resented the way his hands immediately went for my leaky breasts, making it hard to even be sure that he’d said or done any of what I thought he had.

Of course, the heavenly high his play gave me could have smoothed over even worse stuff, but I doubt it. My friend thinks I’m crazy to accept his marriage proposal after spending a sum total of three hours with him, but ultimately, I trust my doctor. He has a giant dick.

Well, whatever happens, I want you all to know that I won’t stop fighting, and I won’t stop reporting this fight.

Renegade readers—tireless seekers of a hard right turn back to a natural way of living, of caring for our suffering species—Use your best judgment, in tandem with your deepest care. The odds of your imminent infection are rising, quite exponentially.

As of this writing, only 18% of the population of the WHOLE WORLD hasn’t “wrangled” the Backwoods Bug. Stay strong. It can very easily happen to the ones you love, and, yes, even you.

Perhaps it already has...