The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

May 20, 2008

It was hotter than any other springtime on earth. An extreme, gunky humidity was working the townsfolk into a coil of distraction. Work and sex were fusing, becoming interchangeable.

Everyone about the town was fucking or working. Everyone did their part. Gears of “Christian”, pheromone-flooded industry were grinding on. They were just lagging, only the teensiest bit, behind the grinding of not-so-teensy hips.

It was to be expected. Everyone kept right with it, grinding on down, one way or another. It didn’t matter what neighborhood you lived in, or how you came to the place. Everybody did what St. Brittany wanted. Everybody pretty much wanted St. Brittany, too, so that made it easy.

Spring in Cherub Cove. Activity, however lethargically, was plowing on. A lot of tots were conceived during the previous years’ “Rutter Romps”. This year’s mating season had only officially begun a few weeks before, but already, the tally of newly pregnant ladies exceeded sixty.

The biggest farm in the Shade Stables neighborhood, behind the creek, was where sly, sluggish hussies too lazy for even that kind of work, splayed and played hooky on their jobs. It was also where most of the single men were stationed to work.

Cicadas buzzed in the sizzling mid-day boil. A jug band wheezed dumbly, off in the distance, some dozen acres away... The season of rebirth had returned, a brand new brat, hanging around and prodding everybody.

Patches of unplowed soil, muddy with little basins of sweat and juices of either sex, dotted the farmlands. Workspaces lay abandoned. They could have been like that for minutes as much as weeks, really.

One chunk, separated from Mabel’s Mooternity thrift shop by a dozen birches and some thick brush, appeared to be left hastily. It looked lonely, half-tended in the sleepy sun. Most farmhands had taken a long lunch. They’d given up work around noon and hadn’t come back.

Love, among other fluids hung, was in the air.

The washed-out sunset, with its built-in sepia tone, now gave the fields an amber glow. Its receding light only served to make everything muggier and more scorching. Like much else in town, it had a Christian-sounding doublespeak explanation, but defied any real one.

Two girlfriends glistened and heaved on red, white and blue lawnchairs not far from an idling tractor. An unmistakable sheen of lube clung to its leather seat. A polka-dotted, white-on-tangerine thong was strewn just beside the machine, and a teensy matching bikini top hung off a scraggly scarecrow.

One of the girlfriends wore another of that very same top, but with clashing panties. The other didn’t wear anything at all, save for a gold chain necklace and some true-blue, biologically determined T&A. They wore matching and massive fake gold hoop earrings.

They looked jarred, coming down from some erotic disquiet. It didn’t take long for them to shimmy right on out of what microscopic clothing that still pinched and clung onto their well-fed curves. This proved to be quite a workout for them, as they huffed and puffed with labored and synchronous gasps, splaying out dopily and stocking up on the sickly sweet and thick country air.

A wet, sweet-and-sour smell of sex hung in the air, like a solid. It was practically visible. Their sex. Broiling in it all day, day out and day in, they were now immune. The pungent tang released from, and onto their bimbo bodies, was like a deep breath of fresh air to them and helped them relax.

They stared low-lidded into one another’s eyes and togther they pursed their lips and drawled, “love ya, slut,” in a wiped-out whisper jinx. Then, on cue, despite the impenetrable heat, they shivered, all giggly and jiggly, a wobbling funhouse mirror of abundant femininity and complacence.

It wasn’t always like this, though. They weren’t always like this. Once upon a time, they were the kind of women who would recoil in disgust at such a milieu. And when it became clear that they were trapped in some hypnotic and hyper-hormonal breeding colony, they’d attempted a couple escapes. Oh, of course, like most girls at the beginning, they tried...

Their efforts just never came within a country mile of good enough, that’s all. Through it all, though, they were inseparable. Side by side, they graciously accepted the honor of being allowed to serve as two more of St. Brittany’s voluptuous vixens, They relished the opportunity to excel at the heavenly duty of breeding, and they did it all as friends.

But when they first made the trip, they looked, spoke, and acted noticeably apart from one another—and, fundamentally, from such a craven, shared display. Now, they were often finishing each other’s stupid sentences, most often doing so when exuberantly agreeing with some dude’s genius idea for where and how they needed to pray to God with their country-ripe glands.

In almost no time at all (in the grand scheme of things), their minds and bodies molted into libido-led, wholly identical human cartoons. They became unreal, unknowable mutations of their former selves. They ditched their old identities in a ceremony and took on new names.

Even if they hadn’t, their friends and families would never recognize them again. A complete upheaval of their cellular code was one thing. The realignment and total makeover of their skeletal structure, particularly around the back, jaw, and pelvis, was another.

And all they did to get them was sit around and eat and fuck. They knew in their hearts, confused ones that grew more assured with each suck of their Cherub Creams, that they were a result of real American Christian magic.

Both became equally as bumptious, buxom, blonde, and bubble-headed as the other. They even sprouted complimentary birthmarks, sitting atop and framing the very same, left-mam areolae.

On occasion (now edging into clockwork at the slightest puff of a soupy spring breeze), these dully itched in unison. Those matching, tacky tattoos of a sturdy cock-n-balls? They just sat on each girl’s right asscheeks to make their butts look “hawt”.

This humble corner of a large tomato farm was where the ladies sunbathed, fucked, sunbathed, and got fucked... For nine or ten hour sessions daily, sometimes more, this heat cycle repeated. With breaks for rich and fatty meals, of course.

Sedentary afternoons spent in the sun had really added up, and gave both the new girls deep, rich tans. The glowing glimmer of all that girly skin almost distracted Cammi from a half-motivated grab at eloquence. She was the twinsie with the slightly rounder tummy pooch. She rubbed at her clit in a professorial way.

Some seconds later, she just up and let her mushy message fall on out, like country fresh butter on a hot slab of cornbread. “Riiight nice,” she addressed her cleavage needlessly, lispy and light. “...an’ stuff.” The wooden nickel words puffed out of her droopy lips, then evaporated close by. She squirmed in the tattered cloth of her patriotic seat.

Unregistered and dumb as the words actually were, they sauntered past the simmering sauce of her early evening sweat. Kitty, the twinsie with the slightly wider nipples, groaned to show her appreciation, paying only partial attention. She pursed her sticky and soft marshmallow lips together and grinned a slow, soft smile.

“Mmmm, I wanna git stuffed, too,” she sang in admission. She tilted her head, took way too long to push a pair of pink, mirror-lensed sunglasses down. In such wet heat, a trivial gesticulation like that took all the endurance of a marathon runner. She intended a studied, quizzical expression, but her eyes just looked blankly flirty, over-fucked. “How come I always wanna git stuffed, even when I’s gettin’ stuffed?”

Cammi opened her big mouth to explain that she hadn’t exactly said as much, but just kept it gaping that way and drooled onto her free-hanging jugs. She rubbed it into her impossibly big and naked chest, scooping some more spit out of her mouth with her long lime green fingernails. It stuck to her tits with twice the sheen and consistency of lube.

Kitty’s body had evidently decided she’d used up all her words for the day. It was just the same. The spittle that barely made it off her bottom lip probably wasn’t going to form any intelligible half-word. She tried to pet her slit, in a show of solidarity with her pussy-pal (who wasn’t even aware where her own fingers were) but even gave up at that, and let her pretty fingers fall limp around her soft belly button.

“Blondes have more cum... more,” Cammi purred, trying to distract her twinsie as much as herself, from the pink and cloudy reality of their waking, months-long fuck-coma. She was not even trying or thinking, just mashing hot and easy words together, hoping they sounded somewhat reassuring. Sexy would do just fine.

She’d mostly forgotten what she was talking about, regardless. “Yummy yuh-ummm... mmmm...” She exhaled, stuffed with sun, and tongued her upper lip. It took its time to move, deliberate and feline. Kitty purred now as well, in her nonlingual jungle girl-beast way, as her soupy friendly sister-slut’s juices joined a sizeable reservoir beside her chair.

Then Cammi stopped trying to be articulate and continued her purring, a tad lower now than her twinsie, in an honest attempt at harmonizing with her. When Kitty couldn’t hang on to the off note the two had made and managed to hold for five seconds or so, she lapsed into a heavy, embarrassing snore.

Cammi smirked, pushing out a wordless spit bubble just like her bestie had, as if basting in the sun, her creamy tan and golden flesh peppered with similar puckers of condensation throughout her luxurious body. From the corner of a just-barely open eye, she could see a bunch of big farmers in overalls making their way to her and her slutster, from far across the field.

She tried to smack her lips, in anticipation of being awake for her masters right when they got off work. It would be the first time that she or Kitty had been able to successfully do this, having had to fuck and suck and eat and tan each exhausting day away. She thanked Jesus. It seemed awfully kind of him to allow such a miracle to take place.

But smacking her lips, while a delicious idea, was beginning to seem as irritating and impossible a task as jogging, dieting, and simple math all put together. It was much easier to go limp and just eavesdrop on her masters. Sometimes that was the only way to know certain things that were kind of touchy to talk about with them, like which of the boys got annoyed if she took over a minute to reach her first double orgasm of a given fuck session, important devotional stuff like that.

“I done tole that stupid-ass Cammi-lumps for her and Kitty-fat t’use a plastic deck chair from now on. They butts is just too dern much for a lawnchair to take! How these sluts gonna think it’s okay to ruin five fuckin’ sets of chairs? I don’t really think that’s askin’ all that much, at least until they stop a-growin’. I tell ya, nylon weave just ain’t made to handle forty-four inches of holler-grown ass. Like when she first played runaway and came back two nights later cuz her bra...”

Cammi blushed all over, the voice of her master making every part of her glisten. By this point, she’d completely forgotten the epic undertaking of easing the tiniest smile on her face, and instead strained to hear what all the men were laughing about. But Kitty’s snoring had gotten much too loud. The sounds of oinking and cowbells in a nearby stable, a janky kind of chorus, were distracting and hypnotic.

One of the last things she heard before falling fast asleep and snoring up a a skanky storm of her own was some master or other talking about proper punishment. “I say we take away her rights to BJ’s Choice for one night.” There were mutterings, then rumblings of approval.

“Yeah, totally!” said another. “Sounds jus’ jim-dang-dandy-like to me! She duddn’t git 4 this time. Let’s only let her big dumb ass pick the first of us she’s gonna blow, and that’s it!” The very last thing Cammi heard, however, was the slow yawning snap and straining stress of the tired fabric on her suffering seat.

Her dribbly slit began to flow savagely into a flooding rush, greasing threadbare fibers that were ready to tear under the weight of her squrming family-sized booty. The insistent squelching gyration caused her pink puffy cunt lips to flutter against tiny tugging strings of the cheaply manufactured chair.

Fluffy downhome pubes entangled themselves with the shoddy stitching job, to create just the right amount of friction to prompt her excited rump to grind down with a bit more gravity. The force of it made the seat buckle and a few straps pop, break free and bust right off the aluminum frame.

She was plopped closer to the earth below, close enough to notice blades of grass lightly brushing against her thighs. This gave her permission to let her ticklish pussy waggle her lower body and encourage her boiled brain (via the hardwired connection to it that ran straight up from her hips) into willing her soggy overheated self, slowly but rhythmically, into a deep and steamy sleep, instantly.

So deep, in fact, that Cammi didn’t get a chance to experience the ecstatic pleasure that would have come from hearing her master call “first dibs on them big juicy melons.” Or that her mother had called looking for her again.