The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kitty and Cammi in Church Country

5. COW/GIRL CUMMUNION

Another shiftless, lazy afternoon. Besides the pillowy soft “stress” of the girls’ locked-in supplication, they were pooped from the surprisingly effective “wiggle workout”, in the frisky fun shower they’d shared earlier. With the milkman.

They’d completely forgotten that their neighbor Kim-Kim’s brother was visiting her, along with their parents’ hopes that she’d leave town and return to college. He’d knocked on the girls’ door while the twinsies were upstairs, gettting soapy-sexy with “Mr. Milky-man.”

His sister must have talked the girls up, because he left a note, underlining the word “bored”. He was going to have plenty of time to kill while he waited for his brakes to get fixed.

Someone had cut them. The mechanic told him it would take a couple days. It was a story that grew more typical and cliched with each passing cumshot. They vaguely wondered which cop had done it, half-interested.

Kim-Kim had been encouraging the two, with lots of punctuating winks, to “show him how cherubs have a good time.” They knew that really meant one thing, and one thing only: conversion by cunt!

It sure was tempting to get to be the cherubs to fuck and suck his secular pee-wee into a tall spear of righteousness, but there were some logistical issues. The plan was super complicated for a pair of drippy ditzes.

It took teamwork and over twenty minutes for them to read the entire paragraph, but eventually they made some sense of it. It said for them to meet him all the way down at Abilene Cowgirls, for some coffee. Touching their titties, then opting to mash their plump pairs together, seemed to help them absorb the text.

Hair-twirling made words easier still. The faster and more obsessively their fingers worked their fluffy platinum locks, the faster they excitedly decoded, usually chirping whatever word in unison.

They were making outstanding progress. In fact, it only took them a couple minutes to decipher the word “responsibility”. Neither was sure what it meant, only that they had heard it before, somewhere..... maybe.

Cammi was about to hazard the kind of guess that she already knew was likely going to be weak. It was a habitual thing. She knew her brain was eroding, so the less she felt confident about knowing anything, the “smarter” she acted about everything.

She twirled her hair maniacally now, nervous. Technically, even at this point, she should still have been working on her thesis or whatever. She wasn’t even sure what the topic had been, and stopped trying to place it after Vin laughed in her face a week before.

“Ree-spahn-ser-billy,” Camilla sounded out slowly, deluded and feeling way too smart for a freshly reconstituted bimbo, who sincerely thought heavy cream was made from semen. The deliberate pacing made her sound even dumber.

“I think it’s, like, some science...tist thingie,” she offered, blushing and scratching her forehead in mock concentration. “I guess I don’t really give a cotton-pickin’...” It was such a big weird word that it couldn’t have mattered much to a lady, anyway. The bottom line was one of convenience.

Cell phone reception in town was shitty, so they had no way of contacting him to see if he could change venues. It was hard for Kitty and Cammi to make outgoing calls anyway, what with their feminizing nails, those touchtones, and their utter refusal to work in tandem. Cammi had learned that the hard way when she dared to maybe try for a taxi and leave the border of Cherub Cove without a man’s permission.

The espresso bar was just way too far for them to walk. It was like a whole block away or something! No way. Maybe they could put some muscle on his cock later. They would only be impressing themselves now. Which was kind of pointless, since they were basically the same slut.

Milkman fun was great, but it was exhausting. Almost as exhausting as trying to read a note. Cammi had a nice giggle-off at Kitty’s expense, as her bestie still trailed a finger below some sentence, though they’d already finished reading what they could of the note. At least they didn’t have to think while they got butt-fucked in the shower.

All dressed up and no boys to blow.... A soft pink lightbulb turned on in Cammi’s head. Then it turned the rest of her on, the few little bits that weren’t already. She stood up awkwardly, her figure only begrudgingly reacting to her chipper idea: the twinsies needed to get out of their undies.

She felt the oddest surge yet of that sharp, pastel lightning that felt as if it had knocked her brain, and time itself, off its axis. It was something that just happened out of nowhere, every now and then, but it never got any less unsettling.

Wait... Hadn’t they already shucked off their underwear, not even ten minutes ago? Wasn’t she wearing the white mini? Or was that just yesterday’s memory, or the day before, or...?

It was beyond confusing. One of her masters had made things all the more muddled earlier that day, too, by destroying what confidence she had left in her own thoughts. She thanked him for his criticisms, though, so he didn’t go much further.

Cammi was pretty sure, though, that one thing was just not right. Were she and Kitty always brunettes? She pulled a clump of curls into her view: dark brown, almost black! Before she gave in to a mild freakout, she blinked, and the two of them were both blondes again.

Oh well, she thought, scratching and tugging at the too-tight waistband on her panties. Wearing them was more of a challenge every time. She didn’t understand why it was so important to use her free clothing vouchers while her body was still in the blossoming stage.

Such a weird mandate for newcomers. She also couldn’t believe they didn’t stock her size, or anything close to it. Plus, the town had apparently devised its own ridiculous sizing system. Xtra-Small, Small, and Mom.

Carmen had told Cammi that she’d grow into her new stuff “all super quick-like.” But she hadn’t told her that she’d grow out of them even quicker! All within the span of two weeks, at best. Panties chafed and aggravated soon enough.

Everything did. What started off as a makeshift hippie frock had tightened and transformed into a totally indecent half-sundress/half-babydoll. Her asscheeks fought for attention and airtime. Until they finally won, with help from the healthy reserves of her hips.

Her lower body made the fabric on the once-tasteful dress stretch tight around her waist until it grew totally sheer, clinging as it did to her pudgy belly button. All the men in the house had taken to calling her “Handles”, and usually just before grabbing hold of said handles.

Needless to say, they weren’t the kind of garments that could fall off so easily, anymore. To both the twinsies, there really was nothing in the world like letting their bare butts breathe on the porch. They knew they couldn’t get away with it anywhere else. Cherub Cove was real America.

No matter what, even if they had worn the same outfits perhaps too recently, it didn’t change the fact that they still had them on. Guess I just really wanted to take them shits off off so bad, I fantasized about it!

It was talked about relentlessly at church. The phenomenon was widely referred to as “bimbo limbo”. If a cherub’s repurposed mind is overworked, time and reality can distort, and moments seem to shift and change.

She knew that if she could withstand these mental fake-outs, she’d definitely get blessed and pollinated soon. The more frequent an occurence of bimbo limbo, the more woman you proved yourself to be, in the eyes of the heavenly father.

They seemed to mostly take place in Cammi whenever a dude decided to finish on her face. First, she’d think she already took it, a taste of phantom cum on the roof of her mouth. Then she’d get one load after another, in quick flashes, barely able to catch a breath. It always seemed to hit the same spots.

Sometimes, though, that was simply because there had actually been more than one guy doling out a facial. Not always. It was tricky, figuring out what was a bimbo limbo and what was just a bimbo being her typical, stupid-ass bimbo self.

Cammi tossed aside her concern, deciding that, if anything, it was kind of kinky, in a fucked up way. The underwear that would not stay off! It just loved their big soft asses too much, couldn’t keep away.

“It’s jus’ too dern purty for panties today! Like, omigod am I right, pretty Kitty?”

She exaggerated her disgust at having to hide her well-pudged snatch, by putting on a cartoon frown at the word “panties”. Hers went rolling down around a glittery pair of anklets, not halfway through the appeal. “Fuck it,” she muttered.

Kitty nodded a vacant head vigorously and yanked hers off, too. “Totallies,” she sighed, relieved that she didn’t have to suggest it, for a change. She didn’t understand how her twinsie could be comfortable in all those clothes she wore, so overdressed sometimes.

Why, just the previous night, Cammi had a bra on, and a sheer tank top!

(“Bitch, git over yerself,” Kitty had chided, “One or tha other.” Cammi looked down and blushed. “You’re, like, right!” She opted for the tank. A girl just looked like toxic waste if guys couldn’t even see her nipples. “It’s like you don’t want the fellas to be able to tits—twist ‘em whenev,” Kitty had gone on, making her friend-pet blush.)

When the porch sluts’ slut butts were finally freed for maybe the second time, a sticky but nice gust of spring air puffed its way up and around them. It touched down between their welcoming thighs, scrumptiously.

They shivered at the same time, going, “Eee!” and doing a little bunny hop together. “Twinsies!” they squealed, belching only a microsecond apart. Then they oinked and snorted at each other. Until Cammi felt a pink rumble starting to build.

It’s kinda sad that this is how we deal with this place making us so gassy, that defeated, mournful chunk of her conscience, piped back in. Kitty looked as if she was about to burst into tears, because her slutster wasn’t oinking anymore.

The tit-brained betties were thoroughly trained to anticipate and accept some big and rather unnatural “natural” changes. Like it’s not messed up in the slightest to be treated like a fucking pig! We’re supposed to appreciate that men moo at us and call us cows, so much that we do the same to each other!

She had the strangest flash of something in the past. It was her, but not even with a third of this big body. She was being awarded some kind of medal. Long distance running.

With great fear, she appraised her exaggerated bimbo-ness. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t even jog down the street without getting winded, or having her udders smack her upside the face with every step.

Did she really get shorter since moving to Cherub Cove, too? For some reason, it didn’t feel right to have to look up at almost every guy. What was worse, the womanly sway her thick-set, swooping hips gave her, and the general hugeness of her tits, made any hope for self-reliance in this masochistic town quite unlikely.

She almost didn’t take into account the rather obvious floating stew of hormones, either, travelling freely around the town. Every time she ventured to think about what it might be like to leave and take charge of her life, there was a big red pole with a hefty nutsack, to hump her back down to “reality”.

Cammi was easily distracted by gifts, too. Especially food. She had no idea what was in Cherub Cream, she just knew she needed it all the time. Her tits and ass felt raw and sore, punished, if she went half a day without it.

All a man has to do to get my attention is shove a tube of food-like garbage in my face. So pathetic. Then, in a vacuous cycle, after she got her euphoric “fix” from the tube that made her happy and horny again, she’d just drown her old concerns in dick, forgetting the nightmare that was her day-to-day.

It was a terrifying pattern with diminishing returns. Feel sketched out and humiliated, then treat her big ass to a mind-melting donkey dong ride. Feel a little less gross, then fuck that nagging, creepy feeling away even more on the next dick.

What would it be like when it reached the point when the only thing she’d take major issue with was how fast she was ruining a t-shirt with her forthcoming milk stains? She wanted to at least see what was going on, even if she had no real choice to live otherwise.

That’s the really distur—

Another pastel pink brain-flash. She shook her head, kept shaking it, not entirely sure where all those sinful thoughts were coming from. It just wasn’t like her to question her man-approved, child-bearing trajectory.

She found a possible culprit before all the evil intrusion was washed away. I probably should have given the milkman that second BJ like he wanted me to, she scolded herself.

My jaw was so tired, though! Kitty was still tentatively oinking now, hopeful for more “piggy-piggy”. Cammi let out a raspberry-scented fart and joined in, with glee. It was an easy life. It was her life.

She reckoned that she might as well own it fully. I’m such a needy little tramp. Not every moment can be a proud one. That’s why men were so necessary, to provide that pride.

We’re such fuckin’ piggies! she thought, claiming her hog-bimbo status, settling back into her comfortable role as girly livestock, picking yet another wedgie out.

This booty’s gettin’ outta control! Then she “remembered” she’d had this fat ass since junior high. It was almost real enough to believe, and she didn’t need to let more fake memories intrude. Of her fake first fourteen-year-old boyfriend and his fake fourteen-inch tool.

Then, the inexplicable post-bimbo limbo confusion settled completely, disappeared into her candy-smelling, man-bait flatulence. Now the only thing bothering her was that she had fucking underwear on.

No, wait! We definitely took those stupid things off! Okay... Cammi burped long and loud, to feel real.

“Yore, um—yer all soakin’ wet like me, too, huh?” she inquired of her other, knowing the answer already, giddily clapping her freed buttcheeks together, just for the sound and feel, keeping sharp. (No one ever appreciated a chick who was rusty with a booty clap. Bimbo calisthenics at its finest!)

“Of course I am, sweetness,” Kitty gleamed, batting the same long, rainbow-colored lashes that Cammi had, squelching some digits into herself. She pulled them out to prove it to her, like a little kid showing off a jarred lightning bug. Thick sex-syrup trundled off of them. “How could I not be?”

“Yeahh,” Cammi heaved, playing at bashful, “we purdy much always juicy as fuck, huh?” They were trash-talking the “pitiful small” size of each other’s titanic jugs, after all. They’d swatted them, mashed them together, gave them funny voices, tried to feed them to disappointed stuffed animals.

“That’s right fine by me,” Cammi chatted on, dipping a knuckle into Kitti for a quick taste. She loved her yummy raspberry flavor. Cammi-cunt was mango infused. “Slutty little cherubs like us is s’posed ta be juicin’.”

The girlies had started to mock-moo at themselves like all their manly roommates did, whenever the twinsies took too long with their chores, or complained about irrelevant stuff. Like how two hours in the sun shouldn’t change a dark brunette into a near-platinum blonde.

That their lipsticks wouldn’t wash off: they just turned different, more vibrant colors instead. That shorts cut any lower than the very bottom of their bottoms made them break out in hives. That honest-to-goodness pants made their T & A shrink seconds after they pulled them on.

That it just wasn’t normal to get so deliriously horny, simply by thinking of a man’s voice. Any man at all...

That was ages ago, though. Four whole days! There wasn’t a thing about their bodies they couldn’t appreciate on this one. Everything was swelling, shining, and throbbing just right.

A cowbell, coming from somewhere on their neighbor Tina’s property, rang into the girlies’ pussies with a perfect pitch. Panties not a problem anymore, they switched targets and lampooned their more earnest mooing abilities, tried to get it as authentic and bovine as bimbo-ly possible.

They had an audience now.

It took a serious turn after a few attempts. “No!” Cammi husked, her breathing all dry, hot breaths, wet as fuck elsewhere, frustrated. She knew she could do this better.

“Not, like, like that. Go deep in yuh-umm... deep throat. Deeper an’, um—more th’oatier! Like, from yer chesss—” Kitty doubled up and gave it a go as her double trailed off.

Cammi didn’t bother to suck up the clear string of dribble sliding off her lip. She was too busy balancing her evaluation of Kitty’s lowing, while also having to contend with how blindingly sexy it was to play cows with her.

“Nahhh, girl. Totally hawt, but—It oughtta be a li’l more...” She thought if she bent over, stuck her rump out a little and let her boobs hang more like a cow’s, she’d find that ten-dollar word she was looking for. “Guttur-er... somethin’—er-other...”

Cammi’s voice grew unnecessarily timid, as if it mattered one bit. Like there was some college-type person watching them, making sure that half-naked curvy ditzes could finish a thought. “Butterball, maybz?” No, that wasn’t right at all. “Hmmm.... mmm....”

“Butter... buttery... butt...” The amount of pussy juice souping her ass up had drawn her hand right to it. She wasted no time in stuffing her anxious cunt with half a fist. “Who gives a cow. I mean, really,” she laughed, patting a tubby buttock, congratulating herself for giving in.

“Just moo-cows, Cam-a-lot,” Kitty comforted, her ass up against the screen door, taking a breather from her own vadge and sucking one of her heavy, floppy hooters, slobbering loudly. They’d probably both need to use two hands pretty soon, to bring a single tit up to their faces, if they kept on getting bigger this fast.

Bimbo brains were slowly powering down. One of Tina’s cows mooed for real, a little bit closer, lilting long. Almost like it had heard the sluts calling, was a wise teacher. “This is how it’s done, girls. You’re almost there. Keep trying. You’re family now. Know that we’ll love you forever and ever.”

The cherubs’ minds, now operating with a more mammal concern than a human one, had translated the cattle call, regardless of their state. They felt the words, yet understood the moo. Their imitations hadn’t been half bad, apparently.

Cammi’s impassioned moans had eased into legitimate, “Sounds of the Farm”—ready, perfectly replicated moos. She thumbed her clit speedily, grunting out quick, sharp breaths through her nose. She wanted to excavate the longest, deepest moo she was capable of.

“Mooooo it witcha bess’moooo,” she mooed over the next forty-five seconds. Her best shot rose from her well-tended pussy, swam around her itty-bitty starter belly, clanged back and forth in her teats, and rushed out primally through her mouth, like a sonic avalanche.

When she finished it, more than a couple neighbor dogs were barking. A different cow spoke up now, sounding rather impressed. Mutterings of approval from its peers ping-ponged around its “voice” atmospherically.

“Yes, child, we know what that’s like. You’re probably just homesick, somewhere deep down. You need to understand that none of that is worth fighting for. It’s all gone. The old you is dead, but the new you is the best you. I think you know it. I know you think it. Welcome home, cowgirl.”

If they weren’t fucking themselves into a frenzy, they could have maybe cogitated that clit-massaging message on the sort of level any young dumb girl could recognize. The magic of such an event might actually astound them, straight to their ditzy-ass hearts.

For a few minutes, anyway. Cocks always found a sexy way of interrupting those kinds of moments of clarity. Not that Cammi or Kitty minded.

“No mind,” they took to singing, a favorite new mantra of theirs, among many. Their slits were extremely difficult to argue with, and they were so rarely logical. Cake made Cammi horny lately. Cake!

Whenever a man derailed the girls’ trains of thought, they sung this, feeling their pussy lips harmonize gorgeously. “No mind,” as they lowered a hole onto whatever dick, it didn’t matter whose.

As long as the divine rod was as thick and huge enough to match and serve their bumpkin booties, they couldn’t care less. No mind.

There was a bimbo blackout period of about fifteen minutes: advised by intuition alone, both twinsies were reaching around their fat asses, alternating fingers between cunt and butthole, then both at once. Repeat. And again. And again.

It wasn’t something that warranted a whole lot of discussion. Kitty and Cammy’s fingers simply knew what they had to do, and they kept on doing it. They were drooling far too much to talk, anyhow. Their tongues felt oddly swollen, besides.

This double-pronged attack brought forth much more plaintive, believable mooing tones. Of course, they didn’t realize this. They just obeyed their bodies. Their bodies, in turn, obeyed the mysterious, magic order of the non-human livestock across the way.

A unified chain of cows, real and honorary.

They stood right next to each other now: asses up and out, girl-udders wobbling and active like chubby antennae, powered by dairy dreams. Long blond curls obscured their downturned faces, making them resemble zombified headbangers.

Not a minute after they aligned themselves in the mystic moo-stance, some human was trying to rouse them. They couldn’t see him and they didn’t want to see him. They couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t there.

Kitty and Cammi were hard at work, communing with church country cows. Their brains were on vacation, a few billion light years away. Their bodies, though, felt more at home than they’d ever felt before.

“Package,” said Big Pete, the only mailman in town, not registering the hypnotized honeys and their reverie. “’Ey girls, are y’all okay?” He’d never seen anything like this. “Girls!”

Verbal language had been bypassed by Cow for the time being, but their bodies still understood those deep tones of man. Side by side, as if the twinsies were one cowgirl spirit connected by two butts, their tushes wiggled ever-so-slightly. He took it as a tease.

“Y’all ignorin’ me?! Y’all don’t want me to tell yore owners that yeh been playin’ tricks on Big Pete, now.” He slapped Cammi’s rear. She maintained her stance after her lower body worked on its own accord to keep her stable. A few cups’ worth of her juices spat down onto the peeling paint of the wooden planks.

“Y’know, sweethearts,” he said as he slowly backed away, stepping cautiously off the porch, “it’s against the law to meditate here... Bootyism, or whatever yew commies done took to callin’ it.” He clutched a burgeoning hardon through his shorts, tugged on it, even prayed for it to go away.

The mailman just couldn’t condone whatever was going on, couldn’t let his dick approve of blasphemy. He called to them from behind his truck. To him, they could be the living photo that went alongside a dictionary definition for what locals termed “big bloomers”.

It struck Big Pete that the more newcomers made their way to Cherub Cove, the faster and bigger they grew, all over. Within five years, he reasoned, all a girl would have to do would be to take just one little breath, and boom—tig ol’ bitties!

He smacked his lips and scratched on the back of his neck, not sure what to do. “I’m-a let it slide this one time, gals, uh-kay? Y’hear?” They mooed to themselves and to their new companions: in low, sensual and even rhythm. Away from him.

They had accelerated to mere chit-chatting with the cows by then. The cows had more tantalizing gossip on girls in town than they did. It was more than impossible, for one, to believe that Carmen was a waif-thin riot grrl upon her arrival into town.

“I won’t even call it in to the Butter Bimbo Bureau, I can promise yuh that, yew sweet little pieces uh pole-smokin’ devil....” He didn’t care to finish his unheard thoughts, unzipped his fly, and, drawing out his dick, stepped back onto their property. “What’s wrong with you heathens?!”

Under some spell of his own, he found himself standing with his cock an inch or two from Cammi, masturbating furiously. He spurted a little “get ready” squirt onto her back. She didn’t even flinch. It was only then that he realized the girls were simply elsewhere. He gulped.

“My garsh,” he drawled, as Cammi’s snatch, with all its temporary authority, sniffed out his bone. It told her legs to move back, and they did, lumbering like tired, soft machines. Her ass hesitated for a moment, then started to descend with intent, like a wrecking ball in slow-mo.

All of a sudden, not knowing how, he was inside her. Her hips shimmied and ground down like a corkscrew: animalistic, cock-milking machines. It was as if they had somehow folded time, going to great lengths to prove they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Nope! Uh-uh,” he told the butt, pulling out immediately. Cammi’s cunt muscles clenched with redistributed strength. He had to use two hands to get himself unstuck. “I ain’t about to get beat up by a jealous farmer for the third time this week! Not gonna keep fallin’ for that.”

He went back down to his truck, reluctantly, finally ejaculating a storm of semen, when he saw one of the girls’ titties start to dribble milk. It was a reflex, from having seen these two move in. They’d come a long way. His cumshot landed on a basket of old clothes left out for a thrift store donation.

Maybe that’s what got him so excited. These girls couldn’t have been in town for more than three weeks. They were skin and bones then. It took most chicks months to get bodies like the ones they were prodding up there.

He reckoned either one of those cherubs was enough woman to house three or four of the girls that fit into that Temple t-shirt he jizzed on. Kitty and Cammi, or their bodies anyway, were still locked into their sluggish, girl-cow trance.

Poke, poke, double-poke. Poke, poke, double-poke. “Yew gals jus’ keep pluggin’ an’ pluggin’ away, dontcha?” he whispered to nobody.

Some time later, well after the mailman had snapped about twenty pictures and left, the twinsies had become too horny to stand. They came, powerfully, at the same time, collapsing in a jiggly plop on the floor. The cowgirls let out some final, sincere moos of thanks before their brains took over again.

They carried right on razzing one another some more, once words started working. This time, it was under the imaginary pretense that Joe definitely wanted to use his skyscraper on them, but would have to pick one. It was a fun game that they’d already played a couple times.

Kitty and Cammi hugged, held, tickled, pinched, slapped, smooched, and diddled each other too. They knew they had just gone through something, they just weren’t sure what.

Kitty got the feeling that whatever it was had to have been emotional. They were both sobbing. She wiped a bunch of salty tears away. She shook her head, did a double-take, then rubbed at her eyes.

When did Cammi get black contacts? That was kind of creepy. And what was up with those dark, shapeless spots dotting her skin?

Kitty blinked and they were gone. She blinked again and blanked, and her memory of them was wiped as clean as she’d gotten that crossing guard’s meat stick . All that remained was that intense feeling.

She rolled over onto her trim stomach, slow and satisfied from whatever. She smooshed her bazongas to either side of her, and peered through the bushes at the side of porch. Mrs. Goodwood was watering plants next door. A redhead jumped rope down the dirt road, but her tits kept interrupting.

What just happened couldn’t have been too serious, otherwise, these people would have tried to help, right? Right? She was sick of using her brain, was soon staring at her pubes, empty.

It was amazing how fast they grew. Needing to shave almost everyday, sometimes twice, wasn’t really too bad when you could do it with a friend. She and Cammi still sometimes thought there was at least an inkling of validity to their theory on “zoomapubes”.

(Cammi had coined the term a couple weeks back, when the girls first noticed how insanely quick they’d sprouted. By now, it was such a predictable thing, they’d begun to also use the term to describe deep-throating a dude all the way down. They were becoming experts at that and needed the shorthand.)

Of course they trusted the men with everything: they didn’t want to go to Hell! Still, it was fairly obvious that they hadn’t sprouted so swiftly, or wildly, until using the “country fresh” shaving cream that all men and women in town swore by.

They just never spoke of it after first trying to make it an issue. The dudes dismissed this with the wave of a musty boner, assuring the girls they just weren’t shaving well enough. None of them wanted to jinx one of the very first signs that Kitty and Cammi were almost ready for their “cherry pollinations”.

The girls’ own continually distracted heads, filling more and more with little cotton balls of warm, vapid nothing, would retain their masters’ various denials. No matter how much bullshit seemed to be clogging most of their reasoning.

This way, their own heads could trick themselves into explaining away the bald snatches of many a cherub. The girls grew jealous that they were missing out on some secret shaving technique. Doubt side-stepped into envy.

Kitty and Cammi had no clue what they could possibly be doing wrong. They always made sure to do the tongue test and everything, knowing that what the blade started could only find its end in the sound of a cumming girl.

The seasoned cherubs, with their bare pussies, didn’t tell the newbies of the correlation between motherhood and a more relaxed growth (of everything in general). The moms had only told the twinsies to use a razor next time, as if they hadn’t.

It was all just part of the initiation. Little white-stained lies.

The bullboys in the house kept on towing the Man Plan line. It was to be expected that a dumb broad might have trouble with the simplest tasks, they said.

That Miracle Glow shave lather had nothing to do with how fast they could grow beards or chest hair. That all of that was just as ridiculous as the twinsies’ claim that Cherub Cream, of all things, and not a spiritual calling, was what gave them their gigantic knockers.

The men had shot down Cammi’s insistence that sometimes, she could clearly see those knockers growing right along with her first slurp of the stuff. They thought even less of her claim that if she drank more than two at a time, it flooded to her tits instead of her belly, and leaked right on out of her nipples.

It was all neatly chalked up to a lack of faith. She was accused of “talking in circles like them heathens do”. Cammi hated being compared to those liberal, terrorist types. She really did love her new religion. It fit her like a thong.

So she sucked it up, kept sucking down Cherub Creams like they were water, and played along. It was all about choosing the right battle. Besides, it just felt more pointless everyday to argue with hot guys.

“not only r hott guyz fuckabule n stuf,” the last line of Cammi’s last journal entry read (before she lost most of her alphabet comprehension), “they reelie fuckin hott.”