The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Whoever’s meat it was spasmed and kicked around in her mouth, as she came to the heady realization that it was going to have to go elsewhere inside her, and soon. “I know it’s getting hard for you to think straight.” Jess’s cocksucking pace slowed down a bit. “At some point when you were in Poren Springs, you got infected with the Family Way Flu.”

She paused for a second, but slowly rolled her tongue around the rim of the glory pole, coming off it for just a hair of a moment. “I’m listenin’, I’m listenin’. But can I juss—awmph,” Jess couldn’t bother to finish her sentence, and put the mystery man’s cock back in her lips, where everything felt gooey and right.

“You are being mind controlled,” Darren said calmly, to make sure this brand new airhead could comprehend. Tell me something I don’t know, she thought, sucking like a fish now and steadying herself by glomming her hands onto the wall. “The only way to save yourself is to fuck that thing you’re suckin’.”

“Mmmmm, ohhh, it jus’ sssounds stoo good t’be truuue,” Jess managed, trying in vain to sound mocking. Her lazy, swaying ass let Darren know, with a steadied communication all its own, how plaintive she really was. She turned around, presenting herself to the big, erect unknown.

The mystery man eased his rod into her, plunging up and down in rhythm as she worked to appease all the grunting, tough Man-ness pulverizing all free space in the bathroom and her brain, filling the room and her alike. There were more sparkles, which was nice.

“Repeat after me,” Darren said, reaching down her back and tickling her JoyButton, sending her spasming around both dicks, squrming to get some footing with her hands. “I am a sainted soldier in the kingdom of St. Brittany.” She felt more like a Chinese finger-trap for penis, but whatever.

Jess really wanted to play nice, but she was too busy juicing up around the tools of both men and too forgetful lately, even to remember a single word of what he just said. She just sucked harder on Darren, barely letting out a gust of hot air from her nostrils, and unconsciously, greedily put the unknown johnson up her asshole.

She took her mouth off-course of the BJ long enough to slurp, “Wait... what?” She dragged him closer to the wall, which she kept glistening against as she ground against it and the nondescript prick. He could only burble his response at first, as she propped him back between her lips to the point of unwavering, deep-throating supplication.

“I said,” he told her, panting, “Repeat after me.” He stroked the imitation birthmark on her upper lip. “My new name is Jessica Rabid.” She didn’t know why, but she had a knee-jerk reaction to the moniker. In what she thought was defiance, she ground down hard and fast. It made her grunt and squeal like a sow, closer to craven depravity than pain. It was basically an act of self-punishment.

Shoving Mr. Mystery back into her slippery sex, she eased back under the sugar-sweet, sopping rhythm they’d been keeping up for minutes. It felt a bazillion times better after that thunderous second of butt-fucking. Rigorous clenching and flexing, and yummy slit strokes. She was supposed to say something, but it was hard to string the command together, when her pelvis and face were so focused. Almost like she was playing a sport. Quite the joyous, addictive workout. Her brain would have to wait. As usual.

“My new name is Jessica Rabid,” Darren refrained, impatient and pitiless. It seemed like this second utterance of her new stage name made all three particpants perk up. Jessica smirked around her dutiful oral work, feeling both men throb and ram into her harder. Her mouth and cunt eased up as she noticed she had to pump less, with the boys doing all the work for her and all. That sentence is easy enough, she thought. “My name is Jessica Rabid,” she sighed, playing along.

Somewhere deep in the cotton candy coils of her mind, she wanted to deny it. It seemed kind of silly, and not really a name in tune with her usual set. It was misleading. She wasn’t some stupid girl or punky brat. She was a dignified songstress. She spoke of the heart’s longing and loss, not the vagina’s. The songs came from deep within her soul. Her own, given name was the best indicator of the music’s naked honesty. Wasn’t being told what to do, and even what name to use, wrong and stuff?

She looked like she was going to think aloud again, and instead of cringing, Darren simply let her do her thing. “But if honesty and nakey go hand in hand,” Jessica repressively reasoned, “then I must be the most honest singer-songwriter on the planet!” She let those words flutter girlishly from her comfy-looking mouth, lips loose, wracking her brain visibly.

Even though her bimbo brains were all gummy and on their last leg, she still could occasionally wrangle a dollop of sound logic from her past life, an existence that faker and faker by the hour. Trouble was, it didn’t make a difference, for whatever she said came out ditzy, flouncy, wanton. She could have been painstakingly discussing why she preferred Chantal Akerman over Agnes Varda for the title of best female French new wave director, or the subtleties of different brands of tofu. It didn’t matter. People would still think she was a complete, cock-starved moron.

Every inch of her was nude, and every last millimiter on her body was telling her she was horny as fuck. Even though she was getting power-plugged, she couldn’t ignore the craving for two or three more cocks. “This is going to be—mmmnnnhWOW—grreaat advertisement for my music.” She wasn’t sure if she meant that or if it sounded like the hot thing to say.

She tugged on her tits, willing them to grow just a little more, right in front of her. Good God, I wanna see them titties grow! She silently sassed off to St. Brittany. She found herself nearly starting to think with her body parts. It was a side effect of... getting porked in two places, or something. “Do my boobies look bigger to you, or is they just all red an’ puffy ‘cuz I been messin’ with ‘em?” She asked him sheepishly. Jessica shut her eyes tight and tried to concern herself with something that didn’t involve engorged genitalia.

She, adorably, felt she was getting close to locating her spirit, some errant logic, some reason why it was necessary to fuck or suck a pole at every opportunity. All Darren could really concentrate on was how well she moved her ass and worked her hips. He didn’t see how this could be anything but beneficial for her career.

It was near impossible at this double-poked, brain-boiling juncture to remember really any other duty than bowing to her man’s whims, whoever he was. Her mind was working overtime on shutting itself off, reacting almost out of shock to her body’s new onslaught of developments, and the way she... utilized them.

It was hard work, at any rate, almost as hard as Darren’s woody and abs. In the anxious flush of her futile, outmoded attempt to explain away what was happening, her face relaxed in opposition and reverted to its new, preferred sex doll formation. She let Darren pinch and twist her nipples as she waited to be told what to do and say next.

“This is who I am now,” he continued on in a monotone register. She spent almost ten seconds gingerly tonguing up and down his beautiful, big dick before cooing the command herself. For a flash, and from the fluid way the words of induction floated out of her, Jessica felt as if she was being taken out of her body and seeing her sexy diligence as an awestruck observer.

“This is all I ever wanted to be. This is all I will be, forever and ever,” he went on firmly, massaging her shoulders to make his words go down more like grits-n-gravy. The random, awesome cock-in-the-hole (in fact it was so good it felt familiar, which in a way made sense, because she was always a cockfucking pro for any number of St. Brittany’s men, and always would be), and Darren’s own delish dong, both felt close to cumming.

Any sliver of guilt or danger popped and fizzled with her giddy, barely contained, recitation. “Fffiss is all I ever wanted to be,” she said slowly, savoring the handy words, stroking the rim of Darren’s freed tool as it heedlessly spat jizz all on her nose, mouth, and chin. The third-person, otherworldy vantage returned as Jessica proudly licked her lips, sharply short of breath. Christened with her big and creamy reward, incidentally her first real facial ever, she exhaled, pleased.

She could feel the glory-guy tense up in her cunt. Her pelvic muscles clenched on their own accord, rocking with religious fervor. Some spirit, some celestial something surely had to be moving within her. It was right and good, being saved and plugged at the same time. A most convenient redemption. Holy was probably the word she might have been looking for if she ever remembered what was about to take place, if she ever even needed to.

Of course, most any other girl would have realized that the out-of-body feeling was due to her gazing at her own reflection in an upturned mirror propped up underneath the sink. But not Jessica Rabid, she didn’t let a little bugger like reality intrude in her comforting calling. The glorious, suspended-seeming, unreal dick pistoned away, driving so deep up the newbie bimbo that it made her whimper.

The rich, pleasant pain was something she’d practically always known. All her life was leading up to this. Jessica’s body was a mere vessel of the Holy Spirit. Her brain reshuffled itself as her hips grinded on, and a false memory of praying for this very moment solidified and willed itself to reality.

Her whole being meshed itself with her libido as she used every inch of her to bring the Future forth. She humped along to the muffled rhythm of whatever dance track the house DJ was playing for the lucky after-partiers who were all steeping that much longer in the humid, history-changing sex air.

“This is all I will be, forever and ever,” she bounced, gasping and grunting as she felt herself (and possibly the shadow-cock, it was so messy down there all of a sudden) start to cream, “and ever,” she smiled, assured with each new thrust that any lingering questions she had were answering themselves with final, authoritative action. Her body was an estrogen-marinated army of cells united in one common, Christian goal.

“Amen,” she huffed, and let Darren bless her cleavage with honey chrism, rubbing a cross in with the stuff as one of his pinkies worked a nipple. This application was called “Paternal Prep”, she knew that much. If only she could remember what it meant. The goo felt so good and cold, it was almost shocking. It broke her out of her reverie and reminded her that Darren would help her. He was a nice guy. She knew she could never make it without a man. Or two. Or two thousand.

Goosebumps peppered Jessica’s soft skin as the cold oil dissolved into it in the next few seconds, leaving a mesmerizing light to pulsate where the symbol had been rubbed in. Visions of pre-dawn horses and lions collided in her mushy mind with rivers of thick buttermilk and wine. Happy throngs of ancient people eating grapes and farming. All this storied wonder, bathed in a bright and incomprehensible radiance. “I am but the storehouse of the sainted seed,” Darren encouraged, “and I will feed its brood in need.”

Jessica was too overwhelmed by her glowing titties and the tough, memory-eradicating boner pumping all previous obligation out of her, to get a handle on those words. Teardrops trailed down her cheeks with the flooding abandon of a crybaby, a hyper-emo release of her physical and spiritual exhaustion. The soulful light of St. Brittany was hers to share now, and she felt so elated, she wanted to sing.

Then she remembered her tenth-grade teacher at Poren Springs High convincing her to take Home Ec instead of choir. Her big sister Trixie swatting her ass for a half hour each time she caught Jessica humming a secular radio song. The time her father, one of the first priests in the parish, caught her trying to use his recording equipment so she could lay down a karaoke version of “Sometimes” by Britney Spears for one of her boyfriends’ valentines, she couldn’t remember which. (It was around the time she was dating four guys at once.)

She was off-key and all sorts of wrong on the mic regardless, but what was it that forthright old man said? “Music is not an avenue for any daughter of mine!” He then told her the path to a man’s seed was through the lips she nearly befouled with her heathen rubbish, and replaced the microphone with a choco-cream Banger dildo. It took her like two whole sessions, but once she was able to successfuly extract the rich, dark chocolate-gushing center, she scarcely thought about making music ever again. Now, whenever she heard any song, all she could think about was hot dick.

Jessica shook her head and crinkled her nose while she buckled and slid on top of the mystery meat, trying to get the line right. Staving off the faceless boner’s imminent ejaculation was proving more difficult, and more unsavory with each delicious poke. Her butt did a hungry bit of ballet as it prodded her hips to softly crash on down.

“Big boy nuts and whorehouses and slurping seed,” she said pridefully, thinking she got the refrain right on the nose. “And I will let this booty breed.” Darren looked at her disapprovingly. “I’m sorry,” she admitted, “I just—” She gripped the wall uselessly. “Just like—this fuckin’ monster dick! Ssso fuckin’ good, y’know? I can’t really think straight, it’s like my mind is getting fucked.” The obvious was a revelation to the poor girl.

Her phone buzzed in her handbag at just the wrong moment. A robotic voice repeated the name “Jude” ominously, and seemed to send both Darren and the pump-o-matic bone into panic mode. Glory-guy pumped faster and meaner, and Darren fumbled around with her phone, trying to silence it.

It didn’t bother Jessica either way, and truthfully, she was kind of relieved, especially when he sent the thing hurtling to the opposite wall. As it shattered into a bunch of pieces, she thanked her lucky, sparkly stars she had a real man around to deal with all her silly girly problems.

Visions seeped in, nevertheless, of her broken banjo case, and empty cans of Red Bull strewn about her back seat in company of espresso-stained roadmaps. That scarcely made sense, though. It was so unladylike to be behind the wheel of a car! Like, only a real Feminazi bitch would want to drive, you know? And how come she was wearing pants in these fleeting memories? Those are men’s clothes!

These images jostled around with the suddenly paper-thin “reality” of being brought up to fulfill a life in reverence and propagation of the Milfy Way, even as Darren stretched athletically, rabidly sucking at her tits in a damage control effort to distract her. An interstate and its cars being crushed by a herd of elephants. A halo of emerald light that cried like a baby as it sparkled. A stroller stuffed with bibles.

There was a pause in the wild rhythm of her blind fuck, more disorienting than any of the visions. The eye of the storm. Whoever it was was going to cum, soon, the only question was how much. She tried to ply more determination and willpower out from underneath her brand new (or was it really ever since junior high?) voluptuous bod. It was tough, though, seeing as it was being nicely filled with man. Darren stuck a mini-Banger in her butthole, too, to calm her down.

“Wait!” Jessica yelped, feeling the dick-in-the-hole slowly throb and churn in her pussy as Darren flicked a switch at the base of the Banger. On vibrate and in tandem with the real deal in her other hole, the thing just about made her melt. “Um... Fuck! Oh, fuck, what was I gonna say??” Darren pushed down gently on the small of her back, for her to better bend and accept the gift of glory. It made her prop her big butt up more, and she realized: she felt like a cow.

The musician kept on humping. “I’m not on birth control,” she admitted desperately, hoping Darren might care. He didn’t. “And this dude, like, obviously, like, doesn’t have a condom on.” She surprised herself by managing to string all those words together, sweetly suffering as she was in her electric bliss. He just laughed, choosing not to address her last-minute concern, and instead went to grab the tub of honey chrism.

Jessica whined, and looked at him with an grade school caliber “hurt” expression. Weren’t men supposed to have all the answers? “What should I do? I don’t want to get pregnant!” she squealed, but made no effort to climb off the almost-spent rod. In fact, she bore down with more relish, apparently forgetting how to put two and two together. Nothing made sense. Everything felt good.

Even if he was a total hunky man, and by law of biology and St. Brittany, she was beholden to trust every last word he said, it didn’t explain how getting knocked up would cure her of the family way flu. “If you could, like, maybe, break it down for me, or something, how having a guy cum inside me is actually, like, going to save me from bad guys who want to get me all dumb and stuff and cum inside me?”

Did she say that right? It sounded alright to her. Guys cumming inside her. That was easy enough, there was already one in her. And getting dumb? Even easier!

“Repeat after me,” he instructed her, and Jessica was rapt. Repeating what he said made everything right. She bit her lip and worked her hips. “I’ve always been a good little girl,” he said, trying to hide his smirk. She repeated it, slightly fearful but all-around faithful, too. She chirped, then screamed. Strange cock was pushing up to her hilt.

“And now I’ll always be the perfect woman,” he added. She repeated this one, and it sounded vaguely empowering as it poured off her tongue. Somewhere on the outskirts of her messed-up brain, she wondered if she might know any tricks as to how to not get pollinated. After all, Darren promised her freedom from mind control if she simply fucked the thing. He didn’t make mention of anyone spraying cum inside her! ...Delicious, delicious cum.

“We’ll do all the thinkin’ for ya,” said a dulcet-toned country voice. Somehow, it reminded Jessica of her father. It commanded respect, obedience, routine, faith. What’s so bad about a little cum? Best to not worry too much about it. Let the guys take care of the cum stuff.

The genuine, fading person inside of her was about to protest. Some nagging, bitchy voice that wanted to warn her about the bad side of cum. Fortunately, she didn’t have to listen. That strange prompt that felt so familiar reappeared, in surround sound, only for her. “You’ll do all the thinkin’ for me,” she told it, thankful and expectant.

Men’s voices, even if they were sometimes imaginary ones, were always so helpful and handy. “Phew,” she squeaked, all sweaty and scattered. Now she could really start to enjoy the countdown to cumshot. Riding was what these dudes wanted her to do, so riding was what she wanted to do. It was an unforgettably easy equation: “Man = Law”. Right now, Mr. Mystery seemed to really be enjoying this one particular move. So she did what any ol’ perfect woman would do, and tightened her pussy at each upstroke, goading the brutish orgasm out of his pulsing rod.

It felt so fancy, by a large margin the finest fucking she’d ever gotten. So she couldn’t exactly stop, even if it somehow meant that could keep her from getting pregnant, which it probably didn’t. Plus, it felt, like, amazing. She could, and essentially already did, get used to such ecstasy. What was bad about this, really? She stopped trying to feel guilty about feeling good when she noticed Darren was about to use that persuasive, pussy-pleasing voice again. She appealed to St. Britt, that Darren might give her the good news that getting blasted with cum doesn’t always impregnate a girl.

“A perfect woman is a mommy, and I want to be the best mommy ever,” he continued. Jessica looked skeptical at first, but repeated blindly after marinating in the sexy ridiculousness of it all, barely registering anything she was saying. Her eyes went glossy and gray as the wall began to shake slightly. It was only a matter of seconds now. She wished boys didn’t have to make all the decisions all the time. That way, she wouldn’t have to wait for her next prompt.

“The only way I can be a perfect woman is if you cum in me right now,” he said, unable to contain a chuckle. Jessica repeated with nary a pause, more than a little cognizant of what she was saying. What she was demanding. There was no turning back.

But she was far too defeated, and halfway through the rushing glory-geyser of baby batter, with cum flooding all the way from the recently-won dimples of her asscheeks, down to her slippery heels, she got gooseflesh. A guy, a man, had barrelled his way into her womb and inseminated it. She began to feel the gravity of the sticky situation. What had they said in those Potty Poopers-presented sermon-soaps?

A fiery, fervent portion of the infomercial seemed to stick with her. “The perfect woman is a listening, helpful woman.” Where was her head?! Jessica ratted it, making earrings clink. She still wanted to get good hold of her bearing and at least pay any attention whatsoever to what was going down with her.

How this playful present, pinheaded and libidinous, was going to make for a fertile future. What the TV and the radio had to do with it, because there was totally something going on with those bratty gadget-thingies, she just knew it. Why else would the motto that accompanied the Channel 42G logo be seared, as familiar as the Pledge of Allegiance, in her mind?

“We’ll do all the thinkin’ for ya,” the smooth, rugged man in the voiceover came to resonate off and on in her brain, off like when logic could stake some wavering claim. And on like now, like it was, like, so delicious, right now. It was ping-ponging and vibrating her too-teased mind still, clear as the first time she heard it. It was a silly but strangely sexy little thing that flashed on at the end of every show on that channel.

It was weird and hot in that special way that all those weird and hot things happening tended to be. They called out to her sweetly and shifted her whole earthly and spiritual presence, stomping out her once-unflagging artistic standards and integrity. She felt a cold little bit of semen trail down her thigh, and remembered just enough of “Bimbo 911” to know that when cherubgirls get a lot of jizz on them, it’s a good idea to rub it into your body, ‘cause it does all this nice stuff to it.

This is gosh-darn embarassin’! she panicked. Jessica could feel her breasts pushing and smooshing right there in this hot guy Darren’s bathroom, anxious in the final, irrefutable knowledge that she was locked into this body. Letting go of choice was as easy as fingering herself. “Choices make ya think,” chuckled the hunky motto-drawling ad dude, in her fluffy imagination.

Her titties did a nice job of filling, pumping themselves up in a sort of allergic reaction. As the spunk seeped into her pores, it helped with all its superstrong, hormone-loaded goodness, soon jostling spongy flesh forth underneath skin, with a speed that told her there would only be more cum, and more boobage. All she could do now was change, until she was so different, better, that she’d be the perfect woman.

She was forgetting a lot of stuff, and that naturally included the need for any of the startling, bizarre sexiness to go away. Jessica Rabid’s ever-enlarging bustline was rising up in her oddly petite hands, which somehow, at some point, shrank to their current, flimsy and feminine state. Thinking about her banjo made her delicate wrists hurt with a sharp, stabbing sensation. “We’ll do all the thinkin’ for ya,” a man in her brain said, overtaking it. A man had all the answers.

She never would have guessed at the beginning of the tour (and not even that deep into it, either) that she’d seriously entertain an offer by a big and busty betty to star as one of the newbies in the upcoming season of “Sweet Tater Girls”. All she’d need to do was quit the tour, live at Trixie’s or something, eat good food and get big boobs. She was surprised by how much of an appealing idea it was, and certainly now, on tour and exposed as she was. Not to mention that she was a brand new mommy-to-be, all of a sudden.

Wouldn’t it be a lot better if she could molt and morph into her new body in private? Raise a reverent family in “Freedom Country”. She scarcely recognized that she was burying her life’s dream with each penis she thought about or touched, instead shedding a few tears at how far away she was from the maternal bosom and smorgasbord of Mama Trix, her favorite sister-mom.

Oh, it was certainly unexpected how much she took to such a ridiculous, shameful and sedentary offer. She’d eat snacks and masturbate all day everyday, waiting for the baby, watching her favorite shows and looking through lists of baby names. She’d shut her brain off so many times that it would be gone forever, replaced by the sanctified will of Saint Brittany. Her body would become what church country wanted it to be: an instrument of pleasure and propagation.

“Pastures of Plenty” was so cheesy, at first she didn’t think she’d get through a whole episode. At certain, low points in Trixie’s programmed soap operas, though, she could just about detect the motto. She found she just had to watch them, at first to insult, but soon coming to accept, and giggle at, the imperfect girl’s episodic quest to become the perfect woman.

In the numerous still, static shots of the installments’ suggestive scenes, the incorrigible, would-be fake pop tart thought she could make it out: whichever handsome-sounding man-hunk he was, taking his sweet time to say the irritatingly helpful prompt. “We’ll do all the thinkin’ for ya.” Wild but classy.

She was sure as a swear that she’d heard it right before Clem’s pappy told a cheerleader on the street (how did Poren Springs get such fancy, slinky uniforms?) that if she wasn’t pregnant and hitched by her nineteenth birthday, she’d be shipped off to Bovine Barn, perhaps personally by Gramps himself, “where the only pom-poms around would be the sound your floor-flapping udders’d make.”

Jessica had gulped as she heard the TV threat, feeling the dewy dampness that followed any moments of suspense in these stupidity-enhancing shows. That was when she started fingering herself for real, slipping off shame right then, when the old man was quite transparently eye-fucking Ginny, his son’s shy new bride. It felt natural to give her pussy some attention as she watched, and it was kind of spooky, but she couldn’t even recall a show she hadn’t beat off to.

Besides, Ginny’s mom (who was twice as busty as her daughter and looked to be maybe three years older than her) had a wonderfully apt bit of dialogue: “Girls are allowed to be horny sluts, dear. Men made it okay for us not to think, so we repay them by talking with our bodies. This is how we thank them for such a gift.” She was jacking off a milkman as she explained what a woman was.

The murmured, subliminal, anti-thought repetition mostly seemed to happen, though, whenever Ginny was trying to do something for herself. Jessica had rooted for her, finally deciding she liked her after a nerve-wracking two minutes in the first episode, the character being a relatable newbie to fun-sounding play-place Brittville. She was almost going to ask Darren if he had any episodes downloaded anywhere in the apartment, she had grown so emotionally invested!

The soft sexiness and otherwordly, archaic video-cassette quality to the show let her understand and anticipate the body-conscious Christian program. Whenever Ginny needed a man the most (being dependent on men for practically everything was a running gag of the soap-sitcom), she heard the motto. It flooded her each time, gave her these queer, idle thoughts. Like how a husband and a family were an inevitability, not an option.

Sometimes it was like hearing three of that same sexy guy. At first, she wanted to keep count. But due to the fact that each time she clocked an occurrence of the manly voice, the mantra bore itself deeper into her brain, burrowing a nice permanent spot there, it was difficult. It all blended together after she tallied an insane 36 times, and Trixie had gotten back to the apartment with her car not long after, regardless. The way that the silly shows made her feel was the weirdest mix of comfort and disgust.

It was a prevalent feeling that defied description, but she knew it when she had it. It was a rushing anxiety made of equal parts desire and embarassment, of happiness and transgression.

Like masturbating to unimaginative pics of guys in overalls, which she did. The brawny, chiseled boys were hocking farm goods in a catalogue that was more suggestive than any other she’d seen. Or eating macaroni and cheese on a shocking pink velvet couch, which, in fact, she also did. Or following that up with two Cherub Creams and half a Fightin’ Family-sized bag of Big Butt Slutter Cherub Crunch. She totally did pig out and chill hard, at some hot and cozy point earlier that afternoon, and so decadently.

“Thinking about stayin’, aintcha?” a commercial asked, cutting to the chase. Families were playing and running through a field in their church clothes. The masculine, reliable voice went on. “You know how good your new body would feel here, nestled in the sweet country clutches of the Lord. You’re so confused. You can’t even think for yourself anymore. You know it. Your life is nothing without a family... Well, just sit back and grow. We’ll do all the thinkin’ for ya.”

She burped a cummy burp, mind all messed up and made for her by someone else, or something else. Whatever... she didn’t know. She splished and splashed in the thickening white load that slopped its various masses all over the bathroom. It started to take on cream cheese conistency.

The motto flashed like a fire hydrant blast in her brain again, reminding her of how easy it really was to be the perfect woman. She burped again, in concerted effort to remember what it was she was thinking about before she was burping. Burps are so funny! She was coming around to the jizz-belch, too, and couldn’t believe she’d gone so long without that wonderful, lasting taste.

Thinking wasn’t her job, and thank Saint Brittany’s tits for that. She sighed and resigned herself to a less-than-cruel-sounding fate of being a perfect woman. What was really good, at the very least, was that Pug-Bugglies’ circulars had such good deals on nursing bras and diapers and Bitty Bars. All under one roof! Now she’d actually have a reason to step foot in one of the specialty supermarkets, instead of passing them on the highway, feeling all lonely.

Jessica Rabid was so impressed by the frequent commercials on the mezmerizing, comforting 42G channel, reciting them fondly to her boobies during an especially dead stretch of road, en route to Philly. She suddenly became fixated on memorizing all the various prices and product names in the store’s flyer. Junk Enhancers, Holy Hot Dogs, Medicated Miniskirts. Pillowmouth.

It started out ironically and soon became compulsive. It was one of the handful of times that she had to just pull over and get a grip, for whatever horned-out reason she might have used. She stood on the side of the road, rapt in the idea of big sales, a depot of Our Family Way-friendly savings.

It seemed like the established pattern of the day was cumming and wanting more, cumming and wanting more, over and over. So she opted for a car wash, because there were meddlesome, apparently umremovable splotches of spunk peppering her paint job. Sure, she was fine with them, even liked them, but she doubted many Philly scenesters would.

(It wasn’t only that. Also, just because she wanted to test herself a little, and see if she could stand it while a man worked for her, without sticking to him like girl-glue and mounting him. She felt so raw-blooded and ready, that she had joked to Trixie, in one of the lady’s insistent pep-talk cell chats, that she belonged in a zoo. And that probably no zoo would ever contain her.)

So she put all her concentration on the coupon section, slowly doing approximate mental math to see how much she’d need in the future if she decided to just turn around and hang out in Poren Springs, for a long time, if she wanted that. She was 100% independent. She mused that Trixie might even be able to help her out if she did decide to go back to church country. Jessica already knew she’d have to borrow bras from somebody, at any rate.

Cars whizzed past as she skimmed a pinky across her lip, hoping the disappointingly plain dude, who most importantly was a man, wouldn’t notice her leaky lips. It was futile. What am I going to need baby food for, anyway? Why can’t I stop this shit? she thought, frantic. She tweaked a nipple and made it seem like she was just adjusting her dress. The wait wasn’t all that bad, but she still had to resist the urge to start chatting with him about what kind of sex positions she loved.

“I have a boyfriend but he doesn’t count!” she remembered calling out flirtatiously, like the dumbest, sluttiest bitch in the whole wide world. His boxy jaw couldn’t help but smirk. He had such a hunky smile. She had hiked her dress up even higher than it rested naturally (re: obscenely), then remembered her stupid promise to herself. “No Pussy Play”. (She really wanted to show it off to him, too, confident he’d give it compliments and maybe want to touch it.)

It was what Ginny had chanted in that episode where she got work as a painter, and her first job was, amusingly enough, redoing the boys’ locker room of a rural high school. She sweated profusely, and there was some very brave, seemingly extended footage of guys jacking off. Our geeky and unsure heroine even staves off semen spurts to her back, shoulders, and stomach. The worst she does is sweat and very occasionally sneak some minor nipple play. A shining example of self-control, to take random cumshots and still go on doing your job like nothing happened.

“The number 1 brattiest thing to say to some dude at a party,” Trixie had lectured, “so that if they come back and try to mack it again, you repeat it. And just when they’ve turned to go, you tackle them and give them the best blowjob you can possibly give.” Mama Trix seemed to take a more exploratory tack to the phrase, which gave Jessica the impression that she didn’t always think the world of the righteous rules of church country.

“After you’ve swallowed all their spunk, just be like—and trust me, it really doesn’t sound as good without those sticky, gooey lips —‘NO PUSSY PLAY!’” Needless to say, Trixie and Jessica didn’t totally see eye to eye on when it was appropriate to use the slogan. “Then, you’ll get a real, good rep’r’tation and men will know how you feel about pussy on the first rendezvous. In no time at all, they’ll just guide you on your knees to the earth, and open your mouth with they mighty meat-logs.”

Jessica didn’t really want that. Maybe it was okay to fantasize about it, though. She saved the mental image for later wank use, and decided not to rock the boat with her hostess with the most ass. “That sounds really awesome, Trixie,” she smiled artificially, at that point still laboring under the delusion that she was an independent woman. Trixie proceeded to tell her trainee a couple dozen sucking stories. Jessica had blowjobs on the brain ever since, and it was— Duh!—like, totally obvious that she’d need men to partake in them.

No Pussy Play! It was truly an inspiration. The catchphrase of salacious, flirtatious refusal hadn’t wended its way into her lust-informed lexicon for at least a dozen hours. Basically, until she felt most hypnotized by her very own vadge, enraptured by its neediness, humbled by its unhinged insatiability. Of course, the catch phrase would be made irrelevant later that night, when her pussy was indeed ravaged, eaten, flicked, and fertilized. “No, pussy— play!” By all means.

Of course, in the show, when Ginny complains to Principal Daisy about how the guys are teasing her, she gets reprimanded for not aspiring to be a perfect woman. “Star breeders give the bestest BJ’s,” the warped woman clued her in. Her punishment was either ten handjobs or five blowjobs, and they had to be successful. And she had to be licked and prodded by Principal Daisy each time, up in that princess pussy of hers.

This episode, when the customary fade to white took place in the steamy, studly gym, it felt well-earned. Screw 3-D. Psychologically stewing in an orgy of semen was the bomb! She was seriously starting to regret passing up the chance to be a down-home reality TV star with Trixie. She wondered what her boyfriend might say about that.

She imagined she’d resort to a cold, impersonal e-mail... once she found a magnificently hung baby-daddy. “So, I got stuck in this town and my pussy started getting really wet, really often. By the time I had to get a new bra, because my boobs got really big and awesome for some reason, three or four guys already came on them. At least a little bit. No biggie, really. Anyhow... Going to be involved in bimbo love triangles and get my slutty exploits taped. I’m pregnant, too... I don’t think it’s yours. Love you?”

(Little did she know she was being filmed by various concealed cameras, for a redemption show tentatively called “G Clefs and G Cups”. Following Jessica Rabid from rags to the riches of the kingdom, it was just signed off and set to premiere on one of the four major networks, just in time for the new school year. Right about now, someone was getting a damn good shot of this dummy with her mouth agape.

Trixie didn’t even tell the mayor, or her husband, which station it would be broadcast on. She was going to wait it out and hold a press conference once a naughty, ingenious tabloid scheme she had would come to shocking fruition. Jessica would be the last to know, naturally, but she’d be well compensated monetarily. She’d also get a lifetime supply of Cherub Chow products, and her very own daytime and nighttime talk shows. St. Brittany’s had already set aside nearly $20 million just for advertising.

Just two days prior, she was rationing out cigarettes and smoking them in halves, sometimes thirds. She got by on cheap pizza and a trusty, musty bag of millet. Within two years, though, she would be heralded as “Miss Media Messiah”. This wasn’t just a gameplan. It was carefully executed over a number of years, and all the pieces were finally coming together. Jessica just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and was marked, chosen. Trixie knew.

Our Family Way has already secured major control over cable TV, internet service providers, magazines, newspapers, cell phone companies, warehouse stores. They’re just sitting and waiting for the other platform heel to drop, now. An entire planet of sex-mad, perfectly healthy, perma-young dumbasses awaits. The bimboization of the world is merely a matter of time. It’s really nothing to lament. There’s nothing any of us can do. Giggle and give in.)

It had been very difficult, very embarassing, and very new that afternoon. And it was really enough of all those things. It was getting to be a bit much. She had taken stock of the situation: a hot guy and a hot girl on the side of the road. Her arm feeling bionically attached to every drop or deluge of juiciness that teased her down there. Her restless hands wanting to just plumb panties and grip guy-parts forever. At one point she literally had to hold her elbow down, from acting on its own accord.

Sucking her thumb was a slightly more acceptable way of satiating her bodacious bod’s demands. He was done washing her car and tried to get her attention for a good fifteen minutes, before her eyes snapped out of their dazed, unconscious glaze. Her thumb was coated in a candy-apple-thick, candy-apple-colored shell. She offered it to him, but she ended up peeling if off once she got back in the car.

The other hand was busy petting Trixie’s magic cock. She was happy that she successfully heeded “No Pussy Play”, and rewarded herself with a fresh bag of Cherub Crunch and some pussy play. She set the fake, bucking dick to “Mindmelter” by accident, but its function would certainly have shown its effects even if she hadn’t.

Jessica tittered, laughter taking over and jiggling her brick shithouse of a body. She wondered how this all started, and how it altered her so drastically, so quickly, continually. She hadn’t eaten as much in her entire life, or had as much sex, as when she did in the hazy full day that piled up since she first got a whiff of St. Britt. Or at least it sure felt like it. Whatever the airhead-icon’s pious pussy was all about, it was dominating the musician.

She’d never have guessed she’d be willfully, glaringly whorish around gas station attendants, yet as the day progressed, she apparently couldn’t get enough. Last week, she would have never believed what was in store for her. Bigger boobs, a broken banjo. Bigger butt, busted brain. Bigger hips, fucked-up existence. It was like something out of an old sci-fi movie, but real, and sometimes totally awesome in spite of itself.

What would that girl say about this spermy, sloppy pickle? Or even the version of herself at the carwash. Getting knocked up just never seemed to be in any itinerary. At that point in the night she was already on the bullet train to Bimboville, and clawing weakly at pink puffs of nothing to convince herself that cocks and casual nudity and wanting to suck cock for, like, four hours straight, was somehow a bad thing.

The bright lights of the boy’s bathroom were getting to be so hot that they made her spermy skin start to harden and dry. “I, like, seriously think someone slipped me a trial tube of Pillowmouth at some point!” she wailed through cracked, cum-anointed lips. Her speech seemed casual and lived-in, lispy and sassy, overfucked country style. “For serious...” She trailed off, turning on a familiar faucet of drool once more. “Like, without telling me.”

“The good bunnies and tigers of the most holy tit-triumph Brittany the BimboBitch do not accept legal responsibility for makeup-related mishaps,” he reprimanded, and just looked at her, shocked. Then he covered it up by blowing a hunky little kiss. “You were just sittin’ there like ‘at, all droolin’ cum n’ candy on the tile, for like twenty minutes!”

She looked at the creamy puddles in her cleavage and on the floor, gobs of thick cherry red and pussy pink gunk. It was hot that she did that. “My mouth did that!” she mewed, proud, dim, and lost. She was giving herself up to Our Family Way, and she was so obvious about it.

“I reckon you’re feeling that melty thing in your mind right about now. It shouldn’t be a big deal, sweet treat..” She brightened up at his reassurance. At least someone was saying something good. Afterwards her head was a bit clearer, but that was simply because a ton of important info was wiped clean by the semen blast.

“What now?” Jessica asked, already feeling strong cravings for another unsheathed cock to pound its way into her baby basket and release all that gunk. It felt so good, so primal, so right.

She reminded herself that she needed to go on birth control so she could have condomless sex forever. Then she immediately remembered she just had a gallon or so of boy-butter shoved up into her as if from a turkey baster. “What should I do now?” she asked again, impatiently, as Darren looked his perfect woman over.

“Get down like this,” he told her, and got down on the bathroom floor on his back, with his knees up to his stomach. He held them there. “You want to do this for like ten minutes or so. The more cum you get trapped inside of you, the less likely you’ll get pregnant, and the better you’ll feel.”

He smiled as he said it, knowing full well that just wasn’t what she wanted anymore. Jessica followed suit, but she was sulking. She slipped and slid on the tile floor, still so very much covered in spunk. “Whatever was in that glory hole was infertile, sorry to say,” he lamely lied.

“But I want to be a perfect woman!” she cried, kicking her legs like a child, dim as a moonless night. He held her knees up for her by her shins, like only a know-it-all helper-hunk could.

“Jessica Rabid, you so can! Just hold this position for a couple more minutes and then I’ll let you give me another blowjob, how’s that?” She grinned, toothy, thrilled to be of service. She excitedly plotted how she could include the balls more. “And you can even swallow it all!”

Darren and his slinky sister helped Jessica through a bunch of her milling, supernaturally devoted fans and into his bedroom. They were pissed they still had to wait for quality time with their new, daringly nude idol-in-training. One guy was apparently so impatient that he unzipped his Dickies and began working his stiff prick for all to see.

Normally that would be alienating to partygoers at the very least, and at worst might result in an arrest (not to mention a decent-sized satchel of trauma and emotional baggage). Not so this evening. It was a magic night! The two girls that had already paid kind attention to the nerd who scooped Jessica’s panties earlier on edged closer to the dude. They played Rock Paper Scissors to determine who’d be the one to get down on her knees and drop dome to help this poor guy out.

These girls were new in the city, and were fresh faces to pretty much all of the attendees. Otherwise, it might seem sort of off for an open lesbian couple to become so mutually man-crazy without too much provocation. Maybe not, though. The more flesh on display there was, the less people seemed to give a shit about anything. Except getting their rocks off.

A few other boys hanging out had followed suit of the fearless masturbating trailblazer. The stifling, muggy atmosphere of sex was getting nastier, steamier as the night wore on, and more people piled in than had even attended the concert. At almost two in the morning, the music boomed louder, the party got crazier. Tops were being shed. Titties of all shapes and sizes made their presence known.

A good chunk of the crowd, men and women, had just stripped down to their underwear in deference, those in the throng. They were what passed as the shy ones.

Some overdeveloped sister-rep of Little Cherub and St. Brittany’s stepped onto the meager stage, reaching into an ornate, big and bejeweled woven basket, grabbing a couple complimentary tubes of Cherub Cream at a time and tossing them at groups of girls. A few even got into a tussle for what one of them considered hoarding. Most of the ladies thought the beauty-enhancing treats were benign snacks, or yogurt or something.

Fear was mercilessly losing a war with curiosity. Those that did know all about the saucy rep of the creams didn’t exactly sound an alarm, suddenly flush with the indefensible urge to try them out. To see what all the hot fuss was about once and for all. To find any reason on earth to validate the speedy decay of their consciences.

An eager, skinny boy in skinny jeans tried to cop a feel of one of Jessica’s tits as she quietly made her way through, flanked on either side by her new entourage. A longtime fan of the underground singer, the kid felt the need to uncover for himself if those things were real or not, since any recent YouTube footage of this tour certainly didn’t advertise big boobs on the performer. And big boobs don’t grow in a day! (Of course he didn’t know that it was really less than a day.)

Seriously. It was perfectly clinical. No sexiness intended. He was so above the mob-mate mentality going on that he actually made an effort to hide his pecker’s raging rigidity. When Jessica squirmed away from him, overwhelmed, still with a sticky, dense coat of cum all over, he tried tickling her. Scientific tickling, naturally.

He was shoved aside by Darren, and the show promoter’s force was superhuman, knocking the boy halfway across the room. A few girls who were taking naked body shots off each other drunkenly guffawed at the humiliation.