The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Darren’s room was decorated in a cool, comfortable color scheme of deep blacks and earthy crimsons, adorned with rich mahogany and musky leather. Plus it smelled like pot! If Jessica could have made a little nook in her head for critical thinking instead of pink bubbles, boobies, and bros, she might think it extravagant for a student.

The slinky catsuited lady opened her suitcase for something to clothe poor, bumptious Jessica. She figured a seafoam green, beyond sheer (to the point of total exhibition) teddy/nightie would work best for the merchandise table, the meet-and-greets. The dusky, exotic woman figured that her and Darren peeling the custard-thick, swiftly drying sheen of semen off of the new pop tart was as good a time as any for a proper introduction.

“Okay...” I can be professional without getting pedantic. The sleek madame brushed an absolutely horrid thing off her collar. A nickel-sized splotch of trial run flavor Cherub Cream Key Lime Cheesa Colada. She was in the jagged throes of addiction to that fun stuff just as much as the next Brittany-bitch, but she was downright militant about keeping her dignity in check. That was what gave the woman of the night her advantage. That was what propelled her upward and forward as a business leader and public figure.

“My name is Shadow Scorpietta, I’m not really Darren’s sister, and I am an urban talent scout for St. Brittany’s.” Jessica put on her best “like, totally concentrated” face, but inside she was swimming with all sorts of shit to keep straight. Half of what anyone said drizzled, like hot butterscotch, into gibberish, and she was scared that she’d even have to learn English all over again.

“You were quite impressive out there tonight, I must say.” The musician didn’t follow. She came here because she was finally prepared and fertile enough to pay off her womb’s debt to Britt. Didn’t she? She was also here, though, because she was supposed to sell an image, her music, her soulful self... Wasn’t she?

Wherever her soul was hiding lately, she thought, plucky and pleased, it sure as ham gravy wasn’t in her cummy cunny. That thing was a juicy, meaty, seed-hungry vampiress.

“While you were performing, I signed on with Kidz Kult as your new —Well,” Shadow paused, unkinking Jessica’s splooge-nappy curls, resigned now to see if a scrub brush would do a better job at cleaning the girl off. “Cherub Cove has a lot of resources at its disposal,” she talked down to the mind-mucked new mama. Darren sat on the edge of the bed, not helping at all. Shadow frowned and shot him a black glare.

“What?” he said, dismissive in a vain, particularly manly way. “That’s not my jizz!” His “sister” dug a sliver of the goop off Jessica’s neck with her nails and ate it like it was a corn chip, and glared at him again. “Okay, okay, most of it isn’t me!”

Basically, the only words Jessica happened to catch were “St. Brittany’s” and “Cherub Cove”. Those names made her slit drip incorrigibly, and gave way to a pleasant, doted-over vibe of submission. Adding “jizz” into the mix reinforced her most holy obligation.

“Long story short, your record label only needed a little nudging to fold into one of our umbrella corporations, Homestead Holdings. It’s a really great opportunity for brand synergy. You can sell your audience Cherub Cream, and Cherub Cream can sell you in its TV and viral video web ads.

Tonight was just the first step, to be honest. Since there is, we might say, a high... consumer interest level upon surveyed females after their first trial of our product, we’ll see a noticeable spike in sales by week’s end. All those girls eating all those tubes out there in the living room are already, right now, branded as loyal eat—er, customers.”

She grinned at the genius of it, dropping her icy demeanor momentarily. “We have you to thank for our inevitable snowball effect,” Shadow said, poking Jessica in the nose. “They’ll either tell their friends gleefully, or their moms or roommates will happen upon one and be adventurous. Tomorrow, your whole stage set-up, backup dancers, and Jumbotron will all be outfitted with imagery and video from our latest campaign, ‘Eat Like An Angel.’”

Jessica shamelessly, mechanically petted her pussy. There was nothing else to do. Listening and understanding just weren’t happening like they used to. Plus, as comforting as it was to finally see a girl, she knew that she had to wait for a man to give her orders, anyhow. “So, like. Umm...” The clueless would-be singer sputtered. Plus, as comforting as it was to finally see a girl, she knew that she had to wait for a man’s word now. That’s just the way it would have to be.

“So, hehe, like.. I’m... goin’?” She paused, mouth ajar, blank. “Ta... Uh...” Shadow gave Darren a concerned look. “So you want me, um... I’m s’posed-uh. What am I... eating?” Her tummy growled. She appreciated that this woman was almost halfway done clearing all the shiny, super-thick boy-stuff off of it. Tummy... cummy...

“Is them cherry creams good for mommies? I don’t wanna hurt my baby!” Shadow was working on Jessica’s side as the girl grabbed her hand, locked in a winsome gaze, and tried to coax her new manager’s unclasped fist down to her lips. The catwoman wriggled free, exasperated and disturbed.

“Baby? What baby?!” She turned to see Darren discreetly try to shuffle off the mattress, and pushed him over before he could, pinning him to the bed. “Pig pile!” shrieked Jessica Rabid, providing an unwarranted second layer of weight onto Darren. She tried to wrap her arms around Shadow and feel her up while she was up there, but the ice cat clawed her with her grown-out, sharpened nails.

Jessica blubbered like a toddler, scooting away from her attacker. “What?” Darren asked, unfathomably bothered. “We were supposed to do Induction 7X on her, right?” He didn’t think it was all that relevant that he took a few liberties here and there. Just as long as the first level of bimbo-mommy training was complete, then, he figured he was in the clear. Leave it to Scorpietta to overreact over nothing, he bristled.

Shadow laughed a bitter, cutting laugh, aggravated. “No, you fucking fratboy!” In their relationship, spanning some time ping-ponging back and forth between intimate and professional, she only let that insult slip when the situation absolutely called for it. The present one bleated for it like a farm animal. Like one Jessica Rabid was turning into, for example.

(Most of his friends and family members had taken to ribbing him with that jab since he adjusted to life with ALD, when his interests grew baser and baser, more typically male [not to mention the arrival of his gruff, workmanlike physique].) “It was Induction 17K. I told you like three times this afternoon!”

Jessica hated it when a man and a woman fought, but she was rooting for Darren nevertheless, especially considering Shadow’s scratch blitz. Plus, he had a big dick, and a big dick was pretty much the most important thing in the universe. “Look, I’m sorry,” he acquiesced, weakened. He knew he was in the wrong and regretted it deeply.

As much as Cherub Code projected a righteous return to patriarchal primacy, it seemed to guys like Darren that women knew how to wrest control in more pertinent ways. That is, to say, they may give up their bodies, but they rarely give up the final say. I wouldn’t even keep working for you if you didn’t give bomb head, he mourned, you negative, soul-sucking bitch.

He felt that awful, responsible feeling mostly because he didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding another worthy candidate to undergo all that relatively rushed transformation and indoctrination. He dreaded hisend of that bargain, too, of course. Even if it was far from a chore in the technical sense. Not many men could begin to conceive of double-teaming chicks and liberally spraying loads all over them as “work”.

“I don’t think it’s all for naught,” he considered. “As soon as you get all this sperm-sauce off of her, her pores will open up and breathe a bit and wash some of this bimbo fog off, right? She can be re-educated, I’m sure of—”

“7X!” Shadow shouted. “7 fucking X! No fuckin’ way, fratty-frat! You never cease to amaze me, you inept gorilla!” She looked at Jessica, who was occupying her mouth with her thumb, beyond stupidly “blowing” it, in fact, working it like a cock-crazy gutter whore would.

“There’s no cum in that thing, sweetheart,” she assured the new breeder. She felt so embarassed for her. Jessica took her thumb out begrudgingly, entranced by the sheen of her saliva for a fleeting, giggly spell. Information and conversation rolled right off of her and vanished into hot air. Forgetting why she took the finger out in the first place, she popped it right back in and sucked even more ravenously.

It almost made Shadow sad. “7X might have been okay, or at least we could deal with it somewhat, if it wasn’t deceptively powerful, and so very anti-art by its nature.” She turned away from the bubbly babbler and clicked back into the Photoshop project she was working on before Darren texted her to let her know the induction was complete. “It’s not just a mothermaker. It goes deeper. It’s more of a punishment induction. I mean, she was actually talented.”

She scowled. “Now, who knows if we’re even going to get a chance to use these pics. She just wants to rut on a carpet and churn out babies now. Guaranteed she doesn’t know how to read or write. She’d most likely spit up at the thought. And forget about getting onstage, or at least having her put on a coherent show.” It was true. All of it.

Jessica found her aesthetic triumph, and it was a good, proper goal: to be Supermom and Superwifey, to go blank and loyal, to put up and shut up. Her life, her body, her bottomless hunger for boners, was her art now, and she was a devotee. “She’s a fucking brood-beast now. Jesus, what did you do to her?” Shadow right-clicked, sighing.

The soul-sister had taken some nice action shots of Jessica while she was onstage, but the one she was working into a press poster had the girl in side view, dipping down, looking like she was presenting her crotch to sing into the microphone. Covered totally in sweat, every good swoop scorched with an eye-popping sexiness. Her hot skirt rode up, publicizing her panties, giving the impression of an imminent booty clap.

“We’ll have a lot of explaining to do if, oh, her parents someday soon find out their daughter is living in one of our cow-compounds for unwed mothers.” She squinted, turning her face in closer to the monitor. She smudged out a trace of cellulite on one of Jessica’s thick thighs and fiddled with the shading. It was almost ready to be loaded into the singer’s MySpace page as a new profile pic. Right after they came up with some way to alleviate a glaring problem.

“Or if her boyfriend comes calling.” How to explain away his girfriend’s quadrupling of her womanliness. “The last thing Cherub Cove needs is another lawsuit. Kidnapping is not our style; there needs to be the real girl in there somewhere, aware of the new path.”

Shadow saved the file under the name “PrepPhotoPromo” and fed the brain-sapped good-girlie an ice cream sandwich, which she got all over the bed and her nude body, everywhere. She was already too dumb to eat it right. “The true cherub is able to justify Our Family Way, to her own family, to her boyfriend or husband, to her bosses, co-eds—”

“What about her boyfriend, can’t we just throw her on him and turn him into an Angelfucker?” Darren inquired, and saw that Shadow wasn’t really any closer in finishing off the cum cleanup, and what scrubbing she had accomplished was rough-going. He picked up and unscrewed his jar of chrism and handed it to her. “It’s not like he could resist the calling, I mean, look at her.”

Madame Scorpietta understood it was time for it, and was kind of ticked off that he’d been sitting on the all-purpose holy ointment. She probably wouldn’t get the smell of ultracum out from underneath her fingernails for days now. “She is a wet daydream,” she admitted, with just a tinge of jealousy.

Though he often referred to Shadow sweetly as his “chococherub”, she knew he couldn’t refuse a white redhead with an exaggerated hourglass shape. “I guess I just identify with them in a way,” he semi-explained after she walked in on him with one while they were still officially dating. They fought and made up over it, and she even got him a Jessica Rabbit poster for his birthday. She adapted to accept his fetish. It amused her, until she found herself beginning to share it, to this day, even as her and Darren’s relationship relaxed into a professional one.

But it was a little lame that he’d leave a redhead practically submerged in ultracum, and risk contaminating his sista. If it didn’t have a pleasant, semi-sweet tang to it, it would be truly obnoxious. It was like white chocolate, with a hint of mango and lemon. When she excavated some with her teeth, though, and tasted it, a buttery, movie popcorn taste edged forth. She told her body that she didn’t need any more of it. At least not right away. At least for ten more minutes or so. Debasement was not in the cards tonight. Not for her.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to put her in a faithful family set-up,” he went on, as she gathered a few fingerfuls more, applying the goop on a particularly tricky dose underneath Jessica’s left boob. It was so thick and shiny that it resembled a shapeless, plastic piece of armor. I did that, he pumped himself up with pride. “And really, even if we can’t make a full conversion, he’ll see that she’s... different.”

Shadow took a moment and ate the clump after the honey slurry eased it off. It tasted more like the vanilla-nutmeg of a baseline bible-boy than the fruity, buttercreaminess of the family-strength jizz. Trixie had sent her operative to the glory hole with his identity ensured to be secret. He was wearing a Nixon mask and even a voice-changer as he was led in and out of the nether-wall.

The catwoman figured it was so she wouldn’t OD on his splooge from her own personal mining. The Entertainment Czar probably knew the extreme likelihood of Shadow’s semen search, once she got a taste.“That Trixie Butterman, saving all the ultracum for herself,” she thought aloud. Darren looked up quizzically at her, smirking. This slut was no different than any of the others.

“Nothing, just shut up.” She froze, trying to maintain her fear-inducing domination. “That whole chunk was all you anyhow, buddy-boy.” Darren saw that she was going for Jessica’s butt, and tried to help clean without being asked. He figured that’s what she wanted earlier, and he also loved to tease her at any show of weakness. That’s why she was skipping the rest of her face and tits now: she knew who the butt-load originally belonged to.

She batted him away, diluting and greasing the semen off the ditty-bopster’s puffy, unstoppable ass. Bitch’s booty is a god damn attention whore, she marvelled, squeezing the thing impulsively. So soft and firm. It wasn’t hard to see why a third of all the cum was deposited there. “This is not good,” she said sourly. Forcing the complaint out of her hungry mouth, Shadow was hoping it’d distract Darren from the fact that she as a hair away from eating the girl out, to more easily feed. “Not good at all.”

Lying on her side with her face right next to the girl’s hips, she broke half of a cheek-cast in two, dangling it above her mouth like an empress, and swallowed it down. Her catsuit hummed a stretching sound, the metal of its various buckles rubbing together. Something in her was shifting, redistributing space. “We’re going to be in deep doo-doo, whether it be with her kin or with Trixie.”

The soft, low rumble of Shadow’s body came to a stop, and the resulting look was one a couple squirts curvier, more buxom. “That’s some awfully strong stuff,” she marvelled. “Well,” Darren considered, “it’s brought out in its predisposed carriers to blast right on through any contraception. Those little swimmers have to make sure they get their job done somehow!”

His smile faded as he felt a modicum of guilt pass through him, then return twice as heavy when he noticed Jessica’s state out of the corner of his eye. Still spattered well with white, the young woman was flicking her full lips with her index finger, and blowing spit bubbles. She seemed perfectly fine with it. Darren wasn’t, even though he was almost fully hard again. Blame it on the soupy, stuffy air. That had to have been why he was locked into the induction himself.

She was a talented musician. Usually for Cherub Cove’s trainee-superstars, he just made a careless but suitable click track for them to perform over. Jess Rabinowicz had been in a couple of his favorite bands before she went solo, though, and before St. Brittany was even some singular, perverted dream and not the new fascism of hundreds of thousands. He truly loved her music. Now, seeing her like this, he didn’t even want to think about what a horrible mother she’d make. “I need you to help me,” he demanded of his boss, sniffing out an upper hand.

“Wha-huh?” she asked, preoccupied with Jessica’s inner thigh. “That oil-seed you’re obsessively collecting in that tupperware?” he hinted. His sista’s interest was piqued. She tried to keep a bunch of it from oozing out her bottom lip, pathetically using the finger most covered in the stuff to shove it all back in. She undid some buckles sloppily to let her body breathe and change undeterred. She didn’t want to drool on her suit and ruin it, either. Ultracum was notorious for its capacity to make so many clothes permanently unwearable.

He looked Ms. Scorpietta over, admiring her now-noticeable expansion. “I think I might know something you don’t know.” Shadow’s eyes went wide as she playfully socked Darren in the arm. She instantly renegged and kissed the booboo, stroking away any minor pain she could have caused with her tongue.

“You know who our mystery man is,” she reasoned, astutely. “See?!” she chirped, her voice a little pitchy, too cheery for someone as callous and career-minded as her. “I can eat cum and think at the same time!” Darren shifted in his slacks. He was definitely going to get to fuck the bitchiness out of her, at least for a little while.

After one moment of decency. Shadow gabbed on. “At least I think I can! No, wait, I totally can! I was just thinking about how wet my pussy is, so I wasn’t sure, y’know?” She tittered, poking at her nipple through the suit, laughing at its reluctance to stay down. “So you know who was in that glory hole? Who is it? Huh? ‘Cuz his cum is like, a gelato milkshake!” Darren chuckled. The familiar jabbering of a bimbo high.

“I might know, maybe,” he winked. “But you have to be my stopper.” The dark woman shook her head, wondering why her knee-jerk reaction to that duty was one of disgust. Even so, she was warming up to Jessica, kindly fingering her as she worked the rest of the ultracum off her legs. “You want me to hold my tongue on this slut-bag’s JoyButton as you butt-fuck her?” It didn’t come out the chiding way she wanted it to. In fact, it sounded like she couldn’t wait.

“You know the procedure,” he assured her, ignoring any minute signs of depleting reluctance. Any hesitation on Shadow’s part was there because of sheer envy, now. Eating the spunk had given her quite the sudden appetite for cock. “I fuck her in the ass, you stop her JoyButton with your tongue, but you also vibe her out for five seconds every half-minute.” And then this girl can get back to normal, he thought. The “Kill Switch” was a complicated procedure, but necessary in extreme cases.

Shadow looked angry, without warning. It seemed like whenever she had to deal with or experience a bimbo emergency, it was brought on by him. She’d spell out whatever task it was so carefully as to eliminate a misunderstanding. He’d nod attentively at her boobies and then royally screw the task up hours later. Tonight, she could have gotten some quality work in for the splash page on the Official Jessica Rabid Hutch, a site launch Trixie Butterman was counting on.

Instead she was just wasting time, getting wet and driftless. Actually deliberating among possible vibrators to use. Conflating obligation with orgasm again. Part of why she’d broken up with him was because of his habitual abuse of that irresistible intersection. He took it too seriously sometimes.

She didn’t really mind “being” a housewife, per se, and was even generally looking forward to one day becoming his for real. But when it was, all at once it felt like, nothing but prick-fueled days where she was ignoring work because she had to complete his time-consuming rituals (like giving him a handjob before dressing and feeding him —not to mention the blowjob after) just so she could cum, that had been a boiling point..

“Listen, you mouth-breather!” She tried to hold in her stomach and clasp her belt shut. It was foolish of her. She’d put on so many womanly, voluminous inches from the negligible amount of dried sperm-stuff that she’d need to pick up a new bodysuit altogether. It was teetering on regrettable.

“I don’t know what gives you the right to order me around!” She fumed, unwilling to affirm to Darren or herself that it was the final, complicated step of the Kill Switch that shoved her back down to reality. The process was a difficult one, and she didn’t want to mess it up, for fear of making Jessica even worse somehow. And then where would she be? Certainly with less of that tasty, tasty ultracum.

“I’m the one in charge!” she yelled, uneasily. ”You don’t get to make the decisions!” It was just like men to steal a good idea and turn it around to make it seem like their own! Shadow was the one to worry about the girl in the first place. Her billowing eyes scanned the room, questing. She unzipped her suit, hoping it would help her brain as much as her still-growing figure.“This is your mess, do you think I’ll ever for—”

“Looking for this?” Darren asked brattily, holding up the open box of honey-scented jizzness to her face. “You,” she stumbled, as he grabbed the container by its edges, and poured the second-hand cum-coction onto his boner. “You fucking...”

She trailed off, lost in the special sauce’s scintillating aroma co-mingling with that of Darren-dick. Shadow looked pissed off as she crashed to her knees, but wore an overjoyed expression when her tongue finally touched down on his tool. “You’re a thucking looger, you know ‘at?” she half-insulted with her mouth full.

Twenty minutes later, her catsuit was in tatters on the bed, her T and A at least twice as big. Shadow was feeling both kind and worked-up enough to let Jessie Babble (her new nickname for the girl —Darren recoiled at it the first time she used it, so she used it about fifteen times already) feast on her tits and do all sorts of naughty magic with her nipples.

She loved getting a “bimbo high”, what already-converted cherubs called double-dipping. Usually with used hormone-runoff soup, whether it be cum or pussy juice, mixed liberally with whatever edible holy oil the situation called for. The kind of insane transformation she was normally very cautious about was eeking dangerously close to a recreational drug experience. “So you promise you’ll tap my JoyButton in an hour or two? ‘Cuz it’s like, all I want to do right now is get dicks wet.”

The gruff student, who looked and smelled manlier and manlier lately, but especially in the hubub of tonight, gave her a grim look. The plural, dicks, said it all. She was fixing to go on a cock crawl. “I mean, I’m ready to go again if you are,” Shadow cooed, unable to hide her lack of interest. She hesitated as she helped him clean some jizz off his reluctantly receding, thick thirteen-inch cock.

“Maybe not. I need a bigger dick, Dare. You’re tiny.” She could barely wrap her hand around it, wide as a farmer’s forearm and almost as tall. It didn’t dawn on her that the guy might still be sore from her name-calling. He was seriously considering not only avoiding her JoyButton, to prolong the bimbo high, but replacing the contents of her city-brand body wash with Chubby Cherub, too. (Whether he’d actually do it was debatable. He still loved the bitch, after all.)

Chubby Cherub, when it wasn’t illegal yet, (now you can’t even find it in church country), was the only total body cleanser that doubled as a metabolism gummer. An instant thickener that ended up causing too many unforeseen problems, so Cherub Cove yanked it from the shelves after only a few months of availability.

That stuff also got the poor guy in the doghouse whenever he tried to slip a bottle into their shower. At first, she thought it was a weird little thing. The name was cute, even if she didn’t really get it. So she experimented and rubbed a little on her sides and face. When she got out of the shower, she had love handles and a just-this-side-of-unattractive double chin.

That argument had been fun. (“What can I say? I have a thing for a little pudge.") That was also the night she let him know she was seeing his sister on the side. Then, not a week later, she found a receipt from Cheri’s Club, Cherub Cove’s big-box wholesale store. Marked on it were two bottles of Chubby Cherub.

“I don’t know where these even are,” she yelled at him, furious, “but unless you’re back with Rhonda and you wanna fatten her up too, I don’t understand why you’d need it!”

To quell things, he agreed to have a GPS chip implanted in his dick, just to prove he was being faithful. Surveiling exactly who he was sleeping around with made her a lot less suspicious, which he told her it would. It opened up new opportunities for her to criticize him, though, and he loathed that it did..

It was still in there to this day. She only used it nowadays to annoy him, really, to talk shit about his choice of restaurants, stuff like that. The third time was when he actually siphoned it out of the bottles some months later, after everything had cooled down. After showering with what she thought was her body wash, she stepped out to dry off, found she had cosmically gained forty or fifty pounds just by getting clean, and raised some epic hell.

Eventually they broke it off completely, and he agreed out of court to pay for her every last hour at the gym, but that night, he just waited patiently as she went off on him. He endured ear-piercing, shrill wailing from her. The fact that she was rasing such a fuss only made his hardon rowdier. She wasn’t going anywhere. She hadn’t cum yet all day; he’d been keeping long hours. Even if she was going to leave him, he still had one amazing night to fuck the Ben and Jerry’s out of his chubby cherub.

“Is this worth it?” she asked him as she rode her man, jiggling all over the place, flushed and self-conscious, but turned on just the same at seeing his utter delight. He only responded by fucking her more zealously, by pinching and worshipping her arm chub, by biting into her. “Is this worth it?” she asked again, not sure why. Slowed down under all those pounds, and all his rules, she wondered if it was because she was angry and wanted him to know, or if she really just wanted to know what he thought of his new fat wifey.

She smiled, getting the peskiest little hunch that she wasn’t too much longer than a commercial break away. From the season premiere of “Daisy Duke Destinies 3-D”, and from the most biblical, psychological —most chubbiest, best-feeling orgasm ever!

Darren got wistful for those final days. Even though he was the master of her mind at that point, controlling a good portion of Shadow, he still felt there were mutual senses of duty and adoration going on. She was busy with his laundry, his dinner, her asshole. That was his too, because he totally owned her. That was one of the first things she gave up to him.

One night, he told her her to get down on the ground “like the raggedy bitch I know you are” so he could tear her asshole up. He made the mistake of referring to it as “your asshole”. He expressed his complete ownership plenty of times that this slip-up seemed foreign, inconceivable. “I have an asshole?” she’d asked, bewildered.

He decided he wouldn’t mind seeing her beg and plead for her mind tonight, to admit she needed his help for a change. She was too dim-headed and loyal at the moment, well mouth-fucked, sweaty and still short of breath. Fantasizing already about more fucking and sucking, and more after that.

Feared, respected Cherryco partner Ms. Scorpietta had just before been on her knees, so it was easy to coax some doggystle out of Darren, even though he didn’t need any convincing at all. He expected it, of course. It was part of an afternoon routine from when they shared an apartment and played house so much that it consumed them. He didn’t hold out too much hope that she’d remember, though. He knew for certain she would.

“Guys?” Jessica begged, bored of following suit with the man and trying to get his sista off. She didn’t know if she had any room left for any more white stuff, whose-ever it was. “Guys?” They ignored her, but not maliciously. It was just that having sex was way more important.

It was like a joke, how heavenly he slid inside her, and she instantly lost track of what she was even supposed to be doing that night. Shadow fought and fought to reach her brain, wherever it was getting buried. She pieced together a decent number of “professional” sounding words to muster a sentence out of them, but not one that applied at all in the context of cum, cum, and jizz. Guys give girls cum, that’s just what they do, she thought. And she knew that Dare had the cum she wanted most. Her year and a half of live-in bimbo-wife training had taught her that.

She murmured something about how it would be “easier to appraise the situation after some—” and then she said a stream of fucks, fuckin’s, and titties. Her huge, pillowy milkbags were just about the only stuffy reminder that she overate, indulging too much in the sweet, creamy honey-cum. She knew she overdid it just by looking at them. They maybe looked awesome, and definitely felt awesome, but she never Tittied herself to the point of blocking any view of her feet.

They got pretty freakin’ big, there was no denying it. They were attention-craving, space-hogging jugs. Her nipples had expanded, darkened too, and the once-subtle veins of her new fleshy, wobbly, life-defining chest popped up eerily close to the skin. When she realized Jessica was sucking on her left nip, she felt a wet, not totally unpleasant soreness hovering around it.

The singer-slut swallowed and burbled, and Shadow knew she was getting milked. That she was so full of the stuff that the big amount was making the skintone of her boobs nearly glow in its carriage, lightening her mocha color up top, while showcasing the fun food getting housed in her cleavage. “I definitely overdid it, didn’t I?” she winked to Darren, who couldn’t see anything but milky tit. “That shit was just too tasty,” she offered, as if it absolved her of her negligence. “Just like your dick.”

So, she was like 40% dairy now, and everyone knew what happened at dairies. It was a first, and it was nice. Even if she was getting freaked out over how much she wanted her massive glands to get even more gigantic. She struggled to locate even slight disadvantages of being a human milk truck. Her liquid nutrition was good for babies as much as it was for bimbos, and it was good in the clinch for lubing up hot cocks. “I don’t even know who this bitch is,” she sighed, smiling and simmering.

“But she’s a hungry little skank,” the dark woman conceded, playfully flicking her ear. “Yes she is. Yes she is,” she goo-gooed in her best mommy voice. “Can we keep her?” she asked sincerely, though cutely unsuccessful in making it sound like anything but a joke.

“Just, y’know, until the baby comes. It’ll be good practice,” she giggled, guiding Jessica knuckles deep within her, the scorchingly sexy, passionate threesome only making her want twice as many people doing twice as many ass-jocking, titty-rocking things. “Hahhh!” she laughed, and puffed the better of it out, briefly losing her breath. So, am I really pregnant, or just really good at playing up this kinky role?

Her mouth found that question irrelevant. “Slutty McSlut has magic fingers,” Shadow sang, her brain draining as blood and neurons fled it, in compensation for how much body control was being shuffled around, and relegated to her breasts. “Can Slutty be our godmother?” she asked, trying to puff up her barely-there cherub belly.

She did it to appease her trusty old Number 1 Man, and to imagine what it would look like in her second, or third trimesters. To be the perfect woman with a fruitful family, or at least fantasize about it if not get a head start. All it did was make her work odd, randy muscles she’d never dream about using. Or existing, really...

Darren’s sista was getting her milk everywhere, not used at all to the act, let alone what to do when some of the biggest bosoms she’d ever seen were hanging from her chest spraying a pint or two every minute. It smelled like a farm. The groggy, claustrophobic air quality kept everyone’s erectable stuff nice and firm. “She’s so slutty, though, maybe she won’t be no good around the baby.”

Jessica had just about all she could swallow. And if her immaculate BJs didn’t fill her up with all that self-esteem-siphoning semen, she might have had gotten more guts to stand up for herself. “Can I, like, go out and talk to my fans now?” she asked humbly. Darren and his stupid, selfish “sister” were too busy wrapped up in recreating old times to notice the girl had peeled all the rest of the cum off herself, and was getting her brain back.

Ms. Scorpietta obliged, nodding, and reached around, poked the pop singer in her butthole. Some other fingers were happily trailing to the girl’s slick, soft pussy, returning her favor. Darren gulped. Double the bimbo, double the trouble. It was as if the power of Jessica’s induction was so strong, the imprint had pinned itself to her genetic code. Basically, Shadow ate the hypnosis, undergoing it hand in hand with her bouncy body changes.

She thought she got pregnant. He came in her ass. She just assumed that since it felt so tight that there was no way any spermies could have gotten sidetracked. She only vaguely knew that this was a very, very intense bimbo high, but just how much her IQ was getting slashed did not factor. Shadow knew going in that there was a temporary brain drain if she was looking to get bimbo high.

“Go slower. I want to feel every inch of you.” The dusky woman heard the hot-mouthed panting of a newbie cherub. “What is it?” she asked Jessica, who was still standing in the doorway, shifting her shifty boobs around in the near-clear nightie, making the garment’s straps really work for that “snap” sound. “Don’t I need a man to go with me?” the singer made sure, frantic.

Answering her was very low on Shadow’s priorities. She grabbed Darren by the butt and guided his meaty sausage deeper. “Mmm,” she managed, lost in ancient joy. “You definitely got bigger.” He smiled, proud of his big guy. I knew I could satisfy, he thought, as she rocked with every one of his hard-working inches.

“You’re just high!” Jessica accused, and walked out. That helped Scorpietta ease into it, but in a way, that was bad. The more comfortable you were with being a bimbo, the more of a bimbo you’d be. “What’s her problem, anyway?” she asked, shoving her titties in his face before he could respond. Maybe it’s because we already performed the Reverse Cowgirl Kill Switch on her. Jessica Rabid only had three or four more hours like this, and the night was almost over.

The thought of a Bimbo-Cinderella appealed to Shadow that much more that she was bimbo high. The trick was to look surprised so often that it would stop being acting. It was a lot of fun that way, and a lot less dangerous. What really worked about chugging through a bimbo high that way was that every cock was, like, this new, different, extreme thingie.

So you could stay naive, just like a real bimbo, and get a real bimbo experience. It felt like you were really a bimbo. It was fun for a change.

“It felt like I was, like, really a bimbo, y’know?” She struggled to slow down and paint a picture for a girlfriend one time last spring, one of her first times.

“It’s like, when you see a hot guy, and-mmmfffmm—ooh, I don’t think I can explain what I mean!” She giggled nervously, trying to occupy herself with the empty noise of it. She fidgeted, tapping random keys on her laptop.

Anything to take her out of the crushing reality of four days of backlogged work. “I got to change into something fun like twenty times, just ‘cuz all these cute boys wanted to take me out shoppin’, and they, like, took me out to eat and shit. Real fancy. I don’t think I ever told you about Kevin, let me tell you!”

Thus began a torrent of tittering, screeching, and half-second-long sentences that had something to do with her and Kevin going to the mall and hooking up. Something about someone behind the KFC. Her friend could barely keep up, and was almost frightened.

Shadow felt the tap-tap-tapping of a nosy ballpoint on her workstation. She looked up, dazed in her flurry of hot, high school style descriptors. Her third application of Girly Gloss “Oral Prep” that morning was already leaking. It was embarassing that she was so drippy in front of her boss. “Yes, Miss Bread-n’-butter?” she mumbled, innocent and interrupted.

“Shadow, you’ve been working here for five years. You used to babysit my children. You know my last name is Breden-Murrow. Besides, when have you ever called me anything but Carla?” She sniffed, and straightened out her blazer. “I mean, what is with you lately? You had to take home work the past two nights and you still didn’t finish it!”

Try as she might to stop them, Shadow’s lips were dripping all over the desk, making the splishy sound of an almost-turned off faucet. “And just what is that, oozing out of your mouth?” Shadow grinned at getting a chance to explain herself, and in the process, twice as much of the thick, clear stuff flooded out.

“Oh, this is just Girly Gloss,” she said, not sure or caring if she was giving too much away. “I got bimbo high with my girlfriends over the weekend and tried it on. I know, I know, it’s like, kind of messy —” she chuckled, nervy—

“But I have to keep applying it, otherwise my lips get really chapped.” Even as her boss was hovering, she slowly got back to work on what she was doing before making her last important phone call: painting her nails. “Chapped lips are so gross!” She didn’t look up, she just wanted to keep staring at her fingers forever. Yellow was a flirty choice.

“Bimbo?” Carla asked, concerned. Was that some kind of new drug she was too uncool to have heard of? “Yeah, mmhmm! It’s this new thing, it’s bottled locally so it seems pretty safe. It’s got active cultures, it’s home-brewed, something like kombucha.”

“And it makes guys really hot!” It would be months before Shadow knew that it was mostly made of potent cum, but by that time time, she was already ingesting so much cum through various methods that it didn’t make a difference. “In fact, between you and me, it makes pretty much all guys hot!” A man in an adjacent cubicle coughed.

“Okay,” Carla said, “alright. So that was last weekend. You are aware that it’s the Friday after, yeah?” That was the thing about the recreational bimbo high. If you’re planning on doing it, you really have to set aside a week. Especially if you’re unfamiliar with it.

That particular time wrecked Shadow for days and days after her initial dose. All she wanted to do was watch Lifetime movies, touch herself, and talk on the phone.

The boobs and butt wore off almost immediately, but the brain drain hung around, kinking up the works, making data entry a billion times more boring than it already was. “Oh, yeah! I almost forgot!” Then she did, because it took so much mental effort to string a tiny sentence together.

Shadow wanted to uncover what was such a big deal about it being Friday, and then it came to her, like a cock. “All I have to do is get through another six hours of this stupid job, and then I can do it all over again!”

After all, “Bimbo” didn’t mean braindead. It just meant really fucking stupid.

So she knew what she was getting into. Part of the reason why any cherubgirl sought out a bimbo high was because they wanted to escape the “real world” outI there. The responsibility of keeping your head high in a competitive Christian county. Trouble was, she felt so good that the brain-mushing effects were working double-time.

“Do you think when you drop your load that you can shoot it all over my—” Darren grunted and pulled out with a workman’s diligence, dousing her face in his latest batch. She gasped through the suffocating stickiness. She meant to say “tits”.

Darren was conflicted. Due to his history with Shadow, he knew he’d better prod her JoyButton before she got any worse. She did have more uses than this, even if it was sometimes hard to think of it like that, especially when she kept saying stuff like, “I love being a bimbo,” and “I wish I could be a bimbo forever.”

It was all so tempting not to, though, and ride on the light-as-air notion that he’d get a little dumber himself, therefore a little less caring and concerned, if he just dipped his dong in again. They both could certainly stand another fuck.

“Becoming a bimbo is transformative in different ways than you’d expect,” Shadow quipped. Darren rolled his eyes. Like I haven’t heard that trendy argument on ‘The View’ yet. “Tremendously emotional work,” she rolled on. It was nothing the average housewife couldn’t read in Good Housekeeping by this point, but she seemed to be taking it so seriously.

She was beginning to come down mentally, and in the process of getting cogent, she got chatty too. He regretted resetting her JoyButton mostly because of that fact. “Over the course of just barely an hour and a half, she’s cycled through twenty years’ worth of the average cherubgirl’s anxieties, sadnesses, joys, anticipations, satisfactions—” It was like her brain was gasping for air, thankful it was still alive.

He stuck a rather sumptuously portioned Big Bitty in her dick-sucking lips simply to shut her up. “I thought Cherub Cove was only around since the tail end of Bush’s second term,” Mr. Smartass said, interrupting Shadow’s poetic propaganda. “How the fuck do we know what two decades of a cherubgirl’s life is?”

Shadow paused, caught off guard and embarassed that she’d exposed how trusting she was of the church’s wiki. She ate half of the Big Bitty in no time. It was her favorite extreme eating bar. “I dunno about that,” she chimed, “are you sure?” Whatever. Maybe Darren was wrong. Guys were just as stupid as girls, after all. All guys were stupid, and all girls were stupid. That’s just how God wanted them to be. She learned tha‘t in Sundae School.

She rubbed her tummy, half because she was starving (bimbo comedowns always gave her the munchies), and half because it was still taking its time to disappear. This particular bimbo high and its bra-busting ridiculousness had also given her quite the spare tire, for to support those milky mega-teats.

She poked it, and giggled at the yielding squishiness despite herself. Her boobs, thighs, and lips were all fairly down to a passably “normal” size. “When is this belly going to leave?” she whined, not caring that she was still lapsing right back into bimbo-y exasperation. She took a gulp of water, and prayed silently to St. Keisha, Slammin’ Saint of Nonstop Partying. Please don’t have me wake up with a bimbo hangover!

It was hard to keep her cool when that stomach just sat there, all touchable and silly. It was spherical and cute, forming into an invitng and adorable shape. It usually signified the tardiness of a girl’s first pregnancy. Which was obnoxious, considering Shadow basically only had somedoubts about the legitimacy of the church (its effects were more than provable, that was a different story indeed) and really wanted to wait it out and Breed 4 Britt once she found the right Angelfucker.

It didn’t work like that, apparently. In other words, if you’re a novice, reverent Brimbo, and comfortable with the different oils, toiletries and food products the church offers, you’d have no excuse to be without child in a half-year’s time. If you were resistant, you got saddled with what Poren Springs people dubbed “the training bump”. Essentially, it’s the 21st century, bimbo-mommy equivalent of a dunce cap.

The good folk at Cherub Cove itself preferred to call it a “preliminary paunch”. The Poren Springs way won out in Little Cherubs at least. (Though the Little Cherub neighborhood in Boston, the newest one to crop up, acknowledges the squishy bubble-gut phenomenon in its own distinct way. It’s a growing custom to congratulate spouses and kin of whichever Brimbo it is as being blessed with a “Little Mikey”.)

Nothing said “runt” quite like the bubble-gut. It’s the compromising physical manifestation of a girl’s half-hearted devotion. If a chick got served with a prelim, she may just as well be announcing to all of St. Brittany’s farm folk, “You see me?! Independent woman over here! Someone show me the light of Our Family Way, and breed me! Quick, before I try to think for myself!” But really, it was just a cutesy wutesy wittle belly too, and you couldn’t miss it.

“Maybe I can work this off in time for the BMAs,” she said, referring to this fall’s gala Brittany Music Awards show. It was a big deal because it lasted two nights this year, and both evenings were picked up for broadcast. It a kind of coup.

Competing networks had already conceded and planned on airing blocks of low-rated reruns. A lot of big-time movers and shakers in the mass media universe were a chest hair away from giving up and bowing toward Britt. Scorpettia herself was bound to win some kind of award for producing half of Shimmy Shields’ full-length.

A training bump wasn’t part of her trademark image. It was kind of cool, though, how it retained its round shape while still showing a bit of give, responding so softly to touch. Especially in this tartan she put on from the “Bimbo Nights Only” rack. (Darren had a thing for schoolgirls too.)

It was cute, but she had her dozen or so pleather and fakeskin bodysuits all custom-made from a specialty shop in Germany. With this kind of pot belly, she wouldn’t even be able to zip them up halfway. “Fun is fun, but I sure hope this isn’t going to be a permanent side effect.” She poked the little bugger.

He poked it, too. “I don’t mind it. I think it’s sexy.” Shadow groaned. The fact that she agreed with him, with every busy molecule in her shifting body, just made her all the more irritable. “Any-way,” she said, all pissy, “I’m thinkin’ I might want to get in on those new urban Sundae School classes that Father Paul is trying to start up in West Philly.” She rubbed her not-so-little pot, slowly, methodically.

It was an absent, evolutionarily ingrained motion, kind of like rocking in a chair. Or knitting. Or frosting a cake. Or doing everyone’s laundry. Whose laundry? she balked, plugging her nostrils so her brain would work a little bit better. (It was an old secret she learned from Shayla, back when they were dating, back before she became a total superstar, and Scorpietta her manager. Now all they were was estranged.)

Everyone’s laundry? She lived with two trifling hoes that were apparently never trained to pick up their own messes. They’d have to make the occasional dinner or actually disinfect the bathroom once in a while for her to go near a washing machine for those girls.

Still, she rubbed. At least she knew why those flashes of domesticity were there. Even though she’d only partially shaken off the looming bimbo mist tickling her brainwaves, she wasn’t so far gone. She knew it didn’t take a... science guy to figure out it was a temporary, bimbified setback.

Plus, it just felt really good to rub and rub. If it wasn’t going away anytime soon, she was still confident it would eventually. She huffed. Might as well enjoy it while I still have it, she thought. Probably because the rest of her body was trying to decide what to do with it, it was awfully sensitive. Just a tad duller than playing with a nipple. Nice and soft. Like a dryer sheet on the first day of kindergarten.

“Sundae School?” he asked her, ripping her away from her rubby reverie. “What made you think of that?” he asked, taking a brush from the endtable and running it through Shadow’s straightened hair. She laughed and sighed, wiggling into his caresses, welcoming his hand on her cartoonish stomach. The only reason she could think of for bringing it up was because she got a strong craving for M’udders brand Praline Paradise. Or was that simply what she was thinking about now?

She could have sworn it was something else. Something about a man and a woman... Oh, well. Maybe it had to do with each class’s parting words: “Never displease him, always appease him.” Right now, he seemed defensive and nosy about Sundae School. But then again, he was always jealous about Father Paul. “Forget it, I really don’t know why it even crossed my mind. Seriously.” She looked like she was about to smile.

“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he told her, stubbly and studly chin gliding down, through her still-substantial case of cow cleavage, to give her fleshy belly-orb wet, noisy raspberries. “Hehehe, sssstop it! Oooh!” Shadow squealed, a momentary gigglebox.

“You’re gonna make me cum again!” she cried, as if euphoria was a chore. She was going to pretend like she didn’t want it when she noticed him getting up to straddle aside her. Her pussy dampened in the general direction of his long-greasy cock, though, like it could smell him. It was hard to say anything, do anything, but tell Darren, “Come ‘ere, c’mon baby,” and guide him saucily within.

She felt exposed, vulnerable, and weak from the discovery and exploitation of a brand new pleasure zone. Her tummy squished around his rock hard abs as he thrusted into her, and it felt great to just float away on the waves of another docile screw. He didn’t mind it either. She never fucked him without being on top.

As he banged the bimbo out of her in his manly, luscious way, she wept, laughing at how overwhelming it felt. He saw that they were tears of trust. He almost wanted to take a snapshot. After tonight, he’d never know if he’d ever see that look again.

Jessica was antsy as she reviewed raw footage with the thinning crowd. Part of her sultry, clouded bathroom time, spent getting DPed and cum-dumb, would make up a new arthouse (at least that’s what Shadow had called it) movie called “TrackCherry Bitches XXIV”.

Just seeing herself look so sweaty, half-remembering these hot moments, made her perspire right there. She picked up some slut’s discarded boyshorts and wiped her forehead with them, as she watched herself get her first facial. I’m a star! she realized.

“That whole performance was great tonight by the way,” said the hip lady interviewing her. Jessica and her fans had encouraged the girl to try her first Cherub Cream, and she ate her second bite between questions. “You were excellent.”

“Oh, that? I’ve been working on perfecting what I call my ‘Sloppy Suction’ style, so it was great to have a chance to put it to use!” A lot of people laughed at that, and a few gave encouraging whistles. The interviewer hadn’t meant that, and was trying to rephrase the question.

“No, I mean—” She sucked up another tidbit of the beautifying slop, unprepared for just how much she pulled. The question-and-answer session had just started, and she was already having trouble formulating a follow-up. What do I mean?

“This stuff is really good, do you eat a lot of it?” she asked Jessica just to ask something. She could feel her nipples start to protrude into her bra. Even though they were hid in a baggy Fleet Foxes shirt and nobody could see them getting hard, she fought to focus. “Sorry, nevermind, I—” She swallowed. “Where did you record —”

“Yeah, it’s great! Hold it up to the camera,” the singer instructed her, amused. The interviewer complied. “Okay, now wink.” She did that too, awkwardly. She could feel the eyes of the whole room judging her, even as they laughed approvingly. This is the weirdest interview ever, she decided.

Two guys were huddled over a computer monitor, bored in boring New England. One of them had insisted on tuning into “Sonic City”, an indie webshow that showcased the latest and greatest music. Jess Rabinowicz’s appearance was scheduled long before she had an inkling of Our Family Way.

“Woah, no way! That can’t be Jess!” The girl they knew would a) never wear anything like that, b) never be able to fill it so tantalizingly well, and c) “Holy crap, did you see those thighs? Where did she pick those up?”

“Dude, it totally is her!” The first boy squinted at the blotchy streaming video. He’d recognize that face anywhere. Even covered in makeup, dopey, and with an exaggerated mouth that would look out of place on a blow-up doll. “At least I think it is.”

“Hang on,” said the other one, “let me call Jude. Something tells me he doesn’t know about this.” At the very least, it was a side of his buddy’s girlfriend that he’d never seen before. In the slightly pixelated video, she was getting impatient, and looked like she was popping her big breasts out their ridiculously showy nightgown.

“Are we almost done here?” she asked. “I need to call my boyfriend and let him know how tonight went!” She hadn’t talked to him in a while, and didn’t mean it as a joke, but her audience was amused anyway. The two guys watching at home gave each other wide-eyed looks. “But first, I want the biggest bone in this room to get on up here and fuck these titties!”