The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

LUNCH STOP, FEB. 14, 12:22 P.M.:

Freedom Bluffs was a corny joke. Stupid no-horse town in the middle of freaking nowhere. A kind of backwoods purgatory for anyone with decent taste, it wasn’t exactly the best place for a hip couple to spend so much as an hour on Valentine’s Day. Or any day, really.

It was hilarious how outdated the “restaurant” connected to the bus depot was. The only real cosmetic difference between it and an auto shop was that it had fast food, a jukebox, and a few booths for sitting. The floor was just finely brushed ground, just dirt.

Hard as it was to believe, there were still places like this left in the sticks. Maybe it was years since it passed a health inspection? It smelled greasy and fatty enough in the place, though, and it was the only game in the apparent farm town, so it would have to do.

Nora flipped fitfully through some sun-ravaged old magazine, and waited on a bench for her boyfriend Tucker to come back. It was working as a momentary alternative to openly gawking at the insipid, mostly pregnant or pregnant-looking girls, sloshing in an out of the place, and on and off the bus.

They all seemed like ultra-curvy fertility goddesses or something, wearing booty shorts or skimpy mini-skirts with skintight button-up shirts barely buttoned, if not just halter tops or bras, it was ridiculous. Everyone’s baby bump, or plain old comfort softened beer-and-burger belly, was in full view of God and country.

Some of them had men in tow, trailing behind them a touch, if only to get a good handful of ass to guide their girls. Nora unsuccessfully tried to convince herself that one of them didn’t have a couple knuckles deep into his woman’s crotch.

She shot her gaze to the guy’s bronzed and sturdy jawline, in denial. She held it there a bit too long, distracted, this close to remembering why it was that guys vibing ownership to women was wrong, even if everything was consensual.

Was it possible she wasn’t letting herself get lost in this dude’s chin? The weirdness of this place was feeling hypnotic. She told herself she was over-tired. She told herself the whole building wasn’t turning her on something crazy.

She squeezed her legs shut. Read your magazine, read your magazine, read your magazine... Didn’t she hate magazines?

The rag was an issue of something called Free + Fertile Christians Upholding Providence! She was flipping through it, a hair or two shy of mindful. The masthead thankfully abbreviated the wordy name to the much, much easier (however ragingly asinine) “FFCUP.“

The natural aesthete devoted herself to reading and staying informed, but at this sluggish moment, dumbing down that bit of business was just fine by her, really. Handy, even. Even though she was totally, definitely smart.

“A smart cookie,” for sure, like that bus-driving... bus-dude cutely called her. There was a word for his job, or whatnot. Did it matter?

Not on this trip. She felt like a dumbass. She shook her head. Fifty or sixty words of a carefully honed vocabulary seeped unceremoniously out of her ears before she could take note of how strange it as that her red hair had curled out from her simple bob into fluffy tresses.

Though she got a few hours of sleep, it felt restless and even a bit active. Like she was talking in her sleep? Weird parts of her ached and throbbed dully. Her back, her mouth, her neck, her knees, her... Nope.

Surely one or two of those vanishing words might have been able to describe the rushing, nervous feeling that flooded through her as she realized she had on some large, lime green hoops. Dangling from her ears, they hit her boiling brain as foreign, something pretty unusual for her taste.

I could totally go for a fuckin’ cookie right now, a thought sang to her, and she silently applauded herself for what felt like a eureka moment of unparalleled brilliance. Knowing what food was yummy was beginning to feel much more important than deciphering big, dumb... stupid, stupid-head words!

A falsely renewed air of refinement grounded her with a cookie-crumbly, mind-baking, southern kind of satisfaction. A soft banjo galloped over the big dumb dance beat sailing out of the Breed-n-Heed Conversion Mart’s murky and ancient speaker system.

A few more seconds to muse over the knowledge that fresh chocolate chip cookies were not just yummy, but also gooey and delicious and, like, super yum-yums, and the deep, rich, chocolatey words of the huge and athletic-looking bus operator reverberated once more, throughout her craving-crammed head.

You’re a smart cookie...

He was really, really pretty. He had broad shoulders, just the right amount of stubble, and a huge motherfucking dick. He was a real gentleman, too. Nora had offered to jack him off as soon as he unzipped in approval of an uncovered, goo-drizzled cookie of her own. But he’d declined, for whatever totally fucking lame reason.

Distracted at once by the absurdly low pricetag of five cents for the massive magazine, this misty neon memory withered and plopped into less than nothing. It was some mixed-up moment that felt impossibly far away, like it happened years ago.

How proud she felt then, those twenty timeless minutes... or decades... ago. To actually manage to remember (and keep composure long enough) to bend her transforming, exposed ass further down, to pick up her fake-forgotten purse on the steps... to do all of this while Mr. Big Bus-Man slid two or three stubby fingers into her drenched, fuckable snatch.

The rest of the scene played out in her head, but at the end it all felt implausible, silly and inconclusive, nothing more than a weird hot wet daydream, and the big event swiftly deflated. Just as soon as her nipples had re-inflated.

She flicked at one of them through her shirt, subconsciously, reading on with her best “concentrated” look, jaw ajar. Somebody before her had taken the liberty of doodling a cock on one of the big fat F’s on the cover. This made it that much easier and to remember the nickname of the magazine, and to think about thick, long cock a little bit longer.

FFCUP. The letters kicked and swam along the currents in her brain. It took a while for them to make the smallest amount of sense again. So maybe she wasn’t such a smarty slut after all.

They just about as difficult to unnerstand as higher—high-o... them, um, walk-like-an-egypt-o... kinda thingies...... Then she felt it. Another blindingly pink brain zap.

It was a whole lot cooler, and funner, to stare at the topless titty model on the cover, rubbing that tiny little gut of hers, pooling out over obscenely snug green short-shorts.

Nora’s eyes fluttered back to the masthead. The “CU” part made her mind wander, which was all sorts of fun. She gave a couple more thoughts over to a silly but comforting pink-and-lavender tint, puffing up over the corners of her eyes. It began to pulsate and grow and drift, now, toward the very center of her field of vision.

She was tickled, some unnecessary amount of seconds later by the fact that, if said aloud, the two letters sounded like “see you.” Then she forgot why this was even slightly funny. Then she gazed deeply at the two F’s, loving that pinkening feeling.

The one without the cartoon dick on it reminded her of getting an F in high school, even though she had never received anything less than a C grade on so much as a pop quiz. The one with the cartoon dick on it reminded her of getting fucked hard with a nice, yummy dick.

This, she decided, had to have been true, because it was such a yummy thing and she was like a proven scientist of yummy seeming things. The stale smell of the sticky-icky, potent pot / crotch rot / gummy-candy heat of the bus ride was... not so yummy.

Nevertheless, it had re-distributed and smacked around every thought she had.

The strange concept of fertile Christians, and all the rules and body shapes it implied, made the letters of all the following words blur together, only serving to underline the massive, insistent “FFCUP” title.

Hang on. How was this magazine supposed to distract me from big girls and hot guys, again?

The titillating, if alien fog of confusion had made her groan. She knew those other words, like, four sure, but it was as if they were password encrypted with even lamer words.

When she tried to explain this strange cognitive issue to her boyfriend Tucker, he’d only chided her for trying to read at all. It was simply not her place.

“Hey!” she mewed cautiously, defensively apologetic, grabbing hold of his arm and stroking a couple fingers along his wrist.

“What,” he growled. “I... I love you, honey,” she sighed, defeated.

As if the periodical knew she wouldn’t be able to remember, the bold and hot pink bubble letters of the big bra acronym were stamped above each page number. Bottom-right of all of them, FFCUP was translucently emblazoned over a drawing of two whopping power-boobies.

This base and frankly insulting attempt to be clever had barely elicited a smirk from her at first, once she figured it out. Though it made her giddy and gushy, she knew enough to hate it. Figuring out why was another silly exercise in futility, though. Even so, her mind began to clear. A tiny bit.

Some time later, nearly three hundred pages in, she and her man were still hungrily waiting to place their orders. By this time, she’d begun to absorb and accept the once disturbing third “Dime Cummandment” that was given by God.

THOU SHALT NOT USE CONTRACEPTION.

Supposedly, it had been passed down through “His big-lipped, thick-hipped vaginal vessel: that holiest of hoes, slutty-butty Saint Brittany.” This info got absorbed into Nora’s brain without question or consideration. It seemed wholly serious.

The ten most important rules for any “Brimbo-to-be” were printed large and bubbly on the inside cover. The pertinent one involved breast size:

“Good girls can make it to the pearly gates, but not if their titties is too flat for that heavenly date! Bad girls go to hell if they ain’t lettin’ them jugs swell, like all God’s holy busty bimbo belles.”

A flow chart on the next page, preceding the listing of contents, served to further explicate the prerequisite bra sizes. Nora gulped at how she fell squarely under the category of “Emaciation / Unfit For Procreation.” She was unfortunately more than a few cups away from “Acceptably Angelic” status.

Still, the magazine’s proclamation that a C cup was “flat as a board and makes all God’s children bored” seemed a bit much, though she simultaneously started to feel a few undeniable twinges of inadequacy. She “read” on, scarcely letting more than a few monosyllabic words make any impression.

The bi-monthly mag, evidently exploring a scriptural intersection of “Gossip For Godly Gals and Cute Christian Clothes For Creamy Cherubs,” was stuffed with over seven hundred broadside-sized pages of sermons, ads, and pseudo-political fluff discourse.

A 24-page inlay of “Christian centerfolds,” along with motivational infographics, detailing specific culinary and sexual instructions on how to make your burgeoning booty resemble the very echelon of those fortunate, fertile girls blessed with the most exemplary of “St. Brittany’s Big Bible Butts.” Only the most fleshy and bubbly would suffice.

The impossibly glossy pages of the magazine (apparently aimed at a “confused new-teen” demographic) that hadn’t been stuck together and crackling with... whatever—convinced her that it was more than okay to simply let go and: a) let her diet slide, b) think about cocks if she got to feeling too full, or worse—self-conscious, and finally, to...

...c) permit the holy femininity of Brittany to do the Lord’s necessary work and shape her into a “new-teen size 14 booty queen with that curvy-creamy mommy-2-be sheen.”

???????

For serious? That all seemed so very wrong on so many unsettling levels. For a fleeting flicker of a nanosecond, she was able to see through the powerful indoctrination of her “sainted” sluttening. Nevertheless, she was sweaty, squirming, and famished.

Nora rubbed at her eyes in disbelief, exacerbated by the lack of air conditioning and blinding glare from the greasy windows of the bus stop diner.

Not to mention the fact that there were more than eighty degrees of practically visible humidity, doggy-paddling straight to her brain—in the middle of February! What on earth!

She even counted three more articles on topic so far, that had scientifically proven the rejuvenating power of the “Good-n-Simple Christian Dimplin’ Sexercise For Wimpy Thighs,” to boot. Well, not scientifically—not exactly.

All the tests were performed in accordance of “biblical biolo-Jesuscience,” or some shit. It was definitely sucky and hurty to read. This special “Valley Valentimes” edition was twice as thick as any Vogue.

A centerpiece of the features was novella length interview with, apparently, Jesus Christ himself, looking chiseled and buff as all fuck. It was conducted by the big blonde mega-babe that was identified as Saint Brittany, built like a shiny clay funhouse herself.

Nora tried to ignore how mere glances at the vanity shots was causing the slippery stickiness between her thighs to get a lot worse. It was getting difficult to reassure herself that it was just sweat.

They seemed so fucking cute in the photo spread. Totally adorable. So good together, an all-American classic couple, really. So pretty-pretty and perfect and hawt as fuck for each other!

Her favorite portrait had Jesus bending Brittany over in front of an American flag, as he jizzed out a cross on the small of her back with his giant bull dick. She had a stream of drool so big and thick that the camera picked it up with no problem.

Nora let herself get gooey and distracted by the four or six pics of naked and hung plowboys, in an advertorial piece for baby formula on the opposite side of the article’s last page. She took in a sharp blast of tainted hot breath, but willed her hands to stay put.

Her and Tucker’s stomachs had both been growling, groveling to their owners. Nudging them in the pelvis, daring the two to so much as try to deny them. It seemed like they hadn’t eaten in months.

The couple, hours deep into “celebrating” what was intended to be their one-year anniversary, felt over-heated overall, and road-weary couldn’t begin to describe how out of it they were. Drained. Faded.

Like a dusty old road map, ripped to illegibility under the clomping of years’ worth of mud, they impatiently waited for their order to come, ravenous. Surely, their early thirties shouldn’t feel this exhausting!

All the while, the confused lovebirds were giving the old college try to putting off their own wants, ignoring the desperation in the all-encompassing need to cum themselves. Their guts and naughty bits demanded personage, and would not rest until they were granted it.

They thought for sure that they were the only frazzled and confounded tourists on the ditz-making, dong pleasuring bus. Then again, it was hard to see much of anything, seated where they were, a few rows to the back.

It seemed like every last sex-peds on the bus had made their way to the tiny bathroom, pairing up in different arrangements, though none of them seemed to actually need to use the toilet. Everyone left newly sticky, shiny, and smelling sweet or musky in tantalizing and distinct, distracting ways.

Tucker thumbed the new batch of bristle atop his jaw and considered one encounter fondly. Bumping into what looked to be a twin sister, an ample-bosomed nympho with dribbly, pinky-sized nipples, had lost her balance and landed on Tucker’s lap.

She was decked out in only an extra-small denim apron covering zilch. It read, “KISS THE COCK!” in big bubble letters.

Tucker didn’t tell Nora—whose leaden-lidded attention at the time had been fully invested in the novel discovery a the vibrating function on her seat—that a stranger’s (beautifully slick and tight) pussy lips were kissing him... sloppily, right on his ready rod.

Besides, some other dude eventually found her and pulled her off. He muttered something about “this is the second time I find ya.” She was more than likely his property. Tucker felt around for some guilt, but that girl’s pussy felt fucking fantastic, so who could care.

It was convenient that Nora was about to cum, so that all he needed to do was grab her by the waist and let her luxuriate all over his pole. He didn’t even have to lower her down. She gleefully impaled herself without a second thought.

...Anyway. He was sure he just dreamed all that, anyhow. Because that was wrong. It was wrong to just let some random bimbo-girl bounce like some fucking sexy basketball and fuck the ever-loving shit out of him. For reasons that seemed trivial as they abandoned him.

It was just fuckin’ wrong! Even if his girlfriend hadn’t been right next to him.

Even if it was for a few seconds...

“Cheap” didn’t begin to describe the experience of this whole fucked-up half day. It also didn’t begin to describe how downright debased that new translucent, cherry cola flavored collar made his girlfriend look. A hostess had clasped it around her neck the second they entered this place.

The hostess couldn’t stop drooling. She was naked from the waist up and ladled into a pair of tiny, red-white-and-blue tie-dyed panties full of stress holes. She dribbled a steady, syrupy rivulet of saliva, deep into her cleavage. Goopy drool kept flushing right off her torpedo-style tits and onto the ground.

Caution signs flanked her absurdly luscious bod on either side. Any sense of self or embarrassment had evidently pitched a stake about a billion universes away.

“This jus’ for so... y’alls, like, know when da table’s readyyyy!” She made a dimly racist, redneck-y “gang sign” that caused every one of her cushiony curves to wildly undulate.

A little white tattoo of a nametag sat astride the top of her left melon. It shone as if electrified. Her name, apparently, was Stuffannii.

Before the need to empty out his bladder could beat out the fear and befuddlement, of just how normal he and his girlfriend were treating the whole situation, he managed to get Nora to focus. “Stay right here, doll,” he said, wincing at his misplaced terms of domineering “affection.“

Nora just moaned affirmatively as their hostess grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in for an open-mouthed kiss that met no resistance. “Don’t go a-frettin’ nah, aight?! I’s gon’ keep her all pure-n-purrrty!” Stuffannii yelled behind him.

He was still shaking his head as he emptied out his half-hard dick. He’d brushed it off earlier on the bus as Nora jerked him off, but there was no denying it now. His dick was bigger!

It was longer, and getting much thicker and tougher, contoured with broad purple veins that were never there before. Tucker fought the urge to jack it right there.

The squelching, rubbery sounds of some bouncy girls getting fucked in the stalls behind him snapped and squished. They were so loud, he didn’t even need a picture.

“But I keep on a-tellin’ ya, I plum don’t want bigger titties than these’s! I’m too friggin’, like, huge-mongus as it is!” one high-pitched, thistle-throated bimbo was crying out.

A big, bristly cowboy type in the urinal next to Tucker elbowed him in his ribs. The guy had obviously meant to give him a playful nudge, but it sent the city boy careening to the floor.

“Tiny li’l pecker like ’at, and folks is bound ta think yew a commie-nist, son!” Tucker barely heard him, though, too distracted by the rushing flood of breast milk pouring out from under one of the stalls.

A bunch of it hosed him right in the face, on the side of his turned cheek. Without thinking, he tasted it. It was like some creamy, berry-vanilla cocktail. It gave him a boner of granite.

He stuffed his curious cock inside his boxers, zipped up before he gave in and just mindlessly masturbated in some creepy-ass rest stop’s facilities, and washed up.

He made sure to splash his face a bunch too. Maybe it would clear the sex-sticky cobwebs out of his brains. He tried not to look at the sharpied graffiti right above the hand dryer, of a cartoonishly equipped woman on her knees, sucking a beastly dick more than half her size...

He must have blacked out, because, without knowing how they’d gotten that way, his pants were around his ankles and his dick was finally softening, smeared with all manner of gunk, half-lodged in what had to have been a glory hole. “Oooh, thank Brittany! We thought we might-a gave-in’ you a dang-ol’ heart attack!“

Some voluptuous middle-eastern girl had let go of embracing him, unhooking brown, bangled arms from his waist. Smacking his butt before padding out of the men’s room with a rumpy girlfriend in tow, they had a giggle contest.

Their booming, figure-eight behinds tagged along, looking like they were separate entities from the babes, or at least crucial power sources. They walked with a winking and abundantly feminine flirtation, somewhere between sashay and waddle.

He grabbed a paper towel and sopped up all the sticky stuff on his crotch, his heart and mind swimming in a soup of euphoria and disgust. This can’t actually be happening! he freaked out.

With each wipe, the cheap brown paper only pushed the sticky sex-sauce deep within his spongy boner, making his dick pulsate as it plumpened right up before his eyes. Rubbing it on his nuts hadn’t spread it away from them, either.

Lifting up the magically dry towel, he was shocked to find his balls had grown to practically lemon-sized. A new thatch of wild fur had piled itself onto his pubes, too.

Finally coming out of the bathroom, letting his mutated cock and balls bulge big in repressive desperation, Tucker told Nora that they’d better leave right then. That there was no time to waste, that the more they hung around here, the more brainless and horny they’d become. He wanted to hitch it to the outskirts.

But Nora’s mind was on slit skirts, tube tops, slits, and lube. And the benefits and inevitability of becoming a big curvy ditz with a wide, breedable ass and proper Christian moo-cows.

He had to pull his girlfriend off their big drippy doofus of a hostess, who was slathering on a chunky purple jelly to Nora’s lips, rubbing it into them with sloppy, thorough kisses.

Tucker looked her in the face as he grabbed hold of it, ignoring how big and craggy his hands had gotten, the mass of hair that had also piled itself on the top of each one. “We’re going,” he commanded.

He let himself enjoy the excitement that came with noticing how thick and juicy her lips had gotten within a matter of seconds. He pushed away the pain and terror that initially came when the new, super-slutty look registered.

“NOW!!” he screamed. Nora whined long and couldn’t help but notice something, though, and brattily sucked on her quivering new lip, letting her docile and pleading pout ease into a confident, coquettish smirk.

“Honey, you cain’t tale me I cain’t eat! I’m a growin’ bitch! ...’sides,” she demurred, high-fiving Stuffannii, “Looks like you can’t rightly argue-uh-me if y’all done been makin’ out up in th’ that-there lab’ratory!“

Even though her boyfriend’s pants were washed clean, if soaked and still dirty-green after the process, Tucker looked down to where Nora was pointing and noticed his collar and jawbone were painted a deep crimson. Big red lipstick marks had colonized his beady-wet skin and much of his shirt, from the chest up.

Tucker conceded, and decided he could wait patiently until after lunch, before bringing up the idea of leaving. He was fucking starving, too. What was left of the confused couple’s wills was just too shameful to ruminate upon, and they felt dirty. Not to mention, Tucker had grass stains on his chinos, inexplicably.

He was positive they hadn’t once exited the bus, even if Nora insisted they had. She was annoying, how she insisted. When!? Quite silly. There was just no way. He almost called her a dumb whore. He was grateful that he didn’t have to, as she eventually backed off and called herself a stupid slut all on her own.

At some point, though, she’d lost her shoes, and her bare feet looked filthy with black sod, or some kind of grease, now inching its way to the tops of her toes. The majority of her toenails had been coated with chintzy polish.

Glittery, bright green paint trailed off a partially done one, a messy trail leading off it and up the top of a foot to her ankle. There was something about a barter for the half-assed manicure. Something involving another girl, her ass maybe, and another... was it a blowjob or just a handie?

Huh? He yawned, trying to push the vision away. Why am I so hard? It was hard to think of what it was, precisely, that made him so dead set on grabbing one thick lower body among the wide array of large sets of feminine hips.

It would have been delicious to already been burrowing long and deep into them with gusto, to dutifully stuff a baby into some bimbo hottie. It would be mechanical at this point, like taking a dump.

Thinking of a “why” just made the want flip-flop over on into pure necessity, an impervious force. He fought the angry, absurd inner voice that assured him of how he was no man at all if he couldn’t knock up a girl or three by the time he was done with dessert.

Nora barely crossed his mind for this hypothetical seed-sowing, even as he was looking directly at her. She just wouldn’t do. Her titties hadn’t gotten nearly as big as the other babes on the bus, and the new bubble butt on her just ain’t bubbly enough, not yet.

He knew she’d be understanding when he opted for that curvaceous, dumbass-looking thing with her massive, super-fuckable cans, mewling by the window. The big pig-tailed cow splashed in a muddy wheelbarrow, overflowing with what was, undoubtedly, her own viscous, buttermilky milk.

The very same one that was feeding from the snatch of a rather slender, yet disproportionately fluffy-thighed girl. This girl was sitting and squrming in a velvet-covered high-chair that looked scientifically engineered for sluts, dangling strong legs coiled in high, wrap-around heels.

Nora didn’t seem to be able to stop looking at that toddlerized bimbo after they walked in. Tucker decided his girlfriend was jealous, that way she stared, slack-jawed. It was at this moment she’d let her worried curiosity get the best of her and morph into envy, anyway.

Even so, when they’d sat down in the slipshod rest stop’s “restaurant” (comprising just a couple of neon pink booths by the newsstand and Christian tract display), they were both pale, sweaty, and disoriented. But not too much that they couldn’t figure out something was up, and that something had to be done. They had, at the very least, known not to get back on that awful, perhaps sinister bus—at all costs.

Their clothes were soggy and ill-fitting in the weirdest places. Now, her collar having beeped, allowing her some reprieve from new beliefs and desires packing themselves into her stuffy brain, Nora undid her sticky blouse and picked a bothersome, gnawing wedgie from her gray pencil skirt.

As more of her ass could now plop out and breathe, a bit freer under its fabric’s vice-like, aggravatingly grabby clutches, her rear end also took it upon itself to seize the opportunity and get a little bit more comfy. The zipper along the back buckled and pushed apart under the strong suggestion of her cute new booty.

It nearly opened all the way when she sank into her seat. Nora ignored this. “Umm... like...” She knew enough to at least try to stay calm and level-headed, and just talk this whole thing out as best she could. She gulped, eager to distract herself and her boyfriend with anything other than sex.

She paused. There were tons of other things... “Does... I meeeeeeean-nuhhh—Do! ...Do my knockers look a touch... fatter t’yew... y’know, like... maybe nicer to look at, for a guy?” Tucker shot her a glaring look of unequivocal ownership.

“Sorry, sorry—for my big, strong, sexy man?” she corrected herself, blinking fast and coquettish through a hot jacuzzi-pump of shame. The molting art curator rolled up her tightening shirt-sleeves and drew her arms around her breasts, squeezing tight.

Tucker bristled, grunting, “I guess so.” The tippy-tops of her areola were puffing out. “Yeah, a little bit, I guess. Are we just going to sit here and talk about your boobs all through lunch, or something?“

She looked at him and teared up, as if he’d suggested they break up right then and there. She could be strong, though. She had to be. She felt much smarter already, really.

But again, as if her vadge was made to work harder every time her brain fluttered on, she remembered fucking Tucker openly and freely on the bus, at... some point... pretty hot... it was making her soak through her skirt, really...

She remembered suddenly—whenever it was, sometime in the middle of the night—the bus had come to a screeching, then thudding, then brain-rattling loud halt, right outside of... somewhere near central Ohio? Was that right? It couldn’t be!

She’d woken up all dreamy and pussy-wet and gyrating in her seat, or maybe on some...thing, or someone. “All right, ladies and lunkheads, I have some unfortunate news for any y’all what still got some ding-dang hopes we makin’ it to Taxachusetts come nightfall...“

What few words Nora could pick up with her slit at this time didn’t tell her all that much, not specifically. They’d be lucky if they got into the city by noon the next day, basically... Some big sale on candy thongs, too.

Some tips on keeping regular thongs medically lubricated... something about liquid cocaine lube, whiskey dry rub... rubbing strong donkey dongs along ample bovine buttcracks...

Anyway, everything seemed very important. Something about a detour, maybe, or a new strip club or fertility clinic being built, too. A lot of girls behind her had been cooing and squirming quite audibly at the news.

She considered this. Preg... “oh! guh-God, don’t stop,” she said at the seat or dude or whatever-whatever she’d been humping.

Pregnant... stripp... “oooooonnngh,” she mewed, gazing through half-open lids at the airheaded milieu around her. It was tough to locate any patience or attention through the gummy pink cellophane velcroed to her retinas, but she blinked hard a few times and found some.

It was mostly young girls on the bus, and all of them big and wiggly and bouncy. Was one of them rubbing Tucker’s shoulders? She was! So, why was Nora’s first inclination to just pucker up and give those slutty fingers a big smooch?!

Nothing was making any fucking sense. So she struggled to parse the announcements while lapping and sucking on some totally cute, watermelon-y swirled french tips.

It had taken them five hours to drive the last thirty miles... and with no traffic? “Really?” she mewed to her man, dim, not concerned with the fact that she was un-self-consciously riding him with nearly no cognition, bareback and gooey and totally whorey.

Then she heard her boy unzip, about four or five girls go “wow”, and the smell... that fucking hot-as-hell aroma... Oh my god, am I becoming a slut?! she panicked. I am! I’m becoming a sweaty fucking breed-cow!

I’m fuc—I’m having sex in public. Holy shit! She slid off, forcing herself to feel some vague creepy disgust, but it was an aspirational footnote of feminism, at best. The bus driver brutishly put her back onto Tucker’s dong when she was mid-hop.

Nora cheerfully obeyed and rode on with renewed, squelching intent. Mr. Bus-person Man seemed manly, so it made horse sense. “What’d I tole yew?” he growled at the big black hot girl next to her, preoccupied, moving on.

He fixed an electronic and incandescent, clunky bit of business around the neck of the topless, super-stacked piece of buxom ass. “I’m like, totally sorries, Mr. Sir,” she chirped, smacking her gum and sounding like a valley girl less a third her size.

A BrutalBeauty choker was the scarlet letter of TV bimbohood. The collar looked ridiculous and signified general misbehavior: dark red leather studded with hot pink and purple sequins, with an ivory pacifier dangling down at the neck. Nora had only seen people like Kim Kardashian wear one. They were real??

Wait, she continued musing. I don’t keep up with the Kardashians, and how the fuck do I even know what that necklace is called!

The bus driver caught Nora staring, mouth agape and leaking so much spittle. “You white girls are all the same. Yes, this how we control our... p’oblem skankies.” Nora’s hand immediately glommed on to her inexplicable, plush lips. Why was she just latching onto this guy’s words like they were gospel?

The problem girly squirmed as the driver sprayed her with a hot pink mist that added volume and inches to her loud afro, while leaving it dyed pink and platinum, with a maroon lightning shock down the front.

“None-uh-dat don’t make no never-nothin’. We ain’t-uh tryna make our girls white, y’hear. We tryna make ’em good muffuckin’ girlies, nahmsayin’!” The problem girly whinnied like a pampered pony as her phone and its club bass ringtone buzzed on, peppering her dark skin with bright pink, incandescent goosebumps.

The bus driver shut her phone off calmly, in a fatherly manner. “It don’t mean our good country kind done be raciss or nothin’.” Wait...

It was so much work, just trying to think semi-clear thoughts. They were supposed to have been in Connecticut by now, or at least well on the way there from NYC. Right? Instead, they had to backtrack for hours to get back to... Pennsylvania. What in the fuck!

The driver walked on, barely acknowledging Nora’s little-girly tug on his uniform blazer. “Maam, share seats and let him baste that booty now, y’hear me?” he asked another slightly worried girl, in a sort of suavely threatening tone, a few rows behind.

“You too!” he commanded the thick brown delight slushing her caramel curves half-heartedly on some guys baggy denim-sheathed crotch. She popped a big bubble maybe a bit prematurely, and splattered the bright green gum all over her tan double chin. “Yes, baby,” she sang. “Yes, mister bus-man.”

The buff hispanic guy beneath her took the reigns of his dry fuck and converted it into a sopping wet one, with a sacrilegious and awkwardly placed prayer. “Praise my Jesus,” he husked.“You got you a condom on, right papi?” the chick had purred, meekly begging.

Nora gulped. She knew she should have made damn sure that Tucker had a trojan on, but... Well, it wasn’t too late, exactly. Not really. She just felt so fucking lazy! Uggh!

She cried out, an all-lights-on, guttural thing piercing into the vaccuum-sealed night: “Unnnnggh! Fffff—” she squealed, given in to grunting and lowing like some brainless animal cow-girl.

Her man recognized a change in expression not long after, though. That look. The one that reprimanded, said, “You’re a fucking asshole. Don’t you dare cum inside me!” He eased his neck down and lapped up her porky nipples. They were sweaty.

He imagined, for whatever reason, what they might look like filled to bursting with milk. They’d probably look fucking hot, he wagered.

She just eased him right on deeper with her newly fluffed-out ass and hips, grinding in double time, hungry hungry hips. Wait... This is stupid! Why was she just letting herself go along with this? What right did that hunky bus-man have, deciding when she should.. fuck the shit out of... mmm, Tucker...

“But I’m a forty-inch virgin!” cried another thick ditz. “I swear I was a size 2 less than a week ago.” Tucker laughed, and this, and the wet tang of his exposed meat, made like fifteen girls erupt in a wave of pink giggles, too. Including Nora.

She laughed until she didn’t know what she was laughing about. It didn’t take long at all. Then she laughed at how stupid she was for doing something like that. Letting herself fall. Acting like a dumb fucking slab of carnal livestock...

“Naw, really!” The same chunky barbie continued. The whistling of the bus driver made her appeal sound all the more meek and useless. “Doctor done say I’m a forty-inch virgin, by golly, an’ I got like five cup sizes to go!” Nora tried to consider the waning reality, that this was all very, very... not-good, probably. Right?

Something didn’t feel right about her invasive and insatiable new need to breed. It was difficult to pinpoint it. It all just seemed so overwhelming. Was it really that she didn’t want it, or was it simply that she wasn’t yet equipped—physically or emotionally—to handle the amount of cum she’d have to deal with?

It was probably just intimidation. Most of the chicks on this bus were so very much sexier than her, bigger in all the most man-attracting areas, and, most pertinent: almost all of them had big bellies, very healthily preggo.

Nora’s brain sizzled and cooked. The fatty, hard-working but pinkening parts of it burned gaseous and electric, then started blushing soft. It all melted straight away into an oozing, neon-raspberry jelly sleep mask of bliss, of complete contentment.

The hot pink fog that had by now clouded and enveloped her mind didn’t have any trouble convincing her that she was abusing it. It was so pastel and totally pretty. Easy.

Was she? There was something she had to remember, something about grinding her big hips, or whatever. Right? She was panicking. Was it, um, that I probably shouldn’t be riding cock right now?

Because if it was, then she was not going to listen to her stupid brain. “Fuck my brains right out my gosh-dang earses, baby-waybie!” she squealed. “Cum in me! Cum in me! Fuck me so fuckin’ stupid and, like—preg-uh-nant!”

Nora soon felt her big awesome Tucker-man was cumming, spooging sticky hot volcanoes, tossing them straight up to spackle her uterus. Hot, life-altering indiscretion... Some bonafide, boner-ridin’, super-Christian tummy love.

But before she could let any worry enter her blurry brains, she let herself adore the feel of the moment. Her brain vibed and exploded and shut off. Her pussy clenched, like a fucking genius, and eased the sticky explosion on, coaxing each and every vein throbbing up and down his heavy shaft.

It was all so flourescent and fluid and rosy, with adept, abstract, and sexy-arty strokes that rollicked her hornies. She fell fast asleep, for the fourth or fifth time on the trip, before any of it could even trail out of her cooch, and before her mind was washed comfortable and clean, temporarily deleting most details of her hot waking fuckfest.

Before the entire bus cheered that she’d just gotten herself mind-sucked and bred like a true American country bitch.

Nudged awake to the present at the Breed-N-Heed depot diner, the pinks in Nora’s brains had drained a little, deflating from electric and crazy hot into a fuzzy, mellow girl-aura.

Where was she... who was, why it all was supposed to be scary or whatever, and blah-blah-blah...

“What was it you....” It took a second or two, but she was getting more confident with proper English again, ditching the slang of those hastily-learned hillbilly conjunctions. “What were you—” She could manage to do without the the insipid interjection of “done” for now. “S-say-ing... before?“

Sweet Jesus, am I fuckin’ pregnant!?!?!!

She wanted to call him “Tucky-Wucky” so badly, but knew that it would just make her pussy wetter and wreak all sorts of havoc on her focus. “Nothing much, I suppose,” he said, happy that he stopped himself from saying “reckon.” “Just that I really wanted to get out of here, and get back on the bus, but I unner—I un-der-stand you’re hungry, so’s—”

“No, it was something else!” she protested, chirping as she came down from her bimbo high. I’ve got this, he thought. The smell of fatty, filling country cuisine was an easy target for Tucker to pin the blame on, as to how he couldn’t really remember. Which was true.

The smells coming through from the kitchen relaxed him to no end. “I think you said you wanted some takeout for the road?” he guessed, legitimately unsure.

“Oh, okay. I remember now,” Nora lied, pleased as punch that her voice was starting to fall back down to a lower, more confident pitch. It already felt like a miracle to not have her throat force her to words to come out in the worst kind of honky-tonk cathouse drawl.

The heavy scents of apple pie and sizzling ground beef was invading the couple’s pores, making their dilemma seem trivial. There was something elemental about the food aroma.Like there really was nothing at all wrong with wanting to gorge on grub, because eating always made her feel better.

Then more of those strange, sexual thoughts about big baby-makin’ Jesus popped up. They pushed aside memories of her first date with Tucker, inserting a fuzzy, heavily blowjobby scene with another girl and a priest.

An altar materializing where a drive-in used to be. A sweet memory of the time he met her parents devolved into a group orgy of wet, sick familial depravity. Tucker tagteamed her

No! This Valentine’s Day could still mean something, even with all the weird shit going down. Even if her butt was fixing to grow too big to fit in any major airline seat, and she was starting to drool every time she made eye contact with a man... This wasn’t a lost cause!

But as soon as Nora opened her mouth to chastise her fiancee and remind him that they were supposed to be escaping this bus trip, a squat, kinda tubby waitress with painterly strokes of T-n-A, came up to the table and spritzed her open mouth with some lemon lime stuff.

“Compliments of our—honest-ta-Brittany, I’m always so plum bad at this here part—our... soooey, uh, sous cherub-chef-girliiiiiieeeee,” she sang, as she rolled away in skates, giggling insane. Tucker was quite blatantly staring at her long after she wheeled away from the table.

“Well, this is the last time I get suckered into taking a Bonehound,” Nora groused, extending the fleeting moment of lucidity at al cost. “Like anyone’s ever heard of that off-brand shit anyhow,” she muttered, munching.

She started wolfing down her “Double Bubble Big Bottom Burger”. Reaching for her compact to make sure she’d wiped all the guacamole off her chin, she noticed the telltale “truth in beauty mark” that all new cherubs grew.

She dimly remembered its importance and glared at the brown spot, at some point having flirted its way above her upper lip. It made her, Stuffannii had explained, one stop further “on that pussy-creamy rocky road to acceptin’ God’s great load.” It made her look like Madonna or... a dumb whore, or something.

“I just feel so filthy.” She cranked up the jukebox and grooved away a tear. DJ Tower of Terror remix of “Like a Virgin” and hummed and hand-motioned along to guest raps by MC Madame Butterbutt. Nora loved Madonna, but she was coming to understand how Brittany was way more busty and probably had better burgers.

She chomped into hers. At 29 cents, it was the cheapest sandwich that Honey’s Hot BBQ offered. She guessed it would be snack size. The bottom bun, twice the size of the top one, had its own crease down the middle, and was greasily stuffed with decadent baked-in sausage bits.

The patty itself was loaded with bits of fried chicken and—weirdly—cream cheese, that basically tasted like rich buttercream cake frosting. Eating didn’t exactly ease her frustration, but it displaced her mind and mucked up an even-headedness, making her thoughts all slippery and wobbly—again!

She let another bite sail smoothly down her throat, made more lubricated by the smooth punchy kick of the value sandwich’s rich ranch dressing, and toggled aimlessly through her phone, messing it up with the drippy goo of the “small” blueberry-lemon FFFrostee froyo shake.

“Dang it—” She hiccuped, wondering why she’d opted out of saying “damn” even though she couldn’t recall why it mattered anymore. Zero bars. “No duh-ception here, neither.” She wiped a whole palmful of sweat off her forehead and struggled to not feel worried, that it was taking her over a minute to remember how to get into her list of contacts.

Or why the confusion had indeed brought back her smile: a big lazy grin that didn’t seem to want to end anytime soon, even when it was stuffed with grub. She shut her cell off before she wasted any more time on that, and chowed on, unaware that she was bumping along with the low end of some airheaded pop tune.

They were seated at one of three whole tables in the fast-food joint, and unfortunately, it was the one closest to the soda fountain, and the giant loudspeaker that was hooked up right above it. She agreed to stop in for a quick bite and get the fuck out of dodge.

She didn’t realize she’d be sitting atop a pair of two huge subwoofers, essentially, and getting braindead and horny as shit and hungrier with each and every bite. They were making her side of the booth vibrate something fierce, but it was fine, once she got used to it.

Nora ducked her head down to the oddly thick, ridged straw of her milkshake, and pulled. It seemed like the more she drank, the fuller her cup. Except... Maybe if I could suck it juuuust right.

It seemed like when she bobbed down onto the wide, contoured straw as the bassy, bouncy dance track made it shake and glide around on the table, she could gulp down a substantial bit if she caught it with the light touch of a finger or two. Two giggly girls at the next table over laughed at her first two failed attempts.

But wait... She blushed and wondered if it would work better if she just kind of bobbed for the seemingly motorized cup, using only her mouth... Yes! Finally! “Buses are, like—ssslurrrp—really, like, lame... Ya gotta admit, at least like, kinda?” She said, even though she didn’t fucking care.

Suddenly, the number one complaint she could manage about buses, should her fiancee have responded whatsoever, was that theirs didn’t come equipped with vibrating seat cushions like these ones. She didn’t remember the one she rode for hours, the one that helped a screamingly fabulous orgasm along.

The ones she sat on here at Honey’s Breed-n-Feed were made of luxurious hot pink velvet, and she hiked her long tweed skirt up to let it tickle more parts of her. “Mmmm—my own private massage girl.”

The only thing that truly mattered in this moment was that she was able to get a hold of the peach-colored tube so that the cup stopped its rubbing and moving along the glittery aluminum of the table. And all by just pursing her lips, pinching them softly around the length, and really drawing in a good amount once she could get them all the way, to practically the bottom of the wide, thick straw.

Nora gagged a little, then almost choked and sent it right back up her throat. But she stifled that with a half-sneeze and a milky belch. Her cream-slathered lower lip drooped along with her eyelids as she sluggishly reacted to the sticky slush of shake. It was bubbling out the tip of her straw, smashing and splashing its way onto her chin and eye in a spurt rush.

She sealed her white-and-blue-caked lips around the thing again, and gulped down what felt like a gallon of the stuff. There. It worked! Now the translucent pastel pink of the cup only looked to be three quarters full. Were the girls at the other table applauding her or just clapping on beat?

She couldn’t tell. The fact that each of the two big bimbo-looking girls were bouncing their asses, and thumping up and down into their suffering booths, made it complicated. She grabbed Tucker’s hand before he could turn around and look at the two overinflated blondes another time. This was important.

What was it, though? Think... “Thisso good but, like, soooo creamy, y’know?” she inquired, before the bimbos could again kick the underside of the back of his booth with their heels. It seemed stern, maybe: the only difference in her intonation from five minutes before, when she asked how he felt having ruined Valentine’s Day, wasn’t in how serious of a question it was.

It was just a matter of a higher, more cooing pitch. Still, though Tucker wasn’t paying much attention to the words coming out of his woman’s messy mouth, he knew she was still doubtful of him. Even though she still had that smile, it was sugared with a withering pout. “I guess so,” he allowed, grumbling tersely.

He knew he’d left the doghouse when he cleared off some shake-goo with a thumb, and she shivered and sucked her thanks up and down it, batting eyelashes. Since when did she start using mascara? And those had to be fake eyelashes, right? Whatever. He was having a hard time getting through his Mister Frothy, too.

His cup was baby blue though, and he didn’t even get a straw. Just a rubber top with a long slit down the middle, and puffy plastic mounds of indentation on either side of the slender drink-hole. These parts looked to have been stuffed with some kind of thick jelly. The more he tongued them to get the excess shake that clung to them, the fatter they seemed to get, the more give they’d grant him.

Tucker, however, and just like Nora, was too occupied with drinking the thing to address what the shiny, thick nub at the center reminded him of. It was easier to get at the stuff inside if he stuck his tongue into it and lapped it out. It was super-thick and chunky with fruit and tiny jellied bubbles that popped with tangy foam and got stuck on the way down his throat, turning into a heavy malt along the way.

The ice water he’d insisted Nora turn around and get him, even though he could have easily reached over to the machine himself, only slightly made it easier. He’d slapped her little half-nude ass appreciatively, and didn’t bother to tell her about the pulled-down skirt, or how flooded it looked.

Four big chewy-fizzy gulps later, the volume of his Mister Frothy had receded a whole half-centimeter, and he was proud of his diligence. Just drinking a milkshake was increasingly hard work, and it felt like he’d just spent hours at the weight bench. His western flannel was starting to feel tight around his chest and upper arms.

The left breast pocket had popped open. The pec underneath rippled and flexed. Nora’s head was down, busily maneuvering her FFFrostee to supply her with more gushing shake-shots.

He saw that the two broad and assy blondes behind him were sharing a seat now, and they were staring at him, winking at his new milkshake-won musculature. One of them was hanging off the edge of the seat, much too hippy even for the family sized booth.

There was this off quality in the laughter they directed at him, and it took him back to a barely-there recollection of the night before. Something about... big bitches... and the meaning of his new role... and hot babes...

He mused on a rush of midnight moments that had been hypnotized out of him. The first thing that fully materialized was the smell flooded the length of the bus, the kind to drive the animal in everyone closer to the forefront.

A tangy dairy smell, with undertones of mango, leather, and barbecue. He and Nora wouldn’t have dared vocalize it, but this was just about the time that they were both beginning to feel... hot, in the kind of way that has fuck-all to do with temperature.

Fluttering splashes of critical thinking had popped into Tucker’s beaten brain, off and on, off and off. On again. Pay attention! Stop stroking your cock!

The goth girl sitting in front of him and Nora was looking back at the couple and pointing, laughing, rolling her eyes. What was she saying? Did he black out just then, or did he have some kind of a brain-fart?

It was almost impossible for him to understand the dark-dressed girl, because his base and momentarily devolved mind was assuring him that whatever it was, was irrelevant. His nutsack began chiding him.

“You know girls ain’t supposed to say shit except for ‘suck’, ‘fuck’, ‘ass’, ‘titties’, ‘daddy’, ‘please’, or ‘now.’ Don’t you go forgettin’ the ‘Heaven-sent 7’ on me now, bro.“

He’d need to sift through the compost of his insistent new biological demands first, if he had any hope of getting control of this fucked-up situation. He juggled his balls for a second before he began work on jacking his cock, which took astounding levels of concentration.

It didn’t help that the cooze had a shaved head. Did she want to go to jail?!

Twenty-nine years of level-headedness and compassion were reshuffled in his brain to allow for a better connection between his olfactory and his penis. Memories of old girlfriends, favorite songs, dead pets—little by little, these were disappearing to make way for new and improved senses. His cock was beginning to feel like a second nose, for one.

Just by inhaling casually, he could now pinpoint which thick chicks on the bus were ovulating, which hadn’t stopped growing, and which of them hadn’t been titfucked in the past six hours. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that most of the bimbos on this bus were good little whores.

He’d make sure to put his dick in between his fiancee’s titties soon. First, she needed to grow some. He chortled and snorted at that brilliant blast of genius.

This was the beginning. It was the little stuff for now, but he nevertheless pumped his shaft harder, welcoming his new self, the new Tucker.

He saw a lot of big hot bitches in his future. Big hot bitches who could and wouldcarry his seed. He never wanted kids at all before. Now, all of a sudden, he needed to father offspring.

All of a sudden, he wanted like forty or fifty of them.

He kept jerking it. It felt as alien and complicated to him as computer programming. Why did he feel the need to impress this woman and masturbate? That was for girls, not buzz-cut, boy-looking dykes!

He looked over to Nora. Could she help him out? She was passed out again. Oh well. Stupid slut.

He almost came when he noticed she’d fallen asleep with her underwear dripping and in a clump, down around her ankles. Her mouth was caked in chocolate and her cunt was stuffed with four fingers. She was working her fingers even while snoring.

My little bimbo baby...

Still, Tucker knew something very strange was going on. That wasn’t really like her. Was it? Even though Nora was as dumb and slutty as a true patriette should have been—as every American girl ought to have been—she’d never finger herself on a bus full of strangers. She’d never finger herself, period! Right? Both ways, it seemed... off. But—Whatever.

Reality is stupid.

All the while, he was locked in eye contact with the goth girl. She winked at him, then made a motion with her hands as if to brush him off. It made him bristle and growl. He was a man. He was showing her his cock, for chrissakes! Why wasn’t she drooling! Tucker’s balls got aggro and defensive. “Did she say some shit about precum? DID SHE!?“

There was something different about this gal. He thrusted his dick in the air when she turned around again. She held her index finger and thumb close together and mouthed the word “tiny” to him. Bitch! She turned around to talk more to the scrawny dude at her side.

“...only like eight inches and a half right now. We’ll see where he’s at after lunchtime, then do a follow-up at dinner...” Eight inches ain’t all that bad, babe, and— Wait a second. Eight inches? Last he knew he was six and change! There was no way...

He pumped it to fully plump then let it buck and twitch in the open air. How was this fucking possible? It was almost certainly longer. Definitely thicker. It looked twice as thick, even! He grunted wordlessly in protest about how it was going misused on his hand. Still...

This can’t be happening! What is going on?? All I wanted to do was go to Boston with my—

Something in his brain popped. It was like a sneeze. He now felt completely at ease about his growing cock. Of course it was growing! He was one of God’s American soldiers! His enemy was female misbehavior. The only weapon he needed in this fight was a big scolding dick. He was happy to be getting his. Finally! It was only... natural, or so.

Now that he knew he was growing, he convinced himself that he could feel it happening. The goth girl kept assessing his johnson. “...subject believes he can discern the incremental expansion of...” Tucker’s sac was now basically whining at him: “We need to pollinate a production-line pussy. NOW.”

He wanted hers, strange as it felt to admit it. He just knew she had the kind of pussy a guy had to conquer, like climbing a mountain, or reading more than a couple pages without getting a headache....

“...going to have him keep up with his vigorous masturbation for a short while longer, to aid in the application of new elastin, veins, and spongy tissue, on and around his... penis.” She stopped her tape recorder and continued to her companion. The pause spoke volumes. Tucker’s prong surged. It felt loved.

“Fuck! I always have such ding-dong trouble not calling a cock a cock, hahaha... Anyhow, he may not like doing so now,” she said to her colleague, “but he’ll be happy with how firm it will be, and he’s gonna love how much he’ll be able to produce...“

The frustration and anger he was feeling made blood rush between his temples, drowning out all outside sound. How could they control how long he masturbated for? This was some weird-ass X-Files shit!

He seethed. It’s my dick! “...for other bullboy initiate trial subjects exhibiting similar levels of progress. Sexy-Science-Girly, Angel Miss Al E. Sinbegon reporting at—” she hopped up and turned around to look at the clock.

She winked at him again upon catching him ogling her boobs. They looked really good, really shapely—and really, really big—but she was wearing a black turtleneck, so he was unfortunately privy to her mortal sinning. “1:13 a.m., February 14.“

“Accelerated muscle development is a slight concern, but my hot little research assistant, Ms. Sexy-Science-Girly Cum-Dum Dum-Belle Suxalott, has already properly notified Man Plan HQ of a necessity for subject’s wardrobe adjustment.”

She paused, heaving loud. She started to go “mmmm” but stopped herself. “Libido seems perfectly fine, oscillating within the correct parameters for a male in Our Family Way—safely between ‘demanding’ and ‘craven’, and the boundaries of reason. My SlitSonar was able to”—big, wet, girly sigh -“ssssufficiently absorb and” —sshhlurrrrp—

Miss Al cleared her throat. It sounded wet, packed with huge new reserves of gluey spit. “Excushe me. All apolo-Jesus and Brittany, together forever. Amen... May the Church Country Council of BullBoner Intrigue & GuyGoo Studlies Nu-S.A. forgive my lapse in decency with regards to official records as they pertain to any and all Hot-n-Healthy Dick-scusssion and AngelFresh Ass-Pray-sals...”

“I will also add that the preceding recorded information on this microcassette ought not ne’ssarily reflect my supersexual health, as a slutty-butt booty-servant in God’s Government. And so...”

“’I wiggle my rump for a hottie to pump, so it can grow so tasty and plump. I jiggle my tits and lube up my naughty bits. Brittany gave my body eleven unique All-American clits: a man must find and worship them, or I’ll lose my dang wits!’”

Tucker’s heart as starting to sink. Even though it felt nice that this little dyke had a crush on him, everything he could understand from what she was saying sounded... ominous. What on earth was going on? Was he some kind of a lab rat? It sure felt like it.

“It is with utmost apolo-Jesus and sincerest, unyielding shame that I appeal to the council with the proper introduction, as developed by Buttzie B.B. Boobiizbigg, hallowed founder of St. Brittany’s School of Sciencey Babe-Stuff. Little oh-em-gee, I guess it’s me: Sexy-Science-Girly, Angel Miss Al E. Sinbegone...”

Better jack off harder! It reminded him of that book... with that dumb dude... “Flowers For Dummies” or whatnot... “It’s okay,” Miss Al’s douchebag dude-friend said. It was charming at the least, that a man was trying to console a woman. “You keep going.“

“All I wish to say is that I am well aware how uncivilized and unprofessional it is to conduct official science-tastic studlies with such a heavy Spittany-slush buildup. But I can also say, with the buttmost confidence, that I excel at fuckin’ sucking cock, and I don’t let a day go by without meeting a cherub’s five-a-day minimum.

I simply couldn’t contain my... excitey-ness at getting to be part of this fine specimen’s transformation in truth. Pretty soon, he’ll have the yummiest lolly a bimbo-slut could ever hope to lick. Okay. Now. Back to said test subject: ‘Hillbilly Hiccups’ seem to be nil to negligible, however—memory flare-ups have been detected.

“Subject seems physically reluctant to pick up crucial and defining Dairy-DNA at this time: namely drawl, slack-jaw, and dental realignment—though there appears to be some latent indication of future buck-tooth and/or overbite development potentiality, which, of course, bodes well for subject’s overall health an’, um... sank-y... tits. Sank... sanctity!”

“I will ’quest that another checkup be performed after subject has utilized the proper Country Teefers brand realignment tools and gum softeners for, at least, the fourteen day period encouraged. This I sluttily swear, by the cum stuck in my hair: Hottyboxing Project Gamma-jamma is a G.O.”

Miss Al hit stop. “What else?” Tucker looked at the guy shrug through Nora’s compact mirror. He was spying, sure, but he was mostly interested in getting a peek at Miss Al’s angel-mams. One that was worth a damn.

He couldn’t tell, really, but it kind of looked like her nipples were erect. All of this: tit size, cock size, fucking, tit fucking, etc., was becoming gravely vital to his well-being, in ways that weren’t ever a fraction as important, even when he was fourteen.

Miss Al shared some personal speculation. Were they not aware he was right there?? “It’ll be interesting to see how much his valentine will appreciate her cro-magnon’s brand new schlong. I still stickin’ with what I done say—I reckon he’ll be fully converted long before that freedom-hatin’ fiancee of his.“

“Granted, she’s a fuller, fleshier C cup now, but skinny-slitty’s still a dang C!” Tucker frowned. She certainly had a point. Why was Nora growing so slowly?

“Homeboy’s makin’ something of his Christian destiny. He’s jacking off just like he’s programmed. He’s getting all mean and manly and stern and suckab—” —ssschhhlurrphhh—

—ssssrrbbbppp— He awoke, feeling drunk or drugged, to the two giggling blondies working his cock with their fat white donks in the air. Nora happily chomped on her second or third burger and looked on.

She couldn’t keep from laughing when the one with pigtails choked a tiny bit as she took him all the way down her throat, crying a little, beet red from the pressure.

Nora sent a stoner’s grin to him as the pearshaped bumpkin pair blew her man gorgeous. “We still fixin’ to stop this hicksville porno bus ride?” she asked him, half-heartedly.

In the sluggish haze of regaining consciousness, of time moving blurry and pink, slow and fast, he didn’t realize she was dancing next to their booth now. More like bobbling.

A fry cook with a paper hat had taken his girlfriend, actually, was pounding her from behind. She could barely stand. He was about to get up and get angry, but then the blonde cocksucker with the cornrows pressed down on his abdomen, gargled “nuh-uh.”

She eased him back to seat, heading back down for his balls. His shaft twitched and surged in Pigtails’ absurd, flounder style DSLs. “Uhhh,” he finally answered, never having felt as good in his life. “...yes. Let’s...” What was the word? “...go.”

Nora struggled to hang onto the open page in her tattered copy of FFCUP magazine. Her tits looked three times as big as they did mere minutes ago, hanging freely, fatly, and dribbling milk onto the glossy paper.

“Wellllll,” she purred, her porky new jugs jostling and spraying as the young and hung yokel quickened and deepened his action. “Brooks here done told me ’bout a coupon in my story book for a free two-year contract for a condom in Cherub Cove, he tellin’ me it’s like five minutes walkin’ distances.”

“What!” Tucker barked, stuffing some digits up Cornrows. It made her drool so much that he could feel it flow down his taint. It filled him with resolve. “St. Brittany says NO cunny-ception!“

Brooks yanked his cock out of Nora for a second, and batted it against her ass. The pillowy new behind had busted through her skirt completely, once and for all. “Mister, yer lady’s just simple and bein’ female. She means condo minimum.”

“Yeah!” Nora chirped, perking up. “s’what I said! Mini condom-o’s!” She sauntered toward Tucker, the rest of her clothes ripping and falling off her, in the half dozen paces it took to bend down and rub the shoulders of Cornrows and Pigtails as they rounded third.

Now, she was wearing nothing but that light-up cola collar again, and clear five-inch wedge heels, replete with a running trail of pink LED lights pulsating along the soles. “Plus, you and me gon’ git all our food all paid for, and a girl each, too.” She gestured to the booty blondes.

“That’ll help with the baby.” Nora gently patted her carb-distended little pooch. Tucker popped his cockhead out of Pigtails and exploded on his female’s face. She giggled. “That’s right, hon. I’m fucking preggo!”

With the force of a rhino, he ran up to the fry cook and punched his lights out, still jizzing. “Baby!” Nora mewed, unsticking her lips and eyes open, gripping his shin and starting to peel off his socks. “Oh, baby-wayby. It’s your’n, you moe-rawn!”

He softened a bit, and spanked her nevertheless. “Dang straight,” he said. “I reckons we can stay. I can’t even ’member where we was goin’ anyhow. Just as long as we don’t get back on that crazy-ass hyper-tism sex bus, am I right? I felt like it was controllin’ us, for real.”

He tore off the rest of his shirt, whipped his belt off, and unconsciously handed his and Nora’s discarded tatters to the butt girls, who promptly tossed them in an old metal garbage can. They threw the couple’s luggage into it, too, lit a match, threw it in, and giggled.

“Ah guh-gree,” Nora spat, burping up second-hand spunk. “Dat bus was, like, transformerin’ me into some kinda trail-y trashy bimbo slut. And I’m a good girl!“

“You shoor is, sweetmeat,” he drawled, pushing her, hooters first, against the window for the departing bus to see. He struggled with all his might to make a mental note to tell Nora that was going to be her name from now on. He would be Bigg Fuck. The extra G meant extra big.

The driver gave the couple a thumbs up and waved. Sweetmeat smiled, beaming, all cum-toothy, and gave that bus the finger, her gigantic tits stuck smooshed to the dirty glass, giving the old window a nice swirly bath with her bimbo milk. Bigg Fuck patted her wet head. “You shoooor is.“

“We fuckin’ did it, babe!” she delighted, taking Bigg Fuck’s bronco cock in, way deep. He stayed hard and was still spouting ejaculate as he entered his pet hole.

“They tried to humili-bate us, but we schooled they asses! They thought-ed they was gonna make breedin’ machines outta you an’ me, darlin’, but we, ummmm...” Sweetmeat was losing her breath, the wind pounded out of her by ten inches of animal pole.

“Suh-serious, it’s just like my best bitch Stuffannii say: if ya cain’t suck ’em, ff—”

Bigg Fuck reached forward and shut her up with the broad palm of his craggy new hand. He didn’t even care about the jizz oozing out of her cunt, had just shoved it in without heed.

It was the right choice. They were in charge of their own destiny now. He was confident they both could go all night.