The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Animal Husbandry

Codes: mc md mf ff in be

Synopsis: With the help of a partner, the protagonist from Cleaning Time and Dogged in the Dirt begins expanding his sample size of experimental subjects.

* * *
Dear reader:

Just a note: I don’t actually advocate for the bleak and extreme views about women held by the men in this story. The author’s beliefs differ from those of the narrator and Harlan.

Also, don’t read this story if even brief mentions of God and the Bible are a dealbreaker, a mood killer, or angering. They’re essential to the plot, and I keep it minimal, but it’s still in there.

With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy this story of nonconsensual sexual slavery, mother-daughter incest, and bestiality. Drop me a line at if you do. Drop me a line if you don’t. And constructive criticism—including ideas for improving my writing and where this scenario might go—is especially welcome.

Adam Lily

P.S. See a note at the end of the story for an exciting announcement.

* * *

“I cannot wait to get that beast between my legs again.”

Diet soda churned up my nose and the ditch swerved a bit too close. “What?”

My wife grinned. “Albion. Horseback riding. It’s been too long.”

Oh. Lewd on purpose. Phew.

“You’re a little petite to tackle a horse,” I observed. “Especially one of Albion’s proportions.”

“Ew,” she said, and she punched my arm. She was smiling, though.

“You started this. ”

“And I’m ending it. Fucking a monkey”—she flicked my ear—“is more than enough for this little gal.”

I smiled. My wife was normally demure, but when happy, she could be inappropriate. Why was she happy today?

Partly it was the weather: early spring, sunny, breezy and earthy smells. Partly it was the destination: an immense acreage, distant and secluded and owned by friends. Mostly, though, it was the purpose: My wife loved riding horses. She’s a small woman, and riding such large creatures gave her a thrill like no other.

But she was also feeling good because I’d tweaked her nanites just enough to put her in a state of persistent and mild arousal. The sensation would steadily mount until dinnertime.

“Yes!” said my wife. “Nearly there!”

Our car crunched up a long gravel road, past fields and structures that once supported generations of cows, horses, and pigs. The property was largely empty, now, save for a few bulls, stallions, and boars. My wife pointed out Albion, her favorite brown stallion, in the distance. After several minutes, we reached a house: two-story, wood-sided, white-painted, asphalt-shingled nineteenth-century beauty.

The first time I visited the house, the owner—his name is Harlan—gave me a tour. Five bedrooms, two baths, spacious kitchen, sizeable living room, a tornado shelter, and a root cellar. The envy it conjured up. My wife and I live in the suburbs of a large nearby city. A crummy less-than-petit-bourgeois dismality of a house is all we can afford.

We exited the car to the scents of shrubs and a hint of large herbivore. I admired my short, fit wife stretching. She’d let her auburn hair grow long, and it flowed over her red-and-black flannel. Dark blue jeans hugged her bottom and thighs. On her feet were worn-out pink-and-white cross-training shoes. She blessed me with an enormous, freckled grin.

Lord, my wife was lovely. I liked her in clothes almost as much as I liked her out of them.

Out of the house came Harlan and Bonnie. Harlan was in his early 60s. White hair, tightly cropped; eyes of an Arctic blue; skin seasoned by decades outdoors. Slender and strong as a young oak.

I liked Harlan. And I trusted him. That was vital, given our plans.

Bonnie, Harlan’s wife, was in her early 40s. Despite her age, she was a looker. Long straw-blonde hair, ample bosom, firm derriere, long and strong, all poured into a denim shirt, blue jeans, and (really) cowboy boots. Ranch life had been as good for her fitness as it had been to Harlan’s.

Only the slight pad beneath Bonnie’s chin signaled that the meat had begun to pull away from her bones.

“So good to see you again,” said Bonnie, her tall curviness hugging my wife’s petit frame. “You’ve brought lovely weather.”

“Not just weather,” said my wife. Up went two bottles of wine. “Libations, too.”

“Bless you,” said Bonnie. “This will go WUN-derful with dinner.”

My wife looked up at the second floor. “Brit’s here, right?”

“Yep,” said Bonnie. “Short visit from college.”

Almost on cue, the porch door banged and out came Brit. In body, she was a younger version of her mother: straw-blonde hair, ample bosom, strong rear and legs, tight frame. Unlike her mother, though, she preferred clothes of comfort: a loose-fitting college T-shirt, dark sweatpants, and canvas sneakers. Where Bonnie was fully made-up and coiffed, Brit wore no makeup and her hair was loosely tied back. If we hadn’t met her previously, I’d have assumed she was just the typical sallow and sour college girl.

But sallow and sour was not Brit, who bounced down to greet us. “Guys! Hello!”

My wife hugged her. “College girl looks wonderful,” she said. “No ‘freshman fifteen’ for you.”

Bonnie tsked. “How can you tell? Beneath those frumpy clothes.”

“It’s in her face. So strong. Also, the hug. Body like a swimmer!”

“I do swim. And farm girls eat properly,” said Brit. “No processed shit.”

“Language,” intoned Harlan.

“Wish I’d known that,” said my wife. “I puffed out like a soufflé my first two years.”

“You looked all right to me,” I said.

“You’re have to say that.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” Bonnie offered.

“The woman,” said Harlan authoritatively, “always wins.”

We shared differently knowing chuckles at that.

Bonnie and Brit looked in fine health. That was good, because over the last year they’d had some days when they really dragged. That was my doing. The previous spring I’d dosed mother and daughter with nanite colonies, just like my wife had. (With Harlan’s consent, of course.) Gradually, my little machines built empires using nutrients plundered from the women’s bodies. Two weeks ago, the nanites sent out the message: we’re established, and the women are ready. Robust, even. Which was good. They’d need that robustness soon.

The three woman walked up to the home, gabbing excitedly about . . . well, whatever women gab excitedly about. Harlan and I walked behind, just out of earshot.

I asked, “How are they today?”

“Good,” said Harlan. “Especially good, actually. Is that you?”

I nodded. As with my wife, my nanites were dialing up Bonnie and Brit’s arousal.

“Amazing stuff,” said Harlan. “Practically magic.”

“Technology. No magic.”

“That’s good. I’d have to kill you, otherwise.” He let that hang, then smiled. “‘A necromancer shall surely be put to death.’”

I tensed. “Harlan—”

Still smiling, he clapped a firm but polite hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s not magic. And I know you don’t believe. That’s fine. It wouldn’t do to have Heaven crowded. I like my open spaces.”

“Kind of you to indulge the damned.”

“Some of my best friends are damned.” I relaxed a bit.

Bonnie called from the porch. “Boys! Breakfast!”

“Just a moment, dear,” said Harlan. “The men are talking.”

Bonnie cackled. “Oh, ‘the men are talking.’ Yes, very important matters, I’m sure.” Walking inside, she called out, “Ladies, did you know that ‘The men are talking’? Oh, yes, ‘the men are talking.’” Happy female laughter in response.

“So,” said Harlan.

“I want to make sure. That this is what you want.”

Harlan nodded.

I pressed. “There’s no coming back. You understand? I could kill the tech now. They’d flush out of their systems in a week. We just have a nice evening.”

“Just because I’m a simple ranch owner doesn’t mean I’m slow, friend. I know what we’re doing.”

I laughed. “It’s hardly that. Simple and slow doesn’t retire filthy rich in his 50s.”

“I’m more blessed than smart,” he said. Then he acknowledged. “But I have smarts, too.”

“Right. Okay. So—you’re positive. This is where you want to go.”

Harlan sniffed. “I am. For my wife, my daughter, the future—this is something I have to do. That we have to do. I’m certain.”

“Okay,” I said. “All right.”

“This evening?”

“This evening.”

“Good,” said Harlan. He stared at the house and sighed. “That’ll give me a little time to say goodbye.”

“Before you say hello again.”

Bonnie’s voice, shriller. “Boys! Breakfast! Whatever ‘the men are talking about’ will wait!”

“We’re done,” called Harlan. “We’re on our way.”

* * *

Harlan and I are obviously pretty different, him with his God crap and me with my atheism. So how had we met?

The God-fearer and the atheist had connected a few years ago online on a site devoted to a passion of ours—the proper roles of men and women. Early chats exposed our common convictions. Further contact made us realize our motivations were quite different.

Harlan’s were Biblically based, depending on a literalist reading of Genesis—the Garden, God making Adam from dust, then making Eve from one of Adam’s ribs. This had led Harlan to the conclusion—surprisingly common among Biblical literalists—that women don’t actually have souls: only men do. That’s why men have to lead women. Without souls, women cannot express God’s will. Without God’s will, women cannot manage themselves (or anything else). Only men have what it takes. Only men can manifest and shepherd God’s vision for mankind.

That’s our burden, Harlan had said. Dominion over women and society and all of nature. It’s a terrible responsibility, man’s burden, but it has to be borne.

Such crap. Men’s domination of women was the outcome of evolution. Men have strength, reasoning, foresight, all of which women genetically lack. But human society had upended the natural roles of men and women. Without men leading and women following, our world was crumbling, and it needed to be put right. On that Harlan and I agreed: men and women needed to return to their proper roles and relationships to each other.

Harlan’s religious convictions led me to trust him enough to tell him about my private explorations. He’s a man of his word, and after I extracted a vow of secrecy, I told him everything—the nanites, my wife, and the profitable camming of her fucking with Gunther. Further discussion led to my vision: experimentation on a broader sample size than my wife. I even told Harlan about my plan to obtain a woman who jogged daily in an isolated park—a woman who conveniently jogged with her Great Dane.

That woman, of course, was Gwen, whom I’d tacitly infected with airborne nanites. The first test had gone extremely well—she’d raped her confused dog on that lonely dirt road—but the project fell apart once I’d learned Gwen was an FBI agent specializing in (get this) sex crimes and bestiality. I ditched Gwen fucking a mastiff in a public park for everyone to see. I also set her to go into heat whenever she encountered a male dog of any size, both as a reward for her troubles and a punishment for her FBI work.

I occasionally checked in on Gwen. She’d lost her job and never left her house. She’d stopped exercising and gained a ridiculous amount of weight. Interestingly, though, Arthur still lived with her.

Anyway. Harlan and I had talked about the Gwen failure. We agreed that the main precondition for exploring my interests was seclusion, isolation. I couldn’t just be experimenting with chained-up women in my basement, not if I wanted a reasonably normal domestic life.

I’ve already suggested my ranch as a compound. What d’you think now?

I pointed out that Harlan had a wife who lived with him and a daughter who would visit from college. Hard to believe they’d assent to a stranger experimenting on sluts in their barns and fields.

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them. Your project might be a solution to a problem I’ve been mulling over for a couple decades, now.

And that’s how Harlan and I came to agree that his ranch—New Eden—would be my base of operations. I would figure out how to remake women and therefore society. It would start, now, today, with Harlan’s wife and daughter, with my wife as an unwitting co-conspirator.

* * *

I pride myself on being patient, but the day up to dinner dragged like hell.

A gut-stuffing breakfast: eggs, sausage, bacon, waffles, orange juice, fresh fruit. How Brit kept off the freshman fifteen, I have no idea.

Early morning. My wife and Bonnie rode around the acreage, Brit studied chemistry, and Harlan and I fished at his pond. It didn’t help my impatience that I caught two fish to Harlan’s fifteen.

At one o’clock we shared a light lunch. The women were bubblier than in the morning. Then Bonnie and my wife went on a hike (“We’re feeling pretty frisky today!”) and Brit went for a long, long run (“Just need to clear my head.”).

I consulted one of my apps. Yep. My nanites were doing their thing.

While our women were gone, Harlan and I strolled the grounds and confirmed our plans for the ladies.

By four o’clock, everyone was back in the house. Bonnie and my wife were relaxing on the couch (“It’s the loveliest day you could imagine”). An exhausted yet exhilarated Brit (“That was the best run I’ve had in months!”) showered off her stink.

Harlan and I were on the porch, sipping iced tea. I admired the house and acreage, and told him so. Which I then regretted, because he handed me this: “‘For every house is built by someone, but the builder of all things is God.’”

Ugh. “You’ve got one for everything.”

Harlan considered. “‘Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them.’”

“And now you’re showing off.”

He laughed. “That’s what I just said.”

I respected Harlan, but he really needed to shut the fuck up about the God stuff. “Look. If we’re going to build this thing, I need less of that in my face.”

“Ah,” said Harlan. “So, ‘when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.’”

“And that means?”

“I can keep it to myself. In fact, it’s preferred. By Him.”

“For once, He and I are on the same page, then.”

Late afternoon. Bonnie cooked, Harlan tinkered on an old truck, Brit retreated to study. I wondered about the daughter’s focus. Based on what my app was showing, I wagered the girl’s mind kept drifting from chemistry to biology.

My wife wheedled me into taking a short horseback ride. We took a gentle path around the edge of the acreage. My wife rode slightly ahead. I admired how her fit, tight rump and hard thighs echoed Albion’s.

She was a little squirmier than usual. “Whoo. Today’s hot, right? You feel hot today?”

It was in the high sixties. “Not me.”

“I’m sweating like crazy.”

“Menopause,” I offered.


“I’m not allowed to suggest it?”


“Even though it might be true?”



“You know exactly why.” She flashed a grin that reminded me of a chimp.

That was partly why women drove me a little crazy. The double standard about truth. Why did it matter whose mouth said it?

But whatever. I liked my wife. Loved her, even.

Our horses traversed the gentle trails, my wife going slow so we could chat. We had the pleasant exchanges of a couple who felt equally at ease talking about anything or not talking at all. What a gift. And from what I could tell, Harlan and Bonnie had a similar relationship, one based on mutual trust, respect, and admiration.

Which was great and all. But when the hell would dinner get here?

Then a bell, a signal: Food was ready, come on home.

“I guess we’re done,” sighed my wife. She wanted to keep riding.

Finally, I thought. Let’s get this moving.

* * *

As Bonnie, Brit, and my wife prepared the dinner table, I perused the living room. Lots of family photos. One of Harlan and Bonnie caught my eye. He looked about 40, she 20. What a lovely young woman Bonnie had been. Long pigtail braids of thick blonde hair tied off with rubber bands. Radiant, healthful skin. Tight gingham shirt bursting with ample farm-girl bosom. Blue jean cutoffs that looked impossible to remove but well worth the time and effort to do so.

My god. To have gotten her then, before the wear of age and breeding. I hoped Harlan had made good and regular use of her.

On a stand by a chair was a well-worn Bible so old I was almost afraid to touch it. But I opened it. The front listed generations of Bonnie’s family back to the early 1800s. And the birth locations: Kentucky, Tennessee, South Carolina, Mississippi. Hm.

Oh. And, based on the most recent entries, Bonnie had siblings. Two sisters and one brother, all younger. I hadn’t thought to ask, and neither Harlan, Bonnie, nor Brit had volunteered the information. Relatives could be trouble later.

“Goes back aways, doesn’t it?” Bonnie had come up behind me.

I put the Bible down. “Yeah, it does. It’s kind of amazing.”

“There are even earlier generations of my family in this country. One came on the Mayflower.

“These places,” I said. “These states. You mentioned your family has always had wealth. I’m sorry to pry, but—”

She said it plainly. “My family owned slaves. A shameful thing. I pray on it all the time. God’s justice always comes. I know it will come for my family, some day.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“We’re ready,” called Brit. “Wine’s poured.”

The dining table held simple fare: Fish from Harlan’s pond, lemoned and parsleyed; glowing green steamed broccoli from Bonnie’s garden; handmade rolls. And of course, five shimmering glasses of white wine. We gathered and sat.

My wife joked to Harlan, “You’re promoting underage drinking.”

“She’s a college girl. I’m sure she’s encountered spirits before. Her mother certainly had by that age.” Bonnie blushed.

Harlan stood, glass raised. “My friends, a toast on this fine spring evening.”

We raised our glasses. In my left hand I held my wine. In my right, beneath the table, was my phone, app at the ready.

“To my lovely wife, whom I hope to keep forever.”

Bonnie beamed, likely envisioning years to come with a loving husband.

“To my brilliant, hard-working daughter. The future will bring many changes, but you will always remain my little girl.”

Brit basked, doubtless thinking her father was referring to “changes” such as her studies, career, future loves, and children.

“And to our friends,” said Harlan. “May all your endeavors succeed.”

Yes, please.

And then we drank, drank deeply. As soon as the women set down their glasses my thumb hit the screen.

Ringed around Harlan’s ranch, thirty-two transmitters flared to life. Trillions of nanites sang. And three women abruptly became what women are supposed to be.

“Um,” said my wife. Her shoulders slumped, her mouth fell open. For a moment she went away. And then a moment later she came back. Sort of. Her lax smile and drooped eyelids signaled that someone else was looking through her eyes, now.

Bonnie and Brit, in contrast, inhaled sharply and sat up straight as if stung.

“Harlan—” said Bonnie.

“Pa—” said Brit. “Ma. I feel really weird.”

“It’s okay, my loves,” said Harlan. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise you.”

Anxiety without understanding crossed their faces. Mother and daughter shakily took each other’s hands across the table. They looked at each other, seeking connection, understanding, and help.

What did they know? Could they see the other swirling away? See her flushing down the drain and something new rushing in to fill the hole?

A hand on my crotch. My wife, massaging my hardness. “Hey, luvvver,” she said. That slight drunken slur. So hot. “Playtime?”

“You know it, sweetie. And I’ve got some playmates.” I nodded over to Harlan’s women. They’d stopped looking at each other and were staring off into nothing. Their brows twitched slightly, ripples of the confusion that would die soon. But they were still holding hands.

My wife’s eyes widened. “Oh, yummy. Are they mine? Can I have them?”

I looked at my host. “Harlan?”

He nodded.

My wife drunkenly shuffled over to Harlan’s wife and planted a deep kiss on her lips. Then she snaked her hand beneath Bonnie’s shirt to play with her nipple. Bonnie gasped. And then began kissing my wife back. And back some more. And then she began to squirm.

Harlan was smiling. His expression, tainted only by alcohol (not nanites), told me he was enjoying this immensely.

Bonnie let go of Brit’s hand and cupped one of my wife’s breasts through her shirt. My wife planted baby-breath kisses across Bonnie’s lips. “Oh, you’re gonna be fun,” she said. “Gonna eat you up.”

Bonnie smiled dumbly. Squeezed my wife’s tit. Ran her thumb over a nipple. My wife plunged her tongue into Bonnie’s mouth. Bonnie responded by gripping my wife’s head and returning the kiss just as deeply.

Time to tease Harlan. “So . . . doesn’t the Bible condemn this kind of thing? Isn’t it an abomination?”

He chuckled. “Only after the Fall. In the Garden, this was sanctioned.”

“Last I checked, we were still in the fallen world.”

“We are. But they aren’t. They’re no longer fallen, at least not in mind and purpose. You’ve just done a beautiful thing: You’ve launched them back into Eden. They’ve shot past the flaming sword, back into innocence.”

Ugh. Christians can rationalize anything.

My wife turned toward Brit. “Oh, this one’s even yummier.” In she went, doing to the daughter what she had just done to the mother. Quickly, my wife and the rancher’s daughter were kissing like long-lost lovers, nipples hardening from the eager touches of the other’s fingers.

Bonnie unbuttoned my wife’s shirt. One button. Two, three, four . . . my wife’s flannel hung open, her pale white midsection exposed. Bonnie expertly tweaked the clasp of my wife’s frontloader bra. My wife’s pert little boobs bounced out, her nipples as hard and high as if she’d dipped them in snow.

“My boobies’re free for you,” said my wife. “Boobies for you.”

“Boobies for me,” said Bonnie. A similar smiled slur of speech.

“Boobies so good,” giggled Brit.

“Look how perky,” my wife said, swaying them back and forth. “My bubbies, standing up for you.”

Bonnie and Brit each took one of my wife’s breasts in hand and sank their tongues into her ears. She squealed as mother and daughter nibbled her earlobes, massaged her titflesh, pulled her nipples. My wife reciprocated by clumsily unbuttoning her new lovers’ shirts. (For dinner, Brit had switched into a nice, demur button-down.)

Gradually, each woman lost her shirt and bra completely. Bonnie’s went first. Her tits looked great in the bra, but they flounced out and down far more than I approved of. Even ten feet away I could see motherhood’s trauma—the white zigzags of stretchmarks, the toughened and elongated nipples. The truth is that pregnancy and feeding turn all breasts, no matter how lovely, into udders.

My thoughts must have played across my face, because Harlan tsked. “Be kind, friend. That’s my wife you’re judging.”

My wife’s shirt and bra came off completely. Her breasts were still high and firm and unblemished. Lucky woman, not being able to have children. She would thank me. Nearly flawless.

Except, then, Brit went topless, and I remembered what “flawless” actually looked like. High. Firm. Round. When my wife squeezed Brit’s boobs, they largely kept their shape, becoming delightfully oblong, veins bluing up in her areolae, nipples flushing dark and full.

Back to my wife. She pressed her palms against Bonnie and Brit’s heads and pushed them down. Mother and daughter knelt at either side of the woman in the chair. Then my wife pulled the pair to her chest. Without resistance, mother and daughter each took a breast in her mouth.

“Yeah, lovers,” my wife muttered. “Suck ’em good. Suck my titties hard—Oh, FUCK yes!” She tossed her head back and chewed her lower lip.

Harlan stood and pulled back the table. The full tableau made plain: My wife on the chair, her arms holding mother and daughter tight against her chest. The two women feeding earnestly on my wife, who was grinding her cunt on the seat of the chair.

“My cunny,” she grunted. “Touch it. Do it. Touch my cunny.”

Harlan raised an eyebrow. “Cunny?”

I shrugged. “I like the word. So does she. Isn’t that right, love?”

My wife ground her cunny harder. “Love anything at all—GODDAMN, yes.”

As ordered, each woman massaged my wife’s crotch through her jeans.

“Sorry about the blasphemy,” I said.

He shrugged. “She’ll have to answer to her Maker.”

It occurred to me that I was her Maker—all their Makers, really. They looked pretty good in My sight.

“Yours won’t be able to blaspheme,” I assured him. “Thought of that.”

“Obliged, friend. I’d hate for them to offend the Lord.”

“Go fucking under it,” my wife gasped. “Under my jeans. My panties. Touch it. Touch my cunny.”

Bonnie and Brit awkwardly pushed their hands under my wife’s waistband. No progress. My wife’s breasts fell out of their mouths as they turned to focus on her crotch. The ladies pulled down her jeans and dull white cotton panties just enough to expose her trimmed pussy. Their fingers roamed the folds of her labia, sampling her warm and pink wetness. They tapped at her clit.

My wife’s breaths came in little bursts. “Gentle. Gentle. No hurry, lovers. It’s playtime.”

And then my wife pushed the ladies’ heads close to each other.

“Show me,” she said. “Show me how much mommy and daughter love each other.”

Bonnie and Brit smiled and kissed. And kissed. And kissed more deeply.

“Oh, gosh. Gosh, do I love you, baby,” breathed Bonnie.

“I love you more, Mommy,” mumbled Brit. “Golly, yes I do.” And the women returned to kissing as their gentle fingers explored my wife’s sex.

Harlan retrieved two beers from the refrigerator. “Good stuff, your wine. But I prefer something down-home.”

“Amen to that.” Our bottles clinked.

We drank and watched. My wife pulled the kissing women’s hands from her pussy and made them stand. Mother and daughter were into it now, lost in each other’s touch and taste and scent, happy hands discovering each other. Bonnie moved more quickly, her tongue running along her daughter’s neck, in her ears, and then down to her breasts. First light kisses. Then flicks of the tongue. Then slight, delicate love bites. Brit squealed and pushed her tits out farther. Do it, mommy, she whispered. Bite your baby’s big titties.

Meanwhile, my wife removed their boots. Then their socks. And with considerable pulling, their jeans and underwear. Mother and daughter were fully nude, now, flesh pressing, fully lost in discovering the other’s body. Without prompting, each woman’s hand found her partner’s crotch. I heard slick sounds.

My wife lightly slapped Brit’s hard, high ass and smiled. “Did I do good, chief?”

“Yep. But why the hell are you still wearing anything? Get it off.”

“‘Right away, Sir,’ she said, saluting. Such weird quirks the slut persona had developed. Off came the gym shoes, jeans, sad cotton panties.

“A fine specimen,” said Harlan. “It’s a pity you can’t breed her.”

My wife jolted as if shocked. “Oh, yes.”

I was confused. “What? Breeding you?”

She spread her legs wider. She touched herself. “Say it again.”

I hesitated, then said, “Breeding you.”


“Like an animal.”


“Like livestock.”

My wife’s legs wobbled, and she fell to her knees. Yes, she hissed.

“Breed you like a sow.”

Sounds of unintelligible assent.

“Full you with piglets.”

Hollering, my wife plopped her head to the floor and frigged herself.

“Um,” I said. “Okay, slow down. No cumming. You know that.”

She whimpered, but she did as told. Her hand slowed to a playful yet sustaining tempo.

Harlan said, “This a surprise?”

“Yeah. I mean, this persona of hers—it’s still kind of a person. And over time it develops preferences. She develops preferences. You can’t predict them always. Yours will, too.”

Harlan nodded. “We talked about this.”

“Right. But this is a really strong reaction. I guess the idea of being bred”—moan— “is a real turn-on for her. All her own.”

“You said she wanted children. . . .”

“Yeah. Must be an outgrowth of that. I had no idea.”

“You should talk to your wife more. It’s good to know what a wife likes.”

I shot Harlan a look.

“I’m just sayin’. This might be kind of a pickle for you.”

“Not really,” I said. “Even if she wants it, it’s not happening. It’s not possible.”

We’d never be able to have children. While her alternate personality had been out, I’d gotten her fixed. She’d thought it’d all been some wonderful game involving doctors and gas and little knives.

“Again, a shame. Considering what’s to come.”

What’s to come. Harlan and his apocalyptic long game. My own focus was on tonight.

“C’mon, wifey,” I said. “Hop to. There’s more to do.” She rose, flushed, panting, attentive. I nodded at Harlan. Your turn.

“Okay,” said Harlan, addressing my wife. “Take the older one to the nearest barn. Keep each other warm. Don’t do anything else.”

Bonnie and Brit reluctantly let my wife separate them. Hand-in-hand, completely naked, my wife and Bonnie exited the house into the darkness, walking a football field’s length into the barn.

Harlan continued. “Young’un. You come here.” His strong, calloused hand took Brit’s slender, soft one, and they walked off into the living room. Murmurs of instruction. Gentle assents. Naked feet padding up wooden stairs. Harlan returned, glowing. “She’ll join us shortly.”

“All right,” I said, sipping my beer. “Let’s give your wife what she really wants.”

* * *

Harlan and I entered a darkened barn. It was cool—maybe 50 degrees, slowly growing chillier, so we had pulled on coats. We couldn’t see the women, but we could hear them. Harlan flipped a switch and the barn exploded in a freezing white fluorescent light.

My wife and Bonnie were standing, kissing, pulling at each other, breasts bulging sidelong, pudendae grinding. Both were no doubt cold, but I doubt they felt anything but each other.

Twenty feet behind the women was Albion. My wife’s favorite horse. He blinked. He took in the scene, his big horse eyes seeing everything, understanding nothing.

“Lover,” I said. “Look over there. I’ve brought you someone new to play with.”

My wife looked. Then squealed. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Yep. His name’s Albion.” I’d never brought my bimbo-wife out to play at Harlan’s before, so this persona didn’t know Albion. “What do you think?”

“Oh my God. For me?”

“Not just you,” I said. “You have to share. With your friend Bonnie, here. Can you do that?”

“Of course. Bonnie, does that sound good? Sharing Albion with you?”

“Whatever,” mumbled Bonnie, kissing my wife’s neck. “Sure, sounds great.”

“C’mon,” my wife said. “Let’s go play.”

My wife knelt beneath Albion and pulled Bonnie with her. “Now, Bonnie. D’you like horseys?”

Bonnie looked confused. “Well . . . yeah, I like horseys. All girls like horseys.”

“Noooo,” said my wife. “I mean, d’you really like horseys? Like, love them?”

Bonnie started to follow. “Oh, you mean, like, LOVE, love horseys?”

My wife leaned over, at once lightly kissing Bonnie and taking Albion’s drooping dong in her hand. “Yeah,” she said. “Like, LOVE, love horseys. You love ’em?”

Bonnie studied the rapidly growing club in my wife’s perfectly manicured hand and laughed nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I LOVE, love horseys.”

“Tell me what you love about horseys,” my wife said.

“Um,” said Bonnie, unsure.

“Well. So . . . d’you love their eyes? Their big, beautiful brown eyes?”

Bonnie got the game at once. “Oh, yeah. Horseys have the greatest eyes. Big, brown, and beautiful.”

“Atta girl,” said my wife. Albion’s cock enlarged in the strokes of her tiny pale hand. “How about their manes? D’you love their long, beautiful manes?”

“I do,” said Bonnie. Her hand rose. Her fingers, then her palm, rested lightly on Albion’s balls. “I love their manes. Love to brush them, and stroke them, and feel them, and smell them.”

“Goodie. It sounds like you love horseys.” Then my wife’s tone took a naughty turn. “But I bet you don’t love horseys as much as I do.”

“But I do! I do love them as much as you do. Maybe more!”

“Nuh-uh. I don’t think you do.”

“Do too!”

Harlan nudged me. “This is superb. Did you program this?”

“Nah. Like I said, personas. The girls do what we want, but they’ll act in ways they want, too. They’re just clowning around.”

Bonnie was pouting. “I do love horseys more than you! More than anybody!”

My wife smirked. “You’ll need to prove it.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Okay,” said my wife. “If you love horseys more than anything, then do . . . THIS.” She brought her mouth to the apple-sized head of Albion’s cock. Staring at Bonnie, she gave it a long, lathering lick, swirling up foamy precum. Around and around her tongue went. Then she sat back, and a rope of clear horse ooze dangled from her lower lip and chin. With twirling fingers she spun it around her fingers and licked it up like angel-hair pasta.

“I love horseys THAT much.”

Bonnie snorted. “That’s the easiest thing in the world, silly. Move over.” She pushed my wife aside, took Albion’s fully extended dong in both of her hands, and began pumping it firmly. “Watch this.” And Bonnie did the same thing that my wife had done, except with more vigor and tongue.

“You whore!” my wife squealed, hands at hips. “You big-boobied, floppy-titted, horse-loving whore.” From behind, she forced apart Bonnie’s legs and shoved one, then two, fingers right up her sopping twat. Bonnie’s eyes widened. Then she humped my wife’s fingers while holding her mouth on the head of Albion’s cock.

My wife spoke in Bonnie’s ear. “You like this, horse-whore? You like my fingers in your cunny while you gobble that big ol’ horse wang?”

The muffled sounds from Bonnie’s throat clearly meant yes.

My wife looked at me, shot up a universal this fucking rocks hand gesture, and stuck out her tongue like she was at a metal concert. Then, she pressed herself against Bonnie’s back and gripped one of the older woman’s tits while letting Bonnie hump-ride her fingers.

“So, Harlan . . . shouldn’t your wife be put to death, now?“

“Oh, stop it. You know my answer already.”

“It was allowed in the Garden, right? It wasn’t a problem until after the Fall?”

“Exactly. The only prohibition God laid down was not to eat the fruit. He said nothing about forbidding woman and animals from pleasuring each other. Only in the post-Fall world was this prohibited. And like we’ve discussed”—here he got exasperated—”these women are no longer fallen. They’re pure. This is an expression of the will of God.”

Whatever. So long as I got my larger sample size, I didn’t give a shit what Harlan thought.

From behind us came a familiar voice. “Daddy?”

Harlan and I turned. Brit, his daughter. But clothed, now. In a tight gingham shirt overflowing with breasts. Long, pigtail braids of thick blonde hair tied off with rubber bands. Skintight blue jean cutoffs that hugged her ass. Cowboy boots.

“Baby,” breathed Harlan. “Look at you.”

Brit smiled coyly, bit her thumb. “You like, Daddy?”

“I do, baby doll. You look just like your momma, some 20 years ago. Before you were born.”

“Just like you told me to look,” she said.

“Just like,” said Harlan. “You look good enough to eat.”

“You do, too, Daddy,” said Brit. She cocked her head, toyed with one of her pigtails. “You want to play a game? I wanna play a game called ‘Mommy loves Daddy.’” She skip-moved toward her father, but he placed a firm hand on her sternum.

“Not yet, baby. We got a job to do, first. Take a look at your momma and her friend.”

“Oh,” she said. “Horsey love.”

“Don’t judge, darling. Your momma is doing what she needs to do. And, actually, we need to help her.”

“Help her how?”

“I love your mother. Very dearly. But she’s getting older, which means she’s no good to me now. But a woman still has needs, and I honestly can’t meet her needs.” He tapped Brit’s forehead. “Not since your enormous noggin split her open. It made her slack, and she’s only gotten slacker. I don’t feel nothing, and neither does she.”

Brit frowned. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to bust Momma’s pussy.”

“It’s okay, baby. It’s the way of all things. When woman fulfills her highest purpose—continuing Adam’s line—she sacrifices her greatest function: her ability to pleasure men.”

Brit nodded. “I understand, Daddy. What you say is true.”

Harlan smiled. “But I love your mother, and it’s not fair to her that she can’t feel pleasure just because of what your big ol’ head did to her, right?”


“Well then. That’s what Albion is for. Albion and others are gonna do for your momma what I can’t, anymore.”

“Oh, I see,” said Brit. “Is Albion Mommy’s new husband, now?”

“Well, no. Your momma’s still my wife, and I’m still her husband. I’m just outsourcing my duties. So your momma can get what she needs.” And here Harlan stroked Brit’s face, tenderly. “And that frees you up to give your daddy what he needs, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . it’s not fair to me, either. Men need pleasure. It’s our right. And only woman can give men pleasure. I need a woman who can serve her proper function.” He kissed her forehead. “Do you understand, daughter?”

Comprehension dawned, and Brit grinned. “I do, Daddy. I’ll serve my function and give my Daddy whatever he needs.” She sucked his thumb into her mouth.

“That’s my good girl. But not yet. We gotta go help your momma and her friend.” He extracted his thumb from his daughter’s lips. “You go over to Albion.”

While Brit obeyed, Harlan and I moved the padded bench. It was about three feet long and two feet tall—just the right size to comfortably hold a human torso beneath this particular horse.

“Shoo, ladies,” said Harlan. “You’re in our way.” My wife tugged a deeply disappointed Bonnie away from Albion’s fully extended horse dong. It flopped down, tossing out a string of precum and saliva onto the dirt. Albion shuffled and snorted, missing the sudden removal of stimulation.

Bonnie rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand and then licked it clean. “There. That’s how much I love horseys. I did it ten times as long as you! My whole mouth is numb.”

“I guess you do kinda love horseys,” said my wife. “But I could do what you did, too, for just as long. I still think I love horseys more.”

Bonnie fumed. “Nobody loves horses more than me!”

“Prove it,” said my wife. Harlan and I moved the bench into position beneath Albion.

“I will!” said Bonnie. “I’ll prove I love horses more than anybody.”

My wife grinned with all her teeth. “You love horseys so much that you want to marry them?”

“Yes!” Bonnie’s eyes were wide, thrilled.

Sleep with them?”


“Have babies with them?”


“I don’t believe you.”

“Watch me!” said Harlan’s wife. She climbed onto the bench, lay back on it, gripped Albion’s cock. Pulling hard, she brought the equine’s huge dong toward her vagina. Then she gritted her teeth and grunted and spread her legs as wide as possible and began forcing the horse’s swollen cockhead into the maw of her pussy.

“Oh my god!” said my wife, sing-songy and clapping. “You’re gonna have babies with a horse-ey. You’re gonna have babies with a horse-ey.”

“Momma, you dirty horse slut,” called Brit, teasing. “I can’t believe you’re fucking Albion!”

Through clenched teeth: “Your Momma can do anything, baby doll. You just watch me. Your momma loves horses MORE’N—” The rest of whatever Bonnie was trying to say came out as a high hooting.

My wife kept laughing. “You got a horse ’n your cun-ny! You got a horse ’n your cun-ny!”

Grunts from Bonnie. “Just proves I love horses more’n anybody!”

“Mommy, how’s it feel?”

“Best, baby. It’s th’ best—oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH GOLLYGOSHDANG—”

“Mommy, there’s a bulge in you! Like, a bulge in your lower tummy! But it’s moving back and forth. Is that Albion’s thingie?”

Bonnie hooted in agreement. Brit and my wife squealed and laughed.

“Your momma’s such a horse-slut!” said my wife.

“Don’t you call my momma a horse-slut, you lezzie dong-guzzler,” Brit retorted. “She just loves horseys is all.”

Bonnie’s moans lost humanity. Her thighs quavered and her arms trembled as she clamped on to the horse who had begun thrusting into her.

Those women in bestiality videos—c’mon. There’s no way they enjoy it. No matter what those women say, or look like, or sound like—no woman willingly degrades herself that way. They do it because they need money or drugs or because they’re scared out of their minds. No woman actually wants to fuck a dog, or a horse, or a pig. Or probably a man, for that matter.

Except these women. My wife, and Bonnie, and Brit. These women, they’re all in. With my nanites on board, there’s no place these women would rather be. Happy naked primates fucking happy naked animals.

Maybe Harlan had a point. Maybe they were back in the Garden of Eden, at least metaphorically. I mean, what did it matter if they consented or not? What was their free will in the face of so much annihilating pleasure?

It’s not as if women use their free will wisely, anyway.

Harlan’s spoke. “Girls. Looks like Albion’s ready to pop. You want Bonnie to make babies with him? Really?”

Yes, they cheered.

“Okay,” he said. “But then we gotta work together. You gotta make sure he stays inside her while he does. Can you do that? When Albion blows, all his baby juice needs to stay in her tummy.”

Brit nodded. “I know what it looks like, just before it happens.” She addressed my wife. “C’mon. You gotta help me out.”

“What do I do?” Between Bonnie’s apocalyptic wailing and Albion’s bucking and snorting, my wife had to shout.

“We each gotta grip Albion and my momma, right where they join up. When he shoots, we hold on hard and keep the join shut. That way nothin’ leaks out.”

“All right,” yelled my wife. “Tell me when.”

The women at either side of the copulating horse and human tensed, waiting. Albion’s lubricated cock pistoned back and forth beneath their light grips. The stallion’s eyes grew frantic. Bonnie bellowed like she was bouncing ass-first down a five-mile mountain.

“Lord,” breathed Harlan. “I ain’t heard her sound like that in twenty years.”

And then it happened. Albion bucked, bucked, and thrust—thrust—thrust. Brit shouted Now. The girls bore down, muscles twanging, hands gripping where Bonnie’s folds and Albion’s dong met up. The bulge inside Bonnie swelled and dropped, swelled and dropped again, sloshing oceanically. Albion was pumping a half-cup of semen up into Bonnie. More than 25 times as much as we humans do, at our best.

Abruptly, the horse tried to withdraw. Brit shouted, “Horses don’t cuddle! I’ll slow him, you keep ’er plugged up!”

As Brit coaxed the horse into slower withdrawal, my wife gripped both sides of the join, laughing as the slick horse cock slid beneath her grip. Out came Albion, his cock slapping my wife’s ticklish belly. She squeezed Bonnie’s labial lips closed as quickly as she could.

Even so, some sperm leaked out of Bonnie’s cunt onto the black leather of the bench. My wife looked at me, smiling, sweaty, and imploring. I knew that look.

“Yeah, go ahead,” I called. “But no cheating! Keep the rest inside her.”

She shot me a well, duh, look. Then she brought her tongue down to the puddle of horse cum that had escaped Bonnie’s ravaged vagina. She lapped it up, then licked the sweat and fluid around Bonnie’s nethers. From the sounds my wife made, you’d think she was getting her first taste of the Gods’ own nectar.

Brit led Albion away, telling him what a good boy he was. Bonnie lolled on the bench, eyes unmoving and mouth agape. If she was aware of my wife’s tongue bath, she didn’t show it.

With Albion safely stabled, Brit came over to us. “What’d you think, Daddy?”

“I think you did just fine, baby-doll. I haven’t heard your Momma so happy since before you came out of her.”

Brit studied her toes, played with a braid. “I’m sorry again, Daddy. I didn’t mean to wreck Momma’s cunny that way.”

Harlan raised his daughter’s chin. “Don’t you worry, lovey. You’ll be making it up to me, now. Now and for a long time. Okay?” And Brit beamed.

“Hey!” my wife called. “Sorry to interrupt your after-school special, but how much longer do I gotta hold this horse-slut’s cunt-lips shut?”

Harlan, Brit, and I burst out laughing. “Sorry about that!” he called. “She oughta be plenty impregnated by now. You can let go any time you want.”

Bonnie raised an arm. It flopped down again. She raised it again, trying to signal.

“What’s she want?” called Harlan.

Still holding Bonnie’s cunt closed, my wife brought herself to Bonnie’s mouth and listened. “Oh. She says she doesn’t want us to waste it!”

“Hah,” Harlan said. “Well, that’s a new one. ‘Queen Spit,’ I called her. You ain’t gonna do that to me, right baby?”

“Right, Daddy. Brit don’t spit!”

“Ha! I knew college would teach you some skills.”

I told my wife. “All right—when it comes out, you two take care of it. Get it? And share!”

My wife flashed me a smile that told me she’d do exactly as told. (Of course, there wasn’t really a choice in the matter.) She let Bonnie’s pussy lips open up. A gooey golden blast audibly blarped out of Bonnie’s ravaged twat and spread across the bench.

Bonnie hoisted one leg over my wife’s head and fell off the bench with a dusty oomph. Then, shakily, she drew her now-dirt-mottled body to the puddle. Bonnie and my wife lapped at the pool of Albion cum, sounds of deep satisfaction coming from both.

“All right,” said Harlan. He held his daughter by the waist in a near-perfect echo of the photograph in the living room. “Albion’s had his fun. Time for mine. You good to clean up here?”

“I got this. You two have a good time.”

Harlan shot me a wink. Brit studied her toes and blushed. As they turned, Harlan pushed Brit ahead of him and then struck her ass with a smack. “You get moving, my hot little mare.”

“Oh, Daddy,” said Brit. “You say the most special things to me.”

“That ain’t all I’m gonna do,” he said. And Harlan and his daughter went into the house.

As promised, I cleaned up. After the women had eaten all of Albion’s cum, I made them carry the bench outside where I hosed it down. Then I ordered them to stand on the front porch of the house and hosed them down, too. Their shrieks from the cold water made me feel a little bad, especially when I had Bonnie bend over and open wide so I could scour her nethers. But it needed to be done. I didn’t want to track dirt into the home—cleanliness, godliness, all that. Besides, there was something Biblical about women being made to suffer. I’m sure Harlan would approve.

I tossed towels to the miserable women and led them to the guest bedroom. Their skin was cold-mottled, their eyes red-rimmed from their pathetic sobbing. Feeling compassion, I let them warm each other on the bed as I watched. When their shivering ceased and their pleasure blossomed I joined them. Out of respect for Harlan, I won’t go into details. After we were done, I ordered Bonnie to her new quarters, then snuggled with my wife. When I was certain my wife was asleep, I deactivated her nanites. As she dozed, my wife—the real one, not my fun one—returned.

* * *

Morning, now. My wife shut the trunk to our car. “I’m so sorry they feel so lousy, Harlan. I didn’t think two bottles would lead to a hangover.”

Bonnie and Brit weren’t hung over. We just couldn’t let my wife see them. Harlan had woken me around five to check my work. Bonnie was in her new quarters: a modified stable next to Albion’s. She had a mattress, blankets, toilet, shower, space heater, and DVDs about cooking, cleaning, and fucking—everything the postmodern woman needed. No books or computer, of course, as she no longer had the ability to read or write.

The stable was nice. Maybe Gwen could occupy the one next door. I planned to visit her in a few days.

Brit, of course, was ensconced in the bedroom she now shared with Harlan. I checked her out as thoroughly as I did her mama. (A little more thoroughly, actually.) While I was surprised by the appealing wreath of choke-bruises around her neck, the young lady was doing just fine. “I’m pleased as punch to help out Daddy in all the special ways he needs.”

I didn’t detect in either woman anything of their former personalities. No rage, horror, or despair lurking in their eyes, words, or actions. If anything was left of the Bonnie and Brit from just 24 hours ago, they couldn’t express it in any way at all.

“Thank you,” said Harlan to my wife. “They’re not used to drinking so much.”

“Next time I’ll bring just one bottle.” She leaned forward to hug him.

“Goodness,” said Harlan. “This is a little familiar.”

She smiled. “Loosen up, Harlan. It’s just a hug.” She left for the car.

“Fine woman,” said Harlan. “You’re a lucky man.”

“As are you,” I said. “I’d ask if you’re okay with this, but it’s too late now.”

He nodded. “Permanent. From the moment you turned it on. I know. But this was necessary.” He swept a hand, gesturing. “This acreage. This land. When the world goes to hell, we’re going to need to repopulate. To breed. ‘Behold, my covenant is with you, and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations.’”

I sighed. “Harlan—”

“I know, I know. But friend. I have a practical question. What are you going to do about her?” And here he pointed to my car, my wife.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. I saw how you looked at my wife. How you judged her body. Your wife is aging, too.”

“She hasn’t had any children. Her body—”

“Is mortal, friend. It decays. All bodies do. Children or no children, it’ll go the way of my wife’s body, my daughter’s body. Our bodies.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Well,” he said. “Your wife is a fine woman. I know you care for her. So why not keep her here? When you’re done with her? I’m happy to maintain her. She demonstrated last night that she’s good with the animals. She handled Albion and Bonnie just fine.”

“So, you mean, full-time. Make my wife like Bonnie and Brit.”

Harlan raised his hands. “No hanky-panky from me. She’d just be up here to help. I’d take good care of her. Even let her have a room in the house, if you insist.”

In the car, my wife smiled and waved at me. It was hard to be certain through the windshield, but I thought I noticed slight crow’s feet at her eyes and a mild wobble of flesh on her arm.

“Just sleep on it,” said Harlan. “No hurry. We’ll still be here. God knows they can’t go anywhere.”

Our goodbyes complete, my wife and I drove away. Over in the passenger seat she yawned. “I thought I slept really well after dinner, but I’m exhausted.”

“Animals can wear a person out.”

“I suppose,” she said. She looked out the window. “You know, I had some really odd dreams last night.”


“Yeah. Like, really weird dreams.”

“. . . . like what?”

“Just . . . weird. I dunno.” She paused one, two beats. “I don’t really remember them very well, actually. Not at all.”

“Strange. You normally have perfect recall.”

“Yeah, I know.” She hugged herself. “I dunno.” And she lapsed into silence.

I started. “So, maybe—”

“Hey—so, I’m beat. I’m gonna sleep now. Love you.” And she closed her eyes and turned away.

This was alarming. My wife was lying to me. She’d dreamt of something she found truly disturbing, and she remembered it, and didn’t want to share it with me.

What if the experiences of her play self was leaking into her daylight mind?

What if her dreams were telling her what we did together when she was her better self?

What if she had dreamed of dogs and webcams and horses and other women?

Suddenly, Harlan’s offer to stable my wife was a lot more appealing. For her own sake, obviously. I had to protect her if anything was going wrong. That was the point of expanding my experimentation—to iron out all the possible kinks, anything that might prevent women from becoming the purest and best versions of themselves. I owed it to them, to everyone. Especially my wife. That’s my responsibility—and my burden—as her husband.

* * *