The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

(November 12, 2007:)

“Honey, what’s the problem, exactly? You’re the one that begged me to show you what I do for work. Now, come on. If you’d just relax, and maybe wait just another five whole minutes before storming out in a huff, you’ll realize there’s absolutely nothing, nothing at all, to worry about!“

The computer fan inside of a yellowed tower, belonging to some creaky dinosaur of a desktop, threatened to snuff out all conversation. The stuffy hot air of the farm town, even at night, could really make the handful of new employees at town hall agitated. It was insanely hard work to just keep your trap shut, to keep your cool.

“Honey, don’t give me that look.” The number puncher’s girlfriend casually uncrossed her legs at the sound of his voice, an act made cumbersomely slow from the sticky gobs of slick sweat that had built up betwixt a lazy pair of silky, half-assedly shaven thighs.

She kept right on giving him “that look”, only now, she whimpered too, pouty.

This very nearly felt sort of like a kind of defiance, at any rate. She felt bad about heedlessly play-biting on a freshly glossed, ruby red lip, however.

It was much too coy and flirtatious to do something like that. It made her feel way too girly. Way too... dumb. She scanned her brain for a better word than that... Scanning. . .

But she just wasn’t a dumb girl. She totally knew all the really important stuff, like what colors looked really awesome together, and who discovered America. ...It was Jesus, right? ...Duh! Who else could it be? She was a smart woman. A woman. Not a girl. Really smart. ...Wasn’t she?

Still, she knew that the smartest thing she could have done, besides, oh, maybe saying words like a smart person, was to not fuck up her makeup. Even though she barely ever wore this kind of stuff until lately, and even though she hadn’t so much as smudged it, she feared the absolute worst.

The last thing that would help her stand her ground was looking like some kind of prideless slut...

Then, depressingly, she remembered the three and a half hours in Billiez Booteek n’ Cute Cloze Place that flew by in a pink puff, and she gulped, close to swallowing the big wad of gum she just barely knew she’d been chewing, and close to trampling such a floaty and shameful memory.

But... not quite close enough...

“’kay, slutty miss slut,” the raven-haired hill-honey with absurdly humongous jugs and a translucent neon orange visor, and the name Klitsta-Bobblie O’Booblesworth sharpied along the brim, had seen fit to address her.

“Blowjob Mouth lipstick comes in cherry pie red, strawberry shortcake red, raspberry tart red, and candy apple clit red.”

“I’d only, like, recker-mend candy apple clit if yer givin’ out, like, ten or more blowies a day. So that’ll work jus’ plum dandy fer you, y’dang cumslut.”

Ms. O’Booblesworth looked bored as she continued an impromptu interrogation, hunched and leaning over the display case, her monster boobs pooling out beyond the edge of the glass.

The supposed slut slowly sidled up and got up in the unfathomably endowed sales clerk’s face. She fixed her way-too-tight bike shorts back up around her newly enlarged and escaping rear.

At least she wasn’t indecent... barring a rather obvious camel toe.

That pesky cumstain on her last non-busted button-down flannel was just such a bother to get off. The other one on her waistband, too.

“Listen—I am not a slut! Honey-baby, look at yourself! You’re the one in nothing but a fuckin’ thong!” She had to admit it was a very, very hot pair of undies. Red, white and blue, shimmering metallic, held together by little golden crosses.

The makeup girl buried her face in her own creamy cleavage, exasperated. “Face it, li’l miss bimbo-in-trainin’, you’s a proper Christian slut. Or you’s gonna be in like four days, ha-ha. Don’t make no nevermind what you keep tellin’ yerself. Ain’t no betty I never heard of slob as much knob as you sayin’ you do and not no slut.“

“Look,” the assumed slut pleaded, distracted by giant hooters and the mist of Brimbo no. 5 that Klitsta had sprayed directly into her face.

Her confidence wilted under the brainfucking pink mushroom cloud entering her entire being through her nostrils.

The hazardous but euphoric brain shuffle known to locals as angel amnesia had begun once more.

Nine or ten more instances of this, and she’d never again hold on to the slightest bit of hope of ever leaving Cherub Cove. The old future she wanted floated away in a bright pink spray.

When everything you know about your past and about life outside of church country vanishes, there’s no reason for you to go anywhere but back on your back or your knees. Back home where you belong.

(As it stood, what had at first seemed dire and imperative had all but completely turned rash and ridiculous.

Why leave when her boyfriend made enough to support the both of them? Why not just relax, eat, sleep, and fuck your days away?)

At first, it was claustrophobic and fairly demeaning to not have a job. But cooking and cleaning and doting over a dude was rewarding and sometimes strenuous work in itself. Plus, the only thing girls did around Cherub Cove besides excel at sex and get pregnant was part-time retail. As if!

Who really cared if they got all big and nice in their yummy places? Sex was so much more amazingly awesome that way! And who gave a fuck what their parents thought about their decision to breed like bunnies and live out their lives under the law of primal sex and St. Brittany?

Not them! Still... her six years as a communications professor was rewarding. Being a twice-published author was nothing to sneeze at, either. And she didn’t dare tell her fiancee about her desire to set her inner bimbo free. They were still trying to keep up appearances, living the lie of “just because we live here doesn’t mean this is where we live”.

She floated off into more gooey drippy pink mind-gunk before she could feel a single regret...)

The sparkly pink cotton candy mush eventually subsided. She surprised herself by being able to stay on topic.

It was easy, because if she was to be honest with herself, she essentially had sluts and cocksucking on the brain constantly.

“Like, mmmm, whatever, uh-kay? There’s no way I can even be a slut. I’m all, like, monoga-Iicious and shit. And yeah, whatevs, I may be addicted to sucking cock—no, I fuckin’ totally am... it’s... fuckin’ amazing, like, for realsy-realsies... but... I only suck my boyfriend’s cock! Got it?“

Klitsta watched the damsel in denial apply a thorough coating of candy apple clit. The half-cherub puckered at her reflection in the mirror, humming to herself, repeating, “Oh, I love my boyfriend’s dick” over and over again under her breath, in a playful sing-song.

“Gee, you shore is dumb, ain’tcha?” marvelled the human dairy who masqueraded as a beautician. She started to powder one of her planetary udders with blush, giving its pale milky skin a pleasant light fuschia pop.

“Ain’t you never heard uh no house slut before?“

She screamed, shrill but inside her own head. The stuttering computer fan ably drowned even that out. Even in these private confines, though, still she sounded childish and submissive.

She whined, quite aloud now, almost unnecessarily loud. But that didn’t sound like how a woman sounded, either.

She tugged on her ribbed and ultra-snug lavender tanktop, pulling its neckline down, impatient to let him know she meant business.

Proud that her man’s gaze shot straight to her cleavage, it only dawned on her after she gleefully popped her chest out that he’d refused her the common courtesy of eye contact. He was too busy thinking about a different kind of heat.

If you dared complain about shortness of breath due to air quality, you were called a wimp, or worse—un-American.

For whatever reason, the women seemed to get the shit end of the stick when it came to speaking up about this, more often than not suffering punitive consequences.

And the last thing Ben wanted to be addressed as was “ma’am”.

It was bad enough that plenty of his male co-workers routinely called him a faggot, and did so only because one day, he’d casually brought up the names of a few of his favorite blogs, even mistaking to tick off the name of some of the bloggers he made a point to read.

He didn’t realize the big dudes were poking fun when they asked if he knew of any good essays by any gay liberals.

Boss, his boss, chided him with a lisp, dangling a pinky finger daintily. The initial anger he had felt that afternoon shifted over to humiliation as days dragged on.

“Computer faggot!” Boss sing-songed when he found out his new employee was a secret smarty-pants, clearly relishing the opportunity to act flamboyant.

“I reckon ya like to get your asshole pounded while you sip on one of them skinny lattes!” he went on. Reed and Truck each high-fived him, but Dogg actually slapped him on the ass.

The meek newcomer barely registered this, and missed the subsequent wink as well.

It was too hot in the poorly ventilated and repurposed elementary school to call them out on their homoerotic hypocrisy, and after all, it was a small price to pay for them keeping him and his fiancee afloat.

He let it slide (just like when they called him a sissy for being faithful, for not taking a few other girls on as fuck-buddies, or “slamaritans”, on the side).

Just as soon as he did, the other three tractor-pull-loving clerks at his table, with their hulking linebacker physiques, forcibly restrained him from leaving his seat.

They weren’t going to let him go anywhere until he admitted he was only joking about actually enjoying to read a single thing on the web.

Lying about his favorite porn site was easy (ads for shucknfuck.com were all over TV), but they did all but barricade his exit until he participated in a circle jerk with them, and they made damn sure he cummed.

In an effort to further concede to the aggro will of the townsmen, he realized that he could at least give up using utensils during lunch and eat his cafeteria steak and potatoes with his bare hands.

This, he could only hope, would prove to show how well he could pretend to be macho.

He even started to do it at home. His fiancee was appalled at first, but as the habit extended past a few days, she knew it just couldn’t be helped, like so much else in her new life in church country...

Now she only giggled as her man stuffed a mitt full of the meatloaf recipe she’d been tinkering with into his face.

The lean but fit-looking geek sighed, desperately trying to stay on task.

He hoped this impromptu “take your girlfriend to work” night would just end as soon as possible, and that she wouldn’t ask any more questions she wasn’t emotionally prepared to hear answers for.

One of the few faded and plain striped polos shirts he hadn’t yet outgrown was pulling and stretching atop the force of his powerful, newly acquired upper body.

The short sleeves on it were frayed, his biceps taut and waging the last throes of battle with the fabric.

I hope she remembers tonight’s lasagna and laundry night... He considered the empty mail slot at his desk, grimacing.

Even Claire had teased him about that whole admitting-to-read debacle, which wasn’t really like her, but maybe she was just trying to get in upper management’s good graces. He couldn’t exactly blame her.

One morning, she presented him with a tiny frilly tank top and a studded thong, both in matching hot pink, with a handwritten note reading, “Hope these are the right size, princess.”

The funny thing was, she’d written a whole bunch of essays for a renowned feminist site. Maybe that’s just how it was with her: let the man take the heat...

He liked her, though. She was the cute redheaded mail girl who’d taken root in town so that she’d be close enough to the nearby art school without having to actually live on campus.

She was the only girl at work that didn’t feel the need to wink or make kissy faces while taking orders from him.

A loophole in her contract kept them from forcing her not to wear slacks, but the fact that she vocally took advantage of this was threatening to keep her from getting a raise.

It wasn’t until the company balked when she told them she planned on quitting, that they almost doubled her salary and moved her into a new duplex in the Shade Stables neighborhood, even paying her rent and cable bill for six months.

He was happy for her. He liked her because she mostly kept to herself, preferring not to socialize if she could help it.

He admired her disregard for the sweeping mania, that accompanied all the new rollouts of beauty snacks and medicated skirts, to which all the other ladies in Cherub Cove had happily given themselves over.

She actually defended herself when they called her a nerd or, much more inappropriately, a dyke. Fake, smarmy apologies were all she was liable to get, but still...

She was as independent as she could possibly be, and that counted for a lot in a town where single women were basically treated like they were hiding some kind of terrorist agenda.

On top of everything, she remained slender and petite. Most viewed it a bold show of contrariness, apparently considered to be so audacious that Pudgina, the receptionist, rolled her eyes every single time she had to address her or refer to her—

Like a biiiig ol’ gag reflex she swore up and down she didn’t have.

Sylki from the art department shivered and sneered every time the girl was within earshot, and when he asked her what her problem with her was, she just curtly apologized and explained, “I don’t talk to ugly little children.”

Blissandra resented her ever since she refused to indulge in a second slice of double fudge cheesecake on her birthday, so far keeping up a cruel silent treatment.

Up until very recently, Clair had kept her supposedly lacking, “sickly” body hidden under baggy pants and baggier flannels, no doubt suffering under the heavy gauze of humidity. The previous week, though, Bernice got laid off.

In Cherub Cove, women in the workplace sure had it rough.

Bernice, the stodgy older lady who shared a cubicle wall with him, had been fired a few days before for merely fanning herself in the presence of one of their mostly inattentive and useless supervisors, but also for having the gall to air a commonly but secretly held concern.

“I think it had more to do with how I don’t do the sign of the cross during the A.M. prayer pledge,” he groused

His fiancee glanced at the growing pecs he’d sprouted—practically out of nowhere—since they’d moved to town, trapped as they were underneath his worn-out shirt.

A glance turned into a gawk straight away. He flexed the left one. He flexed the right one. She melted. She melted some more.

If she looked up and granted him the eye contact that she herself—only a few seconds prior—felt slighted at not receiving, she would have maybe noticed the confused and upset expression he wore.

It was betrayed by the eager bustle and willingness of his lickable chest muscles.

It was kind of like his chest was acknowledging her own, telling hers that it was welcome. That it was sexy as all fuck.

If she squinted and made sure to puff out her blushing cheeks with just the right amount of “fucking adorable”, she could decipher his pecs’ hot fuckable language.

They said: You wanna get freaky?

At the very second they were telling her the following, she came about the thought independently:

You/I have no choice. She tossed this notion around her happy slowed-down brains a couple more times, marinating it into a foofy sort of mantra.

It was totally a no-brainer that as long as a girl had a guy like that, she didn’t even need to choose. Like, ever.

Hot guys are always right because they’re fucking so hot.

She gazed happily at those gorgeous, meaty, super-strong things, feeling her pussy drip, feeling educated.

She felt like the biggest genius in all of Christ’s world, when it came to guys anyway. Amen!

He flexed the left one again. She noticed that it made a couple veins in his neck pop.

She tried her best to assure herself that his yummy dong, getting yummier every damn day, wasn’t fully hard, fully loaded with cum, and fully red and ready—impatient even—to fill her up.

Wasn’t just as veiny...

Fill me up so full...

The problem with that was... she could totally smell it. Easily. All she had to do was give a tiny little sniff, like a little kitty-cat. She snorted and shifted it into a purr.

The tangy aroma of her man’s bone sailed right to the back of her throat, and she could almost taste the warm and hard goodness that was his new and improved cockmeat.

In an even shorter amount of time than her breasts had grown, the data entry dweeb had shot up a considerable amount, both lengthwise and girthwise, in the manmeat department.

She thusly luxuriated in what she knew had to have been the waning days of their slow and caring and tenderly romantic sex life.

Apart from the reality that “lovemaking” was simply starting to feel lame in general—particularly when all the other chicks in Cherub Cove talked some mean game about how loud they screamed or how expertly they sucked and fucked—romance just couldn’t ever get her off anymore.

Getting eaten out just made her feel ashamed now, not to mention selfish, sinful. Her libido was approaching a turning point.

It was unlikely that she’d ever reach orgasm if her guy’s dick wasn’t vigorously pounding into her, and it was virtually impossible to cum if he didn’t shoot his semen all over her face.

Before they moved to town, she’d wanted to be treated like a lady in bed. Not long after their arrival, she needed, craved to be used like some hot piece of pussy property.

After weeks of denial, time had surely come to own up to her dramatic mental and sexual changes. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. Everything about her was being custom-rearranged so that she could make plenty of kids.

She was becoming a baby machine. She was molting, metamorphosising from a hard-nosed intellectual into a soft-bodied hotwife.

It was difficult to believe or understand, but it was all inescapably real. Suspicions were there from the get-go, but she’d been far too proud to admit the truth.

No one ever grew big-ass tits in a matter of weeks just from fresh air and ice cream.

Ditto her big butt, whose expansion wasn’t showing the faintest signs of stopping.

Her fiancee’s ludicrous theory, that it started growing because he’d favored doggystyle more and more often, was... charming to say the least.

Yeah right. Maybe she believed him toward the beginning, but a fairly flat butt getting pert and toned was one thing.

Thickening out by close to twenty inches, padding and dimpling itself into her and her man’s very own real country whooty, was not, in any way, a natural development.

She now knew she should have listened to her mother early on when she told her that hip bones don’t expand and flare out as fast or as drastically as hers did, and basically never at all in a woman’s late 20s.

She was a doctor, after all. And those soft thick thighs? Even her lazy diet of fried chicken and ice cream wasn’t anywhere close to being enough to make them triple in size in a matter of four measly days.

It was well past time to stop lying to herself. Cherubs were very real, hyper-sexualized bimbo-sluts, and however they all got that way, and whatever compound process made them into the cartoonishly curvy bumpkin hoes they wound up as—all of this was irrelevant.

What mattered was that, at a staggeringly unstoppable clip, it was working, 100% of the time, and flawlessly.

She knew it would continue to work its unbelievable “Christian” magic on her, too, see itself through, all the way to the end.

She also suspected her boyfriend knew this as well. He’d actually been the first one to bring up starting a family. He swore up and down that it didn’t have anything at all to do with the town’s relentless and invasive indoctrination.

She asked him what prompted this desire, then. His answer, “you’re just getting more and more fuckable every day, it’s crazy,” was hardly sufficient and somehow less savory than it would have been if he’d just started yammering about Jesus.

Pleading his case and telling her she was “the perfect woman” not only soaked her slit, but caused her to look at the idea in a more positive light, too.

Within seconds, her head was turning pink and mushy, and it became riddled with a whole bunch of baby names, birthday party ideas, and which lullabyes she could coo over the crib.

“It just turns me on so goddamn much to see my girly get all curvy and chunky,” he said, probably unaware he was licking his chops as he roughly thumbed and palmed his wifey’s fluffy tummy.

Some days, she thought her belly was adorable, and loved any attention it got. Others, she recoiled, completely self-conscious.

This was one of those days. “Every time I look at you, I just want to pump and pump and pump. I get this feeling like I need to... pollinate you.”

She managed a smile, graciously grabbing hold of his already naked cock. The sweet boy had already thought to unzip his fly. It was so thoughtful.

When she managed to muck up a dollop of courage and stop blushing, unsure of how to process or respond to that “compliment”, she’d titfucked him to completion and brought up the fact that he’d always been adamant about his strict no-kids policy.

“Not even adoption,” he’d sworn up and down. This was, naturally, before they ever moved to Cherub Cove. It was a policy that she shared.

He said some more things, really tried to make the idea seem palatable, but most of his points merely amounted to various permutations on how ripe she was getting, and how her body by those days was “screaming” to get knocked up.

Most notably whenever she wore those royal blue short-shorts from high school that had speedily become short-short-short-shorts, which she wore on that day.

She reminded him that the shorts she had on were four or five sizes too small, and so he lusted after an illusion. He did some quick mental math and figured out her current size, with the help of a tape measure.

To make it worth her while, he fingered her while he was in the area. Mostly he plunged half a fist into her, hoping that she’d be distracted enough for him to trick her into agreeing with his plan.

It almost worked. “Father O’Riordan says that if a new cherub is blessed with a forty inch ass as quickly as you did, it’s best to get yourself inseminated as soon as possible.”

“He says accelerated angels are guaranteed to have at least twelve safe and healthy pregnancies. He says you’re so sexy, you might go to hell when you die if you don’t get fertilized right away.”

The muggy, Brittany-controlled bits of her brain and body reacted to all of this. They worked together without her soul’s consent. She eagerly put her big legs behind her head and gathered his junk, shoving it straight in.

It wasn’t until he almost nutted, grinning wide, that she remembered she used contraception. She clenched her cunt around his big flailing pecker, milking every last drop of spunk, before breaking the news.

After this somewhat unsettling encounter, it was a wonder he’d even let her continue to take real birth control, gamely provided by her mother, and mailed to her at the first of every month.

The next couple nights, he’d say things like, “wow, it’s a real shame to let such perfect fertility go to waste,” but by the next week, he had apologized profusely, saying that a trip to the city had cleared his mind, made him see things around town for what they were.

He maintained that it would be best if they went on with their “live here but don’t live here” policy. He chalked his drive for parenthood up to too much pot smoking, and too much time talking to the guys at work.

He said that stepping outside church country gave him perspective, illuminated the ways the two of them were being brainwashed.

In the end, though, he had pitched a fit when she suggested the possiblity that she might venture out on a similar trip. It hardly seemed fair to her, but whatever. He was her provider.

She gave him three BJs in the course of an hour and even let him fuck her in the ass, begged him even, but none of these tactics worked.

When she went barefoot out of protest, he ordered her to put on some stilletos. Things were icy for a little bit, then, again, they got back to normal.

It seemed like he was fine with their lopsided, lust-addled life in Cherub Cove. She wanted out, though, bad.

There were amazing, intensely pleasurable pluses, but they were heavily outweighed by weird and creepy minuses. Nothing was worth eternal slavery, no matter if it was in exchange for eternal youth.

Even if the food was out of control incredible and outrageously inexpensive. Even if the weed was the best she’d ever smoked.

And, yes, even if the sex reached ecstatic limits she couldn’t so much as conceive of before moving to town.

These, though, were no reasons for the two of them to be treated like sexy Christian cattle. There just had to be some way...

No cherub, if local gossip was accurate, ever made it out of town and stayed out, or ever successfully changed back into sensible ladies.

If they didn’t go through crippling withdrawals from all the accoutrements of the faith, they simply got depressed with how boring the real world was and did anything they could to start the process all over again.

Where did it all go wrong? How could they have been so careless? The first couple of nights, she and her man just chocked it all up to being in a new and unfamiliar place.

The permanently sopping pussy. The booty that worked in tandem with it to sniff out cocks like skanky sonar. The balls that looked bigger as soon as the third night in town.

The tough swollen cock that never used to make her gag the previous weekend . . .

Her wet, rapt eyes lingered long on his almost-athletic frame. He stretched his arms out and back behind him, having been over-exhausted and cooped up for hours at his desk.

She thought for sure he was getting a six pack. . .

It made her heart beat, made her squirm where her fleshy and new, nubile ass sat. She crossed her legs again, only to allow them to fall very broadly open within a half-second.

It just seemed like the nice thing to do. Or no... Not nice, because she was too busy being a brat and all mad or whatever.

It was sexy, bottom line. Sexy is holy. Sexy is power...y!

Maybe butter him up and pull down her new kinky hole-dotted tie-dyed denim skirt, show off that new butt of hers, slather it with some cocoa butter... really get him to pay attention to what she had to tell him, which was...? Hmmm...

He flexed the right one again. And again. His chest muscles worked against him, worked in apparent accordance with the warped and improbable scripture that everyone followed in this place.

She felt retardedly weak in the knees and shivered to keep her balance. When one nipple fled the clutches of her hot little top,

She couldn’t remember if it was one of her own shirts that she’d simply grown out (and out) of, or if Sister Pru-Pru had given it to her so she’d have some decent clothes to wear at Sunday mass.

Either way, it was next to impossible, figuring out why everything WAS.

We weren’t talking about my ta-ta’s, were we?

They were so cute and tasty-looking, and viciously distracted her from plenty of things. No.

The couple had both expressed grave worries about her boobs, but not nearly as frequently as the two of them also harbored intense adulation and fervent, religious thanks at their accelerated progress.

That’ll show him! To further prove she was a strong and independent woman, she was poised to rip off her bra, to reclaim her femininity or... something.

Even so, somewhere in the back of her mind, she suffocated a budding hunch that all this nonsense was a Christmas conspiracy. . .

That’s what Jesus said, right? Jesus was pretty hot, she mused, if only a totally hawt girl could get him to chop off that kinda-gross holy head of hippie hair.

From a small B to a fatty-huge Double D, just like that? She struggled to keep the question mark from turning into a joyous exclamation point. She wanted to express with complete certainty how uncomfortable that weird local “second puberty”, or ReTeenin’ had made her.

She wanted to ignore the persistent, antagonizingly delicious thought that if her boobies WERE five or six cups bigger, she might feel so damn pretty that it’d become perfectly fine to just look really pretty.

She absently pinched the already-stiff nipples on her unsupported breasts before digging into her pants again. . .

Smart or dumb... woman or girl... Whatever the case, it was bad news that she could scarcely remember anything at all of life before.

Worried, she began to hum along to the pop tune that was playing over an invasive ad for buy-one-get-four-free Miss Thick’s brand Motherpluckin’ Potbelly Pot Pies.

“I’m just a hot girl / and in a hot world / you’re just a hot girl / we’re in a boy’s world!”

He thinks he’s so smart or something! Especially since he gave her one of his own.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feigning obliviousness. He similarly felt compelled to ignore the sure and increasingly not-so-subtle signs that his girl’s head was filling up with hot pink air?

How in fuck does the township of Cherub Cove expect me to do what I have to, when half the time my lungs feel like they’re about to cave in, and the other half is wasted getting hardons if I so much as think of that checkout girl at the Breedon Feed!

“Seriously, Sara-Sue, umm...” The sweltering sauna atmosphere of these final days of winter didn’t seem to phase any of the townies. It never stopped being off-putting, even after he’d come to terms with all of it. . .

Long nights in the upper 80s piled up as if they were just a sign of nature eating its course. Or, more bewildering, it might have been just like that awful huckster preacher on 40H, a local news network, had said the night before (during his half of the 11 o’clock “Righteous Report”):

“Sweatin’s a sure sign that the almighty lord done keepin’ his stable safe. God’s great American earth is all sticky and hot so’s y’all can be, too! All you newcomers glow up to the faith and the light, Sara Shoe.”

Did I really just call my fiancee Sara-Sue? Ben shuddered, The old and battered air conditioner barely did anything, except add to the noise level on the third floor office.

Ben groaned, noncommittal. Despite all reason, a rather large part of him wanted to just sit there and breed. Have her ride every last fuck of his big new meat stick. . .

How in fuck does the township of Cherub Cove expect me to do what I have to, when half the time my lungs feel like they’re about to cave in, and the other half is wasted getting hardons if I so much as think of that checkout girl at the Breedon Feed!

“Seriously, Sara-Sue, umm...” The sweltering sauna atmosphere of these final days of winter didn’t seem to phase any of the townies. It never stopped being off-putting, even after he’d come to terms with it.

Long nights in the upper 80s piled up as if they were just a sign of nature eating its course.

Or, more bewildering, it might have been just like that awful huckster preacher on 40H, a local news network, had said the night before—

“Sweatin’s a sure sign that the almighty lord done keepin’ his stable safe. God’s green—”

Did I really just call my fiane Sara-Sue? Ben shuddered again, the old and battered air conditioner did its thing. Again.

“You treat my job like it’s a professional kidnapping service.” The taut, neatly cut nerd fiddled with the knob on the AC, too fuming and frustrated to wipe his trendy eyeglasses.

It was annoying.