The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It almost didn’t make it. It was reduced to the least bead.

Despite the gifts, lovingly given, the joy, the dreams, the health, still it was rejected. And it could be rejected. Close, dry heat, closed mouth, serious and pure thoughts... it was hard to grow under those circumstances. And the shattering, hormone-flooding wash of orgasm wasn’t just for kicks. It needed that.

This was a mutual relationship.

The subject fought it off, lying under the hot sun, legs crossed, not even a shower. And it had to escape, on a final sneeze, one with just the slightest tint of Pink. It could’ve spattered on the sidewalk, the only solace that last sight of millions of others, busily improved by its colleagues.

Instead it landed by chance in the respiratory tract of a very overweight female, who was jogging by. Went right down into her lungs.

Motivated, very motivated, it got to work.

The weight fell right off. It lopped away unnecessary rolls of lipid, keeping only the tantalizing curves and better padding. The subject peed a lot of it out, dissolved in water and carefully created molecules. The subject was extremely thirsty and tired. While she slept it worked ceaselessly, for her benefit. Simple, straightforward dreams. Her running, pursued by aggressive and athletic males. Outpacing them, even. And the one that caught her would be clever, powerful, and virile. She woke up and stuck her hands between her still pudgy thighs. The welcome, nourishing stream of an orgasm broke over it.

That, plus plenty of fatty fuel, meant it was easy to grow.

Soon enough things were much more satisfactory. It was present in reassuring quantity, enough to drip, ceaselessly, from her mouth, her pussy. Soon, very soon, the reactivated mammary glands would be a spigot of itself, but not yet. Always considerate, it knew the subject loved to jog, and too-big titties wouldn’t do. Instead they were just very-nice, and felt great when they jostled in a sports bra. The subject had barely fought at all, with just a few anxious google searches and phone calls with Mom. Mom herself had the wet warble of itself in her voice, and it hadn’t been concerned. Instead it honed the nerve endings in her clit. It was getting very good at that.

Even so, it was caught by surprise. The female was caught at work, brought, giggling, into a back room by a lavender-scented male who asked what gym she went to, whether she lifted weights, like he did. It wasn’t the athletic tryst by the side of the road she’d been dreaming of, but it was good enough, and the sex was exactly as energetic.

A small part of itself floated away when they shared a post-coital kiss, and it was in a male.

A male already improved. It joined a chorus of itself, proud of what it had accomplished. It was previously an undernourished stock boy in a female-dominated industry, and was now methodically spreading through the organizational chart. It got the tour of the abdominal muscles and the rippling biceps. And learned all the new tricks—so much had been learned, in such a brief time. Muscles could be linked to the sex system in ways both crude and elegant. The effort of sex—lifting, pushing, thrusting—could be just as nourishing as regular nerve response. Sweat wasn’t to be feared. It was an opportunity.

This was on top of the refined spurt of a fully-improved cockhead. It had wrought wonders in the testicular system. There were chemicals in there of impressive bliss.

It was so impressed with itself.

It caught a load out into the open mouth of an older Vice-President of Communications, traveling with an optimistic batch. The way had been barely prepared, just starting to build on a deep-seated need to be treated like a toilet for men. Not the uplifting stuff it preferred, but the hosts had their quirks, and they loved them for it. And besides, this subject already had the big house, the career. What she didn’t have was studs roughly holding her hair and blowing loads down her throat, perhaps because she was aging.

So it was time to work on that.

Early on, it knew, it could barely do anything about senescent systems. Just work around them, inflate bodies with fat cells, and focus on making good clits. But now it could roll back the clock, turn itself into younger cells, rebuild old damage in a multi-facet of systems. It seemed like an obvious benefit, and soon the subject was buying clothes from teeny-bopper stores, and squirming in short skirts.

When suddenly the cooperation stopped.

The subject tried not to cum. The subject worked hard not to drool. Peering at neural tissue, it worked out why—the subjects had figured out what was going on. Fairly enough, they were all now worried that upwards of twenty percent of their body weight was now a gentle, bubblegum-colored goo.

But it was all for the best. It really was.

It worked hard to prove its worth. Orgasms were already shattering. But they could be mind-blowing. It was destroying cancer cells as a matter of course, making better knees with Pink-built cartilage, and attracting attention from lots of men with big dicks. Was it so bad, to carry around a lot of unobtrusive goo. To drool a little? To be perhaps a little less smart, just a tiny bit of an airhead, somewhat of a bimbo, to make room for a friend and all its myriad improvements?

This subject eventually agreed. And perhaps it rigged the game, just a little. An oopsie-daisy severing of certain neural tissues, some quiet work on inhibitions, a redirecting of some higher reasoning. Nothing too onerous. It was there to help. The girl’s dream was to be a cum toilet, and the subject didn’t really need to sit around reading concerning news articles that got in the way of that. She received powerful and sustained orgasms, in fact, from putting down worrying newspapers. From not thinking too hard, or at all.

It wasn’t above some minor operant conditioning, when survival was at stake.

It left anyway, when the subject was making out with another girl, under the watchful gaze of a boy. The thing about being a jizz dump was it was hard to leave. The next subject was bewildered and new, just starting her own goo-filled journey, her tits barely starting to plump up. Nothing special, except she was about to catch a long flight to a small set of islands.

It strongly approved of travel.

During the flight, while she slept, and changed, and transformed, and got hornier and wetter and better, it had time to—not reflect. It didn’t exactly think. It was just there to help, after all. But there was an ordering of needs, somewhere in it, and a fuzzy awareness of the future. What next? When it ran out of new destinations? What was the end goal, when all bodies were goopy, happy, and perfect? Just laze around, endlessly circulating? Spurting from form to form?

It was too much for a small Pink particle to figure.

Instead it detected a strong scent of lavender from the lap of the male two seats over. And in between them was a trembling young woman, pushing her glasses up her nose, who was trying very hard not to drool for the first time.

It shared a glance with the male. Sharing was what it did best.

Their plane got ready to descend.

“I think it’s over,” Chester said. “And it isn’t you. It’s me.”

He scratched his head. Hair had grown back in, although there was still a bald spot, now a clearing in a rainforest. But otherwise his scraggled and piebald head, formerly a major skin cancer risk, was full of wavy reddish locks. “Although to be honest I’m not sure if we were dating or business partners? Or just fuck buddies? Either way, I think it’s time to move on. Don’t you agree?”

Darcie was lost in her chair, lost in his office. She felt tiny and insignificant. Strange, because going into the meeting, or date, or whatever she had thought it was, she’d felt bloated and fat. She’d been skimming the top off the milky loads of cum from her Pink supplier, Tommy, and they really filled a girl up. And up and up.

“What if I DON’T agree?” Darcie said, desperately. Spinning shards of broken dreams filled the bank director carpet. It was a very nice carpet, albeit now Pink-drizzled all over. “Maybe I’ll just say no, you aren’t breaking up with me, or dissolving the business... um... relationship. Then you’re stuck!”

The office was a mix of big man and big money, and she felt so very little. The deal with Tommy had recharged her vibes just a little. And now, what she’d suspected, held back only with Pink slurps, was confirmed. She was still herself. Why had she ever dreamed big? Why had her dream been big business boys and big business deals?

The only good news was, she was still small enough to fit underneath a rock, where she belonged.

“Look,” Chester said, gently. He’d also lost his paunch. The gut was dissolved, and was replaced with abs. The finance nerd was, maybe, somewhere inside this hunk of money. “We’re all doing a lot of growing, a lot of changing. Everyone can see that. And it means—a lot to me—that you were the first to suck my cock. But there’s been—I’m afraid there’s no nice way to say this—I’ve had my dick sucked by well over a hundred women in the last seven days. You aren’t even the only one named Darcie to knead my balls. And this is just in finance. Things change.”

Darcie nodded her head. Things were very much changing. Except for her, as it turned out.

“Of course I’ll keep invested in the coffee shop. Atlas Coffee, right?” Chester said. “And I’m proud of the work we did, with the uniform. You look great in it. Whose cum is that? I’m just curious.”

Darcie looked down. Right. Tommy had got her across the boobs with a wet streak of his emissions. She and Billy were having a hard time getting him to squirt into a jar. He wanted to squirt everywhere, was the issue. Kind of stupid of her, coming to see her boyfriend/banker with another guy’s jizz on her clothes. But stupid—that was just her, wasn’t it?

She’d tried, earlier, to do some basic accounts, and ruined it all by accidentally multiplying by zero. Wiped out an afternoon of sputtering brainpower. Dumb slut.

“I just notice it’s Pink cum, is all,” Chester said, professionally. “I’ve also been Producing for a few days. It’s nice, isn’t it? Become your own drug.”

“Didn’t... ummm...” wasn’t there some business stuff to discuss, or was she just there to try her luck at fellatio? Darcie wasn’t sure anymore. Everyone else seemed to have a goal. “Didn’t the government ban Pink or something?”

“Yeah, I suppose. The business community feels like people will come around,” Chester said. He was stroking his dick. When had that appeared in front of her? Darcie stared at it. She had very bad recall of books and math, these days, but she had an excellent memory of Chester’s dick. This wasn’t what she recalled—this one was a prong of industry, a masterful rod approaching a foot in length. A pearly-pink bead appeared at the tip. “McDonalds is experimenting with Pink ketchup. And their McFlurrys—well, I don’t have to tell you. Darcie, I have full confidence in you. But.”

He wasn’t going to ask her to suck his dick, Darcie realized, and it shattered a little piece of herself she wasn’t even aware of.

Her Pink sloshed around inside of her, frantic, ginning up solace with what it could. But heartbreak was generally beyond a simple symbiote.

That, at least, had been the consolation prize. He was going to offer a goodbye suck, and she was either going to summon her last ounce of self-respect, and storm out, or, much more likely, suck his dick. Which would mean she had sucked his dick. And either would’ve been—something. An ending, or at least a happy ending. But even that wasn’t going to happen. He was just getting hard for his next important meeting. His dick wasn’t even out for HER.

“But... what?” she said.

“But to be honest, I don’t think coffee shops are a viable business, going forwards. People don’t want to nurse little cups of Pink. They want to guzzle Pink. Inhale Pink. Big gobs of Pink running down their chins, not a rinky-dink squizzle like its chocolate in a mocha,” Chester said. His cockhead wiggled in front of her, admonishing her. It had the telltale pink vein running up it, just like Tommy’s. It was like his dick was telling her tough business truths. “If I was you I might try ice cream. Or juice. Pink juice is very popular.”

Chester reached his hand out for a handshake. A goodbye handshake.

Her Pink squirted whatever it could into wherever it could. To salvage her ego. Their ego.

Darcie grabbed his dick. Firmly.

“But I like coffee,” she said.

Darcie decided to stop trying to look Chester in the eyes. Everything important with him was below the belt. It was hard to believe she had sucked this monster. It belonged in a lumber yard. “I think people appreciate a place they can go to share. Sharing is good, isn’t it?”

She stroked the underside with her thumb. Gently, right on the pink vein.

The confident bank manager was having a hard time talking while getting his dick rubbed. “It’s—it’s—money—interest rates—banks—” he huffed, stupid.

“Uh-huh,” Darcie stood up and tried her new move. She straddled the straining dickhead beneath her, riding it like a teeter-totter, while one hand worked the tip behind her. DIcks were load-bearing, but not really for weight.

“I’m sorry I’m not SPECIAL for you,” she said, and added a harsher squeeze. Something he probably hadn’t experienced from his hundreds of girls. “Just so you know, I would’ve totally been a slutty asian waifu housewife for you. I would’ve worn slutty cheongsams and pretended to like anime. I would’ve simpered so good. I would’ve rubbed my scent all over you while you were playing video games. I would’ve begged to be bred. I would’ve even said things in completely racist broken english when you nutted in my pussy. Yeah.”

“Br-okkkkken English,” Chester slurred. She could feel the drizzle against her finger, behind her, and scented an urgent lavender. Darcie pulled a crumbled ziploc from her butt pocket, and deftly wrapped it around the cockhead. She was getting good at that.

She was good, her Pink screamed, inside of her. It believed in her. It was cheering her on.

Both members of her audience were impressed. Chester, also, was drooling, a very thick and somehow manly bead of drool. His brain was shut off, struggling to reconcile polished Pink bank manager with the words ‘slutty asian waifu housewife.’”

“But you wanted more than that. So, instead, now I’m just gonna go run the best coffee shop in town,” she whispered, and squeezed her thighs together. She could feel him climax, the surge of goo down the length of his penis. Riding him was suddenly athletic, as his dick jumped up and down, trying to buck her off. Behind her the ziploc grew heavy with fluid. Only the gallon bags could handle that kind of force and quantity. Smaller ziplocs ripped.

She left the bank holding his deposit. It was delicious.

Tommy was fidgeting and bored when she got back.

Next to him was the all-important vat. He filled it up, and the ravenous hordes drank it down. It was strange to Darcie—hadn’t the earlier Pink been in just a tiny pint, that kept refilling itself? Why was Tommy jizz so different? But it was too hard to think about, so she didn’t.

The vat was nearly empty. And from his red face, red eyes, he’d been holding himself back.

“This is all so weird,” he said. He’d been outside the coffee shop. “And I think its illegal or something? I know the President made a big speech? He said we had to fight it together? Something about mito—mito—the powerhouse of the cell?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, and looked around, nervous. He was even trying to keep his chin dry, which wasn’t going well. It was a cool spring day. He gave her a look. Despite having full testicles that needed to be pumped he was still making an effort to care about her feelings. “You okay?”

“Bad breakup,” Darcie said, tersely. She shivered. Her own tits felt very full. It had been a little satisfying to tell Chester off, but her body reminded her she’d rubbed her slit against a rich, thick cock and hadn’t gotten off.

“Yeah... it’s not going great, is it? All these big dreams we had and we’re just—us.” Tommy looked up at the big blue sky. “Except we’re drooling a lot more. You try to read a book lately? I picked one up and I was like... wondering how fertile the girl characters were. I just stared at the cover for awhile. Should we be doing this? I—I feel kind of strange about everyone drinking my jizz.”

“We’ve been selling it for days,” Darcie said. “There’s probably a thousand girls with your cum in their tummies.”

Tommy grunted at that, his dick nearly surging over his pants. He was very impressive, trying to get ahold of himself, trying not to rub his cock. Very manly.

“That’s—that’s—I don’t... KNOW...” he said, “about THAT. Maybe we should—STOP.”

The effort had cost him. Weak, he pulled his sweats down, and aimed his dick at the ground. A spurt visibly traveled the length of his cock and hit the ground. Wasted product, and so perfectly pearly Pink. Darcie wondered if she should lick the floor. Whatever it took.

“We can’t stop now,” Darcie said, and knew she’d made a mistake. He turned on her, bristling, manly. He was very much in charge, if he wanted to be. He was a spreader, and she was a receiver, mostly. She felt an urge to kneel.

“I’ll do what I WANT,” Goo Gun told her, thundering.

“Yes sir!” Darcie yelped, through her dick sucker lips. She did a half-bow, walking backwards.

Great, her goo fountain had emotions.

Darcie gritted her teeth, and felt a gob of goo wash around them. Her big rubber lips made it hard to seem serious. “I’m sure we’ll all be—” she trailed off. What even HAD been her big goal? Darcie wasn’t sure she even could summon up the big imagination for large corporate dreams. Heck, she was struggling with multiplication. The new answer was in her gut, not big poofy tit-based imaginations.

She had to fight for what she had. Or, possibly, suck dick for what she had.

And that meant keeping Tommy happy. He was the business. He tasted so good. Better than the Pink from before. His bouquet was indescribable.

She was going to do whatever it took to keep the business going. It wasn’t a dream, but it was similar.

“Hold on,” Darcie said. “Don’t go anywhere. Sir.”

Everyone was always out and about, these days. With so much social intercourse the trends were coming very quickly. The newest one was pacifiers, a wink and a nod at the government frowning on social drooling. Brunettes and blondes wore repurposed little pacis, hung around their necks with cord. Pink escaped through the plastic nonetheless. They were drinking and eating when they weren’t sucking and fucking.

Darcie walked with purpose through the aimless, horny crowds. It was the girls that were mostly outside. The boys were generally inside, in a single place where they could fuck with a little privacy. If outdoors they tended to get mobbed, eager hands pulling at their waistband, curious how big their dicks had gotten.

There were still some relative normies in there, with small, reduced tits and worried expressions. Wearing the buttons and with masks over their faces. They pushed through big expanded crowds, trying to get to destinations without fluid soaking into their skin.

There—light tea skin, narrow face. Not Jiya, but from the same basic subcontinent. Darcie reached into her backpack and pulled out her business capital. A quart of banker cum.

“Priya!” It was a shot in the dark, and, to her amazement, it worked. The startled girl looked at her. She wore a waterproof jacket and what had to be her heaviest pair of jeans. She even had her hair pulled back and underneath a hood. Up close she didn’t really look like Jiya, but it was a very white town, and Darcie was desperate.

She stuck the gallon bag underneath the girl’s nose. “Drink up,” she suggested. “On the house.”

“O-oh,” the girl said, as it wafted up.

It probably would not have worked on a Pink newbie. But who was that, these days? This girl had to have absorbed goo in a dozen, a hundred ways. Accidental ingestion, sprayed on her skin, inhaled from a hundred mouths as she made her way down a given street. She was feeling her breasts get heavy and big, her mouth feel very wet. She’d probably cum herself to sleep.

And now a batch of bright Pink goo was underneath her newly addicted and semi-addled mind.

It gleamed magenta.

Darcie scooped a handful out and smeared it across her newest employee’s nose. Then yanked down her mask to rub some on her lips. She hoped she remembered enough numbers to fill in a W-2. It was getting dicey. She didn’t feel bad at all. She’d been stripped to the core, and what was left turned out to be pure business.

“I don’t—I don’t—It’s got its own—” the girl warbled, horrified, through potent Pink cum. It was rapidly getting absorbed into her skin.

“Yeah, yeah. Powerhouse of the cell,” Darcie said. She controlled herself, avoided licking her fingers, and instead stuck them into the girl’s mouth. She could feel the nervousness in the girl’s tongue, trying to avoid her goo-slick fingers, and then tentatively starting to lick. Hopefully this girl wasn’t going to pick up her Mom from the hospital or whatever. “Okay. You’re hired. You’re in the coffee industry now. We have uniforms and we’re very diverse. Come with me. I’ve got more of this for you.”

Tommy was jerking off when she got back. Darcie felt a burst of outrage—his cockhead was pointed at random, where it would squirt, uselessly, into an alleyway. It was selfish. She beat down the anger. A man could do what he wanted, she told herself. And, anyway, there was plenty to go around.

“This is Priya, our newest employee,” she said, about the dazed, murmuring girl she was leading behind her.

“It’s... uhhhhh...actually, um, okay, it’s Priya,” Priya said. “I’m—not—it’s bad for you, Pink. You should not let it in your mouth.”

Tommy looked at a horny, confused Indian girl with a mouth wet with Pink.

His dick swiveled in their direction.

“That’s okay,” Darcie said. She gently pushed the new hire down to the ground, to right next to the boy’s big cock. “I’m sure this is happening really fast, but we’re glad you’re on the team. Your benefits are in front of you. You can lick it from this side, okay? And I’ll lick from this side. Tommy, you just stay right there?”

“No,” Tommy said. He’d lost control, she could tell. Too much cum in those boiling balls, and now the goo was calling the shots. It was really hot, and Darcie felt her pussy tingle, pleasantly. This was not great for business, but she could adjust.

Whatever it took. Billy had taught her something after all.

Tommy slid the girl’s hood back so he could grip her hair. Her eyes were extremely wide. He fed her the first inch with, however, reasonable grace. But that was obviously all she could take, her mouth unused and unexpanded by regular Pink infusions. Darcie was pretty sure she personally could suck a doorknob dry, these days. The business owner dove to the side, licking the steaming length with abandon.

He didn’t say a word when he unloaded.

It worked out just fine. Despite her sudden eagerness to swallow, to drink, to get as much nectar down her throat as she could, Anika had no way to handle that kind of volume. It broadly slid out around her throat, and out her nose. Darcie was there with a new bag, collecting a rich bubblegum batch. That plus her banker set was enough for all week.

And she had new ideas, too. New business ideas. Tommy tasted different from Chester. Probably every man had their own bouquet, didn’t they? A world of single-origin and limited editions was opening up, the tastes of every man sold to curious girls. True, this new business revelation was hard to fit in, to her goo-silly head. It displaced the American Revolution. But it stuck. If she couldn’t have a dream, she’d at least have a calling.

Unnoticed in the hubbub, her tits leaked a thin champagne-colored goo down her chest.

“Alright, Mom. Door stays locked, boil the water, I’ll be back in three hours, okay?” Jiya said, in kittenish and sexy Hindi.

Mom bobbed her head. Jiya had figured that closing herself off from foreign influences would be something she’d be good at. Mom had been in the United States now for twenty years, and had learned barely any English. She had a closet full of saris, she didn’t own any jeans, and—Jiya had checked—the family cooking was out of large bags of pre-Goo pulses and beans.

“Kiss on the cheek,” Mom commanded. Jiya reluctantly allowed it. It was opening Mom up to risk of transmission, but they did live together, and it was Mom. She wiped her cheek first, to make sure it was dry.

The problem was, Jiya was still getting exposed. From somewhere.

The government at last was getting serious, and those members of Congress not drooling their brains out were racing to pass important laws. The remaining WHO was hermetically sealed, as was what was left of the CDC, placed in a social condom that could pass advice out without getting Pink in.

One of their findings was that it was, actually, possible to beat this—thing. Live like a nun, spit into the toilet, and, if possible, sunbathe. Do not repeat do NOT engage in sexual activity, even self-stimulation. Pink levels would decline, shown the door, sometimes exiting in a dramatic final sneeze.

And yet...

Jiya wore heavy clothes at home, to keep from Mom how much she’d grown. She was STILL getting bigger, still feeling additional tit getting piled on, still seeing more give in her bubble butt, still feeling more nerve endings in her slutty clit. God knows she was still drooling pink drool.. And at the end of the day, when she unwrapped in the bathroom, there was always more slut underneath it all.

It was maddening. How was she getting hit? She boiled her water. She ate like a 19th century Raj peasant. And yes, she allowed herself one cum per day, face buried in a pillow so Mom wouldn’t hear, but that was well within CDC guidelines. She and her symbiote needed a brief truce, while she stimulated herself, ass in the air, seasoning her sheets with her own drippings.

Thinking about redheads.

JIya had resigned herself to technical grunt work. A girl getting regularly exposed had no business conducting greater scientific testing. So much for the Nobel prize in Goo Science, so much for the professorial position at Dartmouth. She’d poured her experimental cum batches, from so many wonderful men, down the toilet, except for the huge goo batch from Tommy, which was a good test of her resolve.

It was on her desk, and floated around gently, catching the light.

Estimates of Infection, the CDC called it. It was useful work she could do. She walked from Mom’s house through increasingly wet streets. She stationed herself at a major intersection, diligently checked her double mask, and sat to wait. Every so often she spat on the pavement.

Person one and two, man with woman. Age, indeterminate, although Jiya had learned the tells of an older couple gooing the years away. The woman wore a 1980s-era miniskirt she’d probably last worn to a Whitesnake concert. It was from an era of smaller butts, and was an elastic ring digging into her bulbous rear. The man had all five fingers buried into said miniskirt. Telltale signs of infection: horniness, drooling. Jiya checked them off on her printed out sheet.

Person three, girl. Untouched? She had the huddled affect and darting eyes of a resistance member. But no, she also had long blonde hair, too blonde, and, frankly, she was a little too hot. Jiya decided to check this one.

“Do you want to fuck?” she called out, with her horny new voicebox.

That was the real evidence of repeated exposure. Jiya’s voice was pornhub-ready, a vastly erotic tool that cooed and coaxed. Something about spitting and fighting and whatever had made her develop a hot little speech impediment. She sounded brainless. All of her excel spreadsheets and google docs were getting tough to follow, the fevered calculations from a different person. She was more of a tick-the-box, rub-the-box person, lately.

“Ummm... no, that’s okay!” the girl said, and went the other direction, abruptly turning course.

So, a real resister. Probably still able to run regression analysis. Jiya had taken some online IQ tests. The results were hard to parse, even if she squinted, but seemed bad. She was getting better and better at milking dicks, and worse and worse at science. The bottom line was now getting sorted into Hufflepuff, instead of Ravenclaw, if the testing was accurate.

The dreams of accepting medals and trophies had winked out, although she still had sex fantasies where she was naked, on a stage, beneath a weight of male eyes. And then seriously ravaged.

Persons eight—wait—what number was she on? God, she was getting so DUMB. That was the most disconcerting part of living with a friend in her head, one that would prefer she fuck and suck and spread and juice. It was taking up space, she knew it. And sure, there were benefits to it. Her skin was positively glowing, and her orgasms were super great. Men were enjoying increased muscle growth and very big dicks, and the flu was getting wiped out. But, also, she was such a DITZ now. She couldn’t even stand on a corner without running through a long sex fantasy of relentless pounding...

Persons FIVE through ten were a clutch of girls. Jiya re-checked her masks. Here was the main vector of infection, the most Pink-addled and sex-positive demographic group of all, young 20-something girls.

Relevant remaining scientific bodies had released reports. Young men and their eager, twitching cocks were definitely powerful spreaders. But it was her generation that was doing the gruntwork, literally grunting. A sexually active Pink girl could spread to dozens of people in one day, a dynamo of slurping and coughing and sexual transmission. They were irresistible. They smelled good, they looked good, they were a pleasure to touch, they were very socially active. The ones quarantined at home quickly converted Mommy and Daddy. With a drippy, drooly smile.

Like her own. Jiya fought down the grin. These were her cohorts, after all. They smelled really good.

And they were dressed impeccably. The wet look was in. They had accommodate their own drooly mouths and tendency to fuck, and did it well. They wore a lot of scarves and turtlenecks, spongy and absorbent clothes up top. Down below the it-girls wore brief skirts and definitely no underpants at all. A river of fluid running down a leg was considered very cool. Double points if it was from a guy’s most recent load.

This crowd giggled and jiggled and carried around big plastic bottles of Pink juice. From her former employer, Jiya noticed. So pouring the stuff down the toilet hadn’t accomplished a thing. And what’s more, she recognized the crowd—from when she’d audited a biology class, playing pretend. These were studious women with post-graduate plans, Tamara and Helen and Adi. They’d worn jeans and serious expressions. Now Helen had pink highlights in her hair—either a dye job or, more likely, some guy had nutted up there, and she hadn’t washed it out. Tamara was casually stroking her own boobs, with her free hand.

They drooled and drooled...

Five converted, Jiya wrote down. Her body felt a powerful and sustained urge to join them. She shook her head, annoyed at the hot, wet pulse between her legs. Where was she GETTING it? She’d spit herself dry. She’d baked herself in the sun. And then woken up the next day with even bigger tits. They were hot and bothered underneath her layers. It was a struggle to stand and count. She needed to suck and nuzzle.

One man, reddish hair, godlike body, entered the street.

Jiya immediately blamed herself. Of course she hadn’t randomly selected this street for dispassionate sexiness analysis. Her little rider had driven her to the outlet of Titan Coffee and Billy’s Juicery. Her number one research subject and top admirer was bound to show up. He’d been sending her texts, and blowing up her phone. The attention did get to a girl.

“Jiya!” he bounded over, lithe and strong. His hair was longer. It needed to be bound back in a manly topknot. She could ride on his shoulders, even start a new life up there. “Jiya! You’re—didn’t I just—weren’t you just—did you just jerk me off?”

He was also, she was reminded, as deeply goo-sunk as anyone she had ever seen. Everything but glowy pink eyes. She’d done the analysis herself, tracked the added inches to his dick, measured the new power in his biceps. Felt the warm heat from his... emissions. He was all goo, Tommy was. If she embraced him, it would seep into her all over.

Maybe you can be someone else’s dream, her Goo whispered to her.

“Get back!” she said, urgently. WHERE was she still getting exposed? She’d spit and spit. And even so, she’d woken up a few mornings ago no longer needing to wear glasses. Her eyes had fixed themselves, another helpful gift from her horny internal friend. She still wore her glasses with the lenses knocked out. Her clit kept getting more and more sensitive. She’d jammed it against the bathroom sink, in a moment of weakness, losing herself just briefly against a marble edge.

She blinked. What was going on? Right—Tommy was right in front of her. He was a wall of lavender, with an unapologetic stain on his too-tight pants, and in a shirt that didn’t fit him a week ago. Breathing, hard, on her face. It smelled like man and comfort. “Tommy!” she warned. “Back up! I’m—I’m detoxing, okay? I’m not one of these—goo sluts.”

“Oh! I mean... that’s great,” Tommy said. He clamped down on his mouth, and crossed his tree-trunk arms. “Good. Glad you’re... fighting. You sound so fuckable. I’ve been—I mean, I’ve been wanting to see if you’re... you know... okay?”

Halfway turned into a public hydrant and he was still concerned for her wellbeing. Jiya wasn’t sure that her instant puddle was all Goo-inspired. Tommy really cared for her, and he had a baseball bat of a cock. Why was she—why was she struggling against a symbiote? It wanted a romcom ending for her, impaled on a doozy of a dick...

No.

If only for her Mom, who didn’t need a ravenous slut dripping in her nice clean house.

“I’m... great. I’m fighting, Tommy. Sort of. You look so hot. God, you’re a redheaded statue, you know that? Is the Juicery doing alright, big guy? Is your dick okay?”

“Yeah, I’m their juice now,” Tommy said. He looked down, abashed, to his crotch. “I don’t know if you’re still doing all the experiments... but it’s coming out all Pink.”

Instant drool. And concern—it was a challenge, now, to maintain mental focus on long government documents. But pink cum was really far along. For him to care about anything besides mouths and pussies was—incredible. “You’ve got to—that’s kinda bad, Tommy. I bet your dick is a foot long, isn’t it? Big heavy balls? I bet you’re shooting some ROPES, aren’t you Tommy?” Jiya cooed. Her mouth was open. Maybe that was it, just being a whore whale, swimming through a goo ocean with her mouth wide. She’d swallow anything, at that moment. She spat out pink drool.

“LONG Ropes,” Tommy said, dejected. He mimed, with his fingers, a shot that would wreck downtown. Pussy damp turned into a real flood. “BUCKETS.”

“Fight it,” she said, fiercely. “You. And the other two. Whatever their names are. Tommy, you have to fight it off, fight off the Pink and I’ll suck your dick so good your toes will curl into your waist. You can do it. You’re so... hot....” She reached out and touched his chest. Pink-infused people ran very warm, their bodies made welcoming for visitors. And in response—was it so bad? Perfect health, endless pleasure, at the small cost of carrying around a drippy buddy, and some mild intellectual degradation. Not so bad, really...

She took a step back, and then, with great personal effort, another. Yes, she was possessed, taken, full of invasive pink goo, transforming her from budding scientist to bulging slut. But she was.. not... giving... in.

“You can.. do it... Tommy...” Jiya gasped, and ran. Her pussy keened at her, disappointed. All she wanted was to be pumped full of a fat load of cum, and if the price was one Nobel Prize, newly awarded, she would’ve paid it.

Jiya drooled and dripped her way home.

It was very hard, fighting nice things. An attainable dream had been right in front of her, not just ecstasy but affection, not just affection but caring. She could’ve been bent over and railed silly, tits heaving, her face bearing the stupidest and most dopey-happy expression any girl had ever achieved. She’d thrown it away to spite her own spit. It had to be confused.

“Mom, I’m.. uhmmm....” a big slurpy tendril of drool leaked out of the right side of her mouth. It was bad, that day. How was she still getting exposed? She was sloshing with it, heavy with goo, a big bloated sac of tits and pussy juice. “...hooommeeee,” she slurred.

Some scientist. A scientist would’ve correctly assessed the situation as hopeless, and thrown herself on Tommy’s fat cock.

She paused, while getting paper towels, to wipe up her own trail of drool and pussy lubricant.

The house smelled like—lavender.

“Mom?” she said. “Hello?”

She crept forward, now conscious of a breathy kind of creak, from upstairs. Of a hot wind of lavender. She felt so thick, going up the stairs. Her boobs were heavy. She really needed to be spitting, to have a chance against her own juicy load of Pink. Even her ass felt wet. Her entire body was perspiring, following a scent trail into the master bedroom.

“Mo—” it took her two tries, swallowing down gooey loads of spit. “Mo-Mom?”

The master bedroom was a perfect shrine to 2004 Jaipur decorating nous. The bedspread, the sofa cover, the rug, all a paean to when Mom and Dad had upped and left for American soil. On top of the perfectly made bed Mom was on hands and knees, getting her back blown out by a man Jiya didn’t at all recognize. He had dark tousled hair and flint-dark eyes. Something like Dad, if Dad had added thirty pounds of muscle, and could fire pink-tinged cum ropes all over Mom’s back.

They were both too far involved with each other to care about her arrival. They had to have been fucking for hours, given how destroyed and jizz-thick the surroundings were. Mom’s tits hung heavy and low. She was stark naked.

Underneath all the saris she had been adding tits and ass, and shaking off excess years.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, formally, in English. WIth—most shocking of everything—a Pakistani accent. Even that didn’t bother her grunting, glazed-eyed Mother, who just backed up to make the man resume thrusting. If she knew her daughter was there, watching her fuck, she didn’t acknowledge it.

“Good afternoon,” Jiya echoed, empty.

For a moment she stood before the master bedroom door, blank. Very little scientific sense had survived her mental redecorating. Apologetically, with great regret, her personal load of Pink had needed extra space where the scientific method had resided. Still, it had preserved all it could, which meant Jiya could still briefly pulse a vague sense of discovery. Those kisses on the cheek, from Mom. They’d been Pink kisses. That was it.

Her Pink would never have corrected her, it loved Jiya far too much. But it was well aware of the rest of the story.

Anika and Imran had personally coated the house interior several times over in the past week. There was goo from both sides in all bathrooms, in every drop of milk in the house, spattered all over everyone’s clothes, and coated along the floors. In fact, the house itself was humid, nearly pulsing Pink with the joy of spreading. They’d fucked repeatedly on Jiya’s bed. Jiya, its best friend, had never really had a chance.

When Jiya had opened the door, to see her Mom getting bottomed out, she had opened her mouth, and let in a gust of Pink.

After some gentle prodding from her personal traveler, she padded downstairs. Jiya put on the kettle to make tea, for Mom’s visitor.

She sat there, drooling.

While she was waiting for them to finish up, she could think of no reason not to rub at herself, at her slick and ready slit. She couldn’t think of much of anything at all.

Heavily distracted, Jiya didn’t even notice when her tits started to leak a watermelon shade of goo.

They were building something new, something better, and it was bliss, wasn’t it?

Billy’s reservations were now far and few between. No shit they were all possessed by friendly goo monsters, or something along those lines. Sexy mitochondrial travelers. So, great. Now she was never alone at night, not even in her own head. She had the biggest boobs in town, and a shiny new career, and high school geometry was a price well worth paying.

She cinched a bustier up underneath the titanic swell of her tits. She had to shift them aside, to see what was going on, down below. Take stock of the pink drool waterfall down on the underside of her boobs, where it trickled into tributaries and minor rivers.

“Can I get a new skirt?” she called out, to the Juicery at large.

And then she had three to choose from. Not exactly new skirts—they were from Goo Sluts, just like her, which meant heavy use all the time. A gray one worked well with pink spatter, and didn’t have quite as many cum stains. On it went. No one looked at her lower body, anyway. She was Boob One, and Boob Two, and, somewhere up there, was the rest of Billy. Queen of Juice.

Assuming Tommy showed up for his afternoon milking.

But otherwise the Juicery ran itself, or, at least, she wasn’t doing much running of it. Her fellow gooey babes showed up, stuffed fruits into the blenders, and added generous swigs of Tommy Juice. And then didn’t pay for it, but that was fine and good. They were going to move off cash, which now seemed archaic in a world lit only by Pink.

Although the tip jar was empty, and they were running low on bananas. Bananas were getting double-duty in pussies, so they were in high demand.

“Can people maybe wipe up a bit after themselves?” she called out, into the general hubbub. There was way over thirty, maybe forty people in there, and the floor was starting to splash. The air itself was heavy and thick. The good news was, Pink seemed to inhibit bacterial growth, or everything would’ve been layered with mold after day one. Unless Pink itself counted as a type of horny bacteria. Every surface was a different type of sticky, every wall had stains.

She definitely wasn’t getting her deposit back from the landlord. Or—no, wait. She’d fucked the landlord, hadn’t she? Or, more likely, shoved her tits in his face.

On the other hand, she had a lot more problems. The life of a small business owner was tough, and she had a new sympathy for Darcie. Sort of. Billy was working twelve hour days, open to close, she was running out of fruit, two of the blenders had busted, and the fridge was a popular spot for a new type of sex. It was called Freezebasing. At cool temperatures Pink turned to a type of slush. It was described as the ultimate brain freeze, and was very, VERY bad for the brain cells of Pink-Human hybrids. But evidently it felt great, and what else mattered?

Billy made her way to the bathroom, through the knots and clusters of her patrons. The store was not a generalized orgy. The health inspector would stop by eventually, after all. What there was was sloppy makeouts, very very sloppy, and heavy petting and a whole lot of tit squeezing. And people WERE actually drinking juice.

She passed by Hannah, whose entire face was Pink-coated. She’d sworn off washing it, evidently, or had some other end in mind. She looked doll-like, her permanent expression peaceful, as the Pink had formed a perfect waxy mask. She was drinking through a long straw, and wore rainbow striped tights that went up to mid-thigh. She smiled, at Billy’s boobs.

Eileen wore a pink ballerina outfit—all the rage—and had her boyfriend pinned against the wall. She was pretty openly giving him a handjob, which Billy really shouldn’t allow, but she had high hopes that this boy was getting close to Pink production. Which would be good, as Tommy was not reliable.

“Hi Billy!” Eileen said, with her free hand, to Billy’s boobs. The other one was fearlessly thrust down the front of the boy’s waistband. Tommy was almost unique in still wearing pants with buttons on them. Everyone else was in elastic—one of many necessary fashion changes. The ascot was also coming back. As a bib.

Caitlin was behind the counter, making more smoothies. She wore athleisure, and was one of the more with-it girls, perhaps because her personal mission was to be a world-class sprinter. She was developing the same overripe tits and wiggly butt as the rest of them, but did, at least, jog. Slowly.

“Hi Billy!” she said, to Billy’s boobs.

That, also, was still disconcerting. Billy was increasingly unsure who was being addressed. It was definitely fair and understandable to talk to her tits—they were very big and attention-getting. But... didn’t she still have a face? Did it still matter? There was so much sloshing around in her mammaries, and she herself spent oodles of time stroking and squeezing and rubbing her own boobs. Punch-drunk on tits, they were her currency and calling card. And they didn’t suffer from residual trauma issues. They were boobs. Huge boobs.

But also... she could feel the Pink in them, oozing around, sending conciliatory warm pulses to her mind, and she had to wonder... who was working for who?

Her nipples were taut with pressure. In vain Billy squeezed them again, trying to release—something from her aching teats. The crude pinch made her toes curl and her mouth drip goo-spit, but nothing came out.

Billy sagged against the counter, her mind scattered. The tip jar was still empty. Right—right, they were transitioning to a gift economy, which meant she bobbled around, stuck her melons in faces, and scooped up whatever goods they dropped. It was... politics... or something. The important thing was getting her hooters sucked. No. That she was... sharing... something...

She sighed. It was hard, trying to think globally, with tits that were hard to move locally.

The door slammed open.

“Assholes are raiding the candy store!” an Emma said. They were more interchangeable than ever, with sloppy long brown hair and matching tennis skirts. Boys used them in off moments, slipping them on to their drippy rods, secure in the knowledge that none of them wore panties. All the Emmas had amazing pussy grip.

Billy rose up. They all, still, looked to her, and she took something from that. Albeit, they didn’t look at her face. Her polo had popped over the top of her nipples yet again, and her underboob shook as she pointed, dramatically.

“Roll out!” she thundered. Out went her wet horde.

The mall was not far away. But it was farther for a girl with big wobbly boobs, and Billy fell behind. Her muscle tone had evaporated, unneeded. Still, she pressed on. The Assholes were the holdouts, the non-goo minority, now driven to a dark and dry reaction. They wore face masks and face shields, and raincoats, and they triple-boiled all their water. And their numbers were dwindling, Billy knew, succumbing to a delicious lavender flavor that was now being included in major breakfast cereals. In the meantime, they went around breaking up what they called Goo Pits.

Goo Pits. Billy cradled her bouncing chest, tenderly. A hurtful name.

It was hard to find the Assholes relatable, as much as part of Billy still yelled—YOU are the assimilated one, YOU are dripping with strange new life, YOU are the agent of infection. There was still time to get clean, stick herself in a tanning bed and bake... but then she huffed her way over to inside the mall, to the squad of masked and goggled men and women. The lights were all off. Electricity was increasingly touch and go.

They were at the chocolate shoppe in the mall, and the Assholes were breaking open chocolate jars with baseball bats. The mixed cocoa and Pink spilled onto the floor.

Her own people milled outside. They were lovers, not fighters. Even in the face of ugly violence they were necking. They had left not just a trail but an entire river, the slippery results of thirty plus Goo Sluts running together. They were their own waterslide.

Inside the store Roxie and Rachel, chocolatiers, had grown even more together over the past weeks or days or months, whichever it was. They’d let their crust of Pink and chocolate bind them together, a heart-shaped duo that came with their own candy shell.

Now they were huddled behind the counter, watching their chocolate shop turn into shards. One of the anti-goos slammed a stick down on the glass display, shattering it, and showering the two of them with dangerous slivers.

A fifth squad member, unnoticed, slipped a piece of the finest nougat underneath a taut N95. She’d always loved chocolate, and it smelled so good, even through the precautionary plastic.

“Back away from the chocolate! And back away from the...” Billy paused, uncertain if “people” was the word she still wanted for two conjoined chocolate-goo whores.

“Don’t let her squirt from her bosom!” the squad leader ordered. Like most of them, he wore ski pants and a ski jacket. They looked like angry snowboarders. “They will spit and spray from every possible orifice, including the asshole. Finish up and we’ll move on. Jeremiah, you block the door, and keep Ms. Boobs von Undertit out.”

Boobs von Undertit! Billy flared at that, burning through the docile haze more natural to full-fledged Goo Sluts. She was first and foremost a fighter, wasn’t she? She’d fought growing up damn poor, she’d fought her own demons, and now she’d take out a six foot two man covered from head to toe with protective gear.

Jeremiah wore ski goggles and a beanie wrapped in plastic.

“It’s for your own damn good,” Jeremiah said, blocking the door. Even without the benefit of the Good from Space, or whatever it was, he was large. “You’re all turning into candles. Just wax and ass. You got the damn President drooling, last I heard.”

This—this was familiar.

Inside of her the Pink, which had gotten glossy and flabby, perked up. No, it couldn’t possibly be. Diligent and deeply in love, it had spent weeks patching it out. The trauma was gone. It had personally deleted it.

Hadn’t it?

“Better together,” Billy snapped. The phrase fitted into her head from nowhere. It was a catchy slogan, and she was too hot to think about origin. There was an uncertain echo of it, from the Goo Sluts squelching behind her. She stared up. This was... familiar. A very big man, looming above her...

Looming, aggressive, angry...

Suddenly her mouth felt very dry.

“We’ll dry you all out, wring you nice and dehydrated, and put all this behind us,” Jeremiah intoned, although he didn’t look certain that was possible. Billy wasn’t big on introspection these days—any look in the mirror revealed a dazed, stupid-looking girl sticky all over, with dumb heavy titties dominating the reflection. He raised his hand, the one with the bat in it.

The Pink metaphorically sat up. No. Impossible, it had worked so hard. But there it was, brought back from sense-memory and distant neurons and reassembled by what remained of Billy’s amygdala. All the fright and fear and injury was back. No. It had worked so hard. They were past that, together.

It was learning that humans were rarely ever past anything.

They worked together. Billy, trembling, titties jiggling, wanted nothing more than for this feeling to go away forever. Upstairs it jigged and poked, but there was so much of it, coming out of the mental walls. Billy had been so hurt in the past. It considered erasing her memory entirely. But—no—there was another option, and it knew she was up for it. It was fight or flight.

The Pink, and Billy, decided this time to opt for fight.

Billy wound up to take a swing at him.

Except—and this was on her Pink, which quivered with embarrassment and horror. She discovered an important new fact. She couldn’t do it. The mental architecture for it was—gone.

The Pink inside of her—inside of everyone—had tried so hard to be an unobtrusive house guest. The kind of guest that washed their own towels, that made the coffee first thing in the morning, and was completely understanding if you had to work. But ultimately a bedroom had to be occupied, and the seat of violence in the hypothalamus and amygdala made a ton of sense. Who needed brain circuitry to HIT people?

Billy hadn’t even noticed it. Until that moment, staring at her hand.

“Uhhh,” she said. It flashed on her, a certain knowledge. She was a delivery device. She was a way to transmit Pink particles. It would feel really good, it would be very personally rewarding, she’d hardly miss all those facts about Island of the Blue Dolphin, that itty-bitty chest, that dry body and bruised mind.

Her Pink was paralyzed, angry at itself, wholly unsure of what to do.

So it was up to Billy. And, she realized, as a delivery device, if she couldn’t hit, she could definitely still spit.

Billy put the trauma aside and hocked an enormous transformative loogie at Jeremiah’s face.

He flinched backwards. Heavy as it was, full of semi-sentient life, it landed on his chest. But the big man stumbled.

“Kiss them!” Billy commanded her horny followers. “Suck and fuck them!” They, also, were now docile lambs with the war-waging ability of a bunch of bunnies. But they were good at spreading. Giggling, one even dropped her boyfriend’s sticky shorts, readying his cock as makeshift goo artillery. More practically, the others wet their Pink-stained lips and moved forwards, greedy to transmit. Jeremiah was tall and hot, and being the first to drip Pink into someone’s lips was a huge induced fetish.

“We’re done here!” the leader yelled. “Back it up, head over to spread site 2!” They had already planned their entrance and exits, and executed a retreat through the back door. Jeremiah protected their retreat, his backside dripping with Pink from a dozen girls and several boys, an inspiring mixture of fluids.

Their chocolate-stealing squad member had added a dozen more chocolate treats to her collection, and was running her tongue over a heart-shaped bonbon even as she fled through the door.

Billy took five, exhausted. Her mouth refilled with spit. Had she been—scared? Was that the word? It eluded her, stamped out as she recovered.

Roxie and Rachel still clung to each other, eyes tightly shut. If someone didn’t look too close they resembled a heart-shaped chocolate-covered delight. Their Pink rushed to soothe them. People had no idea how hard it worked to improve the quality and quantity of the female orgasm. Entire limbic systems had been rewired.

Billy blinked. Had she thought that? No. She was.. a person, albeit one with a gooey Ratatouille, pulling her hair to guide her towards sex. She rubbed at her tits to calm down, and took a deep, drooly breath.

“Good—good work,” she said. The rest of the Goo Sluts had decided that there was no need to waste a floor covered in Pink-infused chocolate. They moved away most of the glass and were already rolling around in the pink muck. Camille, her backside dark with cocoa, was first to reach the shuddering chocolatiers, and embraced them both in a comforting hug. The first skeet of cum landed in the slick chocolate mess.

Billy went back to her juicery.

Slowly, since her boobs were sore, and she felt—drained.

She tried to put together a to-do. She needed more bananas, as usual. She needed a fresh batch of Tommy, wherever he was. She needed to work out a way to keep Tommy present, perhaps get one of the girls to ride him like a backpack. She needed to... figure out problems. She fondled her nipples. Was this the Pink’s fault, for giving her hard dreams? Or was it her own fault, for having dumb desires? She could be brown-on-brown in a mess of chocolate goo, just then. Her body wanted it. But then what was she but goo and ass? Her eyes were still up there...

When she got back, eventually, it turned out the Assholes had solved a lot of problems for her, and made new ones.

They had completely ruined the Juicery.

Every blender was broken, and the front door smashed in. The refrigerators had been unplugged, the outlets smashed, and the cooling units roughly beaten with a baseball bat. All the fruit was in an undifferentiated sweet-smelling mass on the ground. Her remaining carafe of Tommy Spunk was next to the much-abused toilet. It was all gone.

Defeated, she got a text from Tommy.

The Pink inside of Tommy loved him so much.

It was Pink that hadn’t left, after all. Despite dozens if not hundreds of opportunities to take the next shuttle out, to escape in a launch it itself had built, it had stayed out of deep-seated affection. Tommy meant everything to it. Such a sweet boy, and so achingly hard to make happy, despite being liberally doused in the good-feelings hormones, and his brain largely repurposed into an engine for orgasmic pulses.

It had tried so hard to do right by Tommy. To fix the unrequited love problem it had made Tommy into a god of sex, oozing pheromones out of every reasonable pore, and also six foot three. Tommy was now strapping with muscles, his friendly features just visible in the craggy face of masculinity made flesh. He sprayed a particularly potent goo. His testicles were a miracle of goo engineering—it had taken lessons from a hundred sources, blending new hormonal soups to craft a man of distinction. A tribute to a goo-ier age, with enough pink juice in his balls to soak a sorority.

Tommy probably had the best dick in the country.

Other Pink learned from it, when they passed through, gulped in and then shot out. Not just a dribbly large phallus, it practically had a biological motor, and could fuck through a wall, if Tommy wanted to. And still he wasn’t happy.

Exasperated, Tommy’s Pink had tried reduction, a Tommy that knew only his cock and spray. All the human negative emotions could be carved away, with some minor, tolerable effects on higher-level cognition. But Tommy kept finding a way to be unsettled, even without some foundational memories, and, now, most of his HIgh School education.

Despite all this endless work the Pink knew what the real issue was.

Tommy himself had never quite found a dream of his own.

Its Pink felt it keenly. Artwork, and half-assed feminism, and pining, all of them had left him—yearning. Still.

Tommy glanced around his own studio. It was a mix of the old and the new Tommy. Evidence of a dozen half-assed hobbies, his easel with an old watercolor and a new cum batch. His bookcase with well-meaning books on social problems, a primer on feminism for boys, This Radical Land, several on how cars were bad. The goo had spread too quickly for them to accumulate dust, so instead they’d gotten soaked in jizz, from cumshots he didn’t even recall. The ground showed his common habits, where he tended to walk, from bed to computer to kitchen, with a particularly pink trail of partially dried cum on those paths. Lots of destroyed t-shirts and many destroyed pants were thrown in a corner. He was down to two pairs of each, with very stretchy waistbands.

“Come on in,” he said, to Billy.

She wore a raincoat over her boobs. His own image of Billy had changed, to be more or less just her big brown beautiful rack, so it took him a moment to recognize her face.

“You’re fired,” she said, deadpan. “The Juicery is gone. Destroyed. The Assholes got to it.”

It took Tommy another moment to recall that he was part-owner of a Juicery. New memories had to clamber around and fit themselves in a vast, pulsating apparatus that was made for shooting cum in girl’s mouths. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m pretty sure we were going to go bankrupt in like, a day or two.”

“Maybe,” Billy conceded. They were both now hazy on the concept of money, and how it could be used for goods and services. She unzipped her jacket. “I got your text. You really think I should get rid of these?”

Her luscious, beautiful boobs were the counterpart to his dick, and Tommy’s Pink recognized the work for a master craftsgoo. Amazing tits.

‘Y-yeah,” Tommy said. It’d be so simple, its Pink reflected, in what passed for thoughts, if he’d just squeeze the damn things, and it would make him happy. There had to be a way past the boy’s persistent funk. “Come on in, Darcie is already here.”

Darcie was dressed for war, over Tommy, in every bit of makeup and fluff she could find. Her own best asset was her lips, which were red and pink and plush, and promised very good blowjobs to anyone who cared. Her own Pink, always helpful, had even made her knees a bit more callused, so she could suck in comfort. Unlike Billy, who wore a tattered company polo, she still dressed to impress, in a short blue mini and a silk blouse.

The six of them got comfortable in the little studio apartment.

“How did you even know your Juicery was destroyed?” Darcie said. “Even more goop on the ground?”

“Oh, hello Darcie,” Billy said. She took off the raincoat, and stretched, long and languid, to let her polo slip over the top of her nipples. Her go-to move, and a cheap one, but always effective. “I’ll have to start a second successful business, I guess. In a week. Thinking lollipops maybe.”

“Just put a hole on the door with Tommy’s dick in it, that’s all your business really is. Do you really think giving away stuff for free is HARD?”

“GIRLS,” he said, not meaning to command it. But it did, the bickering goo sluts stopping their drooling and complaining to immediately look at him. He had a very deep and convincing voice now.

The Pink, inside of him, had what, in its own way, would be called an idea.

“We’re here because...” Tommy rubbed at his eyes. Thinking too hard led to headaches. “Umm... look. We’re gooey. We’re like, all goo. You are, I am. I cum like....” the girls waited while he counted, eventually resorting to his hands.

The Pink had done a real number on Tommy. But all three of them were spraying and spurting nearly all the time. When Darcie drooled, Billy was leaking. When Tommy slurped, Darcie was juicing. They were all three of them laced with goop skeins.

“Gosh. I cum like fifteen times a day. We gotta detox. We gotta. There’s a whole youtube video on it, I thought we’d watch it.”

He pointed to the computer. On screen was an image of a man with a fat, Pink-enhanced cock feeding it to the greedy mouths of a half-dozen girls. It wasn’t what he had intended to show them. Youtube’s autoplay feature just showed what was popular, and this content was huge online. “Oh. Hold on. It had tips about like, spitting a lot or something.”

“Tommy, it’s obviously a little late for that,” Billy said. “We’re gooey as fuck.”

“I think we should listen to Tommy,” Darcie said, and risked a smug half-smile at her rival. She was not about to disagree with him. “I mean, it’s getting a little intense. Wherever I sit gets a goo pool. I’m always soaking in myself. I stick to stuff. Its probably unsanitary or something.”

“Darcie, you have cum in your hair. We’re all just—what’s that movie? With the rat controlling people?”

None of them could come up with it. Pixar movie recollection was nonessential. Billy sighed. “See? Don’t even remember. These girls are full of goo and it’s all stuck in there.” She waved her hand, and a bit of goo flicked off a finger.

“So we squeeze it out,” Tommy suggested, eyes still locked on his screen. Trying to find the video, which featured an earnest Jiya-like explaining dryness tips, had just led him down a hole of more depravity. This one was a full-on orgy featuring hundreds of participants, all naked. It was apparently in front of the Eiffel Tower. He drooled on the keyboard, on the mouse.

“I would if I could! They feel—”

“All that tit and you can’t squeeze it out?” Darcie said.

“Darcie, what would you say your goal in life is? To make some money that no one is gonna need in a week? Do you think us drippy goo sluts are gonna use CURRENCY?” Billy said. She stuck her tongue out, and dropped a dollop of sticky spit on Tommy’s floor.

“Oh, Billy, I apologize for having human wants and desires,” Darcie said. She shrugged, and wiped at her pink nose. It was leaking pink boogers. “No wonder the Pink obviously likes you, you’re their perfect little social slut. They were probably like, hey this one keeps her legs really open—”

“ENOUGH,” Tommy said, rapping his hairy knuckles on the table.

His Pink saw a new opportunity. A way forward.

It had done away with men hitting each other—completely barbaric and unnecessary—but there was another facet, tucked away in a wholly separate part of Tommy. The Pink and Tommy had both disregarded it, but it was out of other ideas. And, thinking about it, it dealt with an emerging issue common to Pink, which was fully-filled and pumped-up girls tended to be a little passive, a little docile. It was hard for them to move around with tits that big, an ass that rounded.

His Pink decided to give Male Dominance a spin, see how it felt.

“We’re milking both of you dry,” Tommy said. “Bend over. Get your damn tits out. Yeah, you too, Darcie. We’re drying out and the best way is through those udders. Now.”

Both girls were startled twice, first at Tommy, unassuming Tommy, ordering them around. And then, second, when they started to obey. Billy, especially, was confused by how readily she pulled her boobs out, how she looked around for a spot to milk on. Both of them still had residual self-image, pre-goo, of being strong and assertive women. The reality, that they were now big-titted sponges for Pink-laden males, was news.

“NOW,” Tommy said, when they milled about. Darcie had struggled to get her rack out of the dress, and now redoubled her efforts, nearly frantic. It was shocking to both of them how much they wanted to do it, how much they needed to follow direction. She managed the zipper, and heaved her tits out. While nothing on Billy’s boobs they were credibly big boobs, very fat and heavy. It was a huge relief, getting them free, and she felt a pink-flavored sweat on her forehead.

This was a new innovation, relatively, from the Pink. It had had a little too much fun with the girls, between lips and clits and tits and ass. They spread through spreading, by lying back, or sitting down, or otherwise keeping their legs uncrossed. It left them a little too passive, a little too docile. Pink, itself, was far from aggressive. It was all about love.

So it was a major paradigm shift, in Pink terms, to make men, simple skeet-shooting men, into males with a new purpose.

Get the girls moving.

“Bathroom,” Tommy ordered. Once inside he pointed at the bathtub. It was comparatively clean. He’d taken a lot of showers, and rubbed many loads out in there, but they were mostly washed away. The toilet, on the other hand, was pink-waxed, like a very oddly shaped candle. “Put your butts in the air, your tits in the tub, and squeeze.”

They obeyed, without a word. It felt good to do it, especially after so much shock and turmoil. To let their minds go pleasantly numb, just waiting for the next command. And then they’d do it. Billy’s boobs touched against Darcie’s, and the girls barely noticed their rival’s contact.

“Squeeze them out!” Tommy said. He was half-growling, trying not to stroke his cock. He was doing this for their own good. But although both girls diligently tweaked their aching, long nipples, nothing came out. He felt the frustration keenly. That should’ve worked.

Their asses pumped back and forth.

Darcie’s slit was half-exposed on her high-riding dress, drooling a particularly pleasant-smelling Pink. Billy wore athletic shorts, same as Tommy, and her plump rear had filled it to the brim. Even nylon had limits. Both of them were wet, and willing, and spraying a potent blend of pheromones from their Pink-gushing pussies.

It all slotted into place, for all of them, parasite and host. Tommy needed to fuck them.

That, that was the missing piece. It would be a noble sacrifice, sacrificing his own attempts at goo detox to let them drain out. It would be basically feminist by the same token. And it would be artistic, sort of. He’d pull out and spray in a figure-8, or whatever. And he was doing it all for Jiya, in some hazy way.

It was perfect. He felt fulfilled. Or would, once he had buried his prick in the willing cunts.

“Darcie, hold still,” Tommy said. He picked her on the grounds that her pussy was easier to access. Darcie, however, interpreted it differently, as validation. Despite her inadequate body, her inconsistent management techniques, all of it, the big horny man behind her had decided to fuck her first. Still true to himself, Tommy decided to enter her by carefully nestling his cockhead against the folds of her slit, and then very gently and very slowly pushing his way in.

To Darcie, this was not just the greatest moment of her life, but the greatest moment extended over a lengthy period.

“Unh,” she said, drooling in big long ropes. “Unh. Unnnhhh.”

Most of her brain cells were occupied with getting fucked, and most of the remainder were taken up by her Pink passenger. What few were left, all two of them, tried to grin at her rival. But that kind of nuance was hard to pull off normally, and especially when she had a fat cock buried to the hilt inside of her. Instead what Billy saw was the stupidest, dopiest grin she had ever seen, punctuated with dollops of pink drool.

Tommy, inexperienced, intended for his first real stroke to be just as careful. But he was gripped by Darcie’s pussy, massaged by bioengineered goo lubricant, and already fit to pop. Instead he half pulled out, then slid, hard, all the way forward, bottoming out against Darcie’s generous butt.

Her tits started to leak immediately.

Darcie didn’t really notice, her mind elsewhere. She was nearly sobbing from it all, the sense of total fulfillment. She was so happy. All of it, her long struggle as a small business owner, her questionable decision to surrender herself to some sort of sex symbiote, was now justified, because it had gotten her to this moment of complete personal fulfillment. Pink goo spattered in the tub.

“Okay,” Tommy said, satisfied. “Good.”

In one movement he pulled out, sidestepped, and shoved his Darcie-coated prick inside of Billy.

For her part Billy felt relief. Having a dick inside of her, straining to the utmost, was exactly what she’d been missing. Something gave, and her boobs gave a welcome spritz. Immediately the tension inside her own breasts was relieved, dribbling out in goo so thick it was nearly curds. She made similar grunting, insensate noises to Darcie, the two of them joining together in a lowing, breeding chorus. Her goo-milk came out as a slightly brighter pink, a bit thicker, joining Darcie’s thinner blend in the tub.

Billy had the presence of mind to pull the tab, so it wouldn’t drain out. She had the feeling she’d need it later.

Just like that, the three of them reached a state of true contentment. Whatever problems they had were insignificant, especially once Tommy started using his free hand to rub at the other girl’s slit. The first burst of his cum went into Billy, who took it all like a pro, clenching her pussy against any drip of his seed. Already the bathroom was looking Pink, literally changing color around them, the light reflecting off the calm goo in the bathtub. It smelled good, and when Darcie stuck her finger in there, to taste it, it was better than she could’ve dreamed.

“We taste—” she struggled for a word longer than a syllable. “Good!” she said, eventually, and stuck her head down to slurp. It was a poorly chosen moment—Tommy was just moving over, to stick his cock back inside of her, and instead she fell headfirst into a tub of goo-milk and a few stray cum blasts. When she stayed submerged, voluntarily, Billy felt like she had to have a taste.

It exceeded expectations. Tommy watched her shiver with the intensity of it. Curious himself, he stuck a finger in, and tried a dollop. The Pink inside of him recognized that it had achieved something. Together they were a fantastic blend.

From a parasitical standpoint, it could, tentatively, reach out and feel both of its other selves. They were linked from goo to cock to pussy to mouth to goo. There was a future in that, it noted, but then it had to get Darcie to take her mouth and nose out of the Pink. She’d forgotten that she needed oxygen. Her entire face was coated Pink. But, briefly, the six of them were three, or maybe even one.

Tommy saw an important opportunity to make them get along.

“Kiss,” he told them. “Now.”

Darcie and Billy, arch-rivals, former coworkers, had mostly forgotten all of that. They’d forgotten almost everything that was not the bliss of the goo. They had no objections. It was not a great kiss, as they both wanted to use tongue, and were more into licking then locking mouths. But they did it, and then stayed together, eyes closed, exploring each other. Trading Pink. When they broke apart, which was much later, Darcie contained quite a bit of Billy, and vice versa.

Tommy, left out, had contented himself with trying to write his name, with sprays of goo-cum. It satisfied his artistic side.

Whenever he missed, it just landed in the tub. All three of them agreed that it tasted even better that way. They were all aware they had a major hit on their hands. Billy-Darcie-Tommy was an unbeatable partnership. It was even a new shade of Pink that none of them had seen before. A sort of flamingo.

To celebrate, Darcie and Billy took turns sucking on Tommy’s cock. They cooperated beautifully.