The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Enthusiorgasm

by Limerick

Sara wondered why the pill was blue. It seemed like such a natural for a pink, shiny casing, to match the feminizing and oh-so-barbie claims made about it. But instead it was a uniform matte navy blue, not a big pill, and it went down easily with a glass of water. Then she took another one. David watched her from the sink, slowly drying a bone-dry glass over and over. She recorded the date and time in her dark black notebook.

They waited, quietly. “Anything?” David said, eventually.

Sara waited. Closed her eyes. “I feel itchier,” she reported. “But I think that’s because I’m thinking about my body.” Sara almost never thought about her body. It didn’t make any demands, naturally slim but also naturally average. Rarely worth turning the head for.

“I guess we’ll see after a few weeks,” David said. He was being studiously neutral about the whole project, even bringing up possible concerns. Were the effects permanent? Would there be a semi-etched giggle and wiggle? How how much intelligence did the pills really drain? Well, either none or a lot, that was part of the project. It was possible the users just didn’t CARE about stuff like math.

“Show a LITTLE enthusiasm, honey,” Sara joked. “I’ve read case reports on this stuff and the women just go after their hubbies. Just ride them into the ground. Bigger boobs. Nicer ass. Come on. Tell me you aren’t just a little enthused, huh?” She mock-pushed together her chest underneath her sweater. “I guess you can fit your dick in here once it’s through. Can you imagine?”

“What happens in two weeks when you shrink back and get upset about how much enthusiasm I had?” David said. He put down one dry glass and began fake-drying another.

“Nothing!” Sara insisted. “Nothing at all. Think of it as... a vacation, okay? Vacation for you, research project for me.”

She closed her eyes again. “Still not a bimbo,” she reported, giggled.

Sara never giggled. It was girlish, unexpected. They both startled at it.

“I think I’ll go start a log book,” Sara announced. “With like, my horniness level, on a scale of one through ten.”

The idea was to write a thesis on the little pills sweeping through the country. Easy to manufacture, easy to obtain. Their chemical and social effects were being chronicled by legions of academics at the present moment, the economic effects seen in mad rushes for leather clothing and cheap lingerie. Sara had come upon her own research topic while watching a talk show, a vision in lace and synthetic leather struggling to keep her legs crossed on national television. A girl named Chloe, former.. well, technically CURRENT Harvard grad.

“If it was between keeping the right to vote and the pills... which?” the host had asked. This was CNN.

Chloe had stared back with puzzled, soft eyes. “Who wants to VOTE?” she had demanded, slightly outraged at the idea.

And so Sara had decided to write “Pursuit of Feminism Under Pill-Enhanced Situations”.

* * *

She woke up aching and horny at 1 in the morning. Some sort of wet, hot dream, only slightly remembered, where she was a piece of meat in a fog made out of boys and their cocks. Sara had had erotic dreams before, but they had unspooled like romance novels, with some polite and respectful missionary sex at the end. This was a pool of sex, her holes filled with dicks, her body throbbing. She woke up squeezing her thighs together.

She poked at her partner. “I’m horny,” she hissed at him.

David grunted, annoyed. “It’s 1:05 a.m.,” he told her, grouchy.

“Yes, but I’m horny,” Sara insisted. She grabbed his hand and moved it towards her crotch. A dick would feel so good inside of her. So hot and so wonderful. David pulled it back. “C’mon,” he told her. “1:05. Not exactly horny myself. I’m not the one taking the pills.”

“Oh, honey, please,” Sara said. She was surprised at his lack of interest. Sara had perused pornos before the start of her sexperiment. She had taken male sexuality for granted as an always-on, never-satiated quantity, essentially one lengthy search for something to thrust into. Sara took her hand and fished around in his boxer shorts. The cock inside was flaccid. She stroked at it the best she could.

“Seriously, babe, not feeling it,” David said, turning over.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Sara huffed. “Just jack off while you lie there?”

“I’ve done it. Welcome to a boy’s libido,” David said. “You don’t own a vibrator or something?”

Tomorrow she would, Sara promised herself. But tonight... “I’ll do the dishes tomorrow,” she said.

“C’mon.”

“In a short skirt.” The fantasy burst on her. Suddenly she couldn’t help herself. Sara’s hands made their way between her own legs. She was so red and juicy, her panties damp throughout and frankly soaked in the center. “Real short. I can do the dishes and you can, you know, come up behind me and...” she didn’t want to finish. It would be more fun not knowing. Finger her while she mewed? Bent her over the water and rammed a cock into her? Cupped her tits and sucked gently on her neck? The first finger slid up her slit.

“Oh, alright,” David said. He rolled over. Suddenly a fully erect dick was sliding its way across her legs. Sara cheered it on. And when they were done she stayed awake, in a pool of his sweat and her fluids, and just enjoyed the smell of it.

* * *

The first reference to the pill was on April 15, on reddit, a series of picture images entitled ‘one week’. Posted in WTF. The first, a picture of a slightly overweight blond with fat cheeks ignoring the camera, staring at the television. The second, the same girl, skinnier, smiling and winking self-consciously back. The third, the girl in a tanktop, looking pretty good, surrounded by purchases. Then her cupping whopping tits with a sultry look, in a skirt, her legs spread wide and revealing pink panties. Finally just the top of her head as she nuzzled at a cock.

reddit/r/thechange was the most visited site on the entire site, at the moment. Pictorial spreads of all sorts of normal ladies, all ending with a blowjob shot or a glassy-eyed masturbation, or the girl looking up, goofy-faced, sperm pooling at her snatch.

It had only been a month since then. It was apparently ridiculously easy to get the pills. Mail order or on the street or behind the counter. David had gotten them for her. He said that they were $15. They came in packs of 100.

Sara wondered how many of the girls she passed were on the blue pills. They were near a college campus, after all, so it was hardly uncommon to see co-eds in low-cut tops, or ambitious gauzy skirts, or even walking around in heels with thick makeup on an early weekday.

She found herself looking at tits. That was the big giveaway, after all. Pneumatic, gravity-defying breasts with tweakable nipples that were practically video-game caliber. But that wasn’t a wonderful tell. Some girls just had big boobs. Not Sara, sadly—she had just acceptable breasts with acceptable give. Just enough not to have a thing about them. The blonde walking towards her down the street, no bra.. sure, she had heavy, orange-sized boobs that swung with her stride. But she was also cloaked in dark grey clothes and flowing pants. Not on the pill.

Eventually, Sara figured to look at expressions. There were just that many more girls with vapid, dumb.. there was no other word for it... HAPPY expressions. Stupid-as-shit ‘math is hard’ tee-hee eyes and a smiling, slightly open mouth and just so, so obviously pleased. They were on unexpected women. The mom in the SUV, picking up groceries after kid-drop-off at school, practically humming to herself as she bent over the fruits. The petite girl with the eastern european pale look, her hair cut short and dark black, a pleased grin as she ambled down the street. Probably bent on taking just one, or two, getting some minor boob augmentation out of it.

“What is it like to feel awesome all the time?” Sara asked herself.

She was starting to know. It was hard to frown.

* * *

“I’m on it too,” Paris revealed. “Two days now. Feels pretttttty good.”

“One for me,” Sara said, holding her hand up. The three of them clustered around their own table at the coffee shop. “For my research study. On feminism. Kind of a case study. And I was thinking maybe, pitch it to the Huffington Post or something like that.”

“Flowers for Algernon?” Paris said, smiling.

“Oof, I’ll stop if and when it gets that bad,” Sara said. She hadn’t noticed any changes in her mental processing. But would she? That was going to be part of the study, of course. “Cassie, you’ll have to let us know if we’re drooling and voluntarily bringing up Kim Kardashian in conversation.”

Cassie was the shortest of the three, and half-hidden behind thick glasses. She looked around, nervous, then pulled a baggie of blue pills out of her backpack. “Self-experimentation,” she explained. “A bunch of us in the bio lab are doing a culturally comparative medical exam.”

“I’ve heard that asian girls go blonde on it,” Sara joked. “Paris, why are you taking them?”

“Stupidest possible reason,” Paris said. “A boy.”

They all sipped on cups of coffee reflectively. That was the worst reason. Getting bimbo for a boy. Paris made a face. She was the big one of the group, big bones to match an expansive personality.

“Michael? In your lab?” Sara guessed.

“Yes. I haven’t had the courage or the waist size to ask him out. And the new girl is a redhead. She has crazy big eyes. Crazy big. Anime. I’m just gonna take the pills long enough to ask him out, put out on the first date, and then hopefully the boyfriend situation will be solved forever. And he’ll be like, honey, stop taking those sex pills, I love you the way that you are. See, they’re CONFIDENCE pills.”

“Maybe I should be like, the control for you two,” Cassie said. She pulled out one of the pills, spun it around on the table. Sara and Paris watched it flip around. What would happen if you took more then one a day? What if you took one hundred? Flopping tits on the table? “And why are they blue? Seems like they should be pink, right?”

She had delicate, piano-playing hands. And a rack made out of grape seeds. Cassie picked one up, tossed it down. She giggled nervously.

“I guess giggling is like, the first side effect?” Sara said. She didn’t mention the second side effect. Or effect. The way she kept scoping out guys, their biceps, their shoulders, their butts in jeans. Guessing at what was underneath their zippers.

“Well, the second side effect better be a date, because I’m gonna go get ’er done,” Paris said. She stood up, drained her coffee cup. There was still a chill in the air, but the brunette had dressed intelligently in a low-cut cashmere v-neck. It was pricey. There was enough creamy tit to satisfy a grad student, Sara should hope.

The three of them parted, and went about their plans, and tried not to think too hard about the growing itch between their legs, or the flood of who-knows-what in their brains, or the way their deliberately-large bras were getting full and tight.

* * *

“Hey, it’s on the news,” David said. “They’re interviewing some girl about being on the pill. Wow, she must’ve been taking it since like, three weeks ago.”

Sara didn’t look up from her journal. It was hard enough focusing on the notation of her thoughts, feelings, and emotions. If she looked away from the crisp, white paper and the blue ink she was concerned the whole night would get away from her.

She felt—and she wrote this in the journal—“fucking awesome.”

And not in a cheap, nasty, plastic-fizzle drug way, either. It was like taking a multivitamin that really lived up to the box promises, or a spa treatment that both moisturized and massaged. Even her toes tingled softly, rubbing gently against the back of her legs. Sara had run her fingers along a few blades of grass, earlier in the day, and just marveled at the way the tickle ran up and down her spine. She made sure to make a note of the way every sensation was amplified.

But especially the ones coming from her—she caught herself writing ‘pussy,’ had written two of the letters already—her ‘erogenous zones.’

Her erogenous zones felt fantastic. Not just good, not just sex good, but warm and wet in all the best ways, eager for more sensation.

Shoot, even running her fingers through her hair felt good. All of this Sara wrote down in her neat, thin letters in her journal, and failed to notice her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth.

Finally, she allowed herself to look up, where a vision in pink was parading around the news stage. “Lori takes four pills a day,” the chyron read. The interviewer, some CNN man in a suit, was dwarfed and reduced by comparison. The camera ignored him almost entirely. Lori was clad in a pair of blue overalls, which acted like a wheelbarrow and compress for the mass of her boobs. Her eyes flitted back and forth across anything that caught her brief and flighty attention span, like a hummingbird. Even in HD, and in a closeup, there was no sign of an errant pore or hair out of place.

“What’re they talking about?” Sara said. She slid her fingers up and down her pen.

“Take a guess.”

“Sex.”

“Uh,” David gave her a look. “Well, yeah. Of course, I guess.”

“What?” Sara said.

“I was expecting some sort of, you know, smartass remark,” he said.

“Are they talking about sex?”

“Yes. A lot. The interviewer looks so turned on.”

Of course they were talking about sex. Sara hadn’t noticed getting any dumber. She felt like she was learning stuff. Learning how to be sexy. So very sexy, too, how to arch her back strategically to display her ass for best effect. How to make a lingering yawn and moan, how to inch her legs apart for best effect. The wall and the table weren’t just architecture and furniture, they were suddenly possible erotic devices. It was a marvelous change. A whole world of boring objects and tedious things was suddenly a pink-tinged land to get FUCKED on.

She swallowed another pill. Silly little blue pill. Suddenly she frowned—hadn’t she taken one before dinner? Probably would’ve been smarter to count them out ahead of time. But multiples hadn’t seemed to hurt the girl on the screen, who was just now pulling down her top.

In fact, that seemed like a good idea. “Honey, eyes over here,” Sara said, and peeled down her tank top. It was perwinkle blue. Two fresh, innocent tits popped out. “What do you think?”

David was all eyes.

“David, darling, would you mind going down on me?” Sara said. She had thought this up in the shower. A blow for feminism, taking her enhanced body and getting pleasure out of it, not basking in the dregs of what a man gave her with his creamy dreamy rod.

“What, go down on you? Really?” David said.

“Really.”

“And why?”

“Because you love me and want me to be happy,” Sara said. She rubbed her pen between her titties. It was already wet. When had that happened? He still looked skeptical. “I taste a lot better all of a sudden,” she promised him.

A few minutes later she was giggling and squealing, his inexpert tongue riding the folds between her thighs. Sara had both legs up on the table. Her journal had fallen face-forward onto the floor. “Deeper,” she urged, whimpering and moaning. The neighbors were on notice, certainly after her third scream, that a pill-popper was resident.

“It’s a tongue,” David pointed out. He looked at her, mildly shell-shocked. His face glistened. She was a wet girlie now. “It only goes so deep.”

Sara considered. It had been a successful experiment. And there was a serious and manly bulge in his pants that needed attending to.

“Prop the chair backwards against the table,” she said. “And hurry! Get your pants down.”

The result was a triumph of sexual physics as well as biological chemistry. As her man ploughed away, the wood creaking, the table legs swaying, Sara had just enough self-possession to congratulate herself on a well-thought out piece of mathematics.

* * *

The mall was an anthropological gold mine of significance. All over the place, there were reashaping sexual and gender patterns, even new class and ethnic lines. And yet, Sara had only written the word “titties!” in her yellow notepad over and over and over. In bubble letters, with stars dotting the i’s.

To be fair, she justified, the titties were some amazing titties. Black titties, tan titties, white titties, big titties... bigger titties. Adorning chests like proud prows of ships, on women bursting with self-confidence, and also with titties.

She was getting a bit chest-heavy herself. And so was Cassie. Breasts were particularly noticeable on the petite asian girl, and she seemed to be tipping forward every so often.

“How is the experimentation going?” Sara asked. They sat in a bench near Penneys. Very few of the girls thronging the mall were sitting still. There was so much go-go energy in her little pills. Sara jogged her legs on top of her thighs.

Cassie paused. “I mean... it’s good,” she reported, cautiously. “Sort of good. Good in a lot of ways...”

A redhead walked by in a waffle-knit sweater, also blazing red. The sweater was meant to be worn on top of a shirt. This one wasn’t. Her boobs bounced freely underneath. The redhead’s smile was confident and warm, and Sara decided to once again write “titties” with an added exclamation point.

“I mean,” Cassie said. “my heart rate is better. My cholesterol is a lot better. I can run for miles now. My skin has cleared up. And you know. There’s the physical changes with... breasts. There’s one girl in the group, she had some issues with her liver when she was younger? They did a biopsy and it’s healing. So... that’s great.”

A couple passed by, and Sara marveled at the sexual equality on display. She was a raven-haired beauty with a coy expression, her hand lingering on his ass. And the boy was exactly the same, fondling a rear end narrowly contained in jean shorts. The girl didn’t even have gigantic hooters, yet, and still the change was so noticeable.

“Well that sounds great,” Sara enthused. She wasn’t really paying attention. Every smile made her happier and she paid it all back in great big grins.

“Yeah but...” Cassie chewed a noticeably inflating lip. “And I’m not even talking the sexual stuff but.. memory is the same, but willpower is like, way down. Like if you put a pill girl in the same room with a cookie, she will eat that cookie. Even if you tell her not to. NO self-restraint.”

“Why wouldn’t you eat a cookie?” Sara asked. It sounded like a stupid test, frankly.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess it’s a dumb test?” Cassie furrowed her brow. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. It was adorable. She was still wearing boring old jeans and a cardigan, which didn’t emphasize her form at all. “well anyway, and uh, reasoning, that is, um, reallllly draining. Like just totally down the tubes ka-blammo IQ.”

That did sound bad. But it was challenging to feel bad. “So are they gonna stop the test?” Sara asked. An unattached boy walked by. His eyes lingered on her body. Then Cassie’s, then hers, then Cassie’s again. Sara uncrossed her legs. She wore a stretch miniskirt she had found in the back of her closet, which was just about adequate to get her thighs in. The pills were determined to give her a bigger butt.

“They did stop the tests,” Cassie said.

“Oh!” Sara said, surprised. “You aren’t on the pills?”

Cassie looked at her like she was insane. “of course I’m still on the pills! I’m way smaller then all the girls here! And I can still remember what most of the chess pieces do.”

They giggled, madly. Their tits bounced, their legs splayed apart.

* * *

There was an entirely new economy growing, surging, spilling into the staid commercial avenues of the mall and becoming something fresher and newer. No more of the relentlessly drudgery of walking into stores, staving off waves of anxiety and inadequacy, and overpaying for what little looked good. Now there were nothing but joy-seeking ladies basking in a cornucopia of clothing, increasingly confident that anything looks good on a girl with sufficiently big titties.

Sara went to write “titties” in her notebook once again. She had lost it somewhere. Oh well.

Besides, it was the gestal—gest—the WHOLE SCENE that mattered, the smiles and titters and laughter and sweet tingling scents of each and every girl that they passed, all of them vibrant and growing big whopping boobs even as they walked around under the lights.

It was amazing, and so positive and female-empowering. Sure, there were guys there. Working their jobs, ogling the girls with lazy grins. One nothing teenager at a cellphone kiosk had three girls around him, in a whirlwind of stroking and pleased smiles that was practically fucking with clothes on. Sara looked hard for some kind of female rivalry, but when one left off stroking the boy’s cock through his khakis, another picked it up. Like a dance.

They met Paris in front of the fountain, underneath a skylight. She wore a near-translucent white sweater that glimmered in the sunlight. Strips of unfortunate weight and worry-lines had melted off her face, which was broad and white and smiling. She waved them over, cheerfully.

“They’re free,” Paris said, handing over coffee-milk drinks. “I’ve already had two. They’re really good. Heck, half the things in the mall are free!”

“Isn’t it amazing?” Sara gushed, before wrapping her lips around the straw. She was ravenous, and her body needed sugar and cream and coffee. There was even a hint of chocolate in there. The straw bobbed near the back of her throat. When she surfaced, both Cassie and Paris were toying with a little blue pill. Sara finished the train of thought while she still had it. “so much positivity and so much happiness!”

“So few brain cells..” Cassie broke in. She spun her blue pill in a circle.

“Yeahh....” Sara said. She tried to look serious, failed.

“Sometimes when I sneeze I think that that’s them, that’s the lil’ brain cells, just poofing out of my nose,” Paris said. “Or like, when I wake up in the morning, there goes another book I just read. Like, there goes Shakespeare. Poof. So what. Who cares.” She waved an arm. It was now covered in loose, colorful bracelets.

“When I bang with David,” Sara said. She blushed, realized she had never talked fucking before, and quickly stopped caring. “Sometimes it’s like.. you can feel the fuses blowing. Snap snap. There goes another worry, another care. It’s... “ words eluded her, and it was almost comforting. Big, difficult words that embodied big, difficult concepts. “liberating!”

“It’s really not, though,” Cassie said. The petite girl had stripped off her own sweater. She wore a print dress underneath. It had an empire waist that pushed up on her tits. “I mean, come on, girls. This could be serious. These pills aren’t tested long-term.. they’re... ummm...”

She started to squirm. Paris winked, from across the table. Sara looked underneath, to find her friend’s foot embedded firmly in Cassie’s thighs. Her toes flexed underneath the dress.

“It’s... it’s ummm...” Cassie was starting to open and close her eyes. Her voice slurred. “ugh.. umm... it could be permanent or something... we don’t even know.. it’s not just a... brain-holiday...”

“You telling me to stop, darling?” Paris said softly.

“No.. I didn’t...” Cassie’s hands were between her legs. Sara was in stitches. Other girls were watching. The slender threads of a taboo against touching yourself in public were just about to snap, Sara could feel it. “Come on, Paris. That’s teasing.”

“Take the pill if you want my little pinky toe back,” Paris told her.

“What? I don’t...” Cassie looked at it. Sara had already taken hers, washed it down with cream and sugar. It felt just right. “I already had one today.”

“Take another. Do it. You need bigger boobs, Cassie. You need big soft pillows like mine, big whomping titties, we’ll go get the boys with them, it’ll be...”

Paris had gotten lost in her own narration, her eyes glassy, envisioning even bigger boobs. She hadn’t noticed Cassie swallowing the pill, whole, with nothing to drink. She didn’t gag at all. The girl picked up Paris’ foot and swung it right back where it came from. Then she leaned back in her chair and allowed a lazy smile to climb across her face.

Any number of ladies watched her start to shake and moan, right there by the fountain, and they all got the idea.

* * *

Newsradio was so ugly. Sara recognized that now, even the hushed tones of NPR were like the ends of paperclips drawn over her skin. She had been briefly amused listening to the mild-mannered upper-class girl try to keep her composure on the news, her solemn tones interrupted by involuntary titters and coos. And then breaking off into a serious of goos at a cat apparently walking near the studio window.

Her backseat was piled high with clothes clothes clothes, few if any she had paid any money for. The shopgirls had been kindness itself, eager to help ladies pull on clothing, happy to throw away old rags made out of disgusting fabrics like wool and horrible colors like black. They accepted kisses as currency. There had been more-alert boys there, but why would anyone stand in the way of the emergence of a butterfly? And they all had lazy, just-blown expressions anyway.

Sara sucked on a pill like it was a chiclet.

There were still parts of her concerned, even scared, of the rollercoaster ride of bigger boobs and laughing fits she had climbed on. This was meant to be a controlled, and slow, experiment. Where even some time spent slack-jawed watching Kardassians would be later recorded in some scholarly monograph. Part of a dull, plodding life with twice-monthly orgasms and plain white underwear.

She wasn’t even wearing any, now.

Regardless, when she got home, Sara made a decent effort to slow her roll. She removed her nail polish, which had gotten rainbow-painted at some point during the day. She recited her alphabet, and did it without singing the song, even though it was more challenging that way. She took her body measurements, and recorded them in an—eww—black pen in her journal.

But there was no point in putting underwear back on. “When did that start?” Sara wondered, watching a steady trickle of strawberry-scented fluid flow from between her legs. She dabbed at it with a nail, tasted it. It was a heady, musky flavor, sex itself, and there was nothing but sweaty bedroom romps in it. The girl licked her finger clean and then went back for another snack.

Sara realized that she was starting to get the floor wet. In fact, she had been scattering little droplets about since she had walked through the door toting any number of bags.

There was a mop near the dishwasher. She grabbed it, and held it straight up. The rod went right between her bust, which she had unleashed from her oldest, loosest bra. Sara wore an old t-shirt just for the thrill of having it tent and strain over her eager tits, and a loose, gauzy skirt with white roses patterned on the side of the pink. She had had to win a pretty serious kissing contest to get it.

Maybe that’s when the dripping problem started.

It seemed like a bore to get a bucket of water, she she began to mop the floor with her own juice, rubbing it into the faux wood, a perfume of endorphins and hormones rubbing itself into the surfaces of the apartment. Humming a tune she couldn’t quite recall the words to. Soon everything smelled vaguely like she had barebacked on it, letting sex spray onto the exposed areas of the apartment.

A maid fantasy was getting pretty wild in her head. And it was so easy to fulfill. Dimly, Sara felt some vague tie to past research interests, in the rich interplay of gender dynamics that housework meant. And also how many wonderful positions she could put herself in by dusting and cleaning and scrubbing. It was practically guaranteed that she would be bent over vulnerable, easily accessible, her body a clean-scented sponge for her man...

Just standing in front of the sink was erotic, and bending over doubly so. Her heavy boobs, practically sloshing, near the tap. Her ass in the air, the precariousness of getting boned over a wet and soapy surface. Sara slipped one finger into her snatch and felt, surprised, as her body gripped it tenaciously. Like she had picked up new muscles.

“Oh, David...” she told the dishes piled up. Several fingers now, piled up, stacking for entry into her nest.

“Holy shit, Sara, what are you doing?” the man himself said.

She tried to say something. He looked so oddly normal in just a t-shirt and jeans, staring bewildered at his puffed up girlfriend with the canteloupe tits. And to think, she had left that morning with just a healthy glow. Now she was banging out brainpower over dirty dishes. There was a renewed moment of normalcy as the weirdness of it all sunk in, the artificiality, the way her mind was high as a kite on pills.

And then the sex-stink settled in to him. David had his jeans down in moments, seconds, an eager prick out in the sunlight. The neighbors could easily see in, if they cared to, but they couldn’t sense the hormones leaking throughout the house, making animal needs absolute, best and obviously expressed in butt-fucking Sara raw. His bright red cock joined her up to the hilt, and when she started to squeak, David growled back at her.

* * *

“It just feels so good to let it happen,” Sara explained the next day. She hunted for a word, and smiled, David realized, from the hunt in a circumscribed and bimbified vocabulary. “It’s so YUMMY” she finally said, and shivered with a primal pleasure.

He had woken up to her doing housework, far faster then she had to, apparently to break that much more of a sweat. And so that her ever-expanding titties would bounce as she worked, and her juicy legs would trickle with a light sheen of hot wetness, until she might as well have been soaked in a sauna.

The pills on the table spelled out YAY. She had sorted them out, Sara explained, at 3 in the morning.

“What if I don’t want this?” he challenged her, intimidated by the speed of it, but already she was rubbing at his cock underneath the table, with her foot, and his body was already aching for her release. It was some primitive combination of the sex-stink in the air, the hormones she dripped like a leaky ceiling, the vapid and hungry but ALIVE look beneath her eyes. The way his girlfriend was poured into a halter top that bulged in insane ways.

The apartment sparkled and stank. It was muggy with fucking. They were both guzzling water.

“Sara, do I really need to listen to this crap?” he tried again, as his brainfrying girl snuggled in the couch with reality television blaring in the background. But he had deliberately stood close, and she pulled down his shorts without taking her eyes off the bright colors, swallowing his cock without cease. And made him last, too, sucking thoughtfully in a steady rhythm that took him ages to blow all down her throat. Only then did he realize that she was systematically deleting ever unwatched BBC show in their queue, delighting in it, making room for a new her.

She modeled for him. It was practically wordless. Sara queued Pandora for a long set of trashy music with a thumping beat, with a deep bass, and stretched herself into outfit after outfit. It was like one long, neverending striptease, her joy from getting into them matched by her joy of getting out of them.

“I’m throwing these out,” she told him, abruptly, gesturing at a line of brown books along the edge of a bookcase.

“Those are my textbooks,” he told her. “They cost a lot of money.”

“Yeah, they’re...” again she searched a slender thesaurus. “gross. gross and dusty and boring. Are you using them? Nooooooooooooo, right?”

They were from last semester. Sara gingerly put her hand out towards them. Big tomes full of math and diagrams and science. She didn’t let her hand get too close.

“You can fuck me in the butt if you let me toss them,” she announced, twirling. Parts of her flopped about. She wore jean cutoff shorts with a tied off t-shirt, one of his. Her stomach was flat but loose, lazy. Voluptous and padded.

“You’ll let me fuck you in the butt regardless,” David pointed out. It was hard to argue with a creature of ever increasing sex. David wasn’t even sure which words of his she was getting.

Her reaction was immediate, extreme. She nuzzled back into him. A padded ass clenched at an undeniable erection. “Are you sure about that? Are you one hundred percent sure you’ll get to stick it into this hinie? Can you live with that?” There was just so much sex in the air...

The books went into the garbage, and Sara seemed to feel that much better.

* * *

It was exciting to learn the mental shortcuts for getting around the brain drain and the dimness and the attention span issues and whatever. Like reading was a drag, and Sara had pretty much given up on it. 26 letters was just the start of the problems—those letters turned into words, and those words into sentences, and the sentences into paragraphs, until they all ganged up together into entire books and it was just totally overwhelming.

But if she really needed to force herself to look at something literary she could just sing it to herself, with some sort of a happy song, and somehow it worked that way.

“Congress acting fast!” she sang at the table, clapping at intervals. David was still in bed, tapped out, his body battered by sexual demands. “Pill on the table! Changes are Ir! Re! Vers! I! Ble!”

There were charts and diagrams in big bright colors, the newspaper industry already reacting to a changing clientele with a taste for busy graphics. Information to the effect of the longlasting and apparently unreversible physical and mental changes resulting from pill abuse.

It wasn’t doing any good. The pills were everywhere, magic, bestowed by some kindly god. Sara had found a pack of 100 in the mailbox, unlabeled, unasked for. She had sauntered out in four inch heels she didn’t remember picking up, a clear acrylic that reminded her to paint her toenails pink and blue.

The story made her so mad. She had never felt so.. so amazing. So ALIVE. All of her worries and cares took too much mental processing to register anymore. Instead her head was awash with clothes and boys and the next, sexiest action she could perform. It was a constant, sweet high that never left her, stronger only when she had a slick dick well up inside.

It colored her mood on the way to school. David had taken her car keys, but the walk was worth it anyway, punctuated by pill-popping and adjusting the fit on her skirt. A blue breeze caressed her body where she had once worn underwear. Even the sunlight made her hypersensitive body tingle.

Sure, it was easy enough to spot the women smiling on happy pills, their smarts repurposed into their tits. The girl walking her dogs in a long shirt and nothing else, ass cheeks popping out as she strode around in lanky heels. A double pair of blondes in each other’s arms, occupying just half the sidewalk, with matching ponytails held up by lace scrunchies. But then there were the frowning women with grey hairs and lines all over their face, chewing on their lips at the ever growing horde of the cheerful. Still wearing sneakers and still carrying huge purses.

“You too?” her labmate said, once she was at school. It was nice that at least the co-ed population was largely on board. The sun reflected off endless pairs of smooth, shiny legs, with just a few holdouts keeping their heads down. Aruna was a pinched Indian girl who wore dull-colored button-down shirts and black pants. Sara couldn’t remember what she studied. Same thing Sara did. Whatever that was.

“I’m studying the pills,” Sara said, defensively. She deliberately uncrossed her legs, delighting in Aruna’s averted eyes. “You can look,” she said. “We’re both girls. It’s just a pussy.”

“I’ve seen maybe twenty today already,” Aruna said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There were bags under her eyes. “Look, you’re not studying it, you’re addicted, it’s like heroin and crack poured together.”

“I feel so good,” Sara announced.

“It’s just.. it’s chemical...”

“I feel...” Sara left her legs uncrossed, this time. She had a beautiful pussy, anyway. All shiny and wonderful. Aruna blanched and turned away. Her hair was tied up in a tight baid. “SO good.”

Sara doubted she was getting horny yet. True, Aruna was drinking the office coffee, and Sara had spiked it with a half-dozen of her wonderful pills. But it was probably too soon for them to have too much time to make her Indian friend into just as happy and busty as Sara knew she could be. She contented herself with working out her imagination, clothing a big tit Aruna in halter tops and loose-flowing harem pants. Not too much of an eth-nic theme, Sara reminded herself, pill girls weren’t racist or anything like that. Just a lot of color to make her dusky skin pop.

And then they would dance together, Sara decided, leaving slick trails of sweat down a stripper pole as they gyrated for bands of unseen men, their cocks out, tossing hundred dollar bills up onto a short stage. Before meeting eyes and, together, plunging into a sea of hands.

“Sara.. you’re... you’re touching yourself,” Aruna said. Her labmate had simply put a hand between her thighs and was rubbing at a clit that was swollen and wet. Lubrication oozed onto the office chair.

Aruna didn’t look away. She sipped her coffee.

She was starting to feel a bit moist herself.

* * *

It was a triple date, almost. Paris had snagged her Michael. Sara had David. Cassie didn’t have anyone, and you could tell the poor girl was desperate for a bone. Her titties rode so high Cassie had lost all contact with the rest of her body, and had to shove them aside to see her feet.

They met for rotisserie chicken. The waitstaff had pulled it together to keep service going. Two girls in matching pink panties sat on chairs behind the counter, where they dispensed blowjobs as the men walked by. The fastest hummers that Sara had ever seen, two minutes tops, their mouths and tongues in a flurry of fellatio.

David gallantly wiped the chair clean of the previous occupant’s fluids. Sara wore a blue bandage dress she had let out that morning, clumsy stitching just adding to the erotic flow of it. She was pretty sure bending over would rip it all to shreds. Paris was relatively casual in shorts with a big wet stain in the center.

“I wish I had clothes to fit me,” Cassie pouted. “I went to the junior’s department for stuff that fit but like, even that was picked clean. There are no clothes anywhere, like anywhere at all.”

Her pill resistance was gone, although she stared at each one before slurping it down. Sara had counted three so far. There were probably more, but counting was such effort.

“What are you doing for boys?” Paris asked. She was deep into roast chicken number two. Her body had looked at the options and gone for voluptuous. She was thick with heavy curves, teed up for impregnation. Michael looked like he was making an effort, he wore loose slacks and kept a hand on her ass.

“Oh, I’m still trying not to,” Cassie said, distressed. She rested her head on her tits, and her tits on the table. Both the other girls giggled. “Really?” Sara said, tilting her head to the side. “My day is like, eight hours of sleep, eight hours of sex, eight hours of cleaning up after having sex.”

“Well not all of us had boys and now I feel too dumbo to go get one,” Cassie said, defensively. But it was hard to actually make a social faux pas, anymore. Who knew French? Their friend had taken to rubbing her nipples to calm down.

“Honey, do we know anyone?” Sara asked. David and Michael were deep in their own conversations, stuff about “care” and “providing” and also a lot of discussion about ice packs and what to do about swelling. A low masculine patter that made her a notch above usual horniness. “Anyone Cassie can fuck? Like, on the regular?”

They didn’t appear to notice her. It was getting routine, being overlooked by the boys. And to be fair, Sara considered, it wasn’t like what was coming out of her mouth was Grade A Shakespeare lately. That morning she had forgotten the word for... for... darn it, the dealie that brushed teeth. “toothbrush!” she finally said, out loud.

“I don’t think I like the pills,” Cassie whined. “I was trying to do some math problems and they were like, so many numbers! Once I got past nine I thought I was done but it turns out that there’s a whole nother set, and they just keep reusing the same figures and stuff. It’s so frustrating!”

“Well, I like it,” Paris said. She gestured around with slow, lazy movements. The knitting on her sweater was beginning to unravel. It wasn’t made for that kind of structure. “I don’t need to know math, I never did. All that divising stuff, who ever does that? At most I did some adding, maybe some subtracterin. It’s gone, I have my man, I don’t care. Done.”

They both looked at Sara.

“I fuckin’ love it!” Sara exclaimed. She shook her head. “It’s the best thing that has ever happened to me, these juicy little pills. I’ve got the best hair and the best boy and all I do all day is get pleasure poked by a big ’ol dick. I never have to worry about a fuckin’ thing and I look great. My teeth are even whiter. Whiter teeth! Being a bimbo is the best thing in the world and I wish they made even bluer pills so I could take those, too!”

It was the longest speech she had given since day two of bimbohood, and the sheer effort made existing mental lattices crash and burn, mostly geography stuff she wasn’t gonna use anyway, because who cares about what continents looked like.

“I can’t argue with that,” Cassie admitted, pawing at perfect titties. “I mean, not that I can argue with anything.”

* * *

A month went by. Sara didn’t get her period, and she didn’t notice. If she had, she would’ve wondered if the pill led to pregnancy, or stopped periods, and then she would’ve realized she didn’t care.

There were all five of them in the apartment, these days. It was just more convenient that way, and besides, the girls could hardly be separated. It would take force to pry Sara away from her deep-diving into Paris’ generous pussy, and who could bear to separate Cassie from her morning blowjob routine? The boys slept in different bedrooms, and were woken up with female alarm clocks, sets of lips polished with lipstick sliding up and down shafts.

Perhaps something about the pill overload effected the men. Both had a long-lasting and impressive stamina, both had plenty of jism available for a trio of overeager women with busy libidos.

But the girls woke first, to giggle and pile together in the ever-soggy couch, to exercise together to the bright and brainless tones of the spandex ladies on PBS, in a brightly lit studio. And then the three of them, still sweaty, perhaps caressing the others, would pool their remaining brains and generally work out how to make passable coffee.

The men always made sure to plug them hard before going out to make a living. There was plenty of work to do, but David at least had time to get home for lunch. It wasn’t enough time to service all three girls, but it was a comfort to be near a dick, at least.

From 1 to 4 the three chatted and watched television and fingered things, a slowly building frisson of tension as they watched the clocks, before coalescing into one moaning, shaky whole, a three-way assembly of tits and asses with one eye on the front door, waiting for a man to walk through into a cooing and wet set of pillows. Sometimes the men already had their pants unbuckled as they walked in.

Dinner was kept simple and carb-heavy. They all had a lot of calories to replace. Honestly, to Sara, everything kind of tasted like dicks anyway. And it seemed like the pills, all the pills, had some sort of nutritional value.

Sometimes the boys read them stories in the evening, when everyone was briefly and blissfully fucked out.

And then at night, Sara slept next to her man, and when she dreamed, it was often of just a blue pill, spinning around on a table, and it was the bestest dream ever.