The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You’re not serious,” said Kristen, indulging her mother. “You’re worried about that?” Agitated, she bit her fingernail, staring blankly at her Spike Lee poster. “Of course I’ve heard of the bimbo mommy concept!”

“I just don’t want you to think that if you like girls, you’ll be safe,” her mother chided on the other line. “Janice has had two of her daughters get an addiction to buying new underwear,” she bulldozed on, “and.. country music. Can you imagine? In that house?”

“It’s not like I can’t block that junk out,” she tried to vainly reassure. It was everywhere she looked. In the hip-hop hoedowns that were taking place across the city in places as different as the hipster bars near Center City and the Ethiopian-owned coffeeshops. Even some of her close friends were dressing like Katy Perry in Kentucky. And they sure had the figures to match. “Some of them are just getting so big,” she muttered offhand.

“What?” asked her mom. “Girl, don’t worry about your.. bustline” Kristen didn’t feel like correcting her mom, that she was actually talking about baby bumps. Mostly because she wasn’t. Except for right at the second, and now she couldn’t get them out of her head. “Not every guy is a breast man,” she assured her. “You have plenty of curves otherwise, and besides—”

“No, I don’t! Mom—” She was getting really annoyed. “First of all, I don’t. Remember just this past fourth of July when that you work with—”

“Maurice?”

“Yeah! He asked when I was going to graduate high school. You know why?” She pulled up her shirt and looked at her trim, tight stomach that extended to her boxy hips like wood in a pencil. “Because I am not cur—” She quickly pulled the garment back down and made an effort to compose herself. “Wait, what do you mean, guys? Mom, I’m a lesbian.”

Kristen’s mom laughed. She never took her seriously. It took her two years before she acknowledged her last girlfriend without demeaning the whole thing by referring to her as “your friend”. “Is that why I caught you with Ralph in the laundry room when you were a junior?”

“Mom! Listen to what you’re saying! When I was a junior. In high school!” It actually wasn’t that long ago, but she wasn’t about to concede anything. Her mom thought her daughter’s sexuality was a frivolous thing, and she wasn’t about to tell her how she had tried sex a time or two before deciding it wasn’t for her, and that maybe she had been taken advantage of. “I’m a grown woman, just.. please.” Still, she couldn’t shake the image of Ralph’s weird.. thing and her awkward hand.

“What were we even talking about?” her mother offered, clearly amused. “Oh yeah! All those bimbo mommies.” She sighed. Was there a tinge of sadness in her mom’s voice? “If you’re really that worried about it, you still have that water filter, right?”

“Yes, mom,” Kristen said, relieved. She had to remember to keep her coffee and smoothie consumption down, or at least stop ordering it out so much. There was no telling what people could put into her drinks. In fact, she was well on her way to the kitchen to she if she had to refill the jug. “Although, sometimes I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“Kristen, it can happen to you. Think of Sharonda.” The young woman did, and immediately shuddered at the thought of her next door neighbor back home, growing up a prodigy but now a hot mess of curves on the hunt for men at the trashiest clubs around town. She was getting more used to tapping cell phone keys as much as she used to tap piano ones. What was it that she had said last time Kristen visited home?

“I can’t even see the piano with these bomb-ass titties!” they both shouted in unison, jinxing each other, laughing like mad. “Mom, you don’t believe in those conspiracy theories that the more you talk and think about this trash, the easier it gets for it to happen to you?” She started to feel warm all of a sudden.

“Of course not, honey, that’s ridiculous!” Kristen, happy with her mom’s placation whether it was true or not, pulled the spout down. It was a Prepa filter. The cheapest one at the Wal-Mart. “But I do believe the one about bad seeds there getting made into cowgirls.”

She knew what her mom meant, but wished she didn’t. “You mean, they force them to ride horses? That’s a little weird, but it doesn’t sound half as bad as—” Her mother interrupted with laughter. Kristen took a big, cold gulp of ice water, struggling to find an out. “Mom, I really gotta go. I have homework to do.”

She didn’t overthink it for a second and hung up before her mom could bring up any more growth spurts or any other gossip. She shook her head when she realized she had been staring at the newspaper headline “Cherub City?” for like fifteen seconds.

Tina didn’t realize she was playing with her boobs as she stood waiting, boredly humping the wooden fence. Her body was easing her brain away from worry, and in no time at all she forgot how bummed she had been that she and the boys took a trip to a nearby farm instead of the city. Culver’s Crook Cowtown. Her tummy gurgled at the tackiness.

The boys had been teasing her the entire length of the way there. This had initially seemed handy, because she was able to replace bad stuff like fear and thinking with sweat and the tightening denim outlines of a couple dozen dicks. Her hands gradually succumbed to her hazy need and playful nip-tweaking so that it became an unconscious fidget. And then to bob down, scarcely able to speak, and get grabby at one of those long, strong love muscles.

“I think she’s trying to say she wants to suck your dick,” a boy named King reassured, his comforting hand on Tina’s shoulder. Tina really tried, but she couldn’t hang onto enough of her faculties to sort through her mind’s distractions. The more she thought, the hornier she got, so she delegated her concentration to where she assumed it was headed. She stared lackadaisically at the white hem on some dude’s tight blue running shorts.

She tried to count how many yummy bulges he had, but every time she got past three, her head began to spin. She got extra-conscious of more hands on her back and hips. “Four,” she slurred softly. Only a few of the Forward Fathers students heard her.

King leaned in close. “Four what, sweetheart?” Tina couldn’t decide if being on her knees surprised her more than being able to feel a second dick, lightly grazing the small of her back. They had teased her all busride long and withheld all the fun, doing things like tickling her, playing keepaway with her purse, and even whipping out their powerful, man-smelling sweet-dicks.

Her mind felt like it was about to burst under the weightless pressure of a zillion bubbles. It was hard to think with all this cock to go around. It was getting oddly difficult to speak, but she finally mustered the energy and it sounded like she was talking around a giant blowpop or a wad of skittles, even though her mouth had nothing in it but saliva. All of a sudden the answer spurted through her shiny, fluffy lips and nearly onto one of—

“Four dicks!” Tina blurted, anxiously grabbing two of them at either side of her, and, tugging softly and pleasantly at them, fell into giving only her second hot wet b.j. of the day. She was well aware of how ridiculous working three pricks at once was, and well before the fourth began to lightly poke her in the forehead, and for a second, her old, boring brain thought it maybe felt like a third eye. Then her new one took over and she delightfully dismissed such a thought as liberal, anti-Christian hogwash.

Hogwash was a funny word. Still, she was happy that they didn’t have to go to mass at ten this morning. She wouldn’t have to worry about getting clean or dressed up, which was nice. She was elbows and knees deep in mud and probably some manure, trying to wrap her mind around wrapping her mouth around another cock, making it two at once. She breathed forcefully through her nostrils and gave it her best shot.

Tina couldn’t deny that not-right feeling any longer. Not when she was leisurely nibbling on a sticky red knob, well within eye contact of the bus driver just twenty feet away. She was right about to try to stick a cuke-sized whammer in her butthole. It looked like it could be fun, anyway.

She felt it twinge and pucker around some angry, starving cockhead. She was poised to cram it in and grind down on it when she felt a gruff paw swat her broiling butt. She eased herself like butter into its manly grasp as it hoisted her into a giant high chair. Pussy cream trailing like a tributary down her leg.

“What? What’d I do?” She was involuntarily kicking her dangling legs in the seat. She tried in vain to hold in a tiny toot of anxiety. Her tummy felt awfully tight. There was such a thing as too much bacon.

“You didn’t do anything wrong really,” said bus driver Darrell in a fit of pink embarassment at noticing her big gumdrop nipples. “It’s those guys always pawing at you.” Finally, thought Tina, someone not even interested in sex.

Bus driver Darrell put down his attendance sheet and she could plainly notice the unmistakable tent popping up in his tight shorts. He was just.. so cute. He playfully squeezed her nose and assured her that he’d be her best.

He fed her globs of nutty caramelly gelato that stained her shirt. Tina simply stared at his rod, wondering why dick seemed so spiritual lately. She said a prayer for all big dicks everwhere and tried not to drool. Thinking, even devotional thinking, made her so leaky! And sleepy.. So sleepy..

Back in town, the girls’ field trip hadn’t even started yet.

“Does your milk taste like.. provolone to you?” Missy Nabors sincerely asked Carmen in the cry room of St. Brittany’s, which doubled as a Sunday school classroom. Mort, the janitor who had the holy work of cleaning up countless quarts of accelerated breastmilk from the room’s floors for over ten years, would have quite the task ahead of him. Carmen now had the biggest tits in all of Cherub Cove and they were distended with baby food.

She just glared at the glowing, fully pregnant girl as she filled up another sports bottle for her. That made it ten. “I don’t know, Missy, I’ve never tasted my own milk, silly.” She couldn’t believe Missy had a kid already and another very nearly on the way. She was so jealous of her. Her big belly that heralded a new Christian. “I think you could cut me some slack, you know, since little Rupert loves my milk so much. Or are you sampling some on the side?” Abbey snickered in the corner, chomping heavily on some gum.

Rupert lay in a stroller beside his mom, gaze fixated in wonder at Carmen’s leaking jugs. Missy was dribbling fluid onto the floor. Carmen softly rolled her eyes at the girl’s obvious and lascivious interest in her tits and her milk. Until she realized it was a lot of juice.

“My.. my water broke!” Missy cried out, and took a seat underneath a mural of a big happy family. Immediately, Father Paul rushed into the cry room and the full church all turned around. The elders, the rugged farmhands, the budding bimbo mommies, and all those kids turned around to see what the matter was.

“You.. you stay put. I see Doctor Hardrod coming up the aisle now.” He handed her a water bottle, and shot his gaze back onto Carmen and Abbey. They looked good enough to eat. “You guys need to get on the bus. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Carmen, put that thing away!” She let her breast fall lazily back into its massive cup. She wondered for a second why her milk was coming out so creamy, almost yogurty, before she noticed Father Paul’s ill-advised hardon.

She stepped over to him backwards. It took a touch of effort to waddle back, being four months pregnant. She bent over. “Father, you wanna.. put that thing away?” She backed into his crotch, oblivious of any other parishoners. “In my butt?” She had fully unzipped him and was stroking his naked cock for ten seconds before he noticed and pushed her away.

“Sweetheart, everyone’s watching.” Carmen looked dejected. “Don’t worry, my child, we can always.. pray together on the bus.” It was hard, even for him, to pretend that they were praying any longer. The sex they were having was so frequent and so dirty, if they had filmed it, no porn distributor would want to release it.

But Carmen wanted to believe so much and that was good. “No wonder you gave me twins with that thing,” she breathed, and gently tucked the priest’s monstrous member back into his pants.

The two girls then skipped hand in hand out the door, leaving Father Paul to give a “Who, me?” expression to the churchgoers as he tried to think unsexy thoughts. A baby was crying and its mother was about to give him a sister. The circle of life spun on that Friday morning in Cherub Cove.

The girl-woman came to, still in the ornate high chair, to the sound of bangle bracelets and other jewelry jangling. She unstuck her heavy-lidded, midnight mascaraed eyes and smelled the deep, sweet smell of another female. It had to have been Miss Kimberly. Joe warned Tina about how strict this teacher was. If didn’t seem like she was all that bad. She was even grabbing the girl’s nipples and merrily pulling at them.

It felt good to be naked in front of this woman. She wanted to impress her, after all. “Miss.. Kimberly?” she said in a girlish, groggy mutter. Her mouth was sticky. She was famished. “Can I come down now?” The Forward Fathers schoolteacher just laughed big, her black, curly hair cascading like a wave up and down her lithe neck.

“I’m awfully sorry that I came here so late, Tawna.” Tina noticed the way the sunlight streamed in through the barn slats. The morning must have been.. close to ending? Turning into afternoon—Already? That didn’t make sense. “I would have liked to see what makes you such a bad girl.”

She motioned to some discarded bottles of lube and to the tired student’s tiny uniform strewn out on the hay and mud. Tina wondered sluggishly how they ever fit her. Even the high chair was feeling tight now.

Miss Kimberly certainly didn’t look like a teacher. Though she did look pretty old. She has to be, like, twenty-one or something, Tina thought, and that strained bit of cognition made her pussy clench and stomach growl. “My name’s not Tawna, it’s Tina,” she sputtered, stirring Even that didn’t sound right somewhow. “And I’m not a bad girl. I’m a good girl.” She could have sworn she heard muffled boy-laughter somewhere. Her head felt too heavy to really inspect, though.

“You know, I talked with Joe and Carmen about you at length,” she sternly said even as she bent down in her gray pencil mini to tickle the girl’s toes, “and you not only worry them, but you worry the town. Do you know why you’re such a bad girl, Tawna?” Tina couldn’t even begin to know how or why she should muster the courage to correct her again. She simply let out a low moan at the sight of Miss Kimberly sexily opening a golden cigarette case.

“You’re a bad girl because you want all the cum in the world, but you don’t want a baby.” The teacher petted her own substantial baby bump for emphasis. “You’re a bad girl because you sucked and fucked the husband of a very dear friend to Cherub Cove.” All these words— bad girl, cum, baby, suck, fuck, husband—they made her smile. Tina wanted to be a good girl, but being a bad girl sounded fun too! “You’re a bad girl because you stayed at Betty’s Bubbly B&B without even paying, and just think you’re going to board a bus of innocent schoolboys and skip town!”

Tina straightened her lush hair behind her ears in an effort to look professional. It was tough to look anything but trampy, though, when her left tit was covered in dried spunk or when lipstick was trailing across her cheek, both things she was far from aware of.

“I—I’m only trying to get back to the real world,” she fought to speak, her brain on fire, poised to overheat. “I’m an investment banker for god’s sake. Look, I’ve—really enjoyed myself, and this.. cartoon of a body is nice, but this is getting kind of warped.”

She panted at the sight of Miss Kimberly lighting up a slim, long cigarette and struggled to remember what investment banking even meant. She just remembered working with a lot of men. “Between you and me,” she confided dumbly, only sounding like the grown woman she was a week ago or whatever, “I’m probably going to have to find something to do now that I don’t have smoke breaks!” She shimmied and pushed against her confines, but soon discovered the bar on the high chair had a big metal lock affixed to its latch.

Miss Kimberly took a healthy, luxuriant drag and exhaled all over Tina’s face, making her even damper down there with envy and disgrace. “Honey, you’re just a little baby,” she condescended, “and because you’re a stupid little baby, I won’t hold it against you that you still think all those Ken dolls are your co-workers. You’re a cute little baby,” she cooed, lightly curling her fingers past the girl-woman’s soaking downy crotch, poking her middle finger in and out in short rhythm.

It was all too much for the stupid baby. She tried to snatch the cigarette from the teacher and get a sweet pull of her own, but it was just barely out of her reach as it went protectively back into the woman’s mouth. Now Miss Kimberly’s hands were free to be occupied with tying a pastel ribbon around Tina’s ankle. It looked like there was a number or something on it.

“Watch those hands,” the schoolteacher warned, tightening the material. “It’s very unbecoming to just reach out and grab something that isn’t yours. Restraint is a very human sort of dignity.” Tina’s mind swam at all those big words. “You aren’t even fit for that high chair, you stupid baby. High chairs are for human babies.” She unhooked the girl, and her once flat tummy puckered out with a tiny jelly roll of flab immediately as she tumbled onto the sodden barn floor. There was a red mark where she was held in.

“I am human,” Tina pleaded. I think. Not a second later, she began to miss the high chair somehow.

A trio of weathered farmhands ambled in in chaps and work boots, much older and.. sexier than the busload of schoolboys. Two were carrying a giant television set, their muscles clearly overworked. Another was rock hard all around, especially in his tight pants. He was aiming a big camera at her. How long had she been filmed? She took stock of her sleepiness. Exactly what had they filmed?

“No, you’re not, Tawna,” Miss Kimberly sang, tossing hay on the girl who was curling up under the weight of her own fear and unregistered physical developments. “Look around you. This is the real world. You’re one of them.” Tina cocked her head up and saw a couple of big friends just standing and chewing behind the teacher and her hired hunks. She moaned in harmony with them.

Miss Kimberly brushed her manicured ice queen fingers over the girl’s flopping, still-growing tail. “You’re nothing but a baby cow.” Tina ran her own fingers across her meaty bouncers to try and find some comfort in their ability to make milk. To help her identify with her new brethren. When her nipples turned up dry as ever, she realized she had a lot of growing up to do, and focused her attention to a bland, antiquated-seeming Cherub Cove welcoming video.

It proved to be a godsend. Instead of worrying about her tail, which was now safely stringing through her asscrack, motionless if only for the time being, she would just concentrate on the hazy VHS and try to be a good girl and maybe return home safely, whatever it took. Home to Cherub Cove.

“And this concludes today’s lesson on Pam Grier and blaxploitation cinema,” Professor Rudolph drolled. Each time he paused the DVD to expound on a point about framing or the sparse mise en scene, he managed to stop right on a shot of Foxy Brown’s hips or ponderous cleavage.

African-American Pop Culture was certainly turning out to be more of the patriarchal windbagging Kristen sought to avoid. It was too late to drop the class, though. “I’ll see you on Monday, when we we discuss the social import of ‘Me So Horny’ by 2 Live Crew.” Kristen grimaced, and hoped that he wouldn’t play the song over and over again like when he did a seminar on “Head” by Prince. Though it certainly made her think long and hard about the subject afterwards.

Her cell-phone buzzed as the rest of the class began to disperse from the lecture hall. She decided not to answer it. It was Perdita Ramos, a brave woman who had helped her put together Philadelphia Against St. Brittany’s, once a coalition of over forty concerned young women determined to stop the sudden influx of teen pregnancies and inflated sexuality that started in backwoods places like Cherub Cove and was now wending its way to infect a handful of mid-Atlantic cities.

Baltimore and Philly were the hardest hit. A section of South Philly was taken over by nubile, supple couples that seemed to come out of nowhere. The guys all had square jaws and the women were all wide-hipped and fertile. There was a news item in some weekly alternative paper of people passing through the neighborhood (affectionately dubbed Little Cherub) and being moved to feelings of lust just by smelling the potent aroma coming out of the alleys.

Kristen didn’t know for sure if that was the reason why membership in her protest group had dwindled, but it had. She was lucky if meetings weren’t relegated to just her and Dita. But when she saw two once-militant supporters flouncing down South Street hand in hand in tight booty shorts with two pairs of breasts about four times the sizes they were, she didn’t know what to believe. There were now three St. Brittany’s megachurches in the city and there were talks about building a fourth near the Parkway.

The more questions she raised and the more genuine concern she shared about the ubiquity, the more most people ignored her or worse, insulted her. Or even worse, went through blindingly obvious physical and mental disruption and shacked up.

It was hard to believe all the talk spinning around the city about family and the lack of selection downtown for nursing bras, and she was starting to feel like the only sane person on earth. Certainly the only letter-writer of dissent. These churches were good for business after all. So were their little vermin-like coffeehouses, coyly dubbed Abilene Cowgirls. She vowed never to step foot in one. Partly because she hated pop country and all it stood for, especially nowadays, but mostly because she sincerely believed their food and drink was drugged.

She ignored Perdita’s second call out of frustration and desperation. She didn’t want to face the likelihood of another two-woman protest. Especially when it was pitted against a free Shay-Belle concert in Rittenhouse. She was the bouncing, giggling pop star mascot of the Brittanian movement. There would be hundreds of bouncing, giggling boob-women flooding the park.

Kristen looked out the window. It was overcast. “That’s great,” she said under her breath. “A sticky slut concert, just what I need.” In a way, she owed it to Dita. Though it was true they hadn’t been dating for months, she was her first and only girlfriend in the city. Though it had perhaps coagulated into something else over time, she still had a love and respect for her.

She chomped down on a fingernail and checked her backpack to see that she had remembered to pack her surgical mask. Just in case she actually decided to brave it.

It was the third time Perdita had called in ten minutes. Severely annoyed midstride, Kristen picked up. “What? What is it?” But the voice on the other end was her steady rock, and it sounded like she was amped about the protest. She heard a laugh on the other end, even. Perdita sounded up, which was a good thing. She had taken to drinking heavily lately.

“Kristen, are you coming to Prosperosa?” There was a baby crying in the background. She was starting to really be conscious of whenever she heard that sound. She scarcely believed she could be moved to hate babies, yet here she was. “I have a surprise for you,” her partner in social responsibility chimed. Kristen checked her watch.

“I hope it’s not a baby,” she deadpanned. “I’m like five blocks away.” She hung up her phone and lit a cigarette, walking deeper into Center City. It seemed like everyone on the sidewalk or in the windows of stores was under 25. Older people, even people in their mid-30s, seemed to walk at half the clip of these bottomlessly cheerful figures of health and beauty. Especially her. She tried not to inhale too much, perhaps superstitiously believing the myths in the newspaper.

She looked at her watch outside the cafe. There was an hour left before the concert. She considered this enough time to plan out target areas of the park. There was a cadre of obvious Brittanians in line. Her friend was nowhere in sight. She could have told Dita of a different place to meet, not taking into account she hadn’t really been to this coffeeshop since before even the first St. Brittany’s was built. She swallowed her pride and finished her cigarette, pacing outside the place.

Inside, two college-aged barista boys were struggling to get the orders of all the obnoxious sexpots. “Okay, okay,” said one of them, David, “I’ve got two fudge sundae mochas with extra extra thick whipped cream, two Abilene Blondies, three Cherry Bombs, and three iced coffees. Anything else?”

The five girls giggled. One asked, pointing toward the window, “Does she know you guys exclu—sex—sexcluse..” She furrowed her brow and fished her skintight orange shorts from her butt. Another one chimed in for her, feeling superior in her handle on vocabulary. “Does that freakshow out there know you only sell Abilene Cowgirls stuff, uh.. exclusively?”

Kristen saw the gaggle of girls tittering and pointing at her. She didn’t care. She was so sick of all the magazine covers and TV shows trying to tell her what “real women” looked like. She was a strong black woman, god damn it! Tips to make you get a baby bump in one month or less. Or, on the off-chance you couldn’t find a cock-with-legs ready to piston the independence out of you, the right foods to eat and proper excercise to make you look like you had a little bun in the oven. It was madness.

She couldn’t take in anymore. She unzipped her hoodie, revealing a baggy white tee with the giant words “BABIES SUCK” scrawled on it. Some of the girls laughed. One of them gave her the finger. One just stared as if she was looking at a Martian. She stamped out her cigarette butt and marched proudly in, deftly dodging the hissing of gossip bitches now stuffing their bimbo faces in the corner.

“Can I help you?” the barista asked. “Oh wait, you’re that protest girl, aren’t you?” She was too fuming and incensed to correct him that she wasn’t a girl anymore, and moreover, was more than just a protest girl. It was hard to argue when she was in that shirt, though. She gave a meek smirk and ordered a decaf iced coffee.

Kristen wondered why the barista briefly shot a look at the group of girls before deflecting her request. “I’m sorry, we don’t normally brew iced coffee—but I can make you a decaf iced Ugandicano.” She was taken aback by that name. Could a drink be racist?

“What the hell is a..”

“Ugandicano. It’s just two decaf shots of Ugandan Priestess espresso on ice. It’s pretty much iced coffee.” She didn’t feel like arguing, she just wanted something to drink.

“Just as long as it’s decaf, that’s fine.” He was already mid-pull before she decided. “I don’t care what it is,” she sighed sarcastically. This made the girls in the corner tweet with the giggles.

She took the farthest seat away from them, but sat in the booth to face them, in an effort to prove her defiance. She wished Perdita had told her that she wasn’t actually going to be there for a while. She took a tentative sip of her drink and was pleasantly surprised at its cool, calming cinnamony spice.

Kristen started to jot down a gameplan in her notebook. She wrote the word “corner”, and tried to think of a good way to get in front of a stream of people to hand them pamphlets. It was harder than she thought. It would be such a crippled protest. She looked at the word “corner” and then her gaze drifted to the back corner of the cafe.

The girls were giggling and talking just as they had been since they got there. She couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the rushed, antsy cigarette, the low ambience of fiddle music, or the fact that she only got four hours of sleep, but.. she couldn’t stop looking at those girls and at least envying their total, unbounded happiness. She couldn’t really remember the last time she had smiled as much as them.

And she couldn’t really deny a plainer truth. They looked good. She cursed herself for admitting this, and clacked a pen on the table, getting impatient for Perdita and her “surprise”. The place seemed silent in the light rain, save for the comforting buzz of the lights, or refrigerator, or something.

Sandy had been buddied up with Sally once the two buses of Forward Mothers girls rolled into the city. The field trip was the first time she had seen the greater Philadelphia area in months, and little but nagging memories were flooding her corn-blurred brain. By the time the big rickety automobile trundled onto the Ben Franklin bridge, she had burst into tears.

Father Paul and Carmen, their chaperones, had given in to Sandy’s weepy pleading and let her explore her old home as long as she made sure to never leave Sally’s sight, and that they rejoin the group in time for lunch and Shayla’s concert in the park.

The two girls had given up looking for Sandy’s faded memories about forty minutes after they had started the search for them. She had conflated names of South Philly cross streets with ones that were in her few-block radius in Cherub Cove. After walking around in circles and absently tagging behind some tall and shirtless black men (Sally wasn’t sure which came first), Sandy’s stomach gurgled.

“I want some ice cream,” she mewed underneath the neon sign advertising it. She rolled up her lime green halter and rubbed her little muffin top for emphasis. It sat there stuck just underneath her boobs. All these strange men were making her so nervy. And, besides having some dick or dick-shaped thing sandwiched between her fat tits, there was one thing she had to do when she felt uppity.

“You know,” she languished in her adopted southern way, “some comfort food.” Heels were a bad idea, but she’d been looking for her sneakers for months and had no choice really. She had taken to walking around Cherub Cove barefoot, but couldn’t really justify that in the city, even if the girls hadn’t been restricted. At any rate, she could have at least had the foresight to not wear six inch stilettos. She seemed to remember getting around these streets much, much faster somehow.

Sally, shorter and less bumptious all around than Sandy (but still carrying around some catastrophic T n’ A), poked the girl’s tummy and mockingly squealed, somewhere between hog and doughboy. “Look at you, girl, you ain’t even uh-preggers and you got a baby bump.” An Escalade lingered long as it passed by. Sandy felt vindicated that a subsequent car horn had to be directed at her. It was starting to drizzle outside.

Sally tugged her buddy’s shirt down as the two of them ambled into the ice cream parlor. Sandy reflexively batted the girl’s hand away. There was no function in the effort anyway, one could still clearly make out the pudge underneath, not to mention the cute navel ring a deacon convinced her to get a few weeks before.

“Bitch, you just jealous,” she said, picking a wedgie and straightening out her tight and shiny white mini. Sally thought about that for a second. One of a baker’s dozen of redheads in a swiftly growing town, for whatever reason, she hadn’t developed as.. aggressively as most of the other girls. She wasn’t a pitiful, grotesque C cup like so many silly froshes, but she wasn’t about to be winning this year’s Cow Cup either.

And as much as she had a good deal of trepidation about getting a little chubby herself, she knew it was only a few more weeks of country cooking away. Besides, the amount of repetitive drilling on the topic during social studies made her think it was a good idea anyway. Despite a faraway, earlier desire to become a model, she was interested and eager to shed such sterile, modern ideas of skinniness as beauty.

Sandy had forgotten all about the insult as she queued up, starry-eyed in concentration on the menu. She knew that the ice cream would probably make her even more lethargic and saddled, but she went ahead and ordered a a quad scoop brownie blast. She could almost taste it. All those pesky memories and feelings of a vague and lost life would soon melt away in a cold, creamy mudslide.

“And for you, baby?” the hunky, ghetto kid at the register asked Sally. His smile reminded Sandy of the chocolate she was about to gorge herself on. He looked more than happy that these two honeys were in line for treats. The girls giggled almost in unison, in a veiled acknowledgement of their two creaming pussies.

“Thanks,” Sally offered sweetly, “but I’m not that much of an ice cream kinda girl.” Sandy elbowed her and sent her careening, tits first, into the cash register. She took one whiff of this confident hunk, and looked up, an inch or two from his chest. “Uh,” she started, lost in a thick fog of pheromones, “can I get a kiddie cone, I guess..” She squinted at his name tag. “Martin.”

She scarcely noticed the two huge scoops of butter rum, soaked in butterscotch that sat on a rather large cone as they walked off. She just licked and licked to keep any more sauce from dripping onto her tank top. She made sure that she sat in a booth with an adequate view of the ice cream boy. Sandy sat right next to her. The girls were speaking in hushed tones. Martin was pretending to occupy himself with a broom, but was sneaking glances quite obviously.

“He is cute, isn’t he?” Sally asked. “Do my boobs look big enough?” She pinched her nipples through the ribbed fabric and preened forward. Sandy wasn’t entirely sure why she was asking. She also wasn’t sure if Sally’s breasts looked good, or if the ice cream boy looked good, or if the chocolatey creamy ice cream was good. All she did was let out a sticky, gelatinous “yes”.

“But why ask now?” she begged, halfway knowing the answer already. She was no dummy.

“You know,” Sally said, glaring at her buddy. Then she took a long, slow lick of the cold buttery treat with her wet tongue, closing her dusky blue-shadowed eyes. (Her new tongue ring looks great, Sandy thought.) “How big do you think it is?”

“Sally!” Sandy gasped, and motioned to clutch her heart, if only she could find it under her tubby wealth of boobmeat. “You can’t be serious. We have to meet up with Carmen and Father Paul in an hour. He wants all schoolgirls to assemble for Project Takedown!”

Sally’s hand snaked down to the waistband of her jean shorts and very nearly went in before realizing where she was. That things weren’t so comfortable in the city. “What’s Project Takedown?”

Sandy burped. “You’re such a dumb slut!” She said, satisfied, and giggled. The back of her throat was coated in chocolate syrup and it made her voice closer and higher-pitched. “Project Takedown is the reason why we’re here, stupid. The awful enemy to our lifestyle in this city is only one girl now. We have to teach her a lesson.”

“How come it takes a concert by Shay-Belle to do it? And why did we have to come down?” It didn’t make any sense to Sally. She picked up a stray drop of butterscotch from between her big, milky breasts and sucked it off her finger slowly. She didn’t have to look over to know that ice cream boy was staring at her. “How are we going to do it? We’re just sluts. We’re just going to jump up and dance around and flash—”

“Of course we didn’t need to come down,” Sandy assured. “We want to welcome this girl. And the best way to do that is to have a good time. A bunch of horny, hot, hopping girls all wearing this!” She sprayed something strongly raspberry, like some pastry out of an E-Z Bake oven. “We love to see new girls squirm. Hazing, Sally. Doesn’t this make you feel really hot?” She sprayed some more, right in Sally’s face.

It did. It made her feel so hot, she couldn’t stand it anymore, and pulled down her jean shorts. They were lucky that nobody but them and the employee were there. She had on some nice black-on-white polka dot panties. She stuck one finger in, then two. It made her so turned on to know that she would be part of a big fun crowd there to enjoy some sexy music and transform a stupid, stuck-up bitch. Like she was in a James Bond movie or something.

“Won’t she get suspicious or something?” she asked.

Sandy barely gave it a second thought. “Hooker, please. It’s taken care of. We have one of our best girls on it.” She took a generous bite of her ice cream. “Lolo.”

Sally thought for a second, trying to place the name. Then she remembered. She had been christened into the Brittanian way by Kyle. That girl had taken so well to the initiation that she got her hair cut short with emo bangs and got a monroe piercing all in her first night, eager to take on the mantle of town party girl. Sally herself hadn’t stuck around the whole night to verify, but she heard she grew two cup sizes in one night, all without using any Prep products. Just by swallowing undiluted farmer cum!

“Her?” she demanded, flabbergasted. Sally had come to grips with the plain truth that she herself wasn’t the sharpest hoe in the shed, but she felt like she was “one of them nuc-ya-lar astro-physician dealies compared to that slut.”

“Nah, you’d be surprised,” assured Sandy. “She was working for her bachelorette’s degree in soci.. sociono..” She pouted, big lips glistening with lip gloss and ice cream.

“Social studies?” Sally beamed, sticking a finger deeper up her snatch.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sandy said, jealous of how smart Sally was. “Plus, I think they knew each other maybe. Plus, you know how hot she is and everything? Well, rumor has it that the girl we’re hazing likes girls!”

“Who doesn’t?” Sally asked sarcastically, now getting even more worked up over the prospect of welcoming this girl, whoever she was. If she wasn’t so randy, she might have wondered how many other girls around town weren’t as dumb as their blow-up doll bods suggested.

“Yo,” called the ice cream boy. “You ladies from Little Cherub or some shit?” Sandy’s mouth was full, and Sally was so aroused, not even thinking to slow down her ministrations, too far gone to laugh all the way, just smirking through her slow and sexy face.

“Nah, we’s from Cherub Cove,” she said in her best country voice. She went to stand up, noting his utter amazement.

“Cherub Cove! I knew you bitches was somethin’ else!” He fiddled with something under the counter. It was quite obviously his cock. “Is it true what they say about Cherub Cove girls?” The girls looked at each other. “That all I have to do is take my cock out and you’ll come running?”

Sally had had enough. She had heard about.. city boys. “Look, Sandy, we’ll get back in time. All I need is.. Hmm..” Sandy grabbed her by the wrist.

“What am I supposed to do?” She was getting mighty wet and uncomfortable herself.

“Just.. finish that ice cream. You ain’t even a-halfway done. You can have my cone too,” she offered, her hand glistening with butterscotch. Sally broke free of the girl’s grasp and rummaged through Sandy’s purse. “Do you have any—ah, thank you, girl. I owe you one.” She clutched onto a bottle of Prep Juice. “Time to get my titties!”

She bounced over to the counter, and once behind it, glanced down in joy. Sandy could only see her ponytail bob up and down. She needed to get out of there or she would be involved in her second unique threesome of the day. She wondered what gave her this sense of righteousness. It’s gotta be the boobies, she reasoned, sashaying out of the place with the two ice creams.

After a few minutes of practically drooling over passersby male and female, she noticed someone familiar. The face got closer and closer until they almost collided. The man, slight and looking to be in his late thirties, stepped off his bike slowly.

He took in her curves. This woman looked ridiculous, like a pin-up girl three weeks deep into a vacation at Pork Rib Paradise. Her arms were soft, almost shiny in their luxuriousness. Her ass was plainly visible from just a glance at the front of her hips. Her breasts promise a life of sluggish servitude and nothing more. Why did he want to place her face on a bike, then?

He paused, wanting to make sure. “..Cassandra?”

She wolfed down the rest of the half-eaten, demolished cone. “No, I’m Sandy.”

“I—I’ve been looking all over for you, I thought you disappeared.” He took stock of her body one more time. “Cassandra Weems. I know that face anywhere.” She wiped a ring of chocolate from it, dazed in the light of a recovered memory. Her eyes lit up. She just stared at him, frozen for a few seconds.

“Guh-Grant? Grant!” She squeezed him tight, letting her raspberry buxomness envelope and enthrall him. “How have you been?” She nervously chipped some nail polish off a finger. “I’ve been living in Cherub Cove for a few months now.” His eyes went wide. “Still doing.. bikes and stuff?”

“Uh, yeah.. Still doing bikes and stuff,” he said, incredulous. This was a far, far cry from the skinny, flat-chested feminist with her fists high at No Fun Fest. There was practically three of her now. Despite himself, he could feel his dick harden. There was just something about her. “How about you. What are you riding?”

She just looked at him and tried not to drool, impossibly horny. Initially set on edge by the first man to come within a few feet of her, and now driven over that edge by realizing she had known this man. It seemed more like years and years ago.

“Nah, I don’t ride anymore,” she said, remembering the way her ass started to itch like crazy whenever she boarded a bike. “Jesus is my bicycle now,” she said. She noticed her old friend’s hardon as he laughed at her joke. I can still be clever! she congratulated herself. She idly wondered why they never fucked when they had been living in the city, and edged closer to him.

“Well, Cassandra, I guess we have a lot of catching up to—” he choked on his own string of words as she hurriedly unzipped his fly. Is she really jacking me off in broad daylight on Lombard? She smelled so good, he started to wonder why that would even feel wrong.

“Call me Sandy, it’s cuter,” she sighed, and nibbled on his neck. Sally could take however long she wanted. She tugged on his prick at a quicker pace and winked at a construction worker watching from across the street, feeling not quite home but not quite so lost. “So what’s new in the city?”

In her wonderful dreams, Tina was on all fours atop a plush violet bed, long high heels digging deep into the mattress. Her knees were weak and about to give. She couldn’t tell if she had been there for a half a day or a half a minute, but she could scarcely care. Not when there was a milking machine attached to her.. eight breasts? Her impossibly long black hair dangled toward them, leaving her somewhere near ticklish.

They were indeed huge, so she could be forgiven for not being able to make the correct number out. What she knew for certain was that there were more than two hanging fully and freely off of her, and that with each mechanical pump, they eased into a rhythm of release. The pleasure in her reached a plateau to where it felt natural. Indeed, she was somewhat surprised that she fell into a pool of silken juices when her knees finally buckled.

The room exuded a pastel fog of sultry solitude, but nevertheless she felt a strong slap right atop her butt when she attempted to have a little taste of whatever fluid was on the sheets. It still stung as she opened her eyes, temporarily half-blinded and disoriented in front of a rich purple spotlight. She wiped her puffy mouth off. Had she really been about to eat mud?

She tried to speak but couldn’t. Whatever thin grasp she held on reality had already lost its footing, and even the simplest words were starting to abandon her. She remembered the absurd breast pump, expecting it to still be clutching her. Though she could feel the hot gazes of Miss Kimberly and an unidentified man, she inspected the front of her without embarassment. Her fingers seemed to have less space in between them, but she unstuck a couple and felt around her chest.

Tina pushed aside some filth that was caked onto her massive tits. Though her sleepy, cigarette-kicking hotel stay seemed like a half a dozen summers ago, she remembered how proud those puppies had stood above her ribs. With each fruity lollipop she wolfed down there, they continued inflating with meat and tissue but remained perky, unearthly in their elastic perfection.

Now, they were different, perhaps outgunning their perfect status. Though slightly, they were unmistakably beginning to droop, unable to contend in any gravity games any longer. They were now big and fat superglands, and as much as it felt odd to notice their semmingly out-of-the-blue distention, they just felt right and natural. Necessary, even, considering that she was slowly but surely transforming into a milk vessel.

She had nonchalantly cleared most of the muck off of them, which really only sent the mud and bits of hay flying onto other parts of her nude body, including her neck and chin. She marveled at her puffy saucer nipples, and just before she could feel undeserving of them, she saw she was giving milk. Tina let out a low, husky moan of satisfaction as she circled one of them with a dampening finger. She had never seen it stand to attention like that, like an excitable jujyfruit.

Even so, her threadbare thoughts, not pulling too far away from the ubiquitous preoccupation of all things breast, drifted to the pump machine of her dreams. She wanted it. She needed it. All that milk had to go somewhere, or else she’d never be clean! Tina looked up with wide, reverent eyes at Miss Kimberly, who was returning her glance, almost studying her. Milk was now trailing off of her breasts and mixing with mud, leaving her more and more of a sloppy bundle of curves with each passing second.

Tina fought through the comortable marshmallow coils of her brain to inquire about the device. She found about a word and a half, and slowly managed to sound them out. Her mouth moved at a five second delay from her mind, gummed up with something salty but raspberry. “Milk... mush.. mooosh,” she lowed, amazed that she could manage that much.

The spotlight on her turned a bright pink, and she saw that the man with Miss Kimberly was pointing a camera directly at them. Her heart jostled and her nerves simmered as she caught sight of his big guy-hands. This was her time to shine. She didn’t want to embarass herself in front of the camera. “Muh-muh-muh,” she stammered, feeling her tail wag reassuringly. “Muh-muh-mooooooo,” she articulated. She knew she must have miraculously got the point across as Miss Kimberly showed her a pleased, almost amused look of approval.

“Milk machine?” she asked sweetly and musically. Tina dully nodded her head up and down (even that was somewhat of a grueling workout), and her ears flopped along with it. Something about that didn’t seem quite usual to her, but she was too pleased that she had been able to communicate to give it even a full first thought. Miss Kimberly, it seemed, knew Tina better than she had ever known herself. “No, honey,” the pregnant, raven-haired teacher said with a chuckle. “You ain’t a milk machine just yet.”

She carefully crouched down beside her, making sure not to get her dress dirty. “See these?” she asked Tina, hefting both of the cow-girl’s filthy, runny jugs with manicured hands that had become nearly enveloped underneath the monstrous mass of them. “These aren’t enough,” she chided, pleased with her put-on smugness. She thought briefly on how different this job was from instructing yoga outside of Wilkes-Barre. This was infinitely more fun and fulfilling. Besides, yoga was the tool of the devil. “These are nothing.” Those big breasts took their sweet time wiggling back to place despite the insult.

When they finally came to rest, Tina felt an odd itch under them, some curious mixture of animal need and allergic reaction. Bumps that felt like bugbites hid, burning: twin bumps buried in each boob. She didn’t want to get too excited, but she found herself leaking all over at the likelihood these were third and fourth nipples. Meeting eyes with a doting and nodding Miss Kimberly, she felt an intense relief that they were. They had to be.

“You’re not going to develop properly if you just sit all splayed out like that,” Miss Kimberly warned. “Get on your hands and knees if you know what’s good for you.” The ex-professional lolled forward in an effort to get up, all manner of thick curves bounding every which way. She moved with a slushy sort of indignity. It felt as difficult to her as lifting a half a ton. The man with the big hands took a few steps closer to the women and his handheld camera peered closer in at her stilted jiggling.

“Do you want to be a cow or are you just a cowgirl?” The question only confused Tina. On the one hand, she felt deliriously horny and happy around these people, these humans. On the other hand, if she had floppy ears and a tail and was growing a new set of titties, wouldn’t those have to be udders? She just couldn’t answer, even if her cognitive skills weren’t drowning in desire. The line between cow and girl was melting in a haze, leaving her definitively leaning toward one side.

Miss Kimberly asked again, and made it easier this time. “Do you want to just stand there on all fours and become a cow?”

Tina tried to weigh her options, but the only weight she really felt was that of her hanging, ever-dribbling mams pulling down her back. Maybe if she said yes, she could get some relief for them at least. She ached to get milked, and get milked well. She nodded affirmatively, and again it took all of her might. Immediately she felt a tug on her tail. It annoyed her but also gave her a playful rush. Instead of uncovering the culprit, she just mooed.

She knew someone was trying to tell her something. She began to feel the heat of the now-white, burning backlight, and soon realized that they weren’t only training the camera on her. She was expected to perform.

“You don’t want to become a cow, do you?” Miss Kimberly goaded.

Tina swallowed her pride and, betraying herself, shook her head no as fast as she could, her tail wagging back and forth like crazy, as if to say, “Of course not!” The teacher turned around and told the camera man that they’d have to cut the first answer out for reruns of the webcast. Tina barely heard though, as she was too exhausted from all that activity to waste time on thinking.

“Look behind you,” Miss Kimberly dared Tina, as if there was a milking machine back there. She did at last. Where before there was almost definitely a wooden barn wall, there were now about twenty beef-built hunks, Forward Fathers students more than past the threshold of ultimate boredom with various farm jobs.

This was the part of the field trip that they all looked forward to the most. In fact, if one asked any of the boys who had the fortunate pleasure of getting blown or tugged by Tina earlier in the day, they’d explain that even that was small taters compared to the teasing ritual. They didn’t plan on giving her any room to fight her desire.

They moved from a huddled, eager flock into a circle, two deep, around her, edging closer and closer, laughing and sweating. Tina thought she heard a zipper get yanked down. She was so sloppy and sopping, waiting for her heavy arms or knees to give way. She didn’t want to mess up in front of the cameras. Something like that.

A bead of sweat dripped onto her snout, and she tried to snort it away.

“I mean, sure, you might think ‘Cherub Cove’ and get all these nasty thoughts about persecution and misogyny,” Kristen’s once-roommate Lauren, apparently now going by Lolo, argued. “and on the surface, you might even be sort of right. But unless and until you actually visit, all of your judgements are going to be wrong.”

Perdita and Lolo (it was hard to call her that, to say the least) had finally arrived at the coffeshop about a half hour earlier. Lolo had been the “surprise” her ex-girlfriend had promised her over the phone. It was a mixed bag to be sure, but it certainly was a surprise. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her after she went away for a weekend to help out for Habitat for Humanity and never came back. Now the pieces were slowly coming together.

If it was anyone else in front of her trying to defend the backward ways of that decrepit hick town, she would not only tear down what they had to say, but that would be the end of it. She would walk away after making her just and humanitarian point and be done with it. This was different, though. Her old roomie was the one who had actually gotten in touch with Dita.

Not only did she know and miss Lauren, but she was exhausted and amused by her defense of Cherub Cove. She was exhausted from trying to wrangle some sense and decency out of a morally decaying city. She was exhausted from the rhythmic chatter of the tittering girls in the corner of the cafe. She was exhausted from the hypnotic hum of the lights or something. She took a sip from her iced decaf Ugandicano, and felt even more exhausted, but pleasantly. “This must be super-decaf,” she said, apropos of nothing, and giggled.

Perdita shared an odd look with Lolo, looked at her watch, then leaned in to Kristen. “You almost ready to go picket? The opening act already started.” Kristen wondered for a split second what she was talking about, then shook herself and cursed her drifting brain. Who was the warm-up band again? Some electro band called Gummy Head. She took a final sip of the cold, spicy brew and eased back into the booth. Gummy Head. What a silly name!

Seeking to stall and change the subject, she took the lid off the cup and after chomping a few ice cubes, fingered the rim lackadaisically. “You mean to tell me that men don’t rule the roost in that place?” She chuckled. “Cherub Cove has the highest pregnancy rate in the country! The only jobs that women can get are at maid services or the town ‘newspaper’!” She used air quotes for that, hearing fourth-hand stories about girls with big tits fumbling with clip-art and drooling over marriage reports.

“Look, girly-o,” Lolo said (she used to always call her that, it was cute), applying deep red lipstick and checking herself out in her compact, “anyone can spin just about anything. I’m surprised you don’t know that by now. Now, I am a woman, first and foremost,” she said sternly, adjusting her healthy reserve of boobage. It was difficult not to leer. It was clear the town and the Brittanian way, with whatever chemicals that entailed, did a convivial number on her. “As a woman, I’m not going to do anything that my heart tells me is wrong. No one can tell me what to do but myself.”

It took effort for Kristen to read between the lines, and not just gaze luridly at her and float away on that reassuring, familiar old voice. But she was no moron. She took stock of the female before her. Sure, she looked a bit more womanly than when they shared a dorm room, smelled like heaven, and probably tasted like it too. Sure, she seemed more independent and self-assured and could probably cause a traffic jam of old ladies. It was obvious that she was a proud woman, but it didn’t take head shrinkery to know that Lauren was justifying something unsavory about herself.

Kristen looked at her old roommate and struggled to do so objectively. She was tanner, shinier, thicker, roomier. There was something in her eyes that wanted to be magnified by the sultry eyeshadow. There was something in her soul that broadcasted its restlessness through her upturned nipples, sheathed bralessly in a vinyl halter. Admit it, Kristen thought. You’re a floozy. You can’t fool me. “You’re a slut!”

The whole place went silent, even the girls in the corner. It felt like the coolers and espresso machines had turned off. Kristen just heard that endless buzzing throb in her head, the last word she had blurted wasreverberating. Perdita said her name derisively. But instead of looking dismayed or hurt, Lolo just shimmied out of her side of the booth and sat directly next to Kristen. Kristen’s embarassment quickly turned into nervousness and curiosity as her ex-roommate clasped her hand.

“You of all people would use that word? You can call me whatever you want, Kristen, but I have a purpose in my life. I found God. Cherub Cove is my home.” Kristen hadn’t ever encountered such confidence in Lauren before, and it was getting to be as addictive as that strange decaf coffee (she had already started in on Dita’s cup without asking). She let her long lost friend put her arm around her. She smelled like.. sexy adventure. “And like with any home, you have to maintain it. I wear the pencil skirt and the pants in my family.”

Dita went to the bathroom, leaving the two reacquainting friends alone. Kristen fought a blissful daze. “Your family?” she asked her, incredulous and.. bothered? She fought the urge to run her fingers through Lolo’s hair.

Lolo extended a hand, revealing a wedding band. “I got married three months ago. But it’s an open marriage. As long as I wash his clothes and dust and do the dishes and shit, he doesn’t care whose cock I suck!”

“Lauren!” Kristen gasped, covering her mouth. “I mean.. Lolo!” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or how worked up she was getting about it. By this point, Lolo had been sneaky and snuck her nimble fingers over Kristen’s shoulder, carressing her tiny right breast. When she had felt her nipple engorge through the baggy t-shirt fabric, she moved in for the kill.

“You had boyfriends before college, you never sucked a little cock?” Kristen gulped and shook her head. “Or a big cock?” Kristen shifted and seemed to spasm in the seat, letting out a soft sigh. Biting her lip, she shook her head again. “How ‘bout a huge cah—” Kristen giggled and put her hand over Lolo’s mouth.

“I never used to like it,” Lolo continued, like a grand professor. She picked something out of her teeth. “Shove any kind of cock in front of my face, and I’d just seize up. I’d get scared almost, you know, ‘am I going to suck at this?’ ‘Am I just gonna fuckin’ suck at this or what?” She laughed authoritatively, a true rebel. She took out a bottle of perfume and sprayed a bunch on herself. Before Kristen could protest, double the amount was soon all over her. As much as she thought it was a bit too fruity, it was making her heart melt and her underwear notably soggy.

She prattled on. “Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. All I’m saying is that I had a huge fear of cock. But once you get over that hump, you can think you fuckin’ suck all you want, but you just have to work it, really. A guy can be a real jerk—it.. It’s fun to have control over a guy.. like that. Just fuck with guys and suck them dry.”

Kristen was reminded of Frank, her last boyfriend, in senior year of high school. How he said he wasn’t interested in sex, but then would wind up undoing his fly and whipping it out. Nothing freaked her out more. But what she wouldn’t give to try something out now, especially with Lolo beside her, coaching her. She dribbled into her coffee cup until her saliva bounced back up to her face.

“Wait, what the fuck? What did you just say to me?” She shook her head roughly and had a sneaking suspicion that Lolo was trying out doublespeak on her, trying to lure her with clipped speech and rhythms. “Look, I’m not going to wind up like you and be a slave to a man!” Her voice sounded angry, but when she tried to get up, her pussy spasmed and knocked her back down.

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” Lolo assured, smiling, spraying her neck once more with that sickly sweet perfume. It crept all over Kristen. “I’m not saying you should.. be a slave. And I’m not saying you should.. buh-be like that. I’m just trying to share my thoughts on the subject—yourself, I don’t know, do you—”

Perdita bounded in and sat across from them. “What’d I miss?” she asked, appearing to know very well that something was going on. She could certainly smell it, anyway, and leered at them. “Aw, man! You girls fuckin’ suck!” She looked over to Kristen and noticed she had been drinking out of her iced coffee. “You suck! I go away for one second, and you just suck it all down.” Kristen heard what she was saying but still couldn’t shake the idea of cocks from her head. She slapped the side of her face, to try to get a hold of herself and get them out.

“Look what I found in the bathroom!” Perdita exclaimed, and pulled out a rather formidable dildo. Kristen’s mouth went slack in utter disbelief. What the hell was happening? She wanted to run. To die, to explode, to do.. anything except let herself be held down by her old roommate, now inflated and commandeering her onto her seat with her tits. “Isn’t this nuts? This thing is like eleven inches, and it’s so thick!” She squirmed when Dita turned it on and it buzzed to life.

That spelled the end for her will. Kristen didn’t care who was watching. The baristas, the bimbos, her friends. She shucked her jeans and panties down around her ankles and grabbed hold of the vibrator from her ex-girlfriend greedily. Perdita pulled it back. “I want it,” Kristen whined, nearly fisting herself. Her pussy slurped and gushed onto the seat. “Please, I want it.”

Perdita tossed it to Lolo, then back again, playing keep-away, until it finally landed in Lolo’s hand. The hum of the vibe perfectly complemented the electric hum in the cafe and drove Kristen wild. Lolo toggled the setting higher, and the hum got even more aggressive. “Say ‘I want that dick.’,” Lolo bullied.

Kristen moaned and shut her eyes and muttered, “I-want-the-dick.” Perdita reached her hand under the table and joined Kristen’s hand in stroking her soaked slit. Lolo grazed the tip of her nose with the dildo and coaxed her again. “Scream, ‘I need a big cock!’” She sprayed her perfume directly onto Kristen’s pussy.

“I need a BIG COCK!” she wailed, starving for it. At this point, Lolo happily inserted the electric member inside her. “I can’t believe you guys were—OH—in on it—UH—together.” She tried to summon her will, at least to put them in their place, but instead pulled down the front of Lolo’s shirt, licking at a nipple and gyrating, filled to the brim with buzzing goodness.

“In on what?” asked Perdita, calmly.

Lolo pulled her shirt up. “Yeah, in on what?”

Kristen pistoned the rod in and out of her, moaning in high, clipped gasps. “Just—just shut up, ssssluts.” She closed her eyes and gave in, lost in a fog of fantasy. When she opened them, David, the barista, was standing at the side of the table, his dick hanging out of his pants. It was half-hard. Kristen’s mouth watered.

“Were you just screaming for a big cock?” he asked. She didn’t even have to touch it. It sprang fully to life all on its own. How could it not, with her fucking an electric toy a foot away from him? It was only natural, she kidded herself. She wondered how it would feel to be stuffed in two holes. She licked her lips and was about to start feasting on the ever-enlarging dick as best she could. But.. what about three holes?

She turned to face Lolo. “Could you.. finger my.. butt?”

Lolo couldn’t help but laugh. “Excuse me?”

Kristen pulled her old roommate’s wrist down to her bent-over asscheeks. “You know.. stick your fingers all.. in my.. asshole.” She jerked on the barista’s dick. Right about to slobber on it for a second try, she felt him pull back suddenly and the vibrator also made a hasty, most unwelcome exit from her cunt.

“And you have the nerve to call me a slut,” Lolo reprimanded, licking and sucking Kristen’s juices off the plastic cock. Kristen felt ashamed, hardly believing what had just happened. Still, her hand had unconsciously made its way down again. She could almost taste that boy’s cock. Lolo ran her finger under her friend’s lip. “Oh, look, she’s slobbering!”

“I’m glad you think this is funny!” Kristen snapped. She pulled all her clothes on and tried her best to ignore her hungry holes. “Well, what should I do now? I just want to get—”

“Going?” asked Perdita. “We’re late.”

“Late for what?” Kristen asked. Oh, wait. “Were we going shopping or something?” The clothes she had on were wretched compared to Lolo, and even to Perdita, whose hips were looking slammin’ in a pair of tight corduroys that she hadn’t seen her wear before.

“Hello?” Perdita cawed, motioning to Lolo. “Where is she here from?”

“Oh, duh!” Kristen giggled. “The protest.” She realized she hadn’t even made a single posterboard for it, or a plan whatsoever. “Down with Cherub Cove!” she mockingly shouted. At least there was going to be cool music there.

“And one, and two, and thrust and four,” Shayla Mendoza chanted onstage, flanked at either side by backup dancers and giant video screens, flicking back and forth between images of the performance and the drizzly crowd at Rittenhouse. There must have been a thousand or so sweaty, gyrating bodies, made all the damper by the teasing bits of rain.

A silly, dippy and repetive beat that Miley Cyrus would blush at thumped across the park, but for the past twenty-odd minutes, what was happening onstage could hardly be termed music, even by the most forgiving of critics. It was somewhere between mass aerobics class and motivational revival.

“And one, and bounce, and three and four, all you ladies—ass to the floor,” Shayla squealed, her dark, curly hair bouncing up and down with her brown boobs, reveling in the fact that all these beautiful girls were hanging on her every instruction. A wave of bodies went up and down like husks in a cornfield. You could smell it when they shimmied back up. “We’re the future, we are the originators of a new world. Nothing can stop us!” she shouted, a pop star mad with hubris. The audience erupted.

It was a claim that was as hard to detract as it seemed absurd. With every new workout move that the half-naked busty girls and hunky guys gleefully enacted, it looked more and more to Kristen like the modest movement that started up from Cherub Cove would soon swallow the whole country like an epidemic. She gave it two years, tops. What felt so tiny and novel less than ten months ago was now exploding across the state, sanctioned as a religion, spreading like manifest destiny. These wet, oversexed bodies certainly seemed in some kind of fervor or rapture. As scary as it was, it was making her hot again.

It wasn’t helping matters that her old roommate and her ex-girlfriend were standing and mimicing the excercise coreography onstage, a few feet away from her at the corner entrance of the park. They had both given up on holding hastily-scrawled posterboards (they had made her feel guilty by assuring that at this point, they were only doing it for her) no more than fifteen minutes into their ramshackle demonstration, and were doing stretches and moves in step with all the other drones.

A very pregnant woman, too heavy with child to excercise, wended her way through the park not long after with a duffel bag. She threw Dita and Lolo leotards and white headbands. In between the dazzling array of aerobicizers and the smell of cologne and raspberry perfume getting stuck in the close air, Kristen must have missed them putting them on. It was like she blinked and there they were, moving even faster and with more determination, showing all sorts of gleaming skin.

Perdita’s was maroon and Lolo’s was shocking pink. They were doing stretches now, holding their right legs up as close to the sky as possible. “Reach for the lord,” commanded Shayla. A shimmering puff of clouds was momentarily displayed on the jumbotron. The humid stench of sex was stifling. That fabric just doesn’t hide their coochies, Kristen thought, and immediately cursed herself. Not coochies—pussies.

“Okay, now bend over and wag those butts,” Shayla said over the loudspeaker. “Fellas, you know what to do.” Every woman that hadn’t come with their own male counterpart certainly had one now, including Kristen’s friends. Every single one of them pulled their soccer shorts down in unison. The sight and scent made every joint in her body melt. There were hundreds and hundreds huge, free cocks.

“Now hold it, hold it,” Shayla said, demonstrating a new excercise. Every word she said was amplified louder and more persuasive than the last. A man was positioned behind her onstage, humping and thrusting the air, while she held her ass out behind her a foot or two ahead of him. The audience assumed this formation, and now it was looking even more like an aerobics class. “Just shimmy it a little. Can I get a moan, ladies?” Every woman rocked with it, ass up, and let their throats purr.

“This is nuts!” Kristen shouted, but nobody was paying attention to anything except Shayla and his or her partner. She turned around, determined to get all those throbbing rods out of her view, and held up her sign. It read, “You don’t need cocks!” She wasn’t sure at the time just how that encapsulated the Anti-Cherub sentiment, and now she was even less sure. If anything, it just made her think about cocks more. She realized she was a foot or two away from a policeman.

Around his neck, he wore a “Cherub World Tour” backstage pass, and was holding a leotard in his hand. He was slowly unbuckling his belt. Kristen gulped. Dita broke out of her trance long enough to notice and glanced over her shoulder, her butt a lazy pendulum. “Just do it, girl! Do it for you!”

Shayla looked out at the sea of almost-simian young angels hanging on her every word, and felt a sweeping surge of pride. “You guys ready to fuck?!” The whole crowd roared. “Okay, on the count of four. One...” Kristen was resistant, but she wasn’t sure why. The whole crowd counted down together, extra slow, like they were taunting her.

“Two..” Maybe if she could finish putting on the workout clothes in time, this officer would be gracious enough to let her pretend. “Three..” As she bent over, she could feel she was already ruining the meager lycra at the crotch with her excitement. Even though she could see nobody else that was doing so, she touched her toes and extended her butt as far in the air as she could. This was all just another thing she couldn’t hope to win, and she resigned herself to the loss. “Four!”

What happened next felt so good, she figured she’d pick up her posterboard afterwards. There would be other protests.

“Ninety-four bottles of milk on the wall, ninety-four bottles of milk! You take one down, pass it around, ninety-three bottles of milk on the wall!” The girls laughed and crowed in delight at their odd little nursery rhyme. Carmen was in the front seat of the bus with Father Paul, trying to maintain her businesslike command of a hot pink clipboard.

“We’re down one girl,” she said to him, in appraisal of the roll call. At this point, she knew it shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t like it was her fault, and besides, they had taken on no less than five new entries into the flock, slightly geeky and clearly addled indie girls who were stuffed into the aisles of the bus, looking up in awe at the healthy farm girls bouncing around them. “Sally lost Sandy.”

Father Paul smiled in the best humble way available to him, and shifted in his seat, trying to cover an erection that was bubbling to prominence. “H-how did she do that?”

“She was getting a souvenir,” she said, and tittered like the schoolgirl she was. The priest looked at her, reminding himself to concentrate on her face, but failing to understand regardless. “She was getting her city titties!” Father Paul looked behind him a few seats in the next row. There Sally was, contentedly looking down at her engorged, swinging breasts with an expression that resembled respect.

“While she was dropping dome on some big dick at the Dairy Queen,” Carmen went on, “Sandy just disappeared.” He wondered if anyone could really see into their seat over the bounty of Carmen’s belling boobs. He quickly whipped out his member without a second thought, and began rubbing it against his fellow chaperone’s thigh. She noticed, and blushed. “Father!” she whispered into his ear. “Put it away, we need to at least try to be good role models.”

He did as he was told. Carmen just had a way about her. He tucked his cock back into his slacks, but she could still smell the thing bristling against the fabric, angry and pent-up. “You’re such a tease, you know that?” he asked.

“Me?! A tease?” She pulled the front of her dress down and sprayed some overpowering, musty perfume in her cleavage. “I gave you head twice today!” She realized she was being quite loud and reined it in. “I barely had enough time to wipe your cum off my cheek before you were throwing it in my ass again!”

She noted the faint, dull throb in her butthole and mused about the pointless years spent away from serving the one true way. If anything felt wrong to her nowadays, she just shampooed it out along with her hair. She knew she shouldn’t complain, even about the bus not coming back with the girl they had secretly gone there to indoctrinate. But she had to gossip anyway. It, like almost anything, made her wet. “And we somehow lost that city girl, Kristen.” She said “city girl” as if it cut her tongue to say it.

Father Paul’s dick was out again and he was stroking it, trying with all his might to retain interest. “What? How?”

“She got a wild look in ‘er eye, you know, the kind that you said I got when I first started makin’ milk? Well,” she gabbed on, unaware that she had airily placed her hand on his prick and started softly jacking, “she jus’ set on to runnin’ away right down 18th Street! I think a cop run after her, but I don’t know if he caught ‘er or what! This all happened when I was on the phone seein’ about Tiny Tina, anyhow.” She giggled a bit, then safely put her priest’s dick back in his pants again.

He had a genuine scowl on his face. “You know, it was your idea to come here and fetch this protest girl, and it was your idea to make Martina a..” He squeezed his big suffering rod through his pants, gathering the strength to say it. “A cowgirl! She didn’t even do nothin’ to you!”

“Why, daddy, yes she certainly did!” It felt a bit silly that she was nitpicking over something so catty, but she was no stranger to the feeling. “I nursed her sore throat back to health, and she repaid me by putting her jugs all over my husband? I wouldn’t even care if she didn’t waste all his jizz,” she assured, glancing forlornly at her not-humungous-enough breasts, “She didn’t even have the decency to make him aim it in her mouth!”

Father Paul stared into the rearview mirror of the bus, assuaged by the sight of a packed bus, and the new girls, eager to learn the way of the Cove like it was some spring break hideout. He tried to blot the unmistakable feeling of Carmen’s dress riding up over her creamy mocha thighs. He tried to remember that if this was all a blessing, it was still a ludicrous one that only two or three years ago, he’d scarcely believe.

Still, he was horny. It didn’t take a genius to realize that in his situation, it was best to buck up and not spoil the moment with nostalgia. “This is the real world, my child” he told her, slipping two or three nimble fingers into the folds of her pussy, “and everything will be alright by the Lord.” Yet, he was still bothered by one small thing, and somehow glommed onto enough decency to ask.

“Miss Kimberly and her boys know enough not to turn that girl full way, right?” Carmen just slid closer to him and shut him up with a soppy, eager kiss. She guided his knuckles deeper as they passed another hill into the sunset.

The next morning, Kristen was shaken awake by her cell phone and the sound of construction. She couldn’t remember when she changed her ringtone to some teen pop snippet, but she couldn’t consider it much or even appraise the night before. “Heh-hello?” she stammered, through gummed-up lips.

“Haaay sweetpea,” her mother sunnily intoned. It was always good to hear from her, and she brightened immediately. “Just calling to see how your little protest went.” Kristen thought for a few seconds. What protest?

“Oh, you mean that concert?” She scratched her side and was startled that it seemed plusher, equipped with a lot more give than she was accustomed to.

“It was a concert? Honey, I thought you were going to protest something or other.” Kristen vaguely remembered holding up signs, but that was weird for a girl like her. She was the future, an originator of a cool new world.

“No, mom. It was just a show at Rittenhouse.” She had a nagging feeling like she was forgetting something. She now noticed a fog of coffee and bacon that was slushily overtaking her. She also noticed she was only wearing a bra. “Ouch,” she said, not able to contain the wincing pain of the garment pinching into her.

“What happened?” her mom asked.

“Just this stupid bra,” she bemoaned, now getting positively wet at that weird nagging feeling in her brain. “It’s killing me,” she purred, and leisurely hefted one boob, popping it in and out of its silky cup.

“Your bra? Honey, don’t go telling me you’re—” Kristen sniffed at the air. Why did it feel like those breakfast smells were coming from her apartment? “Child, turn on CNN right now. You’re not gonna believe this.”

She tried to bound straight up out of her bed to the television, but met with some jiggles of resistance. She flicked it on and felt her nipples perk up at the ticker’s message scrolling across the bottom of the screen: “New half-human species found in Cherub Cove.”

“Mom, just because it’s on TV doesn’t mean it’s true. I met a lot of girls from there at the concert yesterday, and they seemed perfectly fine.” She tugged at her bra one last time before fumbling to unhook it completely, running her hands across her burgeoning frame.

“I don’t know, honey, they say that St. Brittany’s is planning to build four or five hundred megachurches by the end of next year.” Kristen didn’t see why that should worry her. Just as she noticed a picture of what looked like a woman with many portly breasts being carted off in a wheelbarrow, a gruff man came into her bedroom holding a tray of french toast and bacon. He flipped the TV off immediately.

Kristen saw his badge gleam in the morning light, and saw that he only had boxers on. Oh yeah, she thought, that nice policeman who walked me home last night! She saw his underwear tent and wondered for a second if she made it do that. When he set the plate down and ambled closer, she knew she had to have done it. He popped open a bottle of Prep Juice and began guzzling it.

His cock immediately reacted, and busted through. He reached over to the clock radio on her floor and tuned to a hot country station. “Kristen, what in God’s name are you listening to?” her mother demanded.

“Nothing, mom,” she said. “Hey, listen, I’ll call you back later, I just woke up and I have a lot of work to do.” She flipped the phone shut in disregard and got on all fours on top of her bed. She couldn’t remember ever doing this before last night, but she felt that all those films she’d been studying in college had made it really easy. As she began to get pounded from behind by this cop, she wondered half-seriously how hard it would be to get a protest started about those poor, poor cowgirls.

“You’re really hard,” she told him, and pointedly backed her ass onto him.