The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I thought we’d do an ice breaker first,” Jill said, brightly. Luckily she’d thought to put out name tags for everyone. Her short-term memory, as well as her long-term memory, were really struggling. “While we’re waiting. Carmen! We’ve been seeing you jogging around! Tell us a little about yourself!”

Carmen looked panicky. She shifted position, and for a frozen half-second of time, as the big girl recrossed her legs, Jill would’ve sworn she could’ve seen the neighbor’s pussy. Straight up her legs with no underpants at all. Her mind refused to process it. It was getting really good at that.

“I…” Carmen squinted at the effort of thinking. “Really like... jogging? And I uh… I’m… I’m pregnant!”

There was a pause, and then a round of heartfelt applause. Jill joined in strongly. All the girls there did. There was just something about getting knocked up that, well, felt right.

Good thing, as her own kids had been strongly getting on her nerves. Such as the one currently trying to slink upstairs without her notice.

“Why don’t you go next… Aubree? Is it Aubree?” Jill said to the ribbons-hair girl. She stood up to waylay her own spawn. She paused while standing. Was it… was she, herself, wearing panties? She could’ve sworn she did, but thinking it over, she was feeling distinctly drafty down there. And more than a little damp, but that was understandable, given everything.

“Emmaline,” Jill said, catching her daughter at the top of the stairs. Emmaline whirled. “Everything alright? You were….. slinking. Actually, where have you been?”

Emmaline had just gotten a whole lot of spunk down her throat, for the first time ever.

It was an intense emotional moment, she needed to process it, and the very last thing she wanted to do was have a conversation with her mother with a ton of jizz in her tummy. And probably some in her hair and across her face. David had really coated her. She stuck her hands under her armpits and grumbled a lie. “Lucy’s house.”

Her Mom searched her face. God, did she have sperm on her cheek? And why did she want to lick to find out? Turning out to be the kind of girl who swallowed a guy’s cum was playing hell with her previous self-image, and Emmaline really needed to get into her room to start up with that.

It was lucky Mom was busy with her prowler thing. She let Emmaline go with a reluctant “Well. Alright.”

Emmaline jiggled upstairs. She was doing a lot of jiggling, lately.

It was very aggravating that the local High School was already a collection of cheerleaders and jocks. The School had existed for a month. The bathrooms were unmarred by graffiti and the toilets had that white porcelain shine. There was no gum underneath any tables at all, and the PA was perfectly audible. And yet, a bunch of teens had flooded in and decided right away: this is going to be the same dull contest of popularity and cliques as anywhere in the USA.

Emmaline had not even minded getting ripped out of her senior year and sent to a new school. There was nothing for her at her previous home. But to walk in to English class in dark black jeans, day one, and see all those eyes mentally categorize her as: the gothy one. That was no fun. Her classmates were bouncy all day long, all of them into lip gloss, and at least seven of ten wore jean shorts every other day. So it was lucky she’d found David and Lucy.

They’d been easy to find. David was the only one in her US Government class who raised his hand, and Lucy was the same in math. David had perfectly black hair and was still hoping puberty would come through with a chin, but in all other respects he had indie rocker energy, including a great set of t-shirts. Lucy was quiet and small, and in a fairer world would’ve existed in a small clutch of fellow anime nerds. As it was they had each other.

In truth Emmaline would’ve been perfectly fine existing as the alternative counterpoint to a standard, tedious, midwestern high school experience. She and David and Lucy would’ve all gone to prom together, departed for elite colleges, and recalled their counterculture senior year with fondness. They’d even formed the Yearling High Literary Club, staking out their Yearbook position.

The problem was, Yearling High started to get… sexier. Pretty fast.

It showed up first in English class, where all three of them were fond of Ms. Whitmer, their energetic, lovable teacher. Emmaline figured that there was a 20% chance, at least, she herself would end up as that kind of earnest educator, struggling to make blondes care about Steinbeck.

And then Ms. Whitmer had spent an entire week raising both her hems and her smiles.

First it was a cute but normal sundress, in a printed orange pattern. “The thing about Steinbeck by the way is that he was really good-looking,” she’d gushed, taking them all by surprise. “He had that 1930s hottie look where yes, a little underfed, but if he looked at you full in the eyes—wow. WOW.”

Emmaline had checked. The internet in town was sharply unpredictable. Just getting to wikipedia was a major chore. But a search for ‘sexy steinbeck’ worked immediately and confirmed Ms. Whitmer’s assessment. It was just a fun moment in a boring english class, except that Ms. Whitmer kept getting sexier and hotter. By Wednesday she wore a scoop top, again in orange, and sloppy red lipstick that was pure floozy. Her interest in attractive male authors had grown, and she spent most of the class raving about Hemingway’s wartime exploits—“SUCH a MAN!” The class fidgeted, especially the girls, as Ms. Whitmer had gushed on and on about his beard. “You could probably tell he had that beard even with his back turned.”

On Friday she wore a tiny pleated skirt, shorter than any student’s, and bright pink lipstick. She stuck her chest out and giggled. At least they’d given up on Literary Hotties. Now she opened the floor up to “so what’s hot?” in the general world. When she crossed her legs the entire class froze. Ms. Whitmer had decided that underpants weren’t necessary teaching tools.

“What the hell was that?” Lucy said, afterwards, shaken. Of course, Lucy had also worn a pleated skirt, and kept mentioning it. How it was stereotypical of her as the sole asian student. “So don’t wear it,” Emmaline thought, annoyed.

“That,” David said, thoughtful. “Was. Ms. Whitmer’s. Pussy.”

She’d half-expected the teacher to disappear after that incident, deep-sixed by the board of education. But in fact Ms. Whitmer was back on Monday, in her low-cut tops and casual attitude towards panties. She’d given up on teaching actual books, and mostly just had them all sit around and gossip, with her there to play the role of “experienced woman”. “Boys all want one thing,” she’d told them, in her usual, conspiratorial whisper. “And it’s disgusting. Well, actually, let me take that back.” she’d counted on her fingers. “They want four things, and all of them are pretty gross. But fun. Actually they’re all pretty great, let me tell you. Oh my gosh. They’re REALLY good.” She’d giggled and recrossed her legs. She was starting to wear long, sexy socks. All the eyes in the room looked up her skirt. Boys and girls.

“What’s the fourth?” Lucy asked David. “Oral. Anal. Sex. That’s all the holes there are. Right? No? What’s the fourth?”

“I am not sure,” David had said, leaning back, relaxed. “But I will make a point of finding out.”

He looked extremely chill. In fact all the boys in class, and seemingly every class, were clearly relaxed and enjoying themselves. Ms. Whitmer had started a strong, powerful trend. There was a sudden explosion in socks. Stretchy white ones, pink ones, all sorts of rainbow patterns. A burst of ridiculous mary janes that clattered with each step. In fact it was all a confusing fashion nightmare: jean shorts were popular, but so were minis, and crop tops, and loose jumper dresses. Really anything that was tight and taut and cheap and showed a lot of tit.

Emmaline first suspected something more definitively off then a gone-wild teacher when Lucy had shown up in jean shorts.

And not just that, but packing an ass. She had a big rear end, very abruptly, and spent their planned video game and bullshitting time wiggling it around every chance she got, making sure David got plenty of looks at both cheeks.

Finally Emmaline said something. “When’d you get a BUTT?”

At least that made their mutual friend blush, still. “There’s nothing to do around here but eat and age,” she’d said, defensive, at least putting her tush on the floor. “And I can’t get older any faster.”

“Uh-HUH,” Emmaline said. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. Congrats on the ass. Very trendy, an ass.”

“Good work on the boobs,” Lucy retorted.

Emmaline flushed, and felt the heat of it reach deep within her still-growing tits. The truth was, she’d been going through a major, MAJOR growth spurt. When she’d arrived in town she’d felt confident enough in puberty’s end to invest in a bunch of solid quality bras. All of them were junk now, the straps unable to contain the breasts she was packing on. They currently filled her hands with a little tender white skin pooching around the outside. It was clear that she was going to go through life with big, perhaps even really big, naturals.

They glared at each other over David’s sanguine, totally unconcerned look.

That inaugurated the competition for the most precious resource in the world, David’s attention. It was suddenly infinitely precious to Emmaline. She could’ve written down, in a book, every word he said in a given day. It was hard to believe she’d made so many jokes online, pre-move, about how men were worthless bags of hormones. Her body quivered when David looked at it, and if he happened to glance down into the increasingly intense valley of cleavage she was sporting, holy shit.

But Lucy had her own charms, and was, Emmaline felt, just more clever about it. While Emmaline wore cheap tanktops with plenty of boob window Lucy was strutting in complicated, fashionable gear that happened to showcase every inch of her legs. Silver-grey skirts with matching black boots, artful black jackets with just a hint of neon pink shorts. It was the right play: David was still interested in more than just tits and ass. If Lucy plunked down in a Ramones t-shirt, her thighs lightly nudged apart, how could he not look?

It made Emmaline feel like a cow, and not a very bright one.

For her own part she just wasn’t sure what to do about her own irrepressibly growing boobs. What kind of person had huge tits? As far as she knew girls with really big boobs didn’t go on to law school, or much school at all. They just kind of existed with drooping funbags attached to them, to sop up male attention. Emmaline spent some time staring at herself in the mirror: was she looking DUMB? Something about having big boobs just made clear that you were on earth not to run debate club.

It normalized the experience that pretty much the entire school, the girl part of it, was going boy-crazy. You could practically smell it. In fact, sometimes Emmaline thought she did smell something, some hormonal spritz that was just on the edge of rank. A male cologne that was a typical Axe-ish overloaded spray but also incredibly exciting. But maybe it was just the quickly rising skirts of every single girl, the way everyone found the money to get brand new heels. Anything less than three inches was quickly disappearing from the hallways. During passing period there was a typewriter click-clack of girls figuring out how to strut, their butts narrowly covered with something bright and cheap.

Emmaline drew the lines at heels, but the truth was, stockings and socks didn’t look quite right without them. And that was the other big craze, socks of all kinds, whatever offset and called attention to thick thighs. Lucy, of course, was a master of hosiery, and was the first to show up to class in thigh-highs. If she wasn’t so laser focused on David she probably could’ve fucked any guy in class. Definitely their math teacher noticed. He broke his dry erase marker halfway through.

None of this was good for Emmaline’s schoolwork. But none of that seemed to matter. The teachers were barely bothering to take attendance, much less assign schoolwork. There were a few holdouts, but by and large class was just a time to primp and talk to boys and doodle. Ms. Whitmer made clear that the Principal himself was her number one hot guy on the list. “Oh my gawd,” she told them, her thighs quivering. If anyone wanted to look up her skirt, that was fine with Ms. Whitmer. “One hundred percent. Girls, you gotta start at the top. And then lick your way down.” the girls giggled, Emmaline included, when she faked an orgasm while running her marker down the board.

In retrospect it should’ve all been more concerning. There was a certain hormone glaze to be expected at any High School, and especially so in a bored town of corn-fed teens with nothing better to do than fuck and be fucked. But Emmaline would look around and see her classmates, all in short skirts or teeny shorts, all doodling erect penises in their notebooks. Every single girl wore a different shade of lipstick. Even the nascent cliques were turning into porno versions of themselves—the few punk girls in mesh shirts that showed off porcelain sideboob. The cheerleader skirts were obscene.

But it was hard to care when so many cute boys were walking around. Hunks of muscle and confidence, who smelled like the outdoors and had easy, confident eyes. They all walked around with protective hands around whichever girl they were going with, absently stroking the curve of their rears. Increasingly the lucky girlfriends just sat in the laps of their guys during class, steadied regularly by their gentle, always-present hands. Even the nerdy guys seemed to have acquired better glasses and a pull up bar, eagerly growing into respectable, broad chests and panty-dropping biceps.

David, in particular, had a gaze that made it hard for Emmaline to do more than gush in a warm pool of her own hormones. She’d made more than a few doodles of his imagined, erect penis in her own notebook. It’d be indie-rock in some undefinable way. His hair was at just the perfect length, his jeans failed to hide his long, powerful legs, and most of all, he was covered with spiky, jagged facial hair. He even complained to her that he really needed to shave twice a day, while Emmaline squirmed and tried not to leave a damp patch on his parent’s couch.

Things might’ve continued that way except for the bathroom incident.

She hadn’t hung out with Lucy for some time. The friend had been on a fast, fiery ascent up the popularity tiers. She brought a lot to the table—not just novelty in a whitebread world, but a ruthless combination of fashion and sexuality Emmaline felt hopeless against. What could she do, besides moo seductively? Plus, rumor said, Lucy dispensed blowjobs morning noon and night to whoever had the slightest urge. It had gotten to the point that, passing Lucy in her chic silver tank, her just-below-the-butt electric blue skirt, her enormous heels, bangly jewelry—Emmaline didn’t say anything.

And didn’t say anything when the same heels were pointed backwards on the floor in the girl’s restroom.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard some girl getting loudly face-fucked in the bathroom. The first time had been a novelty, listening, face beet-red, while she tried to tinkle. That was back when students made a pretense of giving blowjobs quietly. Now the stalls swung back and forth, and girls who actually needed to pee were known to knock on the door, asking for the partners to hurry up. These were, to be clear, the good girls, the nice ones—there were girls who went into the boy’s stalls at 8 a.m. and emerged at the final bell at 3, basically glazed.

“Lucy?” Emmaline hissed, nonetheless shocked. The wrongness of all of this had been blocked out by a combination of David smiles and the fact that, well, it was all pretty fun. A girl didn’t like to worry too much about growing nice big titties, and her snatch had really gotten interesting in the past few weeks. Like a lot interesting—she’d been wearing out her pillows with grinding, and wondering how to get a vibrator. But Lucy, studious Lucy, delivering oral sex on a concrete floor—what was going on? Whoever the boy was, he had massive shoes, and had a dull, thick grunt.

He didn’t last that long, and he didn’t even say a choked ‘thanks’ as he left. Emmaline got a glimpse of him swaggering out of the lady’s room. Six foot two, shoulders about to hit the door frame, young male whipcord muscle. She licked her own lips. And then she thought to check on Lucy.

Lucy was coated in spunk and half-collapsed. She’d let her head loll against the side of the stall and was giggling softly to herself, jizz dripping out of her mouth. Her eyes were sleepy-closed, and could hardly focus at all. Despite her obvious mind-fucked, blissed out state her hand was busy catching stray strands of goo and putting it in her mouth.

“Lucy? You okay?” Emmaline said, trying to help her up. Cum was everywhere. Lucy slurred something. She’d been fully brainfried, something about a cock in her mouth reducing her to giggling plaything. That in itself was worrying. But what really shocked Emmaline out of it, gave her that sense of lingering wrongness that could survive the next look at a man, was that she, herself, kinda wanted to kiss Lucy on the lips. They were so soft and lush, and the scent of woodsy-bleach sperm on her face was actually super hot. Emmaline jerked back, startled. She backed away from Lucy’s vacant, happy eyes.

Back home she evaluated life.

There was definitely something going on, and Emmaline had to conclude that it had started to affect her. Not too much, obviously. But girls didn’t ordinarily go up two or three or four or whatever bust sizes in a—how long had it been? She checked the clock, then flushed. Still, outside of her tits, which were luscious and enormous, how bad could it be? True, her bedroom was steadily slutifying. The clothes on the floor itself were her friendly, wearable jeans and t-shirts. They were overlaid with a set of more feminine tights and the omnipresent school jean shorts. And on top, bras that definitely didn’t fit, stretchy pink tops, pleated skirts that skimmed the tops of her thighs.

Emmaline glanced over at her desk. It had grown a heavy colony of makeup sets, polishes and creams set on top of dusty books she couldn’t recall reading. Enough lipsticks to coat a car. Cute, though.

The problem was, who to trust? Mom and Dad were unthinkable. It was tense in the household, after—she didn’t like to think of it. Lucy had been reduced to a dull-eyed cocksucker by whatever was going on. In fact, most of the girls at school, and the female teachers, had a floaty, giggly atmosphere that could not be trusted. Her sister had been wholly unapproachable since returning back from college in an angry haze. Plus she was treating Emmaline like a little kid.

That left David.

Her clit tingled pleasantly at the thought.

But could any boy be trusted? Her mind was telling her: absolutely yes. She could trust boys, she could let them do anything. If a boy wanted to fish around in her pants it was his business, and she should unzip anything he wanted her to. Her big boobs told her: you can trust David to fondle these. He’d do a great job. You’d cum so hard. Before she quite knew what was happening Emmaline had her own fingers between her legs, rubbing away. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a nice, fun orgasm to David’s mental image. And with Lucy out of the picture, he was basically hers to fuck and suck.

No. She couldn’t think like that. Emmaline reluctantly pulled her hand out of her snatch. She’d just have to be content with rubbing her boobs. They liked it. She was half-convinced it helped them grow.

Emmaline attended a different school the next day. The same one, mostly, but with the wrapping torn off. There were girls that Emmaline KNEW were smarties, now in silky white thigh-highs. Makeup caked on, with nothing on their minds besides letting some guy steer them wherever he wanted. Tits were overall much too big, and too much on display. Emmaline had thought about wearing a facemask. But even in cautious black tights and a heavy sweater she was getting puzzled looks—who was this girl? Didn’t she have large boobs? Then where were they?

She’d tried to meet up with David all morning, but he didn’t appear for classes. This wasn’t that unusual for David, who treated class with the same benign bemusement he used for most everything. There was no point in trying to text him. The awful cell reception in town had jumped up another level of badness, and all her phone did was twitch and vibrate. Which did have its attractions.

Things seemed to have gotten worse. Or had it long been this bad? Yesterday, had Celia Dawson walked around with an obvious cumstain on her skirt? Did all the girls click-clack in near unison on three-inch heels, the entire hallway ringing with their plastic boots? She could see a clear streak of lubricant running down Mathilda O’Leary’s leg, not just a new one but a long-standing river, getting absorbed into her pink-blue socks. What was worse, Emmaline was getting very hungry all the time. For, specifically, dairy. It wasn’t clear what was going on, but sitting down and drinking a big tall quart of milk seemed like a bad move. At lunch, a bunch of high schoolers calmly drank milk handed out for free in unmarked boxes.

Emmaline, groggy and horrified, very slowly realized that she’d been drinking two quarts of milk a day at school for at least a month. Her hands felt at her oversized tits. That, at least, was an explanation.

Horny, confused, thirsty, she ran to see the Principal. Everyone liked the Principal. He wore a suit. He frowned a lot, he had streaks of grey in his hair, he wore sweaters, his eyes had carved a path between the willing, open legs of his students. Emmaline half-ran to his office. He made clear that he had an open door policy for students. The ladies at the front desk watched her go, smiling to themselves. The air smelled like school coffee machine.

Inside, he was busy putting the wood to Ms. Whitmer.

It was ugly sex, at least to somone watching. Not to the participants, obviously. Ms. Whitmer’s head was rolled back, and her eyes rolled even farther. She had a clear view of the door Emmaline had cracked, and noticed her not at all. She made thick noises deep in her throat of basic satisfaction. But as out of it as she seemed, her legs were cocked at an awkward angle, holding her thighs as far apart as she could. It looked uncomfortable. It could only be explained as doing her very best to give Mr. Machado another half-inch to slam into her without encountering a pelvic bone.

Mr. Machado was working. He had kept his intensity, and his face barely moved at all. He had grabbed two big handles of Ms. Whitmer to perch her on his desk, and was absolutely fucking her senseless. There was a low ambient rumble in the room that Emmaline gradually realized was him. He was growling.

That did it for her. Principal growling, as he prepared to inseminate English teacher, made Emmaline nearly collapse. They were so intent, uncaring that the front desks must all hear them perfectly well. Gunfire wouldn’t stop them. Her thighs matched Mathilda O’Leary’s legs. No, more so. This was another level past porno, which she’d been watching, more and more, in the past few weeks. He was putting a baby in her, and although primal and rutting, it was also beautiful.

“You dumb piece of pussy,” Mr. Machado growled. He didn’t stop pushing into her. From the amount of sweat they’d been at it for awhile. Mr. Machado wore a sweat-soaked dress shirt, and Ms. Whitmer wore a tan short skirt that had probably led to her current insemination. The sex had clearly gone past enjoyable for her, and had become concerning for her brain cells. She was drooling a lot. “You begged and begged and now you get all of it. ALL of it.”

That seemed to be a reference to a really big cock. Emmaline couldn’t see it, but she could smell it. The air smelled like a gym mixed with a stable. Her big boobs were on absolute fire. With her own overtaxed brain cells, and based on the angle Mr. Machado was taking, it did seem like he was putting a monster dick in her. That was confirmed a moment later when Mr. Machado grunted, workmanlike, and after two powerful blasts inside of her, he pulled out for one last resentful burst of semen all over her face and tits. “Hope that’s enough, whore. Enjoy the next nine months.”

He glanced up, but Emmaline was already gone. She was so soggy and hot. She kept gasping for breath, feeling like it should cool her down, only to leak a little more down her legs. She really needed to find David.

He was at home, which figured. Listening to music at his desk, staring soulfully up at the ceiling. His hair was artfully arranged over but not quite blocking one eye. He had on a Fugazi t-shirt and, unusual for him, shorts. Usually he was too cool to wear shorts. Emmaline knocked on the window. She felt like pressing her tits up against it, letting the cool glass help in some way. She just couldn’t calm down in any meaningful way: her horniness triggered her anxiety which tripped her libido, or something. Essentially she was a huge horny mess.

Occasional non-horny thoughts drifted through her: was it a good idea to go talk to a boy, in his room, while her pussy was actually leaking? When 90% of her thoughts were about Mr. Machado’s dick turning Ms. Whitmer from an English teacher to an English learner? Her body was too keenly and too newly interested in breeding to make rational decisions. But she also knew, or at least her body felt confident, that some boy could handle all her problems, and do all the thinking for her.

“Emmaline?” he said, pulling the window open. “Are you—are you okay?” his usual reserve was shattered, looking at her. Her boobs were downright heaving. For a second he looked just like a late teen boy at a loss, and it just made her want to fuck him more.

“They’re turning us into fuck toys,” she breathed, all over him. “Can I come in?”

“Oh—god—sure—” he looked around for a chair, like she hadn’t sprawled on his bed a hundred times. Emmaline did so now, making sure to lean sideways, so her tits were on display. “Yeah, come in. My parents are at some school thing.”

No parents, her body sang. She had to—somehow—relate the knowledge about bimbo conspiracies and leave a virgin. “You must’ve noticed it too, right?” she said, trying not to squeeze her legs together. “Every girl in the school besides me is acting like a piece of pussy property, right? Just waiting for the next blowjob, giggling, stupid, all of that, right? Pure dumb sex. Like, you know Lauren Carmine? She had all those feminism buttons on her backpack? I caught her looking at Alex Newman’s biceps and she was actually drooling onto her desk. Also, uh, uh, uhhhhhhhh, I just saw Mr. Machado fucking Ms. Whitmer so hard she forgot her birthday. There.”

David slouched back into his chair while she babbled on.

Of course I know, Emmaline,” he said, comfortably. So cool. Her body told her: he sat in a throne. This was a high status male, and proper respect would be to slobber on his cock. “Lucy and I were trying to work it out for weeks. Long story short, this entire town is turning everyone into compliant, drug-filled, breeders.”

Oh. That did explain a lot.

Emmaline was having a hard time not pushing her pussy at David. The naughty thing kept trying to uncross her legs and point. Have a clear entryway. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on what he was saying, especially since it turned out her brief investigation was a waste of time. “Why didn’t you loop me in?” she said.

David’s eyes caressed her. “Emmaline, you don’t seem to have really realized this,” he said, leaning forwards in his chair. “But your breasts have tripled in size over the past month and a half. And you’re…” he sucked in his cheeks and then shrugged. “You sound like an airhead.”

“I’m…?” Her cheeks flushed. Emmaline looked down, suddenly shocked to see what had been right in front of her. Oh yeah, those. They were whoppers, weren’t they? She’d been conscious of breast growth, even picking tops to enjoy it, idly wondering what this meant for her self-image. And at some unknowing point they had gone from late-puberty handfuls to low-slung whopping tits, but this was even more then that. These were fat udders of boob. Truthfully she had just kinda let them grow, handling and stroking them from time to time, affectionate. But when David pointed it out, it was obvious. This wasn’t a matter of handling big naturals. She was all tits with some legs.

“Oh fuck!” she squeaked, grabbing them, trying to shove them a little smaller, conscious of how stupid she had to look. No wonder they hadn’t included her in the planning, she’d been gabbling on while packing enormous boobs.

It didn’t escape her that David’s eyes kept gravitating back to her cleavage.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah… yeah. Yeah. And you were dressing so country we figured… anyway, Lucy and I have been in touch with these reporters.... There’s these barns on google maps… Uh… Emmaline?”

There was a mirror in his room, and Emmaline really couldn’t help herself from looking and touching. She was dressed like a cow slut, after all. Jean shorts flossing her wet and ready slit, oversized chest, big drooly vapid look. When was the last time she’d read a book? A million years ago? “Oh no,” she moaned. “I look so hot and dumb. They got me, they got Lucy and they got me.”

“Lucy is checking on a lead,” David said. He gestured to his computer monitor, where there were probably a lot of documents and shit. Emmaline kept squeezing her own boobs. She was even wearing a yellow halter top. When had she gotten that? When she jiggled up and down her tits practically wobbled. She felt a giggle welling up and narrowly stifled it. “And… I mean, yeah, we’re not unaffected....I... kinda… have a big dick now.”

“What?” Emmaline said. She gave him a very stupid look. David looked abashed. But his breathing had gotten fast, and she recognized that look. It was the look in every single man’s eyes, lately. The one that said: I can use you. It’ll be fun.

“I stopped all dairy consumption but… you might as well see, so you know you’re not alone,” David said, quickly.

He struggled with his shorts, and hauled out a huge, red dick.

Any pretense to reluctance went away when he stroked it, fondly, into full mast. He stood up, too, so they could all look at it and admire it. It strained off his body and seemed to get bigger as it went along. Emmaline’s eyes had trouble focusing on the full length of it, so she settled for the indentation at the tip, where a whole lot of cum would flow out. She was sure of it. It was incredible to think he’d been packing it in to his still-slim jeans, day after day. It had to have taken him quite a long time to get dressed.

“Yeah,” David said, chest swelling with male pride. Emmaline was so happy for him. And herself. True, they were all apparently being reborn into some sort of sex creatures, but what a DICK. “It’s actually doubled in size. I actually get light-headed when its full like this. That’s how much blood it takes up.”

“How are you…” god, her mouth was heavy with drool. Emmaline struggled to take non-horny breaths. It was just the two of them, good friends, in a room. They didn’t have to immediately fuck each other. True, she fiercely needed every inch of that prong in her, her legs urging him on. “How are you managing? Like, are you taping it down?”

“It’s… hard…” David said. He was outright jacking it in front of her, now. He snorted, tossed his head. Emmaline’s legs got weaker. What a stallion. “The journalist guy says that cumming makes it worse… but I gotta… I just gotta, you know?”

“Oh, of course! Of course!” Emmaline said, head bobbing. She just decided to throw it out there. She was mostly titties, after all. What else was she for? “Can I help?”

His eyes reviewed her curves, her still-growing tits, the way her legs were already cocked and ready. They kept inching apart. It couldn’t be bad, could it? Emmaline was having a hard time thinking of downsides. True, she sort of remembered something about dark chemicals, making her big, fat, fuckable. In retrospect she’d put on like, twenty pounds in the past month. On the other hand, co-ed friends falling into lust, and joyously fucking each other, was very human and very American.

“No,” David said, gritting teeth. He swung his dick back away. “No, it’s—look, I’m already feeling it SO much. I don’t even read books, right? I just want to... I just want to FUCK.” He punctuated this with a fierce tug on his cock, which emphasized it with a sudden spray of precum. It smelled like bleach and man and Emmaline was willing to lick the floor to get at it.

“Right!” Emmaline agreed. She slipped off the bed, nodding with total sincerity. She put her hand around the beast. “No sex. It’s bad for our brains. “ She tugged on it, delighting in it. David nodded. This really was them doing their best. It was all hormones in there. “Just some handies and I’ll suck it just a lil bit.” She slid her mouth on it before he could change his mind.

“Right,” David said, relieved. “God, Emmaline. I’m sorry we—ahhh—we should’ve—ahhh—damn—we should’ve brought you in earlier. We’re getting so close to uncovering the whole damn conspiracy. Jesus, where’d you learn to suck dick?”

It just came naturally to her, especially when it came to her best friend? Emmaline smiled around a large mushroom head. David sat back in his chair while she concentrated on getting him into her mouth.

“Once Lucy gets back we’ll talk about our next move. We’re supposed to help this guy break in to a...god damn. Look, Emmaline?” He made eye contact with her. “Can I come in your mouth? Its gonna be hell on your brain cells but… I kinda gotta, you know?”

How could she say no? And besides, it was already spurting out.