The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Aubree was concentrating like an absolute laser on not getting more sluttifying junk inside of her.

It was terrible, as a dedicated non-slut, to watch the girls eat. Not just that everything they consumed was completely loaded with pink sugar, doctored eggs, and every sort of chemical designed to make them sleek and stupid. It was the way they ate: continuously, without any dignity or grace besides a sort of shoveling motion. The big pregnant latina lady in particular just kept eating more and more deviled eggs, a shocking number of deviled eggs. Their tits acted as a sort of napkin. Even the Mom, who was wearing pearls and a relatively sedate skirt, clearly had no clue she had rough, jism-soaked hair. Or perhaps she just didn’t care at all.

Since arriving, secretly, undercover, Aubree had suffered her fair share of close calls. Undignified moments. Craven, even. It wasn’t like she could deny a persistent wet urge between her legs: that was just part of daily life. Or how very good that police officer up there looked. But with dignity as the lodestar it could be overcome. That was the key learning: you could overcome all this, all the programming and the drugs and the hot, terrible urges. You could be more than mere breedmeat. And she had to hold out. For whats-his-name. John. She had a dozen ribbons in her hair for John.

The cop gave her another smile. Aubree shifted in her seat and readjusted her semi-crossed legs. She was the only one who bothered to keep her legs even partially closed.

It WAS kind of hot that she was one of the people the cop was looking for. Not that she was going to fuck him silly, bouncing up and down on his lawman dick, but doing so as a fugitive was extra sexy. Not very dignified, but sexy. That was part of the process of staying clean, of course.

Aubree hated to think what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been forewarned and forearmed.

“This is Bailey and Carrie,” her Editor told them. John and Aubree, approximately equal hotshots in their fields. John was a few years younger than her, and had gone undercover three times, each time emerging from some pit of labor law violations to secure prestigious journalism awards. He had a classic american square jaw and close-cropped brown hair. He was very tall.

Bailey and Carrie looked hot and tired. They sat next to each other on the couch, filling most of it. They were both blonde, and Carrie in particular had the most exaggerated set dick-sucking lips Aubree could recall. Her eyes fixed on them.

Aubree’s journalistic background was in online extremism, not in plastic surgery. Both she and John had heard similar rumors, had read similar accounts on various websites. The emerging picture hardly seemed believable. But there they were, the most luxuriant and ruby-red pair of dick sucking lips Aubree had ever seen. Her editor had already shared a picture of the before Bailey and before Carrie. Carrie in particular was twig-thin, and barely had any lips, much less enormous cocksuckers. This version of Carrie drooled, simply because it was easier then closing her mouth all the way.

“They escaped awhile ago and have been… detoxing,” her Editor said. He stood, even though there was a chair right there. Keeping a distance from the couple.

“Detoxing,” Bailey laughed. “Sure.”

“Can I pwease show them, sir?” Carrie said. She hadn’t looked at anyone besides Bailey, and her voice was a perfect soprano lilt. It was lush. John and Aubree looked at each other. The woman wore four-inch platform heels and had very large breasts.

“Sure, baby,” Bailey said. He rubbed in-between her thighs. The girl had been dressed in standard black tights. They looked unnatural on her, like she’d been ordered into them. She took out Bailey’s dick in a few short movements, and then, immediately, started to jack it up and down.

“There it is,” Bailey told them. “Just look at that bad boy. Twice as big, twice as thick. I can—hurghh—I can cum ten times a day, no problem. That’s what they did to me. And Carrie is a fuckin SLUT now.” He rubbed her back, protectively. Cum rolled out of the tip.

The three journalists watched silently. What hit Aubree, alongside the sight of a foot of unnatural horse dick on a human being, was the scent. Earthy and inviting, wholly different from the normal sour scent of ancillary sex fluids. A good smell, a welcoming smell. It matched what she’d seen in forum posts of increasingly-degrading language: “gawd, his dick is so yum.”

“Okay, that’s plenty,” her editor said. “We get it.”

“Fuck off,” Bailey said, glaring at him, suddenly aggressive. Veins pulsed out of nowhere on his neck. “Keep going, baby,” Carrie hadn’t stopped at all. “Actually, get those fuckin clothes off.” Carrie squealed, delighted. Her man pulled on her tights, immediately ripping into the waistband, but revealing her bright pink pussy to the crowd.

“Alright, we can leave,” her editor said, as the twosome positioned each other on the magazine’s couch. “They’re not always that bad. Sexual contact makes it worse. Apparently a lot of it is about willpower.”

Willpower. Aubree didn’t worry about that part of it. Willpower was a strong suit.

Getting in was very easy. Getting out was going to be the concern. There were large billboards on the side of the road, right up against the pavement, crowding in in their eagerness. They had brawny men first and foremost, with large smiles. Large breasted women lingered in the background, just out of focus. But clearly: women with big tits. The signs all read “WELCOME!” Not even the name of the town. “Welcome!” Aubree said, practicing her ironic and sarcastic tone. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

“I guess I need to start working out,” John said. He was driving. Aubree had instructed herself to not drive in the near future, now that they were going deep into the heart of patriarchy. She was to be a demure passenger, a doting wifey, placid in the side seat. This would be her first time undercover in pursuit of journalism. “Or maybe I shouldn’t. That’s gonna be the entire thing, right? How do you figure out if you’ve been compromised?”

“I’m a size 36B,” Aubree told him. “Easy. We keep nightly measurements, keep a log. Like penciling in height on the wall. Do you think they’ll be weird here about my being non-white?”

In fact the main street, still under construction, was admirably diverse for the midwestern heartland. The third person they saw could’ve been Aubree’s sister. Long black hair, bright cheeks, soft eyes. Also whopping tits and an enormous pregnant belly.

“Very woke of them,” Aubree said, staring at her. The girl was smiling, just walking around. Big smile. Big-boobed girls were everywhere. It was a beautiful, sunny day and everyone seemed energized, walking fast in big, sexy bodies. There were just enough regular people about, with normal butts, to make it pass initial inspection.

“How is—whatever this is—getting away with it?” John said. They’d rolled up the windows and put the air on recirculate, which was silly. If it was in the air they were just screwed, and Aubree would just have to get used to pushing a baby carriage. But—how could anyone get away with this? There were laws about turning regular people into sex toys, she assumed. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? Not even, how are they doing this.”

He waved a hand in the air. Clinically, Aubree had assessed that her writing partner, her future-Pulitzer-sharer, was attractive. All-american male with just enough lean energy, with enough soul in his eyes, to create interest. Plus he was SO tall. Being a hot guy was probably a major asset. She was going to be sharing a living space with this man, and one bathroom.

“Lets get into the apartment,” Aubree said.

Eventually they stopped boiling the water. It tasted fine, it looked fine. When boiled and then recondensed it tasted the same. And it wasn’t like Aubree had stopped taking showers. The complex device John had brought with him detected: water. So: they drank from the tap. Actually the water was really good. Clean, fresh.

Food was a different matter. It was laughably processed and obviously laced. “Look, its already clumpy,” Aubree said, pouring out a glass of milk. It had a blue tint under the light, and coalesced into beads of sugar-milk almost immediately. And it smelled like a candy cow. “Good lord!” After half a day it was pure sludge. They poured it into the disposal and watched it slowly drain.

“Do you think a cow was even involved?” Aubree said.

“Oh, god,” John said. He washed his hands, and drank a glass of water, like the taste had gotten into his mouth. “No. No, I don’t.”

The other food was even worse. Even the broccoli had a sheen of oil that didn’t quite come off. The apples were large and perfect and shiny and covered with a sugar glaze. The processed junk food was just pure obvious crap. Corn tortilla chips the size of her hand, triple-thick, fried in lard and studded with black seed dots. The ice cream only came in three-gallon versions. There was one marked “Rinds!” that coated their table with what might’ve been grease. John had to scrub and scrub it off. And tubes of goo—just pure goo, white creamy goo. Nutritional, chemical goo.

“The girl in front of me had half her cart full of these,” Aubree reported. She also was wearing a thong that kept riding up for the rest of the line to see. “It’s a dollar for like, five gallons of these. A dollar.”

“That’s not even what pancake batter would cost,” John said. He cautiously snipped one open. “Sugar and milk,” he reported. That wasn’t what Aubree sniffed. She hesitated before saying anything. But they’d told each other: total honesty. No holding back. This was behind enemy lines.

“You don’t smell jizz?” she said, eventually.

John jerked his head back. “No! Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Aubree nodded her head. “But not… bad. You know? It’s like someone put a fresh new spin on male semen. It’s not bad. Do you think its bad I’m smelling it?”

“Maybe.” John brought it over to the sink and dumped it in. They had gotten rid of a lot of material down the drain. Aubree hadn’t said anything, but the drain was smelling attractive. His square shoulders slumped back for just a moment.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” he said. There was a difficult pause. “One.”

“Zero,” Aubree said. They’d come up with many rules. Among them: they’d report on daily self-stimulation. It was an interesting window into men vs. women. Men apparently jacked off just about every day. In fact she’d been informed it was necessary to male health. It was strange to hear, every single day, about this man stroking himself in the shower.

She glanced at the sink. Was that a chemical thought? Maybe there was nothing wrong with a one.

“I’m horny and I’m scared,” Aubree told him. She could only imagine what she looked like, to John. She’d put on an outfit for her first day working at the High School, one of a bunch of things they’d bought on main street with an eye towards concealment. It was a cotton dress that was mostly white with polka dots. Outside of the high, high hem it wasn’t overly sexy, but she’d still considered it a costume, a sexy joke meant for blending in. Now, drugged and squirming, it just felt like she was giving John a good look up her tan, thick legs. They were her best feature and no doubt he knew that. They lived together. They told each other how often they masturbated.

“Go—go get in the shower and—” John hesitated. This was it, their first exposure. There was a protocol for it. She was definitely supposed to get in the shower for a long time. And then get into bed.

Her first day of employment hadn’t gone well.

She’d thought about doing retail, but it seemed cloistered, and she would be too visible to eager, bimboizing employers. They’d be wondering why her tits weren’t getting mammoth. So instead she took an admin job at the High School. All she had to do was sit at a main desk and record attendance figures. It was a very easy job to get—just a phone interview. The man on the other end had seemed barely interested in anything besides her start date. But then, how many women in town could read?

“They probably go through a girl every two weeks,” John said. “Its probably a revolving door. You’ll have to be very, very careful. Even your computer screen…”

But Aubree had shrugged. After two weeks in town she was getting really bored. Her phone didn’t work properly. In fact it was worse than just non-functionality. If she spent an hour trying and retrying the wifi, she could just about load a jumble of headlines on a low-fidelity twitter feed. It gave her a headache, which was a little worrying, but all the bimbofying agents in town didn’t seem big on headaches. They just made people feel good and encouraged more feeling good. TV was right out. Although the apartment had come with a huge, suspicious television, they were at least wise enough not to stare at it. Just once, John had turned it on, both of them with their eyes closed. There was an unnerving, pleasant hum at the low end of the sound gain.

The office environment had seemed manageable. It was a big open-format room near the entrance to the high school. There were four other women at desks. Yes, they all had the big smiles and succulent boobs of residents, but they also were able to explain timekeeping software. It all seemed reasonably normal.

Until the staff started arriving, and the kids started coming in. The teachers, the female teachers, were distressingly sexy. Sex kittens, even. The very first one wore a vinyl miniskirt and had her hair in ringlets. All their voices were simper-soft, and they had buttons undone on their blouses. It was all very horny.

Aubree made notes: maybe they focused on teachers first? Get the students all randy and distracted? She took a sip of coffee. The sequencing and extent of the sex kitten transformation was a big open question. Obviously there was the boobs and the overall curviness. Was it coincidence so many were blonde, or were the girls actually peroxided? Did they really all have such plush lips?

She made a few notes in her notebook and glanced at the computer. It was a cheap PC with nothing on it besides administrative software. It didn’t seem like a safety concern for her own personal horny level.

The students started coming by.

They were just—a little too perfect. Not all the way gone, they were still clearly whiny teens at some level, and were asking about normal things like doctor’s appointments and getting in trouble. But a lot of them wore lipstick, a lot of them wore mascara. They had straight perfect hair and not a single one, so far as Aubree could see, had acne. That was the part that bothered her: didn’t anyone realize that high school seniors had zits? These had clean faces and lots of makeup on. She couldn’t see below the desk—were they in thigh-highs and short skirts? Even their faces were a bit too airbrushed.

She was a journalist. She needed to pry. “Feeling okay?” she told a girl, leaving for a doctor’s appointment. She wore really cute pink bubblegum lipstick. If Aubree had worn lipstick like that in school her parents would’ve peeled her lips off.

“Oh! Oh yeah,” the girl blushed. “It’s with Doctor Street, you know?”

Aubree tried to convey that she didn’t know through facial expressions.

“Oh, he’s soooo good with, you know,” the girl blushed. She wore a white turtleneck sweater. It didn’t conceal how big her chest was getting. Aubree could just see the tops of their tits. They weren’t little. “Sensitivity!”

“Sensitivity,” Aubree repeated.

“It’s sooooo annoying!” the girl said. She licked her perfect lips and gently, very gently, tweaked her nipple through her shirt.. “I mean… sort of. Bye!”

Another contemplative, worried, sip of coffee. Sensitivity.

Matters degraded to sexier as the day went on. That was something John had already figured out: a good night’s sleep seemed to help. Or maybe they just weren’t ingesting chemicals and watching mind-suck TV while literally asleep, and woke up partially cleansed. Even the older ladies seemed to shed jackets and sweaters, revealing proudly large orbs. They sucked on pen tips more than was strictly necessary. Even their voices seemed to crack, shedding any matronlyness for a feminine squeak.

And then the Principal walked in.

Aubree assumed he was the Principal, anyway. Actually, she never doubted it for a second. The air flooded with hormones. He wore a tailored medium-gray suit and had craggy vertical lines. His eyebrows were dark black. He had swished-back hair. It was all very Spanish Tennis Player, but after a sea of frat boy bulls it was enormously sexy. There was a general wet sigh. Aubree swiveled back to catch the moment. Legs peeked open. Every girl in the office had found a reason to showcare her tits.

“Ladies,” the Principal said. He had the nicotine-flecked voice she’d expected. Aubree felt a twinge of concern at her own reaction: when did the reality of a really hot guy turn into a chemically-induced lust? Was there something in the air? She felt very warm. “Can… ah…. Madeleine, can you assist me? Dictation?”

Here it came. That had to mean Madeleine was going to blow him. Madeleine was a mousy Mom-type, with auburn hair, her hips peeking over both sides of the desk chair. Her lipstick was perfect and matched her hair. Aubree felt a spark of regret: Principal hadn’t even glanced at her. Flat squarish asian girl wasn’t fuckable. Madeleine scuttled off, swinging her backside around more than was truly necessary. Lucky bitch.

Aubree waited just a minute before following. It wasn’t strictly necessary. Actually they were supposed to concentrate on the opening stages of sluthood, not the part where women were just mute cocksuckers. But she had to see, had to know what sex following transformation really looked like. Athletic porno fucking? Grunting, stinking animal rut?

The Principal’s office door was open, wide open. No doubt he was reclined thoughtfully behind his desk, thinking through life, while Madeleine diligently worked between his legs. Probably still struggling to fit that much cock in her mouth. But getting better. Better every day. An inch more down her—Madeleine walked out the door. Fully clothed, lipstick unmarred. No sperm trickling down her throat. She caught Aubree’s eye. “Forgot my writing pad!” she said, shrugging, smiling.

“He really wants you to—” Aubree blinked.

Or maybe she was acting as an office secretary.

Embarrassed, Aubree retreated to the bathroom to pee and regroup. She was breathing too hard, sweating too much. Contamination was apparently linked to heat. She had to… cool the fuck down.

Every stall was occupied by masturbating women. All three of them.

Women she knew, or at least, was pretty sure from their shoes. The brown pumps on two very widespread legs belonged to Marla, who had curly beehive hair. The whimpering, moaning voice in stall two was from Kay, who had asked her a bunch of inappropriate questions about where she was from. Stall three seemed like it might be multiple people. There were a number of shoes on the floor. Aubree backed up against the sinks. Here it was, that first real moment of what the fuck. She had to document all this: the scent of wet sex in the air, the guttural noises, the fact that no one had bothered to lock a stall. Plus she still had to pee very badly.

Stall one started to flex her toes. Aubree stood there, frozen, while stall one embarked on a lengthy, satisfying orgasm. It went on for ages and ended in a giggle. The other stalls joined in eventually.

When stall one opened up an entire pink cloud seemed to float with it. It definitely smelled like talcum powder and sugar stix. Marla looked totally unabashed, and had put her outfit back together beautifully. Despite all the moaning and vibrating there was no sign of a sex toy. Aubree could only imagine it was right up inside of her, still buzzing. Still fluttering away. Had all of them worked all day with plugs and vibrators inserted? Gradually juicing up the girls?

“Sorry I took so long!” Marla freshened up her lipstick. “I saw you putting away all that coffee! You must be floating!”

Coffee?

She hadn’t—Aubree was certain she had brought one water bottle and one of their frozen, ‘safe’ wraps. Not—but her mouth was greasy, acidic. She spit a quick and horrifying brown blob into the sink. She had to pee so badly. She staggered into the stall and tried not to breathe in: how much coffee had she drank? How?

Back at her desk she found six empty cups.

Mostly empty. The last one was still half-full. The dark-brown stuff inside had a rich, oily sheen, and caught the overhead lights with a rainbow gloss. Aubree stared at it. A sudden giggle worked its way through her, intending to be self-mocking, coming out in a pleased, feminine whisper. She’d put a gallon of bimbo drugs into her and didn’t even remember doing it.

She felt good. Pretty, pretty good.

“I have to—” Aubree glanced at the bathroom to her supervisor. The woman gave her a forgiving wink. No doubt a lot of new girls ended their workday with an enormous urge to masturbate. Aubree gathered her things. She was acutely aware of being a girl. Underneath her cute dress she had two boobs, each with a nipple, and she knew that if someone blew on it it would feel fantastic. Between her legs her pussy was intended for penetration, could service any number of hard cocks. Her clit was a tiny nub of pleasure that she could rub any time she wanted.

Two women walked out of the principal’s office as she passed, clinging to each other and laughing. “Thaaaanks Principal Machado!” one called back. They both had bulging tummies, definitely pregnant. Aubree froze—they couldn’t be—but both were definitely high school students. Hopefully at least they were seniors. From this vantage she could actually see the full outfits on the students there for administrative reasons. Yes, there was the teeny skirts and high heels she had expected. And fully half had a rounded belly, their hands knit protectively under their own navels.

An asian girl in a short pleated skirt, mostly black, waited outside the principal’s office. She had her lips in a thin line. She was the perfect person to talk to, Aubree could tell. To at least warn: this man is going to knock you up and make you stupid.

She ran out the door instead.

When she got home John put her in the shower.

It wasn’t the horniness that was all that bothersome. True, she was horny. A nervous, teenager-y wet ache that was not subtle at all. An urge for stimulation of some kind, mixed with a dizzy caffeine-high. That was what she had expected, a humdrum lust. Manageable.

Far more disturbing was how much she wanted to fuck John.

She noticed him in a deep and very personal way. Not just a sudden appreciation for him as a man, although that was a lot of it. He was well over six feet fuckable and squared off with a level. At the end of a day his stubble outlined his chin. Aubree knew he did pullups—he had brought one of those home bars that fit over a doorframe. Now she wanted to watch his shoulderblades as he did them. Worst of all, she felt a strong, powerful urge to kneel in front of him and see what happened.

She let the shower go for a long time.

John had thoughtfully put out her unsexiest clothes and given her personal space. She told herself that talking to him was necessary—she had suffered exposure, they needed to figure things out, document effects. Perhaps he should measure her tits, see how big and jiggly they were. Just generally put his hands all over her.

“How’re you doing?” he said, perfectly.

“Horny,” Aubree said, shrugging it off as best she could. “You know. Just kind of a—libido thing. You know that feeling when you drink a big batch of horny drugs? Like that.”

“Any… better? After the shower?” John said. He avoided looking at her body, and it felt like being slapped. “Since first exposure?”

“No. Do you think I should… go take a.. A One? Or do you think that’ll make things worse?” Aubree honestly wasn’t sure. Her solution was to do whatever John told her. He scrunched his face down to think and crossed his brawny forearms. Aubree felt alarmingly wet. She’d never been this horny-in-love, and it was an intensely pleasurable rush. All those romance novel words, like enraptured, entranced… she’d never thought she’d feel that way about anyone.

“I think… no,” John said. Her body shook with a spasm of brief, pricker-like sensations. It was, Aubree realized, the part of her that really wanted to touch herself, battling the part that really wanted to do what John said. Her man—no, she had to stop this—walked around the apartment, obviously disconcerted. “No, we can’t. We definitely can’t.” He gave her another look.

Aubree felt a sudden burst of hot shame. The look was unguarded, and clearly communicated: you stupid piece of pussy. One day in the undercover workforce and she’d started slurping down titty coffee. That was how long she’d lasted. Now she couldn’t be trusted: too weak, too silly, too much of a ditzy girl to be entrusted with manly tasks like breaking up a nationwide conspiracy. She was just a dumb piece of ass, inevitably needing the care and attention of a man.

Aubree realized, to her horror, that she really wanted John to spank her for being bad.

“So now what?” she said, eventually. He reached a decision about what to do about her, and Aubree waited for it, on the couch, trying not to ask him to paddle her ass cherry-red.

“You’ll be the control group,” John decided. “You stay here, hold down the fort, make sure I don’t come back fucked up. Run the base, keep in touch with the outside. Does that make sense?” Unsaid: can you manage that, you horny little whore?

“Absolutely,” Aubree said. Sir, she didn’t say.

All in all the coffee incident cost Aubree all of her bras, her independence, and her writing partner’s respect. The bras in the several days after the incident: while she woke up with a clearer head, and less need for male ass-paddling, the solution had worked its way into her boobs. As much as she tried to stay clear of calories her chest started an inevitable swelling. Marking her as another pneumatic resident. They weren’t unduly heavy, and, in fact, she only put on five pounds. And of course Aubree looked great in the mirror—another side effect was truly great skin.

On day two she passed an invisible line between having breasts and having big titties.

“Two cup sizes,” she reported. All her t-shirts were tight, and not a single bra fit. It was too risky to get a new one—John was sure the fabrics were chemically imprinted. “And: one.”

She’d joined the masturbation game. All the coffee [and had there been anything else? What did she NOT remember?] had left her with a much more nagging libido. Putting her fingers between her legs relieved a lot of pressure. Talking it over with John, her nipples erect, she learned she’d acquired male sex drive. Horniness that didn’t ebb and flow but ratcheted up, in one direction, until it reached a pounding need. Her body was edging her.

But it was manageable. Low-level. Aubree still felt like herself, still enjoyed reading books, still could write, still do math and sums, even with big boobs now bobbling beneath her chin. The problem was that she was sidelined. John left each morning for important work at the big chemical company that was pretty obviously at the center of all this. It was in the very middle of town, which was not where enormous chemical factories normally went. Usually they were in industrial parks at the outskirts. This one occupied blocks and employed most of the town. Her hu—John departed in the morning and got back at five.

During the day, Aubree learned to be a pretty housewife.

John had wanted to up the disinfecting game anyway, and his clothes had to be cleaned and detoxed each night. Food had to be overly prepared. That was her life now, scrubbing on the floor to get out the smudges from John’s shoes. Just in case he’d walked in bimbo chemicals of some kind. For the first time in her life Aubree got up, made breakfast for her man, saw him off, and then put on a pair of rubber gloves to confront the day.

She tried not to be too hard on herself. Not because she didn’t deserve it. But the humiliation and embarrassment of being relegated to housefrau had obviously gotten hooked in with her sex drive in an even-more-humiliating way. Rubbing away at smudges, her boobs dangling bra-less, ruminating on failures, she could get so fucking hot. Just achingly wet and ready. The positions she was in weren’t helping. Down on the floor, inches from the wood. Ass up in the air as she scrubbed. Back arched over the dishes. Letting her body linger up against the hum of the washing machine. She had to wonder if 50s housewives had these problems, constantly putting butt up in the air. Her rear hadn’t added the same heft as her boobs, but it was just enough bigger to chafe against her panties.

It was tedious stuff, living in enemy territory and line-drying men’s clothes. She chanced turning on the TV just one time, with her back turned to it. Just to know what was on. It sounded nice and normal, mostly, with a lot of exercise shows she kind of wanted to watch. And yes, around channel five hundred or so there started up a solid hundred channels or so of what was obviously hardcore sex. There was a playful tune on one of the channels with a breathy female vocalist.

She turned the TV off and took a deep breath. Although John was going to get the Pulitzer out of this she could at least write a long personal essay for Harpers or the New Yorker. Struggling with her own sex, getting horned up to the brief sounds of other people getting fucked.

She’d already gotten her one in for the day. A satisfying cum in the bedroom, not long after John had left. She’d told herself that it didn’t matter that her daily session was getting earlier and earlier, so long as it was just one session. Which was also getting longer and longer. But some of those John grunts during his own morning constitutional… the audio of them…

Someone knocked on the door.

Aubree’s eyes flew open. She’d been bending over, again, despite having already cleaned and re-cleaned every single thing in the apartment. Was there another vector getting to her? She was definitely inhaling a lot of household chemicals, but they were familiar brands in familiar bottles. Even an all-encompassing conspiracy didn’t seem like they could mess with bleach. She looked down: in tights and a long shirt she was just another basic bitch. It was a good disguise.

Another completely standard girl was at the door.

“Hi!” she said. Right away Aubree could tell she was new in town. Her vocal register was far too low. And she wore a button-down shirt. Whatever was in all the drugs, it hated button-down shirts. “I’m Catelyn, I’m moving in next door! I heard the.. Uh… I heard you moving around and thought, I should say hi!”

“Hi!” Aubree chirped. An idea formed. “Come on in!”

Catelyn’s long-term boyfriend had just accepted a position that paid triple his last gig. Even from looking out the window Aubree could see that there was a type flooding in—young couples with nothing to lose. Just pre or post-marriage, uncertain careers. “I was in year five of coffee shop assistant manager life and it was like, is this me? Is this what I have to live for? Bad latte art?” Catelyn had a slight New York accent.

The mention of coffee made Aubree squirm. Just the stray scent off the street still made her thighs quiver. “Basically the same thing here,” she volunteered.

The idea crystallized while listening to Catelyn chatter on—she was obviously a natural talker.

Let John infiltrate massive industrial facilities. She would go in-depth, watch in-person, smell in-person, someone else falling into sluthood. A firsthand chronicle of swelling tits and fevered breeding. With pictures. Catelyn had a layered brunette look with a naturally boyish body—one of those girls where it was easy to picture her brother. When she was fully thickened, mouth opened—she’d be perfect. And at that point she wouldn’t mind photos.

Whatever ethical concerns Aubree felt was assuaged by a look around Catelyn’s apartment. The girl had already made every single wrong choice imaginable. Already the kitchen table was strewn with fatty snacks and melting ice cream, the TV was on and blaring that same catchy synthpop as before. Aubree felt her pussy pulse to the beat, Catelyn had even already gone clothes shopping. “Everything here is so cute and cheap!” she enthused. A trace of concern, well-masked: “I was expecting a lot more farmers in flannels! Everyone here is CUTE!”

Aubree watched her new friend innocently drink an entire jug of cola. It had a picture of a cartoon cow on it. Already Catelyn looked a little flushed. “How’s your boyfriend liking town?” Aubree said.

“Ryan isn’t a huge fan,” Catelyn conceded. She licked her lips of soda. “I wonder if he’ll be back soon.” She did her own fidget in her chair. “Actually let me text him real quick and see when he’s getting back.” Catelyn stopped talking entirely. Aubree could imagine it, already making plans for that first booty call. Breaking in the new apartment, a fun night of being a couple. Passionate sex. And she’d already used up her one cum of the day.

“I have to get going. Lets stay in touch, right?” Aubree said, getting up. The pop beat was obviously a danger. Her thighs were already bouncing to the rhythm. But she snapped a surreptitious picture of Catelyn, staring at her phone, waiting for her boyfriend to confirm his ETA to come home and fuck her.

“Another boring day,” John confirmed, later. Aubree had felt real guilt about condemning Catelyn to sexual servitude, and had channeled it into making dinner. They had enough dry goods for another month. She’d made puttanesca. “I can’t even tell what is being manufactured, except that it is in enormous tanks.”

“What do they even have you doing all day?” Aubree said, twirling her pasta. She had a few suspicions about John. Starting with: what DID he do all day? She knew every inch of his wardrobe—in fact she’d sniffed it while he wasn’t home. Was he arriving back with extra buttons undone? Was that hard-to-define scent about him workaday stuff or—something else?

John shrugged. “What is that you’re humming?” he said. Aubree flushed, and coughed to hide it. That damn pop beat had wormed its way right inside her soul. She wasn’t too worried—how could a beat reprogram a person? It had to be in conjunction with some spinning spiral on the screen, or whatever. Nonetheless, she kept bopping her hips to it. Her thigh muscles creaked. They weren’t used to her shaking her butt. She’d attempted a twerk after getting inside. Just to see how it felt.

“Am I?” they exchanged vague looks. Aubree was too distracted to pick up on John’s evasiveness, the way he had started changing his clothes immediately after getting home. She’d been making plans all afternoon for Project Catelyn. The key was forming a picture of the woman before she was reduced to a mush of ass and titties. Her interests and personality. While they still existed.

“I do think things are picking up,” John said. “They’re moving towards something. And the workforce isn’t hiding their changes in the bathroom anymore. I saw a secretary walking around with sperm on her face.”

“Why didn’t she lick—wipe it off?” Aubree said. How would she get into Catelyn’s apartment? Overthinking it: she’d be eager to hang out. She’d be bored without a man around to service.

“Search me. I think the key to all of this,” John said, poking abstractly with his fork. “Is selective blindness. Like you and the coffee. Why didn’t you realize you were drinking it? Its like everyone’s consciousness is divided, they can’t see the jism literally in front of them. Dripping off her face.”

It was a hot image.

They both went into their bedrooms early. Aubree concluded that if she made it until 10 p.m., practically the next day, it didn’t count as 2 orgasms per 24 hours.

Catelyn had a lot of interests, dreams, hopes, thoughts. They spilled out of her, nearly ceaseless, and Aubree pictured them soaking into the floor and straight-up disappearing. Making room for the big pink slut that was waiting just offshore. All those hobbies displaced for cock-sucking.

“I don’t want to be forward but this place needs book clubs,” Catelyn said, eating and eating. At no point had her new friend considered: why am I eating? All the time? Total garbage? “Do you know there isn’t even a library here? Like I know its kind of a company town but zero bookstores, zero libraries, I bet if we went through town and hunted books, like, with a spear, we’d only bag two dictionaries.”

“And a bunch of bibles,” Aubree volunteered. Catelyn’s hand lingered inside of a bag of chips. A tell-tale sign that she had emptied another package. Wordlessly, Aubree opened a new one and passed it over. The scent washed over her: lime and corn and way too much sugar for a bag of corn chips. The dip Catelyn had gotten at the store was even more concerning: it came in three colored layers, and one of them was pink. It smelled earthy, like actual earth.

“Oh my GOD, yes,” Catelyn said, and giggled. It was clearly uncharacteristic of her, and she stopped for a second, before dismissing it.

It was a privilege, and made Aubree kind of tingly, to watch the erasure process in action. On a physical level her new friend was flushed and hyper, her cheeks red, her eyes wet and wide. She paced throughout the apartment, like she was looking for something, eyes examining the walls. The TV was on, still tuned to a music station, and apparently blaring the exact same song as yesterday. The lyrics were a mystery, low and beneath an alarming amount of synth, although Aubree could swear she heard the word ‘pussy’ every several seconds.

She excused herself to snoop in the bathroom. No dildos lying around, no burnt matches to cover a lengthy masturbation session. But then... jackpot: a discarded condom at the bottom of the trash. No, two discarded condoms. Both fill to the brim with boyfriend spooge. What was his name? Ryan. Ryan had a lot of cum in him. “Poke your pretty pussy,” Aubree hummed to the music, examining the spoor of fresh fucks. “Fuck your sexy baby..”

She stopped. This was too far. When she came out it was to Catelyn peering at her phone, anxiously trying to wrangle reception out of the box. “It says I’m getting three bars,” she complained to Aubree, who realized she had some Ryan cum on her fingers. “But I’m actually getting zero reception. I just want to... check… fucking twitter! I’m supposed to be writing a novel!”

“Want to go out?” Aubree said. She had an idea. “You’re a runner, right?”

A perfect idea, for Catelyn, who loved the idea of “burning off all this JUNK!” Disdainful look at the wrappers and plastic husks she had scarfed her way through. The empty gallon of ice cream alone was probably going to double her tit size. They met outside in the cool air, Catelyn in dedicated running gear and neon-yellow tights, Aubree in some shorts and sneakers.

Too late Aubree remembered: she didn’t run anywhere, she was the short Chinese girl who had just recently grown big boobs. They started to bounce back and forth, quite painfully, as soon as she began to jog next to Catelyn. Aubree owned an athletic bra which was now way too small, and the rest of her was jiggly as well.

The idea had been to use physical fitness as the perfect measure for Catelyn’s descent into wobbling, rutting sluthood. First a toned hardbody pounding pavement, then losing pace as her ass expanded, and, finally, huffing in a walk as she exploded in curves. A good plan, except it meant Aubree had to run alongside her. She wasn’t even supposed to be outside like this—John suspected there was a fine pheromone mist in the air. Just a little something to get juices flowing.

“You go ahead,” Aubree gasped, fifty meters in. Her boobs burned. She wheezed and sat on a handy bench. The paint looked too fresh, which probably meant consequences, but she momentarily didn’t care. She could deal with a bigger butt if need be. She really needed to weigh herself—she’d been lying to John about that for a week. Aubree suspected she was a bunch of pounds up. She’d had just a very few of Catelyn’s snacks, just to show willing.

It was nice out. One of the things about town, Aubree had noticed, is that once the men and women were fully fucked up and wholly transformed they spent a lot of time going for walkies. When not having sex, she assumed. Enormous and happy girls with full-sized butts walked past with jacked and tall boyfriends, hands all over each other, murmuring and happy. Their ass cheeks rippled as they went, and they all wore snuggly shorts that showed full half-moons. They looked lathered and at peace, somehow leaning into each other as they walked. Secure and happy, no doubt taking a brief fuck break, not a single unhappy thought, or any thought, in their heads. It was all so wonderful Aubree burst into sudden, girlish tears.

“Oh no, everything okay?” Catelyn said, returning.

‘Oh! I just.. I used to be... faster,” Aubree said. She stood up. The paint where she’d sat was noticeably less shiny. She’d have to rush to the shower. She shook herself so that the fear of living in fucktown returned. And it did, a little.

“I get that soooo hard,” Catelyn said. She was gasping just as hard as Aubree. “I must be… I don’t know. It’s weird. I ran like, four blocks, and I’m so tired! I’m gonna go jump in the shower. You want to come?”

The girls shared a look and a giggle. “Come back to my place,” Catelyn corrected herself, smiling. Aubree smiled too.

John was jacking off in the bathroom when she got back.

It was obvious he was in there masturbating. Everything about her big male roommate was controlled, precise, intellectual. So when he was taking gasping, ragged breaths something was up. Aubree walked as quietly as she could up to the door. If she was completely silent she could hear the sound of his hand working up and down his own shaft. Could she figure how big he was just from that? Some sort of math? Her mouth hung wide open. A sudden grunt and the sound of wet concrete hitting a floor startled her: was that really him cumming? He growled, and Aubree fled backwards. The sound was a perfect countertempo to the pop pinkness still bouncing around her head.

“I got exposed today,” he told her, while Aubree was pretending to read, pretend she hadn’t heard him shoot a huge wad of jizz.

She looked him up and down, very pleased for the opportunity to do so. He was already a big brick wall of male. “Your tits aren’t any bigger,” she told him. “So that’s good.”

“Hilarious,” John said. He sat down, still breathing heavily. Aubree’s nostrils flared. Something was different. He smelled different. More… defined. Like something she could almost name and bottle, and would want to. “The real issue is I don’t know what caused it. I can’t pin it on coffee or anything.”

“So how do you know?” Aubree said.

John looked at her. “Penis growth.”

“Ah.”

“An extra two and a half inches when fully erect and engorged.”

“And engorged” stuck in Aubree’s head. Engorged. Yeah. Fully erect. And engorged. John didn’t look like a man previously rocking a small cock. Two and a half extra would be quite a penis. “Congrats?” she barely managed to lodge an ironic question mark at the end.

“I think it’s different for men. Less… intellectually intrusive?” John sat back, contemplative. “It’s just more of the same. Maybe because the breeding and submissive urge isn’t there? I’m not sure. I’m just more… aroused. Granted, its a high degree of physical arousal.”

He didn’t seem to care what she thought, so Aubree just made a calming noise at the back of her throat. “You seem about the same,” she reassured him. That felt good, making him feel better. “I hope your underpants still fit alright. Mine don’t.”

“I might have to stop wearing skinny jeans,” John said. He stood up. His crotch hovered around her mouth, just for a moment. He lingered a little longer. “Three,” John told her, almost off-hand, before walking off.

If John was up to three cums a day Aubree saw no reason she couldn’t indulge in two. She wasn’t even the one mucking up the carpets.

It was incredible how Catelyn seemed to have almost no awareness of her swift, inevitable transformation into a fat stupid slut.

Aubree was unsure how much to prod, at first. There was her journalistic integrity to consider, her objectivity to the process. She was merely a fly on the wall, eyewitness to Catelyn’s growing tits. She didn’t want to hint with a questioning “aren’t your boobs much, much bigger?” “why are you wearing bright pink lipstick by yourself in your apartment?” “Can’t you tell your ass is thicker?” She was wary around her friend, treating her like a sleepwalker. No doubt Catelyn would look in the mirror, notice that she was getting big dicksucker lips, and suddenly flip out. Any second now.

But as the hours rolled on, in each other’s company, Aubree became increasingly confident: almost nothing would stop Catelyn’s inevitable journey. This was an intelligent, driven young woman who had started right away about a book club, showed interest in world politics, was an engaging conversationalist, and had a rigorous interest in exercise. A bit bog-standard as mid-20s white women went, but nothing to be ashamed of. There were worse things than reading historical romance epics one after another.

They hadn’t discussed books in days. Aubree used them as a measure: checking on Catelyn’s flagging interest in written words. First she still had a half-hearted interest in a someday book club. Then it was just winsome musing about how she just couldn’t find time to get going on a book. After just a few days any mention of literature made Catelyn furrow her brow, searching for an interest that was just poof, turned into ass and titties. “Gosh,” she laughed, in one of her rare sparks of self-awareness, “I guess I’m just off turning pages for awhile! If it doesn’t have a zipper or a wrapper I’m just not opening it!”

That was the other measure: sex chat. At first Catelyn had broached the topic with some nervous asides—“Ryan and I were up late last night, you know?” Aubree had nodded, sagely. This was where Catelyn’s sense of normalcy was most impinged. It wasn’t normal to fuck five or six times in one night, and even Catelyn knew it. “We’ve barely gone outside,” she told Aubree, no longer bothering to waggle her eyebrows at being naughty. “He’s just a stallion, you know? Is it the same with you and John?”

“Sort of,” Aubree told her. To maintain kayfabe she’d had to invent quite the sex life for her and John. It had gotten pretty imaginative. “He’s so busy it’s mostly, I mean, do you think there’s anything wrong with sucking him off a lot? Like a lot a lot?” Aubree said. She’d decided that her version of John was really into face-fucking her.

“Ohhhh, Ryan is all about that too!” Catelyn said, clearly relieved. “Ever since we got here he keeps trying to put me on a liquid diet. And… I don’t know what it is… it tastes… different, right?”

Different? Aubree had to nod her way through it. It wasn’t hard to nod her way through anything. Catelyn might have nice new pillowy lips, and a lush new voice, but she still loved to chat. “SO good. I call him my ice cream boy. It’s hard to say no to blowjobs once you nickname him ice cream boy. So. Yeah.”

Their eyes linked. Was there a nervous glance there? A bit of wariness about how they were casually discussing doling out on-request blowjobs to their partners? Awareness that cum should not taste like delicious ice cream? It passed, and they both giggled, helpless.

Aubree hadn’t been able to get Catelyn to turn off the pop channel. But she hardly noticed it anymore—it was just Catelyn’s Apartment Music, a piece of the background. Actually the two of them had started exercising together to the tune of it, safe from the possible judgment of men and women outdoors. It was a good way to get a sweat going, for Aubree to check on Catelyn’s physical developments, and to kill some time. Of course the song had found its way elsewhere—she was definitely humming it in the shower, and sometimes during her two allotted masturbation breaks. But it seemed to be safe otherwise—the screen was just a calm black with the slightest ripple to the beat of the drums. And only during the chorus of Big Booty Baby. Her personal fav, if she was forced to pick between that and Pussy Princess.

“Do you guys ever think of just leaving?” Catelyn said, unexpectedly. They were cooling down from seven minutes of intense aerobics with some ice cream. Three huge scoops for Catelyn and one small one, to show willing, for Aubree. It seemed pointless to drug the ice cream, Aubree figured. Ice cream made girls into fat contented cows without any additional modification. “Just getting out of here?”

“Not so far, not while John’s project is ongoing,” Aubree said, surprised at the conversational turn. Usually after workouts they lazed around with their legs open and talked about penises. “You?”

“I just… you know I haven’t talked to anyone besides you in.. what day is it?”

“Its…” Aubree stopped, concerned. Wait, what day WAS it? Worried, she hunted through her memories. Monday? Of what month? A gap yawned in front of her. A pint of ice cream and happy pop music tried to drown out any concern, but they’d talked about this, her and John. Missing time was a big time issue. “Thursday,” she hazarded. Maybe it was.

Catelyn had picked up her phone, perhaps to illustrate frustration about no reception. But it had blinked at her, and her friend was now just lost in it. Her mouth hung open, and she was, Aubree noted, probably about to drool for the first time. An important moment in her ongoing bimbofication development. Nonetheless, Aubree made a quick excuse. She really had to go.

“Heyyyyyyyy…. It sure is Thursday, right?” Aubree said.

“What?” John glowered at her, or perhaps in general. “Seriously?”

As usual, the male gaze made Aubree want to check outfit, makeup, and hair in a mirror. She’d taken to wearing one of his t-shirts around the apartment. It was way oversized, and she had a story all planned about how her new boobs wouldn’t fit in existing outfits. But he’d never asked. The truth was, it had come from the bottom of his hamper, and smelled very John. It was nice. Just visible under the hem she wore one of her new pairs of volleyball shorts, purchased with Catelyn at a main street boutique. By town standards it was highly practical: dark black, flexible for many sizes of butts, and it wiped clean.

She only wore a little bit of makeup. Just some lipstick and eyeliner. And concealer, lots of it.

Aubree immediately changed the subject. “Everything okay?” What if his dick had gotten even bigger? Already its imagined girth barely fit in her mouth, per her stories to Catelyn.

“We’re cut off,” John said.

“Cut off,” Aubree was aware she was more and more just repeating back John’s words to him, instead of making conversation. It was hard to stop. “What?” They had a very expensive satellite phone, John’s duty, to make contact through enemy lines. “What’s wrong with the phone?”

“Last time I tried it, something was—off,” John wore a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans and looked like a strong and fierce god. His hair had grown shaggy. Every inch of him was hard male lines, especially when he was upset. “The Boss said he couldn’t talk. And now—it just doesn’t work right. Some sort of…” he winced. “Static. But you know. THEIR static.”

Aubree had never encountered it. There was some sort of Horny Noise that John had run into, out in the world. It cut through the bullshit and reduced men and women to rutting beasts. John certainly looked a little rutty. She noted beads of sweat on his forehead. He was breathing hard. “I don’t think we’re getting any more supply drops.”

“Maybe we should… leave,” Aubree said, huddled in on herself. She didn’t want to bring up the what-day-is-it stuff, or her sudden realization that she was chewing bubble gum. Where had it come from? How long had she been chewing it? Swallowing it was probably a bad idea. “Just get out of here. Isn’t that the lesson? Just go?”

The mission hung in the balance. They both recognized that it was entirely John’s decision. Actually, Aubree couldn’t quite remember the last time she’d made one of those “decision” things on her own. John told her what to do, what to accomplish, and, outside of her little field trips to Catelyn’s, that was her life. She tracked the bulge in his pants. They were both very aware of it.

“I would but—” John let out a long breath. “I’ve got a scientist on the inside, finally. He’s going to get me something, something we can leave with. I don’t want to leave empty-handed. Not after—I’ve given up a lot for this.”

“John, lets leave,” Aubree said, pushing through the haze. She stood up. “Lets just go. You can leave with me, that isn’t empty-handed.” She stuck her tits out at him, pleading. They kept the car fueled and covered.

John turned from her, and Aubree’s heart sank, deep below her belling boobs, to where her tummy was starting to pooch out. It was easier to ignore how curvy she’d gotten. He barked a laugh. “Why, because you’ve given up so much? You just sit around and don’t clean. The one thing you’re supposed to do. You just sit here and sing about how hot your pussy is.”

“I have HUGE TITS now, John!” Aubree cupped them for emphasis. She had been valiantly ignoring additional growth over the past few days or weeks or whatever it was. Just recently her nipples had gotten much bigger and longer, her aureole turning into dark brown pads that portended even bigger growth. They’d gone from big to troublingly big.

It stung deeply, the charge that she didn’t clean. Looking around, the entire apartment was nearly spotless. Aubree spent long hours on hands and knees, especially in the bathroom, which often was spunked up with the scent of John. The scent of their local cleanser tended to cling to her, cloying, a sort of pomegranate-bleach she used as perfume. Unless he meant his bedroom, which Aubree stayed out of entirely. It was just too much masculinity, and made her flee to rub at her clit.

John paced back and forth. He hadn’t really meant the insult. It was just how women were meant to be treated. His erection strained at his fly, threatening the zipper. It was enormous. “All this time, all this effort, and we’re just a joke. Just accomplishing nothing. Surrounded by carnality and chemicals and nothing to show for it but a ditz roommate and way too much cock. God DAMN it.”

It was too much, and Aubree felt the release valve coming loose. She tried to shut it off. They’d talked about this, how women crying was how the accumulated wrongness of it all was turned into an excuse to fuck. He’d comfort her, she’d get on her knees, and the anger and frustration would turn into more transformative sex. But it was too late. She was a weak, undisciplined girl and the tears started to come.

“It’s fine!” Aubree said, holding her hand up. “It’s just… emotions! It’s okay! It’s just a lot!” John looked stricken anyway. A look passed back and forth: resignation. They’d probably achieved some sort of local record for not having sex. John slowly put his arms around her, like there was a safe way to do it. The thought didn’t stick, because no thought stuck, but Aubree briefly thought: this is how they do this to us. Sex is the solution to the problem. The only solution.

He kissed her exactly like Aubree thought he would: fierce but firm, so tall she had to strain to reach him. The genius of it struck her, obliviating all past ideas. No one in the entire town kissed. It wasn’t something that happened. They just fucked. Perhaps that changed all this from some hormone driven fuck-fest into a bonafide romance. Two lovers finding each other in the night. True, she was scrabbling to unzip his fly, and his hands had already found and squeezed her jugs, but it counted for something. It was impressive she wasn’t sucking his dick already. Although she was definitely going to, a LOT.

“I can’t cum in you,” John gasped, once they broke for air. At that point they were already in bed, learning about each other. “It’s way too dangerous.” He was already buried inside of her, so much dick, and it was really alarming how easily he slid all the way in. Had her hips been rearranged to make room for a ton of cock? It seemed likely. Aubree’s feet cinched tight around his back. He had so much curly chest hair. He did end up cumming in her.

“Catelyn! Catelyn we did it! We fucked!” Aubree hammered on the door. She hadn’t showered since they’d finally fucked, and there was still a ton of cum inside of her. She’d thrown on a croptop that showcased her wobbly new tits, a pair of her volleyball shorts that were suddenly, alarmingly tight.

It had been a long night, and an abrupt end. John had actually gotten a phone call, which meant an in-town caller. He’d talked to someone in low tones and left immediately. He’d given Aubree a perfunctory “this can never happen again,” but obviously his heart wasn’t in it. His dick twitched while he gave the lecture. Wedding bells steadily ding-donged in Aubree’s heart. The day was going to be incredible. He would go off and do important, manly things, while she diligently cleaned and cooked. Then he would return and they would fuck.

“You.. what?” Catelyn opened the door already confused. She’d put her hair up in pigtails with bright pink scrunchies. She’d been going blonde for some time, and it seemed to have at last reached the outer tips. It was one of many things Aubree had been waiting, in vain, for her to notice.

“John! John, John, John,” Aubree chanted happily, inviting herself in. There was a new scent in the air, joining a crowded perfume of candy, rinds, and girls working out. Aubree was too distracted to notice. “We did it, we did it! You would not believe the dick on that man!”

“Uhhhhh, okay?” Too late, it occurred to Aubree she had told Catelyn a hundred lies about John’s sexual prowess. But whatever, the woman’s brain had already been turned into ice cream. She hadn’t noticed when Aubree had stolen one of her new vibrators, she had related the story of her pubic hair falling out as a ‘really weird thing, but it feels good!’

“Oh my GOD, Catelyn. Oh my god!” Aubree sat in a chair that had the sun shining on it. The ceaseless pop music beat into her head, matching her mood. “When you have that much dick in you, and he finds another inch, its just.. Wow!”

Too late Aubree picked up on the many obvious cues. Not just the scent, although it was now pounding ‘man’ into her head. Catelyn’s even-more breathiness, the sticky glaze on her shirt, the fact that she was naked below the waist. There was another man in residence. This one was clean-shaven, with a chin that could fence and deep blue eyes. He had long, wavy hair and a confident male smile. He wore a collared shirt, unbuttoned, and his chest glistened with a control panel of muscles.

“You’re… Ryan!” Aubree said. She almost went to shake hands, realized she’d intruded on the two fucking, and settled for a nervous half-wave. “Oh!”

Ryan laughed. He had a gentle chuckle that was miles away from John. John only laughed bitterly. “Hiya Aubree. Good to see you. You kept on knocking and knocking and I was finally like, alright Catelyn, this is going to be good.”

Aubree blew a nervous bubble. The air smelled like sex and sweat, and she was still too amped from her own all-night sexual exploits. “Its nice to finally meet you,” she stammered, trying not to look at his jeans. Part of her did wonder: was Catelyn right about her man’s dick? Was he really ice cream boy?

“Wait, really?” Ryan shook his head, amused. “Really?”

“I told you!” Catelyn chirped. She walked over to Ryan, pecked him on the cheek, and then stuck her hands in his pants. Not the sides, the front waistband. Her hand dug in, looking for cock. “I was like, she is so spaced out, she didn’t even hear you!”

Aubree tried to keep her mouth closed, and couldn’t. She was brain-fried, heart-sinking. What?

“Aubree, we’ve already met twice,” Ryan told her, gently. “When you were working out with Catelyn.”

“He slapped your ass!” her friend giggled. “You didn’t even notice! You love those workouts so much!”

“What?” Aubree managed to stammer. The twosome exchanged amused glances. They were embarrassed for her. Aubree searched her memories, well-aware that there was nothing there. She’d definitely worked out in front of the big screen, dutifully avoiding looking at the hazy blur in front of her. Just listening to the music, squatting, singing along, her ass a wet mess of dribbly pussy...

“Anyway, its nice to meet you for the third time,” Ryan said. He stretched and put his arm around Catelyn, drawing her closer. Catelyn herself had found Ryan’s dick and was rubbing it underneath his clothes. They were clearly about to fuck again, possibly while she was still in the room. “We have some more ice cream if you want to keep stealing all of ours.”

“Actually…” Catelyn said, a transparently naughty look on her face, and it was obvious Aubree was moment’s away from sinking between them, a writhing, shaking mess, as Ryan’s famous dick bottomed her out. Probably Catelyn would suck on her nipples while that was going on. They probably wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Then they’d eat ice cream. “Pretty Pink Pussy Princess” swelled to a crescendo in her ears.

“That’s okay!” Aubree squeaked. She backed up, aware of her tits burning need on her chest. What had she gotten herself into again? Was she really just a piece of pussy, doomed to sink into the usual depravity? When she turned to leave, Ryan slapped her hard on the rear. It was exactly what she deserved, but she managed to hold off on the orgasm until after she got back to her own apartment.

“I got it,” John said. “Big green-glowing vial. Just like I said I would.”

“That’s great, uh, colleague,” Aubree said.

It had been far worse than she’d thought. Not only was she chewing bright pink bubblegum, after she threw it away, and took a shower, she found another wad in her mouth. Was her body producing it? The body in the mirror was definitely not the essentially normal person that fit in with her self-image. She’d put on a big set of dick-sucking lips at some point, her tushie had rounded out tremendously, and, most concerning, her pussy appeared to be noticeably pinker. An artificial pink that, it seemed clear, was the exact same color as the bubblegum.

Worst of all was the song.

It had been stamped into her, etched, and even with the shower on full blast her toes kept tapping to the rhythm. The nonsense, sexualized lyrics had overwritten a lot of stuff—Aubree was pretty sure she had played a lot of youth sports. Those memories were now just meaningless choruses about getting fucked in the ass.

John returning home was both an enormous relief and hugely embarrassing. She had to tell him: get out, leave her behind. She was a bonafide bimbo. And then he’d walked in with his first real, unabashed smile since they’d arrived in town.

“We need to get out of here pronto,” John said. The vial really was a goo-green, iridescent in the glass. “Pack a backpack and lets get to the car. I’ve got some ideas where we can go with this stuff.”

“You’re gonna have to go without me,” Aubree said. She mock-whispered it through too-thick lips. “I’m… a... goner.”

“A what?” John looked baffled and manly.

“I’m a big dumb fuckdoll now and you should GO, John,” Aubree waved at the door. At some point she’d acquired long nails with pink swirl lacquer. “I’m just holding you back. I’m all fucky-wucky. I’m a STUPID SLUT.” She’d dressed in dark black—a hoodie she couldn’t fully zip over her boobs and sweats that were practically painted on her thighs.

Her man sat on the couch. They’d fucked on it last night, as Aubree vaguely recalled. The happiest moment of her life.

“Aubree,” he began. She was huddled and forlorn on her side. “I already know you’re a stupid bimbo. I mean, it’s obvious. You’ve been one for weeks.”

“I was trying to write about the neighbor and it…” she indicated her enormously inflated body, hapless.

“Yeah. Catelyn. I know. She’s literally next door. Its… I’m aware,” John said. He took a deep, calming breath. “Yeah. Aubree, not long ago I came home and you were cleaning the floor naked with a vibrator stuffed up your ass. I got the picture. Its not your fault. You’re a girl.”

She had absolutely no memory of that at all. “So go! Get out of here! I’ll just go be MILKED or something,” she waved at him.

“I can’t do that,” John said. He studied the bubbles in the vile-green glass.

“Why not?!” Aubree half-screamed. Everything she said was dimmed and made sexy with her new lips. She took in his studied, neutral gaze. There was plenty of room left in her mental architecture for the realization, even if she had not too many brain cells left.

“Oh shit,” she whimpered, pussy creaming. “You LOVE me.”

“I think we have a chemically induced, hormonal bond,” John told her.

“Yeah, called L-O-V,” Aubree made a face, then giggled. “Oh my god lets get the fuck out of this fucking town.” They eyed each other. They both felt a powerful urge to breed.

“Look, I’m exposed too. I haven’t been… totally honest. You know what my masturbation number is right now?” He stood up awkwardly, trying not to bump his own dick. She stood up and leaned into him. They fit so perfectly together. She could just wrap herself around him forever. His plush toy. “Twelve. Twelve times a day, I need to cum.”

“Eight for me,” she told him, pleased with herself.

They fled for the car as a couple. It was downstairs in the parking garage, and Aubree had no memory at all what it looked like. Just one of many things just gone, replaced by sunny songs about getting fucked in the butt and how nice it was to have suckable titties. Nonetheless she felt happy, on John’s big arm, letting him do just about everything. They’d detox at leisure, having sex at careful but frequent intervals. Then John would get his Pulitzer prize and she would give him the most loving, congratulatory blowjob that any award winner had ever received. He would unload his prize-winning spunk down her throat and it would be everything she wanted out of life.

“Car isn’t starting,” John said.

That catch of tension was back. It had only been gone from his shoulders for like, ten minutes.

“Turn the key!” Aubree urged. She had already started to finger herself in the passenger seat.

“I am, dumbo,” John said. There was no noise at all. He popped the hood and looked inside. “I have no idea what any of this does,” he reported. “But its probably bad that a huge piece of it is just straight up gone.”

Stranded. They were stranded.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, would it? Why had they assumed the town would just let them go? All cars were probably disabled routinely.

There were no sirens, and it was only the simultaneous slam of car doors that alerted them. Men in police uniforms, their feet visible on the ground floor.

“Listen,” John said, making sure he had her full attention. Nervous, Aubree hummed her only song. “I got the vial from a Dr. Abrams. I’m going to try and find him before they do. Then I’m going to ground. They won’t want you, you’re just a dumb cunt.”

“Dumb cunt,” Aubree said, agreeing.

“In case you get… even more transformed, and I don’t recognize you…” they only had a moment left, together. The sirens were getting close. “Ribbons. Put ribbons in your hair. I’ll keep that in my head, no matter what: look for the girl with the ribbons.”

“Can you write this down?” Aubree said. She chewed on a lock of hair. But he was already gone, leaving her alone, leaky, and single. There went her Pulitzer-prize winning boy.

She tried to force it into her head. Ribbons. Ribbons in her hair.