The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jelly Anne Daez part 1

15. Anne Jelli Dayze

“Once in a Lifetime” blared tinny on the radio. Angela raced down the interstate. She never really liked the song. Now it felt like half her brain…

The song was completely absent of any low end whatever, and it had been like that for the last few songs that this podunk FM station had been playing.

She was happy to be free of her boyfriend for a thirteenth whole day, at least. Happy to have a reason to.

Housesitting was fine. Wait… boyfriend?

Oh yeah. Reggie. He was the one that kept droning on and onnn about the dreaded Culonavirus. Ooga booga!

It paid the bills. That was about all she could ask for in a job, really. A little bit of money for food, beer, and weed.

Premium TV and AC was just icing on an already dank cake. Just stop, she told her snatch. Sopping wet little thang. . .

Still, there was something soul-sucking, hoofing it really, driving back and forth between school and the middle of nowhere…

It wasn’t until her lab partner Reggie complimented her bikini top that it even registered: she wasn’t wearing anything else up top!

Down below was barely any fucking better… Just like, lime green daisy dukes and hot pink Barbie brand flip-flops.

Her ass-n-titties had been getting pretty fat and it was kind of a problem.

Like, what was even happening with them? You know? Culonavirus?

Sure, she had been mainlining Mrs. Abbadee’s cool ranch nachos with the politeness of a rabid sailor, but… come on, you know?

Six whole dress sizes and eight cup sizes, in about five or six days!

The growth was FAR from unpleasant, but it was pretty dang weird, considering. And it was only slowing the teensiest bit, it felt like.

It used to be like two or three cups a week. Now it seemed to be slowing down to just one. Big fuckin’ deal, right?

Being a size sixteen now, meant that there would be… issues, when she went home that weekend.

It didn’t seem likely at all that she’d be able glad explain away, you know, packing on two huge and very creamy white boobies. Even with Culonavirus..

Nor the big and fat, dimpled country thighs… Oh well!

Angela parked the car in her old teacher’s driveway and farted as she bounded out of the driver’s seat, bangles and keys jingling, charms jiggling akimbo...

She smacked her gum and blushed. She was embarrassed, even though she was all alone.

But… Was she actually alone? Who was this dude in uniform on her front stoop? What did he want? It was so annoying, how neighborhood guys wouldn’t leave the new girl in town alone.

He was pretty fuckin hawt, that was fer DANG shore. Looked like a robo Sanborn brother, or some shiz...

Grizz . . .

Except… she wasn’t a new girl in town! She kept telling them! Just visiting, really, for a couple more weeks while Ms. Wickersby was on vacation!

What did it take to get this through their thick skulls?!

“Ms. D’Angelo, in this nasty heathen end times, I represent the —”

“Church of St. Brittany, yes, I know.” Angela huffed, popped her purple bubblegum, and put her hand on her hip. She stuck her ass out.

Why! “I’m not interested.” Then WHY was she sticking her ass out! So dumb… Did it have anything to do with Culonavirus??

The man —it had to be either Frederick or it was his brother—was nothing if not persistent.

Just his smile would have dampened her panties if they weren’t already long since damp, all fucking ding-dong day…

“Why you alway’ comin’ round Ms. Wickersby’s house with dat there literature, huh?” she mewed. Uh-oh. It was happening again.

Now she wouldn’t be able to stop drooling, or talking with a southern accent. The combo made her sound like a fat flirty dumbass…

“Ma’am, my name is Bobby,” Bobby said. Right! Bobby! “and you… why, you’re… Anne-Jelly Dayze, right? Jelli with an ‘i’?”

He was the one with the… the brother with the bigger cock… She didn’t KNOW such a thing, not Jelli, but Ms. Wickersby’s neighbor Sarah-Teena was fucking the guy on the down low, on the reg…

Angela, or Jelli? What was her name now? What did the boy want? Wait. What was her name now? Boys were stupid.

“I have a boyfriend,” Jelli said. Although, there weren’t any rules that said a girl couldn’t just fuck a guy if she wanted.

Wait. She didn’t have a boyfriend! He’d never have to know, though…

She was losing the ability to rationalize cheating, or like, if she even did have a boyfriend, losing any real ability to cogitate much beyond “why do I get so much hornier the fatter I get?”

Jelli-Anne never used to have this pot belly. Now she pooched out whenever she so much as bent over, or reached for something. Or did much of aning.

A month ago, she seriously fucking had abs… Like, what the FUCK.

“I have a boyfriend,” she repeated. It was probably a lie, but anyhow, it made little difference. He heard her, and it didn’t really matter.

They both knew it. They were both horny as fuck, and they were about to fuck.

* * *

Jelly Anne Daez 2

“What is even going on with that sandwich you promised me, baby?” Jelli-Anne Dayze asked her boyfriend.

Her and Bobby were busy cleaning up, after fourth-fucking.

Lot of jizz, and stuff, all over their bodies. It was cute, and typical. Culonavirus made everybody so sticky!

He was on his phone, looking for the number for Prepabelli’s Deli & Sauna. She always needed a foot-long sub after some hot dick.

She was about to growl at him.

I mean, shoot. She’d been growing a little pot belly for a reason, god damn it!

They had a very long, and likely conversationally intense car ride ahead of them. He was meeting her parents for the first time.

They were about to find out their lesbian daughter had an alpha boyfriend, all of the sudden.

They were about to find out that Jelli, or Angela or what-have-you, decided to put on like sixty pounds, in just a little over a month…

That she had buck teeth now, for whatever reason. That she’d been equipped with nipples now, that’d put most cow udders to shame…

Jelli-Anne had told her mom to prepare herself for a brand new daughter experience, but was sure, in the end, that it came off as just a joke.

Whatever. She didn’t have time to feel sad, though. Literally. So much to clean, always…

Big tits and ass sometimes simply meant more room for sex grime, for more cum. Kinda gross.

They’d probably fuck again in the shower. Why not! It was sexy, getting clean and hot and fruity scented.

“We hafta leave here in like a hour, Bobby baby,” Jelli-Anne cooed. “You gonna be READY in time?”

She gave his pecker a soft but firm, commanding squeeze. She loved his big horse cock…

A little daub of precum spat out of his fucking cock again.

That meant that they would, like, for SURE fuck again tonight, or maybe even this afternoon again…

Which would make that, what, eight times since breakfast?

So much cum, and sweat and pussy slurping action, she thought for sure that she’d lost like 10,000 words in her vocabulary, over the course of just this lazy Sunday…

Now it was 1 pm. But it felt like 5 am.

Bone tired, but, like… wasted feeling, like she OD’ed on cronuts and wine coolers, or some shit…

Her tits basically felt full of straight buttercream, too.

It was crazy…

“I don’t know why you’re so mean to me, Jelli,” Bobby complained. His voice made her pussy wet and her head hurt.

I’m the one that had to wake your lazy ass up twice! Shoot, we wouldn’t even have remembered we planned this stupid trip if it wuddn’t for me!”

“Stop yelling!” Jelli meeped. She really hated to argue with him, lately. Even though she still kinda hated having to call him her boyfriend. He did sort of worm his way into her life.

That was on the one hand. On the other hand, he did have a great fucking dick, though…

It made Jelli-Anne feel so full, like she was having sex with thick pecan pie, each and every time. . .

Like fucking a nice big dong, and giving a blowjob to a sugar rush, all at once…

Something that was giving her, like, sexual super-powers…

Halfway through cleaning his cock with a hot towel, she was, of fucking course, giving Bobby a handie again.

It was beginning to feel like they might never get out of there. Just keep fucking the day away…

“You’re so baaaad, d’s’you know vat?” she purred, lips somehow gushing hot pink raspberry spit, but also fusing together, like so much candyfloss on a humid day.

“Bad-boy!” She rubbed up and down on his dong, giggling. “You know I can’t resist that smell.”

“Chase that cream, bitch!” She called out from across the street. SOMEbunny was getting royally fucked out there.

Could it be her from the. . . the FUTURE?!

Jelly Anne Daez 2

Previously published:

Kelley Greene batted them and he belched enough for either of them. “I know these uh isn’t ruddy nuff, but I can throw on em tassels whut you like.”

It was too many words. Even with the burp. She farted honey grits. Rand socked her just above the elbow. It was wrong. He was the one to do it.

They both had stress headaches. Too much apple wine? This Culonavirus thangamajig President Pank was droning on about through his double chin?

Seventeen blowjobs probably. Probably those. Too bad the clean water was three miles away...

* * *

“More poise, Ms. eh.”


“Miss Rendeiro.”

Hoyt Pank ate his second evening time buttermilk biscuit, rubbing his gut like a king. Being president took a lot of carbs. Some chippies didn’t appreciate it.

“I just think you could do better this week. Maybe at least think about the medicine ball, even. It’s not so good to have pop with your third dinner!”

“I’m prez!” The president bellowed through the hallowed hall. “I’m prez,” he went on, starting to sob into some tubby tears.

Peggy Rendeiro started to slink away. It wouldn’t do, for his... public to see him like this. Cancel his 7 a.m.? No, nope. Wouldn’t do.

Then he’d bitch about not being woken up for Judge Jiggly, and. Nah. But what?

Time to think. Peggy sneezed.

* * *

“You’d better masssk utt, bwoy,” Kelley purred, jacking on her man for the umpteenth time. Hers was some kitty cat bondage thang.

“I’m not the only one around yonder with CULONAVIRUSssss...”

She doubled her pace, squeezing hard there on the backyard barcalounger. The Sunday sun was going down. 60 Minutes was cutting out somewhere inside, and a rusty screen door humped air.

Kelley popped that thing out, whinnied, and started to twerk that shit. Tight cellulite rippling, everywhere. New double chin bounding with a whole weekend’s journey of semen, peeking under her mask.

Everything just right.

Hummingbirds beeped and banged. Her four lips were big, greasy twins, all, popping and all stuck together. Everything smelled like aerosol mango salsa...

“I ain’t,” her beanpole idiot groused, hating her. Precum spat on his tip. His beet red tip. You’d suck it if you could, you stupid cum whore. . .

Kelley’s breathing sure was heavy. Just like yours. Wet wet wet. Why do we all sound so DUMB now.

“You fuckin izzz,” she mewed, like a Z grade Mansfield. She made sure to look him straight in his sleepy eyes, so he knew she meant.... Serious.

“Or you don’t jizz,” she huffed, hot. Her breathing got sharp. “Achoo!” She yelped.

“Ain’t you!” Rand helped, cleaning her lips off a bit. It didn’t help...

Rand kicked, bucked and squealed. He jizzed out onto his newlywed’s fat little face and snorted, emptying on her for a 45th time since Friday.

Everything felt new.

* * *

“And Peggy Rendeiro in five, four, three—”

Dandelion Bench counted the rest, and coughed into her blouse, hoping beyond all hope that her bosses couldn’t see or hear. She wore a dun, gold flecked blouse that paired handsomely with her sleek, no tits look.

But, surely if she didn’t have much up top, they wouldn’t be rattling around now, could they? She sneezed into them anyhow, a sharp as cheese sort of achoo, and her chafing nipples porked up.

Peggy coughed herself, blushed, and also went headlights, straightening Hillary hair. They shared a look: I won’t tell if you don’t, betch...

The tiny titty committee, but surely not for long. Miss Rendeiro smoothed out her shirt, Dandelion smoothed out hers, and they both tried not to weep for humanity as they sneezed out a jinx.

* * *

Kelley masked up again, even though all it seemed to do was make her blush and trap up all her pink face gunk. She coughed and wheezed into the thang.

abso groty...

She stared at the bag of chips at the Path Mapp and drooled candied spit into her fuckin mask. Stop. Pretendin. Ur not. This. Retarded!

“She Bangs?” She asked the South Asian dude at the counter. He just snarled and pointed at the absurdly low price tag. The thing was wet with grease and felt like it weighed a pound and a half. . .

After her second Oreo/cool ranch hybrid bag of She Bangs, she took off her wig and felt them for certain. They were there, sprouting just like her speedy-titties—cute little bangs!

“Wow! Just by EATING?” she asked no one. Rand was cleaning out his gun with gloves, and stroking his huge cock with a free hand. Their masks did nothing for the big stank.

Kelley farted. She always did when chips were involved. “How far to D.C., shir?” she begged him, sleepy slurpy, making the mistake of ripping ass while twerking, munching fistfuls between the seats like a big ol betch.

He glared at his wifey. “Not far enough,” he gave her robotically, dipping digits into her fat, lavender pink puss. “Not far enough.”

Rand was about to dive into her ass, face first.

* * *

Kelly Green emptied out the garbage disposal and her own heart. She wept. Randall had forgotten her birthday for the second year in a row. Was this marriage hopeless?

She hid the electric razor in her hand. It was more than time. Homeboy deserved it. She didn’t care if we were in the middle of another pandemic.

There would be big girls out there, with big hair and little clothing...

But it didn’t matter. He needed to know. The book of matches in her raw, picked hands was for any play wig left in the house.

They didn’t need any gasoline. She had boutique acrylic nail polish he’d never see again, rubbing alcohol too, for that...

She yawned and stretched, hoping she could finish her work on the barcalounger before her dumb husband crawled his dumb scrawny ass out of bed.

Her nearly flat chest was feeling kind of raw from the effort, so she aired it out by taking his favorite Misfits tee right off, and tossed it in the burn pile.

It was his most favorite shirt. Oh well! He bumbled out of his side of the bed as soon as she practically prayed otherwise, yawned long and obnoxious, slapped and cupped the not-stallion booty that they both wished she’d had.

“What’s for breakfast, hon?” He smiled. He actually smiled. Then went in for a kiss! Heroically, Kelly denied him, and pointed to Shari and Sheena across the street...

They called themselves the Jungle Sisters, because they were the first girls on the block to take on equatorial features.

It seemed like their noses broadened and their hips belled out, the more dumberer they became...

“Go ask the blacks.” It just slipped out. Kelly snorted and sneezed. “Black sisters!” She corrected herself, as if either of them could care.

She shouldn’t have been sneezing.

* * *

Dopamingues and the Jungul Sistaz all four took the Frito Day stage, each pair of twinsies flanking Dandelion and Piggy, on either side.

They were all burping in no good rhythm, bedazzled, trying to stay away from the mics for whatever slutty pull... No music just yet.

Only twenty people were watching at the Hollywood Bowl, but the webstream was already shutting down the literal and lifestyle store versions of Amazon.

Six huge sex hotties. Who wouldn’t click?

It was time to announce to the world that complications from Culonavirus had all but robbed his constituents of President Pank.

But words wouldn’t come to Piggy, she just kept going ahh and like and um and twisting nicotine gum around her pacifier, trying not to fart into her tail or worse, oink...

So Dandelion, she who recently dropped the last name and adopted a fairly chaste (by bimbo standards) white thong tankini as her trademark, stepped up to the plate. It wasn’t much better, but it was a start?

She picked a few dandelions out of her cartoonish goldilocks, and breathed too loud and wet into the mic, making it screech. Her boobies shook all over, and she started wailing and sobbing.

A bearded man in khaki work attire trundled to the mic. It was unclear what he was—one of these brown beach bunnies’ boyfriends??

He cleared his throat. It was dangerously dry.

Five minutes in to Frito Day presents A Day of Ditzes, the dwindling pollution trackers of the globe all breathed great dry sighs of relief.

Sure, it would mean six billion less perfect .GIFs of six perfect country rears, but hey. Could it mean six fewer minutes on that there doomsday clock??

* * *

Kelley let another spit bubble fall down her neck and into her chubby, mottled cleaves. A year ago, she was horrified to imagine herself winding up like this. Now, it was just hard work...

The milk machine did its thang and sucked those fat sweater pigs dry. It all sounded like a heavy load of laundry.

“Vitamins B and D are both through the fuckin roof, really,” beamed Rand. He paused the tape recorder and went over to make sure his cow’s pacifier was in straight.

She giggled and winked at him, red, bristling through her emerald bullring, wagging the floppy new ears she’d sat there growing for weeks. Rand clicked his ballpoint.

“Sperm and saliva: negligible.”

The kitty mask smiled at him. He smiled back, and said, “You’re doing great, whoa man.”

Jelly IV

“My name is Angela D’Angelo and I have Culonavirus.” Some dude in the back of the lecture hall actually yawned. What was with people. You know?

She masked up, coughing and beet red, angry capillaries. Nervous, unsure of what to say next, she glared at some frosh girl with a big shelf butt who squirmed in her seat.

Her name used to be Jasmine, butt now insisted on answering only to Jizz Momma. That was the spelling too. Her trapper keeper was lousy with some dotted hearts.

“I’m not sure what else to add here,” Angela admitted, sneezing. The phlebotomy prof, Miss Wickersby wasn’t exactly trying to advocate, either. Did ANYONE see how serious the diagnosis was anymore??

Jasmine shifted in her slit skirt with the browned thigh meat poofing, and pooling out. A fartin tartan, Angela reminded herself. That’s what the bean-like disinfectant funk was...

The girl winked at her and maintained a dangerous level of eye contact, then mimicked a blowjob with her hands and cheeks. As if. Angela could barely breathe without wincing and wheezing.

Then Jizz Momma threw her under the bus and coughed right in Angela’s face as the rest of the class pointed and hooted.

* * *

“Mom, I can’t be bothered to go bra shopping. I’m not going to be one of those wheelbarrow wandas, so why bother.” Angela hung up.

She paced around her apartment, looking for underpants, any panties that fit. It was difficult. All of them gave her wedgies now.

The tiger print ones were from when she still went with Travis, because he liked them and because they were just south of baggy now, that’s how she knew. But she felt thick and greasy and so far from sexy, so—


She settled for simply scratching her naked asscrack. It still felt rubbed raw from when she tried vaguely exercising earlier in the afternoon. Maybe masturbating might help?

* * *

She sat at the back of class the next night, gabbing and laughing with Jizz Momma, letting the best betch paint her nails peach. She unkinked wedgie number forty and burped long and strong...

“I hate him,” she said, eyeing Mack at the front of class now. She couldn’t stop drooling. She was busy drooping spittle onto yellowed construction paper. She drummed high fashion onto it...

“How big?” She asked of queen. Jizz Momma motioned with her hams and whispered something huge. Reggie the Robodog licked and licked at the both of them, drooling his self.