The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kitty and Cammi, late one useless, semen-soaked morning, had confided in one another that they often found themselves addressing cocks and abs, instead of eyes or faces. Even when they were covered up by clothes.

They knew there was something strange about that, something not quite right about how their eyes couldn’t make it much higher without noticeable strain. Neither could sufficiently figure out exactly what, though.

“What the fuck ever,” Cammi said to Kitty, taking a huge hit of a big blueberry blunt, droll and grave, as if it was an actually serious issue. Kitty gave her a dirty look at the greedy amount of smoke she inhaled, and tried not to hate her point before she got a chance to finish making it.

“They just talk at our tits, anyhow... Sometimes, like when they laughin’ at how much cum gets stuck on our juggies sometime, it kinda sorta feels like all we is to them is a pair uh—”

Kitty adopted a chastising tone. “Cammi, us bitches just cain’t s’posed ta think like that!” She grabbed the blunt away from her and stamped it out on the side of a tattered lawn chair. “I think Brandon is, like, totally right. Y’cain’t be trusted to smoke pot. Y’all start to get so illusional.”

“We’re put on this... planetary-an to breed and feed on the blessed seed,” she went on. “Lovely, you should fuckin’ know better by now. All the best mommies have, like, the most awesome-est boobies!” A bird sang a trilling encouragement.

The light breeze that touched down upon their sun-dappled bods made every wet thing on them tickle and brighten. Cammi later apologized and finger-fucked her best bud in deference, even though a tiny, tiny part of her knew she didn’t exactly address her concern.

Not at all, actually. She studied the fleshy masses of her breasts, wondering if they might even have eyeballs. Anything’s possible, she thought, here underneath the Lord’s watch.

Her chest then led her so astray, all she could remember was that she was talking about boobs. Boobs are so fun!

“Boobies really are what make us who we is,” Cammi conceded, genuinely. She gave up a little half-thought about grits-n-gravy and watched her broad nipples wake right up. Mommy-magic! “I’m so sorry, Kitty-baby....”

Kitty was gracious and shotgunned some healthy puffs of weed into her twinsie’s shiny lips. Then they made out for the zillionth time, then smoked some more as they waited for the men to get back home and fuck their brains back out.

It didn’t take them very long to get all antsy and squirmy, though. After making each other climax a couple times, they started to have a lively chat, once they could sort through enough words and phrases of English and pull them to the front of their minds.

Conversation swirled aimlessly through their favorite topics: hot pants and hot guys, who was fucking who, who was growing what, etc. Their discussion eventually settled on other cherubs: those that weren’t half as hot as them, those who were intimidating in how much curvier and sluttier than they were.

It wasn’t all just bitch jealousy. They knew to give respect to their elder new-teens, too. Cammi, at one point, thought she had an “in” with Sister Carmen. But Sister Carmen caught Kitty sucking off her husband Joey a couple days earlier, on a four-square court after midnight.

Apparently, they got into a “good ol’ scratchin’ and-uh screechin’ country catfight”, according to Kitty, who accented her recounting by hissing and clawing at the air with long, lemon yellow nails. A real cat nearby even hissed back.

(“Wowwwwie,” Cammi had marvelled. She congratulated her other and helpfully picked the greedy wedgie that Kitty was working onto her lace panties with her big ass. “Yer so darn good at person-erations n’ shit.")

Since everyone in Cherub Cove had their handy, regenerative “protective prayer layer”, and any boo-boos or battle wounds healed just as fast as they came, there was simply no evidence of the supposed fracas. And Cammi had so desperately wanted to see some bruises, at least.

Not because she thought that what Kitty had done was wrong, but because she really, really wanted to get at that “big ol’ thang” first. She just kept it a secret, mostly because she never thought of acting on it!

Joey and Carmen had been in town longer than most, two of the first success stories from that early “Wayward Travellers” initiative. By the time the new bimbettes had finally met these local luminaries, the couple had grown the biggest everythings in town.

Word on the dirt road was that Carmen would be barrow-bound within half a year’s time if those incrediboobs didn’t stop filling up with food and fun. Joey’s prick, similarly, was a towering, pussy-rocking, skin-sword of legend and lore.

The twinsies had introduced themselves to the couple at the carnival, and were already hip to the probability that if they ever met Joe, he’d be in his trademark duds: the most enormous overalls imaginable. The reason he wore them was to hide that famous plowboy of his, a celebrity in its own right.

He did this because he still held on to an outmoded concept, one that too many around town had buried under a rutter’s rubble of lube and lycra: modesty. He seemed so shy, almost like he had no idea what big weight he was packing.

They thought he was so cute, so real. (Kitty and Cammi agreed that their fascination with him had absolutely nothing to do with his arm-sized dignity destroyer. They also never admitted what a mountain of bullshit this denial really was.)

It was what had endeared both of the girls to him in the first place, made them get into playful little tiffs. They knew they weren’t being anywhere near as serious as, say, atheists that dare to call themselves Americans.

They were only being horny and holy together! Two sluts just doing what good sluts do best: having fun and playing stupid off as “silly”, fucking everything in sight or at least being sexy. That is, if they had to wait on a nice pounding for some obnoxious reason.

These baby-talk fake fights usually ended in stuffed animal wars. Stuffed animal wars always ended with them fingering each other, to wind down after the fluffy rigors of bimbo battle, the babyish battle cries they tittered out.

And more often than not, such fingering would escalate into pussy-licking. This was only the natural, slutty loop of loopy sluts, that’s all.

“He like me more! My baby blue eyeshadow made him think ‘bout makin’ some babies! Ever’body know it’s me what got the more fluffier tum-tum! And my hips is two inches wider’n yourn.... you gooey goose!”

Don’t we got the same eyeshadow? Kitty wondered. Nah, maybe not. Wait...

Cammi was mixing up inches with centimeters again. Nobody could tell the difference, anyway. Their hips were way too lush and inviting to ever want to analyze. But she was right about that tummy. Kitty’s managed to hang on to something every cherub hated to have: muscle definition.

(Their midsections were one of the only ways to really tell them apart, at this point. On the rare occasion those weren’t exposed, they also wore different colors of nail polish, adhering to local law for all twins, however articial they may be.)

“Nuh-uh, not even! He likes me—friggin’—um... a lot more! My hot pink eyeshadow done gave him all these wild cravin’s for sump’n I got thass all hot an’ pink! Plus, yew know my bee-hind’s awful fatter’n yer tiny little hiney....”

“...y’slutty li’ldoo-doo head!” Kitty was the first one to laugh at that nonsense. First of all, their matching eye makeup had more colors than just hot pink. Their asses, too, beyond the ink they both had gotten, were absolutely identical.

So, naturally, and as ably as they shared barely-there, almost conceptual “outfits”, they shared the same, corn-fed booty size: motherfucking massive.

For over a half hour, they’d been having these mock arguments over who was hotter. Anyone walking by the house and hearing the cherubs jibber-jabbering on, using their shrill “play time” voices, even higher and girlier than the new country cadences they’d acquired, would bet good money they were second-graders.

From the vantage point of the street, it was impossible to see onto the porch floor, down to where they squirmed and rolled around. Otherwise, a passerby would see two young but very adult,fully grown goddesses, growing even fuller still. Then they’d keep right on walking.

Because, outside of a porn shoot, Cherub Cove was the only place on the globe where such behavior wasn’t seen as totally absurd. It used to be, anyway. The glory hole days, maybe...

In complementary pleather miniskirts that only sheathed their big golden moons three quarters of the way, they toplessly poked fun at one another. Kitty’s was black and Cammi’s was white.

They fit so tightly, each and every fatty little dimple on their cabooses was plain to see. They looked spraypainted on. It was definitely a good thing that, in Cherub Cove, public decency violations usually came about from too much clothing.

The girls had worn underwear when they came out to the porch, in the opposite colors of the minis they had on. (Threadbare undies, stressed to near-clear status, practical only for showing off.) An air-headed, cow-chested yin and yang. A nipple-stiffening nirvana.

Those obnoxious things came off within two minutes, though, thrown underneath a creaky old rocking chair. “Buh-bye, you mean little panties!” Kitty had shouted. A thick slick of slut sauce trailed behind them on the wooden slats.

“Buh-bye!” Cammi parroted her twinsie, out of lazy and pussy-teasing reflex that made her weak in the knees. She curled up her bow-lips and inhaled the bit of saliva that she let bubble out, whenever her lips had moved without her brain being within a lightyear of them. (This childish slurping, then, happened a whole lot.)

Down her insufferable panties went—just as sloppy and soaking as Kitty’s. She grabbed hold of her pillowy cheeks and prodded them apart, letting a buildup of arousal drain out from her abundant thighs.

A cheeky bimbo can sometimes be a leaky bimbo, she reminded herself.

Cammi grabbed a firm hold of a buttcheek, luxuriating in the blessed wonder of her fertility. She felt like she could see it, just by groping and bouncing it around. It only took a couple minutes for her to realize it was because she was lost in the view of Kitty’s own donk.

On beautiful days like this, talking too much gave her a headache. Whatever this was was important, though. “Honey,” she started slowly, sliding the rest of her gummy goo from inside curvy gams. So fuckin’ wet, all the dang time!

“Do it ever feel like your tushie have a mind of its own, or whatnot? Like it done be talkin’ to us, tellin’ us bitches how to be family-faithful?”

Kitty was more than distracted by how much better her pussy felt, now that it was naked like God and every righteous man needed it to be. “Yeahhh, I love my fuckin’ ass, too,” she whispered, distant. She was starting to trail off, contentedly.

“I never knowed it could feel this mmmm... ‘mazin’ to have such... big fuckin’ asssss.....”

Cammy tried, with all her booty-sight, to consider this notion. Only when she really put her mind to it, could she remember a single moment without her bomb butt. And she wasn’t putting her mind to it now: so she always had that ass!

She let another “buh-bye” burble its infantile exit: soft, too soft to meaninglessly impress Kitty again. The sound of Kitty’s cunt, busily wolfing down fingers, wet as fuck and loud as a fire truck, had drowned the poor twinsie out.

Panties had seemed like a good idea, at first. Folks would just clamor to see the whole cheek, the undies making the girls that much more irresistible, pumpable. The things were also infinitely rippable.

But the bimbo twins didn’t really have anywhere to go, and the men wouldn’t be back from the farm for a good while longer. It just seemed so easy, so right to cater to the guys’ every whim and want. And guys preferred a nude slut.

Just a single thought, no matter how fleeting, of how awesome a nice and big, hard-working pecker would feel come sundown, was enough juice for at least four mid-day orgasms. That’s not to say they wouldn’t oblige a romp with any eager local. They knew what it took to be proper women.

Of course it did help that the bullboys had amazing schlongs, that they fucked away all worry. Their strong, superficially loving dicks kept the girls fiercely loyal, as they soldered fantasy and reality. With every hump and thrust, they imprinted new code into their wifeys’ DNA.

Kitty and Cammi’s men pounded new lives into their impossibly voluptuous moms-to-be. It was getting to the point where all they had to do was idly chat about what they were going to cook the boys for dinner, and they’d cum like crazy in no time.

“Grits, gravy an’ taters” was a most devilish prompt the two had discovered. Two or three times of the twinsies repeating this back and forth to one another, was all it took to make their legs buckle in desire.

The two cherubs had begun to dread what might happen the next time a man used their cum command. The first and only time thus far had felt like some gooey but ghastly frat hazing...

Matt had stumbled upon the freaky phrasing one night, really. He repeated it playfully because he thought it was awfully dumb that they were getting so worked up about it.

(He had no idea just how worked up.) Not that he would expect anything more from a devout and fertile cherub, ever, but still...

“Gritsgravytaters!” Kitty and Cammi shrieked, reflexive and ecstatic. It was hard to know which was more sublimely irritating: when he teased it quickly like that, or when he drew it out, low and deep, unlocking an extended, earth-shattering O from the most intimate parts of them.

How many times could you shatter the earth in one night, though? “Stop saying that!” the girls squealed after such repeated, malicious teasing, forcing back-to-back climaxes on them, all with his cock still hidden in his dungarees.

Vin was galloping down the hill, already jacking off. The bimbo twins had been whining rather loudly. Kitty prayed to St. Chesty that he was alone.

She pressed her cunt-wet hands together and mouthed the words to herself. Not two lines in, she forgot the proper interval of the saint’s “holiest of holies” blooming.

Did St. Chesty first jump from a B cup to a DD, or a C to a GGG? All these saints and their bra sizes...

She licked her lips instead of trying to finish. It was only natural, though, for a cherub to salivate within a quarter mile of a free-range boner. This was just ages-old Christian “bio-logic-sizin’” at work.

By the time Vin made it down to his buddy and the lap-ditzes the two of them commanded, both chained by the clit, Kitty was drooling so much that it all sounded like a garden hose. She was relieved to see, through vivid moonlight, that he was by himself.

“Well, I reckon thass right,” she whispered to Cammi as she uselessly wiped her face, trying to lighten the holding pen vibe. “I, like, totally forgotten that Gregg’s baby bro just got back from Iraq—Greggy-pegs gon’ be takin’ that hero down to the stables.”

(The needy tone in her voice told Cammi which stables they were, precisely. The forbidden ones on the outskirts of town. The ones where bad girls went to become good cows. The ones that were rumored to emit girlish moos of “Help us!” late into the night, even past their 3 a.m. bimbo bedtimes.

Neither of the girls envied these sinners’ situations, but maybe expressed some envy at the amount of milk those girly-cows could express.) “Army boy got his pick, whut from all uh them wheelbarrow wandas,” Kitty jabbered with an airheaded laugh.

She just assumed that Vin was showing off his cock to Matt, just like he did to him and all the other guys—every night, like clockwork, since Carmen gave him a titjob (for fixing Joe’s tractor). That it was okay to clit-chat for a bit.

Vin could be kind of annoying after all, even if he was a boy. Kitty steamed a little longer. She stared into her shimmering nails for some guidance. She flicked a little cake of semen off a nipple and let out a rich, moo-like grumble.

He’s here, what, two whole months already, and he only managed to pack on a half foot of meat in all that time? Eleven inches is like a frickin pig dick. Carmen must have only given him the tiniest little titty-pity.

Kitty herself had barely noticed any growth in the guy at all, when she had blown him in the men’s room at the pool hall, not two hours before. She was too busy inwardly bitching to notice, though, that he, along with their other farmer-master, bored down into the girls with their eyes now, fuming.

Cammi, on the other hand, was distracted by how hot Kitty looked after the barrage of instant orgasms: all sweaty, still out of breath, flush and fluffy and pink, goosebumps all over. Another brood-ready bitch, in an increasingly long line of backwoods barbies, all with pitch perfect everythings.

Her best friend. Her bestest, breastiest friend. Her breasty bestie!

If they were alone, they’d have already been onto slurping each other. Cammi made sure to go straight for the important stuff. “Do you think we gots a chance in heck to give him a li’l wake-and-break tomorrah?” she asked, saliva dribbling down to her jugs.

The two girls both whisper-squealed. They oinked, too, but Kitty accidentally belched. It was a big burp. Too much beer with her small midnight snack of two double burgers.

She held her hand to her heart, but it hovered and reached down beneath her bosoms shortly thereafter, to cup and cradle the fleshy things. For a hot-assed bimbo such as herself, boobies were much more important than a heart, anyhow.

“Can y’all even imagine?” she cooed as she caressed the cows on her chest, throaty. She was losing breath and purring at the possibility. Since they were almost at the finishing line of being broken in themselves, they’d only been allowed to fuck the fully saved.

“...Can ya? T’just suck on a fresh pecker an’ watch that shit grow?” She couldn’t slow her enthusiasm with such girly gossip. Being informed really was important! “Give ‘im the classiest beej, make Brittany real proud of us two, y’know?”

Sometimes, though, talking about cock had the unfortunate side effect of making them forget if there were a couple just nearby. Distractions, distractions.

“Apparently, homeboy’s got a mean slab to begin with, too. Gregg knows on account-uh cuz I guess Scori used ta be his girl, before he got—whatchamacalit—re-cuted to the millie-tary or whatnot. Ho, I’d prob’ly cream before I even saw it ex—uh, sex... sexpand?”

She lingered on the misty missing word. Intelligence was a still point of competition in the two besties, even though they barely had a mind left between them.

“Sex-pantsss,” she finally hummed, plunking fingers into herself. I ain’t no smarty-pants no more, she admitted silently. But it’s all good, cuz now I’m, like, definitely a sexy-pants.

Their ridiculous, orgasm-on-command predicament was now totally forgotten. Still, the labor-ready tart labored toward her pussy’s point. What was it? Her plush pair, those awesomely soft sweater-sluts, weren’t answering her.

It was really thoughtful of them to not ignore her outright, though. Nips always hard now, letting her know they cared so much about her. It was even easier to tell at this point, ever since they expanded in diameter almost two inches, overnight.

“Nahh, okay-okay... yew knowed what I’m speak-y of an’ shit, right? Like when real good U.S.A. peckers an’ stuff git all bigger-n-better-er?” She was almost positive that the word she was looking for could also describe her milky mams.

Kitty let it lie, though. They definitely uh-such-a-thing as too dern smart. What was that big old word, from when she didn’t dote on at least a half dozen cocks per day?

Pre-tense-or-ganical... Preeny-titty-tots.... Premie-tugteamy... Pre—prenatal? That was probably it. “Prenatal” made her pussy purr real sweet, so she rested her molten mind under its wet weightlessness. I’m jus’ a biggie li’l wet pet.

...Wet, wet, wet...

She pivoted her thick torso back and forth, sending that mooey magnificence slushing left and right, a lazy milkshake. “Just call me... Mrs. Sexy-Panties!” She used her best “serious scholar-dude” voice. Even that came out like elastic helium.

It didn’t matter one bit, as Cammi was lost, and apparently really, really loving the total lack of direction. Kitty enjoyed being the one to give her sweetie that look in her eye. The soft and wild one.

The one that said, “Stop talking. Fuck me!” The one that other cherubs hardly ever gave her. The one that Cammi, 99% of the time, reserved for nicely hung hotties. Kitty teased the moment out and continued regardless, twirling a dewy platinum curl.

“Anyhow, I hear he basic-like already lookin’ like a bullboy. I’m sure he’ll like us decent e-noughs, to, like—an’ like—mmmph,” she groaned gaily, collapsing into Cammi’s embrace as the slut pulled her by the cushy hip, smooched on her neck, impatient. Sloppy. Wet.

The both of them. Wet, wet, wet. It was hard to talk with her twinsie’s fingers now joining hers down below, but Kitty did her best. Blathering made her exta horny.

“I mean, um, really he’ll like, prolly ride us right proper, on into lunchtime with that thang, fuck our pussies jus’ like the Jesus say, and I’m sure, like—”

Matt interrupted the babbling broad (in what was basically one of the only slice of life conversations they could still call their own) with an animal growl. For a second, it shook them up.

But then the twinsies both thought back, each coming at it independently, to when they’d actively compared their masters’ grunts. It’d been decided then that he definitely, totally, had the lamest.

So then they giggled and jiggled some more, spoiled buxom brats they were, knowing what the other was laughing about. Kitty was partial to Gregg’s, actually, and not just because she was just thinking about the strong line of good breeding in his family.

She could have been off doing whatevs, relaxing on her own accord, but all that blazin’ dude had to do was roar for a half a second, and it would set her bimbo body to bouncing, jiggling into its rightful, man-serving mosey. That was really all it took.

One grunt, and she would stop cleaning the tile with a toothbrush for fun, head straight to the kitchen, getting to work on her famous root beer meatloaf, straight away. Gregg, in fact, had just set the town record for most lesbian conversions by a single bullboy.

By this time, he’d acquired quite the yen for the really butch strays, with the short haircuts. Now that was a real man.

Matt’s current grunt wasn’t the kind of antsy snarl like when one of their masters wanted to be fed. It was lower, dehumanizing, and seemed more threatening as it went on.

It said: “You will only address a man should he be in front of you. You will only do the things that Master has deemed fit for a stupid little girl. You might never be with child if you keep this up.”

The two blondes got the message now, especially since Vin assisted with his own deep tones. Men really knew how to make them move. They scooted over to either side of him, as quickly as their charms permitted, mushy and muddy. Slow but sure.

They clung to each of his shins as if they were blankies. They sucked their thumbs in rhythmic unison. A mirror image of regret, they sighed and sorried together. Then four neon-nailed hands went slinking up his legs and met at his fly.

After gazing at themselves, overjoyed and mind-melted to the point of sudden unfamiliarity with Matt’s bone, they deliberated telepathically over what to do next. Then they kissed a quick smacking kiss.

Cammi undid the button on his jeans and Kitty yanked the zipper down. They alternated democratically between nustack and shaft. BJs ended lots of really minor quibbles. You got caught gossiping about another dude’s dick, then you dropped dome on another one. Whatever. That topic was done, anyway.

They both knew already that Brandon left for the city, so they didn’t need to waste a breath gossiping about where he was. He was visiting an ex-girlfriend in hopes of getting her to stop writing an essay-length damnation of Cherub Cove. He said he brought along a case of Princess Water, “just in case”.

Kitty and Cammi bet each other’s piddling weekly allowance, of three cases of Cherub Cream and $1.75 Cherub Cash, over if he could convert her or not. Cammi was positive that they could even be triplets with the girl, that’s how close she’d maybe become.

They drooled all over just thinking about it again, yin-yang yummy with the same mind, being put in the same place by its rightful owner. Their bare asses bounced on the grass and dirt, eager for their own recognition. Kitty felt a hand on hers. She guided Vin’s dick deep inside.

“You don’t like the way ‘tripleties’ sounds, either, do ya?” she asked inanely, uttering aloud what they’d been only mentally communicating. She rolled the word off her bee-stung lips a few times as she granted godly motion to her corn-made cheeks. Left and right went up and down, cunny hungry for nutty nutrients.

“I don’t like the way your voice sounds right now,” Vin admonished, pumping her extra hard at her donks’s every descension. “Or how loud you two got tonight.” The skanks wanted to chirp that they had no choice. The twinsies had been loud, though, no doubt about it.

They were the best cums in the whole U.S. of A., so of course they were! Cammi reasoned, in spite of her dejection, that if she was a dude, she’d race down that hill even faster, hardon in hand, ready to add to the cunt-rocking cries of her farm’s titty-pets.

At the same time, it just didn’t seem—No. There was no time for “fair”. “Don’t tell him!” she begged Matt, knowing it was useless. Begging wouldn’t change the fact that she was still just a girl.

Besides, that morning, he made the mistake of treating her to an unasked-for snatch feast. He’d hold this resentment of her “feminist black magic” over her head for weeks, probably, if not months. He didn’t even realize what she’d “done” until she had the “gall” to call him “sensitive”.

(Not like she was too worried about that at this insane juncture, but she nevertheless had no clue how to appease him. Offer more blowjobs? She already made sure every guy in the house that wanted one got one, twice on the hour...)

“Tell me what?” Vin pried, hemming and hawing, all sorts of sweaty. The domineering sweat of hard work and hard dick. A heady aroma that made mean things sound cuddly and soft. Cammi just giggled and stared as she watched him fuck the shit out of her cuddly and soft friend, forgetful.

“These spoiled little sluts have the stupidest little sayin’,” Matt guffawed. “Oh yeah?” Vin asked, angling out of Kitty, aiming his dick toward Cammi as he jacked it. He was close enough to send a tiny wet rocket of precum onto her tear-stained cheek.

“Heyyyyy-uh!” she cried, pausing to show she was mad at being teased by a dick, oblivious to the one that was marinating in her mouth just seconds before. She seemed severely annoyed and offended, to a degree that everyone, including her, thought long snuffed out.

“Shh! You jus’ gon’ make it suck more for us,” Kitty reprimanded, sliding Vin back up her slit. She was right. What was wrong with a little precum, anyway? Cammi practically snacked on the real stuff lately. She started sucking with even more relish.

Matt popped himself out of her mouth and walked around back of her, anyway, ran his wood along her crack. She reached behind to angle for a slick mercy handjob, pausing for a second to lube up her palm even further, with generous gobs of spit. The second she started jerking, Kitty elbowed her.

She looked annoyed but defeated. “I don’t know what yer waitin’ fer,” she said, rolling her eyes, half sarcastic, half well-fucked. “You already done fucked like a million peckers today. Fuck another one!” she winked, stuffed to the womb herself. “Just one more!” she implored, with a faded whisper.

“I guess I could do that,” her twinsie admitted, throwing Matt up into her pussy before finishing the thought. The dixie vixens were soon side by side, getting fucked on alll fours, close enough so that all four titties smashed together. “Why the fuck not?”

That was the night they convinced Kitty to sell her car, and Cammi to float every dime of her trust fund to her masters.

All because of grits, gravy an’ taters. The girls couldn’t even have that one little thing. It would have been quite sad if they had any concept of what they’d let happen to themselves. Kitty and Cammi were completely sure, though, that their finances and livelihoods were going to the right guys.

Their very livelihoods depended on dick, their futures ruled by their own rumps. They knew quite well that a girl was totally useless without her big strong man. They knew their hips were big beacons of truth radar.

They believed their big strong men when they told them that paying exorbitant back taxes in accordance with something called the Texas Toast Act was not only perfectly plausible but “totally super-fair” and, really, just God’s way.

They believed their big strong men because they were only half paying attention, and because they were gawking at their big strong cocks the whole time, anyway. Kitty and Cammi knew that the first step in truly giving themselves up to God was to put all their faith and belief in the almighty Cock.