The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kitty and Cammi in Church Country

7. Epilogue—HIS BEAUTIFUL BBQ RIB

Our bouncy bimbettes didn’t waste any time, pulled off their “onesies”, and headed straight to the sofa. “I really hope they don’t give each other bruises,” Kitty pouted, stretching.

She held a little fist tightly together, pursed her glistening lips like she was on a catwalk, and furrowed her brow, play-acting her best “angry”. All it did was make her look slightly less dippy and silly, vaguely more cock-hungry.

Nevertheless, Cammi congratulated Kitty with a spit-smothered kiss, for what she decided was a stirring performance. “Bravo, honey-wunny,” she sighed, tonguing the underside of her gal-pal’s pudgy chin, trailing down to her collarbone.

She clapped her impeccably fed buttocks together lightly, in the preferred mode of applause for angels. She took the finger she’d started to suckle on out from between her cartoon lips, but not to shush. She pointed at the latest issue of “Ovulation Nation”, dangling off the edge of the coffee table.

There was jizz caked onto its pages, but it was merely one jizz-caked thing in a house riddled with them. Their old clothes, frumpy yet too tiny now, from when they were “totally emacia-ma-tated” and snobby ntellectual sinners, had been repurposed weeks ago as “mealtime cumrags”.

Cum was normal, natural. The slut-twins didn’t think twice about finding gooey gobs of it in random places, like on their toothbrushes, or dripping down onto their foreheads from the ceiling. They were, in fact, grateful to be around so much of the stuff.

The best part was that it meant that there were some really happy men around the house. It also came in handy for those awful, lonesome times when there wasn’t a man kicking about. Sometimes, there wouldn’t be a single dollop of testosterone in the whole place.

Sometimes, these droughts could come perilously close to a half hour. Eating reservoirs of semen right off of the floor, in dire situations such as this, felt as American as apple pie...

Kitty saw the pathetic-looking bimbo on the front of the women’s health magazine, decked out in a street urchin get-up (comparative to the sexy Christian carnality of your average cherub, that is) of corduroy pants and a flannel shirt. She felt a lump in her throat, suddenly self-conscious.

The unfortunate cover girl’s hips were pitiably tiny. Barely flaring out at super-thick status, they most certainly weren’t even close to the blessed “Huge Refuge” level of acceptability. One could plainly see a tiny gap between her two big thighs, even, still fighting to retain some easy mobility.

Kitty tsked, shocked. Little toothpick girl be wastin’ away... Big, bold yellow script shouted, “ANGEL ANOREXIA ON THE RISE!” The smaller script in the subheading read, “The satanic anti-fudge movement that’s putting your body in danger!”

Sure, the girl’s stomach showed off some amount of pudginess, but her little pooch only puffed out over her waistband for an inch or two. The button on her pants was undone, but her zipper was still mostly up all the way. Kitty knew a dangerously unhealthy girl when she saw one.Hot hunky Jesus, is that what we look like?

She made a promise to herself to pick up a dozen more jars of Jiggle Jelly when she and Cammi went on their twice-weekly trip to the supermarket. And some of those extra-fat chewy cheese sticks while she was at it, at least a case of them. Definitely the kind with the blueberry pie filling. The ones made with vanilla and half-and-half just wouldn’t do anymore.

Us girls really need to put some meat on our bones! She ignored her embarrassing reappraisal of herself. She forced herself not to throw up at the gaunt, malnourished-looking triple-Ds on the wayward girl, ignored her sinful use of two shirt buttons ready to bust, and soldiered on.

Poor thing.”Besides, that director-man on the TV say he wanted a pre—coco-cocious look, or whatnot... Whatever,” she went on, starting to lose steam, “not one of them hot... fuckin’ daddies we got’s gonna teach us how to write our names on the signin’ contracts we gotta sign, or... the papers, or... whatever...”

“What-ever! You know that, I’m like, sure, and I... know... um... that?” Kitty wrinkled her brow, seeming to wring more persipration from it. She was suddenly unsure. What in Brittany’s name is we even discussin’ right now?

“Yeahhh... I fuckin’ hate that shit,” Cammi agreed, though losing interest fast, uncapping a bottle of baby oil. “Whatever, though.” Both bimbos were flooded with foggy, steamy images of slick and engorged dicks. Vin and Brandon sure were taking their time.

Cammi was beyond horny. This was possibly the horniest she’d felt all hour. She knew that they could complain like spoiled bitches all they wanted, but in the end, what a man said was what a woman felt anyway, deep down.

(That’s what St. Brittany said, and that bitch totally ruled and was hot as fuck.) “Y’know?”

She tickled Kitty until they both forgot about being actresses. Giggling was as infectious as Big Nipple-aria (the relatively harmless strain that comes to town once every year, and, naturally, gives a cherub her trademark big nipples.)

“Okay, girl, ass out, now! Jus’ a quick li’l coaty-coat, an’ then you can do mines. We don’t gotta do our ta-ta’s if we don’t wanna. Whatever...

They collapsed onto the couch and into each other’s cushy, puffed-out flesh, frenching. Salty and slippery and voracious, they waited for the boys to make their picks and come downstairs.

Almost smothered by their hot panting, loud jewelry, and gushing cunts, they heard a wailing sound not too far off. Kitty excavated her face from between Cammi’s sweaty jugs, dabbing at her forehead with her other’s discarded leotard.

“No, no, baby,” Cammi advised, “thass jus’ gonna make yer pretty little face all wetter-like.” She smirked and drooled, doting. “Like, oh yeah!” Kitty squealed, burping.

She smacked her forehead, forgetting again how drenched they’d made it, and her hand slipped off. Letting go made her topple back down, face first, into Cammi’s charms. Cammi, lost in the wet heat of the moment, didn’t get why she’d want to stop motorboating in the first place.

She can be so weird sometimes! Oh wellsies... At least it was, like, a super-duper... comfy-kinda fall. She ran a few fingers through her boob-feasting girlfriend’s curly hair, feeling relaxed and reflective for a few seconds.

It was very fleeting. Introspection was very rare for big hot Christian bimbos. Big dicks, Jesus, and often, a big suckable dick belonging to a foggily realized, overalled Jesus-y with pretty abs, usually got in the way.

This was just the perfect way for the girls to just decompress after such a strenuous workout...

* * *

All that putting, bending over, having guys say really sweet things about your ass, or your starter belly... Cunny-wetting compliments about all your other charms, that would come when dudes said all they could say about your coochie...

Learning what to do with a non-girly hole could really make a girly plum tired!

For their part, the guys did their boner-throbbing best to ensure Kitty and Cammi didn’t tumble to the ground to nap and mewl on one another’s plush bodies, in some sort of only partially sexy, sleep-starved 69.

And as an apt but tuckered-out little girly-student, you had to feel the raging woodies you give them slide all up and down your crack, when they show you how to putt without knocking the club into your sneakers....

To have to try not to stick the club into your pussy by its grip, when the guys begin to refuse to keep coming over, in half-hearted, useless attempts to re-teach you... To have to not give in to your all-pervasive craving for a third 64 oz. God Gulp of E-Z Eggdrop Energy, the fertilizing “boost-y drinky-poo.”

Mini-golf was supposed to be the easiest and funnest workout, but it always became yet another one of those sweaty and distracting activities, doing their work at installing a permanent inability to remember your left from your right, or up from down...

And all because you just couldn’t concentrate on anything but their nice dicks on your butt, or how cute your little sneakers looked! Being a gym gal took more stamina than even Brittany gave them. It was totally exhausting, to have to pay attention to a man’s words, instead of his blessed bod.

Though these simple sentiments never had more than one syllable, and always came out of hunky lips sluggish and slow, just listening correctly proved to be more of a workout than even the most strenuous “Mammassage PearChair” excercises.

* * *

Even, yes, at the recliner’s highest setting (Moanin’ & Mooin’ Mode) which took considerable effort, on account of having to stay still in the luxurious leather chair, after you’ve juiced it all up from the newborn-again lass whose job it was to serve a big-ass Banger dildo into you. A bimbo needs that just-right combination of agility and concentration, to really work out her pelvis.

The five or ten seconds of having to pry into the language center of your bimbified brain was more demanding than the Coconutty-Caramelly Brownie Eat too, felt more physically taxing than the hands-off round that came after eating your third baking sheet. (Lipstick smearing was certainly a problem, but the bigger issue was that sneaky boner behind you, that you had to make ejaculate.)

Beyond being completely ditzy with your sense of direction, you’d have to smile and let your lower “lover’s lip” swing down flirtatiously, as some cowboy re-taught you words like “allow”, or “spread”, or “legs”. “Wide” was trickiest, for silly golfy-type words. Was that the one that described the approved level of thickness in a Brimbo?

Or was that the one where you moaned, annoying and out of your station, less sexy and more complain-y? “But I’m not wide-ing!” you whine. The mucusy drip down your throat, of a recent wad of spunk, will make it sound like you caught some kind of cold. “We dote wiiiide,” you’ll whine more obnoxiously, in reinforcement.

Noticing how Golf Guy #2 starts to pump deeper into your ass at your mistake, grunting louder and angrier, will prompt you to take note as you clench his prick, grunting along with him. “Poppa likes it,” you’ll sorta-think.

You’ll be more than happy to have been introduced to a new coquettish affectation into your boy-pleasing repertoire, never once wondering or realizing where it came from. (You’d likely stop thinking, because it sucked, but also to chalk it up to God. You’ll say, “God gave us sluts all our cool, slutty word...thingies.")

Just like saying “barbecute”, lazily pronouncing “calling” as “collie”, or referring to prayer as “pray-pray”, this will be another hot little rut-readying reminder, to throw in your angelic arsenal. To remind everyone that you’re a mindless, malleable statuette of blessed babemeat...)

Keeping track of their sense of direction is soon impossible with so much brain-fucking... scents of erections. Even after you color-coded your toenails, blue and white coatings alternating on each little piggy of your left footsie, red and white for those little wigglies on your right.

Without fail, guys had to remind the twinsies why a little neon-colored ball (Cammi’s was shocking pink, Kitty’s electric pink) was supposed to go in the hole, instead of “sump’n red and thick-like.” Then you struggled to remember why they couldn’t simply put it in the hole for you, like sexy-fucky pray-pray time.

* * *

Excercise just took so, so much out of a girl.

Cammi took some candy-colored, bejeweled rings off. Then she took her mind off the physical and emotional strain of mini-golf. She propped Kitty’s slightly upturned caboose a little higher, squishing her hands into the side of it, then up, so she’d get the picture and pop it on out like a good little bitch.

That big round bubble, like her own, was getting to be more work than one weak girly could manage. It took her a couple more squeezes, but Kitty got the message. She didn’t even need to pick her face up, or anything.

Cammi caressed Kitty’s positioned cheeks, then reached over and under them, sticking one finger in her slit and the other in her butthole, making her let out a muffled moo, straight into Cammi’s cows. Cammi mooed back.

That wailing sound from before had regrettably returned, though, now a whole lot louder. Kitty picked her head up again, peering through the blinds, letting bright light in. They looked at each other with wide bimbo eyes, erupting in complicit snickering. It was a cop car.

Its doors slammed open and shut. “But I didn’t do anything!” an undersexed-sounding hag said. Kitty and Cammi knew exactly who it was, and high-fived. “Yessss!” they whisper-rejoiced, both at once.

“Oh, you didn’t? An’ I s’pose public indecency and verbal harrassment ain’t anything to a little radical leftist bulimic like you?” Another cop chuckled. “If you don’t cooperate right fuckin’ now,” the first one continued, “yore goin’ to jail, yew fugy li’l skinny-minnie.”

“I’m not bulimic!” The woman and the cops stepped up to the porch. Kitty and Cammi couldn’t keep from giggling, a lot.

“Look, I swear this is a mistake, officers. Don’t make me do this, please! I’m new around here. I’m housesitting for my aunt in Poren Springs this summer, and thought it’d be good to get a run in tonight. I didn’t think cutting through your—”

“Okay, ma’am, you said all that stuff about four times now, and I’m sure you’re aunt’s a decent lady and you’re not the baby-killer thatcha look like, but I’m sorry.” More giggling.

“So I’m-a tell you ag’in. You have two choices: y’all can either apologize to those sweet innocent cherubs you terrorized, and spend a week with their nice American family right here, or serve a six month sentence. Take yer pick, missy, but take it now, ‘cuz we don’t have all night, y’hear?”

“I know my rights, you... you pigs! What are you, fucking those slutty fat-asses on the side or something? This is unheard of! I mean—is this place some kind of Christian sex cult, or what?!” The twinsies were cautious but lazy on the couch, yawning and smooching. “Let me go!”

“Should we release the Saving Spray?” Cammi asked Kitty. “Yeah, I’d say so,” Kitty said. “We don’t really want this bitch goin’ to jail. " Cammi reached for the button beside the window, but Kitty pinned her down with her melons.

“I got it, babes,” she said, straddling Cammi’s fluffy stomach to get closer to the big pink button. It was out of bimbo reach for a reason. It was like the atom bomb of covert missionary manuevering, reserved for extreme cases only.

“Unnngh, there it—ooonh—goes,” Kitty moaned, punctuated by Cammi’s fingers adding a little extra juice to sweeten her bestie’s little belly ride. “I’m wonderin’ if we oughtta go out—” She caterwauled with pleasure. “Nevermind, Cam-a—...lot....”

The cherubs, already, were no stranger to the “virgin visitor’s welcome”, having been around to take in strays a couple times already. Even the meanest and weirdest ones had changed their lives around within days and become devout converts to the church and Our Family Way.

“What’s that smell?” the apprehended woman asked, sounding horrified. “What was that, yew barren heathen?” a cop said. The unfortunate jogger repeated her question, only this time, it carried a more relaxed, intrigued tone. “Whaddya mean? You gonna talk shit about the way out town smells now, too?”

“No... sir. It’s just kinda... It smells kinda good! Kinda like cherry pie almost, but... somethin’... mmmm...” The doorbell rang. “We’s prob’ly gon’ hafta git on up an’ identify ‘er,” Kitty husked, drunk on the silken feel of the pudgy stomach that she’d made so sticky and wet.

“Naw,” said Cammi. “This ain’t our house. We jus’ gonna sit right here and have us some more fun time. She, like, totally gon’ done get whut she deserve. Can you believe that stupid dyke had the nerve to call good girls like us sluts?”

She pulled her twinsie down to her again, only this time, Kitty decided go a little further south than Cammi’s wobbly bust of wonder. She dove straight for her patient pussy, instead. “That’s a nice like kitty-kitty,” Cammi murmured.

The sound of their masters barrelling down the stairs reminded her that cocks were amazing. She grabbed a big red vibrator from the coffee table and pushed it on, happy to feed it into Kitty’s thighs, in exchange for some clit-rocking tongue work.

It was all about the simple joys of life. “We gotta let the men take care of err’thang.” That was the simplest joy of all.

* * *

“Kitty-cat,” Cammi said a dozen hazy days later, in a measured, serious tone. It came out sluggishly, sounded like she had a bunch of sandwich in her mouth. It hit Kitty’s ears in a strange way, making them twitch and flap.

She flicked one and petted it, enjoying its funny, silky feel. It never crossed her cotton candy brain that these were not her normal ears. “Yeah?” she said, oblivious to the fact that it came out in a lengthy, rumbling moo.

“You have a dang tail, big bitch,” Cammi proudly informed her, between snorts. She wagged her own, unaware that it was brand new. “You big slutty cow-slut,” she mooed and muttered, fading into her thousandth church country nap.