The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Marital Strain

by Limerick


Life had changed. It was all new, and somewhat frightening, when Marshall looked at himself in the mirror. His dick was this wild and thick thing, darker brown than the rest of him, with heavy folds of skin. When he got hard—and he was always a little hard—it unfolded and unfolded, the skin sloughing back, already glistening and starting to ooze from the tip. Fully erect—and he was often fully erect—it reached up past his belly button if he pulled it back, the underside a pulsing network of dark veins. And that was just his cock.

The rest of him was—bulk. Muscle, but not really. Not honest muscle, certainly. It wasn’t like he was working out, outside of hoisting his wife around. Just chemicals. Chemicals, chemicals, chemicals. The benefactors didn’t even bother to really disguise the stuff, although it came in so many different forms. Water bottles infused with chemicals, delicious and disgusting snacks in every variety, all with the same aftertaste of cheap sugar and chemicals. Sprays and makeup and just big bags full of what looked like sugar, only slightly larger seeds. All of it sugar-y, sugar-esque, just enough so a person could write it off as simple sweetness.

Anyway, it had all fucked Marshall up. He was brawny from the neck down, all of the doughy goo that passed as his diet packing on as slabs of faux-muscle. He was strong, in a way, shoulders broader, his chest a long expanse of tufts of chest hair and pectoral muscles. But Marshall was aware of how false it was, just neurochemistry doing the work. He hadn’t done a single pushup or anything. He was just growing into a new body, like a plant.

Marshall had been through the slut-making process himself, of course. He had been set for a solid and boring career in the hospitality industry, dragging a reluctant and sarcastic spouse into the woods for his first managerial position. The company had gotten bought out shortly afterwards. He had headed out for the big training meeting. Little town called Calving. He had awoken from a haze quite a while later, balls deep in some cooze not his wife, his dick already big and red and raw. After a mild detox the cheerful, mild people in charge had explained how their employment would work. They were allowed to leave, if they wanted.

Marshall was not a dummy. He had seen the people who had left… people was a bit strong of a word, to be honest… boarding a bus some time later. Naked and fucking in line, saying not a word. Who knows where they’d been sent.

Everything was ready. The first batch was nearly here. The early arrivals were probably already taking showers, watching television, dipping their toes into the pool.

His balls ached. Was he really into this whole scene, now? Thrilling to the look of confused, horny lust that would make their mouths hang wide, their bodies bend over? Was that the chemicals too? Or maybe he just needed a good fuck after a half-hour of work.

Good thing he was married.

“Hey, baby,” he said, affectionately, heading towards the back. One of the perks, he had an entire suite to himself. Marlene was in her usual TV-watching chair, her legs slung over the side. She was dressed in a drawstring pair of shorts he had probably skeeted on ten thousand times, her fat tits mildly constrained by a halter top that read “MY EYES ARE RIGHT HERE.”

“Hey baby,” she said, munching on popcorn [sweet-ish], her eyes locked on the programming.

TV was her catalyst. His frustrated, intellectual wife, with her boxes of books and ruthlessly short hair that she cut herself. He hadn’t needed to do anything, the town had handled everything, like they had promised him with firm but moist handshakes. While he had busied himself installing dispensers and additives in all the rooms, in all the things, she had started to slump, more and more, watching their TV with her mouth wide open. Eventually she had started to drool during shows, only to notice, embarrassed, and wipe it herself dry. And eventually again, she had stopped caring.

While Marshall had fiddled with the pool filter she had started to eat during shows, her body craving proteins and carbohydrates but mostly more of the chemicals. Marlene had remarked on how tired she was, at the end of the day, not grasping that she was busy growing and growing, packing on brand new titties and growing into a nice big ass. Never quite aware, despite the snacks and the drinks and the tinkly aluminum pile by her chair, that she was full-bore no-stop addicted to insane fuck drugs. By the time Marshall was refitting the plumbing system she had taken to stroking herself during shows, her ass padded and thick, still wearing too-small clothes from her waif days. Her only real movement from the chair a growing number of sweaty, hungry, bouncing fuck sessions with hubby.

Marshall wondered, from time to time, if the company had made him like it, love it, or if it was just drugs and hypnosis and whatever. But he loved watching her spit pool in her growing cleavage, watch her fumbling attempts to get through novels she used to devour, her eyes straying to the TV screen, her increasingly casual approach to his sexual access. The way she’d just bend over if he had a hardon, or if she was horny. The way she’d suck him dry without buildup or preamble. Her softening, ditzy vocabulary.

“Coming on from your left, baby,” Marshall said. He opened his fly. His wife did the rest, her eyes locked on the screen, fishing out his prong and feeding it between her heavy lips. There were still a few popcorn kernels in there. Marlene started to blow him immediately, her tongue relentless on the underside of his dick. They had reached complete sexual satisfaction, these days, both subscribing to a policy of 100% access, 100% of the time. Any hole.

He had let her in on the secret, eventually, when she was too fucked up and sex-hungry and thick to do anything but roll her eyes. She had tried one little rebellion, grunting her way through some Russian author, but had given up halfway through the preface. The book was still on their nightstand. He had jizzed on it at some point, and it was dotted with dried white cum.

Marshall grunted into her mouth, already thinking through the next several hours of work. Finish helping in the arrivals, then set up the evening apparatus, check in on the TV stuff, make sure the pool was chemically toxic. God help anyone who took a dip.

“Do you need me tonight? For the big party?” she said. Marlene spat a big gob of his cum—bright white, these days—and rubbed it into her palms until they were shiny.

“Better not,” Marshall said, after considering. “Too much you. Don’t want to worry anyone. We’re supposed to keep it very relaxed.”

Not that it would really matter.