The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

PROLOGUE

“I hate this town.”

“Wait until we actually get to the town,” her brother said. “Wait until we pass the town sign. I’m sure there’s a sign. Then say you hate the town.”

“Alright, fine,” Liza said. She sat in the back seat, to express passive resistance. Jerry, her brother, had tried to entice her into the front with snacks and control of the stereo. She had refused all of it.

“Alright, there it is,” Jerry said, a few more cornfields later. A sign loomed in the darkness. Two bright spotlights shone on it in the stifling dark. It was painted a fresh white with dark blue lettering. It read:

STORK.

WHERE LOVE FLOWS!

“I hate this town,” Liza said, timed to the moment, as they passed by. And into another patch of crops.

She missed suburbs, malls, restaurants that were open 24 hours, the one karaoke bar twenty miles away, her horrible band teacher that she hated. She missed both friends. Her Mom had gotten a new job, not in the boonies, but beyond it. To where the map didn’t reach, and Wikipedia had no clues. There were a scant few demographic clues: ninety-eight percent white, Two percent declined to state or other.

There was a sparse entry on a regional agricultural journal—a Mr.. Flynn had bought an enormous amount of acreage. And then another correction, two weeks later. It was Pastor Flynn. The AG Spokesman regretted the error.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to hide my room or just go out and die,” Liza said.

Jerry’s silence communicated unease. It was unlikely any other young Filipinos had ever ventured this far inland, to where people knew the price of soybeans and hogs.

“You can work on your next album,” Jerry offered.

“I just finished the last one!” Liza said. “You want me to write the worlds first trans country song? Is that it? Ohhhh I love buttttssss in jeeeeeeannnnnssss, and truuuuuuuucks, and eeeeeeeeeeeeee. ” She popped her voice along her full range, her personal superpower. From the upper eddies of baritone, to a very credible mezzo-soprano.

“Liza...” Jerry had always been supportive about ‘losing a brother’, getting a sister. Far more than Mom had been. Far more. “Forget it.”

“Were you going to give me the Don’t Be Too Threatening speech? You? A college boy?”

“I was,” Jerry admitted. “I was just about to do that. I didn’t though.”

“But you almost did. You thought it! Unsupportive.... unsupportive older brother, trying to keep down younger sister.”

Liza subsided. She wasn’t sure if she was actually criticizing Jerry or not. In a lot of ways they only had each other. It had been hard, with him off at college.

“I’ll do a concept album,” Liza said. They were getting close to town. An alarming factory was the first thing Stork presented. Despite how late it was there was a lot of steam from a lot of pipes. There were no markings on it. Presumably people just knew—this was the factory. “Stork Songs. My first metal and blues album.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, they’ll love that here. I’d try the radio but I bet it’d make you die,” Jerry said. He threatened to fiddle with it.

“An album about two gay Ford F-350s,” Liza offered. “Fooling around with each other’s tailpipes.”

“I support that. I’m supportive,” Jerry said. But he turned his face towards her, in the back seat, to show that he was worried. He really was worried.

They rode by a burger joint. A duo of girls were briefly illuminated by the headlights. Two big, curvy white girls, arms around each other, in ripped jeans and overly full tanktops. Liza turned to look at the face of her oppressor, which was why she saw both of them flip up their shirts at the passing car.

She saw four big titties briefly bounce around, before fading into the dark.

‘Yikes,” Liza flushed. “Did you see that?” She looked at Jerry’s eyebrows in the rear view. He had solid, reassuring eyebrows, and a broad, sturdy face that had Firstborn all over it. At least she was the slender one. Six months of hormones had done...

Nothing important, Liza thought. She hummed a few bars.

They had gone through industrial, then commercial, and into residential. Houses that shone as white as the sign. Most of the lights were on, as late as it was.. Nice, big houses, surrounded by what looked like ostentatious lawns.

“There’s a thing for new arrivals tomorrow,” Jerry said. “Mom said it really is a whole diversity initiative, so everyone will be on best behavior. And you’re as diverse as it gets, maybe you’ll get extra burgers.”

“Canary in the coal mine,” Liza said. A good song title. She started to write it down, when they passed a set of new neighbors, still unboxing in the dark. They were caught underneath a street light, and it lit the four of them up perfectly. Asian—possibly Japanese, although Liza was no real judge. Some Mom in sweats, hands on her hips. A Dad carrying two boxes at once, behind a burly mover toting in four.

And... was she just.. but no, they WERE twins. Two girls, her age, one staring at her phone, the other looking towards the street with cool disdain. They both had their hair up, and wore the same beat-up jeans Liza was. For the briefest of moments Liza locked eyes with the girl in red as she looked up from her phone. Her breath threatened to stall—could she see her? Or was she just watching the glass as it pulled away?

They fell behind. Jerry made another turn and they were gone.

“What would the new album be about, really?” Liza said. Jerry parked the car. Once she was sure they were there, really there, Liza scrambled into the front seat. Little sisters had to do these things. “I can write some songs about corn, I guess. Or wheat.”

“Cows,” Jerry said. “Everything out here is cows.”

CHAPTER ONE:

It smelled like coffee, and only like coffee. Jon knew it well—his career had relied heavily on free Starbucks wifi. This was, however, a more bitter, acrid note, like it had been boiled and perhaps salted. And it was hard to believe the chipper, young blonde with bangle hoop earrings at the front desk would drink it.

“Here to see, uh, Pastor Flynn?” Jon said. The girl looked tired. Her outfit confused. She wore a fleece zip-up sweater on top of what was obviously a very tight, very figure-hugging orange dress. And there was a lot of figure to hug. “Sorry, is it Pastor? Or Mister? Or..... I know he’s Company President?”

“Oh, it’s Pastor, it’s DEFINITELY Pastor,” the girl said. “And you’re...?”

Jon wasn’t sure how to respond to this. He could see in front of the secretary, even turned around, a large piece of paper in a very large font. It read JON MASUDA. TAKE HIM TO FLYNN. The girl glanced down at it again. Her lips moved as she read.

“Masuda. Jon Masuda,” he said. He didn’t add: the only Japanese, and, for, that matter, probably the only Asian family at all in town.

They’d gotten into town on Saturday. So had a lot of people—the family had passed a number of moving vans, all apparently owned by the same company. And employing very burly young men. Jon caught both girls ogling their own mover, a man named Brad. He’d carried two bed mattresses in at once, one in each iron grip.

Jon had carried in a lamp.

“Oh, okay!” The receptionist stood up. But before she left, she picked up the hemlock-scented coffee with both hands, scrunched up her nose, and drank.

“Italian roast?” Jon ventured..

“Oh, it’s new arrivals week, is all!” she said. She whirled. “Okay, follow me! Welcome to Stork by the way!”

She had an amazing ass.

A ridiculous, perfectly popped rear end. It was bigger than Jon could’ve imagined, and her dress had to stretch to fit over both hips. The design was warped and distended. Even clothed, her ass seemed work inappropriate, designed to be at least pinched and preferably spanked.

Spanked a lot.

He sipped from his water bottle. Brad had generously left them a case. His company, and the water company, and this company, had the same logo, A curved line, flanked by other curved lines. Yumi had joked that it looked like a pregnant belly. The company was Agra-Calve Husbandry-Cultivation, and he had uprooted his entire family to come work for them.

He felt, looking at the swaying, magnificent ass in front of him, that it was a pretty good decision.

“Welcome! Welcome! I know I should let you get situated but—well!” Pastor Flynn smiled. He shook hands by gripping Jon’s hand, then snaking his other hand over to enclose the grip, leaving Jon completely under his direction. He smiled like a pastor. “Couldn’t wait!”

“Glad to be here,” Jon said. The receptionist with the perfect rear kept pointing it at Jon. He was starting to wonder if it was coincidental. She had many opportunities to face a different direction. She bent at the waist, feet locked together, to put a new mug of coffee on Pastor Flynn’s desk. The hem of her dress cinched upwards...

Pastor Flynn slapped him heartily on the back. “Take a seat! Any side of the desk. It’s the same chair! Pure leather!”

Jon took the side in front of the enormous wooden desk. He felt it was unlikely his boss really wanted him to steal his seat. The receptionist had given him a very tall, cool glass of water, with a cut of lime in it. Pastor Flynn got black, steaming coffee.

The office was sparsely furnished. In fact, it looked de-furnished. There were light patches on the dark cherry wood of the walls, like pictures had been removed. The enormous desk was free of everything but some papers and a wooden cow figurine. It looked hand-carved, white with black spots, and oversized udders. The eyes looked nearly liquid and right at Jon.

“Family get in okay? Everyone here?” Pastor Flynn said. “Nami, yeah? You have twins, huh?”

“Yumi and Nami. Yes. It wasn’t—I mean, moving your senior year...”

“To a two-cow town where the culture is feeding and breeding. The cows. I mean.” Pastor Flynn took a long sip of coffee. It smelled like old chicory and other miscellaneous roots. He winced. “Bracing. Jon, I’ll put it to you. There’s an elephant in this room. Well, we don’t do elephants. Lets say, a big cow.

Contemplative sip of coffee.

“Its this skin here.” He slapped his own arm. “White. Damn white. I spent some time in Korea, but it didn’t rub off. Although—well, anyway. My empire has been made out of caucasians. I don’t say that with pride. It is a limitation.”

“You need diversity,” Jon said. He looked around the room again. It struck him very suddenly—where were the crosses? The religious iconography, of any kind?

“Not just you,” Flynn said quickly. “Big arrivals week. Certainly not just you. And I definitely didn’t hire you or anyone just for... you know.”

But he had, Jon knew. The job offer hadn’t made much sense. Fifteen years as a middle manager at Middle Materials. Logistics. And then, an offer to double his salary, to provide the house, to fly the family out, to give thick packets of benefits. The recruiter had the sexiest voice, a whisper with the slightest drawl...

“Sorry? What?” Jon snapped back in to focus. He’d missed an entire sentence from the new boss, in the opening interview. “Sorry, I was...”

Flynn waved his hand. “People here zone out for extended periods all the time,” he said, shrugging. “Probably how peaceful it is. Don’t worry about it. Drink some more water. Actually—do that but here’s the real issue. Milk.”

“Milk?” Jon took a long drink of water. It was very good. Crisp. Quenching.

“My empire started with milk. Cow milk. Milk, all over this great country. I own, directly and indirectly, a healthy share of the dairies in the United States. Less in Canada. Big plans for Canada. But you, sir, you don’t drink cow milk. Lactose-intolerant.”

“Well, yes,” Jon said, between gulps. His glass was empty, and that was disappointing.

“Nothing wrong with that! Nothing wrong at all,” Pastor Flynn said. “Common to your heritage! And the same is true for West Africans, for Middle.. Middle Easterners, Greeks, even apparently some Italians! Literally can’t drink it. Cow milk. And that’s on me! I was thinking of milk too narrowly! Milk is whatever nourishes, whatever makes you feel warm and comforted. So you get the first taste—of Flynn-brand non-dairy milk.”

She must’ve been waiting. The secretary had half unzipped her sweater jacket, just enough to give Jon a glimpse of the tits inside her dress. It gave him a good idea of how big they had to be, underneath some cheap fleece. Truly enormous. She had a glass of bright white milk on a tray. It looked perfectly chilled.

Jon picked the glass up. It smelled—sweet. And familiar, in a distant sort of way. Something he’d encountered before. Not almond milk, not oat...

“Jon, you’re going to be selling this stuff across the entire world,” Pastor Flynn said. He took another sip of coffee and managed to avoid making a face. The secretary scooted out the door, and both men stared at her impossible rear, unabashed. He shifted in his chair. This was a bad time for an erection.

He drank the milk.

It was cold and perfectly tangy. Definitely not cow milk—he’d tried that a few times. It was creamy without being cloying, but heavy with fat. He drank and drank. His wife popped into his head. Hitomi had a pair of red panties he hadn’t seen in ages. After the twins were born her ass practically spilled out of it, both cheeks shoveling south of the fabric.

He finished. A bit got on his chin. It was deeply satisfying to drink. His mouth was still coated with cream. Even so, he made an effort to emote for his employer. He really needed this job.

“It’s—I can sell it,” he gasped. “No problem. I’m good with logistics. What kind of milk is it?”

“Good question!” Pastor Flynn said. “I can see you’re going to do really well in this organization!”

“You don’t have to go—where are you even going?” Hitomi said. “Are you just going to—walk out? Any direction? Just—wherever?”

“Yes,” Nami said. “Of course. At least I am. Yumi?”

Her sister was more deliberate. Yumi stood up from the table and looked out into the neighborhood. The new house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, and had white vinyl siding. As far as Hitomi could tell the entire town was cul-de-sacs and vinyl. There was one road, in and out, and it fed into a tesseract of the same clusters, the same bright green lawns..

“I think out is a little more interesting than in,” Yumi said, eventually.

Hitomi subsided. She had wanted something else for their first morning. Fluffy pancakes for her twin daughters in the new house—on the stainless steel griddle, with orange juice from the equally stainless steel fridge. Then maybe sit with them in the backyard and stare at them and the frog-green lawn until it was all burned into her retinas. She only had two months and fifteen days, after all, until they left for college.

And then what, her soul asked her. Pancakes for two on weekends, for one on weekdays. A Mom without kids. What even was that?

“Well. Be careful,” Hitomi said. The twins stood up and cleared the table. Hitomi cast about for ways to keep them around. They wore the same skirts—old school ones cunningly hiked, by Nami, to add an additional inch of leg. But still modest enough. Especially in a town that apparently came clad in taut jean shorts and useless sweaters.. Nami wore her Sailor Moon t-shirt where they all carried machetes. “This place is different.”

“WE’RE different,” Yumi said. She gathered her hair up in mock pigtails, and Nami put up a peace sign. Yumi had her goth pikachu shirt on. She’d designed it herself. “We’re just gonna go around and be not white at people,” Nami said.

Yumi looked at Nami: a look Hitomi knew perfectly well. Should we invite Mom. Nami gave the briefest head shake.

“Anyway we’ll be back later bye!” They each took a big water bottle. And she knew they’d applied sunscreen. They were both going to very good universities.

She’d done a good job as their Mother, and now it was over.

Then they were out of the house. A very nice house. Hitomi went upstairs and stared at the mirror, instead.

The mirror was very well lit. The one in their previous apartment had three vanity lights, and two of them would not work. Any new bulbs, screwed in, would overload and burn through. Hitomi had gotten used to a shadowy version of her face. Now the raw light and completely clear glass gave a merciless look at a thirty-seven year old mom of two eighteen-year olds.

“Fuck,” Hitomi said.

It wasn’t that she was—she was thirty-seven, she had moisturized according to best practices. But a Momness had settled in—grains of pigment beneath her eyes, the first cut of jowls. Mom face, Mom hair, brushed back and tucked. She wore loose jeans and a striped shirt.

It wasn’t all ravages of time. Hitomi checked out her butt. Admirable for her age, pert for her background. Jon liked to talk it up—when they made love he liked to ramble on about her body in hushed, approving tones. When he was feeling really daring, or about to cum, he’d compliment her “nice thick ass.” She’d had mixed emotions about that for nineteen years.

Of course, from their first look around town, her advantage there was gone. This was a town of fantastic butts. Corn-fed, plump, and flirty. Hitomi had thought of accusing her husband, half-seriously, of moving in for the female trunks. But it was no time to feud with the only one sticking around.

Hitomi took a long drink of water. The AC wasn’t quite working. It was a smidge warm, even humid. But the water was very cool and refreshing.

There was a lot to do, that was true. The house was a tetris of cardboard boxes. Her husband, especially, had found a way to accumulate an enormous amount of plastic and toys despite their financially-strapped life. And the girls were teen girls.

Instead she watched a solid two hours of Crash Landing On You.

She’d watched it with the girls, and was reasonably sure it was more than another Mom move. Hyun Bin was a man for all ages. And she wasn’t drinking glass after glass of chardonnay. It was water. Lots of water.

When she felt the first tinge of heat between her legs it surprised her. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a sex life. She diligently climbed on top of Jon every two weeks or so, owing to his bad back, and managed to have some credible orgasms once in a while. But: at ten in the morning? Alone? Yes, attractive men on TV were dressed as soldiers.. Nonetheless.

The feeling didn’t go anywhere.

Hitomi treated it like an itch: if she just moved in the right way, it would drop off. Instead it purred away. Her anxiety about it started to fade away. That was the best thing about getting turned on, in her opinion. Worries melted down around it. There was just her, her water bottle, the heat between her legs, and the imposing eyebrows of Hyun.

She put a tentative hand between her legs. A delivery truck slammed a door somewhere, and she jerked it away, guilty. What if the girls came home, and saw her rubbing her clit in a sprawl on the couch? They’d made it through High School without boyfriends—although, at least with Nami, that was probably from not telling her.

Hitomi made lunch. A lot of it, just for her. Noodles, lots of them. She wasn’t just horny, she was hungry. At least with the new town there was no reason to diet, at all. She was in the 1% of local girls, weight-wise. And—she considered—extra stuffing in the rear wouldn’t hurt with Jon. Not at all. He’d probably say a lot of nice things about it, maybe even bend her over their nice new furniture, the kitchen island, other areas of the house. That was a good idea—fuck in every room. Show they’d made it, that the last nineteen years had paid off.

She fidgeted on the bar stool. Was she ovulating? When was the last time she’d had a bonafide fantasy involving Jon? He seemed poorly cast in sex scenes. And yet there he was, back fixed, showing his appreciation for her body all over it...

In it...

“Boxes,” she told herself, firmly. She’d start with the girls. They probably wouldn’t want her to. All the more reason.

Characteristically they’d dumped all their respective items in together. It was gratifying, in a Mom-sort of way, to be able to pick them apart. Nami owned the chuck taylors, the purses, the faux leather. Yumi owned the pink backpacks, the squishmallows, the politically-themed t-shirts. Those last ones weren’t likely to go over well. They had two boxes of YA books, although Nami’s had many more brooding men with the same types of cheekbones on the cover.

A fun trip through the last eighteen years of her life, except that it was about to end, and her thighs kept rubbing together. Now her boobs were getting in on it, too. She rarely thought about them. Neither did Jon—she’d loved it when he sucked on them, but it was an embarrassing thing to request and she eventually stopped. Now they’d love a hard lick and tug.

Hitomi made the discovery in the very bottom of a box labeled “schoolwork—boring.”

It was wrapped in multiple layers of panties—each of them more shocking then the last. First a pink pair, then bright pink, then polka dots, and then a thong. Two thongs. Hitomi gasped out loud in her own empty house, and then felt pathetic. It wasn’t even clear to her which girl had the collection. Yumi had surprised her before. She’d been the first one to get busted for looking up porn on the family computer. Girl masturbation videos. How-tos, Hitomi figured.

Inside the undie collection was a vibrator.

“Ohhhhhh girls,” Hitomi said. She held it in her hand. It was much thicker then she would’ve thought—she hoped just for the sake of the batteries. It had a hefty circumference. Her daughter’s sex toy. One daughter? Two? She shook her head—they wouldn’t be sharing—

But they did share a lot.

Shaking her head, to clear it, wasn’t doing anything. Hitomi stood up and stumbled back. Another Jon fantasy seemed safer, and it was right there. Jon, uncharacteristically forceful, deciding to see if every inch of the vibrator would fit in her. Her, Hitomi, her legs behind her head and dribbling wet. Of course it did. She’d had twins, after all. She could probably fuck a fire hydrant if she needed to.

Back to the bathroom. The girl in the mirror looked—animated.. She had a full flush of color in each cheek. And there was no aging, grim Mom, motionless in the lights. She was practically panting. Her chest heaved. She wanted to call Jon, have him return. For his lunch break or something. Hitomi stuck her head under the tap, drank deeply, then let it run over her head. It was no help at all.

She thumbed on the vibrator.

Hitomi felt—young. So young, so sexy, so hot. Her body felt five years younger. Ten. A new start, that’s what she needed, and what better start then to feel eighteen all over again. She’d been that kind of horny slut, after all, getting knocked up like a stupid brat with no sense at all.

She’d wrapped her legs around Jon that time, urging him to pump inside of her. He’d growled at her. She’d teased him, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that how it had all gone down? She’d set her sights on a young male during what was, in retrospect, the peak of ovulation, and she’d practically rubbed her panties on his face. She’d rubbed his biceps and commented on their quality. When they’d gotten heated she’d kicked her legs on his chest, playful, and felt a surge of arousal when he’d caught her feet, yanked them to the side.

The vibrator felt so good. Her hair was wet, and it dripped on the wood. Her legs cantilevered in the air, rigid against the hum of the vibrator. She had never re-lived her own startled insemination. And too bad because—it had been hot, hadn’t it? Her feet in socks, beating against his back. It was no wonder he hadn’t pulled out, she’d had a messy orgasm all over him. Jon, young Jon, had no chance whatsoever. A young sexy thing had insisted on taking her panties off and nearly thrown himself on his cock.

She’d even—god, how had she forgotten this—said things like “you better not cum in me, we just met.” All while deliberately squeezing, exulting in the fact that she could squeeze a man’s dick with her pussy, see his eyes get big and wide.

“Oh, god,” Hitomi whimpered. She was cumming, just like that. The same kind of out-of-control spasm-cum that left her shivering and useless. The vibrator slipped out of her fingers, clattering to the ground, noisy.

She glowed, electricity licking her. And this time there wasn’t that—that moment. When their eyes met, afterwards, and they’d shared the shocked realization that this man she barely knew had dumped a quart of cum in her, and this woman he barely knew had squeezed him dry.

This time it was just—nice.

Maybe the new town was going to be okay.

“How bad do you feel about ditching Mom?” Yumi said.

Her twin blew out a long breath. Nami was sweating in the local Stork heat. It was a fifteen minute walk to town, and every part of the journey was heat-reflective. Even the sidewalks were, Yumi thought, very white.

“Six.”

“Six and a half here,” Yumi said.

“No, you’re not. You’re a seven,” Nami said. Not accusing. They went through periodic patches of serious fighting, but the last cloud had lifted at age fifteen. That was when Yumi had confessed to her sister, and only her sister, that she was bi, and since then they’d had mutual secrets to keep.

They went through periodic spells of looking different from each other, too. But the twin vibes were powerful, entering the summer. Possibly, Yumi thought, because they were headed to different colleges. There’d be new boys in the future, ones that Nami knew nothing about. And girls. Maybe both at the same time, if Reddit was right about the school. And she was kinda hoping it was.

So they had the same hair, the same thin, rectangular glasses, the same quasi-schoolgirl skirt. They often kept the same stride, unless Nami noticed, and tried to break out of rhythm.

“Stop that,” she told her sister.

Nami was the—Yumi felt that “dominant twin” didn’t quite grasp the situation. There was a lot of relationship going on. But: Nami was the one who stole small items from Walmart, for them both to share. Nami owned and wore a leather jacket. Nami was the one who yelled at people if they needed yelling, and that applied if she was driving or just the passenger. Nami certainly didn’t keep a journal with the emotions categorized by color of gel pen.

Nami didn’t feel any sense that it’d be fun, and kind of cute, to walk in stride. She didn’t even want to walk that closely.

Until they made it to town.

And then they drew right back together. Going Doublemint was just what you did, Yumi thought, when you felt... awkward.

It wasn’t that Calving was all-white. They’d been raised outside of Detroit and while the town was diverse, the neighboring town was not. And that had been the one with the mall, so they were used to venturing into caucasian-held territory.

The difference was—Stork was all one KIND of white. There wasn’t even white-person diversity. It was all country hotties.

“Oh my GOD,” Nami whispered. The men, in particular, were alarmingly hot. They had chests like tractor hoods and nutcracker jawlines.. They had blue eyes—even from a distance, Yumi could tell—and were overdressed for the heat. Lots of baggy hoodies in the haze, and stiff, sweat-damp pants. Yumi sniffed, tentatively. It seemed like she should be able to smell their sweat, even far away. It seemed like it would smell good.

The girls were just as overstuffed and overheated. Some were outright panting in the haze of the afternoon. Nonetheless they were resolute in pajama pants and fleece, neither of which did much to conceal butt or boob. At least there was a little more diversity—in hair color, with a very few dark-haired girls and even a rare brunette in the blonde crowd. Brunette was nearly waddling, vastly pregnant, her belly button popping out. Her solicitous, hunky husband kept a hand on her. The other beefy hand pushed a stroller.

“I’m renaming this town. It’s Allbeef. No. Patty. The Town of Patty.”

It actually smelled like burgers. There was a meat haze that hung over everything.

They made it to a bus bench, opened up their water bottles, and drank deeply. And drank and drank, until they had emptied them out. Not just because they were—nervous, about venturing into a new town. Also the water tasted great.

Both Nami and Yumi had talked a lot about teenage rebellion, and it had never happened. Yumi wondered, sometimes, if she was holding Nami back. It was usually her idea to get home from school, properly hydrate, and then finish all homework in a relentless kitchen table march. She’d talked Nami out of a few boys—not talked, exactly. Stiffly indicated, through body language, that they were known fuckboys who wanted to bang twins, or at least a twin.

“This place has a bus system?” Nami said, patting the bench. They watched men and women, with highly developed bodies, pass back and forth. “Is it a truck? Is the bus a truck?”

“Maybe it has, I don’t know, maybe it’s all a bunch of Swedes here,” Yumi ventured. “That’d explain some things, right? Big bunch of swedes? All those blue eyes? Maybe there’s, like, one of those umlaut things over the O in Stork.”

“Bunch of Scandinavian Socialists?” Nami mused. “I don’t know. Lots of cowboy hats. And the burgers. Not meatballs, burgers.”

They were both very aware of the company’s generous, unprecedented health benefits. Mom’s cancer scare had taken up a lot of ages ten through twelve.

They were quiet. Eyes were starting to prickle on them. Yumi crossed her legs. The passerbys were—staring. Politely, but staring. Male eyes, a lot of them, examined her and the leather-clad pikachu bootleg t-shirt she wore. The girls, too, were interested, even with the sweat pouring down into their eyes. They had slight half-smiles, and rolled their hips when they walked.

“I guess no one has ever seen girls from Michigan before,” Nami said. She hadn’t crossed her own legs. “Is it weird the air in this town is burger-flavored? Do you think the town is just generally meaty? Are we waiting for the bus?”

Yumi pointed—there was a restaurant nearby, with NOAH’S RANGE on a new billboard, And then beneath that, on a banner: “WELCOME NEW ARRIVALS!”

“Why is the banner old?” Nami said.

It was old. It had mildew on it. But underneath it, circulating and holding plates filled with burgers and BBQ, were—not-white people. Lots of them..

The middle of town was divided in two. On one hand, a public park, with an actual band stand near the northern edge. It held off a brief row of quaint shops, mostly empty, and then, just beyond it, what seemed to be a labyrinth of big-box stores. Their HVAC units were visible even from there.

The other half of town was all burgers. One, single, massive restaurant, with an attached parking lot full to the brim with trucks and the kind of people that drove trucks. Trucks with child car seats stuffed into them.

But it was New Arrivals Day, evidently, and they’d all arrived. They all kept to the grass of the park, and shuffled their feet, and eyed the behemoth boys and big-butt girls surrounding them. Still, Yumi felt relieved to join their ranks. There was a big black guy and a number of brown girls, mostly in their thirties and forties. Generally holding plastic plates in a very long line that terminated by the restaurant.

Yumi was on immediate guard when the boy approached.

First of all, he had barbeque sauce all over his mouth. Second, he had shoulders from horizon to horizon, and had his sleeves rolled up. He was a dash darker than they were, and wore a ringer tee that was grey on grey. He seemed—tense. Alert. His head was on a swivel, and he did a scan of the crowd even as he approached.

“Cool shirt,” he said, and nodded, introductions out of the way. Yumi redoubled her guard. “I’m Jerry, this is...?”

He looked back, to a shorter, scowling figure with dark hair just behind him. She wore a black hoodie and baggy grey jeans, and had her hood up despite the heat. Shoulder-length hair escaped from the cowl. She had the same broad, serious cheeks as her brother, but softened, eased into something more relatable than Jerry’s lego-block face.

It was hard to get all the way to her eyes. They were shrouded by the hoodie, sunken deep within her face. And then, after making the effort, they had a cool, devastating sharpness. Yumi felt her cheeks flush. It had to be impolite to have eyes like that.

“Liza,” the girl said.

“Yumi and Nami,” Yumi said, fast, to cover. “Yes, we’re twins. Nami was first out, and I was last.”

“What’s the tell for who is who?”

“It’s easy,” Nami said, catching up. Yumi caught her appreciative look at Jerry. One of the genetics they shared was a fondness for male bodies that could wrap up and tackle. “I’m NAMI.” She nodded vigorously and gave a thumbs up. “And this other one is YUMI.” Grim headshake, thumbs down.”

“Where are you from?” Jerry said. “Nami, I mean. Yumi, you next.”

Nami put on her absolute best Detroit accent. “Motor damn City,” she said.

“Uh-huh, of course. I’ve been looking around and it seems like they wanted more Lions fans,” Jerry said. He waved an arm at their fellow New Arrivals. “Looks like the UN around here, doesn’t it? Weird place to suddenly get serious about diversity. We’re Filipino. From outside Pittsburgh. I think they wanted non-whites who knew about hockey.”

“Pinoy, huh?” Nami said. That got an approving smile from Jerry, and Yumi immediately got the message: back the fuck off. He is mine. She even took a half-step backwards. “Trace far back enough and I’m Japanese. Yumi, I don’t know about her, you’ll have to ask. And yeah I think you’re right. Everyone’s wearing jeans from Target. Definite mid-western crowd.”

Nami’s interest level had to be very high, to use up this much twin comedy, this quickly.

Yumi examined the crowd. The call of the burgers seemed to have broken down social barriers. They seemed to be free, getting served along with other meats out of two enormous grills on the far end of the perfect lawn. The line was very long, and, if Yumi ignored the fact that it was a pen of diversity in a larger, encircling band of very white people, mostly pregnant, somewhat heartwarming.

“I’ll get in line,” she said, to give Nami distance, and room to maneuver. But Jerry and Liza came with, which was not the intent. But the burgers did smell great. The air was thick with umami. The restaurant had its own, different line out the door, this one with current residents. The residents weren’t any farther apart. They were all ass-to-crotch, fiddling with the zippers on their sweaters and jackets.

“I think we can fit in better if we each have a dozen burgers,” Yumi said. “We’ll have the right kind of butt cheeks. Has anyone been.. you know, has anyone said anything? Mean? Go back to whatever?”

“No.. but...” a quick glance back at Liza.

“He’s worried I’ll break them,” Liza said. Her arms were crossed. “I’ll batter them down with being filipino and then, just when they’re weak, BOOM, she’s trans. K.O. That’s how it’ll go.” Her voice skittered around a wide range, first a growling intensity, and ending higher than Yumi.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and glanced at Yumi, who tried to meet her glance. At least that explained the intensity of it. It was a searchlight, checking for threats.

Jerry winced. “Maybe it will!” he said, attempting hope. “We’re invited, you know? I get the sense everyone got sat down and was told not to mess things up for corporate. We’re all working for the same company, right? They won’t want to mess with the stock price.”

“Yeah,” Liza said. She wore a defiant amount of lipstick. “It’ll be like a musical where they all embrace tolerance.” Yumi wondered—was the depth around her eyes an artful amount of mascara? Yumi herself had rarely messed with makeup, despite having a living mirror available.

“There’s just one of you, maybe that won’t activate—” Jerry said. His voice was fading. Liza gave off strong vibes. She radiated. Yumi was close to it.

“Also I’m vegan,” Liza said.

“Yeah...” Jerry lost hope. He hung his head. “Yeah, you are.”

“Hell yes. Pumped to be here, in a burger line, in this town. Feeling secure. Glad my Mom got that raise. Tell them I’m starting a really loud band, too..”

“She’s—”

Someone was moaning.

It was unmistakably sexual from the start. A dark-haired girl with broad, olive skin by herself at a bench, surrounded by trays and halfway through a burger. There was a lot of meat juice dribbling down her chin, down her shirt, staining it pink. Her eyes were closed tight, and she was shaking in waves.

Girls around the lawn exchanged looks: this was a woman orgasming, a really good one. She wasn’t even trying to muffle the thick, throaty moans. When she finished she sat there, eyes popping open, unfocused on anything.

One of the grill men, soaked with sweat, abs visible through a thin cotton shirt, came over and gave her another burger. She picked it up, weakly, and bit into it.

“Although maybe I am missing out with meat,” Liza said. She’d lost her edge, watching the girl cum. Yumi was definitely feeling the heat a little more. She wondered: was that sweat on Liza’s brow, as well?

She watched Liza lick her lips.

“Tell me more about this band!” Yumi said, and clapped her hands together.

Three burgers later Nami was feeling very, very easy and very, very warm. Jerry was right next to her, and that was just fine.

She didn’t feel bad about it in the slightest. Being attracted to Jerry made a lot of objective sense. He ticked a lot of boxes, boxes Nami wasn’t even aware she had, until Jerry made her very aware of them. Starting with being so wonderfully wide. He looked just about impossible to knock over. His forearms were both hairy and sweaty, and led to two meaty biceps that filled out a polo nicely. He had excellent hair, he was two years older then her—nearly exactly. He seemed disappointed that they didn’t quite share a birthday, and that was charming.

He went to a college not quite as good as hers. It was even the right distance from hers—about 100 miles.. Perfect for a summer fling romance, perfect for keeping it rolling into the fall. Trying to find friends for Liza was very sweet and earned him huge points. He ate more burgers then she did, which was thoughtful—no lady liked to be ahead on the burger count.

She had to admit—it was a little—physical, this attraction. A full-body reaction that started when he grinned, and made its way down between her legs. A warm, tingling feeling that seemed fueled by the best burgers Nami had ever had. All of them. And there was even seitan for Liza—marinated and grilled. “Oh, of course, we’re just rolling these out!” the grillmaster had said, at the request for the vegetarian option. “Tell me what you think!”

Jerry caught her eyes, and Nami got another one of those shivers, the kind that ended up in her nipples. When he nodded towards the exit Nami got right to her feet. Yumi and Liza were deep in band planning, and had attracted another musician already, just from the power of waving their hands around..

“Sorry to jump on you two. You looked the friendliest,” Jerry said. He put his hands in his pockets. He even had good shoes. Nami felt distinctly wet. Was he really taking her away to kiss her? Jump right to the start of an incredible summer pre-college romance? Nami admired the efficiency. Her thighs kept twitching.

Wouldn’t she usually make some snarky remark about never wanting to look too friendly? “Oh yeah, friends,” Nami said. Stupid, stupid. She licked her lips. All the blood had pooled out of her brain, that was it. “Nothing wrong with friends!”

“Yeah... yeah,” Jerry said. He nodded at an alleyway between Noah’s Range and an adjoining coffee shop. It looked like it’d have garbage cans in it. Nami was ready to compromise on that, if it meant privacy. “Anyway... I went for a morning jog... kind of poking my head around... and... and I don’t want to worry Mom and Liza has plenty to worry about but...”

Nami stopped short. This suddenly didn’t sound like kissing prelude. She tried to force her brain back into activity. It was not cooperating, stupid with hormones and primed with lust. The grill smoke swirled around between her ears. “Yeah?” she said. “What?”

“Well. I think I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.” Jerry stuck a finger to his lips and pointed to the corner.

The coffee shop had its own line—one made entirely out of Stork residents. They didn’t seem to have their usual vacant, wanton expressions. No one looked happy. Two very busty, very blonde baristas were handing out large cups of thick black coffee. The next in line, an enormous, red-bearded man, shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said, reluctantly taking a cup. “I already drank a whole one. It ain’t natural.”

“Big strong man like you?” said one of the blondes. The scent reached Nami, finally. Acrid and heavy, like a scoured industrial tank. “Do you need to watch the video again?”

The redheaded man looked up, pleading. “Can’t you give me...?”

“Oh, Johan, you big baby boy,” the barista said. She took a searching look around. Nami jerked her head backwards. What was all this? “Oh, alright, just a little. I’m aching too. Go take a cold shower right after, you know?”

“Double showers and I’ll go weed the lawn,” redhead man said, holding out his cup. “PLEASE, baby.”

The other barista yanked the girl’s shirt up. Underneath were two amazingly big tits. The woman didn’t have a bra on. They were a strange combination of plastic and fake along with natural and huge—unlike anything Nami had seen before, on or off the internet. They were stark white and pooched at the sides, but also defied any gravity or common sense. And they were large. Nami’s tongue stuck to her mouth.

“God damn,” Jerry said, right above her. They were both peeking into the alley. Anyone could’ve seen them, but everyone had eyes for the beaming blonde with her boobs out. The barista screwed up a look of concentration, held her breath, and gently squeezed a tit.

A slosh of milk jetted out and hit the redhead in the mouth.

There was a round of appreciative laughs from the assembled townsfolk. Even over the heavy roasted stink Nami could smell it—creamy and rich, fresh from the dairy.

“Oh, I really am sorry!” the blonde did seem apologetic. She took a deep breath, and this squeeze generally landed in the coffee cup. And the man’s pants, and shoes. Both tits were leaking, now, dribbling onto the pavement.

Red beard theatrically tossed his head back and drained his cup. A round of applause from both men and women. “Alright, the tap is open,” the blonde said, through fits of giggles. “Get in here!” The crowd surged forward, coffee cups in hand.

Nami backed up. Jerry was right next to her. Breathing hard, just like her. His fists were clenched. It was a likable, masculine thing to do. And then he reached over, like it was completely natural, and guided her away by the small of her back.

“What did we just see?” Nami said, once they were safely back at New Arrivals. Yumi and Liza were already tapping on the park bench, coming up with rhythms.

“I’d really like to know,” Jerry said. “But for now, don’t drink any coffee.”

INTERLUDE: 1

Terri knew it was unusual to actually like New Arrivals Week. Residents groaned when it was announced, and the week before was a virtual holiday, using enlarged and overactive sex organs to their full extent. Terri, herself, had hauled her overstuffed body to the main square and let the locals have their way with her. Her ass was still written over in permanent marker, all her admirers writing their names after a satisfying session.

Still, she drank all the coffee she could. All of it. And black, even though her own cream was so good and so rich. It tasted like D-cell batteries and fried dirt. She coughed, which set her tits jiggling. They were the biggest in town. Flynn himself remarked on them, how perfect they were, the high-fat high-nutrition highly-transformative milk she gave.

It was sort of nice, once in a long while, to not have to be milked twice a day. The coffee lifted the craven need for dick that led her to voluntarily stockade herself, pussy to the rear, for passerbys to enjoy. Two or three discreet fucks a day was enough. Orgasms didn’t make her briefly pass out, tits spurting, twitching underneath the sheer load of endorphins.

A little “her” time, she thought of it.

She’d drawn the shades.. Terri turned the TV on to something just mildly pornographic, and put the sound on loud. And then upstairs, where she squeezed with considerable difficulty into the attic, hauling her boobs around.

Inside a nondescript suitcase she kept her Coffee Time things.

It was all so exciting. All her pre-Calving memories were pretty hazy, more like condensation on a window than actual images. But she was pretty sure that, at some point, she’d been a bit of a rebel. And it was still kinda hot to rebel.

She treated herself to a juicy, anticipatory cum. After eleventy billion orgasms a girl learned to savor the little differences. She even used her fingers, instead of one of the many vibrators all around. Old Terri probably did that, probably frigged herself with just her hands, instead of a twelve inch Calving vibrator with the big black nubs.

Inside the box was—she drew it out slowly—her old t-shirt.. Under the influence of coffee she could even read it—WARPED TOUR 2005. She pulled off the pink tank and struggled into the shirt. It went not quite halfway down her tits, and just barely covered her nipples. Immediately milk leaked into it, the scratchy old cotton releasing her flow. Terri reluctantly pulled it up.

She still listened to punk and alternative—had even bonded over it with the latest man. The fourth or fifth one. Calving responsibilities drew them away, but there was always another gentle man with an enormous penis around to knock her up.

She hadn’t seen the first one in—a long time. Mark. Some of his things were in there too. His underpants, a pair of boyish tight-whities. She sniffed them, and put them back. Coffee Time meant the ability to miss things, too.

Her diary was in there. For awhile she’d kept track of things like years and number of pregnancies. But even during Arrivals Week it had just seemed like a pain to keep track of. Men could handle that. Time didn’t work the same in Calving or Stork or any of the other towns, anyway. She still had a perfect body, not a hint of aging, wonderful shiny hair.

“Ah!” there it was, the picture. Her, giving the camera the bird. No boobs at all, no butt to speak of. Not a single pregnancy. She wore a college sweater. Terri missed that sweater—she had burst it trying to put it on in the second trimester. To be fair, it had been heavy with old milk, and one of the men had used it repeatedly as a cum mop.

Terri examined her past self. Another nice thing about New Arrival Week: the capacity for self-examination.

Overall she was—happy. It was true. She was happy. There was a lot to be said for the life of a partially cow-ified cum slut. The sense of community, the cummies. The pretty much constant waves of pleasure. That was nice.

Fulfilled?

Tougher, and at the very limits of her current coffee-fueled cognizance. Terri didn’t want to kid herself. Men did that to her all the time. She was an enthusiastic member of the broader Calving community, and had personally fucked almost everyone in the family.

She, herself, had turned dozens of girls into horny thick sluts. She’d held them against her tits and let them nurse, their eyes wide with shock, until it turned into glazed over lust. She’d welcomed so many boys between her thighs, letting them rut themselves into a frenzy, their dicks growing bigger and heavier nearly by the thrust. Heck, her milk had probably made thousands of men and women into simpler, hotter versions of themselves.

Probably right that second some unassuming co-ed was drinking a tall glass of her, wondering why her bra felt tight, and why her dorm neighbor looked so very fuckable.

And she’d do it again. And again and again. Until every nerdy college girl, just like her, had a whopping pair of boobs and a cock in her mouth.

But a girl did wonder: what if?

Terri reluctantly stripped off her shirt and put the photo back. There was only one thing left to do. She always saved it for last. Fingers trembling, she pulled it out of the very bottom, along with her glasses. She didn’t need them anymore, but it felt right to put them on.

WIth a whole lot of coffee in her, and her boobs nearly emptied, Terri could just about do some serious reading.

She spread it out in front of her, her only reading material that was hers. Sometimes the men read to her—from Flynn’s bible, but some steamy erotica as well. But this was her, her reading. She could still do it. After however-many breedings and milkings and fuckings. She cleared her throat and let the words resolve.

“WELCOME TO IPHONE,” she read, off the pamphlet. She shook her tits with excitement. “THIS QUICK START GUIDE TELLS YOU HOW TO SET UP YOUR IPHONE AND USE ITS KEY FEA—” a difficult one. She could do this. Her tits leaked all over. “FEA—FEATURES!”

Terri collapsed backwards. Her jugs wobbled about. She’d done it. Her own milk pooled around her chin. She stuck her finger in it and checked her taste. Even with coffee in her—she was the most delicious girl in town.. Everyone said so.

It was a fulfilling thought on a very fulfilling day.