The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was just three useless girls and her, and it was definitely not going to be good enough.

Emily had thought about heading out on her own, many times. Apparently, she was learning, she was too scared to attempt escape by herself, and could attempt it only in the company of a six foot two muscle girl who took periodic masturbation breaks. And a bickering lesbian couple.

“Escape, this way. Very promising,” Amelia said, staring at the posted sign. She was the grousing half. She wore cats-eye glasses and a sensible North Face jacket. Emily wasn’t sure how much to trust her. She kept sucking on things—fingers, a lollipop, and even the zip of her jacket. Her cheeks were too red, her boobs suspiciously large under the jacket.

But she was clean as a new needle compared to Rhonda, who practically oozed pink.

In fact she might’ve—there was a lot of scent and juice from her direction, and Emily tried to stay upwind. She wore her old clothes, a green pair of drawstring shorts and a t-shirt that read “I’M NOT THE BITCH THAT FELL OFF, I’M THE BITCH THAT STEPPED UP.” Forced around a lumpy, drooling body it was just that much worse.

“It says, Escape. So yeah, lets escape,” Hannah was the group leader. In the absence of Jerry, who was a no-show.

“It says, ESCAPE!” Amelia said. “And there’s an exclamation point on Escape. It’s suspicious. That’s very suspicious.”

Hannah checked the sign again. It led off the main street out of town and into a wooded thicket. The very existence of the woods was odd, to Emily. The town was surrounded by crops in neat squares. Why was there a woodland trail?

She checked her phone. The trail had a label on the map: ‘ESCAPE THIS WAY TRAIL’. She tried Street View. There was the trail, and there were two girls with enormous tits, shirtless, waving at the Street View driver. Still fascinated, despite herself, she checked subsequent pictures. The driver had clearly come to a complete stop, and was on camera, getting sucked off.

“Lets go,” she said. “We really should get the hell out of here.”

She’d come in with Joyce and Joy early. They were the reporters. She was the photographer—but also the assistant, the fixer, the logistics, and now the stay-safe girl, the one ensconced at the house.

Their editor hadn’t been sure what to tell them. But they’d all seen the video of the escapee. She was classic blonde, big boobs, and had happily demonstrated for them how she could fill a glass with her milk. She’d show them as many times as you asked, never seeming to dry up, requesting only a glass of occasional water.

In the same database folder, with the tape, was a set of pictures scraped from social media of Meredith, dated one year prior. Brunette, bags under her eyes, and she didn’t smile in a single photo the entire journalism staff could locate.

This version bursted with grins, her eyes lighting up when anyone walked into the room. Especially the men.

“Need any help?” said a man.

Emily carried many heavy boxes. She’d carried a half-dozen uphill in the Balkans, watched by goats, struggling for purchase on half-frozen mud. She’d run with their baggage through Hong Kong, after they’d been tipped to flee the hotel. Straps on both arms.

“I’ve got it,” she told him. And promptly tripped on the short walk from driveway to house. The man hadn’t laughed. He’d just scooped it up with shovel-like mitts and handed it back to her.

“I’m Brad.” He said. Emily fought her own urge to flee. She was not the proximity person. That was Joyce and Joy. She needed to back up thirty yards and examine the man through a camera lens.

“Emily,” she said.

“This is fun!” Rhonda said. The other girls all winced when she got going. The future marched next to them. Just placidly marching, Rhonda was way too hot. Her boobs bounced up and down in a way that should’ve hurt. It should’ve absolutely hurt—two enormous sets of soft tissue were practically trampolining up and down. Scientists had conducted studies making bras for these women. Rhonda seemed to enjoy it.

“Doesn’t that HURT?” Emily said, finally. They were just a hundred yards in, their band of escapees. “The—bouncing. Your breasts.”

“My—” Rhonda put up her eyebrows. Emily concentrated on those. The lack of depth in her eyes was alarming. Rhonda had been a graphic designer. “..sorry?”

“Breasts!” Amelia said. She yanked up her own shirt. As Emily had suspected, she had her own oversized jugs. At least they weren’t actively leaking. “Did you forget the word? You read the Paris Review! You have their t-shirt!”

Rhonda looked hurt. “I know boobs... tits... jugs... ta-tas... umm.. bobos. Hooters. Knockers. That’s a lot of words for the same thing. Hooters is the best.”

“Melons,” Hannah volunteered. She kept slowing to wait for them. She was also towing their supplies.. A massive pull wagon full to the brim with delicious-looking snacks. Emily’s stomach growled. She was very hungry. “Lets take a ten minute breather. I’ve got body business.”

That was what she called masturbating. Hannah was at least somewhat more with it, but the girl also stopped on the half-hour to jam an entire fist down her spandex. She referred to it like it was exercise. And the way she did it, it was.

“Great!” Rhonda enthused, and Amelia also nodded. Emily hated to admit it but a break did seem good.

Even though they could still see the entrance, still see the sign that read “ESCAPE!”

The thought struck her, and she couldn’t fight it off: they were just girls, after all.

Things had seemed to go well. Joyce and Joy had headed off to their respective jobs at the factory and at Stork’s suspiciously well-equipped hospital. Meanwhile Emily had gone and taken photos. From a distance, unobtrusive. Luckily the men and women were all big enough to be captured with telescoping lenses.

The men were especially... magnificent.

It hadn’t struck her until she’d checked her work. She’d taken some very few pictures of the overdeveloped, big-lipped species of human female that were the locals. The men, she had dozens of pictures of. There was so much to them, so much more than plush and padded sex organs. They were all tall, sun-blotted-out tall, shoulders hard to fit in frame, and had a kind of restless energy that could even be caught in still photography.

All in the service of pushing strollers, or walking, very slowly, with comically pregnant spouses.

She’d spotted Brad in the company of a number of other boys. They wore polos with ‘NOAH’S RANGE’ on them, and all had the physiques of forklifts. In the short two blocks she was able to track them, they got into two playful fights, slugged each other on the shoulder any number of times, and laughed through all of it.

She was too far away to hear them laughing, and found herself missing it. And then took another dozen pictures of male butts. They could easily have substituted for any defensive line in any football franchise.

Joyce and Joy had seemed normal enough, although deeply worried about their respective findings. Joyce had uncovered a maternity wing of the hospital large enough to birth a brigade. Unused rooms with unused equipment, in a basement, simply awaiting the big bursting bellies.

And then they’d finished dinner, gone to their respective rooms, and, not long afterwards, woken Emily up by cumming really loudly. At which point she’d realized they’d sent lambs to cover lions.

“All done!” Hannah said, like they all hadn’t heard her cumming loudly.

“The other two are... still at it,” Emily said. She rubbed at her eyes. Something about the situation was so... tiring. She’d nearly drifted off, lulled by the sound of three fellow women getting off in the open air. She’d had some sort of waking dream. Something with men, inevitably. The soft rumble of their voices, their unconcerned eyes evaluating the situation. Evaluating her. The subtle things in their eyes, their bodies, that meant they’d shifted over to lust..

“Cum, you dumb bitch!”

The sound was muffled through a big wet vagina. Amelia was between Rhonda’s legs, not even off the trail. They’d taken several steps to the side and started going at it. Rhonda had her shorts around one ankle, sat on a large, dusty rock, and was giggle-moaning. “You big stupid slut!” Amelia punctuated this with licks. “Cum! Fucking cum!”

It finally took. Every single girl orgasm Emily heard in town was teeth-gritting, body-shaking, out-of-body quality.

“How’re you holding up?” she asked Hannah. Hannah was occupying herself by tossing a rock as hard as she could, and then trying to beat her record.

“Fine. Strong,” Hannah said. She kept looking back at the trailhead, like Jerry might finally join them. “Really good and powerful. Here. Stay hydrated.”

Emily drank deeply. It wasn’t that they trusted the water supply but.... it seemed like Stork had better ways to go about their business. Every TV show came alongside an audio-visual explosion of hypnoconditioning. The milk was laced. Every calorie had its own price, from the small boxes of travel cereal to the nice meaty burgers with extra extra extra fries. The clothes were sticky or rubbed with talc.

The water, also, tasted pretty good.

“Lets go,” Hannah said, once Rhonda had her shorts most of the way up, most of her pussy hidden. “Remember, stick together. We’re gonna beat this together. The way Jerry—lets go.”

Emily was really starting to doubt they could do it. And then they only went about ten minutes before finding the first Hidden Supply Cache For Good Girls Only.

Joyce had given in first. To the TV.

They’d found her the very next morning, after she’d gotten an entire night of extra programming pumped into her. She was asleep with her eyes open, actually snoring. The town had thought of everything—every minute and a half, precisely, Joyce would blink. Just enough to keep her eyes moist.

What stuck with Emily was—just how much cum the girl had produced. The sheets weren’t just wet, they were sodden, and with some sort of viscous, sticky-clear substance that felt exactly like silicone lubricant. It was really hard to get off her skin, and seemed to cling to the sheets, even after they washed them. Twice. Plus it smelled like blueberry pie.

Emily only caught a glimpse of the show before slamming her eyelids shut. Even so the tune called out to her. Something about... men. A reminder of the hierarchies of the world, who was on top, who was on the bottom. It found a way to rhyme ‘patriarchy’.

It was awfully catchy.

Joy had broken the screen with the lamp, which also broke.

Joyce had insisted that she was fine. She felt fine, she was fine. She’d stripped off her shirt to show them—none of the outrageous tits that every woman in town sported. Some mild swelling, wholly attributable to her cycle. The fact that her bra didn’t fit was—she allowed—a little alarming. She’d go get some new clothes. She was, she allowed, a little thirsty.

It was almost believable. The alternative, after all, was wildly insane. A signal on a TV show was capable of reaching into a college-educated woman, on her guard, and convincing her deepest and most primal parts to rework themselves on the fly. To produce a fuck-me gel out of her pussy.

Or was this just a signal, an activation?

Joyce got lost in her own head during breakfast. Staring off somewhere into the distance. She’d startled back to it quickly, and didn’t seem to notice the lost time. Except... she’d drooled. Emily ran her finger through it, afterwards. It was thick drool, slimy, and the kind of semi-viscous stuff a man would probably enjoy thrusting into. Blowjob media.

Emily went and found a man, as soon as she could. She’d thought she could catch Brad—he seemed to go to work at that time. Instead all she found was a man on the park bench, positioned to watch the sun rise. He had his arms spread out, and she took shot after perfect shot of the golden rays combing his beard. Painting his face orange and red. An authority figure, in the glow of his authority.

Authority they needed—Joyce had stormed out, telling them all it was purely localized boob sensitivity. Joy had shut herself up in the bathroom, which meant she was either crying or masturbating. She’d emerged with tight cheeks and a steel clench in her jaw. She’d gone off to work.

A man could’ve—helped. Emily was sure of it. Firmly and sternly told Joyce to stay right there. Take a long, cold shower. Joy needed to hit abort. All the things that Emily wanted to say, and couldn’t. She was just the assistant, just a weak, mousy girl...

It wasn’t until Emily stood up, cheeks red, that she realized her park bench male was getting a sloppy but slow blowjob from another girl on her knees.

“This is really great,” Hannah said, slurping on a tube of pink goo. “We’re really lucky to have found all this stuff, this way we won’t have to dip into our own supplies.”

The supply cache had been just off the path. Emily wasn’t big on video games, but someone was—the food packets and unrefrigerated girlsnax were in a cartoonish pirate chest, with an oversized gold-painted latch. Inside were meat sticks, lots of crunchy bags filled with bright orange corn chips, and many, many tubes. Most of it was in tube form.

“Girls, please,” Emily said. “Don’t eat it. It’s... look, you all have really nice, really big tits. You know how much bigger they’re gonna get with this crap in you?”

“That’s why you eat, then exercise,” Hannah said, like she was explaining geometry to a child. Emily watched her empty an entire sausage casing of pancake batter girl goo into her mouth. It smelled very enticing.

“How do you know it’s safe?” she tried. Most horrifying of all were the milkshakes. They were room temperature, and the perfect consistency of frosty-cold diner-style shakes. Rhonda was licking her way through one.. The straw was disturbingly phallic. “It’s been out here—for a long time.”

“We’re ESCAPING,” Amelia groused, even as she made sure Rhonda had a second milkshake, ready to go. And an array of other snacks as well. “Why would they help us? And we had to solve a puzzle to even find it. Things are bad enough without paranoia, Emily.”

“You should eat,” Hannah said, nodding. Her mouth was covered in pink. “Gotta keep up your strength for the team. And it’s pink! So you know it’s for girls!”

They had solved a puzzle to find the cache. Someone had staked a sign right on the path. There was a rebus on it, which hadn’t really mattered, since it already had an arrow pointing right towards the food. It was the number 4, a horn plus a crudely drawn knee, then a ghost, then the letter T.

She was very, very hungry.

They’d brought their own food, but Joy and Joyce had eaten through the entire house on day two, fueling their transformations with whatever calories they could find. They’d even found and devoured a box of cheerios she’d tried to hide in her room. All to fuel some of the biggest butts Emily had ever seen.

“I just... it’s... bad,” she finished, and sighed. The girls had lost concentration again, and embarked on another food binge. It’d be at least an hour before they re-emerged, foggy and horny.

The safest looking foodstuff was in Hannah’s stores. It was bulk oats. Emily supposed that the missing Jerry was behind that—she’d only met him once, but his sturdy confidence had inspired a lot of relief.

She opened it up, sniffed, and then tumbled a few into her mouth. It wasn’t until her second—third?—handful, right before she started shoveling, that her brain belatedly recognized that bulk oats really weren’t supposed to be sweet. And definitely not frosted with a candy glaze.

“I got it,” Joy said, on day two. She reappeared at the end of a long work day bearing papers, binders, files. “I had to sneak around but I got it.”

She had stopped for burgers on the way back. The meat sang to Emily, told her that she was a very hungry girl who could use her protein. Even as she talked her boss, Pulitzer-finalist, was feeding fries into her mouth.

“You might wanna slow down with those,” Emily said. She licked her dry, chapped lips. The girl in the mirror seemed faded and dry, like she’d been rubbed down with salt. But that was good, wasn’t it? Joy was glossy, her body absorbing much-needed nutrition in mighty gulps. Desiccated and tired beat unstoppable fucktoy transformation.

She knew exactly where the burgers came from. Noah’s Range had been under her surveillance the entire day. Just close enough for the warm scent of beef sear to filter into her nose. All she’d eaten for two days was dry cereal. She really wanted some food.

The men walking in and out were distracting, at least. Joyce and Joy obviously had the girls of Stork handled, so why not concentrate on the boys? After all, it was immediately apparent what the purpose of the girls was. Service and breeding.

What were the boys supposed to be?

Whatever it was, they seemed well prepared. While girls walked around in a sort of unsteady waddle, weighed down by bellies, or boobs, or some sort of overinflated part, the boys nearly ran from place to place. They had unflagging energy. They were at least six feet tall, every one of them. They were being prepared for—what? Emily’s camera snapped and snapped. She had hundreds of photos: many different kinds of beards, loving portraits of biceps, and then her camera lens had dipped, to the unsubtle bulge in their pants...

And then Brad had gotten off work, and she’d—no, she couldn’t of—she needed both hands to take pictures...

“What’s in all this?” Emily said, flushed. Cereal. She needed dry cereal and cold showers. And yet Joy was clearly struggling at lot more than she was. Emily knew she’d have to worry when she started to fidget—when her hands started straying and stroking, obeying mental architecture she had no say in. When she smelled like—what? Whatever vaguely sweet perfume had been programmed into her pussy.

“I have no idea. I assume important things. Flynn doesn’t bother locking his PC. I just dumped it all on a drive,” Joy said. She forced her thighs close. Emily didn’t bother saying: you’ve got it. They’ve got you. Of course they had, all those purpose-driven men, with their calm dark eyes...

She huffed out a breath, wiped her forehead. “God, I feel... so good. I know what this means, Emily. Are you scared?”

“A little,” Emily said.

“See, that’s the crazy part,” Joy said. She tugged her dress down. “I’m not scared at all. I’m just hungry for burgers. Can you believe these TITS?”

“Come on,” Hannah said, shaking her by the head. Emily startled awake. She’d—fallen asleep? Routine check: her pants were on. She wasn’t groping her own boobs. Her mouth tasted... funny, but that seemed like small beer. And while her thighs felt hot, that was probably due to the sunlight.

“What’re you gonna do after we escape?” Emily said, scrambling up. Hannah looked over at Rhonda and Amelia. They were both soaking wet. Emily decided not to ask. Amelia’s chest heaved. It wasn’t clear which of them had the bigger chest.

“We’ll run directly to the FBI, then run directly to the CIA, then run to the President,” Hannah said. She raised her voice. “Girls! We’re going! We gotta make the highway before nightfall! And did you really just use up all our water?”

“And if they’re... compromised?” Emily said.

It was a long word for Hannah, who just ignored it. “She started it!” Amelia said, pointing a finger. Rhonda looked smug. “She—I said she was done with the milkshakes, they were making her into a breed cow, and she—she stuck a straw up my mouth and I—drank it, and then when I tried to wash my mouth out she said I was gonna get even bigger titties then hers and—”

“Girls!” Hannah said, severely. “We are working together here. We are escaping from being fat milk cows.”

“Are we?” Emily said. She couldn’t stop herself. She was hungry again. Hadn’t she—had she eaten anything? There was still a few of those pink tubes available, and they were so dumb, they could hardly do any harm. They were probably just raw nutrients for already-transformed sluts.

“We’re literally on Escape Trail, Emily,” Hannah said. “Now. Hup! Hup! And which of you got into all my emergency supplies? Like half of them are gone! Rhonda? Looking in your direction Rhonda!”

Emily burped, and it tasted very sweet.

“Can you at least keep it DOWN?” she yelled, at Joy.

The girl was a mess. At first she’d tried to deal with it by fussing with her hair, which was already a frizzy black storm cloud, following her around. Then she’d spent a half-hour doing her makeup, then wiped it all off in a sudden bout of renewed panic. Next she’d played dress-up with the clothes Joyce had dropped off, and then stripped those as well, accusing the shirts and skirts of giving her “big booby boobs.”

It was exhausting just to be near, and scary. This was the ice-cold reporter who Emily had accompanied deep into Mexican drug lord territory. She’d faced down dangerous men with her hands on her hips. Now she was cry-eating, finishing off the rest of Emily’s stash of General Mills. It was hard to imagine her butt could get any bigger.

Emily had concerns even bigger than that. Joy had, in a last fit of Medill School of Journalism greatness, lifted spreadsheets and planning documents from Pastor Flynn himself. He’d kept them in his My Documents folder in Word 97 format.

“I should go find Joyce,” Joy babbled. Her voice was higher pitched, and it was scratching right at Emily’s brain. Joy, who knew how to curse in four languages. “I should take a cold shower so my pussy isn’t as horny-achey. Do I smell different? I bet I smell good and fuckable.”

“JOY,” Emily finally broke. She turned and stared with all the authority she had. She knew there wasn’t any. She wasn’t a man. Her growl was a joke, her arms lean and pale. “ENOUGH.”

She was just the photographer. Her job was pushing the clicky button that made the images. Scouring excel spreadsheets was beyond her. They were password protected, but Joy had even managed to write down Pastor Flynn’s password, which had been on a sticky note.

It was “M00”.

The spreadsheets made for pretty dire reading.

“Listen,” Emily said, just so Joy would stop talking about how sloshy and cool her new boobs were. “They own two broadcast networks, two streaming services, including the one you’re thinking about...” she amended that. Joy was chewing on a nail, confused. “I’m thinking of. They sell foodstuffs across the U.S. with subsidiaries that—I mean, one is called Flynn Cownada. They own DuPont. I think they make chemicals. They sell seeds of all kinds. And that’s just from this PowerPoint.”

It was a helpful summary entitled “SUMMER PLANS!” and had lots of cheesy clip art over the tables of direct and indirect ownership.

“We should tell a man about this,” Joy said, her voice hushed. “He’ll know what to do.”

Emily opened her mouth to argue and then closed it. She sniffed. Her boss smelled like wet pussy and blueberries.

“Good. I think we can all use a TV break,” Hannah said. “Lucky find, this far on the trail.”

“It’s a TV. In the middle of the forest,” Emily said.

“Someone left it here,” Rhonda said. She’d put her phone down the front of her shorts, on vibrate, and was egging Amelia into dialing her number. Amelia had grumbled, complained, and done it. “It was probably too heavy!”

“It WORKS,” Emily said. “It turns on! And it has cable! That’s weird!”

“Yeah, it’s plugged in,” Hannah said. “Of course it works. That’s how TVs work.” Hannah marched over to the back of the set. It was pristine, without even a layer of dust on the screen, and had been mounted on a small bed of rocks. Someone had placed a number of stones in a semi-circle around it.

The muscle-bound girl tugged on the power cord. It extended into the rock face, and then disappeared between a cleft in the stone.

Emily looked around for allies. “Amelia,” she said, imploring. “This is—it isn’t even a trap. Its just bad. Look, they’re not even hiding the spirals and goofy subliminals on the... on the screen.” She stopped, tried, without success, to pull her eyes away.

Amelia looked up from her twentieth time dialing Rhonda’s number. Her lover squealed, predictably. “I—I know.. but...” she finally made eye contact with Emily. A hint of the old Amelia peeked through. “What’s the point?” she said.

Emily had no idea what to say to that. It was hard enough dragging her eyes away from the pink and purple rainbows on screen, closing her ears to the tinny-tune soaking into her subconscious... Rhonda and Hannah were both already rapt, sitting with their legs open on the rock chairs.

“What should we watch?” Hannah said. There was even a remote control, on one of the stones. They’d thought of everything, Emily thought. As a former fixer she had to admire the efficiency. It must’ve been nice, she thought, not for the first time, to be getting the man workup. Muscles and dick and, above all, reliability. Men were for work, girls were for play, just like it said.

And she was a girl...

Emily wrenched her eyes away from the wonderful, warm spirals.

“How many channels are there even?” Emily said, her back to the TV. But she could still hear it. Could even see it, in Amelia’s eyes. She was slack-jawed, and slumping into Rhonda. Pictures danced in her iris.

“I don’t know, like, hundreds?” Hannah said. “Flynn Shopping. Bunch of Soaps. Ooh, Discovery.. oh. Discovery of butt sex, it looks like. Lots of sports. Hey, I don’t even know this sport. Are they having sex? And getting points for it?”

“DRINK MILK, MEN!” a commercial blared. A thundering male voice. It wasn’t subtle, and it made her so thirsty. She could drink it straight out of Rhonda. “MILK IS BALLS-TO-THE-WALL AWESOME JUICE FOR THE RAWEST DOGS!” Then a chorus of baying hounds. “SLAM A MILK PAK INTO YOUR MAW!”

She couldn’t look. She’d already been a bad girl, pigging out on greasy rinds and room temperature girl slaw. Emily recalled that, now. After the candy oats. But now she could just keep herself turned to the south. The factory was not far—the factory was never far, in Stork. The steam blew high in the air. From this distance it looked like a milky white steam, pouring out of a steel teat.

“Oh, I’ve seen this,” Hannah said. “Duh. I totally forgot. The blonde guy wins when the guy with the mustache cums before he and the girl make it up Fuck Mountain. Change the channel.”

A new blast of sounds. Emily was disoriented, her brains still shifting to be receptive to the last one. “Ask your Doctor if Femvar is right for you,” a sweet, motherly voice said. “Side effects can and will include growth, buttock growth, thigh expansion, breasts, hyper orgasms, and gas.”

“I like this show,” Rhonda said. “I had to do all the cooking after Amelia came so hard she passed out, playing that new video game. What’s it called? The game?”

“It’s.. called...” Amelia sighed. “It’s called Buck Futter 3.”

“Yeah. It has a cool controller, too. You should see Lake Amelia back at our house, I bet its never gonna dry. Anyway, this show is good, they teach you how to make food out of stuff you might have lying around, like grass and thistles and ice. Add a lil cum and dinner!”

“You undercooked the grass, you... you... dumb stupid slu... sluttttt...” Amelia trailed off. Out of the corner of her eye Emily could see her topple over, landing in the perfect position to nurse on one of Rhonda’s boobs. It didn’t seem coincidental.

“Give me that controller,” Emily snapped. She was fragile and silly but also very scared, and a startled Hannah held it out. Emily squeezed one eye shut—it’d have to be the non-sexy one, from then on—and rattled through the channels. The cable box responded, unhurried. New shows flickered past, program after program. Topless cooking, stacked weather girls, a talk show where they were all chit-chatting as a guy serviced each girl in turn. Some sort of high-budget show, fantasy-oriented, where the heroine was getting her titties sucked. She wore elf ears.

Dozens, then into the hundreds. Each one had production budgets and staffing and personnel and there was just so, so much of it. When had it all happened? When had this empire grown up, all around them? Emily tossed the remote down. Next to her, Amelia had formed a nice, tight latch on Rhonda’s boob, and was rewarded with a gush of fresh milk. An entire world had been borne, and all she was sure of was, she was at the very bottom of it.

“I’m just back for a few things!” Joyce said. “I’ve got a new job and this is technically my lunch break!”

She was barely recognizable. Previously Joyce had been the one that did the legwork. Joy was the writer and the closer, the one who descended into interviews in a linen blouse, with a subtle spritz of Tom Ford. Joyce found the interview. Joyce browbeat local functionaries into stamping forms, Joyce argued in hotel bars with assistant ministers. She learned new languages on plane flights.

This Joyce wore—some sort of erotic parody of west african clothes.. She had big honkers bolted onto her chest, and her voice was some nasal parody.

The headache beat Emily down. There was just so much to absorb—there was an entire folder marked ‘WATER RIGHTS’ that she was scared to open. Flynn had similar positions in vitamins, supplements, cosmetics, investments and people in all kinds of apparel, foodstuffs of every kind, half a dozen chain restaurants both as supplier and owner, and swathes of entertainment. All of it chronicled and tracked with Windows 2003-era Microsoft Excel.

The numbers poured through her, hard to look at. Her mouth hung open. Was it really something special about Flynn, that he could corral all this data?

Or maybe it was just her lil girl brain, struggling with math.

“Joyce, we are leaving!” Joy said. She was supposed to be packing, although she kept getting distracted, putting clothes in bags. She kept stopping to model. She’d shown almost no interest in the greatest journalistic discovery of the century, and had found, somewhere, a stick of pink bubblegum. “We’re done! Throw some something on your boobs and we’ll go!”

“I got a new JOB!” Joyce said, barely listening. She was all the way gone, and Emily decided to ignore her. “It’s the best. You lie there, and they do the work, and then they pay you! Wish I got it twenty years ago!”

Emily ignored her until Joyce rested two huge tits on top of her head. Something trickled down her face, into her mouth.

“Joyce! God—” she spit, frantic. Who knew how much slut juice was in that? It was in her mouth, disappearing down her throat. Tasted good, really good. “God DAMN it!”

Joyce smirked. She got in close. She smelled like a dozen dairies. Fresh milk, from the tap. Emily’s mouth was full of spit... “They’re hiring every girl they can get!” Joyce said. “I bet....mmmm... I bet you get really ripe.”

She smelled like... like...

“Joyce, no!” Emily pushed her free. She panted, watching her journalism partner’s tits leak pure cream. “We—we’re a team, okay? The three amigas? Was that it? Don’t need no man? Any of this ringing any bells? Are there any bells to ring?” She was so hungry, and Joyce was right there, smiling her new secret smile.

She needed—no, she didn’t need a MAN, despite her brain helpfully pulling that up as a recommended response. She didn’t need a dicking down, or two strong arms, or a chest to bury her face into, no matter how many times it was suggested to her. She could—could—

She could—what? She’d seen the papers. It was already over. They’d uncovered Watergate five years too slow. The men already controlled everything. She was to be humored, patted affectionately on the rear, and told to go give herself a nice milking. It didn’t sound that bad, really. Fresh milk tasted good, made her brain pop and fizz.

Emily whirled. Joy was on the computer, doing something, humming. “Wait—stop—Joy, what are you—” but it was too late.

“Files locked up, and ready to go,” Joy said, cheerful. “You’ll NEVER guess the password I used.”

They both looked at her. Even Joyce..

Joy looked concerned. “Actually—um. Maybe you should try to guess?”

“Emily, c’mon. Break time is over. Let’s get moving,” Hannah said. Emily looked up, just in time to catch Hannah’s slap clear across her face. It rattled her brains clear of a smooth cable television rut. She was on her haunches, butt poking into the ground. Emily was dully unsurprised to see that she had soaked her jeans. It’d probably feel pretty good to poke around down there. She was probably gonna have the usual cow tits, sooner than later.

“Let’s go!” Rhonda said. “Escaping is fun!” She was busy dressing Amelia up. Her partner seemed far too dazed to protest, especially when Rhonda kept planting wet kisses on her lips. She’d put Amelia in a tartan skirt and white knee-highs.

“Onwards!” She gave Amelia an encouraging slap on the rump.

“Onwards,” Emily echoed. She forced her legs up. She had the password-protected thumb drive in her backpack. For what it was worth. She even wondered: had all those files and documents... gotten to her? Had Flynn even set that up? The screen had been... fuzzy.

So far, assuming that the men had everything under control had never once steered her wrong.

She’d stormed out after Joy had ruined their big expose. Wandered the town, finger itching to take a photo, every time a male passed by. Without any clear destination until she’d come to the main square, where Jerry and Hannah had been passing around flyers—handwritten, not copied—that read “LETS ESCAPE?”

“Oooh, another puzzle,” Rhonda said, enthusiastic, at the next sign. She gave Amelia a very aggressive paddle. “See if you can solve it, smart girl!”

“Rhonda, let me cuummmmm,” Amelia moaned.

“It’s just a fork in the road. Escape is this way. It says so,” Hannah said. She jabbed the sign with a typically aggressive finger. It really did read: “ESCAPE: THIS WAY.”

Emily supposed she should enjoy herself, reading it. She only had so many words left.

“I’m not going that way,” she announced.

Hannah turned to her. She was already geared up for a nice, enjoyable argument. Emily could tell because her nipples got taut, and she started to smell like she was getting into it. She also ground her thighs together. “We’re not splitting up,” Hannah said, booming it. She was nearly a foot taller than Emily, who suspected she was going to shrink.

“I don’t care,” Emily said. She pointed down the other road. It didn’t have the broad, groomed path, lined with helpful guideposts and the occasional television. It looked like a goat trail blazed as a possible alternative to the Oregon Trail. It looked very dusty. “I’m not going the way they want. I’m going that way.” It was the last rebellion she had in her.

“Girls should stick together,” Hannah said, ominously. While they waited, Rhonda passed the time, idly rubbing the inside of Amelia’s thigh, ignoring her bleating pleas to be penetrated. “You’re a girl. We’re in this together. We’ll beat this together. That’s how it WORKS.”

“It’d be so great if that were still true,” Emily said.

She marched the other way.

He intercepted her within a half-hour.

Emily felt dully pleased by it, that she’d anticipated a man, that she’d learned something about the charming, small-town folkiness and all-encompassing panopticon that was Stork. Not bad for a photographer and bag-carrier who was also, unfortunately for her, a girl.

Although she was also filled with a deep shame that she had inconvenienced a male.

The man didn’t seem to mind. He wore a khaki button-down shirt and a canvas hat, and very short green shorts. Of course it was Brad. They really thought of everything. It gave her a happy, gushy feeling to think that she’d been assigned such a hot guy from the start.

“Miss, you’re off the trail,” he said, apologetic. “I mean, you’re on a trail, but not the designated one. The signposts are pretty clearly marked.” Even for silly girls like yourself, he didn’t say.

Emily let her backpack thunk to the ground. Now that she was actually walking, and not slowly meandering with three sluts, it had all gotten very difficult very fast. Her thighs were rubbing together in a disconcerting way, and her boobs had started their inevitable chafe. She’d taken off her bra at the first sign of discomfort. No sense making things any worse. She wondered, rubbing them, exactly how big they were going to get. She’d miss having little, convenient boobs. She’d miss a lot of things.

Sweat poured off of her. “Miss, you okay?” Brad said, concerned. He stood there with his arms crossed. Emily couldn’t help but notice—he angled himself upwind, so she’d get the full, clean, musk of him. It fit in very well with a nature setting. Did he know he was doing it? Was it instinct, to appeal to her new libido? Was there a difference?

“No, I’m not OKAY,” Emily snapped. “Look what you’re doing! To me! To the world!” She took a deep breath and luxuriated in it. God, that was the stuff. Male, and with an erection, and alone with her. Her pussy had gotten wet and gushy out of confusion that she was hiking. But now it had purpose. “I was a photographer! Now I’m gonna—what? Milk and breed, breed and milk?”

“Miss,” Brad sounded pained. “We do have a very nice escape route for girls who feel like they’d rather be a stick who doesn’t have sex. I can help you—”

“Oh, we’re gonna have sex, alright,” Emily said, thundering. She opened her backpack and pulled her camera out. Already the many dials and settings seemed a little silly. Who needed to know stuff about apertures? She pulled it out. “I’m gonna FUCK you, Mr. Brad. If you can fit that fat cock in a little cunny like mine. I’m just saying its not FAIR.”

“Miss...” Brad shook his head. But his dick twitched, in his trail guide shorts. “Look, I know its... tough. On the girls. Losing all those brain cells. But the new ones are better. They’re much more fun. And ninety-nine percent of girls agreed they’re much happier without advanced reading comprehension, we did a whole survey and everything.”

“I WILL be happy, I get that,” Emily said. She pulled the camera up to her eyes, and started with his crotch. Click, click. The lighting was fantastic. “I’ll have the same titties as everyone and give nice warm milk. That’s fine, that’s okay.”

Brad seemed confused, and she felt super bad for making him anything less than happy. She gave a stupid laugh, just to put him at ease, and quickly took a few more shots. Emily cocked her hips.

“I”m not gonna do anything stupid like ESCAPE,” she said, snorting. More wonderful Brad-scent tickled her brain. It was getting real bad, real fast. “I saw all your plans, I even read them. Yeah. A girl, reading. How about it. There’s nowhere to run to. This is the middle of the web, but its all sticky.” She giggled, enjoying the last few opportunities to be clever. An entire analogy, for her life and situation!

Brad relaxed, recognizing—what? Something about her was informing him that she was ready. It was time to wrap up. Her pussy wanted to squeeze something real bad. “I want to just—get it over with,” Emily said. “Resisting is dumb, and I’m not dumb. Yet. I guess I’m a lil’ stupid. I want it done with, Mr. Brad. Fuck me up. I can carry stuff and I’m really good with pictures, and I don’t know if my pussy can handle that monster you’re packing but I can like, lick it and stuff.”

“Oh, but you’re so close to escaping, though,” Brad said. But he walked forwards and started to help himself, unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down. Emily turned around to let him press up against her ass crack. “I like when a few girls make it out. Like, its nice.”

“Too bad,” Emily told him. His hands reached underneath her shirt, and she was glad she’d ditched the bra. He knew exactly what to do with her nipples. “I out—outsmarted you. I’m sh-shuper smart, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Brad said. She could tell he was losing interest in anything besides her pussy, which was fine. Emily leaned forwards at the waist. Probably it was too fast to have him stick that dick up her slit, but she was eager to get it all done with. Was this rebellion? Was this winning? It’d have to be.

Brad apparently liked a challenge. He picked her up and maneuvered her over to a nearby rock, and put her face down on it. She could hear him spitting into his hand, and then, moments later, he pulled her panties down. The sun beat directly on her cunny. She smirked—she still had pubic hair. How often did a local guy feel that? And then a dickhead pressed against her folds, and she was reduced to shivers and gasps.

“Wait,” Emily said, holding on, briefly, to herself. She could sense his disapproval, this close to splitting a new pussy in two. She turned the camera around and tried to aim it. She’d never been in her own photos before. She had to hope it was a decent selfie.

Emily clicked the shutter.

Hannah had lost Rhonda and Amelia awhile back. She’d done everything in her power to move them along—at one point carrying both of them, while they tried to fuck each other, in her arms.

But once they found the bed with the Sybian attachment on the trail the girls had told her to leave them behind.

Hannah stepped off the path. She was on—a road. With an interstate marker. There was a small note there, taped to it. She walked her powerful muscles over to it. Her pussy reminded her that another masturbation session was coming up. She looked backwards one last time, to see if, against all odds, Jerry was there.

It was just her. No one else.

The note read—Hannah sounded it out—moving her lips—“CONGRATS!”

“Congrats,” Hannah said. She turned. Stork was easy to see, not far away. She put her back to it.

She started to jog down the road, and then broke into a run.