The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Lets hug,” Yumi whispered. “Big girl hug.”

They sank into each other, just offstage. And tried to keep it as nonsexual as possible—it just wasn’t that kind of moment. Of course, with the way Yumi was leaking milk, and the way Liza smelled, it was plenty hot. Liza’s scent was especially sexy—like warm, scented honey. Honey made by the best bees. Their boobs rubbed against each other, smearing each other with cream.

But Yumi was learning—with so much going on, so much body, it was possible to carve out the romantic parts.. Concentrate on Liza’s warm breath against her face. They touched foreheads, think about that. The playful roll of their pneumatic boobs against each other.

“Girls? Showtime.” Noah’s Range had sponsored the band shell, and Noah himself was their roadie. He looked around. “Missing anyone?”

“Our bassist is probably sucking someone off, and we’re going to rescue the drummer from being a milk cow,” Liza said. “We’ve got it handled. Thank you for setting up!”

Even Noah was taken aback by Liza. Her bandmate was a lot. She’d put back on all the blocky and bright pink clothes, and this time they were—perfect. She’d just needed a tad more padding, or perhaps more confidence. Now she was pop-punk to the marrow, thighs rubbing together, walking perfectly in matching pink heels. She’d drawn an entire rainbow across her face with the combined collection of Hitomi and Yumi and Nami’s makeup kit. And to cap it, a voice with baby-doll softness. It was her only voice, now. A breathless, brainless high-pitched gasp.

Yumi loved it.

Yumi wore only her milk-sodden Rainbows shirt and a miniskirt.. Not that she wasn’t willing to get glammed. It had just taken that long to get Liza dolled up. And besides, between her slutty, soaked pussy, her heavily-leaking tits, and general wetness, she wasn’t sure any new clothes would stay on her. They’d rip off or slide off. It was fine.

The scent of the crowd wafted up her nose. Yumi took her seat behind the keyboard and immediately soaked the chair. Her lover strode up to the microphone, undaunted. Fearless.

“IS EVERYONE HERE HORNED UP!” she told a fucking, sucking, nearly-naked and fluid-soaked crowd. Few if anyone was turned towards the band.

Yumi blinked, and was—elsewhere. To when they played Chicago, in a stadium, and every single eye was on them, and every single panty was wet. Soon...

It wasn’t clear how they were going to get the crowd’s attention, especially since most everyone was busy impregnating everyone else. Bodies were jumbled in all sorts of positions. Even up front, a burly man, watching them with polite interest, also thrust hard into the mouth of a Korean girl with red-black hair.

But Liza had things under control.

“I got a present for everyone!” Liza reached into the bosom of her lycra-vinyl top and pulled something out. Backlit, Yumi couldn’t quite make it out, but it seemed floppy.

“It’s my penis!” Liza yelled. She shook it in her fist.

“It fell off in the shower!”

Yumi held her breath. She’d discreetly avoided looking in the wastebasket—because—but how would a thousand rutting sex-crazed midwesterners react to—

They cheered. Big, lusty cheers. And even more so when Liza theatrically reared back, pump-faked, and then lobbed the appendage with all her strength deep into the heart of the crowd. The discarded, unnecessary part fell into a sea of pink people and was lost to view, although there seemed to be a minor fight for the souvenir.

“WE’RE THE RAINBOWS! FUCKING HIT IT!” Liza screamed, and Yumi jammed her fingers down. She couldn’t see the keys over her own boobs, and it didn’t matter.

It was their biggest hit—Breed Me Feed Me.

Yumi wasn’t quite sure what to make of her sense of a shared future. She’d assumed it was wishful thinking—putting herself and her first love in front of multitudes. But—how did her exhausted and sex-stirred brain know to design so many different arenas? Why did it know which venues were converted baseball stadiums, which were dedicated concert halls? How come she could briefly smell the varied girls, all of them ovulating in sudden unison, pricked into full fertility by a cocktail of music and doctored concessions.

Why could she briefly smell horny Chicago?

It hardly worried her. She was past all that, what little concern left in her love-struck and cum-hungry body saved for their current fun little escape attempt. And for the other visions, the ones where they were locked in stocks to pump and breed. Singing for only each other. Not bad visions, enjoying mutual childbirth and spilling milk on the floor. Naked and docile.

But not Radio City Music Hall, horny New York girls chanting along to the chorus: Breed a Girl, Feed a Girl, Seed a Girl, Be a Girl.

Liza moan-sang it to the suddenly quiet crowd. Not that they stopped having sex. Stork residents could fuck in a tornado. And even though they all lived lives generally full of pop tunes, full of designed songs that quivered against the libido, and left deep grooves in the mind, everyone was listening.

Way out in the audience, a New Arrival named Erin shushed her partner, even as he made the final thrust to inseminate her. Sperm flooded up newly-reworked canals to find a waiting egg, and, while it wriggled in, knocking her up and getting her ready to swell, she listened intently to the song.

It wasn’t a very long tune, and Liza, born showgirl, didn’t try and stretch the moment. She stuck the final line on a rising, lengthy note. A perfectly high G7 that wasn’t totally in the human range, and was best appreciated by dogs and dolphins.

The entire town was quiet, listening to her pant.

A single drop of lubricant dripped onto the stage from between her legs.

“First of all,” she said, and pointed with the microphone. “I see our bassist way over there sucking dick. Can everyone pass her over.”

Uma found herself picked up by several strong male arms and handed over to the assembled men. They crowd-surfed her, Stork-style, which meant she was given over via ass, or pussy, or tits, across a line of willing masculine hands. For Uma, her self-esteem at a record low, it was startling to be held literally high up. Carefully, but also such that she was having little fun orgasms as she went.

“Second of all... I want to dedicate this next song to someone very special. When I first got to this town, I said that I hated it. And I still have mixed emotions about being turned into a breed-toy fuck slut.”

“Yeah! Fuck slut!” shouted a guy in the audience! “Wooo!”

“..But you know what? I’m a girl. I’ve got nice tits. And best of all, I found the...” she stumbled on it. Stork wasn’t used to tears. Maybe some light crying when the enormity of going from rational person to livestock got through. Or just some overload tears when the brain softlocked.

Liza had pink tears now.

“I found the love of my life. My new life. Yumi! This next song is from both of us! Get up here!”

Yumi stood up. Her limbs felt very heavy.. So many wet eyes were on her, and her own were producing more normally colored tears. She waddled her fat enormous ass up to her—love. Milk dripping behind her.

“This one is a duet!” Liza announced. “It’s a damn love song! It’s called Clits! And before we start, Yumi, baby, my throat’s dry!”

In front of an entire crowd Liza flipped up her shirt and started to suck on Yumi’s boobs. And, while not a born showgirl, Yumi found herself arching her back, moaning into the microphone, and winking at the crowd.

“Woooooo!” the guy said. “Wooooooooooooooooooooo!”

They sang together.

For the hundredth or thousandth or who-knows-how many times. As usual, Liza liked to change the lyrics around in the middle of the song. This made it hard for the thousands of teeming, fertile girls desperately trying to match her pitch. But since all the words were some combination of ‘titty,’ ‘flirty,’ ‘sexy’ and ‘sucky’ it was not that big of a deal. And Yumi always brought it back with the chorus.

They didn’t always start making out during the bridge, but it was pretty common. Their followers had this all memorized—the wiki was always kept updated. Yumi could see them all in the front row, the screaming girls getting nicely plump and developing a beautifully rounded rear. It was an always-changing crowd, fully-transformed women dropping out to concentrate on their inevitable pregnancies, and whenever some guy decided to keep them around for easy blowjobs. New girls always joined. Whatever prior interests and lives they had dripped off their intent, needy faces.

Yumi had kept her basic aesthetic of punk-pop bimbo queen. She almost always wore a t-shirt and something that, via magic and willpower, essentially covered certain parts of her ass. T-shirt sales of the latest design were always brisk. She rarely paid attention to the merchandise side, but it was all dipped in highly potent milk-dye. Apparently boobs started to grow within a day of wearing it..

“And we—mmmphhhh—mmmmmm—” they locked lips. Enormous cheer from the enormous crowd. They all started to turn towards each other, the performance beginning to shift into its usual second-gear. Hot and fun straight-forward orgy. The audience contained just about everyone. At first their core base had been transfemme transitioneers, seeking the whispered-about pink goo. And a generous amount of nervous asian girls, who’d heard the stories, and wanted to know what much bigger boobs felt like. Now it was everyone—lots of moms and daughters, even, their mouths coated with the candied popcorn they all gave away. Desperate for stimulation.

The barricades gave way, and women horned out of their mind rushed the stage. This had been disconcerting the first few times it happened. But now Yumi just set her feet, and let her fat ass do the work. It could absorb far bigger stampedes. Liza was still in front of her, and they both opened their lips—

“My milky, silky, fucky, wucky, down-home big-butt girlllllllllll,” Yumi sang. She blinked. No. She wasn’t in Phoenix. They were in—this was Stork, and she, Yumi Masuda, a girl who had cried in the bathroom before making a school presentation on the War of 1812, was singing her heart out to the crowd. To nothing more than a bass line. But they had the crowd, the entire crowd.

There were Liza’s lips, thick and plush, just like she knew they would always be. She kissed them.

“That was Big Butt Girl!” Liza yelled. She gave Yumi a big spank on the trunk, in case it wasn’t clear what huge-assed woman she was singing about. “And, folks, I’ve got a big ask of all of you. Our drummer is being held captive in that big factory right behind you, where ALL THE MILK IN TOWN is being held a big ’ol vat! And I say, lets go get it! And her!”

She flung her hand up.

‘Who’s with me!”

There was just a moment of indecision from the crowd. But—why not?

“Woooooo!” their biggest fan yelled. He pumped his fist so hard the girl blowing him lost her stroke. “Rebellion!”

Yumi blinked.

She was unstuck again. Far, far along on what could be. So far into the future that it was more sense than thought—the comforting scent of Liza, the familiar sound of their fourth album. By then the world no longer needed the transformative excitement of massive stadium blowouts. Everyone was long settled into the comforting docile daily routine of milk, eat, pray, fuck.

Outside of the rhythms of very regular pregnancies they were all done growing. All the heady sprouting of tits and ass was decades ago—she’d been lugging around dozens of pounds of ass for a long time. She’d been drinking the same milk, out of the same tits, for a very long time. It still tasted sweet and fresh.

Liza prowled on stage. They’d only drawn several dozen fans to the bar. Long-established breeders, obviously wearing their old clothes, trying to remember the old excitement. When they’d creamed themselves in a scent-bath of thousands of horned-up girls. When they’d started rubbing themselves in public, and realized they could and should just keep going.

Now they had lots of babies behind them, and several were nursing during the show. Liza went acoustic, her voice still hitting all the impossibly high notes in Pussy Drip. The sparse crowd cheered. Liza turned, winked, and was about to say—Yumi—get your stupid ass up here—

Yumi blinked.

She was—right. Right then and there Liza was pulling her along, unhesitating, into the crowd. Into the men, who hoisted both of them up. At last, her ass was properly built for something. She was easy to pick up by big strong men. Naturally padded to be carried above.

Liza stretched out her arm again, towards the factory. She was resplendent in pink. The sun shone brightly all along it.. There wasn’t actually much hot pink in the entire crowd. Where these people weren’t naked they wore solid, dependable, natural fabrics. Ones that wore well. So it was easy to keep eyes on her lover.

“Forwards! Forwards!” she sang, and Yumi sang it with her. The natural hubbub brought them closer and then farther apart. And it was hard to concentrate, when a six foot four man had his hand right up against her snatch. Yumi was for-sure dripping on his head. They’d even brought Uma, who kept licking the fingers of the men holding her up.

Liza looked around, suddenly concerned, and held out her pink-tipped fingers. Yumi urged her men closer, and they both reached, reached, and clasped each other’s hands. The entire length of futures collapsed into just that very moment.

Ironically, getting a few of her brains back was making Nami feel that much more stupid.

Starting with the no-duh big-dummy stupid-dork realization that she’d had everything exactly backwards, and it was the coffee keeping her smarts inside her head the entire time.

Nami didn’t mention this to Jerry, who presumably had figured it out a long time ago, and was humoring her.

There was also the recollection of all the stupid things she’d said and done.

Alongside this burst of neural activity was the realization that she was—new. She was still named Nami, there was that. But was she THAT Nami, the one that flipped off teachers—to their backs—freely and without hesitation? The one that read books about shitty treatment of indigenous tribes in Africa? The one who had intended to travel to every continent, up to and including Antarctica?

Doubtful. It was probably illegal to get on a plane with her new-Nami boobs. They were an electrical hazard, spurting milk all the time. And she was a little hazy on how many continents there were. At least one, obviously. After that... wasn’t there additional Americas? She cupped her tits. The knowledge was probably rolling around in there, made into breast tissue. It all had come from somewhere.

And she seemed surprisingly unbothered that her Dad had unloaded in her mouth. That recollection was dominated by his taste and smell, the knowledge of his likes and dislikes. How to do an even better job next time. Much unlike her old self. Her old self had never sucked off Daddy.

Was she even a TWIN? They definitely didn’t 100% share DNA anymore. Or overall forms. Yumi’s butt was a dump truck with a rear spoiler.

“Doing okay?” Jerry said. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was one of the few nonsexual parts of her, now. Even the small of her back would make her bend over. She sniffled, about to cry. “Whoa. Hey, we’ve got this. It’s time for the big rebellion.”

“It’s—not that,” Nami said. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Were—yes, even they were milk-scented and spiked with aphrodisiacs. This dumb town. “It’s—you fell for me twice. Old Nami and new Nami. In like, two days. Or whatever. That’s so cool and hot.”

Her rock-solid chunk of man slid his hand around, pulled her chin towards him. Tears slipped over his fingers. “I think you’re the same person,” he said, against all evidence. It occurred to Nami that she’d fallen for him twice as well. Doubtful that old Jerry would’ve calmly put his fingers in her mouth like that.

She pulled free, and wriggled into her second shirt. Her Noah’s Range outfit, now even more tight and impossible. At least she could still wear shorts, unlike Yumi, who was going to have to need engineering to deal with her butt. But the price was—was she going to wear a bib? Or just—the idea whispered to her—hours and hours spent emptying under the guidance of gentle suction?

Old Nami probably wouldn’t get wet at the thought of lengthy milking sessions.

“Lets go,” Jerry said. He’d put his bulk and muscles into khaki and polos, as best he could. Every inch of fabric squeaked on her majestic bull.

“Lets go,” New Nami echoed.

When her first look at the future arrived, at the door to Noah’s Range, she had to go and sit down. The trigger was Jerry, in his polo, filling the entirety of the door frame, with just a bit of give on either side. There was just so much rectangular man there, all his, all lines and muscles.

She was—in a new house, and one she’d furnished herself. Tastefully erotic, her globe-trotting twin liked to call it. Lots of low couches with Stork Wipe-Kleen technology. A very sturdy kitchen table.

A few more chairs than was truly necessary—Nami had a lot of the other Moms over. They were all into local artisanal crafts, a lot of them involving each other’s bodies. Homemade perfumes, candles, soaps. A few other chemicals. They’d go onto the new Stork-run Etsy-ish site. And, about a month later, a horny, hapless Mom out in the country would text them, thirsty and desperate for more.

Plus of course the local Mom Group had an active and vibrant dildo trading ring.

But the most exciting part of the day was at 10:10 p.m., when her husband got home from his shift at Noah’s Range. A late night, but there was already talk of starting a new chain out near Chicago, and he was in line for the job.

There were just so many—decisions. Sometimes she answered the door fully nude, or with a simple pair of smiley-face panties. More often she would do dress up in mini-skirts or shorts or whatever horny fuckwear HItomi had recently discarded. Pick from one of twenty-odd shoes. There were so many choices of makeup on the palette of her face.

And most of all she had to pick how to greet her man. Perhaps with a vibrator buzzing away, between her legs, already reduced to a rut. On her knees, mouth open, another favorite, especially when he was weary on a Friday night. Sometimes she even pretended—she was just a bored, discontented wife, the TV on low. And he would have to patiently work through her feigned disinterest, until his hands on her boobs, the scent of his cock, was too much to ignore.

Obviously he didn’t need dinner but it meant a lot to her. They’d compromised on a cocktail and a very ornate snack. Muffins and cakes and treats. She’d pulled Hitomi’s recipe box out of the trash.

Both sisters ribbed her mercilessly. Nami, the domestic, wearing one of her favorite aprons, but she would just smile sweetly at them and think about her man saying—

“Nami. Nami!”

Nami blinked. She was—right. They were inside Noah’s Range, and she was still technically single. She patted her belly—no babies in it. That she knew of, although the thought still made her swoon.

“You okay?” Jerry said.

She laughed, shakily. “Yeah! Yeah, we... should probably hurry, huh?”

Jerry held up two white bags, the bottoms already staining translucent with grease. “I’ve got the burgers, and someone left a hat lying around, so now I’m an official employee.”

He wore that hat very proudly, Nami recalled. He wore it in bed, especially when they were in doggy, everything else stripped off his well-built body. She shook her head. Her tits bounced.

“Just let me—strap on my pager—” Nami pulled the device up onto her fat thighs, and tucked the prods inside of her shorts. It gave a welcoming pulse to a valued Noah’s Range server and employee.

The restaurant itself was about empty, all the activity moved to the outside. The scent of burgers and fries threatened to send her back to—to whatever place she’d been. But it was comforting, the restaurant. The tips were superb and the buzzer just divine. She’d work there until she threatened to pop, smiling in bliss as customers patted her belly. They’d thrown her a big baby shower, all the other girls on the wait staff, with a man bursting out of a cake.

“Sorry!” Nami blurted out. “I keep—it’s super weird. I keep thinking...”

“The future?” Jerry said.

“Yes! Do you—” Nami stood up, and then had to sit down again. The buzzer was sending a lot of throbbing heat through her. It was too bad she had to wear it, as part of her disguise. She was definitely gonna cum soon.

“Yeah. Part of the whole, insidious programming. Just try to ignore it. Remind yourself you don’t want to have six or seven kids.”

“R-right,” Nami said, rubbing her tummy. Jerry shook his head, serious.

“Four or five max, MAYBE six or seven, but definitely not more,” he said, folding his arms. “I don’t care how fuckable and fertile you are, that’s plenty. This damn place. Lets get going. I hear your sister and my sister out there.”

The reception desk was empty. Nami marched in anyway, Jerry just behind her. He’d taken over carrying the big bags of fries and meat, and Nami felt a certain breathlessness that she was never going to need to carry anything ever again. He was going to do that for her.

“Delivery!” she called out, to the empty room.

There was no response.

“Burgers!”

Still nothing. The factory was very quiet, except there was a distant roar from behind them, from the rows of clean double doors.

“I guess we’re in?” Nami said. “Yay? We infiltrated? That’s the word, right?”

She was starting to feel ditzy again. It crept in as just feeling normal in her newly expanded ultra-drippy body. Not thinking anything of squirting some milk before they went into an enclosed space, because it’d be thoughtful to relieve some pressure in the outdoors. Walking with confidence in her new-boobed self, letting her tits swing around as she strode. Body matching mind.

“One last text,” Jerry said. “From our—” he made sure she was paying attention to another big word “—benefactor. He says to come to the lair.”

“Lair? Like, he used the word lair?”

“Lair,” Jerry confirmed. “Hold on. I’ll text him to ask where the lair is. Where... is... the... lair...”

“Do you hear that?” The noise was getting louder. Nami hopped up on the receptionist desk and kicked her legs. She reached into a bag and pulled out a handful of fries, stuffing them absently into her mouth. Probably that was a bad idea, due to the chemicals, but making so much dairy was a calorie-intensive process. And she’d burned a lot already having fantastic sex with Jerry. She deserved some fries.

“Okay, he says take a left and a right, and then we’ll be at the lair. Kinda... complicated directions... but yeah. And yeah, what’s that noise?”

“Mmmfghhh,” Nami said, around a mouthful of burger. She was pretty sure this was the line between “naughty” and “bad girl”, to eat an entire burger that was known, beyond any doubt, to make girls into big-boobed super-stupid sluts. But it was really tasty, and the buzzing in her pussy wasn’t doing much for her infiltrating spy skills.

“It’s...” Jerry trailed off. He looked at the doors. “Oh. Oh no.”

Most of Stork burst in.

The town went in, then through. It was a parade of wagging cocks and big, bulging butts. Any clothes that came off stayed off, and outfits were getting increasingly rare. Most girls were still in their heels, their Milk Day special fuck-me boots, but otherwise it was bare asses and exposed genitalia.

Up to and including Nami’s twin, who was riding the crowd, suspended up on the doubled backs of two enormous Swedish men with matching red beards. They were thumbing her cavernous asscrack with swiftness, and hooting and hollering in broken yankee. Yumi had her hand clasped in a pink pop confection that had to be Liza. Liza’s tits were finally free, finally bared to the world, the first few droplets of milk starting to form.

Nami was also somewhat sure that Hitomi had gone by. Or at least someone like her. Like… mommy, or whatnot. But she was in the middle of a complicated walking-orgy, the participants pushing forwards despite sawing cocks into parts of each other. She had her legs wrapped around some daddy-looking guy in glasses, and seemed pleased…

The train went on and on, to the point where Nami got exasperated. She and Jerry had taken refuge behind the receptionist desk. And while it was fun back there, lying in a tangle of mutual limbs, toying with each other’s privates, she was very conscious that she was getting steadily dumber. It was obvious, because she felt happier, moment by moment. There was a strong sense that she should sink into Jerry’s capable arms, close her eyes, and they could not do any thinking at all, together.

“Lets—I think we can get… ff—up,” Nami said. Testing her own vocabulary. She cleared her throat on the theory that it made her sound smart. Skittle-spit rained out in a pool. She pulled her shirt back down. During the interlude she’d amused herself leaking milk onto Jerry’s chest, making designs, and a little whirlpool in his belly button. Plus he’d just sucked on her nipples for a bit.

“Right,” Jerry said. The lobby was totally trashed. There was a snail trail of jizz and milk and whatever else leading back through the doors. It was hard to walk on. It was at least fifty-percent human lubricant, and most of the rest was breast milk. Plus two girls were going at it on the lobby couches. “Left, then right. Or one of the two. Lets do this.”

“Wait,” Nami held his hand. She thought of something, “What’s your last name?”

“Soriano,” Jerry said.

Nami briefly thought about writing it down with breast milk, then shook her head. She had to remember she wasn’t just tits. She had two arms and hands and everything. She wrote it down, in the secretary’s pink gel pen.

SORIANO.

After a moment, with Jerry watching the two girls lick each other’s pussies, she added NAMI to it. Nami Soriano. Nami Masuda-Soriano? Or even, Soruda? All of them led to happy waves of excited pleasure.

She tucked the li’l sheaf into her blouse, for reading later. Maybe. If she felt up to it. Words were getting so dumb.

The hallways were thronged with boys and girls. Most of them had carafes of milk from somewhere. Nami sniffed, disdainful. She was creamier than all of them.

“Here,” Jerry said, pulling her past a human pool toy. A boy had tripped, or lied down, or whatever, and a bushel of girls had decided to use him for fun right there in the hallway. Taking turns bouncing on him. There was probably seven hundred pounds of girl on him, all shaking and dripping. All Nami could see were his eyes. The rest of his face was buried in a redhead’s beaver.

The sign on the wall read “OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR”. It was a very nice sign.

Underneath it was an equally nice sign that read “COME ON IN” in gilt lettering.

And then, underneath that, a taped up piece of paper reading “LAIR! :)”

“Remember, we want to escape,” Jerry said. Nami nodded, as sincerely as she could. She tried to ignore the future drumbeats in her head: Jerry’s birthday party. Jerry gets a promotion. Nami’s first pregnancy. Nami’s fifth.

They pushed open the doors.

“You made it!” an aging man said. He stood with his back to them, hands clasped. He wore a white button-down shirt loosely piled into a pair of khakis, just like the ones Jerry wore. Nicer, perhaps. And a pair of battered brown shoes that needed to be shined and buffed. He turned towards them, smiling. He’d trimmed his goatee. His eyes were very dark.

“Congrats!” he beamed.

“Who are you?” Jerry said.

This took the man aback. “I’m—I’m Pastor Flynn. The—really? I guess you went through all this without—without knowing who I am?”

They looked at him. “You’re my Daddy’s boss?” Nami hazarded.

“Well, I run a lot of things. Please, come in. I’ve got stuff for you. I—shoot. See, this is on me,” Pastor Flynn walked up, good humor quickly restored. He kept his eyes on the ground, and a patient grin on. “I try to make this a good experience for everyone doing the whole, ‘resistance’ thing, but maybe I kept it too loose? Should there’ve been more menace? You should at least know what I look like, you know?”

“You!” Jerry barked, and Flynn broke into a wide, welcoming grin.

He raised his eyes up, and a single sweep choked the words back down Jerry’s throat. It hit Nami peripherally and she thought: I am a breed cow. I am a fuck slut. I like boys and I like to cum. My boobs need to be milked, sir.

Then the gaze passed through, and ordinary mental processing resumed. At a slightly slower level.

“I have snacks for you two,” Flynn said, gesturing to a side table. It had been laden with bowls of chips, boxes of candies, and especially cold and frosty glasses of milk. The table stood in front of a large projector screen, for some reason. A dollar-store CONGRATULATIONS! had been taped to it. “You did it! You resisted! Great work!”

Flynn applauded them.

He had the firmest, most manly applause Nami had ever heard. She sagged. It wasn’t like she’d had much remaining fight. It wasn’t clear that Jerry had, either. His eyes were dull and heavy, and he looked ready for snacks.

“Look, RE-LAX, have some snacks, feel PROUD of yourselves!” Flynn said. He shooed them towards the snack table, their reward for being good resistors, and the two of them complied. “A full twenty-five percent of New Arrivals go down a Resistance pathway. Two of them got this far. You two. And one got out the other path. That’s something! I mean, really, there’s so little left of who you were, and you’re still here. Good for you!”

“We—we figured out the coffee was responsible,” Jerry said. He picked up a cup of milk, and opened his mouth, pouring it in.

“Oh, boy,” Flynn said, not unsympathetic.. “You did, huh?”

Nami gave him a tiny shake of the head to indicate that she, at least, had known. “Well. Hey. You’re here. Lets make this fast though. So you can still enjoy it. The stuff in the coffee doesn’t actually make you any smarter. It just makes that one brain cell bounce faster.”

“I really do mean the diversity stuff,” Flynn told them. “I mean it sincerely.”

Nami grasped, with what she was thinking of as Remaining Basketball Brain Cell, that the intent here was to give Flynn someone to talk to. It was also not very rebellious to sit and listen quietly.. But she was on Jerry’s lap, in the big plush armchair. He had one arm around her, and the other one was feeding her choice snacks. Mostly candied popcorn.

She was feeling very comfortable despite being in the room with one of the world’s greatest monsters.

“Oh, come on,” she said, mustering some feeble scoffing. It seemed to make Flynn happy. And that made her happy. “We’re just—those—those things you put on Christmas trees. Japanese girl—uhhh—”

“Ornaments,” Flynn said. “No. No, absolutely not. Absolutely not! It was a girl just like you, in a town just like this one. She looked me in the eye—looked me in the eye! Me!—and she said—you’re so proud of your milk, and half the world is lactose intolerant.”

Flynn had sat down opposite them. He rubbed at his goatee, thoughtful. The pictures of town after town stretched out behind him.. “Top three all-time resister. I made her town mayor on the spot. I even personally impreg—well. Anyway. She was right. How could I change the world, when I closed my eyes to so much of it? Worlds of cultures, men, women... other... miscellaneous... that I knew so little about. You know I—I once drove past someone flying one of those rainbow flags? The rainbow-y blue pink ones with the stripes and triangles? And I thought—I don’t have ANY of these people!”

It was getting challenging for Nami to follow. The world of what would be kept breaking in. It was much more fun thinking about surprising Jerry at work, in her old uniform, the shirts stretched partway over her very pregnant form. Giving the assistant manager a sorely needed mid-shift blowie.

“And I’m learning so much! It turns out that Greeks turn into major breedsluts on first exposure... you and your own sister had completely idiosyncratic reactions... we’ve worked out the sex swap formula finally... your own Daddy told me, in this room, how to move to the next phase! I should’ve been transforming Asians into horny sex monsters ten years ago!”

“You’re never going to get away with this,” Jerry growled. It surprised both Nami and Flynn. But it appeared to be just a remaining neuron, reflex firing, since his next action was to dig his hand underneath her overstretched waistband. Her buzzer gave a pleased purr, happy to have some company. Nami moaned, long and low..

It was probably like way smarter to pay attention to the guy telling her his plans for world domination. But she wasn’t smart, was she?

“Wonderful,” Pastor Flynn said. “Just wonderful. You want to fuck her on my desk? I mean that as—look, I know this all is probably very strange. But I really am appreciative. Get her up there, big guy.”

Jerry barely needed the encouragement.. He shoved another big handful of sugar-sweet popcorn in Nami’s mouth, and then picked her up. He settled Nami on the side of the desk and roughly ripped her shorts down.

“Wait,” Nami said. She was dissolving, she could feel it. Soon she’d be renowned as the dumbest housewife on an already-stupid block. Extra drooly and especially silly. “Can—can we get a—whats the word—when you get special stuff for being good? Can we get one of those?”

“Favor,” Flynn said. Jerry fit his cock right next to her pussy. He didn’t seem to notice Pastor Flynn anymore. “And of course! I owe your entire family big!”

“He’s—ahhhhh—he gets to be assistant manager at the burger place,” Nami said. The first stroke sent her elsewhere. “And—and—our own house. I want a nice big house. And... like eight or nine kids... and...” There was something else, wasn’t there? Something she wanted bad?

“I think Jerry has that last one under control,” Flynn said. Nami nodded, relieved. She was very much looking forward to getting inseminated, if she wasn’t already. “And of course! Of course! And... I always get so excited about this... I think this is the thing you’re thinking of.”

She’d lost interest in him, in anything besides the man fucking her. Nami forgot about asking for a favor entirely. Jerry filled her present and future, he filled all remaining thoughts. There weren’t many, and they were of Jerry.

Nami didn’t notice Flynn putting a dime-store plastic ring on her left hand.

“I pronounce you husband and wife!” he said, to the rutting couple. Flynn gave Jerry a congratulatory slap on the shoulder, and then held up a plastic baggie full of similar novelty plastic rings. “Head over to Conference Room 3 when you’re done knocking her up, okay, champ? Proud of you guys. There’s going to be entire continents just like you.”