The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The exultation of new job, new chances lasted Jon about twenty minutes.. Flynn left him in a conference room with a jug of milk, and a glass. Jon spent ten minutes drinking that, all of that, and another ten staring at the wall art. It was pink and yellow, with bold swathes of paint. In a certain light it looked like two very busty women, in neon dresses, embracing. Making out.

It was all so encouraging and heartening that Jon didn’t think to question his persistent erection. Of course he felt mighty. Product manager, special consultant to the CEO/President. Yes, a little bit... transactional, acting as Asian Translator. But a man with a mortgage could make compromises. A man with a family. He made a very satisfactory milk belch and adjusted his dick.

Flynn walked through the door with a very tall african-american woman. She had straightened her hair, and wore a very dark blue suit with white heels. Jon almost stood, recalled his hardon, and reconsidered. So she loomed over him, shaking his hand, very firmly.

“Jon, this is Joy,” Flynn said easily. “Oh. Similar names! That’s fun.”

“She is...?” Jon and Joy turned to look at Flynn. Who was this... subordinate, exactly?

“Vice-Director of Marketing, Milk Division,” Flynn said. Joy gave a firm nod. Even her lipstick was professional.

“Okay. And.. me? Do I... what’s my title?”

“Vice-President of Products, same division,” Flynn said. The question hung between them. Seniority? Rank? Chain of command? Neither asked. Jon stood up, highly conscious of not wearing a suit jacket. Flynn didn’t wear a tie—but then, he was a Pastor, of some sort. Joy, he noticed, had an expensive necklace swinging in the open button of her blouse.

His eyes started to droop a bit lower... there was a lot in that blouse..

“Lets tour the factory!” Flynn said, brightly. “Oh! But first, Joy, you look thirsty, lets get you some MILK!”

“We’re still getting all the machinery in,” Flynn said. He led them through very clean industrial corridors. Very new—the piping overhead was half-finished, the signage hadn’t gone up, and was still waiting on the floor. Large men in hard hats and tool belts walked by. Every single one greeted Pastor Flynn, and they were pretty much all taller than Jon. “So I can’t show you the production area. Just labeling and packaging and the offices. Sorry!”

“Are we pushing to a particular region first?” Joy said. She had a wine-dark voice. Her heels clicked on the concrete, and it made Jon completely unable to concentrate.

“Oh, all of them,” Flynn said.

Joy considered that. Jon was still having cock issues. The erection just wouldn’t go away. “Usually we do a trial run with a set of focus groups, and then—”

“Oh, I don’t bother with that,” Flynn said. He waved with the hand holding his coffee. “People always buy all of it. Whatever it is. Drink some more milk, huh?”

Neither of them needed much encouragement. Joy drank very deeply. Jon watched her. She left a brown-red lipstick imprint on the glass. It did feel—strange, carrying glasses of milk through a manufacturing facility.. He struggled to come up with impressive marketing insights.

“So our job is—what?” he said, and chased it with more milk. It was hard to talk, swallow, and drink.

“Vibes! That’s the word kids are using, right? What are they called? Generation Easy?”

“Z,” Joy said. “Gen Z.”

“For now! For now. When they tell their friends—hey, buds or bros, you gotta drink this milk—they need to be able to say exactly what it is. Through their little tiktoks or what have you.. You guys know this stuff. Their emojis.”

Jon made a note to consult the twins.

A door down the way opened, and a half-dozen topless women poured out. They had towels loosely draped around their shoulders, and wore casual pants and capris. The lead girl waved at Flynn. “Pastor! Passstorrrrr Flynnnnnnnn!”

Twelve perfect breasts pointed at them.

Joy dropped her glass. It was empty, but she did drop it. It shattered on the floor. Jon only had eyes for the tits. Veiny and plump, every one of them. Nipples sticking towards him, achingly erect, just like him. Every one of the girls was smiling—different smiles, some slow and lazy, some bright and pleased—but they were smiling. They were happy to see him, a man.

The scent reached across the hallway. Nice. Clean. Milky. Warm, fresh milk...

“Ohhh gosh!” Pastor Flynn said, pained. “Okay gosh! Girls, these are some NEW ARRIVALS!”

The topless women didn’t seem to react to this, outside of additional puzzlement. Joy averted her eyes. Jon—couldn’t. He couldn’t stop himself. Such beautiful tits. Hitomi had... a chest. Adequate little boobs. He’d had some hopes and expectations they’d swell up with pregnancy, and they had not. And that had been fine—Jon had reckoned himself a sophisticated ass man, unmoved by globous bobbling tits. Until the past two minutes or so.

His cock throbbed...

“NEW ARRIVALS for NEW ARRIVALS WEEK,” Flynn said. Again, the big-breasted women had no reaction, outside of a lot of obvious confusion. They put their heads to the side, in unison. “Cover your tits, ladies!”

“Oh!” That did the trick. Those with towels draped them over their chests. Those without put their hands up, covering a good ten percent of their boobs. Flynn shooed them away, and they pattered off. They were barefoot, Jon noticed.

“That was—” Flynn looked at his Vice-Arrivals. Jon stared at a bunch of retreating asses. Nice ones. Joy was still examining the ground. “You know what? Instead of telling all sorts of stories lets just go to the conference room again and move on! Joy, don’t worry about the glass. Got lots of glasses. And lets get you some more milk!”

“So here’s the thing,” Flynn said. By the time they returned to the conference room another ice-cold carton of milk was on the table, with fresh glasses. No one mentioned the topless ladies incident. Jon wasn’t quite sure it had happened—was it some sort of hallucination, a product of his aching erection and new job stress?

What had he—smelled? Whatever it was, it was still making him dazed, unsure of himself. Hot. He’d smelled it before...

Joy had recovered her own composure. “Flynn marketing has always been... family,” the Pastor said. “Family-friendly. Sedate stuff. You know. For your growing family! Growing this, growing that... that kind of thing.”

He slammed the carton down for emphasis. It wasn’t printed—pure white cardboard. “But now we’re branching out, and we want to be fast. Phase.. I forget what phase we’re in. Six or seven. No, it’s six. Seven is water supply. Anyway. these are new markets, totally untapped markets—asian-american, african-american, I think we hired some indians. Greeks. We hired a greek girl. Point being, it has to POP!”

“Family friendly, but it pops, it gets attention,” Joy said. She had uncapped a pen, but left it in her mouth. She alternated between drinking milk and putting it between her lips. It wasn’t helping Jon at all.

“Any good ideas?” Flynn said.

Jon urged his brain forward. He’d watched Mad Men. A glazed-over look, and then a moment of brilliance. New energy surged through him. This is what men did—come up with ideas, especially in front of women. Big tits floated through his head. Nice big tits... but it had to be family friendly...

“What if...” he started, trying to come up with a thought. Where were the ideas? He was a man!

“Pregnancy,” Joy said.

Flynn leaned forwards. “Joy, you have my FULL ATTENTION,” he said.

“I mean—” Joy swallowed. She looked briefly confused, then pulled it together. “Family friendly and attention-getting. Right. A pregnant spokesperson is both. I don’t think there’s ever been a preggo mascot, has there? And this milk is safe for pregnancy?”

“Definitely!” Flynn said. “It will even cause them!”

“Yes. Yes,” Joy rubbed her pen against her lips as she talked. She was staring right at the pink yellow wall art. “It’ll be ground-breaking. Pregnancy is natural, it’s desirable. Women and men spend thousands to get pregnant. It’s very milk-associated. And yet it’s not supposed to sell. Big.. big bodies, big swollen...” Joy stopped talking. She had run out of breath. “Bodies.” she finished.

“Are young adults into pregnancy?” Jon said. He tried to phrase it neutral, knew it sounded like sour grapes. “Like, Gen Z?”

“Let me worry about that,” Pastor Flynn said. He slammed another fist down. “I love it. Love it!”

“We can put a pregnant girl on every box,” Jon managed. But it was lame, and late, and everyone knew it. Flynn didn’t even seem to notice he said it. He was staring at Joy, attention rapt.

“Miss Vice-President,” he said, whispering. “I think you might be onto something. Oh yes indeed!”

Hitomi was a little unclear on how old Stork was, exactly. At one point she had made an effort to learn real estate, discovering, late in the process, that the Detroit-area property market was a somber career. Economists talked about it in hushed tones.

But she had learned some construction facts—and everything seemed new. Brand new. Even nice areas had their occasional shacks with peeling paint, the 50s-era clapboard completely stripped by the sun. In Stork there was not a single crack on the sidewalks. Perhaps—she watched abs and biceps—the army of energetic city workers had something to do with it. Gangs of eager men in municipal vehicles drove by, looking intent. She rubbed at her lips.

Hitomi had thrown herself into unpacking after the—she was trying to avoid thinking about it—the incident. Where she had driven herself into a rutting wet mess on a daughter’s sex toy. Afterwards she had, still shaking, rinsed it off, sniffed it, and then washed it again. Replaced it carefully. And then gone to find the thrift store.

Another mystery—thrift stores sprung up to acquire the old. But nothing in Stork WAS old. Hitomi was the oldest person she had seen, and it was the middle of the day on a workday. Back in Michigan the senior citizens would be all about, at 2 p.m., when they briefly ran the town. The girls all seemed twenty-one, and only because their obvious pregnancies implied a few extra years. The men looked like tight ends for successful college teams.

Hitomi felt every aging line on the back of her hands.

“Here, let me help you with those,” another man approached her, bursting out of the thrift store. This one was clean-shaven, and actually wore glasses—they looked strange, the lenses perched at intervals on another broad masculine Stork face. He wore jeans and a Dragonball Z shirt.

He picked up the box from her with one hand, and found room for it under his arm. “New arrival, right?” he said. “I’m Henry.”

“Hitomi,” Hitomi would’ve put out her hand, but the man had taken another box from the backseat, and then another. They had taken her four trips and two long breaks to gasp.

“Hitomi!” he smiled, excited. “Oh! I guess I just—I thought you’d be Susan or Mary or—Uh—Kon—ichi- wa! Oh my gosh! Flynn said—Yo-koso!”

It didn’t seem possible from a man built out of two by fours and a Dodge truck. But there was the shirt. Hitomi had uncovered a muscular weeb. She’d hoped, at least, that they’d been left behind.

“I’m—” Hitomi stopped herself. It was unclear if it was weeb lack of boundaries or Stork manners, but the man was happily eye-fucking her. He let his eyes soak up and down her. Hitomi shivered. “—second-generation. But yes, uh, tasuketekurete arigatō,”

She watched his lips move, repeating “arigato”.

Hitomi had a big decision to make.

It was not that she, herself, had fought off that many horny white anime men. A few Robotech guys, and there had even been a nice Ranma 1/2 fan she got close with, who turned out to be gay, which, in retrospect, was pretty understandable.

But she’d raised attractive asian twin girls in a heavily white area in the 2010s era. Jon had taken them to cosplay conventions. It had been her job to fight off Yumi and Nami’s and ultimately Hitomi’s only natural predators:

The white anime guy.

And, on the other hand, he was cute, and built. There was no, nothing, about Motherhood or the age 38 in his eager, excited look.. Hitomi made her decision, without quite thinking it through. “Shall we go inside, Henry? Here, just this one time—Henry-San.”

“Ohhh wow,” Henry gushed.

Hitomi was feeling a little gushy herself.

She wasn’t super-sure why. It wasn’t like Henry was paying for any of the treasures he was reverently pulling out. They had no ebay value. She had checked.

The thrift store was surprisingly big, and they were the only three people in it. There were racks upon racks of what looked like high-quality clothes, even an entire two sections of full suits. A beautiful selection of office-friendly pumps and slides. And an entire bin of bras, marked “A-to-D cups, free’.

No A/C. But that was okay. Henry had thoughtfully given her a full water bottle. He was drinking coffee.

“Ohh wow Robotech sourcebooks! And do you—yes! Gundams! Gun! Dams!” The third person had joined in, and was, clearly, just a slightly different type of nerd. He was a full head shorter than Henry, and without his boyish look. He had black frizzy hair and a screwed up look of total concentration. He’d introduced himself as Tre, and he wore black on black jeans.

Tre pulled small plastic robots out to Oohs and Coos. They were all Jon’s.

She had gone to his parent’s house shortly after the man had unwittingly impregnated her. They were both barely twenty. She had walked into his room and beheld wall to wall figurines, magazines, VHS tapes. Posters even on the ceiling.

Perhaps, at that sinking, horrible moment, a small clutch of cells had divided into twins.

“There’s a three year run on Shonen Jump in there,” Hitomi told him, like Jon had told her. She was perched on a high stool, and kicked her legs. Despite everything, they didn’t seem to want to cross. She was bathing in unexpected male admiration and attention. She hadn’t been this popular with a boy in—possibly ever. Tre was nearly panting.

It was... nice, she decided, to hang out with Henry and Tre. Yes, they had obvious yellow fever real bad. But... Henry in particular was six foot three even stooped to check in boxes, and had blazing blue eyes, and shoulders she could sleep across. She was dying to know how old the men thought she was. They weren’t treating her like a mom.

They were treating her like a princess.

And it was nice.

“Where’d you get all these?” Henry said. “Big garage sale? Some Dad dumping his gear in one go?”

“Something like that,” Hitomi said.

“The 90s must’ve been a real blast,” Tre said. He pulled out a VHS of Tenchi Muyo, then another, and another. “Ohhh my god. I told the guys making fun of me—the Japanese are YEARS ahead of us with this stuff. They had harems all over the place, thirty years ago!”

“No phones in the 90s, though,” Hitomi said. Did they think she was.. 27? Did she dare dream of 25? Both boys kept sneaking glances at her, and her estimate kept dropping. She kicked her legs. Why was she wearing mom capris? And why did she care? Hitomi leaned forwards. She knew they’d like that, too.

Henry reached the bottom of the box, made a boyish noise of sadness, and opened the next. On the very top was a crop top that Nami had gotten without parental permission. It had a beaming yellow sun, a low cut at the neckline, and was cut dramatically short. Hitomi had ordered her daughter to raise her arms, exposing half of Nami’s bra, and nixed it.

“Gosh, usually we get everyone’s old hoodies,” Henry said. “I had to give them back out for Arrivals Week. You really...? You’re donating THIS?”

Both boys inspected her body. Their expressions were identical: why? Why turn in cute clothes? Clothes that would make her—the word whispered across her mind, as she gulped more water—

Fuckable.

And they thought it was—hers. Her skimpy, flirty top, a shirt designed to make parents upset. Too hot on both hems. And then just beneath it, a bright white tennis skirt that shouted “deflower me! I’m virginal!” HER skirt, not her daughter’s skirt, and Tre’s eyes were so sad...

“Those are there by a huge mistake,” Hitomi said. “Huge. I must’ve... mixed up the clothes I wanted to donate with the ones I put on.” She chugged water to clear her throat. What was she doing? She was married. Children. Not some tart determined to flirt. “Why am I wearing these? Ha! So stupid. I’ll just..”

“Changing room is right over there!” Henry said, tossing them to her. It wasn’t hard—they were two tiny scraps of fabric. Hitomi went over, legs wobbling. She threw off her pants, her old navy blouse. The new stuff wasn’t even going to fit. She was not her nymph-like daughters. She could hear the boys conversing, in low tones. She wanted to hear it, very badly.

The skirt was just a little taut—and all to her advantage. It had trouble rounding the curve of her rear end. Good trouble, the kind that got a girl sent to the vice-principal. She’d never been that girl, although she’d been friends with them.

Of course, thinking about it, she’d been the girl who’d fucked the first man to stammer nice things to her, and without a condom, to boot. That girl. She’d rubbed his chest while they fucked, as she recalled...

Hitomi checked the full-length, crystal clear mirror in the changing room. If she opened her mouth, and made her eyes doe-eyed and innocent, she looked much, much younger. Her panties were still bulk underpants, but she’d just cum in them, and that had to count for something.

She shook her head—what was wrong with her? Dolling up to trick the countermen that she was twenty-four. Twenty-three or two at the outside. She needed to get home, check that the brand new house was clean, and then wait patiently for someone to return to it. Her bra felt tight, even with barely anything covering it.

Hitomi walked out, determined to finish her business transaction. And then Henry unexpectedly whistled at her, a perfect wolf whistle, unabashed, and it sent a jolt through her that started everywhere and ended in her pussy. She very nearly fell over.

Jon was already home when she returned. He was still in his work clothes, but on the ottoman next to the couch, hunched forwards. Hitomi jerked backwards when she spotted him, guilty, like she’d been caught out. The clock read 5:50, which made little sense. How long had she been prancing around with Henry and Tre, unfamiliar skirt riding up on her bare legs? Four-fucking-hours?

They’d babbled to her for a long time about their dumb boy plans. They wanted to open an anime/gaming store, of all things. Had she really sat there, and smiled at them, and just preened under the welcome weight of male attention?

“Jon!” she said, stupidly..

“Just me,” Jon said. His voice was tight, and he hadn’t turned the lights on.

“You—startled me!” Hitomi said. She coughed. Her voice seemed high-pitched, even to her. “I don’t know where the girls are. I was—” she paused. But no, she hadn’t done anything wrong. “dropping some old stuff off.”

“Yeah, all the boxes in the bedroom,” Jon said. He even smelled frustrated. At some dim, instinctual level Hitomi wondered—what did that mean? How could she scent stymied male? But there it was, a florid, aggravated musk. “The ones with my stuff in them. Like my entire life from age seventeen through nineteen. Just thrown out, huh?”

The house was growing dark already. It was clearly going to need extra lamps and additional bulbs.. The sweat on Jon’s forehead was cast in relief. The automatic response was to freeze, fix her husband with a glare, and inform him that she had been planning a thrift trip for months. That he’d avoided dealing with Boxes 7-12 despite numerous patient reminders that had sounded like nagging, even to her.

That if he’d struggled on day one at work, as he so obviously had, again, he should find a mirror and take it out on himself.

Instead she found herself easing over to him. His eyes flickered up and down: she’d never changed out of her daughter’s hot-to-trot outfit. It seemed to be fitting better. “Imagine my surprise when this counter guy pulled out a plastic figurine with her lil plastic tits hanging out,” she said. “Little sculpted white panties. Apparently her name is Belldandy. The store guy thought she was MINE.” She stopped, not far from her husband, and cocked her hips. “And all those 90s videos? From the bottom of the box? Yes, Jon, I dropped off your teenage jack off materials. You can go get them back if you want. We don’t own a VHS player anymore though.”

Jon looked up at her. Hitomi was pretty sure he could see up her shirt. “What are you WEARING?” he said.

There was a new note in the air. He smelled... different. Better. Horny. He wore dress pants, but there was something twitching in them.

“I—” Hitomi lost her sudden nerve. She licked her lips. They tasted like bubblegum. When had—had she put lip gloss on? “I-I mean, I was going to donate...” She clasped her hands together.

Jon stood up. He was not a tall man. Actually, she couldn’t recall his physical presence meaning that much to her. Now he seemed big, and very male, with a whiff of authority and aggression that was very, very intoxicating. Hitomi suddenly felt—very small.

Like maybe she was gonna get a spanking.

It was all too much. They took a mutual step back, nervously laughing. They’d been together for nearly twenty years. Hitomi did her best to ignore the signals and scents pouring in, especially the way they pooled inside her panties. The ones telling her: lick her lips again. “I thought maybe I’d—maybe you’d—” Hitomi rambled. They’d laugh all this off, and she’d get changed.

Then Jon stepped past her and smacked her ass. It had to have been intended playfully, to break the tension. It failed.

“Jon!” the married housewife yelped. He could not have intended that smack how it came across. It was very firm and very sure. It should’ve been light and downright ironic. She could feel it with every beat of her pulse.

He stepped behind her and grabbed underneath her shirt. Hitomi was—who was this? Jon? Jon didn’t... did he?

“I remember this shirt,” he told her, right by her ear. Now his scent was way too much to ignore. It fizzled inside her lizard brain, telling her to grind backwards. “You were worried it told men to just grab tit and see what happened. Did you feel bad about taking my anime stuff?”

“I’m sorry,” she moaned. They were still in the living room. What if the girls got home? His cock pulsed against her ass, right where he had spanked her. “I’m super super sorry.”

“I’m really hungry,” Jon said. “All I ate today was milk.” His dick ground against her rear. “It’s nearly six.”

“Soooo sorry...”

“Get in the bedroom.”

“...but I TOTALLY lost track of time, we can go out for burgers or...,” she was just babbling. All the power in the area was in Jon’s hand, leading her by the small of her back. Hitomi was completely powerless against it. She felt pleasantly drunk, totally at sea with the situation. Which also meant, pleasantly, that all accreted responsibilities went out the window.

In the bedroom Jon gave her the tiniest push, and she went with it, careening onto the marital bed. Hitomi drew her knees up underneath her, face in the bedspread, without considering it. Face down ass up seemed like a natural thing to do. Her body told her: pleasurable for the man, no work required on her part.

The strangeness of it occurred to her. Were they really about to have sex? They hadn’t done anything like that—had it been—ever? Was this roleplaying him being mad at her? Or was he actually mad?

Were they really just about to fuck?

“Hitomi?” she looked back. Jon seemed puzzled by the scene—at what to do next. Thoughts percolated slowly—right, she was always on top. That was their sex position. It was good for his back and, strangely, for hers. They had never in all their years of coitus hit it from behind. Jon had brought it up, once, close to his birthday, and she’d sniffed in a very definitive way. Hitomi thought all this, slowly, lazily, just as another thought struck her:

If she could smell him, did that mean he could smell her?

She’d been wet, sopping wet, for hours... right? No, that couldn’t be right. She’d been talking to nerds about their life plans. Drinking water, nodding her head, feeling her pussy pulse...

The confusion in him seemed to dissolve. She was presenting to be mounted. Jon growled and reached forward, yanking her panties down. The elastic strained and gave—they were worthless now. This shocked her, but not as much as when Jon burrowed his face into her pussy and licked like he was starving.

“Oh GOD,,” she tried to say. It didn’t come out. Her body wasn’t sure how to cope. Jon wasn’t being a gentle and considerate lover. His entire mouth was on her, and she could feel each breath, plus the rasp of his tongue. He was treating her like ice cream—no, like the wrapper. Nonetheless she was moaning, guttural moans. All she could see was bedsheets and stars. There was no rhythm, and he didn’t care where her clit was, but each rough lick was amazing. She hadn’t shaved in a long time, and Jon didn’t seem to care.

To get a slightly better angle he lifted her up by the hips, forcing her head down into the mattress. She couldn’t stop cumming. The position had to be destroying her back, but she was twenty-five, twenty-two again.

A bad girl who had been caught out for being drippy-wet all day long. He had to taste how wet she was, how stupid-horny she was. He had to smell her, every lick had to taste like her guilt, her enjoyment...

Satisfied, Jon dropped her. She took a look backwards.. Her man’s face was coated, but he seemed sated, like he had found something he needed. He was still in dress pants and shirt, and now took them off, deliberately. She didn’t dare move. Her clit ached for more attention. His cock was full erect and dribbling.

They usually wore condoms. Hitomi couldn’t quite remember if she’d taken her birth control. But how could she say something, with her ass that exposed? Risk another spanking? She’d cum like gangbusters.

Stately, unconcerned, Jon positioned himself behind her. The door to the bedroom was wide open, just in case any of their kids came by. Hitomi tried to make herself talk, to make her lips work. They definitely wouldn’t once he sank that dick into her. It nestled right at her pussy. He was punishing her, waiting to push in. She was wet enough.

“You’ll get my stuff back tomorrow?” He told her.

“Yes, SIR,” she mewed. She was nineteen, and he was nineteen, and it was the most natural thing in the world to fuck.

“Good girl,” Jon said, and pushed into her. As the next orgasm blossomed, Hitomi thought, guilty: maybe Tre and Henry would be there, and she could wear something even cuter.

“Alright,” Liza said. “Alright. Good. Perfect. We’ve got the band together, we’ll practice right here, by the end of the summer we’re driving out on tour in a car made out of cash money.”

Yumi was on keyboard. It was a positive sign, she thought, that not a single one of the girls had slipped and said “oh, of course you [indicating asian girl] play piano.” She would’ve even understood. It was, after all, completely true—there were many pictures of her in a pink dress, and a pink bow, plinking her way through technically perfect versions of Chopsticks, and from there to Joplin, and all the way up to what she thought as Reasonable Chopin.

Over the years she had performed in a succession of the same pink-and-pink outfits. As she’d outgrown one, Mom had bought another.

At age 15, facing a recital in a Juniors version of the same, the bow attached to a headband, she’d gotten Nami to fight off the outfit for her. She’d performed in a polyester black dress from Goodwill, like a trash bag with a white belt.

Liza kept her hoodie up, and her face hidden, and had incredible gall anyway. She had put together most of the band before Yumi had shown up, on the sheer gut will that she’d assemble a band at a small town New Arrivals get-together. “Jerry used to play drums but he’s useless. So, Zoe, that’s you.”

Zoe was the heavily-built Greek girl who had—had some sort of attack in front of everyone. Some sort of... Yumi danced around the word “cum”... pleasurable... fit. She didn’t seem to remember any of it, and kept glancing down at her damp mid-section in confusion. In fact she wasn’t talking much at all, except to state “me,” when Liza got on a table to shout “DOES ANYONE WANT TO PLAY IN THE BEST BAND IN TOWN?”

She had black pigtails..

“Uma... guitar,” Liza handed over one to their other bandmate. Another set of braids—this time a single braid down her back. Uma was about Yumi’s height, and was going to Stanford. She’d been very clear on that—Stanford.

“Or violin,” Uma said. “I play a little cello as well.”

“Okay, well, bass guitar is basically a cello, so you’ll play bass,” Liza said. “Great.. Settled.”

The world’s newest bass guitarist looked unsure of herself.

They were in Liza’s garage. It was the exact same as Yumi’s garage despite being a few miles away. It was also at the end of a cul-de-sac and had the same white paint, the same vinyl exterior. Yumi had pulled up google maps only to find that its aerial map of Stork was a two-road crossroads with absolutely nothing else around. The outline of what was now the burger joint, and a gas station. The satellite shot was dated two years ago.

“Okay, around the table, quick ice breakers,” Liza said. “Zoe. Truth or dare. Can’t be dare.”

Zoe blinked at them. She had a vague, dreamy look on her face. She wore overalls and a striped shirt. “Truth?” she said.

“What happened to you today? You ate like five burgers and........ what? Like a really loud.... heat..... thing?”

“Oh, that was a dream I had where I...” Zoe trailed off. She frowned. “Wait. No. That wasn’t real.” She looked at them. “That wasn’t real. It wasn’t.”

“Sure. Drink some more water,” Liza said. Zoe took a bottle, grateful. The movers had left a lot of bottles for Liza’s family, too.

“Truth. I’m Uma,” their bass guitarist said. “I’m here for a few months then off to Stanford. My family is from Huntsville, hence the accent. I play violin as well as cello, I was born on Friday the 13th. Only child. I don’t have a favorite TV show because I don’t watch TV. I have not read the kama sutra so don’t ask about it. Oh. And I’m pan. Yumi?”

“I’m Yumi,” Yumi said. She waved at them.

“We’re gonna need more than that,” Liza said. “Unless you want Dare. You don’t want Dare.”

“I’m a twin,” Yumi volunteered.

She didn’t say: Uma, you fucker, you stole every single line I’ve painstakingly assembled.

“Yumi, you’ve gotta go. Can you beat out a Pan Friday the 13th cellist?” Liza said. “I know that’s a tough hand to beat. I’ll go. Trans, non-passing. Sexuality. Yes. Done. I did not name myself after Liza fucking Minnelli. Zoe, what about you?”

“I’m...” Zoe finished her water bottle. She slammed it down. “I’m...this isn’t a dream again, is it?” she giggled. She had to shake herself. “Gosh. You’re all still here!” She licked her lips, and then her gaze slid off them again. A warm smile crossed their drummer’s lips.

Liza looked right at her, from underneath the dark enclosure of hoodie. Those dark eyes, intent...

“Okay, fine, Yumi, keep your secrets, lets plug in and—”

Yumi took a breath. It suddenly poured out of her, the spigot open, gushing forth. Secrets that Nami had been blood-oathed to keep, spilling forth in a wild flood. “I’m Yumi and I’m into boys and girls, but not like, big shrug, boys and girls. Either/or. Boys are purely about that—I don’t want to say male energy because that sounds toxic, but male energy, I can be attracted to that. The confidence, I’m not gonna lie and say it isn’t a turn on, the attention. You know, things you don’t like about yourself but we all have these monkey brains. Physically it’s girls, it has always been girls, girl shapes, girls in clothes, girls out of clothes. You know. Like you’ll read girl love comics and it’s like, of course the only erotic shape is female, only girl lips are made for kissing, and that lasts until football season. There. I’ve never told anyone all that before. Besides my sister.”

“You could’ve just said you’re bi,” Liza said. Her eyes softened, just a touch, and Yumi experienced it like a pat on the head. She’d done good. It felt good. “Lets practice.”

Yumi had been in the school jazz band through Senior Year. It was an unwieldy 30-person group that met only on Tuesdays, and regularly had the kind of internecine strife that would’ve scandalized the balkans.. Yumi had suffered through a lot of unrequited crushes, played gamely on old school yamahas, and kept her mouth very shut.

This was clearly not going to be that. To start with, the school jazz band was eventually pretty good, in a nerdy High School way.

Her new band was BAD.

In a good way.

For a sweaty half-hour Liza had them start to strum through a few Modest Mouse covers. Immediately it was obvious that wasn’t going to work. Uma liked to make a big production out of glancing at the sheet, closing her eyes, and playing from memory. Zoe was an incredible drummer but had her eyes closed and was vibing somewhere very distant and personal. She kept licking her lips in a way that Yumi found personally distracting. She was definitely the most sensual drummer Yumi had ever met.

Liza, Liza made the band work. She had a vocal range that started somewhere around Billy Corrigan, if his balls had dropped, and ended up as a passable Gaga. Along the way it touched on a half-dozen other singers. She seemed to be getting lyrics directly from a moleskine journal open in front of her. None of this meant that she could sing but it was definitely very cool.

After a half-hour, sweating in the enclosed heat of the garage, they all took a lengthy water break, which turned into two or three water breaks. They cleaned out the entire clutch of bottles, all by themselves.

“Alright, band name,” Liza said. She kept clearing her throat. Whatever she was doing to her vocal cords, it came at a cost.

They checked in with Zoe, who hadn’t moved from her chair, and kept drinking more and more water. Yumi had appointed herself water girl, and went from bandmate to bandmate, filling bottles. Zoe was completely drenched, and seemed to spill half the cup, and didn’t care. She didn’t make a suggestion.

“The Satyrs,” Uma suggested. “The Muses. No? Baker’s Bitches. That’s a reference to Gilbert Baker, inventor of the pride flag, in ninete—”

“Okay, noted,” Liza said. “Yumi?”

“The Rainbows,” Yumi said.

Liza sucked in a breath.

“You play a dangerous game, Yumi. It’s ironic. Or isn’t it? Yes it is. But again, no it is not. I like it. The Rainbows. Liza and the Rainbows.”

“The Rainbows,” Yumi repeated, despite the tingling risk of more Liza glares. She got another one, and smiled into it.

“Fine. Lets jam, Rainbows,” Liza said. She dumped an entire water bottle over the top of her head.

The second part of practice is when they got good. Or bad, but in a good way. This time the beat caught, and Uma relented enough to work with it, and Yumi could grab on to it. A glance at Zoe—all she could spare—showed that the girl had her eyes half-closed, and was licking her lips over and over.

But she’d shown them a real beat, an actual measure.

It started to thump.

Liza took a break from vocal work and concentrated on guitar, which added another thrum to the sound. It was loud in there, and still hot, so hot. Sweat ran down Yumi’s neck and into her shirt, tickling the tips of her boobs. It was lucky that each beat shook it off, dripping to the time in her shirt. She was already dry despite drinking something like two gallons of water. It was all coming back out, all four of them sweating and gasping, driven by a beat that was quickly turning relentless.

Yumi’s hips started to move. The sound was driving in right between her legs. It was a new way to experience music. Everything was vibrating, a tingle that went down her arms and right between her thighs. She really wanted to sit down, maybe explore between her legs. She needed her carefully hidden, indispensable vibrator.

Yumi tried to call a halt—she needed a bathroom break, something, just a few seconds away from the drive. Uma’s face had gone slack, and she held her guitar right up against her body, the strings over the top of her jeans. Liza was outright grinding hers, admirably punk rock, feeling it move.

The beat sped up.

Yumi moaned, and hoped it was lost in the noise. What was happening? This wasn’t exactly music, although she was doing something with the keyboard, playing some sort of notes. Most of the music was between her legs, strumming away. The sweat had found its way down there, making her slippery and useless. Her nipples swung to the beat. She had a girl between her arms, Daphne from back home, playing a tune on the girl’s clit. God damn Daphne who had sucked off Brian after homecoming. Daphne was bucking and spasming but she knew exactly where to put her fingers...

Zoe was going even faster...

Uma had stopped playing, and gripped her instrument, hands tight, eyes wild, Liza was still trying to play but with numb fingers.

Daphne, sheepish, turned to return favors, kneeling between Yumi’s thighs. Her glorious ass spread out behind her. And then she was wearing a hoodie, of all things, a dark black hoodie and her eyes were beating into Yumi’s soul...

Zoe lost control, moaning and dropping her remaining stick. The beat died. Yumi’s eyes flew open, and she wasn’t totally sure if she was cumming. Definitely her panties were soaked. Zoe herself had dropped one stick at some point awhile ago, and had played most of it with the remaining one. It wasn’t clear where her free hand had gone. It was hidden behind the drums. But her mouth made an O.

All the sound died.

“Okay!” Liza said, her chest heaving. “Okay! Good first practice. I’ll text everyone. The Rainbows. Get out! Right now.” Her fingers quivered on top of her waistband. So did Uma’s. So did Yumi’s.

Yumi, later, couldn’t be sure how she’d made it home.

Liza didn’t live very close to her, she knew the area not at all, and they all lived in virtually identical cul-de-sacs. It was possible Uma gave her a ride. Either way the beat still drove her, pounding in her head, her pulse aching with it. When she got home she went right upstairs.

The open door to her parent’s bedroom didn’t mean anything, and if she saw Daddy’s bare butt, Mom’s splayed open legs, it failed to register.

The vibrator. She had to get to the vibrator.

It was hidden in a box, and previously she’d barely used it. Someone was always around to hear the hum. She’d even kept it secret from Nami. Yumi pulled it out of containment, just coherent enough to shut the door. She was too soggy to think: what was going on? Why was her mind just a drumline? She could feel it in her teeth.

She pushed the vibrator between her legs. After a moment, because it felt better, she did it in pulses, drumming on her own clit. Until she was cumming too hard to do that.

Nami got back late. She’d been driving around in a car with a boy, and it had been very exciting.

Jerry drove a cinnamon-red Nissan Cube. It had leather seats, and he’d done work on an old stereo to hook up bluetooth. He gave her control of the playlist, which Nami considered an enormous honor and a big challenge—she’d gone with Indie Male Rockers as a safe choice.

“Meth,” he decided, firmly, when they’d been able to broach the subject of the weirdly lactating barista. “I think this is just one of those farming towns that’s loopy on drugs, and civilization is just out the window. All they do here is drink, do drugs, stay out in the sun too much, and hunt for threesomes.”

“You should check Tinder,” Nami had suggested. “For unicorns. I bet they’re all horned up for the new arrivals.”

‘I don’t have the guts for that,” Jerry said. “If my Mom checked my phone and found a dating app they’d probably dial 911. From MY phone. How strict are your parents?”

Nami decided that this counted as “no, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Strict but in a way where they’re just going through the motions,” she said. “You know. No boys until you’re a doctor. But Mom’s heart wasn’t really in it.”

“That sounds nice,” Jerry said. “I was raised by sandal. Not even with any goal in mind, like whatever I wanted to do with my life was fine, I just had to get yelled at while I did it.”

“And... you have a... sister?”

“That’s why I’m home for the summer,” Jerry said. “And to help move. Liza kinda broke Mom. They can barely talk. Okay, so this factory is all completely new, right? So what does this mean for our everyone’s-on-drugs theory?”

It stretched in every direction—clean and white and industrial. Jerry took her all the way around, a lengthy drive. Metal gleamed in the setting sun, and there were vats and tanks and steaming pipes. “This looks like a REFINERY,” Jerry said. “What do they do in there, you think?”

“Dad said—mine is here for milk,” Nami said. “Maybe it takes a lot of machinery to... milk the cows?”

“And who lives in THAT?” there were residential high-rises up against the factory, nearly up against the walls themselves. Dense, six-story buildings, dotted with balconies and windows. “Did they import everyone in this town from Gold’s Gym? Like, you had to win an arm wrestling contest and or wet t-shirt contest to come? Weird.”

“I think it’s cool you’re helping out your sister,” Nami said.

Jerry shook his head. “If she comes across as a really hard case, she’s not. Usually. She’s really worried. Mom hit her with this like three weeks ago.”

Nami would’ve loved to grab hold of part of him. As much as she’d talked big about it, Nami couldn’t recall ever just hanging around and flirting with a boy unsupervised. It had been a highly structured childhood, and a highly structured teenage rebellion. Nami was keenly aware of how empty it felt, breaking away from parental guidance by wearing angry t-shirts. Being a high school activist was ultimately admissions-officer fodder.

A lazy summer stretched ahead, one she had earned. Riding in the car, the wind riding up increasingly short skirts. Saying witty and intelligent things to Jerry while she rode shotgun—or, in fact, why even work that hard? Listening to Jerry’s witty comments, laughing at his jokes, slouching in the chair and letting the seatbelt emphasize her chest. Kissing in the shadow of the factory, in the shade of the smokestack.

Startled, Nami reminded herself: no. Summer was not going to be that lazy. College loomed, and, with it, books, papers, accomplishments, and interests. Yumi was going to teach her how to at least play guitar. She was going to write short fiction. She was going to.. ride Jerry in the backseat, the seats folded down. her head hitting the ceiling as he thrust into her.

Her panties off, tossed out the window, squirming as she soaked the leather...

“Weird,” Jerry said. “I just got airdropped something.” He stared at his phone. “I should... get back.”

Nami realized that she really was about to soak the leather. She crossed her legs in a hurry. “Talk to you tomorrow?” she said, hurried. “We’ll text? Solve the mystery of the big-boobed lady?” Or she could reach over, squeeze his thigh—but no. What was she doing? This was hardly lazy, for one thing. Of course, if he squeezed her thigh...

Jerry glanced over. For a second he was all male, all hunger, it written all over his face. His knuckles were tight on the wheel. Then it was—gone. He gave himself a little shake. “Yeah! Yeah... lets text. No hurry. We’ll be around all summer, huh?”

With her legs crossed, very tightly, Nami was reasonably sure she wouldn’t drip over his seats. “All summer,” she told him, and shivered.

“Hello? Uh? Everyone?” The house didn’t feel like home. They’d only slept in it one night. With the lights off Nami banged shins into lots of things, hunted for a light that wasn’t there, wasn’t sure which key to use. And then the house itself: very quiet.

“Dad?” he was on the couch in a beaten up tanktop, and looked very tired. The TV was on, but not really—it had a strange blue screen and a low tone pitch. Yumi was upstairs, in her room, sprawled sideways and looking at her phone. Nami sniffed. The whole house smelled funny, and she couldn’t quite place it. “Yumi?”

Yumi was less than decent. She’d lost her skirt, and was on her phone in just undies and her t-shirt. She also looked worn out and exhausted. “You okay?”

“Nami,” her sister took a moment to focus. “Have you ever heard of the pink note?”

“No?” Nami looked around. It was going to be strange, not sharing a room. They’d been in bunk beds for eighteen years.

“It’s... okay. It’s like the brown note except instead of making you poop it makes you...” Yumi finally managed to pop bleary eyes all the way open. “ANY-way. I’m in a band.”

“Did they BEAT you? Everyone seems to have had a long day. And...”

It struck her very suddenly. The horny-fun energy of flirting with boys wore off, and she was hungry. Starving and voracious, an actual stabbing growl deep within her gut. Nami stumbled. This made no sense at all. She’d been a ridiculous piggie at the picnic. She weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds and had downed enough ground beef—heck, enough pickles—to sustain her slender frame for a month. Regardless she needed food, so bad. Her mouth watered hopelessly.

“I’m—kinda hungry,” Nami said. She chuckled, to make it less weird. “Holy shit.”

“Same,” Yumi said. “Don’t bother looking downstairs. The rest of us gave what money we could to Mom so she could go forage. I drank cold chicken broth.”

Nami winced. Why was she—what did this—

“Also,” Yumi added, “I think I might’ve seen Mom and Dad fu—”

“BURGERS!” Mom yelled. “I GOT BURGERS.”

The family was roused. Yumi actually beat Nami downstairs. Dad was up and about and pulling wrapper after wrapper out of two enormous white paper bags. Mom was getting ketchup out of the fridge. Classic Mom—even if it was takeout, at least the ketchup could be from home.

Yumi and Dad and Mom were intent, and Nami was painfully slow getting down the stairs. She felt desiccated, squeezed flat. And that despite wolfing down two... three? four?... burgers for lunch. “Which burger is which?” Nami started to say, before realizing it didn’t matter. Anything from triple-bacon cheese to a misplaced bun was completely fine. If she didn’t hurry she’d be left out—Dad especially had made a huge play on the fries.

The family fell onto the pile of meat.

Nami couldn’t remember being this ravenous, utterly consumed with nutrition. The others were the same, which took away something from the strangeness, the silent and intent grubbing. That it was burgers and fries meant it wasn’t weird they forewent forks and knives, wasn’t weird that Mom kept her head right next to the table, to make it faster to eat. Dad crunched through bag after bag of fries, and Nami felt grateful to pick out one or two for herself, granted by his authority.

It didn’t seem to matter that the burgers were carb-loaded monsters of meat. Nami barely noticed two onion rings and what seemed like a full tomato. The cheeseburgers were almost annoying. They slowed her down. The smell was so hearty it enveloped them all in a kind of privacy, a fatty cloak with plenty of secret sauce, deep-fried bits throughout, always welcome, and even the lettuce slathered in cream. Her nostrils felt plugged. She was reduced to mere biology, finding room for more. She needed it in her mouth.

Mom had spent a lifetime stage managing their table manners, like they were rehearsing for some future Presidential banquet. That was gone. Dad used elbows like weapons.

They only came up for air at the end of bag number one. Everyone avoided each other’s eyes. Yumi had half-lidded eyes and toyed with her hair, taking her time on one final fry. Dad still—loomed. There was a lot to him, and he took up much more then his quarter of the table. Even Mom seemed... younger. Less Mom-like.

Nami felt—sweaty. She sprawled her legs, underneath the table. They fell wide open. An enormous caloric load mixed with an entire day thinking sexy thoughts about filipino men. Her mouth was both salty and sweet, and she could barely breathe through the spit. Her forehead was sweaty.

“There’s another bag,” Mom mumbled. “A whole ’nother bag.” She wore—one of Nami’s shirts, actually. Nami was too overfed to comment, but it was the undercut one that threatened underboob. Her Mother was wearing it. Nami giggled. It seemed like the right way to see the world—silly and satiated. Partially satiated.

“I ate five damn burgers,” Dad said, the first time he’d spoken. “And—those fries. I think they’re three-times fried. Open the bag. Do it now.”

It was impossible they’d still be hungry. Nami felt—greased. Every part of her, running heavy with fats. It was going to puff her up, no doubt. No wonder every resident was hefty sized and nonchalant. They were all swimming in a euphoria of peanut oil.. “Open up, Mom,” Yumi said. She’d grabbed the salt and pepper shaker, and was making them kiss. No, not kiss.

“The manager insisted. I said it was too much—too much to carry. He gave it free, said welcome to town, we could make him some rice in exchange.” Mom opened the bag. A puff of meat sweat and fries issued forth. The family sighed, and let their thighs open a bit more. Nami could definitely see Mom’s boobs shake under her shirt. “Then he apologized again and again. Oh, and he said if we’re interested he needs summer staff, so I gave him your number, Nami.”

“My—what?” The immediate impulse was to cross her eyebrows and snarl. But it was lost in the joy of more fries. Chewing was getting very sensual.

Nami rode a fun caloric high, and it all seemed so funny, so right. It was cute and fun that Mom’s tits were on display. It was cute that Yumi had her tongue stuck out, her cheeks red, making the shakers fuck each other. And of course Dad was dripping with sweat. That’s what men did. She had to breathe through her nose, because her mouth was full, which meant inhaling the fun stink of it all. Three females and a male.

They all descended back into being animals. The purest animal, the one eating, and nothing else. Fuel for everything. All of them made noises of pure satisfaction that, generally, would’ve been a major family scandal. Nami couldn’t stop it—if she wasn’t eating she was drinking, if she wasn’t drinking she was purring, a throaty little moan. She was getting something she needed. Dad’s eyes flickered from daughter to wife to daughter. The scent in the room was making them all light-headed, breathe faster.

“Oh, and there’s milkshakes,” Mom announced, sometime later. “Blue for you, dear. Pink for the ladies. Not cow milk. The—its not cow milk, I guess.”

“I-I don’t,,, know,” Nami stammered. Endorphins and similar hormones floated around in her bloodstream. Her whole body felt like it was—churning, creaming, adding things. The milkshake came with extra-big straws. The first sip was too much, a milky overlay to too much of a good thing. It tasted like cherry, but had globs in it—flecks of something that melted in her mouth, too fast to process. Yumi sucked on it with wide eyes, hands wrapped around the straw, urging it into her mouth. It came out in big spurts, flooding Nami’s mouth, each one a delight. The sugar-scent overrode everything else pouring out of them, out of the bags.

Dad grunted, which is how Nami noticed he had his eyes shut. Underneath the table she was half-aware that Mom had put her foot in Dad’s lap, and was rubbing away energetically with her toes. At least the grunts and moans died down. They were too busy drinking.

The last blurb in her mouth triggered something—she had to go masturbate or she was gonna cum at the dinner table.

“I gotta—I gotta go,” she said, finding her way out of her chair. Yumi had slid back in her chair and seemed half-awake, her hands below the table. Dad was gritting his teeth, hands on the wood, while Mom had a lazy grin plastered on her face. Nami stumbled upstairs, to the bathroom she shared with Yumi. Water, she needed to splash water on her face. The entire house smelled like beautiful grease, greased up people. She was so achingly horny and—

On the countertop was a vibrator.

Nami knew whose it was. They’d shared a room. Yumi had left it out on her bed, mixed in with squishmallows, in a way that Nami felt communicated: I have this, you know about it, don’t ask about it. It was drippy and and sticky and that mattered not at all, right then. They already shared DNA, what was a vibrator? Nami grabbed it and bolted, closed her door, and shoved it between her legs.

Her phone went off.

She answered it immediately—it was Jerry, it was definitely Jerry, she wanted to hear his voice. The vibrator buzzed weakly away. She clenched her thighs to add more friction. Were the damn batteries dying?

“Hi! Is this—Nami?” a friendly older voice, in a busy spot. “I’m Noah, I own and operate Noah’s Range, your Mother—is this a good time?”

No, she wanted to say, but—it was a man, a man’s voice, and her body was okay with anything male. She fell back onto the bed. “Sure!” she said, trying not to squeak. What was she doing, fucking herself during a job interview, for one she didn’t even want? Was this rebellion or pathetic, wanton behavior? “H-how can I help? I mean, you know, serve? Serving?”

Noah chuckled. “How were my burgers?”

“They were...” she had to catch her breath. “Soooooo good.”

“Did you like the veggie bag one? Well, I’m sure you did. So lets see. I need wait staff something bad. You work for tips and we’ll feed you. Free uniform. Oh, and all the milkshakes you can drink. Sound alright?”

“Yes, yes sir!” Nami said. Oh no, oh god, the vibrator was dying out. Its last few electrical embers were trying hard to get her over the edge. It was hard to keep it on her clit, the poor thing was over-lubed, slick with juice. She tried to negotiate. “You’ll... f-feed me?”

“Oh, you bet,” Noah said. “Oh yep. Tomorrow at two. You’ll come? Nami, you’ll come, won’t you? Come?” He sounded stern, masculine, confident. It was too much.

“You’ll come, won’t you, girl?”

“Yes—” That did it. “Yes... yes I will! Oh—oh god!” her hips bucked and rolled. The vibrator was full dead but it didn’t matter, it was still phallic and hard, and she was cumming, spasming all over herself. The phone clicked dead after several opening moans. She had a job, and she was orgasming so hard her voice hurt from shrieking. The whole house seemed to echo with it. Or maybe that was just everyone else.

INTERLUDE: 2

Thursday! Maya had gone through her calendar and marked them all in black sharpie. It was just a dumb focus group, for which she was paid $50, in a voucher. But it had become her favorite night of the week. As she told the nutritionist, Mr. Herman, it meant she didn’t have to cook.

She just had to eat.

“Okay, ladies,” Mr. Herman said. He wore a chef-like white jacket with a red bandana tied around his neck. He had enough harsh beard grizzle to sand a deck. “Everyone ready? You hungry?”

“Yes!” Maya and Noelle and Debbie squealed, all the same. The focus group was supposed to be business casual, but the girls had gotten in the habit of getting dressed up. Maya was particularly proud of her purple minidress with the pink hem. It was a spandex-y fabric that wiped clean, like wearing a napkin. It was just about that much fabric.

She’d joined the group out of her usual blend of semi-ironic detachment and being poor. It was clearly just—odd. “VEGAN FOODS FOCUS GROUP FOR GIRLS!” it read in downright, outright Comic Sans. And the clip art was of small cartoon pigs with an X over them. The company was listed as CALVING FOODS PHASE-ATE NATURAL FOODS LLC.

Maya was a lapsed vegan, several times lapsed. She considered being vegan meant she was living life—properly. It was the mark of the actualized girl, the one who had her shit together, her money secured, her week planned. More than a 22 year old bank employee could manage. She did, at least, feel guilty about eggs.

“Okay girls,” Mr. Herman said. “Lets—well, okay, you’re hungry. Lets start with a snack before we do measurements.” Teasing them like always. He whipped out a baggie. “We madmen did it. We veggied up bacon.” He had thick strips in there, wavy and crisped and glazed with fat. The three remaining girls obediently opened up their mouths.

At the outset it had been a larger group. Eight of them, in varying degrees of vegan gear. A lot of homespun sweaters, and satchels, and jeans. They’d organized themselves into an icebreaker group. Noelle had introduced herself as “humorless, absolutely humorless in every way. Not a bit.” She was a blonde with a careless pageboy haircut, still in college.

Now she giggled helplessly as Mr. Herman waved the veggiebacon in front of her nose, then stuck out her tongue so he could feed her. Her hair had grown to the base of her back, light and wavy and blonde.

The bacon was—of course it was VERY good. Better than actual bacon. Despite coming out of a plastic bag it had superb crunch, it smelled like black pepper and toasted fat, and sent waves of umami pleasure through her. It took a little getting used to, food-as-pleasure, the rewiring of nerves to tie up chewing with cumming. But it was nice.

Debbie fell backwards off her chair. Mr. Herman had expected this, poor Debbie. She’d started out as a shy Greek girl with enormous, sad eyes, who was there because she needed fifty dollars. She worked for apps. Now she was—very different.

Maya had felt the wave of skepticism the first time Mr. Herman came out. They were in an empty storefront under the start of renovation, and it all smelled like wood and nails. A few of the girls had hid smiles. He was just—not right. Bulky and fratty and as Natural Foods as a Dodge Ram. Even his beard communicated corona beers and beach volleyball. She still wondered what his first name was. Probably Chaz. Or Tre.

“Okay, gi—lad—everyone. Thanks for coming, we’re serving veggieburgers. Not a hint of meat, 100% natural, we have printouts of the ingredient sheet.” He did. They were printed double-sided, completely covered in text. There was concern about that, but then they’d brought the veggieburgers out on trays. The smell had spread through the group.. Meaty. Rich and meaty.

As a joke, Maya sucked on Mr. Herman’s finger as he fed her more bacon. He slid his thumb around her mouth, then on her lips. They’d gotten—more appropriate for a dedicated focus group girl, was how she thought of it. Plush and full. Probably due to the vitamins and minerals. He chuckled, then pulled his finger free, with some effort. “I’m not vegan,” he told her, then patted her on the head. It made Maya gush a little harder, which hardly seemed possible.

The initial veggieburgers had not been quite that dramatic. The group of girls mostly got quiet. The burst of female camaraderie bled away, and they kept their eyes down, all very conscious that they’d gotten a little out of control. “What.. what’s really in them?” Noelle had asked.. She’d dribbled juice down her chin and onto her scarf. A lot of them had.

“Proprietary,” Mr. Herman had said, sternly. “Trade secrets... not trying to hide anything from you ladies, but it’s not ready for primetime.”

“Yeah... but...” they were all thinking it. “You said.. ingredient list...” Everyone in the room had painful relationships with food. They could look around see each other’s cheekbones, the hollowed out area under the eyes that meant a lot of black coffee and salads. Nothing in the natural foods world tasted like that. Like... Maya had licked her lips... that. “But.. ummm...”

“Ready for the next one?” Mr. Herman had interrupted. “It’s got cheese on it. You know. Not cheese. The ingredient list on that one is an entire binder.”

“Really?” Noelle had said, pathetically eager.

Maya felt hands on her tits, and arched her back automatically. It was the nurse they brought in for measurements. She hadn’t come in for the first focus group, of course. Around the fifth, when two girls had already dropped out—rumor was they were seen hanging around on Mondays and Tuesdays as well as Wednesdays. “Mmm, these are looking VERY nice, Maya!” the nurse said, cupping her boobs.

“Thanks!” Maya blushed. After a little initial strangeness they’d all gotten used to being weighed and taped. It was very reassuring—the nurse was VERY nice about a girl going up two or three or four cup sizes. A lot of new pounds, mostly hung on the back of her butt. “I’m ready for the scale!”

“Oh, always exciting!” the nurse had enviable boobs, and strutted around in a nurse outfit stolen from Spirit Halloween. The girls called her Nurse Goals. She put a small scale on the ground. “Step aboard! Oh, oh baby! Five and a half!” High-five. They always did Debbie last. She was getting a little absurd. And to think she’d started out wearing Juniors-department shorts. They’d gotten her a bigger tape measure.

Some gain was to be expected. After the first set of burgers came a second, then a third, and then they’d unleashed the chips. Four different flavors, mango-lime to big barbeque to quadruple onion to Mystery Chip. They’d all waddled out, clutching vouchers, telling each other that that was it. No more focus group. It had only struck Maya, much later, that they’d never bothered to ask the group how they felt about the products. Although it was pretty clear. Debbie had even started deep, noisy breathing, as each new bag of chips came out.

“Oh, Debbie, incredible,” Current Debbie was producing a lot of milk. Sometimes during focus group she just started leaking. Now the nurse had a pump machine at the ready, although it was hard to attach to her tits. And it meant that someone had to feed her, since her hands were on the cups. But they were all working together.

Debbie looked happy. Her eyes rolled around—getting milked made her pretty dumb.

They were all feeling not-so-smart lately.

By session three they’d all been putting on considerable ass and mass. The genteel, socially-conscious outfits had disappeared. Now the girls were wearing what fit—and looking really good while doing it. Maya’s always-runny complexion had brightened up and her pores practically glowed. Her hair was thicker and had amazing bounce—she assumed from a steady supply of essential fats. It helped make it easy to ignore the two or three new cup sizes she’d put on. In two weeks.

“Excuse me!” Noelle had interrupted, to general disapproval. No reason to bring up these things. “Ummm, sir, I can’t help but notice we’re all getting a little bit—boobsy? You know? And these chairs are kinda more comfy because my butt is bigger?”

Mr. Herman had paused while handing out the “””fish””” tacos, the ones with a mayo-not cream on top. “We can measure, if that’ll help,” he’d said.

“No! I mean, I feel—so—” Noelle looked so helpless. No one was willing to speak up, least of all Maya. She hadn’t gotten a taco yet. “... so hungry.”

That had struck a chord, at least. They were hungry. It was so hard to concentrate on money-stuff at the bank when her mouth just started watering at random memories. Mr. Herman sympathetically took a taco and held it up to Noelle’s mouth. She’d worn a little lipstick. A lot of them were sporting makeup. “Here you go, baby,” he’d said.

He’d given the slightest shake of his head when she’d moved her hands to take it. No, not like that.

Instead, Noelle had reached forwards and fed from his hand.

“Okay, girls...” Mr. Herman started, and even though they were finally, finally going to eat, Noelle had her hand up. She wore a tiny tennis skirt with white and blue stripes, and her own jugs were loose in a sailor-suit parody. Her mascara made no sense with the outfit and looked perfect. “Noelle! Of course you have a question, lets hear it!”

“Sir, why is my pussy so... um... my pussy hair grew back? After I shaved it? Again?”

This was what made Mr. Herman scowl.. “And Maya, yours just fell out, right?” he said. Maya spread her legs for confirmation. She didn’t have to shave anymore. “Debbie...” he just had to glance over for Debbie, who was bent over a little stand the nurse had set up, to milk her. “Thick bush. I don’t know what to say. You’re all supposed to be smooth as glass. I’ll tell R&D. Anything else?”

“When Chris comes in my mouth it tastes like—sweet!” Maya volunteered. “Yummy-sweet!”

Chris was her boyfriend, and he’d been on a work trip the first two weeks. By the time he’d returned it was to a different Maya, with much longer hair, a huge interest in cooking, and bras that didn’t fit. Luckily they’d discovered a mutual interest in her blowing him.

“Damn,” was all Chris had said, the first time. “Maya, you’ve got some sort of... oral fixation going... ahhhh... going on. Everything about you right now is... ahhhhhh... mouth.” Maya slurped away between his legs. Some of the girls had hinted about this, last focus group. Cock was vegan, cum even more so.. It did make a girl feel happy, warm and sticky in her mouth. It was the next best thing to cheesy-cauliflower sauce with nu-mushrooms.

“Sweet is okay,” Mr. Herman reassured her. “Okay girls. Big day. We’ve got southern-fried tofu with baby-making corn, garlic-cashew triple-cream sauce on a sweet potato bun, and... whoa, Debbie! Attagirl!” she was moaning and cumming on her stand, tits practically spraying milk. Maya sank back, trying not to stroke herself. Masturbating before dinner was frowned on.

She was aware that all this junk was—doing stuff to her. At some level. They’d had a bunch of very intelligent girls in that group, many with PhDs. Maya vaguely recalled some kind of rebellion. It was possible she’d even been in leadership. Noelle definitely had been—they’d had t-shirts made up, ill-fitting ones they’d worn without a bra. They’d read “FOCUS GROUP GROUP”. Noelle had drawn up a list of demands—what was going on? Two, what was going on? Why were their heads so—so darn flighty, so hard to concentrate?

They’d even gotten the boyfriends involved. Chris had gotten worried, in a delighted way, about his girlfriend’s quick devolution to dedicated blowjob queen. A group of five enlightened men had accompanied them, only to be somehow shunted to a separate room “for negotiations”.

Now they made up the male focus group. There were protein shakes, and bags of Leaf Jerky. Lots and lots of leaf jerky. Chris had returned home with ten bags of Dudesnax and cum in her butt for the first time.

Finally, finally, out came the food. Bowls made out of planet-friendly cardboard. Sandwiches where even the bread glistened. Noelle’s hands tightened on her chair. She made a point of resisting the smell, the taste. It was cute. Maya had no such compulsion, and Debbie was still strapped to her pump. She strode across the room, pussy dripping, and went for the first Honey Bowl, with the sugar-glazed kale.

Noelle had been defiant long after the rest of them. Maya’s own reluctance to own her new big-boobed, eating-centric life had ended after she lost her bank job. She’d forgotten a few numbers, the ones after seven. Also she’d fucked the manager—not in a slutty way, as revenge because he wouldn’t cum in her mouth. It served him right.

They’d all moved in together at that point, at Mr. Herman’s suggestion. There was a big dorm area behind the storefront, with all the things they needed, like weights for the boys and lots of clothes for the girls. And best of all, while there wasn’t the super-special focus group treats there was bag after bag of specially formulated Calving Oats, color-coded for gender. It just needed milk and thirty seconds in the microwave. And there was lots of milk.

“Ohhhhh... it’s gooooooood,” Maya said, shoveling food into her mouth. The guys didn’t mind if some of it got on the floor, and her boyfriend didn’t mind if it got on her. He had a cute way of motorboating her tits post-group, snacking as he went. He called it second dinner. “From the... uhhh... the nerd book. Remember that?” he’d said, wrinkling his forehead in an adorable way. “Hobbit!” he said a full day later, while cumming into Maya’s fat cheeks. “There it is!”

Noelle joined her, and then Debbie. As usual it was all an enormous success. Mr. Herman knew better then to get in the way of the girls when they were hungry. As usual he made a few notes on his clipboard, and checked how their pussies were coming along—how sticky and wet they got, what they smelled like.. He was even in charge of sniffing their butts, which always made Maya giggle.

“Alright, girls, great job as usual,” he said, waving to the kitchen staff. They brought out the girl chow trough between two beefy men. It was really for Debbie, Maya liked to think. She’d lost quite a bit of dignity recently, including having her ass checked to see if it smelled like cranberry-maple, but the trough was a bit much. Still, it was fun to lower her head and munch away, butts slapping against butts, hands optional. With her besties. To show Mr. Herman how much she appreciated everything.

That was her secret, after all. Not a bad secret, or even a big one. In fact, mostly it was a secret because there was no one to tell. But it was hers: she really, really did believe in the mission. They were doing the right thing. The moral thing.

Mr. Herman had explained the whole thing while they were filling out forms—the ones signing over her assets, her body, her personal autonomy. Noelle had insisted on signing her own name, which took forever. “We really need you girls,” Mr. Herman had told them, after explaining that they were more like lab animals then a focus group, per se. Maya expected to feel bad, learning that the truth was worse then her most grim imaginings.

But instead she felt—good.

They were helping. Carbon emissions from the natural foods menu were nil—they were all of them mostly food coloring, some plants, beet sugar, and a few drops of chemicals. It was one step away from just dining on grass. She could get most essential vitamins and nutrients from Chris, and he from her, once her stubborn body started producing milk. They’d feed and fuck and suck on each other, a nutritious orgy, jumpstarted by ground-up weeds any dirt patch could produce. It sounded wonderful.

“Okay, girls. After this we’re packing up and getting on the bus. Big forever field trip to the actual factory in Stork where—Oh—Noelle! Maya!” Mr. Herman sounded so happy. Unsteady, Maya lifted her nose from the trough. It was a layer of high-density pink mush that smelled like candy apples. Her eyes struggled to focus, but when they did, it was on a surprised and delighted Noelle. Her blonde friend squeezed at her boobs, and an actual gush of milk came out. Real, delicious milk.

She looked down, afraid of failure. But there they were. Her own paps were producing, actually producing. It was her first expression of life-giving, very filling, and best of all 100% vegan natural girl milk.

Hands trembling, Maya reached up for her first squeeze.