The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jon woke up starving. He was on the couch—a black leather monster that had been poorly contained in their old house, and was still hulking and enormous in the new one. He wore a white tanktop spotted and dense with new stains, brown-red ones dotted all over the cotton. His mouth tasted like a barbeque pit. And he was hungry. And he had a hardon.

He decided to take things one at a time.

He’d had so many busy, insane dreams it was hard to sort through it all—and to reassemble what was actually, really real. He was hungry because he’d spent a lot of the dream—eating. Anxiety dreams, in a strange way. He was in an airport, or an island, or something, and had to accumulate protein. He recalled dashing around, grunting, fighting. Which could explain the light sheen of sweat all over his body. The food itself was never made clear—just that he could eat it with his hands, and did, and frantically, and never enough.

The erection was from the many, later, sex dreams. He had to ease into thinking about those. The good news was that Hitomi was at the center of most of them. The bad news was, she wasn’t in all of them. In one he’d been fucking a shiny, splendid black ass, one still partially wrapped in the destroyed remnants of a professional pencil skirt.

Dream Joy had such a throaty moan...

“Hey Dad,” Yumi said. She walked by in volleyball shorts, with a towel wrapped around her midsection. She stopped, gave him a searching look, and moved on. “Don’t mind us girls, we’re having a lady crisis.”

“Oh. Oh, no. Do I have to run to the store?” he said. Jon belatedly slipped a pillow over his crotch. Why wasn’t it going down?

“It’s clothing related. I don’t know. It’s weird. We all... uh... we ate too much.” The towel slipped down a few inches. There was a lot of cleavage there. They stared at each other.

Right... THAT dream.

It was one of the better ones. After eating three or four pounds of ground beef, and half of Idaho’s french fries, Hitomi had playfully rubbed his cock to full mast with her toes. Then they’d stopped for milkshakes—a clear sign it was a dream, as it made no sense otherwise.

Next scene, he was on the couch, his wife between his legs, enjoying herself with his balls. A slow, lazy blowjob, a late night blowjob, enjoying everything his dick had to offer. Except he’d looked up, eyes tough to focus, to find Yumi on the other side of the couch, her eyes just as vacant, her legs spread wide, rubbing herself with at least four fingers.

His dick gave a little jerk, under the pillow. “So that’s why we’re all, ahem, braless,” Yumi finished. Her cheeks were flushed. “We pigged out and ruined our boob support situation. Doubt you wanted to know that... and... anyway... yes. Lady problems.”

“Yes,” Jon said. He tried to recall the rest of the dream—where had it ended? Yes, he remembered nutting in Hitomi’s eager mouth. Was there more? There were flashes of someone else paddling across the long expanse of black leather, intent and stupid, to lick up the rest... “Good luck. With your, uh, chests. I have to... I’m late for work. Oh god.”

He stood up, expecting a litany of muscle complaints. They were surely eager to remind him he’d slept on a couch. Instead he felt near-starving, and filmy with sweat, but otherwise—fine. Good, even strong, like he’d finished a satisfying hike. He turned towards Yumi, who was staring, mouth open, at the persistent bulge in his boxers.

“Oh. Oh!” Jon grabbed for a pillow. Yumi made the same kind of movement, reflexively, which is why her own towel fell off. Her bare boobs wobbled in the early morning. There was a rosy glow around her nipples. Jon stuffed a couch pillow in front of himself.

Yumi giggled. He couldn’t remember hearing anything like it, from either twin. Yumi had a nervous, low-pitched titter, and if Nami laughed, everyone heard it. This was a high-pitched, breathless titter. It was just a moment, and then she snatched the towel back up.

“Breakfast,” he said, trying not to eye her tits.

“Yes. Lets do that,” Yumi said.

His mood descended back to frustrated. None of his clothes seemed to fit. Jon bought—well, actually, Hitomi bought—all shirts in midwestern loose, excess fabric pooling in a strategic reserve around his waist. Overnight they were taut around his shoulders, the stitching surprised by his chest. The buttons groaned.

“God damn neck,” he growled. He didn’t have—couldn’t have—the bull neck in the mirror, the one fighting the shiny pearl button at the nape of his throat. His hair wouldn’t stay flat, either. If he shrugged his shoulders a peak of undershirt white filtered underneath the buttons. Finally he gave up—no tie.

“Jon, come help me with this clasp,” his wife called. Not for the first time. He’d ignored her annoyed moans from the closet. They were petulant, and he was keenly aware that no one was cooking the enormous four-course breakfast his body demanded. “Please. Pretty please.”

“Double pretty please?” he walked in. Hitomi wore a pair of white shorts he didn’t recognize—short ones with a pink heart on each butt cheek. She kept trying to pull a bra closed. The clasps were nowhere near each other..

“You too?” he groused. “This is from one burger night?”

“I’m gonna have to take the girl’s shopping,” Hitomi said. “And me. Maybe we’re all getting a last growth spurt in.”

“You’re getting a late puberty, huh? I’m getting that too, with my waist,” Jon said. He pulled at the clasp. It was clearly hopeless. Even from behind her he could see her tits pooch out on all sides. And that she hadn’t been able to button up her shorts. “Don’t get moody on me. Bad enough with the twins.”

His body wanted to pull and yank, to make the damn thing close. Muscles started to surge. Jon snorted, aggravated, and instead yanked the entire thing off. Hitomi’s boobs bounced freely. Her husband easily tore the brassiere in two and tossed it at her feet. He closed in on her, cupped her tits from behind. “There. You’re supported.”

“You’re a lousy bra,” she told him, but wriggled her ass backwards. Right—these were some of the twin’s shorts. Nami’s. He wondered if HER boobs were bigger, too. Hitomi’s filled his entire hands. “You’re supposed to lift them.”

“I support you plenty. I’m the breadwinner. And I’m HUNGRY,” he snorted, irritated. his dick stuck into her shorts. Hitomi reached backwards and pulled it out, stuck it between her legs. Her thighs rubbed it. That felt different too. Her skin was so smooth.

“Hungry for what?” Hitomi purred. She jacked on his cock. He hadn’t tried to find pants that fit, so far. It was a strange embrace. She had to reach down, between her legs, to reach his dick. He could feel it straining underneath her, lifting her up, her thighs and hands making a snug and unique little fit.

“You’re getting my figurines back today, right?” Her boobs felt so—different. So much more fun. Warm and soft and pliable, with enjoyable nipples he could roll in his fingers, pinch at a whim. This was his to play with, he was sure of it. He dug his hands into her waistband, fished around. She smelled so warm, so inviting... “Honey?”

“We’re gonna go shopping, me and the girls,” Hitomi said. “I’ll TRY to get them back.”

A no? From his woman? Jon picked her up—she was so light—and walked her across the room, his dick bobbling in front of him. Something in his consciousness was trying to get his attention, something about how one treated a partner. It was so easy to ignore—this girl, she smelled like his. Vanilla and leaves. He pushed her onto the bed. With his other hand he pinned her arms to the bedspread. Her rear was up, inviting and warm.

“No?” he said. Her legs spread apart without resistance. He rested his hand on top of her shorts. The bottom of her butt cheeks were poking out. He played with it, idly.

“I’m busssssyyyyyyy,” she whined, panting. His dick hovered over her body. She waited, then made a decision. She wiggled her butt at him.

“You gonna spank me, Jon?” She had to mean it ironically. It didn’t sound that way.

“Well, Daddy?”

Just like that he was cumming. It felt—different. Good, definitely. And there was some release, some lessening of the blood pounding in his ears. But none of the usual flood of sleepy post-orgasm all-done juice. He was pretty sure he could fuck her again. And again and again. He spurted without stimulation, a very strange feeling, brought over by the smell and the position and the sure knowledge he would cum all over her body.

“Holy shit Jon,” Her voice lost its purr. Jon looked up. He’d sprayed her ass, on to her back, over the top of her hair, and then most of the way towards the pillows. It was an enormous amount of semen. He could only imagine what it’d do to her if he’d fucked her properly..., to his coworkers... to every girl around... “Geez.” she rolled upright, giving him a look, and covered up her breasts. They were already too large to fully cover with her hands. “I’ll get the anime crap. You didn’t have to spray me down. Now I have to take a shower.”

He’d—what had he done? Jon looked at his cock, confused. Was it bigger, too? Hard to blame the burgers on that one. But he was a man. He couldn’t show confusion in front of his wife.

“Look, you could’ve just cooked me oatmeal, instead,” Jon said.

“Heya Daddy.” Jon nearly dropped the glass. He’d strapped himself inside a different shirt, found pants that fit, and left Hitomi to deal with his spooge on the sheets. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened—had he really taken her by the WRISTS? His knee was still wet from where he’d driven it into her pussy. And now—Daddy?

Nami was, at least, wearing a shirt. One of his shirts, a white polo with a too-loose collar. She had a bowl of milk in front of her, and gave him a friendly wave.

Nami never gave anyone a FRIENDLY WAVE.

She’d never gone full punk, but it had been a close-fought battle. There had been wars over hair dye, over tattoos, over fishnet stockings. Going 5 minutes past curfew, then 10, while her sister was already in bed. Hitomi typically softened her up, then usually brought Jon in to act as a masculine wrath of paternal anger. Something he could do, for short times.

“Daddy?” Jon said.

Nami looked away. “Uh,” she said. “Right. Daddy-o.. Father. No. Dad. Jon Masuda.”

“I see you’re also stealing my stuff,” Jon said, checking cabinets. No cereal. Bare fridge. There was no food at all in the entire house.

“Yeahhhhh,” Nami said, looking down. “We’ve all got burger regrets. Kinda... kinda weird actually. But... since it’s not coffee... it should be... anyway, you hungry?”

Jon’s body clenched from neck to knees, centering around his stomach.

“Yes,” he said.

“We’ve got milk! Non-dairy, it says. It was dropped off! Ice cold!” She pointed to a quartet of half-gallons, in a small cardboard shell. They were dripping with condensation. Milk. His milk, his product. “And I came up with a recipe for it!”

“You’re cooking,” Nami did not cook. Getting her through a given laundry day was difficult. Although—it wasn’t that she wouldn’t do chores, it was that she wouldn’t do Female Gendered Labor. Back in Michigan she had dutifully pushed a mower, cleaned gutters, shoveled driveways, and taken out trash. But—dishes, cooking? No.

“In a sense. Watch,” Nami had a bowl of milk. She displayed the crinkled up bag from last night’s burger excess, reached in, and pulled out a cold, hardened french fry. “Eh? And then you dip the fry... in the milk... and voila. Milk fries.”

“Milk fries,” Jon said.

“It softens them,” Nami said. “Creamy and rich.”

She even stood up, to pour him a bowl. It turned out his polo was a short dress, on Nami, a sort of slutty preppy outfit. Jon tried and failed to look away. It occurred to him, distantly, that his erection hadn’t really gone down. His daughter handed over a french fry from the bag, watched him dip it in, with a kind of pleased, distant smile he’d never seen on her before. Jon bit into his first ever Milk Fry. It had a burst of sweetness and salt, soaked through with dairy substitute.

“It’s great,” he reported. Nami actually clapped her hands together.

“Oh, Daddy, I’m thrilled to hear that,” she said, with another very rare, for Nami, emotion: sincerity.

He’d allowed himself a little time to feel concerned, in the car. Even with both vents going full blast, shoving icy air conditioned breeze in his face, Jon could feel each pulse. Even his blood felt unusually warm. It wasn’t normal to be this—erect. A fuck-or-fight response, on a hair trigger, a sense that he was perpetually about to have sex. It was—off. Hitomi was acting strangely, Nami, even Yumi... his girls.. his all-grown-up girls.

Jon bit into his own tongue. It helped a little.

Rationalizations kicked in. This was—a new place. They were new arrivals. He’d turned the adrenaline of a new job, new coworkers, new house into persistent arousal. Heck, they were all feeling it. It was in their bloodstream, burger-led.

The important thing was to be a good Daddy. A strong one.

Joy was sitting at his desk when Jon got in.

She wore a gold tanktop that had actual sequins on it, and a gold necklace strewn with medallions. Her pants were sedate, at least, beneath a spread of burnished jewelry. Jon was unsurprised to find her eating. Everyone seemed to be eating. Even the receptionist had been trying to hide a doughnut she was dunking in her coffee..

Joy’s cheeks were completely stuffed. Jon took a chair. Her hair seemed—a lot. Yesterday it had been different, hadn’t it? Straightened and coiffed, styled into a piece of corporate gear. Now it had volume and bounce, even a halo of fringe, and extended clearly down her back.

“There’s...” Joy struggled through what seemed to a type of sausage sandwich. “One.. desk. For both of us. Because Flynn says we’re gonna be doing everything but sitting. There. I’m sorry you saw that. Me swallowing.” She regained some composure, lost it again with a huge drink of milk.

“Uh-huh,” Jon said. He crossed his arms.

“Listen—Jon,” Joy said. She flicked her eyes at the door.. It was closed. Their marketing area was a barely disguised section of industrial. The workers had tacked on some particle board and painted it red. There was a cubicle farm underneath exposed pipes. “I do want to work together. We are... we both moved out here, we’re both new at this. I think we should... does anything seem strange to you? About all THIS?”

The chair was too small for him. It was so hard to concentrate on what she was saying, when the chair held just half his butt, and wobbled underneath his weight. “It’s hard to feel comfortable,” he said, half paying attention.

“Right!” Joy seemed relieved. “Especially when you’re so.. hungry... and, well, I don’t know about YOUR dreams but...”

Jon stood up, annoyed by the conversation. Joy did the same.

It was suddenly obvious to him that she had a lot more boob then he’d known about. Her jewelry hung on to an upper slope.

It was just as obvious she was drinking him in. Jon was mollified by it—it felt like a kind of respect. Everything he wore felt tight.

She could probably see at least a little of the straining outline in his pants. Nothing indecent—just letting her know he was a man. It made him feel a tiny bit better about the situation.

“Lets go meet your staff. The staff. Lets see the staff,” Joy said, turning to the door. She wore at least three inch heels. It made him look shorter, but, on the other hand, she took very careful swaying steps, and it was a nice ass.

Four men and four girls, just as diverse as the Planet Earth could put forth. Sita and Cora and Maria and Drana, Sean and Casimir and Jesse and Anand. Sean was a white guy, but was in a wheelchair, which explained a lot about Pastor Flynn’s approach to diversity. Jon felt he had watched a few old Captain Planet episodes and called it a day. Anand and Sita were married, which explained the matching UC IRVINE college sweaters, and also why Sita sat in Anand’s lap.

Icebreakers, nonetheless, started out slow.

No one seemed very comfortable—talking. Jon felt as guilty as anyone. All of a sudden there was so much to see, smell, eat, that engaging with the effort of chit-chat felt really dumb and pointless.

Maria in particular wore a khaki skirt that was probably respectable on the rack, but which kept riding up to the top of her thighs, which she was struggling to keep closed. Jon could tell, without discussion, that every man in the room had an opinion on her underwear. Sita kept adjusting her bra right in front of them—she wore an out-of-season sweater that hugged her tightly, and made clear the structural issues with her brassiere.

Even the boys were distracting—Casimir and Jesse kept rubbing their stubble, which sounded like old-growth forest.

The girls lost their train of thought whenever they did. And everyone, everyone, was in too-tight clothes.

That was on top of the way everything—smelled. Most of all it was the company catering in the middle of the room. It was even decorated. Four carafes of milk surrounded by Local Pastries—some kind of deranged french bakery that went overboard even with croissants. They were double-sized and glazed with almonds, chocolate, and something that might’ve been maple. There was an entire bowl of glazed strawberries.

No coffee, which might explain everyone’s desire to just sit and chew.

They finished the milk within a half-hour. A blonde girl in a ridiculous parka appeared out of nowhere, took the jars, and replaced them with completely full, completely cold new ones. She wore red bicycle shorts that made clear how plump her rear was. Jon’s hand tingled. Hitomi had invited him to smack...

But the scents were the hard part to get past. It couldn’t just be the food. Maria opened and closed her legs, and Jon just felt—better. Like he’d caught a scent, walking past an expensive boutique. Or their bathroom, at any rate. They were all breathing hard.. It made playing the marshmallow game a challenge.

Sean finally showed them the way. “My legs don’t work, I’ve climbed Chapel Wall in Yosemite, and my dick doesn’t work.”

They all laughed. Two truths and a lie suddenly got more interesting. “Um, I’m wearing a bra right now, I’m from outside Milwaukee, and I was briefly a porn star.” Maria volunteered, and then rocked her chest back and forth for emphasis. Joy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, drank more milk. “Our daughter wasn’t accepted into Harvard, Sita enjoys dancing, we’ve had sex in this building,” Anand said.

It came around to Joy. She looked suddenly flustered. “Pass,” she said.

“No pass,” Jon said. He’d volunteered a quick three. He was from Korea, he had twin legal daughters, he’d lost his virginity making them.

“Okay. Okay.. I.. uh... I like singing, I’m married. I like being choked.”

There was a pause. They all looked at her left hand. No ring. Joy’s cheeks went bright red.

“Maybe there’s a company talent show,” Jon said.

The ice was truly broken.

“Maria, baby, can you refill me?” Sean said. He held up his cup.

“Oh, of course!” Maria hopped up. Without a bra on it went very well. She tugged down her skirt.

They’d broken into work groups—well, into two work groups, which happened to be a boy group and a girl group. No one had even said anything. Jon’s group had decided to take on packaging design, secondary design, marketing logistics, outside contracting, and so on. They’d named themselves TEAM RED.

The girls weren’t making as much progress. From what Jon could overhear, a lot of it so far was Sita talking about trying to get pregnant. In a ton of detail. Anand didn’t seem to mind his wife describing their new “whenever a bird chirps” sex policy. And it explained why they’d already fucked in the supply closet.

Plus the girls were a few inches closer to the craft table, and seemed happy to get the boys whatever they asked for.

“Joy?” Jon said. He waggled his plate at her. He was aware, at some level, of what he was doing. But he could just smell that—she’d do it. She’d feel good to do it. It’d make them both happy, especially when she walked so carefully in those heels.

Joy stood up and did it. She managed to give him a stern look, handing him yet another jam-encrusted pastry, but that was it. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Since I’m over here, can—”

“Joy,” Sean said. “can you stand right in the middle of the circle, here?”

Her mouth hung open. But she did it, standing perfectly straight. “We’re thinking the marketing campaign features a series of different pregnant women,” Sean explained. This was news to Jon. “Basically girls from all kinds and creeds, except they’re impregnated. Business girl, Hooters girl, hippie-crunchy pregnant girl. Hey, lets have all the girls model, alright?” He held up his phone. “Hmm?”

They nearly scrambled to line up.

Excepting Cora, who Jon was struggling to get a handle on. She was a heavily curved girl with long, curly black hair, and naturally brooding features. Mostly she’d been eating—more than anyone else. And she certainly smelled like she was having a good time.

It was getting regularized, sniffing out someone’s mood, and Jon had stopped giving it much thought.

By the middle of the work day things were getting—fun.

The modeling session had really loosened everyone up. Cora had disappointed—she’d shuffled up awkwardly, put two hands on her hips, and then back to the feed. But the other girls had put a ton of verve into it.

Drana especially had turned out to be a complete freak in front of the camera. Something about the click and snap of it did something to a Filipino mother of two. She put both hands behind her head and outright danced, bouncing her hips to a beat only she could hear.

“Work with me, work with me,” Sean encouraged her. Jesse and Casimir had disappeared into the bathroom together. Drana shook her rear towards Sean’s face, getting closer and closer. She’d even switched outfits, somehow finding black tights and a short jean skirt. She didn’t look like a careworn Mom. Moms didn’t sweat like that.

“Jon, a word?” Joy said. She motioned him to the office. Jon adjusted his pants and went along. He was getting used to having a semi-hard dick all the time. It felt alright. It wasn’t really like an uncomfortable stiffy, like being back in 7th grade. It felt like he had a big swinging dick.

His co-director-manager hesitated, and took the chair in front of the big desk. Which meant he had the big desk. His half-chubby surged to full hardness. Jon sank into the seat, and examined Joy. If he hadn’t fit in the chair, she was finding it impossible. Mounds of rear end stuck out on both sides.

“Jon, I know we haven’t known each other long but I was wondering if—” she stopped. There was a noise outside. “If...”

If he’d bend her over the desk, one hand in a firm, authoritative grasp on her neck—consensually of course—the other guiding his cock between her thighs. Jon shook his head—no—this was fun, but she was ultimately a coworker, for god’s sake.

Confused, his body squirted pheromones in all directions. Her eyelids fluttered...

“Hey! Have you guys seen—uhh—Cora?” Maria said, poking her head in. Joy slumped in her chair. Or tried to—she nearly fell off. Her hair was halfway down her back, and gone from a powerful waterfall to a major fog. “She’s missing?”

Jon and Joy locked eyes. Jon adjusted his erection right in front of her. It seemed natural. “I should—should go check on that,” he grunted. It was so hard to think, especially with Joy’s legs in front of him. Her thighs were making tight little circles on each other, and they smelled so welcome...

Outside, Drana had fallen on top of Sean, and was having real trouble climbing off of him. Jon’s eyes tracked over to Jesse and Casimir, who were emerging in tandem from the men’s room, cheeks raw from beard friction. Then over to Sita and Anand, also seated on top of each other, Sita’s legs spread very wide.

The PA overhead was playing cheerful pop music. There were lyrics, and Jon tried to hear them—it seemed important to listen to them, on top of all the other many sights and smells. Some girl with a very high-pitched voice was almost audible over a pounding bass line. It was definitely getting to Drana, who was pumping to the beat on Sean’s lap. Maria got caught up in it and danced, all by herself, in the middle of their breakout session area. All the papers and notebooks they’d brought with them were thrown all over the carpet.

“Have you seen Cora?” Jon yelled, to everyone. It got no response, even from Maria, who caught his eyes. Suddenly she was dancing for him, her hips flexing back and forth. She mouthed something to him, and Jon was sure it was “sit down, sir.” There was a chair right behind him.

The moment called for firm masculine leadership. He opened his mouth to say something stern.

“Jon and Joy!” Pastor Flynn said, cutting out the music through the office. They all stopped gyrating, looking up, stupidly, at the ceiling. “Can you come by my office? If it’s not too much trouble at your convenience, right now? I’ve got Cora here and she’s been a bad girl.”

He was the only one who didn’t seem bewildered, or at least confused. Pastor Flynn beamed at the three of them from behind his big wooden desk. He had another big cup of coffee handy, although this time there was a cushioning hint of milk in it. It was almond-flavored, with a sweet note on top of the wicked black brew.

The only other thing there was the fat stack of paperwork Cora had been caught smuggling out of the office.

She sat between all of them. Her knees were quivering. She sat, a wet mess, in her black slacks and buttoned-up shirt.

“Gosh, a good old-fashioned sit-down to figure everything out,” Pastor Flynn said. “I love new arrivals week. You know, a lot of residents don’t. For them it’s just an interruption to a routine that they enjoy. But that’s why they need interrupting, you know? Nothing changes in a routine.”

He took a thoughtful slug from his coffee cup. “And I love changes,” he concluded.

Cora sat in between Joy and Jon. She’d lost almost all of her fight, and had followed along very quietly. No mystery why—Pastor Flynn smelled like the very shining pinnacle of male. Jon wasn’t quite certain why he hadn’t picked up on it earlier. He smelled like mud on tires, a hint of whiskey, but also executive boardrooms and important decisions.

It was hard for Jon to look at him. The girls were having no luck, although Joy kept trying to lift her eyes up, at least.

“Cora,” Pastor Flynn said, very politely. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. You’re not in trouble. This happens every new arrivals week, believe it. You don’t even need to explain why.”

“It’s because it’s all—it’s all WEIRD!” Cora moaned.

She wiped her nose on her shirt. “It’s weird everyone smells so good, it just is! It’s weird I ate a dozen almond scones! It’s weird that everyone’s so—so hot! We just met! I don’t know any of you and it’s all sexy men, sexy girls, everyone smells sexy and everything tastes sexy and it’s just... everywhere!”

They let her trail off, sniffling.

“It’s tough, I know, believe me,” Pastor Flynn said, sympathy itself. “Here. Here you go.” He handed her a bright pink handkerchief from out of his pocket. Cora took it, grateful, put it to her nose, and blew.

“Ever since we got here I’m just so—I’m just puddles, Pastor Flynn! Puddles! My d-daughter, Zoe, she got home just as hot and bothered and we just watched p-porno together for hours and ate burgers and...”

“Blow,” Pastor Flynn said, indicating his handkerchief. “And breathe it in too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Jon was having trouble following the conversation, and Joy didn’t seem to be much better. Between Cora and Flynn there was too much man and too much woman.

“I just—why doesn’t anyone else SEE it?” Cora said, sniffling, finding the energy to look up. “I—look at these BOOBS, Pastor Flynn!” Just like that she pulled them out of her shirt. Jon swallowed hard. They were stark white, and covered in blue and red veins. His mouth hung open.

“I see them, I see them,” Pastor Flynn said, understanding, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Very nice.”

“I—this started this morning and—I kept going to the bathroom to m-m-milk myself, and...” she squeezed a tit. Not a little milk budded at the top of her nipple, and immediately started to run down towards her dress.

It smelled really great.

“You’re just a little ahead of us, is all!” Pastor Flynn said. “Cora, you’re doing just great!” He stood up, strode over to her, and gave her an enormous bear hug. Cora froze, then sagged into his arms, hugging back. When he pulled free his shirt was wet with milk. He sat Cora down in her chair and gently helped her dress back up. It was quickly stained as well.

“Cora, I know you’re new. You aren’t used to everyone around you smiling, all the milk they can drink. Everyone being happy, that’s new. Touching themselves, touching each other, it’s hard to get used to! It’s nothing to be embarrassed about!”

Tears leaked out of Cora’s eyes. Her mascara ran black and heavy. “My t-tits are making milk...”

“And stealing papers! That’s great! I remember this one girl—well, anyways, but it shows so much initiative! Cora, you’re going to do great here.”

Cora looked up, unbelieving, into Pastor Flynn’s big, honest face. She gave the pink handkerchief one last little toot.

“Really?” she said, in a very small voice.

“Oh, you’re just ahead of the rest of us!” Pastor Flynn assured her. Over on the other side of the room Joy couldn’t stand up anymore. She’d fallen back into her seat, eyes dull and sleepy.. Jon wasn’t feeling much better. The office was overwhelming just to smell. He set his feet to keep standing. His erection raged at him. “Usually the little fun rebellion is day four! Your family is Greek, right? I’ve got to keep better track of this. And milking already? Wow!”

Cora’s hands reached up to grab at her still-leaking nipples.. “Is that... is that good?” she said, anxiously?

“Cora, it’s FANTASTIC. Now, we do have to punish you a little, but honestly, you’ll feel so much better afterwards. Your daughter’s name is Zoe? Good to know. Joy, do you want to spank her?”

He asked Joy first. Jon stiffened even more then he already was. Joy? Her? The girl? The one lolling about in her chair, thighs just as widely spread as Cora’s, her tongue hanging loose? The girl sitting on her hands so she wouldn’t masturbate?

“I... I... uhhhhhh,” Joy said, slurred. Pastor Flynn smiled, and shot a wink at Jon. Suddenly all was right in the world. Of course he was just—making a point. “No—I can—” Joy tried to stand up, couldn’t manage.

“I should probably drink more of this,” Pastor Flynn said, hoisting his coffee. “Cora, baby, just bend over the chair, alright? Once you wake up that’s it for today. You stole important company secrets and get to work a half-day. Best employer in America, I’m just saying. Oh, and put that handkerchief in your mouth, okay?”

“Oh... oh-kay, Mister Pastor Flynn, sir,” Cora said. She had stopped crying, and now looked even mildly happy, if with a residual look of concern. She managed to give Jon a doubtful look, and rubbed at her own butt, like she’d forgotten something important. “Although—maybe I can—should I be escaping? Wasn’t I..?”

“Bend over, Ms. Papadakis,” Pastor Flynn said. Jon would recall the moment later, whenever he wanted to remember what Command sounded like. It sounded like that.

And then Cora’s substantial rump was up in the air. There was already a wet patch on the bottom of it. Jon raised his hand. He’d never spanked anyone. Slow, molasses-thoughts occurred to him. This wasn’t anything really sexual, his rock-hard dick notwithstanding. This was supervising. He was supervising her.

He drew his hand back, ready to smack.

“Jon!” Pastor Flynn said.

He looked at his boss, eyes dull.

“Pull her pants down first, big guy! Remember, open palm, really dig it between her cheeks, if she squeals you’re doing it right. Corrective, not punitive.”

“Yes, sir,” Jon boomed. He was going to do it right. He was a man, and by the power of muscular whaps to the butt he was going to show her how to be a better employee. He was a good, strong supervisor, Pastor Flynn had said so. His eyes watered and burned—there was too much of everything in the room. For a second the overweight Greek girl panting over a chair was petite, asian, and giving him a searching look.

He gave her a pat on the rear.

“SMACK her, Jon,” Pastor Flynn said, exasperated. “She’s already got ten pounds of new padding. We build them to last!”

The next one—that was when Jon really did feel like a man. Mostly because Cora startled, and squealed, and then squirted milk right out of her tits. Both boobs outright spattered on the ground, on the expensive wood. As instructed he didn’t just whack, he rubbed along her crack, where it was all wet and gooey. Cora’s gasps went up an octave, and her rear end quivered. All of it.

“That’s when you’re doing it right,” Pastor Flynn told him, deeply satisfied. He sat back down. He took an appreciative sip of coffee. Over in a corner his other new supervisor was trying hard not to rub herself, and failing. Jon’s next stroke made Cora yowl.

Her tits bounced, unrestrained. Pastor Flynn could just about see them growing. Something about the Greeks. But everyone was just a bit different.

He was used to long, satisfied, orgasmic screams, but Cora’s still surprised him.

“Okay. Okay. Jon, it’s okay,” he said, holding up a hand. The man’s chest was heaving. He’d popped half the buttons on his dress shirt, and squirted in his pants. “She passed out. You can stop. Nice job.”

He made another note on top of the stolen papers. He made a point of leaving a stack of them in a room marked “SECRET”.