The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The idea occurred to Hitomi while dumping in detergent for her cummed-up bedspread. She’d put in a full cup, thought about it, and then another. Jon had found a way to spread his muck across the entirety of a king-sized bedspread, had also forced her to take a shower to rinse his sperm out of her hair..

She paused over the washing machine, took a deep breath, and then another. Hitomi wasn’t sure how to feel about Jon’s cum smelling... kind of good. Virile. Manly and biological, in a way that was “gym sweat” instead of saline and bleach. She dumped in more soap to hide it, then closed the lid.

An entire load of bras awaited Mom Laundry Time. Since they were all three of them swollen and heavy, with some sort of new-town chests, it was time at least to wash undies.

And why not, she thought, get some new ones? With her girls? With... she corrected herself... the girls? Hitomi guiltily licked all five fingers. Her husband’s spunk had smelled so good in the shower, and had tasted—intriguing. Very intriguing. A hint of spice. Some new... flavor.

“Yumi,” the good daughter was in her room, bare chested, face down on the bed. She was toying with an ancient casio keyboard Hitomi didn’t recall getting her. “We’re going shopping. Put a shirt on.”

Local residents had had enormous trouble telling Nami and Yumi apart—Hitomi had always figured it as a double whammy of not just “twins” but “asian twins”. For the discerning mother there were dozens of tells for which was which. Most of all, how they reacted to being told to do something. Yumi would say “Yes, and,” while Nami would say “No, also.”

“YOU put a shirt on, Mom,” Yumi said, instead. She tapped on the keyboard. Nothing happened. The batteries had to be dead. She sat up and jiggled. “Seriously, what’s the deal with these?”

Puberty had been uneventful for both girls. It hadn’t involved much more than standard bra fittings, two or three times.

“Burgers and puberty,” Hitomi said.

“What’s YOUR excuse, then? Mom? Mom who has her boobs out?” Hitomi looked down. She frowned. Why was she just—titting around with her daughter? Although they were looking full, round, and youthful. Nice cherry nipples. It was hard to be concerned. She felt like she was glowing. The mirror confirmed it.

They were the nice perky tits of a teenager, she was sure of it.

“Just burgers. Come on.”

“I don’t have a bra!” Yumi protested.

“That’s the first stop. Think unsexy thoughts until then.”

Yumi paused. “Okay. Fine. Alright. If you’re paying. But also—we need to stop and get some more batteries.”

“For the keyboard,” Hitomi said, flatly. She caught her daughter’s eye. After Jon had spunked her up and left she’d gone to find the vibrator. Hunted for it. It wasn’t in the box anymore, which meant Hitomi had needed her fingers, thrusting in and out of her in the shower. She was a teasing little nymph, in that shower. Her boyfriend had snuck in late at night, and wanted her to be quiet. But she was pretty loud when she came...

“Yeah. Keyboard,” Yumi said. Hitomi flipped the casio over. “So you’ll need nine volt batteries,” she said. “For the keyboard.”

She waited.

“GOD, Mom,” Yumi said. She rolled her eyes. “And two packs of double-As. Better make it three.”

This was a different side of Yumi. A much different side. It was, Hitomi decided, refreshing. It was nice not to be treated like a Mom.

“I’m taking one of your sister’s shirts,” she said.

“Nami, what would you say to going clothes shopping this morning?”

“Oh, that sounds awesome!” Nami was also topless. She wore a red-orange skirt that went down to mid-knee, and she’d put her hair up in a ponytail. “Thanks, Mom! Oh, fun. With, um…Yumi too?” Did she forget her twin sister’s name for a hot second? A moment of concern crossed Nami’s face, until she was again looking at food.

This was very unlike the bad daughter. Nami was on the couch, and had made herself a bowl of—something. It looked like milk with toasted bread crumbs in it. She sat cross-legged, and her boobs had gotten the same quick inflation as the rest of them. If anything they seemed a little bit bigger than the rest of them.

“What are you eating? And while you’re at it, what are you watching?” On screen was a stand-and-stir cooking show run by not one but two different blonde girls, each in a ribbed tanktop that broke down under boob weight. One slowly stirred a pot while the other twirled her hair. They both had feathered blonde hair that filled the screen.

“I invented it,” Nami said, holding up the bowl. Her mouth dribbled white. “Since we are 100% out of food. I chopped up the old french fries and then fried them. It’s called double-fry cereal. Since I’m a waitress now! Thanks for finding that job for me!” Hitomi checked for insincerity. There was none. It was dumbfounding.

“Double... fry. Right,” Hitomi gently reached out a hand to Nami’s hair. This was a big test—she hadn’t been allowed to touch Nami’s hair since age 15. Touching the ponytail had no effect. Her hair straggled down well past her shoulders.

“Maybe we’ll find a hair place, too,” Hitomi said. Still nothing. Nami gave a distracted thumbs up. “Everything okay, Nami?”

“Oh, I’m just pumped for the job!” Nami said. “I met this guy named Jerry and he’s working next door at the same time. And a morning getting cute clothes right after I invented the taste sensation of the year? Cool!”

This was unprecedented access into her daughter’s inner life. Hitomi felt a need to sit down. On screen, the two blondes toasted themselves for making a can of tomato soup successfully. They’d both filled wine glasses to the brim. “Jerry? Cute guy?”

“Mom, you have no idea, he’s SO hot.” She play-moaned and stretched with it. “Holy shit is he hot. You ever talk to a guy and everything he says is like, oh yes, that was the perfect thing to say, you are just killing it. That’s Jerry, and also he looks like could fight a brick wall and win. He is SO hot.” Nami froze. The old Nami slowly filled in, behind her eyes. She slowly turned to Hitomi. Had Nami MOANED? “Uh. Of course that was all a lie.”

“Yeah,” Hitomi said. “Fucking around with Mom.”

“Right, right,” Nami said. She slurped the rest of her nightmarish french fry soup with complete satisfaction. Her tits bobbled around, same as her sisters. Maybe a bit bigger. “So lets go get some clothes! Can we get some batteries while we’re out, too?”

It was not hard to find the clothing store. It was labeled FIRST GEAR, it was right next to the only supermarket, and it covered the entirety of a town block. It was so big that Hitomi circled it in its entirety, sure that there would be smaller stores, and not an entire department store-sized clothing outfit in a small farming town. One of the entrances had a “WELCUM NEW ARIVALS!” sign up.

“Which is the more alarming misspelling?” Yumi said. All three of them had drawn on Nami’s wardrobe, as the most daring. All three of them had prominent midriff on display. Hitomi had decided not to say anything about her daughters very obvious nipples. After all, they hadn’t said anything about her printed Sailor Moon baby tee, or her own rubbing boobs, or her decision to put her hair into two small pigtails.

“Hmm?” Nami had been texting with Jerry the entire drive..

“Oh my god, Nami,” Yumi craned over to look at the phone screen. “Mom, look at these emojis she’s using. These are SLUT emojis. WAY too many hearts.”

“Respect your sister’s privacy, Yumi,” Hitomi said, then thought again. Such a Mom thing to say.. “Also, Nami, send him a heart and then an eggplant. Is that the one that means penis? Send him a bunch of eggplants.”

“Mom!” Both girls giggled. Hitomi was pretty sure that Yumi had cut a slit into the top of her shirt, a black and yellow number that was barely a cutoff. She’d also put a lot of eyeshadow on. Nami wore a relatively demure baby-blue tank. All three of them strode up to the store. The parking lot was about full, even as early as it was.

“You girls are adults,” Hitomi said. “You might as well call me Hitomi. At least, in front of other people.”

“Hiiiiii! Come in! Oh perfect!” It wasn’t the racks and displays that Hitomi had expected. They stood in a small room formed out of cubicle walls. The rafters up above were exposed, the darkness inky black, and the track lights cast a subtle pink filter over everything.

A shop girl clapped her hands together. She had purple-painted nails and wore a similar violet color on her velvet dress. Her boobs were just hidden underneath a layer of faux-fur lining. “I’m Carin! Okay we have ten! Lets get going!”

“We’re here for—” Hitomi started.

“Please don’t,” another girl said. An african-american woman, short with glasses, and stop-sign lipstick. “She already explained it to each of us as we came in. No more. It’s like a guided Ikea thing. I’m Joyce.”

“Okay! Now, who here needs a new bra?” Carin said. She had a sing-songy voice. There was a tinge of black in her carefully considered outfit—a stripe that wound around her knee-high socks, and what looked like cartoon bat earrings.

There were twelve New Arrivals there, all looking frazzled and confused already. Hitomi raised her hand. Yumi crossed her arms. Nami raised both hands. Every other girl put her hand up.

Carin nodded, sympathetic. “Yeah, that happens!” she said. “It happened to me! I had like, negative boobs before I learned about how good milkshakes were! So good news ladies because first up here at First Gear is BOOBY APPAREL!”

She led them on through a pair of double doors. There were exactly two desultory racks of bland, beige brassieres at the side of the room. Around them were pink bean bag chairs, enormous soda fountains, a tray of what looked like macarons, scones, and what was apparently an entire sushi selection laid out on neat white trays.

Every single cubicle wall was covered in a flatscreen TV, playing what might’ve been a music video, and might’ve been ambient pink screensaver noise. “Complimentary snacks! Go ahead! Oh, and yes, we do have SUPER CREAMY MILK!”

It was wheeled out on a gilt tray—a huge vat of sloshing milk, with big pink cups stacked on either side. The vat had a smaller sign that also read “WELCUM NEW ARIVALS”.

“Did they make the same misspelling twice, or...?” Yumi said. “Should we even try the bras on?”

“Don’t bother. They’re for holding small avocados,” Joyce said. She held one up. “Or possibly baseballs. You’re...?”

“Hitomi!” Hitomi said. “And—” she looked over. Nami had already filled a glass of milk up to the absolute brim, then handed it to her sister. The other new arrivals wandered away from the bra selection, towards the more interesting scone/milk area. A few just stood in front of the flat screens, staring into them. “These are—my—this is Nami and Yumi. We’re new. I think we’re all new.”

“We all woke up feeling chesty, I guess,” Joyce said. She pursed her lips. “Funny, isn’t it? Even strange?”

“Huh?” The music was getting louder as they stood there. Carin came over, holding a tray of what appeared, superficially, like a set of California rolls. “You have to give these your seal of approval!” she said, half-apologetic. “Sorry to ask! Can you try one and give a thumbs-up maybe!”

Joyce snorted, but Hitomi had long-ago adopted a shrug attitude to fellow Michiganders attitudes about asian people. And they smelled good—it was curious to learn what the Deep Corn answer to sushi was, some thousand miles from any ocean. She popped one in her mouth.

“It’s crispy rice with gummi worms!” Carin said, to her deadpan expression. “But we kept the seaweed! Is it good?”

It WAS good—a sugar bomb so unexpected and overwhelming her body just insisted everything was fine. Hitomi chewed because she wasn’t sure what else to do. It was a saccharine, juvenile treat that also tasted fucking amazing. She found herself eating another. This one had chunks of marshmallows in it. And crab meat.

Joyce tried one. “Everything in this town just tastes so stupid good,” she growled. The other new arrivals gathered round. After some initial hesitation there was a sudden run on the snacks. Even Yumi and Nami were getting into it, attempting to look cool while also snacking on open bags labeled “SUPER CHIPS!!!”

“Okay,” Carin called out, waving her arms. “Just another minute! There’s been a spill incident in the next room so you all need to wait! We’ll bring out more milk!” The enormous punch bowl was already nearly tapped out. Nami thoughtfully brought Hitomi a glass, and even toasted her. It was unexpected, and made Hitomi spill creamy milk all over her hand. It had congealed, almost shake-like, and was easy to lick off.

“I’m here in town with my sister, Joy,” Joyce said. They watched a lone new arrival trying to actually fit into one of the bras. She had autumn-brown hair and dusky boobs way too big for even two of the bras, stacked together. Nonetheless the girl kept comparing them to her hefty tits, brow furrowed. “She’s management, I’m—well, I was a journalist. I mean, I’m a nurse. Journa... nurse. Or whatever.” Joyce looked confused, shrugged, and chugged her glass.

“Next room lets gooooooo!” Carin cried. She did a little dance, a happy one, matching perfectly with the half-seen girl hidden in chartreuse geometric shapes, on the screens. “This room is for all you girls to get the boring-ass clothes you came here for!”

This one was just piles on the ground of what appeared to be gray sweatpants, mixed with some gray sweaters. The snacks this time were candies—a chocolate fountain dominated the center of the room, with stacks of pretzels and the juiciest strawberries Hitomi had ever seen.

The pop beat had gone up two notches, and this time it was easier to make out a gyrating female form on the omnipresent televisions. She was in silhouette, visible as a contrast between similar pinks, and clearly naked. When they turned her to the side two big nipples popped out. The new arrivals hustled to the fountain, Nami leading the way, using her youthful energy and elbows to good effect. Yumi was not far behind.

“What about you?” Joyce said. “Hold on. I’m a journo-nurse.. I’ll work it out from clues. You’re... hmm... no bra, but that doesn’t narrow it down.”

“Student,” Hitomi said. It just rolled off her tongue. Joyce nodded, convinced. Behind them, the same new arrival, clutching a trio of itty-bitty bras, sorted her way through the burlap and canvas of the Boring Person Clothes. Hitomi didn’t feel at all like looking at them. They were for boring people. She was a hot young girl—a student, even—out on the town with her.. contemporaries. The ones she’d given birth to.

“You like this town?” Joyce said. Nami slid by, this time with matching ice cream cones, one for each of them. They were vanilla with chocolate swirl, or maybe the converse. Hitomi wasn’t able to respond—the ice cream smelled like vanilla beans with a hint of cocoa, and she started to lick it immediately.

The room nearly came to a halt—girls either diligently licking at towering cones or getting their hands dirty in the chocolate fountain. A few girls had cast caution to the wind, and just put their mouths underneath the drizzling chocolate. One of those had lost her shirt.

“Careful please! Careful!” Carin ushered everyone around a large puddle in the middle of the room. It shimmered in the beat of the music, and it smelled good. Hitomi wondered, vaguely, if it had anything to do with the two Persian girls in a corner, smiling, passed out against each other.

The party was really starting to flow, and it was getting hard to talk over the beat. Yumi especially was starting to blossom, throwing her hips around with a group of other girls. Everyone seemed very sweaty. Hitomi looked around for more milk, and there was Carin, this time, pressing a fresh glass on her. Hitomi poured only half of it in her mouth.

It seemed kinda hot, and fun, to let it drip in a white sluice, down into her cleavage. Her body warmed it up really quick.

“Okay, girls! Are you tired of the boring shit? Are you TIRED of the LITTLE UNDIES?”

They all cheered, even Hitomi, even Joyce. At some point her new friend’s shirt had gotten pulled up, and two inviting underboobs bobbled around.

“Then lets GOOOOO!”

The final set of doors opened up. Beyond was a dream display, rack after rack after rack of rainbow clothes, clothes in every possible color, in every slippery fabric, designed to be short and sexy and taut. The girls cheered, spattering ice cream and chocolate and milk all over. Hitomi didn’t remember having so much fun. With her girls. No. The girls.

She nearly tripped on the puddle, and she was very close to adding to it.

“Mom! Mom!”

Hitomi flinched. Luckily Joyce was off elsewhere in the store—presumably.

Although the music and lighting and other distractions weren’t as all-encompassing, pounded into her, the store had a lot of jungle in it. It was easy to find yourself lost in an eddy of halter crop tops, lacy nighties, slutty streetwear.

“This is Liza, my bandmate!” Yumi said. Liza gave her a tentative wave. She wore a white skirt and a light pink hoodie, with the hood actually up. It was hard to see much of her. Broad cheeks. Piercing eyes. “She says there’s special gifts for the new sluts!” She coughed, and then spat. It appeared to be a milky-pink. “New girls. Women.”

“Yeah, and they’re very funny,” Liza said. It was hard to get a bead on her. Especially while in the middle of a milk coma. Hitomi tried to focus on the tufts of brown-black hair. “Uh. Hi. You’re...?”

“Hitomi,” Hitomi said.

“My Mom,” Yumi said. Hitomi fought off an urge to glare. Right, of course she was Yumi’s Mom. It was surprising that the secretive one was showing off a new friend. But they were all in an expansive mood, in particular with the 99% Off Sale running on anything with a pink tag. Pretty much everything had a pink tag.

“Uma is somewhere in here. So is Zoe.” It was impossible to look around and see. Even if they could, just about every girl had her head down, building a nest made out of super cute and basically free items of apparel. It was a disorienting experience, without windows, or visible doors, or guides of any kind, except the ongoing bop from the PA speakers.

Every so often a ding-dong tone would announce a breathless new addition to the sale. “We’ve put more boy shorts in aisle... ummm... gosh! go find them!” a breathy voice announced. “Go!” Hitomi nearly stood up and went. She swept her hair out of her eyes. They were all doing it—it felt glossy and sleek, and was disturbingly long.

“So... uh...” Liza seemed ill at ease. “Nice... finds?”

Hitomi was also nesting in them. There seemed to be two main shopper strategies. Tramp around camel-style with an enormous pack, or create a den made out of short shorts and bikini briefs.. Her cave was built out of brief pleated mini-skirts, baby-doll tees, a selection of headbands, cutoff shirts. She’d found a rich vein of tawdry tanktops strewn with pink hearts, yellow suns, and actual ribbons. She was already wearing one of the headbands. It wasn’t doing a good job holding back her hair.

“There’s a lot of leopard-print over that way,” Yumi said, pointing into the distance. “Sleek. And velvet, I saw a ton of velvet.”

Hitomi had seen it. But the teenybopper section had been too cute. Some of the skirts were so brief they’d show at least half of her panties, if she bothered to wear any.

The beat was pounding. They were all even breathing to it. It was hard, very hard, to think of any use for clothing besides teasing, showing, posing, discarding.

The song had a verse like that—something like, skin for boys, skin for girls, flirt and whirl...

Nami returned, sweating, and threw down her own load of clothes. She’d traveled far back, into the 1950s, returning with A-line skirts, preppy polos, and white heels. “Don’t go to the shoe section if you aren’t ready for some insane shit,” she said, gasping. She tucked her hair out of her eyes, too. Bent over, her boobs hung free, thick and full. “It’s nuts. Girls are—I saw a girl lick a boot. I think to lay claim to it? I don’t know.”

She laughed, uneasy. “Everything here is a little trampy, huh? Like, novelty stuff? But.. but really... really cute. Yumi, what’d you get?”

“Nothing, really,” Yumi said. For those who didn’t want to nestle in a comforting bed of bodycon, the store made available satchels made out of stitched together slutgear, the spandex and rubber that had burst apart, crudely patched with heavy string. Hitomi had turned it down because it looked—sticky. Yumi held her bag tight.

“Lets all see,” HItomi said. She tried to be playful but it came out as leaden, commanding. Not at all right—she wanted teasing. She blinked, confused. But it was—that was her job, right? What was she doing, casually watching her teens load up on clothes to be fucked in? Any one of these skirts would get anyone expelled from any school, up through law school. Why was she just—okay with both girls, and herself, strutting around practically tits-out, boobs noticeably larger, hair at least three inches longer—

“Okay, girls! Top of the hour! Time to SHAKE IT!” Carin called, over the loudspeaker.. “Best dancer gets a PRIZE!”

The music swelled and swelled. It was a hot beat that caught Hitomi right in the throat. She’d been queen of pop herself in the 90s, raised on imported idols on tape, on Backstreet Boys on CD. The music hit all of them. “Yeah!” she said, already singing along. “GIrls! Lets go!”

Yumi and Liza tried their very best not to, but their hips were already swaying, and even more so when they noticed they were already in time. Nami, giggling, was happy to join in. The four of them spilled out, word perfect on the lyrics. “Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle! Wiggle, wiggle, jiggle!” The Mom moment passed, the four of them just being fun, spilling out into the register area along with dozens of other girls. “Dance with your butt!”

At one point they were arm in arm. Yumi’s boobs popped out of her shirt at one point, her big brown nipples wobbling. She had an unexpectedly beautiful singing voice.

Hitomi decided not to make a big deal about it.

Checkout took forever. The girls behind the counter were all Stork ladies and they were having the worst time doing math. Carin was there with a half-dozen other girls, and substantially all the new girl arrivals, nearly all carrying about as many clothes as they could.

“Alright, we’re helping,” Hitomi decided, eventually. Joyce was right behind them. She’d gone hard on dresses, flowery concoctions that seemed unlikely to fit over her curves. But she’d already gone and squeezed into one, a navy-red that was a half-inch under her rear. She had a dazed smile on. They all did. “Girls, lets crunch the numbers.”

“Ohhhh, THANK you!” Carin said, as they gently but firmly took the calculators. “I mean I went to U Mich and Sheri over there is a CPA but all these PERCENTAGES! Next time everything is gonna be a nickel.”

They’d met up with the rest of Yumi’s bandmates—Uma and the quiet one, Zoe. Zoe had used a pair of overalls to leash down some of the larger boobs HItomi had seen on a new arrival. Uma grandly took a calculator “although usually I just do all this math stuff in my own head, like its a calculator!”

The other half of the slowdown was that the personal shoppers had all gotten personalized gifts ready for their team. Sheri had small. cylindrical boxes for her people, and all the girls looked delighted when they looked inside. But Carin had gone in a different direction.

“Ohhhh, here they are!” she said. She looked so excited. Her bat earrings wobbled around. “I just knew they’d be perfect for you! Asian dresses!!! So cute!”

A trio of cheongsams. Two in firehouse red, a third black with embers along the legs. Yumi and Nami glanced at her: it was Mom’s job to handle white people. There was no right way to do it, and it came down to touch and feel, and the look in their eyes.

“I mean, these are Chinese, Carin” Hitomi said, as gently as she could. That looked to be about as much rebuke as Carin could take. “And we’re from—”

“Michigan,” Yumi said.

“Oh no,” Carin said, putting a hand over her mouth. “Michigan is a completely different part of the world. Oh no oh no. I’m—I’m sure I have some—Michigan is—uhhh—is that the sushi one?”

“Do you have any sweaters and jeans?” Yumi said. “Our native garb?”

“It’s okay. These are—cute,” Hitomi said. She felt generous.. She’d just gotten a bushel of timewarp clothes for under a dollar, and instead of money, the girls were just accepting big booby hugs as payment. “Yes, Michigan is the sushi one.”

She handed the dresses backwards, and kept a red one. Jon wouldn’t mind cultural inaccuracy, in the bedroom.

“Wait, what do you have for ME?” Joyce said, right behind them.

They all looked at Carin.

“Oh no,” Nami whispered.

They waited, nervous, while Carin rummaged around underneath the counter.

Joyce waited. They all waited. So many options floated through Hitomi’s head, all of them bad.

“Its... ummm... an Igbo gown? In silk and cotton? I have a head tie but I couldn’t find the right kind of necklace. I’m so sorry. I hope its okay. I thought you’d look nice in purple.” Carin blew her nose and handed it over.

It was stunning. And super sexy. Joyce took it, reverent.

“Carin, how...?” Hitomi said.

“Oh, I was in the peace corps in Nigeria for two years!” Carin said. “Back when I was getting my Master! Or getting a master? I was the first.. what do you call it? Sad girls in black? Gith? Geth? The first geth they’d ever seen!”

Hitomi felt more—normal—when they were spit out the other side. She vaguely reminded herself: she was nearly 40, she had two children, she was married. Yes, she was holding a huge parcel of teenybopper outfits, casual clothes for after cheerleading practice.

Jon would enjoy them. In fact, lots of guys could enjoy them.

“Lunch, girls? On me?” A restaurant named SECOND SOUPS AND SALADS stood right in front of them, and there were even handy pink arrows leading to the entrance. There were a lot of other girls waiting to be seated. Her stomach rumbled. Hitomi was pretty sure she’d gone through four or five full glasses of milk, a separate entire milkshake, “””””sushi”””””” and her mouth nonetheless tasted like—meat?

She blew another errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

“We will CERTAINLY pay our way, Ms. Hitomi!” Uma said. She’d actually found a Stanford t-shirt somewhere in there, and wore it proudly. Hitomi wasn’t sure if she knew that underneath the crest was a discreet “DEPARTMENT OF SUCKIN DICK” insignia.

They were seated almost immediately, in a big open area out back, around a folding table. The only ambiance was the waitresses, who were uniformly big-breasted and in semi-maid apparel. By Stork standards it was relatively discreet, although mostly to give more time for lace, poofy fabric, and cleavage.

“Hi hi!” their waitress said. She’d tucked her nametag into her tits, and all the girls had to turn their heads sideways to read it. “Welcome! You can just put all those bags under the table!” She handed over menus, giving Hitomi a near mouthful of boob. Her cleavage ran like a ski slope..

“Chowder, cream of tomato, cream of peas, bisque,” Liza read. “Creamy. Very creamy. Where’s the salads?”

“Salad,” the waitress said. Her nametag read MARIN. There was a strong resemblance to their geth personal shopper. But then all giggling white girls, with big boobs, had some similarities. “Just the one.”

“It says, salads, plural, outside,” Nami said.

“Signs!” Marin said, with a shrug. “I’ll get you started! Milk for the table?”

“Water,” Yumi said. She sat stiffly, and seemed to be trying to be serious in front of her friends. Unlike her sister, who was texting madly on her phone. Nami had changed into a pure white peasant blouse and an equally virginal pair of white shorts. Hitomi guessed she was trying to figure the preferences of the new boy. Nami tossed her hair back and made kissy-lips at her phone camera.

“Ummm... all our water has milk in it,” Marin said. “I can ask for milk without the milk but—”

“Yeah, okay,” Yumi said. “Milk without the milk and a salad.” She winced. “My head hurts.”

“It’s the music in there,” Liza said. She cautiously lowered her hoodie. Without it she was just—normal. Shoulder-length hair, cautious eyes, and big cheeks. A bit boyish, Hitomi thought, but it might just be the overpowering femininity all around. “We need to fight it off. We should do a concert outside. Just set up and play, Blast real punk metal rock at it. Or whatever the fuck it is we’re playing.”

“Funk,” Zoe said, around her boobs.

They waited for her to make another contribution. Nothing came out.

“So, what’d you end up getting?” Hitomi said, to Liza. “Sexy stuff?” She could be one of the girls.

“Oh,” Liza blushed. “Stage gear.”

“You don’t have to show it to my MOTHER,” Yumi said, glaring. It caught Hitomi off-guard. She’d transgressed, in some way. But what?

“Alright, DARLING,” Hitomi snapped back. “Lets see what YOU got. I paid for it.”

“I got so much CUTE stuff!” Uma said, to no one. “I got a lot of plaid, I feel like its like, kinda a smart look, like oh maybe I went to Oxford or something.” She pulled a plaid red-and-green bikini out of her bag. “And a lot of tartan panties as well. Very Cambridge-y!”

“Since my MOTHER is asking—” Yumi said. She must’ve caught Hitomi’s flinch at the word. No matter how she tried to hide it.

“Okay, here we go! Round of milky-milks! With milk in them! And here’s your salad!” Marin was toting at least a dozen trays and bowls, and was using her cleavage as an additional shelf. She flourished two green leaves, sideways to each other, with what looked like a circle of pesto-mayonnaise on top.

“Anddddd some soups!” she passed them around at random. Hitomi couldn’t remember what she had ordered, if anything. Hers had lumps of what could’ve been crab meat. The bowls were stunningly big, tureen-sized, with oversized spoons.

The scent wafted...

It was very creamy.

The six of them emerged later. Hitomi had swapped seats with—Zoe, it looked like. Zoe was in Nami’s seat, and was still drinking hot piping soup directly from the bowl. There were three others in front of her.

Hitomi felt utterly suffused with cream in all parts of her body, especially her boobs. Her lips felt puffy and swollen, and hard to open, like they’d been dipped in wax.

Her daughters were—no, just one daughter. Nami was gone entirely. Yumi was vacantly digging a spoon into what was presumably tomato bisque. Her face was framed by waves of unkempt hair, and her shirt was tugged too low. Or were her boobs even bigger?

“It’s jushhht—jusshhhhhttt—” was her spit thicker? “I wanna see your clothes. Is all. I bet they’re cute. I know they’re probably all slutty and shtuff....” Hitomi waved her spoon around.

Yumi blinked at her. Cobwebs seemed to clear away from her eyes. “Yer—you’re gonna say they’re too sexy. You’re gonna PITCH a FIT.”

Liza’s eyes flicked between the two of them. Her cheeks were covered in white cream. She tugged her hoodie back up.

“Pretend I’m not your Mom for one fuckin moment of your life, and I’ll—hold on.” Hitomi glugged a full glass of milk. It didn’t seem to help with the spit issue. “I’ll do the same, YUMI.” She semi-noticed Zoe’s hand underneath the table, finding its way under her own overalls.

Uma seemed to be passed out, and was drooling white spit on the table.

“Special delivery!” Marin said, in her sing-song voice. “Compliments of the chef! For our visitors from the oriental express!”

She delivered bowls of white rice in front of Yumi, Hitomi, and Nami’s empty chair.

Nami picked that moment to return. She’d gone off and put on the red cheongsam. It was far too tight in the bust, the fabric fighting her chest, the gilt flowers strained to their utmost. It was cut high enough that Hitomi could see the white of her underpants around her thigh.

“What do you guys—” she caught sight of the rice bowl. “Ohhhh no.”

“Nami, you look...” Hitomi caught Yumi’s gaze. “Super cute. No opinion on your undies showing.”

“Fine,” Yumi opened her bag. “If you really want to know.” She’d found a strange, glossy-pink pair of high-waisted shorts, with four bronze buttons. And a pure gold blouse. It shone even in the early afternoon hazy heat. “Go ahead, tell me I’m gonna look like a slutty mickey mouse.”

“I’m trying to be—be...” Hitomi couldn’t come up with the word. Her boobs felt so full and swollen. “SUPPORTIVE. That’s IT. Okay you don’t want a Mom. But you don’t even want a friend either.”

“I don’t think my Mom needs to see me—” Yumi grabbed at the shorts. “Shaking my butt.. in front of all those boys and girls... lots of boys and girls...”

“I made that butt! I should hope the boys like it!”

“boys and GIRLS, MOM! Boys and GIRLS!”

Hitomi blinked.

“Ummm...” Nami said.

Liza had adopted the universal pose for when a friend was fighting with her Mother, which was to stare at the table. That left Nami to intervene. “This is gonna sound weird, but this is the best rice I’ve ever had in my life.” She held up an empty bowl.

Hitomi looked down. Long-grained and obviously boiled. Iowa rice. Each grain was individually wet.

So her little Yumi liked girls, too. It was hard to find room in her head for any sort of emotional reaction, good or bad. She was horny, hungry, thirsty, growing. She lifted one spoonful of boil-in-bag to her lips.

“...And another bowl for you! Oh, I’m glad you girls liked it! We marinated the rice in our special blend!”

“You don’t... marinate... rice...” Hitomi said. She pushed herself up. She was so wet. Marin was there, thoughtfully wiping her face with a wet washcloth. She looked down—at some point she’d switched shirts, to the faux Sailor Moon one she’d found at the store.. It wasn’t very low cut, but it was taut, and her nipples pressed hard against the tee-shirt.

Marin was all over her. Wiping, wiping her clean. Her lips, her face, a big dollop that had fallen between her tits. Her hot breath was on Hitomi. Girls and boys, boys and girls. Sweet girl breath seemed—just fine. She was getting so clean, and there were giggles in her ears....

She needed to tell her daughter that girls were cool and hot, and maybe kiss Marin or something to prove it.

“Yumi... I think its cool you have a nice butt. I do too,” Hitomi said. She stood up, unsteady. “You’re a—you’re a big girl with a big butt and if you want to wiggle it in front of a bunch of boys, and a bunch of a girls, I think that sounds super hot. I know you’ve always been the shy one so if you’re con-con—if you feel fuckable enough to shake it then I’m—I’m—I’m proud of you. Lets go get our hair done.”

“She’s gone, Mom,” Nami said. “She and her friends ditched us like five minutes ago.”

Hitomi looked around. All the tables held wilted, doubled over girls. Joyce was at a table two down, sleeping it off on a pillow made out of her own tits. A lot of new arrivals had their hands in new waistbands. Marin and her other waitresses circulated from table to table, gently rearranging necks so girls wouldn’t wake up sore, and wiping off messy faces.

“Well, fuck her,” Hitomi said. She rose, unsteady. “Lets.. go to the salon. My hair is SO fuckin crazy right now. Okay, sis?”

They walked arm in arm. Hitomi wasn’t totally sure what was happening, or where she was, or what age she was. Every so often the ring on her finger sparkled and she thought: this isn’t right. I’m in my late 30s, I’m married, I shouldn’t be leaking between my legs with one of my daughters.

But it was hard to hold on to those thoughts.

It was possible, wasn’t it, that she was nineteen, with a bestie, being silly and drunk and carefree?

“Ohhhh, you made it!” the salon was named THIRD BASE. The girl just inside was predictably busty. Hitomi looked for a nametag and didn’t see one. She named the girl Erin on principle. “Gosh! No one else got this far! You girls are special! And just in time, gosh, your hair!”

There was a half-dozen girls inside, all lounging about in impeccable makeup, their hair somewhat more styled then the Stork blonde waves. It smelled—bad. Not the usual Stork scent of rich cream and mounds of sugar. Harsh hair chemicals and equally-harsh coffee grounds. Erin caught her expression. “Oh, I know, it’s the coffee, but your hair! At least let us put a purple streak in! It needs it!”

“My hair is—” Hitomi started to say. She had a sensible Mom-cut that was dangerously close to soccer mommy androgyny. Even for that she drove nearly an hour to Ann Arbor, where there was a Vietnamese salon that knew enough things about east asian hair.

Erin whipped out a mirror.

Hitomi had curling, full locks that reached well past her shoulder. Her hair was starting to create its own bangs.

“Oh! I—” was this—right? Not just the length, the body, the volume? But Nami was the same way, she realized. They were both carrying heavy hair. “Nami, what do you think?”

“Sure!” Nami said, smiling. “Maybe nails too? Look at these bad girls!” She held them up. Even her nails were—quite long, Hitomi realized. Heavy and healthy, like they came with their own lacquer. “This’ll be fun!”

She felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards Nami. The one who had stayed. They’d spent childhood and puberty continually testing boundaries. Not breaking them—or at least, rarely breaking them—but coming in right at curfew, toeing the very line on hem length, listening to music at a long-negotiated volume. And now, instead of arguing over car privileges, they were just—being girls.

“Erin, give Nami the works. Full job. Whatever that is,” she said, grandly.

Erin looked uncertain. “Full works?” The blonde chorus put down their coffee cups. There was a murmur. “You sure?”

“Sure!” Nami looked like she’d agree to just about anything. The dress fit her poorly in all the best ways. “Purple streak the hell out of me! Maybe some cyberpunk nails and those weird curly mascara eyes too! Full-fuckin-geisha, lets go!”

She didn’t appear to be sarcastic in the least, and the salon staff didn’t look able to absorb it in any case. They all seemed enthused. Nami was encircled by blondes.

For a brief moment she seemed nervous.

“Err—what does full works mean, really?” she said.

Then she was inside. There were just flashes of black hair in a surrounding swamp of yellow gold. Hitomi watched as her daughter was gently lowered into a vinyl-covered salon chair. All she could see was Nami’s feet. She’d found some strappy three-inchers at some point, really cute. There was a very large, very old-school hair dryer, and a pink manicured hand delicately lowered it already.

“Come on! You too!” Erin said, leading her inside. Hitomi tensed at the scent. “Kinda chemical-y, right?” Erin said, patting a chair. “Here, this will help.” She reached over and pulled out a spritzer bottle, swimming with some light-pink concoction. A spritz of it went right into Hitomi’s face. It smelled like Coco Chanel—no, it was Calvin Klein—or actual Love’s Baby Soft—some sort of powder-sweet that went right up her nose.

“Ooo,” Hitomi said, and it was her voice from 1999 again. Nami, one chair over, made a similar noise.

“I am SUPER sorry about the purple hair thing,” Erin said, spritzing her with more bottles and essences. “Oh, Pastor Flynn gave such a stern sermon, he was really thundering, he said it was so easy to embrace thy neighbor when you can find her in the mirror. Just all sorts of metaphors and parables and what have you. Said it was his fault too, didn’t spare himself the rod.”

“Mmm,” Hitomi said. She could still just see Nami’s feet. The girl’s toes were curling. Whatever was going on in there, at least she seemed to be enjoying it. “Wha—” her spit was suddenly thick. “Do you—you really WANT us here?”

“We do! We really do,” Erin said. She ran an admiring hand through Hitomi’s hair. “Oh so many new fun bodies! I know we must come across as a bunch of bumpkins to you girls but we’re really trying, honest! We were all learning geography and there’s this book about the Loudest Duck and then you all show up and you’re just...”

Erin reached down and hefted Hitomi’s boobs. They were—so big.

“You’re all just so fuckable,” Erin said.

“Ohhhhhh,” Nami moaned. “Oh my gawwwwwd...” A blonde shifted, and Hitomi got a good look at Nami. Her face was perfectly polished, skin faultless, and they really had added a whorl of mascara around each eye. And three layers of lip gloss and outline on her lips. Her eyes were half-lidded. A salon worker methodically sponged up her drool.

Hitomi tried to stand. A gentle tit massage in a salon was one thing, but—what were they doing?

“Hey, it’s alright,” Erin said. “She’ll be alright. I think you’ll all like it here, won’t you?”

“You’re... doing... something?” Erin let go of her boobs, and gave her another friendly spritz, right in her mouth. It was getting very hard to talk, her mouth was so gummed up.

“You know how old I am?” Erin said.

“Hngh?” The salon girls were hard at work on Nami’s toes, her nails. Her chest heaved back and forth.

“I’m 55, can you believe it? In age years, of course. Heck, I bet you met my daughters. Carin? And Marin? They’re from before I came to the fold. They didn’t like when I came here. Momma, you shouldn’t have bigger boobs then me, Momma, stop fucking the neighbors.” Erin laughed, and Hitomi laughed too. Fifty-five? Not possible. Not possible to be so young, so vibrant, once again....

“It’s tough to see them growing up, I know,” Erin said.. “Makes you wonder what’s next. But Stork has a great answer for that.”

“Whuzzat?” Hitomi said. Her eyes were getting so heavy.

“Make a bunch more!”

One chair away, Nami’s hips bumped and bucked. Hitomi could see a hand between her legs, now. No vibrator, no anything, just rubbing away at her daughter’s pussy. To keep her busy while they primped and permed. Hitomi looked down. Erin was lightly stroking the inside of her thigh.

“So? What’ll it be?” she said.