The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Mounten & Mayne”

by Cristina Prince

1. GLANDLORD

“Oh, I know! I gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting much room at all when I heard the word ‘cozy,’ but this house is pretty big...”

It wasn’t. The rental unit was nothing more than a converted trailer. There was a big rusty leak right in the middle of the living room ceiling. It desperately screamed for some patching up.

Barely any natural light made it into the space. The only source in the kitchenette was an ancient, bare coiled fluorescent from the 50s. One of the windows in the living room had been boarded up. The other simply wouldn’t open.

It was a shit hole, really—through and through. Wanda was only placating her landlord. The dude went by the name Bigg Don G. Seriously. She laughed at him... until he’d gone into some kind of sermon or sales pitch explaining it.

She didn’t want to be mean, but it still took great effort to stop giggling. She felt bad, but... Oh man, he was fucking serious!

“Y’see, that there little extra ‘G’ there repr’sents on ’count of my big devotion to my big God and my big girls.” The landlord huffed smugly. He thought he was successful making himself sound smart.

“The third ‘G’ is ’cuz all the growed-up women folk in my holy nuke-lar family got big ol’ G cups, heh heh—just the way St. Fertilicia blessed ’em, I supposition. My wife even got herself some real deal double G cups, double good, y’hear!”

He flipped through some faded, wallet-sized glamour shots with butch, calloused thumbs: inappropriate, lurid photos of his wife and progeny. They looked identical, and ageless.

Big, super tan, titanically buxom blondes. Microscopic neon bikinis looked as if they were wearing the bimbos. They wore teased up, aqua net manes that looked straight out of 1989. What. The. FUCK!

Their swimsuits didn’t cover a thing, got buried in syrupy femininity. Threadbare g-strings and too-tight tops flossed through wide, puffy nipples and must have been cutting off circulation.

The constricting tug of their bikini tops, or the vice clutches of the plasticky fabric on their cooches, would surely make any woman agitated, if not miserable. But these girls looked perfectly content, beaming with broad, pearly white but bucktooth grins.

One of the country thick “G” chicks was planted in front of a cheap island backdrop. It came complete with plastic palm tree and a red,white and blue beach ball. Another was on the front desk of a cookie cutter classroom. She rocked a graduation cap for some reason.

They were all tan all over—browned, really—but for the massive and pale, milky white boobs, kissed with enormous, rubbery pink nipples.

They looked... half cow. They all had brass bullrings clasped under their noses, fashioned in a humiliating size, nestling into the net effect.

Two of these voluptuous cartoon babes flanked the same outer space tableaus, back to back, in his stuffed confederate flag wallet. The only perceptible difference between them was that Gold’s knockers looked like they could outstrip a planetary body on the backdrop, and Silver’s actually did.

Silver had almost twice the ass of Gold. It was mesmerizing. Wanda at least pretended to give a shit about anything else. “Which one do you love more, Gold or Silver?” she hazarded, tittering out of some odd reflex.

Staring at dat ass—a whooty so carnal, so lusciously magnetic that it leaped out of a tiny photo and gunned straight for her shorts to make her panties all dewy—the newlywed snorted at how clever she assumed she was.

The dry joke sailed right over Bigg Don G.’s balding noggin.

“That ain’t they names, actually. This here Goldie and this Slitvia,” he said without an ounce of humor. “Twenty and twenty-one, respective.”

He was most smitten with the one in tangerine leopard print heels and a tattoo of a church, dangerously close to her crotch. She was snapped dipping down, torso forward, udders swinging in front of an American flag, digitally enhanced with a crappy fake chrome sheen.

The big pinup wore a monstrous spangled crucifix. It hung heavily off a chunky gold chain that wouldn’t look out of place on a hip-hop star—that is, if she didn’t already resemble a hood ornament girl from a hair metal video, a warped and inflated version of one who skimped on nothing except clothing and diets.

A pair of lime green earrings in the shape of peace signs completed the image. Little fuchsia crosses dangled from them. A bible was shoehorned underneath her plush arm, obscured by however many quarts of sloshy bosom flesh.

Her hot pink nipples were equipped with hot pink studs. They looked flooded and leaky.

Wanda tried and failed at processing it all. Hold up. Why should she care? Her ceiling was still leaking. It wouldn’t stop. Just who was this fucking guy? Who did he think he was?

THIS was his beloved family?! To be sure, she saw a couple girls like this flouncing here and there around town, but nothing that could match these generous and bovine cuts of cheesecake, and... shit, was this some kind of aspirational goal for these people?

How! “Cupcake here got double G’s too, ain’t she fair? Don’t she look awful full-up prideful ’bout her mammy-lammies? So righteous and veiny, hoo-eee!”

“Any papa worth a dang’d treasure a daughter so biggy big. I’s talkin’ two G’s big. She our third. She only eighteen age uh huh. Yes, ma’m. Crazy. I swear, iss such a dang ol’ blessin’, t’be sure. She bring my female an’ me a consid’rable ’mount of joy. Big joy. B-I-double-G, golly!”

Bigg Don G. The corny pun wasn’t about to go unnoticed, this much was certain. It was clear that he loved that needling, style of redneck humor that involved walking you through all of the ingredients of a funny thing, and in the process erasing them all.

Wanda felt like the bad sense of humor was erasing part of her own good one. She was about to jokingly ask for a time table of precisely when he decided to rebrand himself, but reconsidered. He probably wouldn’t get it, and she wasn’t sure she did, either.

“No sag, nuh uh, nope,” he tacked on, after a few more seconds’ pause. “No stretchmarks neither. But plenty titty-fat! Hooooo-eee!”

A flutter of a thought blinded her from this last bit of business: he most likely considered her some brand of tomboy. The idea flitted and almost fell out of her brain. Because, really, it was clear as day. In the casual worn flannel she had on, she could barely fill up a B cup.

Besides, even if he vibed creepy, it might just as well be shifted to her benefit. If he was unimpressed with what she had going on up top, he wouldn’t try to solidify that vibe and act on it.

Because she definitely did not want that. Maybe some light coquetting wouldn’t be the end of the world. She knew she caught him winking at her least a couple times, anyway. Oh my fucking god, STOP!

Wanda wondered why she was starting to let herself get fixated on this idea right as it bleached itself and faded, like more than half of her good clothes, and all of her underwear. Stupid sorry excuse for a washing machine.

That was another thing. It didn’t even fucking run on electricity. The contraption was a decaying rube goldberg-y thing from the 40’s probably, and actually ran on a goddamn hand crank!

Bigg Don G taught her and Benji how to use it when they moved in, but it was all so confusing and complicated to use. Benji flat out refused to even try after a while, so she was left to do as Don said all by herself.

She didn’t really mind it. It was rather comforting, and a decent jab at exercise, incidentally. So laundry involved squats and stretches now. Big whoop.

Squatting down and up, up and down in a sort of jaunty anti-rhythm with a water basin underneath, she had to work hard for clean clothes. The burn was worth it.

To get a thorough wash out of the ancient appliance, she had to also strap her calves into these frilly pink lace stirrups at either side, and her arms into identical ones nailed to the planks of the basement ceiling, and do her squats astride the top of the box.

She had to simultaneously squeeze her thighs as hard as she could, around some kind of grooved wooden lever with a leather cap. The stick poked out of the lid for a half minute every quarter cycle.

“It sure look a might like a black boy’s pecker, don’t it?” The landlord had asked at the time, nudging her in the ribs. She’d said yes, and laughed, but seethed inwardly and grimaced just the same. Wow! Stupid, sexist, and racist—a triple threat!

“Aw, heck,” he cluelessly steamrolled on, “I guess that’s just how folks like us made stuff back ’en, huh? Top quality! And hey—ever-body needin’ clean duds, right?” Well. She’d hoped Benji appreciated all that she was doing for him.

More times than not, the thing had this habit of jerking around violently, too, and all too often dug into her butt. It was super strange and the process took almost an hour, but it really was fun, and sometimes it even made Wanda just a teensy bit.... horny.

Well, not sometimes, all times. (And a lot bit horny, but...)

Whatever! One step at a time. Mr. Donglord was tending to a bigger problem now, so she didn’t really mind having to shut up about wanting an actual washer and dryer, and in stead got chatty with this likely perv, telling him all about herself and her husband.

Anything at all to distract from her burning curiosities, not the least of which who. or what, in the world this “Saint Fertilicia” was. Or why she felt prompted to act impressed that Bigg Don G’s wife had top shelf melons, and worse—really gave it her best shot at being convincing.

Something in his voice implied that she should think those unbelievable things an enviable sign of sound health, that anyone would. She wanted to indulge him. He had the tools to fix the leak, after all. She was totally at dude’s cornpone mercy.

She didn’t know how to do it. Benji definitely didn’t, either. It wasn’t as if she needed him to be a traditional, kinda gross “real man” of the patriarchy or something, but...

“Kin you even believe my sweet Nora-Lou here is fixin’ to turn forty-two next month?” he chattered on, begging, “I mean, them set of juggies is jus’ ’bout the juggies of a gal what got less’n half her years, am I right or am I right!” He licked his lips.

Wanda was so put off by the sleazy move that she couldn’t see she was tonguing her own. Christian boobs? What! Just too absurd. Wanda just said, “Sure!” and “Wow!” through fake toothy bullshit though.

Yet, Don G seemed so proud of them that his eyes not only started to water, he legitimately shed a tear too, gaze glued onto his wife’s saucer sized areolas. Don’t indulge him, Wanda told herself. Don’t even say the first word about it. Just let him be a landlord.

She pointedly let her mouth fall open just a touch, as if this might make her more relatable. “They seem like nice women. Really.” She didn’t bother to close it, if she even remembered.

Maybe he would wear himself out and finish the kind of—no—really fucking offensive and sexist handyman routine, so she could just relax, like she’d wanted to for over a half hour of him gabbing like this.

He was barely doing anything but chit-chat, occasionally arch his back, fiddle with the rolled up cuffs of his shirt to better flex his big biceps more obnoxiously, belch, and stick his beer belly out. The itch to be through with this nonsense started to nag her a lot more by this point.

She craved a lazy day. To veg out on her laptop in her undies in front of the TV with a drink or three, some munchies, and a nice bowl of weed. To just get on with it, enjoy her Saturday in—which was beginning to be her any-day in, pretty much, but that was hardly worth evaluating now.

Sure, days were slipping by her and pig-piling up and she hadn’t blogged or managed to complete really any freelance in weeks, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t slogged through limbo periods this long in her professional career before. Not yet anyway...

The backwoods town of Doctrine wasn’t exactly laying out the red carpet to Wanda, either, though it seemed her husband had no problem getting acquainted with the locals in the hamlet. She was closing in on some semblance of satisfaction, keeping up with her friends back in the city on Facebook, instead of making any new ones.

Plus, Benji was indeed making bank, more money now than both of them had, working IT and setting up servers for a local cable and internet provider. He was also instrumental, he let her know, in some top secret project for the church in town, and that only promised more money.

Wanda bartered for more info with a BJ, but after he’d accepted the terms and freed his cock from a pint of spunk, deep down her throat, she was overcome with this rushing, pleasurable mix of embarrassment and gratitude. She didn’t bother prodding him about it, ever again, so far.

Benji was set up to bring in nearly 200k a year now. If complete confidentiality was a requisite for whatever project he had his hands in, she was just fine with it. Living in this pit was could only get more and more temporary, the way everything was going.

Sure, she stayed a bit curious, but tried to put it out of her head. They had a combined income of less than half that, before getting hitched and moving out here. She also started blowing him a bunch, a lot more often than was their usual.

Before Doctrine, she was a lot less adventurous than her friends about it. She reserved the act as a reward, for birthdays and good dates and trips to his parents’, etc. Now, it took a prominent position in her sexual arsenal.

Mostly, it was because she felt a tiny bit of shame: that she wasn’t a conventional wife, and could easily manage to do a lot more upkeep than she was—with their house and with their relationship. This past week, every single weeknight, she was waiting on her knees for him.

It did seem silly at first, but it was so nice to fall into a routine. So much of her place in the marriage, in this shit-ass nowhere country town, and especially in her line of work, was mired in uncertainty.

Wanda knew that, though it was Saturday and Benji didn’t have work, she would still immediately kneel and suck with vigor. Helping the neighbor reformat her hard drive would surely take a lot out of him.

Fresh hot jizz simply made a perfectly suitable bedrock. It made her feel somewhat useful. It was evidence, evidence of... something.

So. She didn’t really feel quite as guilty as she knew she probably should have. Guilty of not feeling guilty. To a degree, she was aware of the depth of denial she was wading in. She knew it wasn’t a kiddie pool—that if she wasn’t careful, she would drown in doubt.

But, shit, for the most part? It was kind of fun! It was a whole ton of fun, actually, to be a housewife. If, of course, she ignored the fact that she was kind of a lazy one so far, and loathed any and all chores.

It was new. It was sexy. The old confidence would re-emerge anew, taking a different form. It was shaky but exciting.

Throughout all of her twenties, Wanda fought viciously against her mother’s model of femininity. She swore up and down that she would never become a kept woman. There wasn’t a worse fate, it seemed.

It was funny, truly. She was so sure that such a lifestyle shift would make her dumb, but she seriously didn’t feel that way in the slightest.

Why should it be “stupid,” to feel comfort, to feel... peace? Who could possibly care that it wasn’t the “right” kind?

Sure, she’d only been married a short while, but at the very least, she conceded to agree with her mom during one of their increasingly long conversations—to just enjoy herself for a few months. The urge to work would eventually come right on back and become a need, her mom had assured her.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said. These words, like many of her mom’s, were starting to feel like patchwork on a comfy, world-sized, heated quilt. There was absolutely no reason she couldn’t keep up with critical blogs on the days’ top stories!

The slow internet was about to get throttled to lightning speed. She was promised so by Benji and the junk mail that came from Our Lady of Abundance, the town church. It was oddly informative for a slight photocopied bulletin—and he blush and eyeliner samples were a welcome little surprise too!

“Don’t worry about the internet, dear.” Her mom kept telling her that, substituting “internet” with a myriad other concerns from her daughter, and... she was totally right.

“Just be the best wife you can possibly be, sweetie.” She had to be right. Right? “As long as you love him and he loves you, everything will work itself out in the end.”

Yeah. She was right. Definitely. After all, her mom was a wife herself, made it work with her dad for almost three decades before he passed on.

Her mom’s words were so soothing, all she could say was “Mom, eww!” when she got lectured by her, out of NOWHERE, about sex.

Soft static pulsed, almost inaudible, over the landline. The low rhythm tickled her, gave her goosebumps, caused her to twirl her hair in on beat. Noticing it didn’t make her stop.

They never used to go within a country mile of the topic of sex. Now, every one of their telephone talks was peppered with prurient advice, somehow.

Just a few hours before the landlord arrived on this very day, she was mortified to realize she’d been administering several of the techniques her mom had mentioned: all over Benji’s shaft, up and down, up and down, that swirl thing... Using her tongue just like she’d been told to.

Upon consideration, cogitating the gross and semi-incestuous mouth feel of sucking dick just like her fucking mother, she didn’t gag on her man, but instead worked harder, made it sleazier, worked her mouth more and more like a hot piece of sluttish chattel.

...could Bigg Dong G. see it in her eyes that she had gotten her face well fucked before and right after breakfast, or that she had then been ridden doggystyle right after he’d gotten the phone call for the needed computer help across the street?

Wanda had made damn sure that she’d washed all the spooge out of her hair and face, but even so, was her landlord now detecting some lingering remnants of fuck aura? Aghast, she noticed a crust of cum toward the bottom of her shirt.

She fiddled with the obvious semen stain that this stupid big dong guy for sure had to have seen, flushed beet red, and tried to stuff it into her jean shorts. But to do that, she had to unbutton them. They were getting a touch snug as it was.

Too much Cherub Crunch, she reasoned. It was a locally bagged, white fudge smothered, salted caramel drizzled granola. She snarfed like two or three 16 oz. bags of the stuff daily. They worked great with weed. Sure, the days of freaking out over fitting into a wedding dress were long behind her, but all her snacking was gunning straight to her hips. Her tummy managed to stay flat, but her shorts dug into her sides nevertheless. Concerning as that was, the major issue was that she feared having to leave her block and go out shopping for new clothes. Wait. Why did she even care what this Don G. character thought? And why was she still looking at him, staring at him, eyes locked and laser honed to his heavy-lidded, shale colored irises? Why were they so fucking pretty, all of a sudden?

“Stop worrying!” Her mom’s voice implored. “Be nicer to people! Nobody likes a sourpuss!”

Three nights earlier, in the middle of a discussion about baking: “Don’t make him beg to fuck you. Don’t be a bad wife. Sweetheart—he won’t think twice about putting a baby in you if you fuck and suck him regularly.”

“Just be the best possible wife you can be.” Click clickety clack click. The barely perceptible beat blinking its way over the phone line was addictive, calming her nerves. The soft electronic buzz grooved her.

It made it seem much less insane that her mom was comfortable giving her sexual pep talks. It made it seem the opposite of insane. “Be the best possible wife you can be.” Sweet, sound words of advice and encouragement. “Be a good little filthy whore-wife, honey.”

“Be the ultimate slut wife. Be the sluttiest bitch because that poor Benji deserves one—one that he hasn’t even been able to imagine yet. Give yourself over completely. Give your body, get real naughty. Feed on, breed on, and propagate all bareback, missy, stuff that crack so sweetly, get all pussy blissy.”

“Slut and strut that budding booty of yours to a heaven on earth, right here in God’s America. Be a hot little Christian mommy. St. Fertilicia believes in you. Our Family Way believes in you. Let yourself be fertile and feel all pink and baby blue. To thine own sainted womb be true.”

Wanda gulped. That seemed like something from one of her TV shows or something. Maybe a commercial. Was her mom’s voice somehow... different, too? Kind of... masked, or... synthetic... ??

CLICK CLACKETY CLACK CLICK. More of that easy feeling, now with an extra pulsing layer of fluorescent fuchsia sex-dorphins.

“And I can’t stress this enough, Wanda—two or three times a day. AT LEAST. Handjobs don’t count. And I really wish that one day, hopefully soon, you’ll let him hump your asshole so that you and I can talk about how awesome it—”

“Mommmmm-uh!” Wanda was thrown so off course, by the fact that her own mother was just casually letting loose about handjobs and blowjobs and ass fucking, that she forgot to tell her that, while she wasn’t ruling out the idea of having kids with Benji, it wasn’t necessarily a priority. Or... was...

No. She had to end the phone call. At once. She had to.

...She had to go masturbate about Benji, and maybe one of his new buddies from work, taking turns with her holes.

Maybe two or three buddies from work. Maybe a whole factory line of dudes?! Put in a whole honest day’s work, like...

...punching in while waggling her behind, turning her head to blow kisses over her shoulder... to then just hop gleefully on every wild breed of hot huge cock, beyond depraved, 110% brain-sucked...

...some busty blonde secretary for Working Wanda might be nice, she could cradle and coo over her nipples, tending to them, making damn sure they stayed stiff and feeling awesome...

...punching out right in the middle of a gangbang, but thinking twice about it and finishing her various whore-jobs instead. There was no way she would just jet out of there like a selfish bitch, no! Not before all the tasty, hard-working dongs could coat her in and out with punishing, suffocating boy-cream...

“I really have to fuck... I have to fuck—ing go, mom, I have to...” Her eyes flitted back and forth along the coffee table for an excuse. A church bulletin? Sure, whatever. “I have to go to mass.” She hung up, not even letting her mom get half a word of protest in.

Wanda had completely forgotten the reason she had called her mom in the first place: to tell her to not bother mailing her famous chocolate chip cookies. Not because she wouldn’t hoover them like a girly pig—she most definitely would, and they would go straight to her ass like all her other munchies....

No. It was because the cookies would never make it to her. Not in any fresh, edible state. The lynchpin on the encroaching fog of isolation? The entire post office was on strike as well.

* * *

The venerable Mayor Mystii Lippslitz had interrupted her favorite cooking sitcom to assuage viewers’ fears that the picket lines would end “right soon-like.”

This was good news, but that night under the covers, Wanda nevertheless remarked to Benji that she hoped the mayor’s speech would end right soon-like, too. “Hehe, looks like she’s got you talking like one of the pod people,” Benji had joked, tickling her naturally taut abs.

That had been their term for the shameless hicks that made up the general public of Doctrine. Had been. It was slowly being phased out, in light of the friends and connections Benji was making. They weren’t pod people now. These were good people.

“Don’t tell me how I’s talkin’!” she rasped. “Now you’re dropping your G’s, dummy,” he bullied. “No I ain’t!” she bellowed, like a total dummy.

“Yeah. Okay, Mrs. Ain’t,” he muttered, tickling lower. He snuck some digits underneath her tightening panties. They were soaked through. They seemed to always be soaked through ever since they moved. He loved that. He didn’t understand it, really, but he loved it.

Wanda didn’t protest, but after a few seconds, pulled half of her husband’s fist out of her and climbed on top of him. “I thinks ya like yer little wifey ackin’ like a big sluttable little traily trash bitch, don’tcha?” she babbled.

His boxers were wet and sticky. Wait, was he chea—Oh riiiight. She totally forgot he had boned the brains her not a half hour earlier. They never used to be this raring to go for another round, never this quick. This would make fuck no. 6 of the day.

She was twice as wet as she was the fifth time, and his cock was like a sequoia. This insatiable sex fervor unnerved her, for half a second. Then it just turned her on like whoa, so she gave in. They were just being a happily married couple.

The studio audience laughed and laughed, louder and louder, and the dueling banjo and fiddle of the bed music on the sitcom grew louder and louder too, quickly overtaking the thumping rap beat.

She turned away and rode him with relish, her back turned, doubled down with manic gyrations in a preternaturally expert reverse cowgirl. She had meant to extend her legs out and draw the remote closer to her, so she could turn the volume down, but it was no use.

Her man had knocked her off balance, sticking a firm mitt on her burgeoning badonkadonk after throttling it with an open fist, and straightened her out above his pelvis. So she just kicked it off the bed when Benji started mauling her chest.

It wasn’t that she was overtaken and did it accidentally. She did it on purpose. She just got mad wasting her time with it. It was pretty cool how the sounds of their humping and moaning were complimenting the music, anyhow.

Her eyes rolled up to the evacuating skull where her brains had taken a holiday. Wanda ended up growling and grunting deeper than Benji. She felt positively beastly.

They fucked so hard, he would leave welts on her hips and ribs, from athletically tossing her toward the ceiling and shoving her back onto his pole, over and over and over. She drew blood on his chest from digging her nails in.

The noise of the TV just kept getting louder. The headboard competed, tossed repeatedly against the wall as it was, abused. A neighborhood dog or two started yapping, spooked. The light from their next door neighbor’s bedroom window shot on, five feet away from theirs.

Most of what happened next was a fuzzy pink blur. She remembered eating out their heavily pregnant neighbor, who had somehow gotten into their trailer and just nonchalantly opened their bedroom door, naked but for some towering, clear platform heels.

After she returned the favor and made Wanda cum this close to how hard Benji’s cock was making her cum lately (off-puttingly, from penetration alone, not that either of them were complaining), she gave her husband explicit permission to bang Blissandra.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, motionless, while they finished their feeding on the carpet. He was of course hard as fuck, again—bone all wet and tempting and bobbing out in the syrupy night air—but he was full up with trepidation. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, firm. The girls gasped wetly, weakened by fuck fumes and high-pitched, like they were huffing them. Blissandra started sobbing.

“Absolutely not. This is wrong. This is... weird. I’m married. We’re married. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Blissy, y’know—maybe we were too loud, and this is your weirdo form of revenge, but no. I’m sorry. I don’t care if Craig is out of town on church business. I don’t think so.”

The preggo neighbor tried to ease his mind. “You may be new in town, but you gittin’ a right nice big cock already, baby.” He considered this as she worked his shaft. Already? What was that supposed to mean?

Wanda had gotten on all fours, though, and was lapping at his nuts. It felt so good that all worry evaporated, and all he could think about was how lucky he was to have two girls worshipping his junk. Wanda was never this kind of girl. It was insanity.

“Go ahead,” his mutating wife prodded, through a mouthful of pubes. “Fuck our sweet little neighbor, baby.”

Benji had just about enough. “Okay, get on the edge of the bed and prop that ass up. And Wanda—NO MASTURBATING. I want you to understand what you’re making me do.”

He positioned himself behind the well-bred blonde cow who was moaning and mooing for him, winking her thick ass at him. “There’s no going back now. This is a part of our marriage now.”

Wanda was too fuck-hazy to recognize the gravity of the situation. “Okay!” she chirped, clapping her hands like she was in elementary school. “Great!”

The last thing she remembered was Blissandra cupping her hand underneath her asshole, collecting Benji’s load like that and smearing it all over her own wifey face as thanks.

“Ummmm... Oh my gosh, did we, um like, bang, like. fifteen times last night?” Wanda asked Benji the morning after, over breakfast. She threw her arms up and winced, whining like a little girl, out of reflex.

“Ouchie,” she mewed. Everywhere was sore. Especially her mouth, but even that didn’t feel as raw as her vadge and butthole. She was feeling more randy, lately, sure, but... what the fuck! She felt like some kind of crack whore.

Benji was in a short sleeved dress shirt and a patriotic tie she’d never seen before, flooded with cologne and his own essence. He had woken up an hour before she stumbled out of bed, was now ready for work, eating his last bite of the pancakes he’d prepared for them.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Ever.”

He pivoted away from the pop-up table they ate meals at. He had an undeniable pants tent. “Nothing happened. What you thought happened... you dreamed everything. You dreamed it all. Understand?”

Wanda nodded, trotted over from where she was standing and fell to her knees, grabbing for his crotch. “No, Wanda. My cock is way too sore. Come on.”

“What’s the fuckin’ deal with that tie, anyway?” she asked, disappointed to the point of rue. He turned away from her and scrunched his face up to the buzzing light on the kitchen ceiling.

“I’m an American,” he intoned. Wanda wanted to burst into laughter, but she was too busy fingering herself out of frustration. She did eek out a few giggles though.

* * *

Anyway. She was bound to get those much missed, beloved issues of Harper’s and Adbusters delivered. It was only a matter of time before those lazy union people got their shit together.

The travel ban was another story, but was only temporary, she knew this. Doctrine, working in tandem with the nearby Cherub Cove, was repairing the only bridge out of town. Evident structural integrity issues had made it buckle in the aftermath of more than eight feet of snow.

It was one of many infrastructure casualties of a squall the previous December. A Planned Parenthood and Doctrine’s only bookstore suffered collapsed roofs and were bulldozed to build a daycare and a religious DVD rental shop. No bookstore! It sucked.

Bigg Don G. was saying something now, or... something. She tried to give a shit and not plumb deep down into the pink haze of that blurred memory of the threesome with Benji and some rando preggo, and decode if it even fucking happened.

“Sho is hawt up in these parts, huh, Wanna?” the beefy landlord drawled. Huh-whut? Wanna fucking what, dong dude?

Wanna what. What does this fucking creep want me to do?!

“Don’t you reckon iss hot as sweet Georgia ass, Wanna?” Oh! Wanna! Ha, ha! He can’t even say my name!

She was definitely a bit charmed by it, if she was to be honest with herself. He only wanted to impress. It was, in a way, thrilling, to know she was way smarter than him and still able to get herself on his level, either patiently or impatiently.

SO WHAT if he couldn’t competently discuss Naomi Klein’s work, or the damage that entitlement reform would surely wreak if put into action again? So fucking what? She could talk about... boobies, and... whatever else he was interested in. Butts?

Wanda chuckled to herself. I could talk on tits and ass witcha all night, hoss. A redneck version of her voice had begun to bounce like a tennis ball among the divots of her skull, taunting her.

Her brains simmered. In her head, she rolled around the southern-fried version of her name. Wanna... Wanna... So cute. So fun. Kinda...

Maybe not, though. Wasn’t the expression “hotter than Georgia asphalt,” anyway?? Wanna...

“Wanna?” Wanda nodded and her brain clicked awake on the big third or fourth unconscious nod, embarrassed to find her grinning mouth slack frickin’ open.

Her tongue was anxious to pour some carefree drool down her doubtlessly idiotic looking face. Sweet American Jesus, what is the fuckin’ matter with me!

She drew her fat-feeling thing back in, a good deal slower than she intended, blushing. It felt more like a cow’s tongue or something, all swollen. She heedlessly wiped her lips off on the cuff of her dampened shirt.

Unbuttoning a little more, Wanda worried that Bigg Don G. was guaranteed to see what color bra she was wearing. (She knew for sure that she should have felt worried, but the “why” was somewhere in Antarctica.)

Hot pink. It was so bright, in fact, it looked almost electrified. Wanda’s bra shimmered and reflected any of the light back out into the living room, almost serving to make the primitive den brighter.

She’d accidentally poured bleach on all of her underwear the other day, after getting a bit too crunk for laundry. It ruined all her bras and panties, but not in the usual way. It made them all hot pink, but like a... nuclear hot pink, like this.

Not like any of that was a pressing issue now. She was practically a eunuch compared to Nora-Lou, even with the luminescent calling card of her bra cups.

Wanda might as well have been flat as a tabletop, for all he cared. “Shoot yeah, it’s flippin’ humid as a sauna in Hell, I knoowww!” she chirped, punching him on his pec like a toddler might, surprised at how high of register she’d used to blurt that garbage out.

Weirdly, it didn’t get much colder than upper 60s the first week of February. Some infomercials on TV insisted it was because of the consecrated earth the town was built on, but she didn’t need Benji to tell her that was some big bullshit.

He told her just the other night, during his bedtime handy, that he heard the weird weather had something to do with sea levels and the skyrocketing population of both humans and livestock in the area.

Doing stuff to her husband’s penis was one of the only ways she had left, it seemed, to divine any real information as to what the fuck was going on in this town, or with their bodies. Benji always had a way to smooth any issue out, providing answers that always seemed equal parts folksy and rational.

This day, it was pushing 80. She was sweating almost as much as Bigg Don G. now. The sad air conditioner puttered pathetically. She swung open the front door, but the sticky air oozing between the tattered thatches of the thin screen door ahead of it just made it all worse.

Even if she was being embarrassingly idle lately, just about the only shame she made room to feel was that she wasn’t really making use of her time to learn to cook. Her mom had been flabbergasted and chided her about this, but Benji was usually good for bringing home Preppabelli’s pizza, or Dubble Bubble Big Bottom Burgers from the Dairy Air Diner.

They had just gotten married toward the end of January, a real rushed wedding. Though they’d been together for almost two years, she still wasn’t definitively sold on the idea of marriage, at least... not like this. She just wasn’t.

Wanda loved Benji—she loved him a whole lot—but was it really necessary to move out all the way into the deep country like this, just for his job?

Doctrine hadn’t been on half the maps she looked at. The night she paid Deedee a visit to see if she might have had any olive oil in her pantry (“No, sugar, we ain’t got none of that strange city stuff”), the saucy woman told her it was the only way it “kept grocery prices all tax-free-like.”

Apparently, Shade Stables, the even more rural area of town seated uphill from the intersection where the newlyweds lived, was just a sort of shanty Levittown. Little red, white or blue plywood huts, with a neon pink cross and a steeple affixed atop the roofs, they otherwise had no electricity.

“This house ain’t no buckin’ suckin’ palace or whatever, but it’s got character, right?” the brawny landlord spat. Wanda’s head nodded for her, and she brushed her auburn bangs aside and dabbed at some sweat.

She was trying to keep up and tell her own story, at the same time Don G. told her about his family. It slipped her mind that she and Benji were going to be still settling in on Valentine’s Day. “Y’all might could come stay in one of our houses if need be. Anytime.”

This wasn’t ideal, sure, but even under different circumstances, she wasn’t exactly the type to expect to be bathing in champagne by holiday’s end, or whatever. The landlord just wouldn’t shut up about “his” Nora-Lou, though.

How much he loved her, how this was the seventh year he’d gotten her a new bra, since she kept getting bigger all the time, how she always had some ribs and mac and cheese waiting for him after his “welcome home” blowie...

Wanda wondered what, if anything, Benji had planned for her. The sun was already setting and she hadn’t gotten so much as a card from him. He was still chatting it up with the girl across the street.

If he was done helping out with their computer, why was he taking so long to come home? Even from twenty feet away, she could she her husband’s pants tent as some busty blonde chick laughed voluptuously at his every joke, hopping up and down and falling out of her top each time.

“Don’t make no nevermind ’bout that, Wanna,” Bigg Don G. said. She was so frazzled by her neighbor’s flirtation with her husband, that her own landlord’s flirtation with her flew right over her head.

Indeed, he was now getting grabby, and Wanda wasn’t feeling stabby. Her body warmed and pulsed and gave in to the neanderthal touch. Her mind was officially getting too taxed and sleepy for all of this.

Her body’s willingness had suddenly become all the convincing she needed. Ever since Bigg Don G. had gotten there, she’d kept concerns about gender and patriarchy at the forefront of her conscience. It was draining.

Wanda didn’t think twice—in fact, not even once—about his big handyman hand on the seat of her shorts, leading her up by her ass, to the second rung on the ladder underneath the leak.

“Naw, this ain’t gonna work, after all. We need a better position. Why don’t you climb ’board that there warsher downstairs and show me what’s wrong ’bout it?”

There was nothing in the basement that could have possibly helped out with patching a leak in her living room ceiling. She knew this. But her body didn’t care.

The booty was winning. It wasn’t the nicest or biggest one, but it was fit, a tad more rounded lately, and most importantly it was hers.

The booty belonged to a woman. She belonged to it. Sometimes, it was just the kind and decent thing to do, to let the booty win once and a while. It made the booty feel good.

The hand patting it was directed by a man. Maybe the man wasn’t her husband, but so what? He was still a man! What else was there to think about?

“Wanna?”

* * *

It was almost bedtime. Wanda stuffed a brand new mound of lime cotton candy Cherub Chew into her face anyway. The lazy housewife blew wetly on her nails, having just applied a thick new coat of polish.

“Hot,” she breathed, and hummed a women’s hymn from the shopping channel. It was easy to admire them as she smacked her beauty gum.

It didn’t seem to be much of a issue to just sit there in her undies, look hot and chew stuff all at the same time. It shouldn’t have felt like an accomplishment, either—but it totally did.

She was over-over-fucked and exhausted from the day’s events. She felt like she packed a week’s worth of activity and brainpower into nine or ten hours, even if she didn’t leave the trailer (or the pleasant company of her libido) for a second.

Just now, Benji had spooged another pint or two of himself straight up her cunt, boning the devil out of her for a second time since coming home. Pretty much everywhere below her hair was throbbing something fierce.

This most recent slam session poked and pulled at her clarity like putty, mushing her head back to the increasing familiarity of rubber-mind. She yawned out a half day of fatigue, thinking of the repetitive, boring struggle to remind herself to feel weirded out (or even offended) by her nice and burly hot landlord man.

All the things she got up to earlier added up to this haze, made thinking anything at all feel like receiving a diploma. Doing her nails was its own reward though. “I just luhhhhv this color, don’t you?” she sang to her Benji.

A little bottle of nail polish had appeared on her nightstand, with no label save for some cow spots on faded stars and stripes or something. It showed up pretty much out of nowhere.

Wanda first noticed it not long after their landlord had left. Was it a gift from his wife that Bigg Don G. brought over, like the giant drum of M’uddaz Milk brand brownie nog?

It was a cute color, whichever cosmetic company or religious institution made it. “I thought you said you didn’t like to paint your nails,” Benji huffed.

Wait a second—was her husband actually complaining? Even jokingly? Really?! He had no right—not with how he was acting earlier.

She peeled his hands off her chest, only faintly aware of how forward his advances were getting just these past couple nights. She was distracted by the cute teal color of her nails, before remembering to ignore his prodding. For whatever reason... oh yeah! “Who was that—”

Don’t say “slut,” just don’t! She scolded herself, all sorts of ashamed. Her mother taught her to be a better judge of character, after all... even if the character in question sported a very pronounced—and very tubby—pair of breasts.

...even if that character wore the tiniest, most pitiful latex strip of a halter that couldn’t cover her ruddy, silver dollar nipples, and kept her hands glued to her double-wide hips, to help thrust them forward in her husband’s face...

Wanda looked down at her own little bee-stings, oblivious for a moment she and Benji were married, that she didn’t have to compete with other girls any longer. “Who was that ch... that woman you were talking to out on the driveway for so long?”

Benji wrung his hands and cleared his throat, then wrung his hands some more. The way he looked, all clammy and nervous—her initial reaction was to just give him the benefit of the doubt. And to allow a great but confounding wave of shame pass over her.

She scooched away from him on the bed, self-conscious. “Well, she’s our neighbor, okay?” he said, defensive. Wanda nodded, wanting to believe.

“I just felt like I should, you know, let her know that we’re not some fugitives or something. She asked why I was rushing back so soon—I was just being polite, Wanda.” Why did they sneak off to the woods behind her trailer, then?

And why was he gone for over five hours?! “What happened to your shirt?” was all she could muster. Benji didn’t say anything, just looked half remorseful in his own masculine way.

She doubled down, face flushing now. “Honey, I could have washed your shirt. You should know that by now!” Hang on... Rubbing his chest and acting the part of good little wifey surely wasn’t going to do her any good here.

A new plan of attack, then. She could still interrogate him while being adorable, and while still pawing at his pecs. “What’s our nosy neighbor’s name?” Wanda asked, through burning rosy cheeks.

It was more than a little depressing, that she was already about to accrue some apparently unsavory memories she’d have to file away somewhere deep in the repression vault. This wasn’t the kind of wife she wanted to be! “Unnhh,” he struggled, shifting his cummy boxer briefs around and fidgeting with a fresh hardon. No fucking way was he erect again already! Don’t you dare touch that! she screamed at her pussy.

Don’t even look at it! Benji muttered wordlessly that low tone of his. the one that was enough to convince her to immediately peel her panties off, or do something even wilder, like go to church.

“You know... I’m not sure if it’s Gigi or Deedee, all I know is that her sister is the one with the bubblier ass.” Wanda looked taken aback: mortified for a second, subsequently enraged for a few more. “I’m just playin’ ’round, sweetheart,” he teased. “Her name is Gigi, Wanda, and she was just showing me an orientation video while I drank some of her brother’s homebrew.”

For how many hours? Nevertheless, his wife looked moderately less concerned now. “I don’t want you catching a cold, that’s all,” she said calmly and evenly, sweet, reaching for the bottle of nail polish on the bedside table.

She had to double-check if there was any information whatsoever on the packaging. Because her nails had almost certainly gotten longer in the mere five minutes that passed since she applied the cute teal layer.

Nope. Just those cow spots. “Hey, so—tomorrow, do you think we can see what’s going on with our wifi?” He nodded attentively, said sure.

“Good,” she sighed, “good. Because it’s still doing that weird pink and green swirl thing. And I can barely get into my work e-mail, it’s so slow.”

Benji grunted like he was paying attention, and shucked his underwear off, hopping into the bathroom. He was such a fucking hot dude—the reality of this was always amazing to ruminate on—and he was all hers, and that was just so dang super cool and awesome.

This moment of trapper-keeper adoration hung in the air alongside a sweet, lived-in aroma of undpasteurized fuck. It mingled deliciously with the nasty candy scent of her rad new nail polish.

Time stopped as she nearly gagged under the soupy invisible fog of their bedroom. The intersecting scents and mental branding of biology and spirituality were just too insane. It was better than any drug Wanda had ever tried or heard of.

She wiped her sticky chin off and fought to hold her eyes open more than halfway. What was she thinking about? Oh, duh. Benji’s cock. When was she not thinking about that thing? Could it be... bigger, maybe? Thicker?

Probably not, but, shit, it felt amaaaaazing! Her man’s underwear was so tight that his rock hard cock might just as well have made a cartoon “boiiiing” sound as it bounced free.

Her head tilted in the thing’s direction. It remained in that position even as she heard the shower turn on. It made her feel like a loyal pet more than a wife. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

Through leaden lids, she saw that her email had finally loaded. How long had it been since she’d successfully checked it? There were like thirty new messages. She clicked on the most recent one, from her sister Hanna. The subject read: “worried about you, PLEASE help me stop worrying!!! xx.”

It wouldn’t load. She reached for the nightstand but was too lazy to reach for her phone, and grabbed Benji’s from under his pillow.

She entered his passcode and was horrified to find a picture of their whore neighbor, topless, chin and chubby tits dotted with gobs of cum. The text read “bet u aint pro doose like my man do hehe.”

“Ugh!” she growled, and the warm fuzzies in which she let herself bask and baste all fell away immediately. He was texting with that fucking slutty bitch from across the street! He replied with a picture of his cock! He typed “big enough 4 ya? lol” !!!

Wanda realized she was just staring at a jpeg of her husband’s dick for about half a minute, before the gravity of what this meant, and the day in general, finally descended and came home to roost. She was furious.

But Benji tracked a bunch of water onto the bedroom carpet, towel-drying like a brute. It stalled her fury and met with no resistance. His balls smacked against his thighs, as he dried off, one leg up on the bed teasingly, dripping hot boy sweat onto her ankle.

He was still rock hard. It was right in her face. Wanda gulped and hung on, desperately, to a sliver of composure. She couldn’t help but lick her lips. “Benji, why are you trading... naughty pics with our neighbor!

She meant to yell. It really was more of a squeak. This was sad. And she said the word “naughty” like she was Marilyn Monroe with an egg vibrator in her coochie, to boot.

Her legs spread themselves wide, even though she begged them not to. It really hurt her case. She couldn’t close her mouth. Oh god... Oh FUCK! Not again... Not again!

“Honey,” he said, diving down between her fluffy newlywed thighs. He was thumbing them, and she was letting him. He squeezed her hips, going back and forth and around, all over her midsection and drove her fucking crazy.

The SoddSuddz brand of men’s body wash, that they picked up on the cheap at the Breed & Heed general store, was exaggerating his natural musk—and that was already plenty heady. “You’re no angel, yourself, y’know,” he chided her, between clitty kisses.

“We’re even now, after you letting Don ream you for all of Doctrine to see!” Though it killed her, she ripped his fantastically eager face from her snatch. All of the hawt aura drained from her again. “Don’t use your double standards on me. Consider us even steven.”

Wanda blanched. “What.” She felt cold, frightened, and then embarrassed. How could she have forgotten? Then again... how could she have forgotten such a massive dick? They didn’t call him Bigg Don G. for nothing, no sir...

She railed against the swarm of heated hornies crawling right back up her slit. Her pussy demanded that she indulge in them. It would be fun, plus she was a woman, a wedded woman, and his cock was... there was a big cock attached to a dude that was polite enough to lick her like an ice cream cone...

She managed to shoot up off the bed, grabbing her phone in the process, and ran into the hall, sobbing. “Yeh,” Benji called out, laughing at her from the conjugal bed. “It’s okay, I’m not mad, I just think it’s funny.”

“You didn’t even have the decency to draw the shades! I don’t care, you are a woman after all, and Deedee and Gigi told me you haven’t broken any of Our Lady of Abundance’s laws, so that’s fortunate, but—sweet-meat, come on!”

Wait. They fucked in the living room, too? She only remembered getting raw-dogged in the basement. Did they just keep fucking as they walked back upstairs, somehow, or something? That way, she could get away with only having cheated once... right?

“Did you really forget? Are you that much of a bimbo? I mean—you waved to me through our front window when I came home, did you not? And you didn’t notice all the lipstick and cum you two smeared all over the glass? Dude was trying to fuckin’ dog you into the street!”

Wanda writhed nude, flustered, on the shag rug in the hallway. She stared absently at a pair of wadded up panties. They were simple, white, cruddy with cum, and they used to fit her.

A gale of tears poured onto her face as she hurriedly dialed her mom. It took seven rings. “Hello?” she finally answered. Wanda wasted no time. She knew what would happen if Benji asked her to come back to bed. She would come back to bed.

“Mom, I know we already talked twice today, but I think somethin’ really, really strange is happenin’ to me and I ain’t a-fixin’ to freak you out an’ I don’t know if I’d call it danger ness-arily, but I’s not feelin’ real safe, like, at all—iss like my body done forcin’ me to do thangs, tellin’ me how to feel good, like—sometime, I can barely—what’s that ding-dang word—cum, cum... cunt... CONTROL! Like, everything feels real good, an’ stuff, but like, not good, y’know, like, ummmm, I never cain’t even always control my hands or butt an’—”

“What do you mean, two times?” her mother interjected. “Sweetheart, Darrell and I have been worried sick about you. You haven’t called once since you and Benji left the city! And what’s going on with your voice?”

Wanda’s heart thumped. “Whatchoo mean, mawma? I talk to you like ev-e-ry—” Then a high pitched squall of feedback pierced her ears. The call dropped abruptly, and sounded like it clicked over to hang up five or six times.

A light, airy fiddle tune begin to hop along on top of a fuzz bass dial tone. She was fingering herself on beat, as usual. She had the habit of doing this with all kinds songs lately, especially Christian ones.

The heavenly music took her to gilded, stratospheric heights of subliminal fancy. A sweet sultry girlie voice whispered wet consonant candy to her. It was more beautiful than a million dongs sailing her away to a billion orgasms.

It was more inspiring than America itself. She heard it coming from her fingers, with her clit. She couldn’t seem to understand any of it, it didn’t really sound like words.

It did have a reassuring tone. It sounded like her nail polish smelled. It told her to put more of her fist inside her vadge, so she did. After it sang some hymns to her, she drifted off to sleep right there outside the bedroom.

Wanda woke up to the thud of her her ass being humped into the corner of a wall by her husband. He was holding her up by just the might and thrust of his dick. The dial tone hadn’t stopped. They fucked to the beat.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Benji growled. Wanda moaned out a half-hearted “whuttt?” She gripped tighter onto his superhero shoulders and with great vigor, grinded her pelvis down on him.

She was lost. She pulled him in deeper, with a dumbly trusting and needy, animal look of purpose on an otherwise blank face. “It was Valentine’s Day today, silly,” he said, like she didn’t have a brain in her head. Right this second, she didn’t.

English was boring and got in the way of fun hot cock in her pussy. Fun hot cock that was starting to clench, and about to spew fun hot fun.

A tiny part of her was coming back. She could do this. Just say one word. Just ONE WORD. You can do this! Her mouth was stuck shut with bubblegum sauce, but she did it.

She could still be a wife and retain some dignity. Why not? She could be a woman and still be smart! No matter what songs Saint Fertilicia and her string band were just singing to her on the phone! Yeah!

“Mmmmmm.” she said, and beamed, dribbling flourescent molasses spit bubbles, totally proud of herself that she formed what she thought for sure was a complete sentence.

“Ooooooooh,” she added, thrilling to the vocab she managed to excavate, delighted she could still be clever and use big words. “Unhhnghnmmoooo...”

The dial tone eventually shifted its beat to match the tinkling trickle of the leak in the living room, which had only grown. The drip had gotten even louder.

Wanda smiled, dripping onto the shag herself, in utter defiance of the thick meat plugging her all up, and happy, so happy that the leak hadn’t been fixed, and neither had she.

* * *