The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Mounten & Mayne”

by Cristina Prince

2. TWIST HER TRUTH

“Oh heck!” Wanda spat. “Cheese on a critter!” So began another of her ineffective mini rages, with her stomping and jjiggling around gracelessly, and giggle-flexin’’ her rage out, helpless.

It was real hard for her to get upset anymore. It was next to impossible for her to show it. “Fucking shit!“

“Gosh flippin’ dang it! She knew how ridiculous and kindergarten she looked, and sounded, throwing her li’l for-play, play acting temper tantrums. It didn’t plum matter, though, because she was “mad!“

Uselessly, Girlishly. Mad.

Her face was a deeper beet red than it would have already been. She’d put on a ton of blush to look extra pretty for their guest, who was all set to arrive in less than an hour. Maybe she could change her too, morph her into a good ol’ trashy bimbo slut, MAYBE.

She was mortified, hopping around her new basement bedroom in such a state. “Okay, so! No skirts... which was scare—OKAY, that was fine, for a while, but now, this...“

It was the fifth pair of brand new (tag still on) yet suddenly too-tight pants she hazarded to try on this morning. Laughable to say the least! “FFFFUCKK!”

One gray corduroy pantleg propped her foot skyward in salute. The other sat halfway up her opposite thigh, just hanging out there, stubborn as fuck.

Wanda started to groan, but by the time the sound left her gut, it had deflated into a foofy, utterly pointless whimper. These days, a pout was all that her remaining anger and frustration seemed to allocate to her face. Oh well.

Benji just chuckled, gawking. “What’s wrong, honeybums? Still gonna blame the ‘dryer’ instead of all our suppers at Don and Mrs. G’s?”

He grabbed hold of her ample behind, pinching the two (now quite undeniably enlarged) buttocks together, making them wobble back into place. She smacked him away.

Don’t! Don’t you dare—” Eeahhgh, screw it... She grabbed her husband by his hand and led it back to her cheek.

It was getting to feel so fucking awesome, every time he touched her, in any way, anywhere. Why bother keeping up any other pretense? What good it could it possibly fucking do?

“But what should I DO? Unnnngh!! My sister can not visit us when I barely even have any PANTIES that fit!!” Wanda certainly recognized the look in her husband’s eye before he even gestured upstairs with a wink, a nod of his head.

“No,” she attempted, standing firm-ish, quasi-confident for a hot moment, knowing she was seconds from wilting. Indeed, in a neon pink flash, her will collapsed under the sexy, if lecherous nudging of Mr. Husband’s grope.

“I don’t care how nice she’s been to us,” she whined anyhow, moaning into the comfortable high pitch she was getting more and more tired of fighting. “I refuse. This ends gol-dang here.“

Benji, in pointed protest, thumbed a more recently defined crack over her practically incandescent, threadbare panties. “I mean it,” she pleaded, wiggling and grinding backward onto his teasing fingers and open palm. “An’ stuff...”

Wanda was getting bimbo breathless now. “I mean. Unnnggh... uhhhh—enuffsie NUFFSIES!“

Though he knew it would annoy her to no end, Benji was waiting for her right at the bottom of the stairs as she came hopping back in scandalously cut, and tartishly tight fuzzy hotpants.

He was this close to successfully pretending he didn’t have a raging expectation-bone. With his pleated, miraculousy cumstain-free khakis, and expertly maneuvered mug of coffee, he did make a rather striking, no-nonsense image.

But even if Wanda hadn’t noticed the obvious and equine pants tent with her own eyes, she surely could smell it—with her nose, definitely, but even moreso with her vadge. The thing could smell a mailman from three fuckin’ blocks away.

Her “slit sonar,” as their temporary host Nora-Lou had termed it (a name given to just one of many pseudo-religious phenomena in Doctrine, that ultimately proved to be equal halves poignantly cute and desperately menacing), was developing at an insane rate. Both the newlyweds were wowed whenever they heard a doorbell...

Not only could she tell whether or not a mark belonged to a man, she was also able to decode that man’s specific identity, age, what their women’s favorite flavor of TruGoo Christian lube was, and when the last time had been that each unique whiff had managed to push out the goofy loads in his balls. It was freaky and cool.

Right this second, though, she paid no heed to the familiar, old chocolate & nag champa brand of her husband’s schlong meat. Yet. Benji could wait...

“Welp! Thanks a bushel, sugar-pie!” the growing nymph sang up the stairs, teasingly clutching her man’s junk at once, despite herself. Dark spots of precum now dotted his crotch. Would he have to change into something else for a third time?

Lucky for him, his bod had evidently stopped warming to the country climate after those first few weeks. He was all solid unmovable muscle now. He only had to go shopping for new clothes once.

They both agreed that his cock was way bigger now, however. If he hadn’t been hard, she could still trace it through his baggy chinos, all with her stupid, pinkening mind.

All the other girls in the house agreed, so Wanda was positive she wasn’t going crazy!

Lately, it was starting to get difficult to wrap her lips all the way around the tip, much less deep throat him like he loved. Difffcult, but never impossible.

The fun but kinda weird marital advice hotline—the one that sounded just like her mom—assured her of this, and she was right. Saying her “kneel meal” prayers, even if she only 99% believed in the exitence of St. Fertilicia now, worked all sorts of wonders.

So did the dual action Cowbelle Candi brand lip fortifier / gum softener. The family sized tub was a steal for 89 cents at the general store. It was a hell of a bargain for a gallon of the stuff. Just four teaspoons three times a day, and she was guaranteed to see results within one week.

It boasted triple action freshness power as a face cream, lip gloss, and toothpaste. After just a single day of using the black-cherry-cheesecake flavored slurry, her mouth was already starting to look just as hot as all her new girlfriends, and competitively righteous.

...her seductress beauty mark... the permanent, but healthy “just fucked glow” that rested rosily on her cheeks, and on the tip of her slightly shrinking button nose....

...fattened, inviting lips... two too-cute buck teeth up front... wetter, wider tongue, the kind that made blowjobs a lot funner and simpler (even if they all ended up pretty much super loaded, and pretty much GUARNTEED she’d have some level of lisp forever)....

...wider mouth in general, to be able to stuff more inches and ounces of cock right in... dimples in her cheeks so she’d stay looking innocent and cute, even while getting pumped and reamed....

Wanda scooped the spunk seepage from Benji’s tempting crotch with a patriotically manicured finger, and brushed him off on her broad, dimpled thighs, without a care.

...managing to get it all on the checked baby blue pattern of the skimpy terrycloth loaner, along the way.

“You’re thankin’ me?! Whatever for, baby darlin’?” a thistle throated voice sailed down to the lavishly furnished basement. Wanda looked like she wasn’t sure why she thanked Nora-Lou, shot her man a look of hapless confusion.

He watched her lean her insanely thick new proportions against a brand new, fresh smell, hot fuschia pool table. Then on some other leather and felt covered bit of fuck-pad finery.

Part of him, during these moments, wanted his wife to try to use what was left of her brain to take two—no, even one half of a second—to think. To at least try to square away the most miniscule non-quandaries herself.

It was kind of nuts. Not even two months ago, Wanda used to win so many arguments with him about feminism, politics, social justice—you name it.

She used to be so smart! No, she still was. She had to be! He shouldn’t have had to explain to her the differences between Democrats and Republicans, or muslims and terrorists. Or America and any other country that wasn’t America...

There was just no way she didn’t even know what Mexico or Canada were. She still knew all this stuff, deep down. He was sure of it. She had to.

Girls might get super horny and distractible when becoming fertile and receiving the blessing, like Pastor Perfection said on the AM dial, but this was... YEESH!

Sure, there was a smothering, sweaty vibe of lust and servitude in the ultra sunny (lack of) air all around Doctrine, but she didn’t have to give in to it! He didn’t!

The other, ever more dominant part of him, though, was all too happy. Happy as hell to be a man for a change, and set Wanda’s mind at ease. All he had to do was kiss her, fondle some cooze or tit, and use the lowest and silkiest voice he could manage.

It didn’t really make him feel guilty until recently. Even so, pressing the point was often a bit... saddening.

Hearing her unironically ask why any woman would ever want or need to get an abortion, for instance, was the sort of cognitive cliff that Benji roundly lamented his wife had jiggled off of. That it came moments after he’d officially knocked her up, well... that made it all the more devastating.

Indeed, this other, more selfish way, just made being a capital “h” Husband... easier! Doing it the Doctrine way. He’d give her an easy answer so she could then pink-puff out a sigh of relief, and turn right back into a cushy, fast flourishing creature of sex curves—just a soft stack of hormones running on the crudest itty-bitty logic motor.

Right now, all he needed to do, to remind his gal what she ought to have been thankful for, was snap the suffering elastic on her waistband. He was honestly proud of her, as she undulated to the appropriate conclusion.

Because this time, he didn’t need to say anything at all to her, let alone act as if his woody was a ventriloquist motherfucking dummy to get Wanda to concentrate. This was some sick bit of progress.

(He swore to himself that if she forced him to employ that method a third time, they would need to have a legit discussion about her undeniably willful airheadedness.)

“Oh, yew know—” Wanda drawled, using her hands to talk even though Nora-Lou couldn’t possibly see. “For them shorty-shorts, but also for these cute pigtails, um... also!“

Benji admired them with his aching wood. They were cute. Between this and her youthful, glowing complexion (complete with just the hint of a budding double chin), Mrs. Wife was really starting to look her new age.

Wanda crinkled her nose as if it took great acuity to say all that, as if “also” had sixteen, impossible-to-remember syllables. “Sugar pie?” Benji scoffed. “Really.” He pivoted her around by the booty.

“Why, what else I ’poseda say?” She rasped. She nearly tripped out of her mary janes and began a clunky, foggy headed 360. He grabbed her by her softened hips, lest she just ditzy-dervish around, in hot bubbly circles, a hundred goddamn times.

“Let me get a good look at you,” he commanded, like the hunky drill sergeant the two of them knew (and loved) that he was becoming. “You and Hanna are sisters, correct?”

She nodded. The fat and happy new handfuls of titty she’d been packing on now bounced free. Even though her thickening derriere was sheathed in Nora-Lou’s bigger size, she was still plenty rumpy in it and showed off some massive cheek leak.

Wanda went braless under the evaporating fabric of a faded ribbed camo tank she’d coerced onto them. She must have thought it was appropriate for company. She certainly hadn’t thought of putting any other top on that morning.

She’d sleepily tied half of a knot underneath her tits, sending them off into a wayward torpedo trajectory. Her soft little fresh-baked tummy pushed out underneath, showing off an accent of a pink platinum navel piercing—the venus symbol, with a Christian cross jutting out of the circle.

But, exactly how big was she now, up top? That functional 3-pack of red, white and blue 38D’s he bought for her on company credit—not even a week before—were already well outgrown. Man—did that make her a double or a triple, or....?!

“Yes, daddy,” Wanda purred. “We is sisters in that there reg’lar way.” She bit her lip. Drool trailed onto the trim of her shirt, just below her thick new cleavage, and capped off a pyramid of soaked spots.

The base of this sticky-juicy pyramid was made up of two leaky nipples, nipples clearly evident in a shirt seemingly designed to be ripped off in a rut fest. “We gon’ make her a sister-whore-wifey in Our Family Way, too, right?”

Benji was nervous and didn’t know to say. The sensible part of him knew that if he ended up fucking Wanda’s sister—which he all but ensured would at least become an item of conversation, the way he approved of his wife’s absurd attire without pause—he would be doing it merely as a way of self-presveration, ensuring his sister-in-law would transform away any and all fear and... consensual entanglement that might arise.

What a mess he’d gotten himself into!

The cockflesh, on the other hand, was begging him to fertlize a new conquest. It had a soft spot and a round head for soft boobs, fat keisters and slick snatches.

Benji was worried. This is the kind of thing that could get me into some serious trouble.

Never once did the man behind the cock make space in his brain to consider the option, or even the possibility, of not fucking Wanda’s sister. No, that might have actually put things into some real perspective...

Benji’s cock only snarled and pulsed. It really did not give a fleeting fuck about feelings or deceny or anything else—just some fancy brainless heads of hair to spit some cum at.

* * *

Hanna was still hanging onto her duffel nervously, like she was about to leave at any second. Things were going from confusing to kind of... scary.

It wasn’t as if she could simply hop back on to the Bonehound Lines bus that dropped her off at the end of this wooded culdesac. That was just five minutes ago.

Like said bus would even come back at all before another nineteen hours... Shit...

She finally put her bag down. The disorienting, slutty looking porno version of her older sister lip-smacked her way through a mouthful and a half of gum, and something that almost sounded like a guided tour—some of the time.

This secluded McMansion was apparently where Wanda was now living in with her husband. They were all out on the raised back deck of the towering, gigantic estate, overlooking a huge inground pool that was...

Honestly? The pool was shaped like an olympic sized cock & balls. It might have been slightly amusing, if the context wasn’t so beyond the pale.

Two identically ultra-curvy blondes bobbed topless in the “water,” inanely trying to keep up some ruse that they were playing volleyball. There was a net, but who could care: they were both on the same side of it!

Any grasp at real competition was surely negated by the fact that they gave each other big wet smooches, on each other’s big mouths, every other ten seconds. Who ARE these people!

They giggled and gabbed about some doubtlessly dumb thing, batting a hot pink and lime green beachball back and forth between them. They weren’t even two feet away from one another. That was it.

They were grunting and titter-chirping with each smack of the ball, as if it was the most strenuous physical activity they’d ever endured. It sounded like they were frickin’ orgasming. Jeez, maybe they were?!

Two glittery bikini tops floated on the opposite side, one silver and one gold. The water, if one could call it water, looked... thick, and was a bright fluorescent fuschia.

The pool was bubbly, with steam rising from atop the entire surface area, like a witch’s cauldron from some shitty made for TV movie. Wanda’s troubled, curious sister was too distracted by the big babes to ruminate much on the plain fact that this was... not water, but some kind of... jeez... sauce, maybe?

Hmmm... Lube? Perhaps, but it was much too viscous looking, and troublingly luminescent, to be any old lube... Whatever it was, the boob girls bobbed and played expertly in it, so that their stiff, aerosoled hairdos stayed dry and in place.

The more the bubble dolls bobbed, the more everything below their necks looked to be getting coated in the dark pink stuff. Stranger still, it had seemed to pool and collect on their chests, favoring and settling mostly on their nipples.

Wait. Were they giving off electric charges?!

There! Was that not some kind of miniature forcefield of hot pink lightning—connecting the bimbos by their areaolas?

Hanna didn’t remember shutting them, but her eyes snapped open just as her brain was rejiggered, as if equipped with an antique computer processor.

A pink FLASH, a black WOOSH, and there was nothing at all in her head but tit intrigue.

The tit girls’ tits were fucking ginormous. They looked heavy enough to snap their necks. It made no goddamned sense.

What would it even be like, to have tits that big? Would she have to put her hair up all trashy like that and get huge hoop earrings, too—did all of that just come with the titty territory??

Tits, tits are cool, big tits are big, cool tits are big, big are bigs, tits big tits, big big big, big, big tits, tits tits—

“Are these your new friends?” Hanna brain-snapped again, now some ugly combo of bored and apalled, ribbing her sister.

Wanda just laughed, blew a big bubble and waved hi to one of them, her own big boobs (big?—Wanda?) sloshing every which way in the process.

Was she... nursing?

The place evidently belonged to their hosts Bigg Don G. and Nora-Lou, who were letting them stay free of charge in a fully equipped, two bedroom basement apartment, until some repairs on their own place could be completed.

Some deal! The husband (that none of the family had met, not even once,) was there, too, naturally. He followed very close behind Wanda, anxious, leading her by the big ass with his big mitt.

He was positively shameless with it. Wanda’s donk—and that was the only good word for it now—seemed waaaaaay bigger than Hanna had ever remembered it being.

And it didn’t even look like the kind of butt that Wanda earned, or even half-heartedly worked out to obtain. No.

This new butt looked built for fun. Each step was more like a sashay, and rippled with the tightest, faintest whisper of cellulite. If she’d done any exercise lately, it had to have been on a bed. Half the thing hung out of a pair of fluffy pastel hotpants.

It was a bratty butt. She didn’t know Wanda to wear anything more suggestive than slacks. Now her big sister was repeatedly yanking bunched-up sex shorts from her crotch, moaning a high pitched bunny growl each time.

Even if Hanna indulged in a devil’s advocate scenario, the sisters’ gene pool on either side made certain that this kind of growth was 100% wholly unnatural. No woman of their mom’s or dad’s families had butts.

And this just wasn’t a bigger butt. This was almost like four of her old butts smooshed together, and sculpted... well, perfectly, she had to admit...

But to make it all that much nastier, this guy, this “Benji,” he didn’t stop at cupping a cheek,—he had half a fucking fist deep, deep, in her crack. He even had the audacity to go under her slutty shorts, and in front of family!

It didn’t stop there—he was working a damn pinky well up between her thighs! Like it was breathing. Like it was less than nothing.

Wanda could barely talk after a couple minutes of this, but rattled off some incoherent lingistic garbage about IRAs and interest rates, abandoning any predicates or really... any bit of sense at all, ultimately, haphazard in stringing a bunch of phrases together, mewling.

Did they honestly think she couldn’t see?! Jesus, the college sophomore thought. Is this dude grinding into my sister??

Wanda seemed to be allowing it at any rate, loving it, bending and propping and popping her ass out and down, shimmying into the best possible nest for his lap. It was GROSS!

“Sup, you two?” a subterranean, chocolatey voice bellowed from behind a half open sliding door. Wanda caterwauled and snorted like an infant pig, and giggled something cartoonish.

Hanna thought for a second that it might’ve been because Benji decided to go ahead and jam that assuredly thick cock of his up her thickened sister, once and for all, but right away, she knew it wasn’t, that—nuh uh...

She smelled a beefy new presence before she even laid eyes on it. She really wasn’t into guys all that much, but this kingly alpha dude was sweating and thrusting some primordial morse code straight into her olfactories.

His thick musk rocketed all up and down her spine, tickled her soul. This was a motherfucking magnificent male. He stood what felt like five feet above her. It was one of the last things she remembered, getting tossed into the bubbly, bubble-gum taste of the pink neon TransfoPit.

* * *

A chunky, pre-dawn fudge of a fog blanketed the bus stop at the end of the culdesac. Owls and squirrels shuffled around, standing guard over the last dregs of the night.

Every cow-slut in town was still fast asleep: on top of, or underneath, their goo-friends or bullboys.

Everyone, that is, except the happily reuinted, freshly religion-infused sisters. Honey sat astride Wanna on the bench and gyrated on her big sister’s lap like that, facing foward to the street and the journey ahead.

They were both in matching, plunge neck, hot pink thong leotards, with the midsections and crotches cut out, and white five-inch wedges. It had seemed like practical travel gear whenever they’d poured themselves in.

Wanna was fingering Honey from behind and it felt so... compassionate. Honey pushed her sister’s hand deeper up her cunt and it made a big squelching sound. It was so loud it made a dog bark, somewhere down the street.

Wanna had shushed her, saying, “Tell your cunny to be quiet, Honey! Shoot, I still cain’t believe I agreed to...” What was the word? “...excape with you! I hope yew know what you’re doin’, cuz I got a good life here an’ I cain’t-uh go gally-vanterin’ around for the sake of... femmy-nisms...

Honey hefted her chest as her still-growing breasts pooled out of Wanna’s light pink sports bra. Wanna said she could borrow it for now. It was kind of amazing—she was going to get out of this sick, fucked-up place intact, and keep her new titties!

They were almost as big as Wanna’s, it was nuts. Back and forth, left and right, then she settled for just running a french tip up and down her cleavage. “I can’t believe I have boobies now,” Honey whispered to her big sister.

“Yeah, well, enjoy ’em. Who knows what kind of stuff they fixin’ to do to ’em in your liberal city.“

The bus pulled up. “Spray me, whore,” Wanna said, and Honey did, and spritzed into her own tits with cotton candy perfume too.

“Y’all gals got boarderin’ passes?” asked a surly driver. He unbuttoned his fly, predicting the answer, before he so much as glanced in their direction at them shaking their heads no.

“Busty one blows me first,” he groused. Honey and Wanna looked at each other, smacked their gum and wobbled drowsily onto the bus, clacking their heels, dropping out of duty to the floor, as the doors closed and the lights shut off.

* * *

“...ass on up, bitch! Wake uhhppp!“

* * *

[ { ... part 3 is up next: “HONEY’S PATROLMAN” ... cummin’ quick! } ]