The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mounten & Mayne IV

by Cristina Prince


* * *

The long, heavy box wasn’t addressed to Adam or Marisa Twiss, their kids, or anyone at all. Usually all mail was delivered on the front stoop of their raised ranch — not nonchalantly chucked on the back deck like this, a few feet out front of their kitchen’s sliding doors.

They were open just a crack, too. A hot prickly feeling of pre-dread slapped the spindly systems manager on the back of his neck. He’d come up around the back because he noticed an unfamiliar, gigantic truck parked in the drive.

It looked to be brand new, everything on the exterior was that pristine. There was also a doubly unfamiliar baby stroller sitting right beside it, sheathed in pink cellophane, tied together with a fat pink satin bow.

And his bedroom windows were wide open. Some thick melange of musk, cured meat, and pot smoke coughed out, unceasing.

“46 years old, a good job, a wife and two kids, and this is what I come home to,” he muttered to the muggy, boiling hot September dusk. Would autumn never come?

Who was visiting? None of the moms he knew along Mounten Manor had an American flag stroller, and as far as he knew, none of the dads owned trucks done up with that stupid red-white-n-blue camo pattern. Oh shit. Oh hell no!

“Benji the magnificent” was here again, wasn’t he? This was Adam’s own private, derisive nickname for him. This box, wrapped hastily in yellow construction paper, dotted with crayon hearts and fuchsia lip prints, was surely the handiwork of his woman.

...Jesus Christ, was that a doodle of a cock-n-balls?! How immature!

That big hick, were he and his chubby dummy of a wife up to something, yet again? Their neighbor from across the cul-de-sac, who Marisa made plainly known to her husband (and to Benji’s wife Wanna, for that matter) she thought was “gorgeous” — and not five minutes after they’d first met him—had begun to ingratiate himself into the family’s day-to-day lives.

Even his daughter Betsy had agreed that the guy was “hickory smokin’ hot.” She was just starting her senior year in high school, having a rough time with the transition from three years at an all-girls prep school to a co-ed Christian charter, all dead center of bumfuck nowhere. This wasn’t just your average case of hormones and typical adolescent rebellion, though.

There was just this… there was something magnetic about Benji. Even to dudes. It was more than a little humiliating for Adam to admit.

He was intimidated by the way Benji seemed to hold court lately... in a living room or dining room that wasn’t his, cutting him down to size and practically disintegrating his status as a father in his own house, even when he’d just been making benign suggestions to the cornpone cuss.

(Intimidated in a purely non-sexual way, he’d hurried to assure his chiding wife, who just the other day was more than ready for a third lovemaking session in an hour. One which he was far too wiped out to provide.)

You know, stuff like: Benji and Wanna’s diets might benefit from a bit less monkey bread and barbecue… Maybe a touch of kale here and there instead, considering Wanna was five months pregnant. Things like that.

And maybe Benji could at least try to get his clueless wife to wear some goddamned underwear, especially if she insisted on trotting around in candy red vinyl miniskirts that didn’t even begin to cover her big fat shelf-ass… And maybe, just maybe, Benji could consider the idea of using deodorant?

“Like a thousand Elvises, pounded into one big solider boy farmer,” was how Betsy had put it the other morning at the breakfast table. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just didn’t fucking care, but she punctuated her teenage poetry with a prolonged moan.

A moan much too grown-up, much too… yearning for what he deemed appropriate for his teenage daughter. She’d then licked her honey grits glazed lips, even drooling a little bit, oblivious in front of her older brother Kevin and their parents. It unnerved him to no end.

Adam grounded her right then and there, despite Marisa’s protestations, but the girl had only snuck out her window, across the way to Benji’s basement man cave, once she heard that the coast was clear: mom and dad were banging, two doors down, loud as a battlefield.

* * *

“What are yew laughin’ at, woman?!” Wanna wiped away tears of amusement, causing her makeup to smudge.

“Nuttin’. I mean—uh, I ain’t, uh...” She sniffled an unpredictably thick gob of mucus, drawing it upward, and her nose felt pounded with chlorine. It made her thick spit pitter-patter and fall from between her lips, audibly. Like her mouth was ten times as big and only opened on very special occasions.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Upon realizing that she actually had ordered that cotton candy floss bikini from the Angel Shopping Network — some local thing, not like she ever ordered from the TV before, anyway — she began to sob and wail.

Everything made her feel like such a silly stupid little girl lately. Even while occupied with a notepad, she couldn’t help but let cute little doodles of the women in town. In bubbly broad sharpie strokes, with hips of cartoonish proportions.

Cocks and balls, too. Within the last week or two, she’d filled up a whole composition notebook, just with horned-out, manic depictions of huge, horse-like wangs, usually cumming buckets on even huger boobies.

If she set out to write, to maybe clear some of her thoughts, and collect herself, it all descended into obscene, horny teenager kind of filth, by the fourth or fifth word.

Sometime.... before, she’d labelled this notebook “FINANCES.” It seemed as though Ben was getting paid more every week, so it wasn’t really anything to get too worked up about. It seemed that way. He’d been routinely pulling really odd and super-late hours, for over a month now.

She was disgustingly eager to cast aside a deep mocha lipstick imprint on his collar, to ignore, ignore, ignore. He was already fucking her live-in sister nowadays, so

But she would ignore. Like a good wife, like the TV show “Good Christian Wife” taught her how to be. It was so silly, though. Really? “Good Christian Wife” ??

Wanna was a daughter of hippies, right? With no spiritual push beyond a vague, universal kind. Still, the soap opera was very addicting. The ones where Good Christian Wife had to help a troubled girl as she coped with her first taste of unstoppably ballooning dress sizes and cup sizes… these ones were just the best!

It didn’t register at all to Wanna that she still hadn’t yet unboxed dozens of packed DVDs, not once in all the months they’d lived here. All her books, too, were long gone, donated to the local franchise of Britt’s Book Burn.

One night while her boy was fucking his doting wifey—missionary and mechanical, punishing yet sweet—melting his woman with each savage pound, he heard her scream, “Uncle!”

“You’re such a pussy, you know that?” he asked her after tossing her aside like a sweaty t-shirt, dipping two fingers into her pussy.

“No, I—” It was work for Wanna to piece together why it was that she called for a time out in the first place. Every bit of her body burned to just let her mind flick itself off. Then she realized it probably had something to do with the episode she’d just watched on her OurFone, the one where G.C. Wife was giving Uncle Sam a handy in a church pew.

It didn’t dawn on her that she normally loathed reality shows, and religion. It didn’t seem strange at all to actually take to religion, almost accidentally. The solid gold chain with the pink pacifier cross seemed fun and flirty. Now she clutched it with every prayer.

He wasn’t sleeping around on her and Honey. He wouldn’t dare! When confronted, he laid it all out for her. The motel receipt wasn’t his, he simply found it on the ground somewhere and kept it on his person, just in case his co-workers and new friends wondered if he was a real man.

It was just “Bigg Don G.’s wife, sayin’ bye to me an’ stuff,” he huffed, unaware his neck was all dotted with more kiss-marks from some fucking slu— No.

Then what was the smell? His natural musk, gathering more deep and controlling primordial essence daily, as the weeks piled on, was shocked sweet with something else now.

“Some slut’s perfume, is it?” she had teased that night. “Some hot irresistable slutty-butt? Huh, big boy? Some big butt slut, huh? Got all up in her slutty little womb, huh? Did she squirt?“

For a second, Ben blanched, just as he was about to launch into his patented glare, the one that heralded him raising his voice and saying nasty things to her. The glare that’d started to be a thing with him only a day or two after they’d moved to this place.

But right now, he didn’t have the heart to remind her—with plenty of hurtful insults, naturally—that she didn’t have any right to tease him. He was her husband. That meant something. Something good, for him. Still… Wanna was beginning to lose herself in a sea of yummy pink hornies.

Finances. She tried to mentally subtract the amount of money she’d had in her savings account back... home, or wherever, from how much she’d brought into Doctrine and Mounten Manor. A difference of... well, whatever the difference.

Just the same, Wanna devoted page after page after page to smut. That’s all it was really. Long, lazy, sometimes amazingly detailed scenes involving her husband and another girl, or girls. Actually, it was basically always more than one girl. And she was never allowed to kiss or touch these girls.

Some Pavlovian limit she’d placed on her writing, maybe. One afternoon a couple weeks before, when he was off building a gym or farming or business... manning, or, whatever it was her husband did (How the fuck is it this hard to remember what the fuck my husband’s fucking job is??), she started writing about other things than her man having his way with a legion of bimbos.

The other afternoon, she’d started writing intense, tactile erotica. Before she put pen to paper, she knew she was about to write something hot. Right out the gate, the first scene took place in a public restroom, the men’s room. She was giddily blowing some stranger, really going to town on him. Precum glided onto the roof of her mouth.

It became horrifying in an instant, out of nowhere. Wanna was so embarrassed at some imagined infidelity, that she took a lighter and set fire to the barely begun sex manuscript, without any hesitation, spending the rest of the evening horny and guilty and weepy.

Until Ben came home, and she climbed atop the plush fleece-covered and kinky wedge. The one their priest landlord gave to them on moving day, insisting it was good for the spine. Not a day went by now without them using it two or three times.

But before he punched out of work that day, she went to their bed and splayed out of course, sopping with the goo of guilt, masturbating over and over again, cumming hard. Like eleven times in about three hours, beginning the process of rubbing one out just as soon as she came.

And all she thought about as she jacked off was an endless queue of girls that weren’t her, and they were fucking and sucking her man dry, slurping and shimmying. Girls that were hotter, wetter, bustier, blonder. Much more healthfully pear-shaped and fertile-seeming than she was.

Girls with asses all fluffy-fit to outstrip any standard chair. Girls with thighs so broad that each looked like three or four of her legs put together. The “sexy default” began to manifest itself in more alarming ways lately.

Starting only a few days ago, as far as she could discern anyhow, she noticed it. Then she made a concerted effort to block it away, consoling herself in happy bullshit—that it was just a trick of her corneas. or... something.

No. There wasn’t a vivid, light magenta hue to her naked eyelids whenever she closed them. There just couldn’t be. And there weren’t all those fizzy bubbles that materialized when she relaxed her eyes, like just this morning, when they were most certainly popping and pop-pop-fizzling, and all the while, her eyes were wide open.

The only practitioner that might help her locally—if she could learn to trust any native of Doctrine, that is—was kind of gross-sounding M.D. that specialized in, supremely weirdly, Eye & Thigh Cowgirl Care. In all her twenty-nine years, the newlywed had never once heard of anything like that.

Wanna rubbed at her eyes, wishing her inescapable eye-branding away, to the darkest depths of nonexistance. Ditto with the electric lemon outline, pulsating deeper and deeper, flashing brighter and brighter, the longer she kept her eyes shut.

It was an outline of a big buxom fuck-tart giving a hair-mussing, bosom-bouncing BJ. The lucky, fun-colored girly-shadow rested on a pair of electably grabbable, meaty haunches, and sucked and sucked, bobbing rhythmically on some cock. Two big and round watermelon udders dangled, huge orbs of health-giving dairy power.

Like the things were filled to crisis level with a nourishing tincture of equal parts heavy cream and grape jelly. Prominent, dark veins now materialized, into the monochrome pinkness, three-dimensional and imposing. Wanna daydreamed that the fatty juggies made creamy, grape milk. They were so veiny!

A grid snapped up to encase this fucshia vision of voluptuousness. Digitized and blurry bits of LED alarm clock numbers cascaded up and down at random, in a beautiful chaos. The 360 degree camera angle spun around and around relentlessly, gaining momentum as the POV locked on tighter and tighter.

Soon enough, Wanna was beginning to experience some kind of new, uncharted, thoroughly dreamy and pink-painted cloud-life. It hinged on the perception of a foggy new world, even if relegated her to barely being able to see it. The clearest thing in her line of vision was, in fact, herself.

Or—to be more precise, this ethereal, symbolic and massively bimboized body she’d inhabited, all by simply using her horny little mind. She knew she wasn’t too big, let alone this bimbo-beefy and thick—soft curves pooling out, slushing around everywhere. And yet, this zaftig figure felt comfortable.

Big felt right.

Her pink dream-titties. They were un-fucking-fathomable. Holy shit. So, so much fuller and rounder! They were fucking enormous, enough handfuls for three girls’ worth. They made it so she couldn’t see her stomach. She grabbed her tummy to verify it was still there, and it was. Still fluffy, the abs she’d moved to town with long gone.

But there was much more of that in the schematic vision, too. Fully expecting to pinch and inch or so of her valley-VR self, she squeaked in delicious mock terror at all she was able to grab. It wasn’t a tummy. It was even more rock-n-roll than a little pot belly. She had a fucking gut.

It made her turned on despite herself, turned on like whoa. “What is this place?” she asked nobody. “This isn’t me. I’m not this ginormous, an’, like, these isn’t my—“

A burbling cadre of ancient, vaguely denomic voices cut her complaint off, their message as deafening in her head as a hundred jet engines. ”Two. More. Weeksssss. Dryyyyy your cheekssssss,” they chanted, bellowing in rattling baritone, celestial notification being made tangible.

The sound trickled down her belly and then shooting up, up, up, between her sticky thighs. It let her know that she had no choice. Future-Her was too fucking hot to pass up!

She cried for the next ten minutes, with her door on the driver’s side hanging open. It ding-ding-dinged, the beat of it comforting her in the weirdest way, making her feel totally okay... that she couldn’t remember any fucking thing from the past half hour.

Benji came out, taking uncharacteristically patient steps, cracking open a beer and unbuttoning his sweat-soaked work shirt. The smell of all that hubba-hubba husbandly goodness, well—it made her feel safe, cared for, and, well… fucking absurdly pussy-wet, again.

Wanna just looked up at him, chin fluttering, a waterfall of despair tumbling out of her eyes. She pulled the fingers out of her vadge. He shot her a look of concern. “Whatta yew cryin’ ’bout nah, sweet li’l cunny-uh mines?“

Moments of the slightest lucidity, the most fleeting glimpses of compassion, were proving increasingly rare to wrangle out of old Ben. It had been a while since he’d last said “I love you.” It had been weeks since he asked what she wanted for dinner. And he used to make her dinner! A lot!

“Well, honey,” she began, immediately giving up with a sigh. A girl couldn’t really rock the flouncy two-piece and expect to go into the water. For all the money she’d accused him of wasting, this was like twenty times worse than all of them combined.

She thought about the cotton candy bikini. The pastel pink, purple, and baby blue puffs would surely get ruined in the pool. And the sexy, suggestive placement of these puffs all looked like the cute little suit might play really coy with her breasts.

Just the right kind of sideboob, almost to the point of leaving a nipple uncovered. And a tasteful amount of underboob, kind of like what an elegant princess would wear. She’d gone ahead and ordered the L size, with an H cup. “Truth is, babe. I’m a shopaholic!” she wailed, pussy slicked up something awful.

Wanna waddled a crab walk closer to Benji’s waiting hand, ready to give her a good Christian spanking. “You’ve been a bad bitch, Mrs. Bronko,” he growled. It made his wife drip and whimper like a kitten.

They both got goosebumps as they completed another sexy ritual, new souls pushing new bodies around. It was exciting for them to be able to feel themselves grow, little by little, inch by inch. It reassured them that all was right in Our Family Way.

* * *

“Ugh,” Betsy texted her best friend from back home. “My parents r fuckin again lol so GROSS!!!! Aint even 8 oclok!! Wtf” Just like all her other texts lately, it never quite toggled over to “delivered” status. Reception was horrible in the town of Doctrine.

It was probably for the best. Betsy was kind of mortified, how stupid her message seemed. It totally felt like she’d tapped out a wry joke or something. She was usually good for something genius for her age. Nope. Kinda freaky. Oh well.

It was indeed gross, hearing her parents go at it, but she was able to put it out of her head, wedge a hunk of her fave flavor of beauty chew in her cheek, and drop by Benji’s to visit him and his work friends. It seemed like the Bronko family and company were having keggers every night of the week by this point.

Weekdays seemed almost rowdier than weekends, too. The sound of the parties was initially obnoxious, but she couldn’t resist feeling jealous at how much fun she couldn’t have. Her now regular sneak attendance made homework a billion times more of a chore than it had ever been, but heck, at least she was socializing! School was such a bore, in that regard.

Saint Kim’s High was mostly just a bunch of ditzy thick cheerleaders and blowjob queens, and naturally all the attendant dumb guys they hypnotized with their wide hips and giant tits. To say she stood out on campus would be an understatement, if, of course, she wasn’t one of the precious few girls that didn’t wear high heels all the damn time. Whatever.

It was still too soon for her grades to really suffer, anyway, but not too late to unwind and, well, play around a little bit. It wasn’t like the constant pheromone bath in the high school’s hallways put her in the mood to do any work, or read much, or think too hard about anything but how overwhelming good she felt at closing bell as of late.

The night she got grounded — the night she sucked off Benji’s boss Rock and then sped home in a shocked, beet red huff after he opted to unload into her throat without the slightest warning — was the first time she’d gone over there late enough that the doting women of the neighborhood had already arrived.

Usually, she’d taken to just flirting up a storm with all those big guys for an hour or two, giggling at their lamest “jokes,” even when they were really craven and insulting. It was just them and her, and when it got too crazy hot, she excused herself for some merciless finger fun in the comfort of her own bed, after skipping back across the street and tiptoeing to the safety of her school issued sex aids.

Some of those guys were pretty cool. They knew about old English poets and French new wave cinema, and insulted teachers they’d never met with her. They also smelled like God himself, but she never failed to bat their creeping hands away if they so much as brushed up the hem of her tartan skirt.

This night, though, she over-drank to compensate. It was a rookie move, but every other chick in the basement was bigger and/or hotter than her, and she had to do something.

Things got carried away, and quick, and she got grabby before the boys could. Somehow, Betsy wound up on her knees, led onto them by Wanna Bronko and her sister Honey. Her skirt and panties had disappeared somewhere.

“You’ve been a bratty li’l tease all week, baby,” said whichever one of them coaxing a boob out of Betsy’s Black Keys tank. “Suck that shit. It’s the polite thang to do, plus, y’know, it gits your titties nice and fat if’n you git any of his holiness drizzled on ’em.”

The other one slapped Betsy’s impatient ass until she did.