The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Shimmering Fields”

by Cristina Prince

Prologue: “Sandy At The Stirring”

“Okay, so like, in the three years since the little baby boom we’ve had here in Cherub Cove,” said new Nutrition and Fashion Secretary Sandy Bardetti-Majors, making sure to rub her own distended belly, “we’ve been making money hand over fist due to our market saturation not only in our neighbors’ towns, but in almost every major city on the east coast, and the midwest.”

It was almost the 400th town hall meeting. They had been scheduled once, sometimes twice a week since the rural town’s inception. Arriving as it did more frequently than church, a couple or a “sainted single” only had to go once a month. Its typically tiny, cramped locations bolstered an exclusive aura, and the promise of an occasional, usually sexual Event sealed the deal. Everyone loved showing up, and made sure to call the babysitter before doing so.

Sandy was beginning to perspire quite heavily. It was nerve-wracking being the center of attention, even if she thought it’d be a cakewalk. She had, in fact, already made quite a show hours before, getting reamed in broad daylight on the town bank’s steps. She and her hubby Grant, newlyweds honeymooning for all the town to see.

Newlyweds with a bun in the oven, even. The random cheers and whistles she got then surely meant she was appeasing her constituency. Every camera click made her that much more unstoppable. Summer was kicking off nicely.

But her husband couldn’t make it tonight. He was off working in the Cherub Crunch factory. She’d chided him about it, especially lately. That he should find another job with better pay and hours. That if only he was built like Joey or Hank, he could be a farmer like them. She so wanted him to excel like she was, but she knew he was having a bit of a tough time adjusting to country life, having finally been persuaded to move to town only months ago. She let out a deep breath and remembered she was supposed to be talking or something.

This was actually her first public address since getting appointed; a lot of ladies in town were resentful that she had only been in Cherub Cove for a year and had risen up the ranks so swiftly. She switched a slide in the projector and struggled to remember what the talking points were for the beach photo of some hot girl’s bounty of booty, clad in a touch-too-small neon green bikini bottom. She wiped a sweat-matted mess of blonde curls from her brow.

“Um...” she struggled, her glossy lips ready to drool at any second. Half with it, she flipped to the next slide. It was the same butt, but now the unidentifiable girl’s tan, manicured hand was trying to pull the swimsuit material out of her crack. “Okay, yeah. Butts. Big butts. As many of us here tonight can certainly attest to, the booty ripens in Christ’s name quicker than the boobies do.”

Speaking of which, Sandy’s own, long-since-overripe melons were beginning to feel stifled in the sticky air. She undid all but one button on her canary yellow cashmere tee. When she heard the gasps of a half dozen townsfolk and felt the majority of eyes gravitate to her blushing bosom, she felt satisfied enough to pop the last button off.

A lot of jaws dropped as her maternal mammaries took their time to settle and slush down just above her stomach. This must be what they mean when they talk about political capital, she mused silently.

She served her massive right tit up to her lips, tonguing a big nipple for a moment. Giggling, she continued. “Okay, so now you’re probably wondering how St. Brittany’s is taking advantage of this knowledge in our city markets.” She went on to the next slide. Again, a hottie’s trunk junk. This one’s ass, though, was sheathed in— “Booty jeans. Urban denim. Whatever you want to call it, Angelwear boutiques have opened up and dominated in the hippest neighborhoods of all our target cities.”

The following slide showed another nondescript waist flaring out into thick hips. Two hands were struggling to close the top button. “Angelwear brand Silly Jeans sales have spiked and are poised to overtake what’s left of the retail of skinny jeans. Because, let’s face it, Cherub Cove, an accentuated ass... is a healthy ass.” Now the people were genuinely applauding. “And us sister-soldiers of the family way know that a healthy ass is inviting to—”

A braceleted hand shot up from the back left corner of the small log cabin that posed as a town hall. Sandy could barely see the tiny lady, flanked in the crowd as she was by so many beefcake men and so many thick, plush girl-parts. “Yes, ma’am,” she obliged, squinting to try and make out whose question it was exactly. A pair of bubbling bimbos stepped to the side to give her room, sneering. It was this derision that clued her in. It was none other than Frida Capasso. Who invited her?

“Mrs. Bardetti-Majors,” the woman sternly began, “I’d like this town to show a little more transparency as to the true moral and social costs of these so-called ‘healthy asses’.” Her use of air quotes beleaguered the crowd into booing her. Sandy wasn’t ready to make the transition between ditzily placating her audience and dealing with a serious question. “Your tawdry line of clothes, your fattening and hormone-loaded ‘beauty foods’, your whole sham church, are all taking back women’s rights about fifty years!”

The whole town hall was now erupting with jeers and shouts. “Settle down!” Sandy cried above the din. When the unrest in the room got even stronger, she reached for her shirt. She held the soft garment in her hand, motioning with it to her audience. “If we can’t stop acting like farm animals, I swear to St. Brittany I’m-a put this shit right back on!” Within seconds, the cries of protest dissipated.

Once it got quiet enough, she started to address the awful-sounding fibs of complaint. “Ms. Capasso, is that right?” The woman in the audience nodded slowly but assuredly. Hearing the name made a few people hiss. Frida Capasso was an outspoken critic of the practices and fundamental mission of Cherub Cove, having lost her businesses to the new crop of Angelwear storefronts. She gained enough prominence to appear on cable news and in newspapers around the country.

She had made such a stink that her ideas and name soon spread even to the town itself, a rare feat indeed. Usually the Cherub Cove newsletters kept any outside news, especially any items of criticism, far away from the insular society of its citizens. Sandy considered for a moment that that leak could have had something to do with the fact that Frida’s ex-husband had left her to be a day laborer in town. She was on a mission alright, but this was the last place the new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion expected the bitch to pop up.

“Ms. Capasso, if I understand correctly, you owned and operated a bunch of high-end fashion retail in downtown Philadelphia. You lost your business ‘cause our threads is flyer than yours.” The ghetto tinge in her voice caused a sector of the crowd to whoop. “Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, but it’s a free market out there, and we can’t help it if more and more girls everyday want to look as hot as possible and prepare themselves for a life of salvation and Christian servitude.”

“If you were a worthy competitor,” Frida countered, “I could maybe look beyond your church’s inherent bigotry and see your point. As it stands, in the case of your clothing line—” She turned her attention to the crowd and tried to speak at it, straightening her short black hair and crossing her bony arms underneath her flat chest. With a gaunt body like hers, she hardly stood a chance.

“Those benign-looking pants, skirts, tops, socks, and undergarments are loaded with tiny metabolism-slowing microbes that also pump out insane amounts of estrogen.” People looked puzzled. Too many big words. “They’re making you girls into curvy cumsluts!”

Once again, the town hall erupted with boos. They didn’t like their way of life criticized one bit. Happy with the unrest she caused, Frida used the moment of noise to uncap an ice-cold-looking, condensating tube. She pushed the contents quickly up and into her mouth. Sandy saw an in and went for the kill. “What was that?” she demanded.

Frida wiped her mouth off and looked sheepish. “What was what?” Sandy leaned into the podium authoritatively, bending down and letting her jugs brush against it, swaying lazily. A couple guys whistled. She even saw one of the dude’s wives elbow him in the ribs. Sandy could see why—she had to have been a newbie with a tiny little rack like that. She looked to be about a D cup. Pitiful.

“What you just did. What you just drank. You just—” A jocky looking guy in a tight Eagles tank grabbed Ms. Capasso by the wrist, humiliatingly lifting it up to the celing. “It’s one of them beauty creams!” he blurted. The whole room lit up with laughter, and those around her began to point and laugh. Their collective bemusement seemed to electrify the room. Sandy looked around, at all the faces that seemed to be in heat. She recognized this as what Father Paul called “a stirring”.

Some couples seemed to be really getting into it. One girl, whose fluffy round ass was pouring out of her Angelwear daisy dukes, let someone behind her pet it while she dimly unzipped her own man’s fly and worked a light stroke into a jack. The crowd was getting out of control, igniting itself into a sexually rapturous frenzy.

The dude who called Frida out was pinching her butt now. She was trying to get away but she ran right into a rock hard torso. Spinning around, she was met with another rock hard torso. The gigantic men wore black t-shirts with white crosses on them that read “security” in the middle. Sandy sensed that something had to be off. She scanned her gryrating, dry-humping people for a confused face, but they were all stopped momentarily to gawk at Frida getting kicked out.

In the opposite corner, she saw Mayor Darey waving to her, frantically trying to get her attention. She just couldn’t get her mind straight at all, her train of thought getting clogged by the pheromone stew floating through the room. The only thing she could do was smile inanely at him ‘cause he was hunky, her bottom lip drooping down dumbly. Once he met eyes with her, he dragged his finger to his mouth, shushing her. Then he put it to his heart. The signal for her to wind this abbreviated meeting down with an emotional wrap-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen of my one true home,” Sandy started, using the mayor’s preferred mantra of spiritual solidarity. The room was inattentive, either grunting in ecstacy or cheering. Within moments, most of the attendees had started a chant: “WE GOT FRIDA! WE GOT FRIDA! WE GOT FRIDA!” It was hard to scan the town hall and not feel proud of her sisters and brothers, even though she still kind of felt like an innocent bystander. That is, until she joined in on the chant too. She realized that the four or five couples who were openly fucking were now porking on beat with the crowd.

Sandy felt a spotlight descend, illuminating her naked and pearly white hooters. The light was bright and supernatural, and illuminated the veins in her breasts like they were twin lightning globes. Some in the audience had slowed their ministrations to a halt, but they were mostly still far from quiet.

While the lot of them weren’t looking, she flipped a switch on the side of the podium, and a thick, rubbery rod began to rise up from the lectern. It was shiny to the point of glistening and glowed red and orange. “The Holy Bone!” various residents whispered, joyful and amazed.

By this point everyone got really quiet really fast, eyes wide and fixated on the thing. It churned to a stop at about a foot tall. The new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion had really only heard tell of the Holy Bone, but it was basically just a more sci-fi version of her Banger brand blessed dildos. She figured this would come naturally to her.

To her credit, Sandy felt very proud at not only being present at a stirring (there had been only four times prior that this happened, and they usually precipitated some milestone in the community), but the fact that she was instrumental in it, well... that made her fucking horny. At first, she was going to kiss the tip of the Holy Bone, succulent as it looked. Then she remembered the exact proper procedure.

She pulled up her well-lit boobs and wrapped them around the rod, tentatively moving them up and down the length of it, surprised at the flowing warmth radiating from it. “Go faster, Sandy!” yelled her best friend Carmen, a roomy Latina who was getting her own tits felt up by someone behind her that looked too black to be her fiancee Joey. “You can do it!” cried a curly-headed brunette with a lip ring. “Don’t be afraid!” chimed her twin sister, doing a reach-around nipple frisk.

Sandy worked the Holy Bone faster, smooshing her big breasts in suffocation around it at every downstroke. She could feel it begin to twitch and buck in her cleavage. The sensation was amazing. Awash in the feeling, she noticed a helping of semen splash her cheek. Her first inclination told her it must have been the thick stick. Pumping it with her tits even more rigorously now, her heavy-lidded gaze made its way to a man standing front and center in the crowd.

She recognized him as Big Earl Watts, the slab of masculinity that had once been Frida Capasso’s husband. He had a bottle of beer in one hand and was still stroking his big fat cock in the other, and it was still spurting, all over the front of the podium. Whoever was manning the lights put a strong beam on Big Earl, and both Sandy and the people of Cherub Cove knew what that meant for the stirring ritual.

Pausing to wipe the cum from her cheek, then just rubbing it in with a reckless rush, she asked the throng with religious fervor, “Is this my donor?” They responded, rapt, in unison, “It is he.” She focused her attention back on her titfucking, practicing her microphone skills while in motion. “Is it time?” she asked them. “It is time,” they answered her.

Sandy held out her hand and invited Big Earl Watts onto the mini-stage for the final act of her stirring. It took a little bit of effort, but she managed to pull the ribbon of a skirt she had on off her big hips. He positioned himself behind her, placing a paper on the lectern. She could feel his sticky, re-hardening dick brush up against the small of her back and slick its way down to the top of her asscrack. He put his huge hands on her lush sides, and prodded her pussy whimsically, ready for some holy upright doggy.

He entered her full on and that charge made her work her tits overtime. She was kneading and shimmying on the Holy Bone with them while being fucked so right from behind. “You know,” she said, dippy and deviating from the rigor of the process, “my husband’s cock is nothing like yours.” She ground back into it, wanting to savor the width of the Little Big Earl. The townspeople didn’t register, still staring in awe.

“We know, your husband’s cock is nothing like his,” they all said. She clenched her cunt around that dumb bitch’s ex-husband, and finally began to nurse some fluid out of the Holy Bone. Big Earl pumped faster as Sandy tried to get her mouth into a tight seal for the spurting, sanctified phallus. Some of its inexplicable neon blue fluid dribbled out of the side of her mouth. Her nostrils flared reflexively. Whatever kind of gunk it was, it was letting loose like a geyser.

She coughed, and tried to slurp it all in, thankful that the big man started to go slower at his end of the DP. It gave her pause to swallow it all, licking the residue from the load off of her gums and teeth. She looked down at the text, and ran a finger along her cleavage to pick up some stray holy seed.

“We are united—UNGH—in the—mmm—pious purr- WOW—pursuit of a chari—OH GOD—a charitable Christian enterprise. This is my message to the proud people of the only home I’ve ever had. Tonight, we have—ooh—Tonight, we have slaked a wicked dragon, and nevermore shall she be free to spew her foul aposs—uhposs—impozz - sss—” It almost sounded like she was sneezing, but somehow she managed to get it out. “Apostasy.” Her nose kept hitting the microphone at every other thrust.

She had to take him out so she could finish her closing remarks. It was at this point that she realized her voice had unmistakably changed. She sounded even more like an airhead now, but buoyed with a new purpose and determination. It was hard to tell if she manifested it herself or if it really was some divine meddling. She picked a last bit of blue from the corner of her mouth and, closing her eyes, realized she didn’t even need to read from the page.

“Tonight, we have proven once and for all that our imperative is not one of bodily corruption, but one of spiritual salvation. For it is the holy spirit that makes our bodies bloom with desire and need. Desire for the preservation of the patriarchy, and need for well-defined familial roles. The enemy was here tonight, and the enemy brought lies. Our truth shall set us free, and we shall take our enemy in and bring her to truth.”

Little Big Earl made his way quietly through the crowd as they applauded the new secretary, chanting “WE GOT FRIDA” some more. “She’s gonna be another mouthpiece for the movement,” he thought to himself. “And I fucked her on her big night.” He met the mayor outside the door. “We did good tonight, didn’t we?” he pridefully asked him.

Mayor Darey looked in on the town hall as Sandy made her way to the customary three-minute trampoline time that ended her portion of the evening. “For now anyway,” he said with a glint in his eye, “only in Cherub Cove will you see preggo politicians who can handle all that bouncing and still find time to inspire. We’ve made the fantasy real, brother Earl,” he sighed, unable to refrain from jerking off at the sight of another wondrous creation.

Big Earl had nabbed Sandy’s sweaty sweater-tee on the sly and handed it to the mayor in embarassment before retreating into the humid night. Without thanks, Darey masturbated himself to completion inside of it, tossing it just outside the door. Trixie Butterman, Entertainment Czar, ambled up to the podium now to make her speech. Her wide hips followed along, slowly.

It, however, would take some more time before the crowd gave her any attention. About forty minutes to be more specific. The orgiastic, barnyard racket had to die down first. And for that to happen, each and every one of those craven, “family first” psuedo-Christians had to climax. Again, just part of the procedure. A lone string band tried to spice up the carnal festivities as well as speed them along, but it was futile at best.

* * *

Sandy strolled out of the meeting with a glow that would have been there even if she wasn’t pregnant. The doors were now stopped open, so she could hear the loudspeaker. Trixie was still harmonically, softly telling the crowd (now mostly women) about upcoming movie and music releases put out by Cowboy Candy, Cherub Cove’s multimedia imprint.

A few people were already leaving, and some were partially present, smoking and chatting. The moon was low and full, the air crisp. She was ready to try and make sense of what had happened. Her presence and speech had started a stirring! Sandy was on top of the world, reeling with newfound determination. If she could make a crowd all spontaneously copulate, then they must have been fine with her being the new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion.

Look at you, girl, she congratulated herself, smirking. Stripping to ensure faith. Then mashing her tits like she owned that Holy Bone. It was all so nice and hazy thinking about it now, though, like it never even happened. Like she was possessed and trying to remember what her presentation looked like as a spectator. She gulped. She didn’t... fuck any... person, did she?

Before she could even deny her infidelity to herself, the loudspeaker’s volume kicked up a notch, as if someone was reading her thoughts, then drowning them out. Sandy quickly nixed that idea. It was just too silly to be true. She listened to the sexy, cool Entertainment Czar instead:

“Last week saw us becoming the second-highest grossing online music distributor. Only iTunes beats us. What’s really remarkable, as you all must know, is that the roster at Cherryco Records is only two artists. Shayla Belle is an American institution at this point, currently gathering the flock in Japan on her first world tour for the double platinum dance-country album ‘Saved and Shaved’. We’ve already signed a deal to build a St. Brittany’s in Yokohama.

Shimmy Shields is our second and newest upstart. She wowed the public this past season on ‘American Idol’ by being the first winner to perform all of her songs in just her tube socks, distracting judges and censors alike with her amazing voice. We found our perfect pop tart and we changed the face of entertainment with her, and brought our message to millions more. You all know that by the end of the season, even classic tunes were sung with more of Our Family Way friendly lyrics by competing contestants, in an effort to keep up.

With that in mind, our next step in the music industry should not be just to settle for being on top, but a complete and total Cherub Cove immersion. We need to make fertility and family the only relevant topics in pop culture, and we need to let the people know that the only true way is through St. Brittany. We will make it so that it won’t seem possible that any other music but ours ever existed. How do we do this?

We need a new superstar. One that makes even those two seem like drops in the bucket. Someone who can push our beautiful way of life into college towns and cities in a more subversive way. This singer will be nurtured from the ground up and be inevitably embraced the world over, but she must start from the underground indie scene. One of our most important pockets of resistance is still the subculture. We aim to flip the script.

People will end up buying this theoretical product in droves, all the while believing they are supporting something that doesn’t have our scent. Cherryco will be an umbrella company for this as-yet-unnamed ‘independent’ label. And when the time comes that our superstar gets some real mainstream attention while maintaining her cred with feminists, hipsters and punks, a move to Cherryco will come as no surprise to any of the tastemakers because they will all be believers by then.

DIY art communities rely on personable, tight-knit bonds. To diffuse these bonds and replace them with ours, we will be calling on some of you sainted singles to act as plants and maybe even artistic collaborators with this soon to be discovered superstar.”

Sandy had to admit that tricking people over time into the milfy way was kinky-hot in a “Mission: Impossible” secret ops kind of way, and she had total faith in St. Brittany that it would work, but nevertheless she stopped listening. It didn’t affect her. She couldn’t go back to a city or to a college town for that matter, as she was blissfully with child and husband. Who she was faithful to. Naturally.

The last time she was in Philadelphia was too fast-paced and confusing, anyway. And most of her old friends had scoffed at and abandoned her after they saw the new supernatural force of ass-n-titties she had morphed into.

Cherub Cove was home now, forever. Especially now that she held public office. It didn’t matter that there was an ever-growing Little Cherub neighborhood in the city, threatening to swallow South Philly whole, or that there were five St. Brittany’s megachurch/buffets now. This was where it all started, and it was still the alternately meek and mighty epicenter.

A few of the members of the town’s board of ed ambled up to her in a half circle, practically pinning her to the wall. Jake, Jack, and Mack, with identical, refined physiques. All young, and all rugged. Sandy breathed deep. Their presence made her feel so good. Nobody made her feel so alive, so beyond-horny than Cherub boys!

Jack or Mack offered her a hit of his joint. She accepted. “Your speech was so much better than hers, she’s so boring!” he complimented her. “Her tits aren’t nearly as persuasive as yours,” another of the guys added.

Sandy laughed, babysitting the joint after taking a second hit. None of the guys really seemed to care. “Why thank you, gentlemen. And while I must say I’m flattered by your acknowledgement that the good people of Cherub Cove elected a star breeder,” she choked out before finally exhaling, “we need to look beyond my beautiful body toward other expansions. There is still room to grow in the American public, and the world at large. We—”

“We-we-we cain’t look past yer body when iss all nekkid and sweaty like ‘at, now can we!” mocked Jack or whoever. Probably Jack. One of the others bumped his fist. Sandy felt her whole body boil with self-consciousness... She only had a handtowel on her shoulder! She’d grabbed it to wipe off her overworking physique before putting her barely adequate garments back on, and forgot to do both of these things.

“Oh no!” she squealed sarcastically. “I feel so violated!” Rolling her eyes, she and the boys shared a hearty laugh. In truth, she felt very comfortable to be part of the gang. Even if this “gang” was made up of three baseball players masquerading as political players. (The idea for them was to ditch this job if one of them got drafted to the Phillies, then the town would try to ifniltrate the MLB covertly. It was another of the newly proposed, more aggressive implementations.)

That was another on a long, long list of Cherub Cove’s pluses. A girl could just hang out in the buff in public and nothing bad or creepy could happen. Like right now, how one of the dudes put his calloused hand on her buttcheek, his finger slyly skimming its way to her asshole. All because he wanted to watch out for a servant of the town. Sandy felt very protected, and positioned his ring finger to give some attention to her wet vagina too.

Then she realized what she was doing and had to take it out. She compromised by putting his hand back around her cheek proper. “You can squeeze me all you want, I know you’re a man and stuff, but no pussy play.” She crouched a little to sink into the big grip of the guy next to him, though, to not come off too bitchy. After taking a third hit, she finally passed the roach off to somebody. “I’m, like, a married woman.” She showed off her wedding band to prove it. It was streaked with some of the Holy Bone’s mystical blue jizz.

“We know,” said whoever. “You said Earl’s pecker was bigger n’ better than your husband’s.” Sandy blanched, now in full recollection of the scope of the stirring. Only two days in office and a week since eloping in Father Paul’s rec room, she had most definitely cheated. At least it was in a totally awesome, epic way, she reasoned. It surely explained why some of the white, real stuff was seeping out between her soft thighs...

“Whatever, guys, I’m totally a faithful wife!” Sandy was getting a bit delirious now, not sure what to believe. She wanted to believe what Carmen had told her about political office and getting married, that it would make things a little more normal for her, that she wouldn’t need to rely on using her body so much. If the stirring really did happen, being the new Nutrition and Fashion Secretary was already proving to be more of the same with a different name.

Someone took his shirt off. His musty manliness ravaged her nostrils. Frustration became embarassment, which gave way to abject giddiness. Sandy panted hotly. “I’m a loving wife and I’m a loving servant of Cherub Cove, my home. I will always be a—” She sniffed and sniffed again. “Guyyyyys,” she pleaded. “Whose dick is out?!” A tattoo on the navel above it informed her it was Mack’s. His shorts were at his knees.

Wasn’t she trying to do right by the ladies of the town, make sure they were eating the right cosmetics, wearing the right lubricating thongs? How was getting felt up by a bunch of hot boys going to alter the landscape of St. Brittany’s flock? Either way, it must not have mattered too much, because she put the hand of whatever guy was caressing her ass now right back up her cunt, three fingers pushing in and out handsomely.

She thought it was Jake who was laughing. She officially didn’t care who it was. “I thought you didn’t want us fingerin’ ya,” he chuckled. Sandy spread her legs a little farther apart to make way for some more hand, her own fingers circling her fat nips. “Shh-shut up!” she whisper-screamed, exasperated. Hunky fingers were flitting like fan blades inside her. “It huh-huh-HOMIGOD—helps me, like, concentrate and shit.” She smirked at her lie.

“So,” Mack began self-righteously, stroking his magnificent pole, “maybe if you get on all fours and I fuck you silly with a dick, you can gather your thoughts even better.” Sandy just had to giggle at that. “Mmaybee,” she hummed. She could try again to be monogamous tomorrow. Right now, she reasoned, she was indeed serving her community. This was just a scrumptious, if predictable job hazard.

“Gee golly, just think about how clear-headed you’d be if you was jackin’ me off at the same time!” the one she thought was Jake said. “Uh-unh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” she teased, getting down on her hands and knees, wagging her ass and slinking backwards toward Mack’s cock like a kitty-cat in heat. “First thing’s first.”

Her pussy slurped the head in and she tried to push it deeper, but had severely underestimated its size. Mack was huge, even for Cherub Cove. All of a sudden, a camera flashed, catching her joyfully agonized expression, upturned rump, and low-hanging titties. Sandy gulped. “No pictures, please! I’m taking private counsel.” A feminine hand extended itself to her.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bardetti-Majors,” the woman said, “I only take pictures for textbooks. This won’t be the lead-in photo for the chapter on civic duty until the new edition of the social studies book comes out next year.” Somehow this appeased Sandy, and after Mack graciously pulled his tempting member out of her, he helped her hobble upright to shake hands with this woman face to face.

“I’m Fancy Melendez, and this is my husband Rick.” He had a handshake that made Sandy’s boobies shake hard. She liked that he noticed her big girls, approved of them. “We just wanted to let you know that your presentation tonight was very inspirational.” Her husband sized Sandy up and down nervously, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.

“Why, thank you!” the young politician beamed. “It’s awfully nice to touch base with my people. I’m sure you do your own part for the community with the worksmanship necessary, and for that, Cherub Cove extends its gratitude.”

Sandy checked Rick out. He totally had an erection. That’s what it was. “Rick, is it? How long have you and Fancy been together?” She cursed her dumb, pandering luck as Jake, Jack and Mack fled the scene. She blew her chance, apparently. Not that she wanted to fuck them anyway. She was definitely going to be a good wife.

Rick just stared at her, lost in eye contact. Fancy nudged him. He was awfully cute for a young guy. “Forty-three years this October,” Fancy replied for him. Sandy did some double takes. Neither of them looked a day over eighteen. Fancy’s arms and face had that tail-end-of-puberty kind of baby fat, and Rick even had some light acne.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the woman said. “Four years. We’ve been here four years, almost since the beginning. We were both infertile and came here on a last ditch whim. But we’re working on it. Doctor Hardrod said we’re almost young enough to conceive now.”

“That’s not really all of it, Mrs. Sandy,” said Rick sheepishly, talking at the naked politician’s breasts. “We still have one last checkup for sexual calisthenics. All we have left to do now is simultaneously orgasm while 69ing. I never have a problem, but Fancy here says it doesn’t feel right when I’m going down on her that way.” Fancy held her hand to her mouth. “I never!” she gasped, the only thing so far that made her seem older. “Maybe if you didn’t ram your chin into me so hard at that angle—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Melendez,” Sandy advised, “have you taken any of Pippy Baynor’s pussy-eating classes yet?” They shook their heads no. “Well that’s certainly a good first step. There should be a link on the town’s homepage. Or you can go down to her soda fountain and talk to her personally.” She rubbed her belly. “She makes great root beer floats by the way.”

“Ohh,” Fancy mewed, “we’re no stranger to Pippy’s Luncheonette. Rick jokes all the time that I owe my figure to her cheeseshakes.” The couple laughed. Sandy’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten in almost two hours, and even then it had only been a medium pizza and some burgers. She wondered what rich country food she could make for Grant, and if he was already home. It was getting late. “So, anyhow,” Fancy carried on, “how did you and your husband meet? I’ve seen you around for a little while longer than him.”

“Well, you know, it’s like totally a long story, but like. So okay. Back when I was new ‘round here,” Sandy sang, twirling her blonde tresses around her index finger, “I was missin’ the outside, you know, so when Forward Mothers took its biannual field trip to the city, I ran into Grant who I had known before, and thought he might help me escape.” Mr. and Mrs. Melendez looked at each other, concerned.

“And for a day or two, it might have worked out alright. I stayed with Grant in his loft, applied back at the used bookstore, and tried my hardest to keep up with him on bike rides. But eventually, I got homesick for my new sister and her family.

My curves were shrinking, I was losing all my good weight so quickly, and it felt like shit. It may sound crazy, but I needed farmer’s lemonade and Myra’s triple-butter brownie baskets. Even Cherub Creams weren’t cutting it. Somehow I convinced Grant to take me back, if I promised it was just so I could stock up on our food.

He didn’t want to go into the Mami Mart, but he had to when I told him I spent the last of my cash on a Banger. ‘Course, I didn’t tell him it was because his prick just felt too small in me, but anyway... When we finished shopping and got back out into the parking lot, his car was gone. First we called the tow company, and then we had to call Myra to see if she and Clyde could put us up for the night. I was more than happy to be back with them.

Everything felt so right, especially with Grant in my little pink bed with me. Fortunately the next morning, he was in no rush to leave. By the time dinner rolled around and he had three good old fashioned country meals in him, he conceded to let us spend another night. After a week, he was growin’ to be such a pleasant fit in my cunny, and in the Kings’ gas station, that he stopped mentioning the city life altogether.

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend’s husband admitted that he stole Grant’s car and then he actually drove it to our new place! My man didn’t even want to look at it. Even so, he may be adaptin’ a little slower than normal to Cherub Cove, but I’m as good a teacher as any. Some critics of this here Eden like to think it’s luck and trickery that gets the people here. But I, and I’m sure you’ll both agree, believe it is a higher calling that leads women and men to Our Family Way.”

“Amazing,” Rick admitted, “Amazing ta-ta’s you have there, secretary.” His wife smacked him on the back of his head. “This is how you treat a woman of the people?” she asked, masking her jealousy. “Just for that, I’m not gonna ride you tonight,” she assured him. “Only missionary for you.”

Rick groaned. “You don’t deserve it!” Fancy cried. “Can I at least get some oral?” he whined. “Fine. But only two blowjobs on account of your behavior,” bargained Fancy. Sandy couldn’t help but laugh. They were so precious!

“Well, we’d love to go ride bikes with you one of these days if you have the time,” Fancy said, all smiles, in sharp contrast to her hubby’s now hangdog expression. “We still use our tandem from the seventies, and—” Rick whispered something into his wife’s ear.

“What I mean is, our seventies-style tandem. I’m not sure if we ever really used it.” She let out a laugh that said “What was I thinking?” For all the warm, brain-sucking distraction around town, it was still difficult for most people, including Sandy and the Melendezes, to let go of their past lives completely.

“Ooooh,” Sandy moaned, letting her pursed lips linger closed. The memories of biking around ten or twelve miles of Philly a day, and of her once cumbersome, now faraway attempts at fleeing the town, meshed together and gave her tingles. “Gotcha. Mmmm, you know, I’d love to, but I’m almost six months pregnant now, and besides, my husband says a bicycle seat is no place for a woman, no matter how good my ass might look on it!”

She closed that sentence with an entirely chipper lilt, comforted in the fact that she had elicited empathetic laughs from her present company. Still, she could swear she was forgetting something. Her eyes peered in and shuffled around the room, through the couplings and pairs of defined calves and cargo shorts marching along, away from the ramshackle town hall. Then she realized he was right next to her, trying to fend off a nearby town’s newspaper reporter. “Excuse me,” she burped, and left the inspired couple.

“Um... Mayor Mike Darey?” Sandy asked adorably, anxiously. She even tugged on his shirtsleeve like a little girl. He seemed relieved to have a handy exit to the outside media’s grilling. His pearly white smile in a crisp, angled jaw let her know how delighted he was to see her.

“As you can see,” he told his impromptu interviewer, ushering his new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion under his broad shoulder, “I’m a very busy man tonight. If you could be so kind as to forward any further questions and concerns about the safety of our edible lassos to Honey Fontana. I think she and her sister are inside on the trampoline right now. Thank you.”

“But what about the so-called water shortage?” the petite female reporter begged. “AP reports suggest that you bullied dozens of towns and convenience stores along I-80 to stop selling any other brand of bottled drinks. Clearfield’s reservoir is 100% Prep2o!”

The mayor ignored this and extended his hand to Sandy and she graciously accepted, comforted when his hand closed around hers. “Let’s go to my trailer where we can talk in private,” he said, leading her a short walk away from the meetiting. It was slowly but surely wrapping up.

He let his grip fall from her shoulder down to her forearm. Then back up to her elbow, sneaking a nipple-tickle on the way. She didn’t have her guard up for the touch at all, and melted into it as they strolled on, her pelvis smooshing her butt up into him, of its own volition. Like he was a varsity running back and she was his teen dream sweetheart.

Mayor Darey’s trailer was ornamented with candles, crosses, and posters for Cowboy Candy grindhouse fare ranging from the classic Hollywood style bible epic “True Tales of Man and Woman” to the light cowgirl romp “Dimples Rides Again”. Two cigar store Indian maids stood, zaftig and bottomless, at either end of his office.

A cardboard cutout of the Latina musician-turned-marquee-idol Shayla Belle, with a “caught in the act” expression. She was holding a beautified hand, replete with watermelon-red French tips, to her perfect circle of an open mouth. Her soft kissable lips glowed, even in 2-D, shiny as a Krispy Kreme. The other hand was cradling two suckling babies, both fitted with matching knit hats, one red and one green.

“Jiggle All The Way”, the movie it advertised, made it to the top ten for holiday DVD sales the previous winter. The life size cutout was autographed in thick, gold Sharpie. Sandy coveted it, wanted to stick it in on her front stoop. So that everybody could see the beautiful relic.

Darey poured her a glass of farmer’s lemonade. She guzzled it in seconds without so much as a thank you. It settled in her stomach just about as nicely as a meal. “You did great out there tonight,” he congratulated her. She licked most of the cold froth off her lips and squeaked out her thanks.

“I still feel like we have so much more to do,” she said, and the mayor began to unbuckle his belt. “N-no, not that, not right now at least.” She probed her free-drooping boobs for what she wanted to say. “It was almost dangerous tonight. How did that reporter get clearance to attend?”

She didn’t want to ask if any of the girl’s accusations were true, preferring to leave those particulars to the men. Darey helpfully got back up from his desk and refilled her glass, stopping to massage her neck and shoulders. It felt reassuring and marvelous.

“Sister Sandy,” he told her, “we invited her here with the promise of total transparency. Besides Frida Capasso, and three other women who will most certainly be in attendance at next week’s town hall,” (Sandy perked up, remembering that it was kiddie pool night next week) “she is the biggest critic of Our Family Way. After tonight, I doubt she’ll be much of a problem for us.”

Spiritualeyes, the new contact lenses that St. Brittany’s scientists were beta testing on Honey Fontana, were just about proven to persuade the staunchest nonbelievers. He reached down her smooth skin and tickled an armpit. She giggled as he sat back down, bathing in goosebumps.

“What about Frida?” she asked. “We used force on her tonight. I thought we didn’t have to do that.” Her eyes kept drifting back to a poster for “Coptease”. She helped out with wardrobe for that one! She recognized the bedazzled dildo harness she’d designed one lazy afternoon.

“Sweet, sweet sweatermeat,” he baby-talked her, “we bought her off last night. That was just a dog and pony show to drum up more enthusiasm for you on your first big night. Judging from all those satisfied faces, I’d say it did the trick.” He paused, wondering whether or not to give her the whole truth.

“She’s going to go right back into the city and she’ll make a few press appearances confessing that she was lying. She’ll rhapsodize about our teenage outreach program, and our church’s many charities.” He wagged his finger at Sandy, laughing. “You really were on a roll out there tonight, though, you know it? The way you delivered your lines, oh, and how you were so well programmed that you memorized the protocol on how to handle a spritiual invader. Just incredible.”

“What do you mean, programmed? It was a stirring. We were all possessed by the holy spirit.” She looked at him hopefully. “I was moved by St. Brittany’s awesome power to say those things.” She squeezed her thighs together and crossed her legs in anxiety. “Right?” That farmer’s lemonade was good. A well-brewed batch never failed to make her sopping wet down there. Actually, a whole lot of stuff did, but especially this tasty slushy wonder.

“Uh,” his eyes darted back and forth, “yeah. Sure. And the Holy Bone isn’t just a translucent, lubed piece of rubber.” Sandy could now feel the calming docility flush into her extremities that two glasses of farmer’s lemonade usually gave her, and only picked up “bone” and “lubed”. “Huh?” she managed, still sort of stoned too. “Nothing, Sister Sandy,” he promised. “Anyway, what are we still doing here?! Don’t you have a husband to go home to?”

That’s right! Sandy cursed herself. Her neglected obligation was making her worried as she juiced even more onto the vinyl seat cushion. She wondered idly where that towel went. Maybe if she... “I do, I do. But...” She put her hair behind her ears and tried to say something to impress the man. “Do you think it would be rude if I stayed here for a little while longer, you know. Just to finger myself?”

“Not at all,” he smiled. “Do you think it would be rude if I masturbate as well?” Simply asking the question made Sandy all the more randy. She shook her head no and bit her lip, working her clit as she saw her favorite long shape for the dozenth time that day. She was still loopily shaking her head when a man walked in. Mayor Darey had enough sense to put away his johnson, but Sandy’s conscious mind was all pussy. “I’m.. sorry, I can come back another time,” the man said.

“Nonsense, Mulvaney, come in!” The salacious, vouluptuous woman came to, and, suddenly wanting to be politically correct for some reason, felt the shame of nakedness and looked on the floor for discarded clothes that were never there. This man was bald and one of the oldest guys she’d seen in a while. She gathered enough strength to stand and tried in vain to sop up the juices on the seat with a hand. Her sex soup just coated it and made it sticky when she shooked Mulvaney’s.

“This is my new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion, Sandy Bardetti-Majors,” Darey introduced. “Sandy, this is Ronald Mulvaney, my new right-hand man. He just moved to Cherub Cove from DC with his wife and two daughters. Maybe you can show them around in the coming days.” She just nodded and kept shaking his hand as she stared up at the man who was staring at her jiggly jugs. “You can cut some coupons for them, even. Save them some money at our boutiques and eateries.”

“Nice to—” Sandy started, then whined, looking back over her shoulder for the mayor’s approval. “I really gotta go pee, can I go pee?” Mr. Mulvaney looked at his new boss quizzically. The mayor just laughed boisterously. “Of course, Sandy, of course. You’re free to go home to Brant, too.” Sandy did a little pee-pee dance. “It’s Grant, silly.” “Whatever,” he replied, scooting her out the door by her booty, locking the door as she left. “Thank you, Mayor Mikey!” she called, muffled from the other side of the door.

That’s an elected official?” Mulvaney asked in disbelief. “I mean, sure I’ve seen your travel brochures and the report on 60 Minutes, but good God!” He sniffed the air. It was a tangy mix of raspberries and slut. “You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted a complete overhaul of your politics!”

He had certainly seen some Cherub Cove politicians in press conferences and debates before, but they had all been men. The dripping, curvy thing that flounced out of the trailer was the farthest thing from a man. Until that man wanted something from her, that is.

“Call it premature, but I think you just met our next mayor,” Darey taught Mulvaney with a wink. “And it might be hard to believe, but she was one of the hardest nuts to crack. She tried to leave us four times. You have to break them down to build them up. Chicks need a nest.

And you can’t build that nest with plastic bags and hamburger wrappers. You throw all that junk science and secular hogwash out of there, and you build something natural for men, women and children. A family united in Christ and a family of plenty at that,” he sighed, stubbing his cigarette out.

Mulvaney looked around the decorated room, taking it all in. A fresh, newly printed copy of a graphic novel called “My Flight From The Feminazis” lay on the mayor’s desk for his approval. “Is this place even legal?” he asked him. Mayor Darey guffawed. “No, sir, no it isn’t!” He placed his hand on his new aide’s shoulder and squeezed it. “But with a little time, and with your help, Cherub Cove will be the only law.”