The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Her husband had left on business for the week.

Meghan rolled those items around in her head. They had a chilling finality to them. A refrain, common to women, that she could not ignore. The flush of youth was in the rear view, as well as a vague sense that their marriage, in terms of gender roles, was different. It wasn’t Meghan and Austin, smart newlyweds trading snark about jokes found on the internet. Her husband, to which she was the wife, was gone on business.

Her husband had parked her in a large house. He’d put on a tie and left his wife for the week, alone, in the house. And they lived in suburbia now, a development of quiet lawns and driveways with small SUVs parked in a row.. There was a baby somewhere, sobbing about every hour. Or possibly two babies—she didn’t have the ear yet to distinguish infants. But she suspected she would, soon enough. She’d know things like that, things like getting stains out of the couch. Wife stuff.

Meghan had made an effort to act twenty-four, carefree. College-adjacent. She wore only t-shirts that were political or ironic. For the first day as Lone Wife she read books—and nothing female-oriented, nothing lady-adjacent at all. Definitely nothing about wives, left alone, getting themselves either murdered or fake-murdered. She deliberated about cooking: was the housewifey move to make marinated skewers for one, or was it to order out exclusively? She ate cereal for dinner, unsure.

The group chat was unhelpful. To be the first married, to a guy six foot two, and then complain about it, was intolerable. The gals suggested she work on sewing aprons, perhaps bleach the doorknobs, for hygiene. Audrey asked if she had a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge. Meghan had denied it—and then found one there, cooled and inviting, waiting to be poured and enjoyed.

And then Marla had quieted everyone by saying: just go ahead and burp out some kids. A followup: we can all see where this is going.

Thinking about this, and only this, there was a knock on the door.

Meghan opened it without hesitation. She’d read up on local Nextdoor posts and laughed at their crime concerns. She’d read all of them—she had a lot of free time, a kept woman in the placid wilds of single family homes. She was not going to be afraid of opening the door. If it was a kid selling candy bars, that was manageable.

A young man stood there, hands behind his back, clasped together. His age was hidden behind a tremendous beard. It radiated from his nose like the hands of a clock, bushy between 2 and 10.

“Trey and Sons, here about the order,” the man said. He had a very deep voice. But other then that he was very slender. He wore a bright pink polo with WALLACE AND SONS in yellow stitching. Underneath it was written “THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!” He had a slight stammer on his consonants.

“Order,” Meghan said. “There’s no order.”

The man consulted a clipboard. “Austin Walsh?” He eyed her, in case she was a hidden Austin.

“My husband,” Meghan said, reluctantly.

“Says your cable is nonfunctional?”

“We don’t have cable,” Meghan said. She shook her head. “How old do you think I am?”

The blush had to make its way through the beard, finding veins nearly up to the man’s eyes. “Okay, hold on,” the man patted at an enormous and low-slung tool belt. It was a burly single piece of leather and looked like most of a cow. “Okay, here, we go,” he said, to himself.

The man pulled out an unlabeled spray canister, squinted, and then held it up between them. He pushed on the trigger, which sprayed a fine pink mist directly into his own eyes.

“AHHhhhhhh okay,” the man managed to modulate his own scream. Meghan stood, nonplussed. Had he meant to—SPRAY her? But the pink stuff smelled nice, at least. Posies and similar flowers. Her alarm went down with the scent of daisies. She sniffed, leaning forwards. It was very, very nice.

“Okay okay okay. I didn’t mean to—oh, boy.” The man pulled a water bottle out from the back of the belt, tried to squirt it into his eyes. A pink mist settled onto the ground underneath him. “Oh god, water just spreads it. Can I—can I use your bathroom real quick? Please? I’m—my name is Trey.”

It was a large house, with heavy doors. Meghan could feel confident that she wouldn’t be overheard in almost any room. Nonetheless she’d retreated to the far bathroom to call her husband.

“Oh!” Austin sounded very delighted about the arrival of the cable guy. “He’s here! Great, just—uhhh—what’d he tell you, actually?”

“He said he was here to fix the cable, which is something we don’t have.”

“Install cable. Yeah,” She could practically hear Austin’s grin over the phone. “For watching TV.”

“TV. You?”

“I would enjoy TV, if we had cable,” Austin said. “We just don’t. I grew up with cable.”

“Yeah, I grew up with things too. What would you watch?”

A long pause. “Sports? Hey, hold on and I’ll give him a call. But don’t worry, he’s a professional. Thirty-five years in the industry. At least. I bet it’s more, that’s just what the business card says.”

“He looks maybe twenty-two,” Meghan said.

Another pause.

“Okay, let me make a phone call,” Austin said.

Trey rummaged. The man was discombobulated and adrift. Meghan watched him from behind a cup of green tea, uncertain if she was extremely annoyed or distantly amused. At the least, the cable man functioned as a welcome relief from editing the personal essays of recent Liberal Arts graduates. But he had lost a fifty foot length of cord, a bright green one, solely within the confines of her house. That seemed nearly impossible, like losing a bookcase, and especially so for someone with “cable” in his job description. The contents of his tool belt were perched all across surfaces, including two sets of pliers on top of the refrigerator.

“Everything going okay?” Meghan called out. He was now embroiled in the television’s guts. Red yellow and blue wiring billowed out from the backsides. He’d given the TV a beard of its own, Meghan thought. She felt a personal essay of her own brewing: relating to blue collar men. It was good enough for a shameful add to her Maybe pile.

“No, it’s going terribly,” Trey called back. It weighed on the “charming” side that he was open and honest with his struggles and faults. In this he contrasted well with Austin. Austin, who had clearly been upset that he’d gotten the And Sons instead of the Trey. Trey was Trey Number Two, Meghan gathered, from her husband’s annoyed interrogation. “It’s supposed to be a thirty minute install. How long have I taken so far?”

“Two hours,” Meghan said.

“Wow,” Trey shook his head, banging it against wiring. “That is so terrible.”

He wasn’t terrible on the eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, and the man had a healthy sweat going. He wore black and white vans. After marriage to a Man Who Biked, and the corresponding aggressively tight t-shirts, it was a refreshingly casual look. And he smelled really nice. Meghan wasn’t super clear on the purpose of the pink spritz, but it was an effective cologne. Flowers in a blender. She found excuses to hang out in his vicinity.

“Okay, here goes,” there was also the cable box. It was a dark black monster with a horrible aura. Even the LEDs were bright red. The TV flickered on.

There on screen was soft-core porno. From the 90s, judging from the soft lighting. A girl with big blonde hair looked very relaxed, on her hands and knees, her partner practically draped over her.

Meghan took another long sip of her tea.

“Oh, my god,” Trey pushed buttons on an oversized remote. That just led to more porno, albeit in flicker-flash, so fast Meghan could just register boobs and butts. It was very pink. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“So we get those channels, huh?” Meghan thought about this. What did this mean for Austin?

“No. No you don’t—well, yes. Yes, you do. You get every channel. That’s the idea.”

“Ah-ha,” Meghan said. So this was an illicit install. Not actually out of character for Austin. The TV, after crashing through a swathe of smiling girls with their legs up, finally made it to local television.

“Okay… okay,” Trey was now bathed in different kinds of sweat. “So that’s channel four thousand ninety-nine, and then it wraps around to channel two.”

Meghan stood up and walked over. “Take it back to the porno,” she commanded, arms folded.

“Uh—okay, sure,” Trey flipped the channel down one notch. Channel four thousand ninety-nine wasn’t softcore at all. A girl was clothed in dark lingerie, lace and filigree, and also had her wrists tightly bound to a Victorian four-poster bed. A man with a riding crop was lightly teasing the outside of her pussy with it. The girl already had a few red stripes on her thighs. She was trying to say something around a ball gag.

“So we have guests over, we’re watching the game on channel two, I accidentally press the channel down button, one time. And… what’s the name of this channel?” Meghan said.

“Ah—Lacing Stripes,” Trey said, checking the guide.

“Lacing stripes will come on. Alright. I will speak with my husband. About this. For the time being, and nothing personal at all, if you could disconnect this. Of course I’ll pay your charge.”

Trey watched her, face sad somewhere underneath the fur. “Disconnect it?” he said. “Are you..” he scratched at his head. “..you sure?”

On screen, the man with the riding crop decided that the time for being nice was over. Meghan, jaded as she considered herself, raised both eyebrows. “I’m definitely sure,” she said, over the sound of wet smacks. The actress, to her credit, managed very convincing moans over a big red rubber ball in her mouth.

“But…” Trey looked puzzled. He looked over at his ominous black box. “Oh! The white wire!” He flourished it for a half-moment, and then jammed it in.

Something blipped, on the screen. A shimmer effect. It seemed to start in the middle and then spread, all around, until everything had a haze to it. Meghan started to say something, and then halted. Words that had seemed so simple and straightforward didn’t feel like coming to the forefront. She watched the man lovingly lay in to his sex partner. She really seemed to be enjoying herself.

Meghan opened her mouth to say something, but each leather slap seemed to take the words away.

“So I’ll just leave it on, right?” Trey said, anxious. “Finish the installation tomorrow?”

“Oh sure, that’s fine,” Meghan said, eventually. She felt a couch cushion underneath her butt. So she’d sat down, then. “See you tomorrow.” Wait, why.. she had to do better then that. He had come all this way and given her the gift of thousands of channels. “Thanks for the free sex cable.”

Was the room—different? Very slowly it occurred to her: it was clean. A moment ago—it was a moment, wasn’t it?—Trey had it as a swamp of wires, in every color except for green. Now they were all neatly coiled in a pile. And the sun was shining low, right onto the wonderful, wonderful television. But that couldn’t be right. It was hardly two.

On screen the scene had changed. It was the lightest of BDSM: a girl with her hands tied behind her back, giving a slow and lazy blowjob. She had dark black hair and wore a lot of mascara, and looked like she could suck dick for hours. Meghan thought, in molasses-slow thoughts: I could never do that. She’d only sucked Austin’s cock transactionally. It was such an unpleasant and salty experience that he’d stopped asking. Said her distaste for it, like she was licking a gun barrel, made it no fun.

“Okay, I’m out,” Trey said. “Thanks for letting me take a shower. Oh.. oh, I should switch the channel. Alright, here you go.”

The porno swapped off [did it? Meghan could still see the rhythmic bob of the girl’s head. She’d tied her hair back with a ribbon]. The new show was some sitcom she’d never seen before, and couldn’t quite follow. A housewife in a poodle skirt, named… did the husband imperiously call her Meghan? With the H? She was simperingly eager to please and wore heels around the house. The screen flickered between black and white and color [and cocksucking, Meghan was sure of it, the man was about ready to explode].

The housewife [Meghan, with an H] messed up dinner fiercely and it all seemed a disaster until it transpired the husband’s boss liked everything burnt to a crisp. Nonetheless she got put over her husband’s knee. The laugh track screamed delight at a half-dozen firm corrective slaps. Just on the last one the Meghan [housewife] turned right at the camera as the man exploded in her face, her mascara covered in cum. Meghan the real Meghan shuddered and—

The TV was off. It was 5:30 p.m. exactly. In the pantry Meghan found a tied up length of green cable. She tossed it out back, unsettled.

He kept trying the doorbell, which hadn’t worked in years.

It made no sense. The man had knocked yesterday. Yesterday was something of an embarrassing blur, but Meghan was certain that Trey had knocked. So why did he keep pushing the bell, to no effect?

Why did she feel so strange every time he tried? Like… tingles… a warm flush of tingles…

Meghan had decided not to open the door. It was not clear at all what had happened yesterday. She’d fallen asleep with the TV on and had odd dreams. That’s what it had to be. Not surprising when the TV now had over five hundred channels of high-quality streaming pornography. And not just that, also sports.

But even after that, she’d gone into the pantry and torn apart the fridge and cooked a three-course dinner for one. Or intended to. She’d felt a tremendous drive to do it. Meghan had taken out all her dusty bowls and measuring cups before realizing that she had no real idea how to cook—Austin and Doordash did the cooking—she had no ingredients to speak of, and she was wet between her legs.

It was all very strange.

She’d had actual meatloaf delivered, from a diner. It had come with a sprig of parsley. And mashed potatoes, something else from a distant era. She’d seated herself by herself and poked at it with a fork. Why did it bother her that it was—not homemade? That she hadn’t assembled it over hours with a white apron on, heels clacking against the vinyl tile?

It was a congealed lump of meat with bits of carrot in it, and it tasted incredible. The bottle of wine went down smoothly as well. She ended up ordering another, getting a strange look from the delivery man. Probably because of the ketchup stains on her shirt.

Drunk, full with meatloaf, she’d taken care of business between her legs. Meghan took pride in her masturbatory ability. She posted on reddit about it—to help other women. The key was getting a pillow to hump with confidence. Stomach full, grinding on cotton, she’d briefly paused to think: what is going on?

In the morning she’d felt uncomfortable. The black box for the TV was no less imposing in the morning light. She was pretty sure her dreams had involved ropes and a four-poster bed. She should’ve felt overly stuffed with ground beef. Meghan told herself: matcha green tea and granola for breakfast, and then ten straight hours in front of Microsoft Word.

Instead she’d made a lot of pancakes.

At that point Trey had started ringing their nonfunctional bell. It was only 8:30.

She’d decided to ignore him. There was no more porno he could give. Something deep in her said: don’t do it. Don’t open the door. She risked a glance out the front—he had disassembled her front doorbell entirely and was poking around the insides. “Okay,” she heard the man say. He was wearing the same polo as yesterday. “Lets see—now.”

He hit the buzzer again. Meghan felt momentarily breathless. It was like seeing a lover smile. It was the moment before she came. A happy second.

“The bell doesn’t work!” she said, throwing the door open.

Trey looked at her. Meghan belatedly realized she was wearing the exact same clothes as yesterday. Except they were a day older and she had come in them. Her face felt sticky.

“Umm… here to fix the shower?” he said.

“You didn’t mention the shower,” she told Austin. “I didn’t realize I had a plumber here as well as a TV repairman.”

“The flow sucks,” Austin said. There was the hubbub of a lot of business voices behind him. It made Meghan think of how few sounds she’d heard, home by herself. Being a housewife. Imagine, being around a ton of folks. “He’s a handyman. Building systems.” Pause. “How’s the new cable?”

“We have a thousand channels of pornography,” Meghan said. “Not a joke. Channels three thousand one through four thousand feature porno. I haven’t checked them but they’re sorted by category. Guess what number three thousand fifty-six is.”

“Uh. I’m in a public place. I’ll spell it. A-N-A-L.”

“Geriatric. We’ll watch it when you get back. Which is Friday?”

“Friday. I don’t know why I thought spelling Anal would be better. And now I just said it.”

“I’ll cook when you get back,” Meghan blurted. She felt breathless, just like that. She could read recipe books, and wear her apron, and so little else. Greet him at the door with a martini and a smile. Dinner is in the oven, and while we wait…

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Austin said, and then, as usual, felt the need to snark it up. “Popeyes?”

She hung up on him.

Trey managed to completely soak himself almost right away. “From my perspective your flow works pretty well,” he reported, dripping all over the floor. He collected himself. “But… there’s… always room for better. I think. Yes.”

Meghan tried to get back to work. Freelance editing had felt like a sexy, cool job for a modern young woman. Steadily shaping the works of the next Plath, the next Woolf. Perhaps that was true pre-internet, when text was rare, every printed example of inherent value from the use of ink. Now it was her job to marginally improve the endless flow from the spigot. The works were a dispiriting sameness of girls monetizing personal traumas.

Suddenly she found herself back in the kitchen. The TV was on, in the other room, and from the sounds of it, was quite possibly on channel three thousand fifty-six. The moans sounded elderly. She was hungry again. That was out of character. Meghan had long ago decided that food was essentially an enemy. Her stomach rumbled.

“Miss?” Trey again. He stuck his head out from the bathroom. Behind him was the noise of a roaring and unconstrained deluge. “Can I bother you for a screwdriver? And a towel?”

“Everything okay in there?” Meghan said, angling her head to check.

“Oh! Going very well. You can probably hear the, ah, advanced flow,” Trey said. He bobbed his head up and down. Water cascaded to the floor. “Just could use a screwdriver if it’s alright. And that towel. It’s for holding the screwdriver.”

Meghan rummaged through the junk drawer. In her head she thought: well, it was pretty clear the day was a total loss with respect to work. The world would be understanding if she, instead, made a perfect stack of pancakes. “Phillips or flathead?”

Trey glanced backwards. “I think the most important thing right now is speed,” he reported.

She passed him the tool, and one of Austin’s beach towels. Steam leaked through the top of the doorframe.

Back to pancakes.

Meghan was suddenly very conscious that she had little culinary talent. While it was possible to follow a recipe she had no idea where, for example, she had a teaspoon. Or a tablespoon either. The recipe called for buttermilk which seemed laughable. Meghan wildly overcompensated with extra butter, dipping into the aging and rarely-used tub. She caught herself absently tying the bow of a ribbon behind her, securing a nonexistent apron.

She preheated the oven, just in case.

But when they were done they were golden-brown and she was ravenous. Meghan took a towering plate very quickly to the living room—watching TV just made sense, didn’t it? The entire assembly of heavy pastries got drenched in more butter and maple syrup, and she was just about to stick a fork in when Trey called out.

“Miss? Scissors?”

“Scissors,” Meghan rushed through this request. “Of course, scissors.” Running with them. Trey’s grateful look was reward enough—who was she to begrudge the man? There was probably some hair to cut, deep in the pipes.

Back to the pancakes. They were overwhelmingly fatty, rich, and sinful. Meghan ate six or seven. Syrup added a new brown drizzle pattern to her blouse. A red and white striped shirt that was mostly linen, and now heavily sugared. She chased it with a glass of milk, and then another.

It took Meghan awhile, buried up to her nose in griddle cakes, to recognize that she was watching one of the porno stations. Not old people fucking. A schoolgirl theme, with girls in black thigh-highs carefully putting one heel in front of the other. No expense was spared on lace and silk. The teacher was perhaps one year older than her students, and liked to bend over during math class. The camera made sure to lovingly detail her ass cheeks.

“Nice butt,” Meghan mumbled, cheeks full to bursting. She felt—good. Playing hooky from work, full of starch and sugar, and a nice strong man performing manual labor in her bathroom. She felt embarrassed by her earlier surge of annoyance. So what if Trey needed a screwdriver or scissors or—

“Miss?”

“What is it, Trey?” It escaped as an almost anxious, eager-to-please spray. “You need something?”

“Can I pee in your bathroom? The other one? I’ll pee really quickly, I promise.”

“Of course!” Meghan said, waving a fork-filled hand. Belatedly she realized: she hadn’t cleaned up the master bedroom at all. In fact her hump pillow was still there, guiltily mish-mashed on the bedsheets. And her underpants. The soggy ones. Her current ones were feeling a little damp too.

She tried to stand up and couldn’t quite manage. Meghan was suddenly unsure about how many pancakes she’d gone through. Probably one stack, right? But then where had all the powdered sugar come from? She was quite sure that the first batch had no powdered sugar, and now it was everywhere, a localized snowstorm.

On screen the teacher and student body president were on either side of the football captain’s dick, licking away. At least, Meghan assumed he was a football player. With arms like that and a cock that big he had to be a local sports legend.

Meghan managed to put the plate aside. She swiveled her head downwards. She was a complete mess, starting with her stance. Legs wide, stomach wide. Trickling a river of sugars down towards the floor. It was too difficult to stand, for whatever reason. Easier instead to watch porn. In a shocking reverse of fortune, the teacher was getting vigorously spanked by the students in her class. Meghan’s pussy gave a little jolt with each smack. They were doing it Murder-On-The-Orient-Express style, with each classmate getting a whack.

“Okay, I think we’ve—uhhh. Unh.”

That was how Trey found her: legs akimbo, a little leaky, dusted with sugars and with a glistening ring of syrup around her mouth. Also watching pornography in the middle of the day.

Meghan would’ve been fine with a small blast of embarrassment, but the scope of it surprised her. Wave after wave of it, centering around her slobbery. She was the supposed mistress of Austin’s house. The house should be sparkling clean and warm and inviting. She, herself, should be clean and warm and very inviting. Instead she was a horny fatass on the couch. Even so, it was a struggle to lift herself. Her butt felt full of ballast.

“I’m—you installed the porno!” blaming Trey was even more pathetic, and they both knew it. More crumbs fell to the floor. At least she was upright. “I’m going to clean all that up!” Her cheeks were burning red.

Meghan put her hand on her waist, to hide her popped-open fly. This was so—not her, on many levels. Especially just generally eating. She’d favored a wan, pale look with semi-permanent bags under her eyes. Someone who drank coffee for the calories. Not a house-bound daytime TV hound with substantial curves.

It was all a lot, and Trey did her a favor by giving his full attention to the TV screen, where the teacher was now fully reduced in status. She worked, from the look of things, in a janitorial capacity. She was stationed on her knees in the men’s room.

“That’s the real 4K definition,” he said, with pride. “Do you want to check out the shower now?”

“Uh—sure,” Meghan said, following the man. And why didn’t she have a drink to hand to him? This, at least, was something she already knew how to do. She’d bartended in college. She knew her way around gin, and knew that Trey would love a Tom Collins after a long day getting drenched.

“I had to reroute a lot of your plumbing, and there’s a little bit of water in a lot of your rooms, but it’s done,” Trey said. He seemed very proud of himself. It was an attractive quality in a man. The showerhead now sported a futuristic disc, like a miniaturized spaceship. It blinked with more LEDs then Meghan would’ve thought.

“I’ll let you give it a shot while I clean up,” Trey said, shutting the door behind her.

“Wait—” he intended for her to take a shower? Get naked? There?

Was he commenting on her look? Shame poured through her, so strongly Meghan had to brace herself against the sink. She was being high-handed, elitist, treating this man like merest labor. Her MFA friends would’ve raised eyebrows and talked shit in separate group chats. That was one half of the shame. The other half was—she was a bad hostess. A woman should be inviting and compliant. Sitting on the couch at all was a transgression. Her options were to stand, waiting, or to kneel, serving..

Kneeling in a pretty dress, heels up behind her. Ass raw from a well-deserved spanking.

It was a lot, and Meghan found herself stripping down, as the only possible option. The mirror was entirely fogged up, and she wiped it down just to glance at herself. It didn’t look like a housewife body. That kind of body was pear-shaped, soft and curved. At home in tights, vainly fighting a growing ass with occasional yoga. She had a grad student’s body, unnourished, boobs wideset on a flat tummy. It was… reassuring? No. That wasn’t it. Meghan put a hand on her own hips. There could be more there, and it wouldn’t be so bad. Sexy. Womanly.

She climbed into the shower.

It was an abrupt waterfall. Meghan didn’t realize her mouth was open, jaw slack, until it filled up with tepid shower water. She swallowed. At least the pancake medley was getting sluiced away. After the initial shock the shower was more than pleasant. It was a steady drumbeat on all parts of her, her tits, her stomach, the glowing and warm part between her legs. The heat bore into her.

“How is it?” Trey had actually poked his head in. There was just a translucent curtain between them. The heat surged, up into her head. There was a man in there. She should—no, she was—

“It’s a lot!” Meghan said. “But good! Thank you!” She had to speak fast, her mouth kept filling up with water..

The showerhead attracted her attention. There were dozens of LEDs on it, not just green but in a number of pretty colors. She focused on it, wondering what the pattern was. There had to be some reason to it—a measure of heat, of flow? But no, the LEDs were changing, all the time, from blue to green to red.

“It detaches!” Trey called out. “The showerhead!”

“The—what?” The warmth was all the way through her, now.

“The one you’ve been staring at for ten minutes,” Trey said. He laughed, relieved. “Give it a try.”

Meghan reached out and pulled at the showerhead. It was detachable, wasn’t it? At her approach the LEDs picked up, eager, a flurry of primary colors playing across her eyes. It was so nice of Trey to take care of their shower. To take care of her. She should take care of him, of all men…

The showerhead broke off in her hand. The LEDs died.

“Oh!” Meghan shook herself, confused. She was—showering. Right. With a strange man, last name unknown, hovering around. The showerhead was dead in her hand, but the water was now a steady stream, a single uninterrupted jet, and it was landing right on her clit.

It felt really good.

Her left hand was already down there, kneading away. Meghan looked at it, confused. She had all five fingers rubbing, the water flowing in and between them. She was halfway to an orgasm already, and it was easier, and made more sense, to just keep going. It would be nice and clean, her mind told her. Shake off all that porno and shame and everything in one nice cum. Who knows what would wash away down the pipes. The orgasm hit her, and she dropped the showerhead. It floated in the tub. A moment later she joined it, on her knees, breathing hard.

“Everything okay?” Trey said, from the outside. Come in, she wanted to say. Look at how clean she was. Not a trace of sugar or syrup. Nice wet boobs.

“I broke the showerhead!” Meghan said, when she could catch her breath. She turned the water off, with a very shaky hand. “I’m so very sorry!”

“Well he broke the shower, and there’s standing water in half the rooms in the house,” Meghan said. “I’m not sure how. There’s water in the main bedroom, and I’m pretty sure not a single pipe goes under it.”

She’d dressed, post-shower, in deepest black. It was a defensive move. It embodied control, and control seemed like—it seemed like the right idea. Over the past two days the house had marinated in the sight and sound of women cumming on television.. Then she’d added herself to it, in a sloppy, spasmy cum that had nearly knocked her senseless. Her arms and legs still tingled, pleasantly. Underneath the black sweater, black jeans.

And a bit of makeup, so she didn’t look completely goth.

“You probably already figured this, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Austin said.

“Oh? No? No, it wasn’t? Not this?”

“New cable, fixed plumbing… some other odds and ends.. I hired the best. Apparently I got the best’s apprentice. So not the best.”

Trey’s sad, sodden form floated across Meghan’s head. She didn’t feel.. angry. He hadn’t made her act like a horny hapless slut, splaying herself on a jet of water. Made her hump a pillow senseless. A pillow that was still looking kinda sexy.

“Well, he’s trying hard, he gets that much credit,” Meghan said. Her underpants were black, too. Dark black.

“How was the shower?” Austin said.

“Just okay,” Meghan lied. It was amazing. No denying it. Her body wanted back in. In fact, it told her, why not eat doughnuts, get sloppy-sugary, and then take a shower, and then repeat? And then perhaps guilt-clean the house at 1 in the morning, in heels? “Nice and clean now.”

“Nice and clean, huh?” Austin paused. “And?”

“And now I’m watching…” Meghan stopped. Porno, she was watching porno again. Why was it so hard to change the channel? At least this one had an indie vibe, in that the girl sucking a cock had a lot of tattoos. That made it alternative, right? “You know. A documentary.”

“And..? Meghan? Baby? Doll? Sexy? Who I really miss?”

Oh, Meghan thought. He wanted her to talk him off. After a very long and baffling day it wasn’t a very attractive idea. She let her sigh float over the phone.

“No?” Austin’s disappointment practically blew up the phone.

“You’ll be home in a few days, I’ll work my jaw then,” Meghan said, and then caught herself. Had she just promised him a blowjob? Just great, now she was guaranteed a blast to the face. A shot of hot jism, while she knelt, her tongue outstretched, both hands urging him on with needy strokes. Or maybe just with her lips wrapped around… “get my lips wrapped around… you.”

Even Austin seemed surprised. “Wow, okay. Yeah. Lips wrapped.”

She was on the verge of saying: that’s enough. But the TV seemed to—flicker? The closed captioning was kicking in, which seemed very unusual in a porno. Who was sitting around, transcribing “needy moans” into the transcript? The words were in bright white on the bottom of the screen. Impossible, as the tattoo girl definitely couldn’t talk, with that much dick in her mouth.

“Mmmm,” Meghan read. “Right in my mouth. My hot…” the words had to catch up. “...needy mouth, my nice fuckable pussy of a mouth for you to fuck, baby. You want to come home and face-fuck your wife? Your hot horny housewife you left here all alone, missing your dick in my mouth? Austin?”

The closed captioning read… Austin. What a very odd coincidence. The actual Austin grunted.

“I bet you’ll have a nice big load for me, a big one, slide it right down my throat—” No, she couldn’t read this. In her mouth? Swallowing? But it was tumbling out of her. “You know I’ll swallow it all Austin baby, I’m your sexy wife who needs that hot cream in my mouth, please—”

“Okay! Okay,” Austin said. “Alright, I came all over my suit.”

It took an effort of will to stop reading. It kept going on and on. On screen, the brunette was still working her magic. Meghan was learning about how to use her hands effectively during oral sex.

“Hope you…” saying other words, with her tongue, was a challenge. “Liked that. Because there’s no way you’re actually gonna cum in my mouth, more than once or twice.”

“Uh-huh,” Austin said. “Alright. You’re the best. Talk to you tomorrow, baby doll.”

Baby doll. That was a new and very sexist nickname. Meghan let the phone topple over to the couch. Her left hand felt underneath her jeans. Her panties were satin and felt nice and smooth. Maybe, she thought, she could treat herself to a nice shower, afterwards.

She’d spent the morning cleaning.

It wasn’t anything she’d ever thought deeply about. Chores accrued, there was a brief argument over doing the chores, and then the chores generally got done. Meghan had, previously, deliberately subverted a few gender expectations in chore allocation—she proudly if slowly pushed a mower on their tiny patch of lawn. Austin had been the one doing dishes. The apron was actually his. She’d thrown it into the cart at Target.

Clearly, she’d realized, there was a lot more to housework then she’d realized. It was—soothing. There were no internet posts to get mad at, scrubbing a floor. No painfully earnest essays to sort through, doing dishes. There was a sense of actual accomplishment that the sisyphean load of written work never scratched. The floor was definitely scrubbed, it definitely shone. So there was all of that, and if it wasn’t exactly Women Making Noise or an application of her expensive Degree, perhaps, so be it.

And she was definitely feeling like a woman. Yes, because she was barefoot in the kitchen, on tiptoes, trying to get a spot of dirt at the very far back of the window box. Dressed in tights. Not a very empowered woman. But it was never easy to dismiss thousands of years of cultural expectations. It had an ingrained erotic resonance, didn’t it? . She had her back arched, butt in the air, panting, tits swinging. She was wholly dependent on her provider. He’d arrive home and be very proud of her, Meghan was dimly sure of it. No half-assed “how was your day” that neither side cared for. The table was definitely set.

It didn’t hurt that her breakfast cereal porno was an hour on the free use channel. Just girls going about their business, washing dishes or doing laundry, and casually getting their backs blown out by large cocks. It seemed an idyllic life.

“Meghan, everything okay on your end?” the editorial zoom call wasn’t going well. Her attention kept slipping. She’d left the floor half-washed, and it was bothering her.

Nervous laugh. “Sure! Doing great!” Meghan checked her reflection in the terrible laptop camera. She’d worn a throwback blouse for her morning chores. It had two big straps and a 70s-era v-neck. Her boobs felt tender and her bra tight. She’d made waffles from scratch. “Did you say something? Sorry, I’ve been—” concern flitted across her face. What? What was she being? A girl that abruptly watched porn like it was prestige TV?

“We’re getting some background noise? Strange.. noises?”

The porno.

“Be right back!” Meghan said. It wasn’t just on, it was loud, very loud. A pile of half-folded laundry sat next to a redhead getting fucked doggy-style. The genre bounced back between girls who could drain a dick while still calmly sorting, and girls who eventually had to stop and moan. This was a moaner. Meghan hit mute. Nothing happened. She was able to lower the volume, although only about halfway. The captioning kept flowing on and on: serve men, fuck men, be on your knees, the usual stuff. Damn Trey.

They’d muted her when she got back. Humiliated, Meghan sat in silence. Was everyone staring at her? All these other girls, in natural-tone makeup, necklines all very high. Was it so obvious that she’d been slipping, the mask of calm, professional woman showing cracks? Meghan felt a surge of anger—like they didn’t have the occasional urge to slurp ice cream and go without a bra. To just be horny for no reason. She jabbed the end meeting button and sat back.

Oh. She’d slid her tights a little bit down, just for fun and comfort. So everyone had probably gotten a good look at her panties, as she’d legged it for the TV. They were pretty wet.

The incident shocked her back to some reality.. She’d spent most of her life diligently working her way into a literary career. At age twelve she’d read To The Lighthouse. Every year she read her way through the Booker Prize short-list and had strong opinions on them. Her pictures in the office were of her at events, meeting well-known authors, wearing sedate blazers. All apparently tossed away for one slutty moment.

It was also worrying that her impulse, her very first impulse, was to stress-eat a burger. The second was to call Austin, have her man make it all better. Meghan e-mailed her colleagues to say she was taking a mental health day. She decided to go for a walk. No, better, a jog, a long and refreshing run, the type that modern professional women took. Away from the blare of the porno that she couldn’t quite seem to shut off. It was now on a 90s softcore kink. A girl with short hair was getting eaten out by another girl with short hair.

It was stress, Meghan decided. A lifetime of purposeful activity thrown out of whack by unauthorized and incompetent handyman activity. Adrift in an empty house as a guy with a beard flailed about with pipes and wires. She could turn it into an essay.

Dressed to run, Meghan decided to ignore the unusual wobble fore and aft. The bubbling butt she saw in the mirror was temporary—or better yet, a mirage. She had a waif ass. And not much boobs. The heft on her chest wasn’t there. Her running shorts bit into thighs she was pretty sure she didn’t have.

Prepared, walking carefully, eyes averted from the girls lapping at each other with nice pink tongues, Meghan opened the door. Trey was right there.

He looked woeful.

“Nope,” Meghan said. “So long.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Trey said. He sighed and put his hand on the wall. “I just wanted to—look, I know I haven’t done a good job. I’m real sorry. This is supposed to be a two man crew and…”

He looked genuinely upset. “I told your husband I’m doing this one free and I just wanted to say I’m real sorry.”

“What’d Austin say?” Meghan said, pausing.

“I mean, he was pretty unhappy,” Trey said. “I said he didn’t need to sue me or whatever.”

“Sue you?” Did that sound like Austin? Yes, it did. It was time to be honest with herself. Her butt was getting a little big.

“Yeah—I mean, he was mad.” Trey shrugged, to show it was nothing to him.

Fine. “Come in and get the job done. And can you do something about the porno? Like, does it need to be lesbian? I’m not against lesbians of course.”

“Oh, I’ve been doing, uh, this kind of work my whole life,” Trey said. He stirred his coffee. Pointlessly, since he took it black. “In the van at six in the morning with the old man, grabbing some coffee, I’d sit on the back tinkering with the mind co—uh. With the cable box. Watch the sun rise.”

“That sounds nice,” Meghan said, and meant it. She was really connecting with this blue collar guy. A union man, at least conceptually. And he was pretty cute.

“Yeah, I mean, if my Dad wasn’t working, he wasn’t alive, you know? The Customer Is Always Right! He’d say it out loud, all solemn,” Trey said. “Once we did ten, uh, um, houses, in one week. I couldn’t keep them straight, I kept getting their hair color confused. I mean… house… numbers.” He sipped his coffee.

“Where’s your Dad now?” Meghan, although she suspected the answer. A career of tragedy-driven personal essay work had trained her in certain ways.

“Yeah, Dad died,” Trey looked down, traced an upside-down B on the quartz, with coffee.. A big one. “Few weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” Meghan said, automatically. It all felt a little bit automatic, once Trey was inside. Once he was inside, he was a guest. As a guest she needed to take good care of him, because she was a good housewife. A very lonely, horny housewife. She needed to make him coffee, and then listen to everything he said, back bent, cleavage bubbling in front of his face.

“I knew something was wrong. We were doing an entire three-girl blonde-brunette-black trio with a harem hardwire.” He looked up, suddenly. “Those are, uh, wiring terms. Electrical work. Yeah. Anyway, Dad kept working all day, rubbing at his chest, we finally got the blowjob activation worked out, and he fell over dead.”

He sniffed. A male with feelings, Meghan hadn’t met one in a long time. Certainly not Austin, who had complained about ticket prices for the flight to his uncle’s funeral. She felt a sudden sting, a very unpleasant tingle. Of course, Austin was a great guy and a perfect husband. He’d probably show a little emotion when she blew him senseless, as soon as he walked through the door.

She put her hand on Trey’s. Callused and rough. Now the tingles were much better. There were a lot more of them, too.

“Anyway. Enough of my problems,” Trey said. “Best way to honor Dad is to get the job done. Customer is always blah blah blah.. Believe me. I’ll start in your master’s bedroom.”

“Master’s bedroom,” Meghan echoed. His fingernails were worn down. Worry? Professional concern? Could she ask? “Can I help?”

“Oh!” Trey seemed surprised. “I know you’re busy. Right? Ironing and laundry? Is that today?”

No, she had to start patching things up with her colleagues—right? Not just spend her time on a vibrating, warm dryer. Rattling her thighs.

“I was actually going to get some baking done,” she said. “Would you like cookies?” Trey lit up, and she knew, from her head down to her pussy, that it was the right decision.

In the afternoon she threw away the better part of her wardrobe. Like, a lot of it.

It was Trey’s idea. Despite her increasingly frantic efforts she had not made very good cookies. It turned out there was an important difference between baking soda and baking powder. The cookies were burnt flat crisps. She’d nearly been in tears, presenting them to Trey. She’d cut the relatively unburnt middles out to serve.

“These are great,” he’d told her, with apparent sincerity.

“I fucked them up,” she confessed, as he went in for a second bite. She’d expected him to take the plate, from her hands, and then throw them like a discus out the open window. “They’re terrible. Don’t humor me.”

“No, no. Its not your fault. You don’t get this kind of backfill culinary knowledge until day three or four of your programming,” Trey said, crumbs on his beard. “I mean, what I’m saying is, I grew up with just my Dad and I. We never got real home cooking.”

Home cooking, and from her. Meghan had to go somewhere and sit, just to calm down. Her heart was racing. What was wrong with her? She had compared literary techniques in Iowa in front of men who called Cormac McCarthy “Cormac”.. She wielded redlines like a scalpel. She ate one of the remaining cookies, and then another, and then another. They didn’t actually taste that bad, just a bit chemical-ly. Her nipples ached against her bra.

“Meghan?” she practically ran back to her master’s bedroom. “Can you maybe do something with these?”

Her clothes were piled on the bed. “I had to get at the flooring in the closet,” Trey said. There were still bits of dough in his beard. “Maybe..?” Sex pillow was still piled on the bed. Had she even slept there, the past few days? Meghan was unsure.

“Sure! Absolutely!” Meghan picked up the first one. Pants. The second one was also pants. Dull blue or dark black, and, if not denim, a heavy cotton with all the grace and feminine flair of a tarp. Trey even seeing them was mortifying. “Let me get some trash bags real quick!” She shoved the first set in without even checking the pockets. It was bad enough they even had pockets—the whole set was from the worst of her college days, wearing man jeans like that struck some sort of blow.

After that it became sort of fun. A lot of fun, very enjoyable, especially once she moved operations to the living room, and the pleasant background hum of mid-afternoon porno. It was on Amateur. A clip show. The lighting and camera work were poor but the enthusiasm was inspiring. Real housewives—she assumed, anyway, from their plush butts—having real sex. Cooing as they backed onto cocks. The camera lovingly capturing the acreage of their bodies. Curvy bodies, with dimples at the hips, with fat fuckable butts.

Into the garbage bags went whole eras of her life. Grad school especially. She retained two date night outfits that were at least over the knee, a blood-red dress she’d never worn. It had been supposed to be threatening but was actually just slutty. Now that seemed —better. Hotter. For pants she kept one single pair of black dress pants that seemed nice and tight. In case she had to go visit a grave or whatever. Other than that it was the very few skirts, cute tops, and other somewhat sexy gear that had survived her unsexy career, unsexy life. She threw out every single blazer. They looked and felt disgusting.

“Going okay?” Trey said, stopping by.

“Sort of!” Meghan said. She’d switched outfits. Now she wore a pair of tan shorts from just after high school. The button didn’t fasten and the fabric strained both aft and on both sides. The outline of her panties was completely visible. She’d swapped in a blouse with all four buttons undone. It scooped practically to her stomach. “Good chance to see what still fits!”

“Careful with those curves,” Trey said. He blushed. “One of Dad’s sayings..” On screen a blonde with red lipstick moaned about needing dick.

Meghan found her voice. “I mean… ummm…” she rubbed at her hips. Where had all these curves come from? She’d always liked the pure functionality of her body. Meghan had felt a sense of distant pity for girls with overstuffed figures, sexualized with each wobbly step, men glancing along the arcs of their figures. Now, looking down, she could see the belling curve of two tits. This isn’t me! She thought, suddenly panicked.

A loud and messy orgasm on screen distracted her.

“Here, go through these next,” Trey plopped down her collected underpants and rolls of socks. The top one had a hole in the waistband. Pathetic.

“Sure! Can do!” Meghan chirped, and got to it. A brunette, on screen, kept flicking her eyes to the camera.

“Guess who’s still here!” Meghan half-sang, to Austin.

“It’s for free, so alright,” Austin said. Where was he this time? His hotel room? But Meghan could hear an undertone on his end. The TV? “Everything going okay?”

“Oh, I guess,” Meghan said, casually. In truth her anxiety had been going pretty up and down all day. Every so often a keening sense of strangeness, wrongness, would find a way to break through: why did she just throw out all but two pairs of undies? Why was her work wardrobe all skirts with short hems? All her comfortable shoes were outside in the trash. Why?

She had even tried to bring these concerns up before Trey: did she really need to get rid of her leather jacket? It had brought her through many different concerts in style. To her enormous relief he’d let her keep that one, on the condition she wear a cute pair of heels. To keep her feet from tracking dirt on the wood.

“You’re not slacking around the house, right?” Austin needled. “Watching him work?”

“No!” Meghan was indignant. She would never. “Austin, come on. That isn’t funny. You know I work hard. I keep a nice clean house, sir.”

She’d worked SO hard. After losing almost all her clothes she’d ironed the remnants. That had always been an Austin job, ironing. So one of her shorts had a big brown burn imprint, before she’d figured out how to put water in the iron. But after that it had been as soothing as she’d hoped, so mindless, all her concerns about major lifestyle changes ebbing away. She’d found herself humming a stupid little tune, and laughed when she realized it was one of the porno soundtracks. It was catchy.

“You’ve got the laundry done? Floors swept AND washed? Sinks scrubbed?” Austin pressed. There really was something in the background with him. A girl’s voice? She was laughing.

“Yes, yes, and yes!” Meghan insisted. She squirmed. In one of her shows the man had come home for just this kind of stern inspection. When the housewife turned out to have neglected shower scouring, he fucked her in the ass. It was kind of hot.

“Well then, good girl.”

Meghan shivered, very pleasantly. That wasn’t a reward, her mind tried to tell her. Oh yes it was, her pussy countered. Her nipples were hard and firm.

“What if I didn’t?” she purred.

A shocked intake of male breath. This was fun. First, the possibility of a well-deserved spanking, and, second, the truth that she was actually being very good, sir. Meghan tried to remember—he must’ve spanked her before, right? At least playfully. To show her who was, ultimately, in charge.

“We’ll see when I get back,” Austin said. She giggled. That, her mind told her, she had definitely never done. Meghan was not a giggler. She needed to go, to get away from the TV. It was on babysitter mode. TV hubby was indulging in some barely-legal trim. She didn’t really approve, but relationships between men and women were complicated. Fucking the babysitter was just something men had to do sometimes. No—that wasn’t right. There was definitely a woman in the room with Trey. She felt one of the increasingly rare flushes of strangeness, and grabbed onto it.

Meghan forced her legs together, and up. Away, away from all this. Her car was right outside. True, she was wearing—what was she wearing? Heels and painted-on shorts? A too-tight blouse? What was she doing?

But Trey was in the hallway, working away. Between her and her purse, her keys. He gave her a friendly wave. Did he notice the wet stain between her legs? No, Trey was too nice a guy for all that. Meghan reluctantly walked back to the living room. The babysitter had been joined by the housewife, each taking a side of husband’s big dick. It was a relief. Everything was fine, everyone was having fun.

“I’ve got a surprise when you get home,” Meghan said, absently. There was the sound again, behind her husband. This one was more of a moan.

Austin sounded distracted. “Y-yeah? Save it for me. I’ve got to get going. Keep an eye on Trey, okay, sweetcheeks?”

“Sweetcheeks?” Even for Meghan, aroused and confused, it was a bit much. Who said sweetcheeks?

“No?” Austin sounded uncertain. “Look, I’ve got to go. How about hottie? Is that on the list?” The feminine noise on the other end got insistent. “Okay, see you soon, bye!”

He hung up. Meghan looked at the phone, discomfited.

The big surprise had been that she’d shaved her pussy.

Trey had quietly suggested it. She’d completely forgotten to tell him that her tired and abused panties were getting a try-on party. So she’d walked in on him working away, while just in a faded pink pair of tattered panties and a hoodie she’d ultimately thrown away.

Obviously, from the way his eyes flickered, he’d seen her untrimmed mane. He’d put one of her razors on the bathroom sink.

Meghan could take a hint. So she was pleasantly bald down there. It felt nice and wet. The only problem was that she really needed a lot more underpants. She was soaking them.

“I guess I have been thinking about making some sort of career change,” Meghan said. She refilled Trey’s glass, again, and punctuated it with a nervous giggle.

“Considering some life changes” was a powerful and comforting way to consider all of her very odd behavior over the past few days, and she’d sunk her teeth all the way into it. She was exploring alternatives, she was assessing her role in life. That was normal, very normal behavior.

Shaving her pussy at the handyman’s direction, that was odd. Growing a few extra cup sizes in something like 48 hours —was weird. But instead she was just figuring out a new direction for her body. Maybe it made sense for it to be curvy, underdressed, and aching for cock. For her.

“You’re, what? What do you do?” Trey said.

“Well—” it took her a long moment. She was a—what? Something with books. “I’m a liter—” her tongue just wouldn’t push it through. Her mouth hung open, slack. She found a way around the pink mist. “Editor! I edit things.”

“What’s that mean?” Trey said.

She wasn’t really sure either, and hid her confusion with another uncertain laugh. There should be all sorts of memories up there. Instead all that kept playing was a rewind of the last few hours of porno reels. Generally butt play. “You know! Words! I take the bad ones, I make them good ones,” there, she’d managed it. This wasn’t a strange sort of brain drain, it was proof of her cleverness, working around gaps made out of ass fucking..

To avoid seeming condescending Meghan tugged her blouse down a little farther, although that wasn’t much possible. Her nipples were practically on a rack, for Trey’s amusement. “But I’ve been doing stuff around the house and its fun! We had fun together, right?”

He’d appointed her tool-fetcher. Meghan had done her very best, but his truck was completely full of complex gear and canisters with names like ‘Titexpander’ and ‘Nomind’. It had quickly become an excuse instead to practically rub her ass in his face. Legs together, heels in a row, bending over for a set of—metal grippy things. Just so he knew how smooth she was.

“This is GREAT,” Trey said, holding up a fork. Meghan had to hold on to the table. Her pussy, already overheated, delivered something very close to an orgasm. She had to act fast to avoid drooling on the table.

She’d made spaghetti and meatballs. The sauce was can glop and the meatballs were smooshed together meat, but Trey seemed genuinely thrilled. “SO good,” he raved. “My Dad and I—neither of us cooked. I mean, sometimes we had a discard around and she’d poke around the kitchen. But they weren’t discards because they were good at anything. Yes I would like more wine, this is what chardonnay is?”

It was the most gratitude Meghan could recall, ever, from anyone. Her clients usually took her feedback like she was informing them what kind of cancer they had. And Austin was—he was polite. He was never ecstatic, and definitely not over meatballs.

“There’s dessert!” Meghan gushed. All over the stool, too. “Ho-hos with ice cream!”

“My Dad loved hos,” Trey said. He shook himself.. “I gotta stop bringing him up. It’s pathetic.”

“No, no,” Meghan protested. “Its sweet!”

“I thought about a career change too,” Trey said. He put his knife down. He looked a little unsteady. They were both really drunk. “You know.. Like, is this it? Making—uhh—doing cable work to women? Yeah, it’s steady work, but, I don’t know. It gets a little same-y. But I guess you just gotta do what you’re good at. Even when you’re not that good at it.”

“I think you’re doing great!” Meghan said. She was having a little trouble following him. It was dark out. Other than that she had no idea of the time, or, really, the day.

“Dad would’ve had you vacuuming, more ways than one, in twelve hours. Plumped and dumbed, full burn-in,” he tried to focus on her, and she on him. It wasn’t successful, their eyes mutually wandering. In truth Meghan was barely listening to him. Over in the living room it was prime time, which meant actual high-production porno. The primo stuff, with the real stars. They moaned in excellent audio.

“You’re his son,” Meghan said. She put her hand on top of his. If this man was her husband she’d let him fuck her ass.

“Alright,” Trey said. He stood up, decisive. Meghan checked between his legs. He just had to be hung. It was a certainty. Cheesy electronica played in her head, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the TV, or just her new background track. Trey led her—oh, please, she hoped, to the bedroom—and then made a left turn. The office.

“I need you to throw away some of these books,” he told her.

“My books?” She had three entire bookcases full. One for work slash contemporary, a second for the classics, and a third just for her. And non-fiction. Her own novel was on there. It was about—what was it? Something something modern woman depression depression. Not a single sex scene at all, come to think of it. “Why?”

“I need to—” Trey wavered. He seemed unsure. He let his hand fall to rest on the curve of her butt. “The wood. I have to fix the wood. It has whorls in it.” He patted her rear, reassuring. “Just throw away one. After that it’s easy.”

Meghan made a sound, deep in her throat. She was so wet, so full, so unsure.. A memory hit her: a week ago she’d nursed a gin and tonic after a bad fight with Austin. She’d read Zadie Smith. Not for the first time. Which meant—Trey’s hands dug into her ass—it was fine to toss. “This one,” she said, looking back for his approval. Into a trash went White Teeth.

“Good girl,” Trey said. He gave her a friendly spank. After that Meghan didn’t remember a whole lot.

“Hey,” gentle pats on her cheeks. “Meghan. Wake up.”

She’d had so many dreams, it was hard to believe they’d all fit into the same night. They’d unrolled on double speed. Comically fast sex scenes, most of them. Her subconscious felt like she was ready to take center stage—she was the one licking dick in record time, the one tensing her ass to rapid-fire strokes. There’d been a whole lot of talking about the best way to please men, delivered very quickly in monotone.

“Meghan. Slut. Up you get.”

She opened her eyes. Trey. Trey was there. Meghan shifted her head—it was 6:05 in the morning, and Trey was there. He wore a different polo from yesterday, and his hair was combed. He wore a hat, in her bedroom. The hat read “WALLACE AND SONS : TCIAR!”

Bedroom? No, she had fallen asleep on the couch. Again. The TV was on, but softly, and had a cooking show rolling.

“Mwah?” she said, and pulled a hand out from her waistband. She felt—fuzzy. A full body bleary, her head stuffed with marshmallows. Her entire body felt sort of marshmallow-y, all those pancakes and other delights sloshing around inside of her. Meghan glanced down, and confronted two unwieldy tits. They were very big. Not in a porn star way, at least. Just a pair of fat tits, attached to her.

“Buh?” she said. Even her spit felt thick. She had to swallow it down. “My—boobs. What are these… boobs.”

“I wrote out a schedule but we are already slow on it,” Trey said. He seemed legitimately concerned. “Austin gets home tomorrow. I don’t think you’re—what do you most want to do, right now?”

Meghan stared at him. Her hands came up to knead at her boobs. Her big boobs. They felt good, although stroking them wasn’t doing much for the sludge in her head. She needed coffee, or a good dicking down. “I think I gotta pee,” she said.

“Yeah, okay, fair,” Trey conceded. “But first…”

He brought out the spray bottle that Meghan dimly recalled from—a few days ago? When she’d been—different? This time he sprayed the pink cloud right into her face. Meghan inhaled. It smelled like it looked, a bright cotton candy with all the nuance of a county fair. It was divine. Where it coated her face it smelled like raspberry candy.

“Okay, lets see. Meghan, why am I here?” Trey said. He knelt in front of her. Meghan was so distracted. Her boobs were not accurate to her body, that was clearly an entire thing. She had a nose full of the most amazing scent. Behind Trey, on TV, the cooking show was not as innocent as she’d earlier thought. The cook needed to put a top on. She could burn her boobs.

“I don’t… plumbing?” Why WAS he here? The cotton candy in her head hadn’t gotten any better once she’d inhaled even more. Was there something wrong about him spending the night? Or was that—her head buzzed with the unpleasant effort of thoughts—sorta elitist? “Can you just tell me?” she said, eventually. That seemed to make the pink mist happy. It rewarded her with generous doses of serotonin. Her new tits glowed, pleased.

“I’m finalizing for the customer,” Trey said. He seemed a little relieved. “But first, go pee.”

Meghan put herself back together while Trey did her makeup. Not actually did it—she did the actual work of application. But he brought in the enormous and well-organized kit full of every type of cream, tube, and powder. It was in a black nylon cube with heavy-duty zippers. He told her everything.

“Eight steps,” he told her, not for the first time. “I know its tempting to slather on lipstick and a bit of blush and call it a look. But no. Primer, foundation, concealer. Moisturize—how many times a day are we moisturizing, Meghan?”

“A lot,” Meghan recited back. She hadn’t—memories were getting a little fuzzy, but she felt pretty certain on this one—she hadn’t been a big girl for makeup.. She’d gone for Standard Face, with no obvious blemishes. Trey was at an entirely different level.

“Eyes and lips are the key to the sexy, submissive, housewife look,” he told her, while she nodded, trying to take it all in. “They are always on. Always. The only question you need to ask is, how stupid and slutty do I want to look today?”

“Uh,” Meghan responded. This was such a departure from the nervous, uncertain Trey. He paced behind her, occasionally pulling out new product from his magic bag. None of them had brand names Meghan recognized—they were generally in clear packaging or had names like NEWTHOT in industrial writing.

She did her best, which Trey hated. He had her clean it all off, until her face stung from alcohol wipes. “Meghan, I want you to think of it this way,” he said, pursing his hands and sitting on the stool. “Austin is on his way home. He’s had a bad day at work. What is he going to see when he gets home?”

“Door,” Meghan answered. She giggled happily.

“Okay, maybe a little too strong on the spray,” Trey said. “Okay. He opens the door. You’ve got dinner ready, right?”

“Well—yeah,” Meghan said. She struggled to put her brain into gear. The entire morning felt like a carnival, a dream she wasn’t quite able to wake up from. Surely any moment now she’d actually wake up, in plain grey pajamas, and her face free of oils and creams. “No—I’m.. typically we get pizza…”

“Dinner is ready and it’s amazing,” Trey said. He took a tube of red lipstick, the shiniest, most candy-apple one on hand, and uncapped it. He handed it to her. “You’ve got a martini in a tumbler in the freezer. Everything is immaculate. You’re wearing—what?”

The fantasy sunk in. It was too vivid to ignore. “Fuck dress,” Meghan said. A sundress, but daringly short, in bright yellow stripes. Bright white heels, a burst of sunshine as he walked through the door. “No undies.”

“Great,” Trey said, encouraging. He made a motion with his hand, and Meghan copied it. She outlined her lips in bright red lipstick, and then smacked them together. Her new big boobs jiggled pleasantly. “And then?”

“I can’t—” the answer to the puzzle came clear, very suddenly. She couldn’t eat herself with all that lipstick on. It’d smear. So she had to suck his dick during dinner, underneath the table. Which also explained why she kept the floor so clean. “Oh. Right.” Another soft giggle, but pleased. It was all a nice puzzle.

Trey twisted her towards the mirror. She was adorned and perfect. Powdered and rouged, with just a bit too much mascara, to communicate that she was a bit of a whore. “Perfect,” Trey judged.

The new clothes, the shoes, all of that arrived in a very steady stream. Trey let her make breakfast—sausage links and french toast, a very big helping—and then ordered her back onto the couch. The shows were very happy to see her. “Meghan,” the naked girl on the screen said. There was just a slight electronic hitch to her name. “You must clean for your husband. He’s your protector. Your provider. Rub your pussy if you understand.”

Of course she did. Trey, busy unwrapping cardboard boxes, didn’t seem to mind. After some unsatisfying rubbing she took the initiative and tore herself away from the screen, legs wobbling. Trey seemed concerned until she returned with sex pillow, her old standby, and thrust it between her legs. The first orgasm came along almost immediately.

After that it was an easy morning. Trey had to get her to try on outfits, from time to time, but he made sure she never had to look away from the screen for any length of time.. Plus the outfits he’d gotten were very cute. “I went about half and half with frazzled slutty housewife and classy chic homemaker,” he said, pulling out a half-dozen pairs of tights. So those were the slutty ones, Meghan supposed. “And a dash of costumes. Some tiger MILF, a cheerleader, you get the picture.”

Meghan slid on a tube dress. It was either rubber or something similar. Her new and still-growing boobs didn’t fit in it, half-popping out, and showing off a lot of aureole. She giggled again. Everything was just fun and hot. Whatever concerns she had about this, about drizzling the couch with girl juice, was buried way underneath the reassuring patter on TV.

“You’re so good at this, Trey!” she said, enthusiastic. “I look sooooo hot!”

Trey looked bashful. He stared at the ground, trying to avoid the compliment. “I mean, this is the part I got good at,” he said, shy. “Dad did the electronics and the chemicals and the plumbing, I got really good at the clothes and the makeup and the toys.”

“Toys?” Meghan said. Somewhere, way inside of her, a part of Meghan wanted to know why she was half-naked with this man. The dress was cinched up around her hips, and her pussy was very visible.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll see. Just keep eating and keep stroking and keep watching, alright? You can do that for me?”

It sounded great, and she fell back with a delighted squeal. “You’re having a lot of fun,” the TV reassured her. The girl on screen was masturbating, just like her. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? You have all day to you, to indulge, to rub, to cum. And all night is his, to stroke you, fuck you, use you. It’s a well-balanced relationship! Cum now. Get a little more stupid!”

She did, and how.

“This is a test,” Trey told her. “We’re getting really close, you’re almost done. Okay?” Meghan nodded, eager. She was so excited.

“Clean!” She bounded into the kitchen, heels tapping. Trey had put a load of dishes next to a tub of soapy water. Meghan pranced up to it, stopping only to snap on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. Trey had done her nails in a super pretty pink gloss, with a spiral effect, and it would be a shame to chip them. She set to the dishes with a will. After a moment, she felt a firm but insistent pressure on her back, and obligingly bent forwards.

A rubbery vibrator, very large, teased at her slit.

Meghan wavered for a moment, then just spread and set her legs. “Good!” Trey enthused, shoving it all the way in. Meghan dropped a plate, which, to her enormous relief, landed safely in the water. She diligently kept at the scrubbing, working around the long length of dick inside of her. Even when it started to hum.

He left it in during cooking.

The intensity gradually ratcheted up, until she was a wet, squirmy disaster, legs threatening to give out as she worked at the stove. Nonetheless she managed a passable croque monsieur. Trey had completely restocked the pantry, fridge, and refrigerator with every possible necessary. New thoughts floated around: she could perhaps use the mustard for dinner, in the instant pot. They interrupted the sex haze, and the relative normalcy of them made Meghan pause. What was she—was she really gallivanting around in a rubber dress, leaking pussy juice on the floor? She was an editor, for god’s sake.

But then the vibrator picked up another notch.

“Okay, go, go!” He urged her on into the office, where he’d already set up trash bags and bins. “Quick, all of the books!” Meghan had to laugh, even as she plunged in, tossing stacks of personal favorites into the trash. What was this even supposed to test her on? It hardly mattered, she was sweating, cumming, and moaning as she went, stuffed like a turkey and throwing Thomas Hardy into a bin. Sweat pooled around her tits.

“Why are—” she had to gasp for breath. When had she gotten so out of shape? The image in the zoom camera reflection was wider, even verging on chubby, with wet round thighs that quivered underneath the vibrating onslaught.

“We’re donating them!” Trey said. He snapped his fingers. “Don’t think about it! Just clean them up!”

Clean, that’s what she was doing. Books were dusty and dead. And it wasn’t like she was going to read them. Even the bits of words she could see, as they toppled over into the trash, were suddenly nonsensical, silly. She needed—magazines, that was it. Trashy-ass shit magazines with lots of pictures.. She tossed out a portfolio of her personal short fiction. It occurred to her that she knew absolutely nothing about celebrities. She’d have to do something about that.

It also occurred to her—why was zoom on?

Meghan looked over. There was the editorial staff, staring at her, manicured and mannered eyebrows raised. They all of them wore glasses, heavy-set ones, and most wore black. When she’d bent over to dump more literature it was pretty clear she’d put her sopping wet slit right in front of the camera. They could probably even see the humming piece of plastic inside of her.

The sound was muted. Tom, head of editorial, clearly said “wow”, if she was any good at reading lips.

Trey slammed the lid of the laptop closed, hustled her away. “Okay, almost there!” he said, enthusiastic. He seemed so completely sure of himself, so ready for the moment. He walked with definitive steps. “One thing left! Every housewife’s dream! Fuck the delivery man!”

Oh, god, yes.

The weight of the fantasy slammed into her, driving out any sudden horror at showing her privates, her newly fat ass, to colleagues. Fuck the man at the door. The last little bits of her guilty pre-Trey self found a tiny bit of purchase. Fucking the delivery guy was praxis. It was like leaving out water bottles and snacks, but with her tits.. Meghan stumbled towards the door, swung it open.

A female delivery girl was there. She didn’t look right—she was just pressing away at the doorbell, over and over. Each time she shuddered, eyes wet and glassy. There was a huge damp patch in her bicycle shorts.

“Oh, huh,” Trey said. For just a half-second he lost his composure. Then he turned, pointing at Meghan, commanding. “Work with it!”

Yes, yes of course she could. Meghan took the woman’s hand. She had a long black braid and wore a reflective vest. She smelled like the road. She seemed to be trying to say something, but couldn’t recall English. Meghan half-threw her onto the couch and peeled down her shorts. The woman had a big black bush and was absolutely drenched. Meghan had never gone down on a woman before. She dove in. This was all part of being a good hostess.

It was very rewarding. For her. Her thighs quaked. She was sure she wasn’t orgasming, because she’d already done that. This was something more. The delivery girl tasted so good. She was being such a perfect, wonderful housewife, so clean, so inviting, so wet, so horny—

Meghan, perfect mistress, didn’t black out until her guest already had.

“She’s all set,” Trey said. “Quality tested, ready to go.”

“Great, that’s great,” Austin said. He didn’t sound very happy.

Austin?

Meghan tried to swivel her head around. She was, after all, a highly educated and well-trained woman of the world. She would fight through the pink puffy clouds of sex. Just not yet.

“Everything good, then?” Trey said.

“Sure, yeah…. Well….”

Well?

“...is it too late to change the package?”

Meghan managed to open her eyes. Her conviction, her certainty, that she was an important girl with lots of smarts immediately started to fade. For one thing, she had her legs spread far too wide.

Trey sat next to her with his phone in front of him. He looked tired. Seeing her slowly, slowly opening her eyes, he gave her what grin he could manage. It wasn’t much.

“Change the package?” he said, very professionally.

“I don’t know. 50s housewife. I guess I thought it made sense but I think I was just—part of me wanted the chores, part of me thought it’d be ironic. I don’t know. I was looking at old Betty Crocker stuff on youtube. Is that really what I’m getting?” Her husband said.

“That’s half of it,” Trey said. “It’s a mix of housewife and slut. It’s a good choice, the interplay between the two has a lot of variety. Brings you a gin martini, then sucks you off. It’s VERY popular.”

“Okay,” Austin said, “Sure. But its not like I drink martinis. And… so I got a three-day slut spray for the trip, you know? And that was really fun? So.. I was thinking about just going with Bimbo Slut?”

“Bimbo slut,” Trey said, heavily. He rubbed Meghan’s leg. She was doing her best to follow the conversation, but it wasn’t making much sense. Probably because she was just a silly girl.. Meghan sucked on a sticky finger. She should probably start getting dinner ready, but the conversation seemed important.

“Can you do that? I mean, I know I—I’ll certainly pay.”

“I can do Bimbo Slut in—its very simple. I mean, it makes her very simple. You read the brochure? It’s really basic, mostly a blowjob and fuck toy. Really, a toy with a name. That’s what you want?” Trey said. There was a strong hint of “you don’t want this.”

Pause on the line. “Yeah, I think I do,” Austin said. “Again…”

Trey hung up.

He regarded her. She gave him her most warm, willing smile. “Everything okay?” she said.

“Yeah. I guess,” Trey said. He stood up and paced. “I don’t know. Never had to—I wonder if—” he broke off. “I mean, I know what Dad would say.”

“What’s that?” Meghan said. She tried to stand up. It didn’t go really well. She was still wearing the rubber dress, with most of it wrapped around her stomach. Her big boobs were slick and heavy. Back down she went.

“The customer is always right.”

“That’s so… ummmm… what’s the word?,” Meghan said. The TV was on, as usual, but something was different. It was just a black screen. No porno, no captions, no anything.

It was just too much darn trouble to recall all the other stuff Meghan was trying to come up with. Her education and stuff. No doubt it’d occur to her.. Instead she could easily lie back and enjoy another wonderful day. Wake up, blow her husband, make breakfast. Or reverse that order, for a nice change. Spend hours just sitting in the sunlight, working on her tan, something buzzing away between her legs.

It sounded so nice. And Trey—he had made it happen, hadn’t he? Something about her plumbing? Whatever it was, she felt very grateful. She smiled at him, sincerely. Something emerged from the scabbed over remnants of her vocabulary. “Professional! That’s what you are! Wow! That’s such a long word!”

“Yeah. It is.”

He looked out the window.

“Alright,” Trey looked up. “Dad, this one is for you. After this… we’ll see. Meghan… it was very nice to meet you.”

He stood up and looked around for the remote. When he found it he squeezed his eyes shut, and then plugged in a number. The TV flashed. Meghan had to look.

It was—hardcore.

Sex. Just straight sex, the camera as close as it could nearly be. Everything glistened under harsh overhead porno lights. An enormous cock was pushing as hard as it could, back and forth, into a dribbly overstuffed pussy. It already had a load or two in it, judging by how much cum was already soaking it.. Meghan expected the camera to pan away, or cut to at least some faces, tense and hot. But no, it was just—that. The dick, the cunt. Pounding into each other.

Over and over. She stared at it.

It was pretty hot.

“Six hour timer… and done,” Trey said. He risked a glance at the subject.. She had already started to drool. “Make that a four hour timer.”

Could he…?

No.

Trey rubbed at his face. He squinted with one half-eye open at the screen. The spiral was working correctly. The closed captioning just reiterated “YOU ARE A TOY”. It would phase out pretty quickly. Bimbo Sluts couldn’t read.

He located her well-worn hump pillow and put it next to her, along with the vibrator. And a glass of water.

Maybe he’d drive by in a few weeks to check in. Customer care, that’s what it was.

It was done, and all by himself. Trey brought in the mail, swept up, and checked the pulse of the showerhead brain blaster one last time. He let himself out through the back door. On the way out to the truck, on the side path in the backyard, he found his missing green cable.