The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jenny is a literary assistant—in a statistics office. She works for Statistics and Social Research and Development Canada, a part of the Canadian government that has gone under three previous names in just as many years. The department’s identity crisis is ongoing, as is Jenny’s boredom.

It’s not clear to me what a literary assistant does; she’s never calculated any ANOVAs. She tends to sit in her office each day dusting her desk, maybe looking out the window, or imaging that she has a big important job while she spins around in her chair. They were nice enough to give her a swivel chair, at least, that way she can push with her feet off the wall and go rolling across her room. I hear her doing that from time to time, hear the wheels of her chair through the ceiling above me.

Jenny was never given any work and spent most of her days senselessly bored. She was the token female who had been hired to promote an image of gender equality within the company, according to Jake the copy guy. (You’ll hear more about him later.) As such, most of her colleagues thought of her as unqualified, though none of them had ever seen her resume. Nobody ever asked her to perform any work, nobody asked Jenny to do anything. She just wasn’t one of the boys—she didn’t ‘fit in’.

Ironically, Jenny had escaped financial oppression by the payroll system. She got paid half of what a man with the same position earned—for absolutely none of the work.

She happens to be on the payroll, so her employers naturally conclude that she is there for something other than being a token female employee in an all-male office. Boredom being what it is, her most productive hours are spent masturbating. It’s what any man would do in his office, except that she requires an outlet.

Though, they’ve recently just come out with these new D size batteries.

Her coworkers like to eye-hump her as she walks the hallways during lunch.

Because Jenny tends not to sleep with every man who wishes she would, she’s developed a reputation as being something of a slut. Big slut. Mega slut. So slutty she needs cucumbers when all the boys are spent and the power is out. That’s what my friends say, anyway. Maybe that’s porn talking, though.

I see Jake a lot when I pass the typing pool with my supply cart. A few of the men are usually eye humping the women about the time I pass by each day, talking about how easy the female employees would fall under their spells, how easily women’s bodies would betray them and reveal what they really wanted, no matter how many times they said “No”. That’s why they dressed the way they did—it was subconscious, or Freudian, or something. The guys often talked about where they wished some of the girls would be—which tended to be on their couches or in their kitchens or, sometimes, bent over the boss’ desk.

When I pass the typing pool at 3 o’clock each afternoon and see the men standing there around the cooler, talking, I like to buy orange juice from the vending machine in the hall.

At about 3 o’clock each afternoon, I consider reconsidering my policy of giving Jake my undivided attention while he talks about women. One might believe, listening to Jake, that real life women were a lot like the girls from dreamland, the ones with with playboy playmate bodies who could cook up a feast in a flash, fuck on demand after dessert, and suck the jizm out of a blue whale.

Jenny. Just saying her name is enough to make my cock push against my pants. Each time I get into dreaming about her, the blood leaves my head and an altogether ‘other’ intelligence takes over. Jenny. Jenny, Jenny...

…enny. Jenny, the girl who spends her days with a vibrator, supposedly.

Jake told me that.

Jenny says vibrators and vegetables are better than men.

Well…

She never said that; Jake the copy-man said that. He said she was a mega slut and that she loves anal during lunch. I don’t believe him; Jake’s what they call full of shit. It’s hard for me to describe that in words, because it’s metaphorical, but it’s similar to the feeling I get when I look at my orange juice and the label proclaims, very proudly, that it’s made with 5% juice!!

He punches his wife, too.

One day he slapped one of the girls—Olivia—on the ass when she walked by. She didn’t really say anything, she just hurried on, and Jake grinned. It was all good, he insisted; football players slapped each other’s asses all the time. He was just letting Olivia know she was part of the team, one of the boys. That’s all.

Shortly after, during the afternoon break, I was under one of the counters fixing a copy machine. Jake was at the window, playing solitaire, when Olivia walked in. She grabbed some coffee from the pot. I watched her from afar, from the darkness under the counter, just noticed things about her, paid attention. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been crying, and she grabbed her coffee and walked out before Jake took notice. He never noticed those kind of things. Jake was the kind of man who pushed everyone away from him. I wasn’t sure if he did it intentionally, or if he was just a jerk. Being a jerk did seem to come naturally to him, though.

Maybe I’m too soft spoken. I try to speak up sometimes, because what the world tells me and what I decide on my own tend to be different, but nobody takes me seriously. That—and my current state of youthful angst—has left a lot of broken dishes around the house. That’s Freudian too, I think

I think it means I want to fuck my mother.

I’m not all anger. I do have dreams, though for the sake of living I try to dream at night and stay awake during the day. But Jenny... I just can’t seem to help but dream about her during the day. She just does things to me.

Oh, right, my job... I fix copy machines.

When I fix machines my mind goes blank and my hands do all the thinking. They work furiously, connecting this to that, forming relationships between parts they don’t fully understand. But those things work when I’m done with them, I just have an eye for fixing stuff and fiddling with cords and circuits.

Fixing machines of any kind tends to bring my racing mind to a pause. I find solace in it, a short respite from the realities of daily life. When I stick my head into a machine, I can avoid the things that lurk above them. I feel at peace, out of sight.

One time Jenny walked into the copy room while I was in there with my head in one of the cabinets and the rest of my body sticking out, sprawled like a starfish on the floor with its head in a cave.

“Hi, William. How are you?” she said. She was always friendly.

I froze; she does that to me. She does other things, too...

“Hi,” I finally managed to croak.

“My god,” Jake said, a moment later. “That’s quite an erection.”

I kept my face in the shadows a bit longer that day, let me tell you.

I haven’t told anyone—because I think they’ll laugh—but I do think the best thing a man can ever give a woman is his time. Time is not something I’m going to waste on any girl that I see on the street who gives my cock a good flutter just by walking by.

I’m saving my time for Jenny. Dreams take time.

Jenny. Jenny…

…enny. God yes, that’s great. What I wouldn’t do to have one of the secretaries here to clean me up.

See?

Did you catch that?

Snuck right in there, right under the radar. The world has a way of doing that to you—spoiling you before you fully know it. One day, you’ll wake up or catch yourself doing something, and you’ll wonder if you were really in control of yourself. And you’ll think:

“What was that?”

Ya, keep dreaming.

I’m being very conscious about women today because I’ve finally decided to ask Jenny out on a date.

Jake told me that the way to introduce myself was to feel her up and make her feel like a woman, but I decided later that a better approach would be to say “hello”. I bought her some really rare flowers—very expensive—that I spent my whole lunch hour searching for. I hope they won’t make me look needy, and my voice cracks enough as it is. I broke three dishes this morning to get rid of the stress. Mom wasn’t happy about that, but I said that the alternative was to follow the actions of all the other men I know and take my anger and self-pity out on women. At that point she came around and she hugged me. Then she patted me on the shoulder and rubbed my cheeks in that tender motherly way. She thinks I’m cool.

I’m not supposed to think this way about my mother, but she has big soft tits. Breasts—I mean. I’m strictly observing, mind you.

I swear.

It’s not like she can help them sticking out there and getting in the way—they’re just so big. So of course I notice.

Some of the girls at school have really big tits—breasts—whatever.

The point is…

There’s a girl in my grade ten English class called Tammy. She’s got a pair of 28FF knockers—breasts—whatever. I know that because the boys in my class broke into her locker the other day and stole one of her bras. They ran around with it, taunting her, and hung it up from the flagpole at home time. I was walking out of school when I saw her crying and jumping up against the pole. Her hands were switching back and forth between wiping her eyes and trying to climb.

Two things made me sad about that.

First, her tears made her hands too wet to climb, which caused her to cry more, which caused her to wipe her eyes with her hands.

Second, she was out of bras, and her breasts were bouncing around in her shirt—much to the delight of all the boys who were watching. No matter what she did, she could not escape that humiliation.

Jenny is not a woman with large breasts. Jake the copy-man said once that he saw her tits and that they were the size of apples. He said they were the perfect size for grabbing and pulling when he was doing anal to Jenny, whom apparently loves anal during the lunch hour.

I really must stop even pretending to listen to Jake.

Even if I tune him out, he continues to talk just because I’m around fixing the machines. Jake says he’s a machine, but there’s no way I’m fixing him. I don’t go to bathhouses—not that bathhouses are bad places to go. Wherever these bathhouses that the churches keep ranting about are, they sound like clean places nonetheless.

Where was I? I’m rambling. Oh yes, Jenny. Jenny…

…enny. Jenny. Oh yes, that’s it. Hey, I’m nervous okay? Don’t worry, I’ll get back to Tammy and her huge breasts. Suffice to say that her role in this story is far from over. But Jenny’s story with me starts with the flowers I’m holding as I stand in front of her office door. I’m going to ask her out on A DATE.

They’re blue flowers with tinges of violet around the edges of the pedals, and the eye—or middle—or whatever—of the flower is a bright sun yellow. The stems, as you might predict, are forest green.

I knocked on Jenny’s door with a gentle rapping.

Too gentle it seemed, because she didn’t hear me. If Jake were here, he would have told me she couldn’t hear me over the motor of her vibrator, but I think I was just nervous. I worked up my balls and knocked again, louder. I hadn’t jerked off in a few days, because saving up one’s sperm really helps to enhance a man’s personality and confidence.

“Come in,” she called to me from the other side of the door. I stepped into her office and stood in front of her desk.

“Will you go out with me?” I asked, awkwardly. I held out the flowers.

“Hello to you, too.” she grinned. Then she gasped, and she took the bunch of flowers from my hands, smiling from ear to ear. “Are these for me?”

“To decorate your office.” I blabbered nervously. Jenny was wonderful. She had the most flowing blond hair I’d ever seen, and she looked killer in a white blouse and black skirt. She was showing shins even; that was what they called risqué. Then, screwing up my courage, I admitted that I hadn’t thought of her office at all recently and that I had in fact been completely occupied with thinking about her. She seemed to like that. As she smiled I almost caught sight of a tear in her eye.

But it was just a glimmer of light reflecting in her beautiful eye,crawling across the curve of her iris.

Then she cried.

“Nobody ever brings me flowers!” she sobbed, happily. “Everyone here treats me like I’m just some useless woman!”

I’m not that smart. I know this because so many other people (mostly Jake) have noticed, and at first I thought I’d hurt Jenny somehow. Then I realized, when she hugged me and began to rip off her blouse—and her bra—that she was really quite happy with me.

But more on that later.

I’m sorry, but I must really make a detour here.

It occurred to me, at some point, that my love of hugging my mother was not simply some Oedipus complex. I just couldn’t seem to get enough of her breasts. I love her breasts. I love breasts for the sake of breasts. It’s my focus.

I have only one theory for this, and I came to it on accident. One night when my father was beating the shit out of my mother, he yelled at her for bearing a broken child. He said it was her fault I was stupid—that she was why I felt best around toys, puzzles and machines rather than people—and that his legacy would never live on because no woman would want an idiot like me for a husband. He also said it was her babying that had messed me up, and that she never should have breast-fed me until I was six and a half.

Amazing really, that I never bit off a nipple. She’s a brave woman.

Mother still has those milk-filled knockers—breasts. When father was not roughly manhandling her breasts and calling it foreplay, mother had her breasts supported and covered in a maternity bra. She did this because they tended to leak, and because she cooked and handled food a lot, and because she spent long hours leaning over the counter making food that father would always criticize.

I was thinking about my mother when I happened to find Tammy (you remember her? We’re back to that plot line now) jumping up and down at the flagpole in the schoolyard, crying and climbing in vain while the boys laughed, watched and jacked-off in the bushes. She gave up after some time—a long time after all the boys had left, as they had lasted only a few minutes. When she had resigned herself to sitting against the flagpole, crying and wrapping her arms around her knees, a gust of wind came. The wind blew her bra off from the top of the flagpole, and sent it sailing through the air until it landed with one cup over my head.

Tammy. Tammy. Tammy…

…ammy. Sorry. But it was a great moment for me.

Tammy wore the same kind of bra as my mother, which meant that there was a possibly maternal reason why her breasts were so big. Maybe the wet stains in her shirt, punctuated by her nipples, had something to do with her stupendous development; already a 28FF at the age of sixteen.

There was no reason for this to be so. I have read many textbooks in my spare time and there is no reason for a girl of sixteen, or a mother with a seventeen-year-old son, to have breasts that still hold milk or are so very huge.

Unless, maybe…

Tammy was a portent alluding to my mother.

As my pastor was sometimes known to say about miracles, “It was meant to be”. The divine creator of this world—or the writer or whoever—had deemed breasts an important element in my story. This is why my mother breast-fed me for so long; it was her purpose to foster my love of breasts even if she hadn’t known it was so. There was a connection here. Well.... I thought so.

After having the bra land on my head, I made one of the best decisions I’d ever made, one of the reasons for why, I think, Tammy’s milk laden breasts were so meant to be. Instead of laughing, pointing, or running around with her bra in the air like a streamer and shouting out her private measurements to the whole world like the other boys would have done, I walked up to her and gave her back her bra. Her face just lit up.

No one else, I am sure, would have done the same.

After a brief conversation, some eye candy that I discreetly enjoyed, and some “thank yous”, she kissed me on the cheek and ran off waving. She said she’d talk to me the next day she saw me, which was nice, because I didn’t have any friends and usually spent my recesses showing the teachers how to work the new-fangled copy machines.

There was more to Tammy than her breasts, of course. She was a wonderful person all around, and seemed to take an interest in me and what I did, asking me questions. She listened to me, and found my knowledge of copy machines to be thrilling, somehow. Perhaps she liked me enough to tolerate my knowledge of copy machines; maybe that was it. Either way, it was meant to be. It had to be that way. It was fate. We fit together too smoothly, and she provided too many familiar vibes to be just a random stranger.

That episode with Tammy at the flagpole with the boys laughing and jacking off in the bushes gave me the courage to ask Jenny out ona date over the weekend. Tammy told me that I was a good person, and that clearly, if I wasn’t going to stand around and talk shit about women, I possessed the right stuff to get along well with them.

I hadn’t jerked off in some time, and I could feel my full balls improving my confidence by the day.

Jenny worked weekends because no one else would, except for Jake. She got Mondays and Tuesdays off because of this... though really she worked seven days a week because she cleaned house and did laundry on those days. So she worked seven days and got paid for five, which was socially acceptable and fair, apparently. It was Saturday when I decided to ask Jenny out—despite the existence of the aforementioned boyfriend. I had talked to Tammy on Friday, and assumed she would forget about me by Monday and that the boosting effects of her compliments would wear off by then. Not even being full of unspent semen could enhance me so greatly. So I had to act on the high right away!

Fate was at work!

So now I come full circle back to where I realized, when Jenny hugged me and began to rip off her blouse and her bra, that she was really quite happy to go out with me after my asking. So happy in fact, that she mounted me with the grace of an equestrian rider and eased her wide womanly hips over my lap and lowered her pussy onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

I get ahead of myself.

I don’t want to be premature. Honest.

Rewind; I’ve just walked into her office and handed her the flowers.

“Nobody ever brings me flowers!” she sobbed, happily. “Everyone here treats me like I’m just some useless woman!”

She cried. She hugged me. She stuck her small chiselled nose into the fresh batch of flowers I’d brought her. Pollen misted around the flowers as her face disturbed the arrangement.

“What kind are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But the robed man I bought them from said they were really rare. Spellbinding, in fact.”

That robed man had laughed like one of those evil villains you see on teevee. When I took the flowers from his cart in the park, and when I went back to see if I could get some more for my mother, he was gone; then I heard him laughing and realized he’d just started rolling the other way. He called after me and grinned (though he didn’t seem to have much of a choice about his grinning expression). He said: “The flowers will bring you fortune and change the life of any woman you give them too, and I figured you could use that. Consenting parties be damned!”

The bone-white, grinning, robed figure in the park had assured me that these flowers were instilled with magic. They would put a woman under a spell without her knowing, sure, but that’s what a good man was supposed to do. Good people were naturally endowed with spells, the robed figure had said. Any woman who handled or breathed in the spell would benefit from great self-esteem and find herself inescapably happy—or horny. I don’t exactly remember which, but happy and horny tend to go hand in hand, if I have my wires straight. The point is that the flowers were to be a surprise.

Back to Jenny’s office...

“Ah!” Jenny sighed, “They smell wonderful. Thank you….” She paused, embarrassed and perplexed.

“William.” I said, helpfully.

“Thank you—William. You’re very sweet. Sorry I didn’t know your name, but I’ve only seen you fixing the copy machines around here a couple of times before. You’re cute for a man,” she winked.

“You’re too kind,” I breathed, my voice taken away. Wow, a compliment.

“No,” she grinned, “just very naughty. I can’t meet a good looking man without thinking about how huge his prick might be.”

“What?” I asked.

“What?” she said, her nose still buried in her bouquet.

“You said something?”

“I said thank you. I appreciate it.” She shook her head, as if confused, as if checking to make sure that had indeed been what she’d said. Had something escaped her? I’m not good at reading faces, but experience had taught me that people look up and to the right when they are thinking really hard. Jenny was thinking very hard.

“The flowers mean a lot to me, William, because the guys make fun of you and put you down. These are proof they’re full of shit. I figure that if anyone understands my position here, it’s you.”

“What do the guys say about me?”

“Jake says your one of those high-functioning retarded kids. I don’t listen to him, he’s kind of an idiot.”

“Jake calls you a slut. He says he’s done anal to you.”

“Is that the rumour this week?” she smiled, tossing aside a bang of blond hair to keep it from sticking to her sweaty brow.

She tugged at the collar of her blouse.

Then she began to rip off her blouse and her bra because her tits were expanding rapidly into huge boobs the size of great pumpkins. Then she tossed everything off her desk, begged me to lay on it with my pants open, and then mounted me with the grace of an equestrian rider and eased her wide womanly hips over my lap, and her pussy down onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

I’m so sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself—again.

Rewind.

“Is that the rumour this week?”

“That’s the rumour every week.” I told her, taking her literally.

“Bah!” she scoffed. “What do they know... they’re men! I’ve been eating pussy for six years now, ever since first year college in fifty-seven. I’m a total sappho-slut.”

“What?”

Jenny looked at me with a cocked eyebrow. She thought really hard, looked up and to the right. My right, not her right, so her left, really, if you looked at it from her perspective. Thinking hard, anyway. Had something else escaped her?

“I’m pretty sure I said that I was a sappho-slut. I’m mostly vegetarian, but I could go for muscle,” she husked, grabbing me by my shirt collar and pushing me back with a knee pressed against my groin. She backed me up to her desk, took an enthusiastic swipe with her arm, and knocked all her desk items—one pen—to the floor. She huffed in triumph, and then worked her fingers into my pants, grinning at me like a girl reaching into her stocking on Christmas morning.

I didn’t know women acted this way, or could be so aggressive. Holy crap, what was I into? She was no copy machine.

She forced me down on her desk, which used to be mostly clear, but was now completely clear. I can’t remember if I told you this already. She had a pen, but it’s on the floor now beside the bunch of blue-violet flowers. She dropped those too, because she was reaching for the buttons on her blouse and kicking me kinkily in the groin. Her black skirt fell around her feet shortly thereafter.

It was then that her bra began to look fuller than before, when the breasts underneath that everyone assumed were apple-sized tuned out to be orange-sized, then grapefruit-sized. I began to sweat nervously and look around for other round objects, for reference’s sake. I ran dry of produce comparisons as she continued to grow and strain at her bra. There was a bowling ball on a wall-mounted shelf by the door, but she wasn’t there yet; she would be soon, but…okay there she went. And beyond!

As her bra fell to the floor, she bounced freely from it—before my very eyes. Her big, jiggly melons burst forth out of her bra, breaking the clasp between the cups.

And they got even bigger. Massive and growing more massive by the second, filling up like balloons... round and perky and firm.

Her blond hair glistened and fell around her, flowing over the tops of her tits—tits blossoming to full roundness as she panted and groaned, arching her back and laughing at gravity, her excited bouncing making her tits jiggle with every haughty breath.

The expression on her face was wild and savage, her mouth stretching at the edges, her teeth grinding like she was ready to burst at the seams. Her boobs looked so round and tight, like they were full. I’d seen boobs like that before... I knew milk-filled knockers when I say them. Breast, I mean. Sorry. And just when I thought her breasts were about to explode—they stopped growing.

Her nipples—once like little nubs—now clearly erect and rigid—were now long and hard. Milk began to run and drip.

A woman begins to look completely different when the size of her breasts each outdo the size of her head. Every tilt and twist of her body made her gigantic breasts wobble wildly, stopping only to hit her forearms or squeeze together. Her depth of cleavage, err character, was unrivalled.

Her big chest was obviously a sign. All the important women in my life had unusually large bust lines—or were getting them. What did it mean?

I felt a pleasant petting and clawing on my cock. Jenny seemed as eager as the slut everyone said she was (Though she wasn’t. It’s one of those opposite things, I think. I won the grade nine math competition for developing an equation to determine a woman’s true slut rating according to the perceptions of the men around her. It turned out to be an inverse.).

Jenny the slut was pulling out my stiff cock and gently licking and kissing its tip with her tongue, glossing her lips with the semen bubbling up out of my shaft. Then with gentle (and seemingly expert) fingers she held my cock straight and guided it into her wet pink folds. She eased her wide womanly hips over my lap, and her pussy down onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

Jenny had become the wet-dream-fuck-your-brains-out-licking-the-cum-off-your-spent-cock kind of woman.

After soaking my dipstick in her oil bath (choose your own euphemism, I’m tired), she called out to me, screamed, and came all over my chest, squirting silly-string ribbons of thick, musky female ejaculate all over my shirt, marking my chest with her scent.

Holy shit! Women do that?

I thought that was a myth, like Toronto or the clitoris.

“Make me feel like a real woman, Bob. You know what I want. I want it so badly, back there, Bob.” she whined. “Please!” she purred and husked. Or something.

After briefly trying to understand why she was calling me Bob, I gave up. There was no use in arguing; once she had wrapped her virgin anus tightly around my cock I stopped thinking altogether. The feeling was too amazing to think through. She popped the head of my dick in and out of her spasming anal hole, loosening herself up for the big plunge that was sure to come. I groaned breathlessly, unable to control myself, for each time the rim of her ass popped back and forth over the ridge of my cockhead I felt too good to think at all.

Jenny leaned back for a better angle of penetration and rode me like a stallion. It was blissful, hot, and not bad for my first time.

Don’t you dare tell anyone.

After cumming in Jenny’s ass and making her moan wildly, she wiped my cock clean and made plans for dinner. I said my “goodbyes” and my “thank yous” and began walking back home with the intention of making reservations by phone at a nice restaurant. I felt a bit jaded, almost tainted, because of what I’d done. Something Catholic came to mind, but it left quickly. I decided not to tell my pastor about Jenny or what I’d come to understand as my direction in life.

When Jenny’s breasts had grown, we’d both become very happy. Big boobies were awesome.

I walked out of the empty office and onto the street, only to be stopped by a woman holding ( by the hand) a child who was sucking on a lollipop.

The woman gasped and stared slack-jawed at my shirt and pants, which were stained with Jenny’s cum. She covered her daughter’s eyes quickly and hid the young child behind one of her legs. I’d completely forgotten to clean off my cloths or find a way to mask the deposits, or even do up my fly. I’d just been so dazed and happy. My first impulse was to wipe the sticky stuff off my shirt with my hands, but that just spread it around. It was an automatic reaction, fast and thoughtless, but it held my attention just long enough to distract me from the road I was standing on.

Then I got hit by a car.

I think that the divine creator—or writer—or whoever—of this world intended that I do what I did to punish and set straight the workers at my office. The only thing worse than coveting a woman by calling her a slut in frustration, I suppose, is coveting a woman who is an actual office slut who won’t give you any and then feeling frustrated because of that.

After I got out of the hospital and went back to the office, I started making regular visits to Jenny’s office for anal sex. Jenny always wants anal sex; she won’t have it any other way. She still calls me Bob, and won’t stop, so I’ve given up on trying to teach her my real name.

I like that phrase; anal sex. It rolls off the tongue well and sounds more important than just ‘sex’.

It feels good, too.

And since Jenny didn’t do much work before, she found something else to fill her desk; anal lube and cucumbers. She says she still reverts to her vegetarian roots every once in a while when I’m not around, but that sometimes she still craves mussel. I’m not sure what she means by that exactly, but I’ve told myself not to worry about it. Jenny’s not so bored during the day anymore and that’s what counts. Work is fun.

Jenny is no longer bothered by her token status, either. She put a sign up on her door that reads ‘Down Is The New Up’, which is a reference to how high she feels whenever she goes down.

As a joke, Jake drew a sketch of a glass ceiling on that sign. I don’t get the that whole glass ceiling thing, and neither does Jenny. She’s too blond and dumb to read good now, so I don’t feel so alone in being called stupid by other office workers. Jenny and I are closer than we’ve ever been. Jenny’s happier than she was when she was smart, bored, and feeling useless.

Eventually, Jenny quit her government job and started a career at a local bar, dancing naked on a stage and rubbing up against metal poles. She was really good at it, and a lot of the times she made private appointments in a back room with some very lucky people. She really loved her new job, especially because she didn’t have token status anymore. The girls outnumbered the guys the guys there, by far. She and the other girls just loved to talk about clothes and make-up, and she had so much fun just laughing and trying on new outfits and feeling sexy and smiling and twirling her hair with her finger and chewing pink bubblegum. . After Jenny left she was no longer an object of desire around the office, and the rest of the men in the office began moping around sadly, ordering hookers and contracting the flu. When they all caught the flu they were sent home, where once Jenny was out of their heads, they fell back in love with their wives and started reviving their marriages.

Good stuff, balance.

The thing I’ve come to realize about Karma—as I’ve come to call it, because I heard the name off the teevee—is that it’s not just about bad things happening to bad people. Sometimes, if you are a good person, Karma will knock you down before something good happens to you so that your ego won’t get too big. After I got knocked over by a slow-moving car with bad brakes; after Jenny fucked my brains out and licked the cum off my spent cock; after she kneed me in the groin as pre-payment for that pleasure, Tammy came to see me in the hospital during a follow-up exam before dinner

She had actually remembered me!

My mission with her was obviously far from over because she was still around, it seemed, and I was glad for that. It had been quite a while, what with my time in the hospital and a week spent with Jenny at the office. Tammy is a wonderful woman.

I was glad because through divine messagery I’d come to realize that sticking your cock in a woman’s ass can solve all her problems, and that anal sex feels good. It was just a matter of how and when Tammy was going to ask for anal sex, and what her problem was.

I know it seems like a crazy conclusion to make, even a hard one for some of you to believe, but such is faith.

Nineteen-Sixty Three was a good year for many women.

I had a really nice nurse—or a really mean one depending on how you feel about hospital food—who brought Tammy extra food in secret just so that she could have dinner with me while I waited to get my reflexes tested. Tammy thanked me for the helping hand I’d given her in the school yard, which was funny because I hadn’t given her a hand at all... just empathized.

For that, Karma would reward me.

I asked both women if they’d join me in saying Grace before eating, and it just so happened that I had some of that flower stuff still left on my hands.