The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On Saturday, Kylie met with what was left of her super-secret anti-Calving task group. It was the only clandestine group funded by and composed of of the Department of Agriculture.

“Kylie, I know you’re putting yourself at risk tonight,” her task leader said. Stephanie was always dressed in stark black, with not a pinch or dusting of makeup. “You know the precautions. Double them. Gloves and masks, ten minutes tops, cold shower.”

“Sure, Mom, sure,” Kylie said, and regretted it. They were all very paranoid about leaks, contamination, mistakes. There was no room for joshing about Mom. “Stephanie. Sorry. To be clear, Mom, not Mommy. And Stephanie, not Mom.”

“Mmm,” Stephanie said.

There were fewer zoom screens than there’d been a month ago. One by one they were running afoul of Calving and its insidious, endless, and impressive pro-fertility agenda. Peter was some thrusting bull hunk somewhere in upstate New York, living out his days balls-deep in Rita, another former agent. Ayesha had displayed her big bulging titties on screen and had been dismissed from service with the federal government. There were probably fewer than a hundred feds still working actively against the farming/dairy/bimbo cooperative. And that despite merging with the remnants of the FDA.

“Terri has been with Calving from nearly the start, so, if she’s here, it’s meaningful,” Stephanie said, in her short, clipped tones. Agency rumor said she’d suffered a close call with Calving, and had a healthy pair of sweater cows bound up beneath the black blouses. “I doubt they’d trust a female with anything complex, but who knows what she has lying around. Throw it all in the bag. Excuse me. I misspoke. Carefully place it in the bag, making sure not to break anything. Carefully.”

“Of course, Ms. Stephanie,” Kylie said.

She was perfectly willing to it to herself that she idolized Stephanie. The professionalism, the efficiency, the steel-cool gaze and the sang-froid cool. It was generally irable, and especially so in a time of scary national change.

“I saw a girl just chugging milk at the supermarket,” Bethany said, breaking in. She was sweating on camera, which was a bad sign. “The new Calving brand, the human milk one. It’s human milk, right? They aren’t even bothering to hide it! She was blonde. She just cracked it open and drank the entire carton, right there, spilling it on the floor. All over her—breasts. We’re losing, aren’t we? Aren’t we.”

They waited for Stephanie to calm them down.

“Every day, they get stupider,” Stephanie said. One of her reassuring catechisms for the nervous troops. Taylor had flinched during Bethany’s monologue—his Mom had dropped fifty pounds and apparently twenty years, and was “fucking her way through St. Petersburg,” as he put it. She was sixty-five and pregnant. “The lab is working as hard as we can on antidotes. Our job is sample retrieval.”

“I’ll bring us back a healthy load,” Kylie said, and cursed herself again. Bethany started to giggle, another bad sign.

She’d worked so hard to get people to take her seriously. But—she was a woman, she had an accent, and she had glossy dark black skin. Three strikes from the start. She had to be perfectly professional. Perfect.

Stephanie didn’t crack a smile, or react in any way. “Kylie—Agent Bankole. Good luck.”

In the event, Terri came to her.

“Knockity-knock!” Terri said, and somehow rapped on a door in a bimbofied way. An ultrafeminine knock. Crisp new adrenaline flooded Kylie. She looked through the door peekhole. On the other side, through a fisheye lens, was a big and wide pair of tits.

She’d been made? That couldn’t be the case—this was an AirBNB rental, and she’d only been there for a day. The air was still rental-esque, a stale potpourri from the aging flowers in the bathroom. Kylie had given herself static shock from the untouched and dusty furniture. So it had to be coincidence, and she needed to act normally. What would Stephanie do?

“One moment!” Kylie said. Protection. She needed protection. Even a breath from a Calving girl was laden with hormonal triggers and endorphin emitters. Kylie ran about, tossing open the windows. She strapped on a surgical mask. If Terri asked, she was getting over a cold. She wiped down her palms on the back of her jeans. Sweat was bad because it helped all the Calving oils and goos leech into the skin.

At least she had time—Calving girls didn’t mind staring at a door. They’d just toy with their hair or maybe touch themselves. And drool.

“Sorry, sorry, I was cleaning up,” Kylie said, coming face to face with the enemy. “I’m Kylie.”

There she was, all boobs and butt and fat plump lips. A parody of a parody of American sexuality, wrapped in denim and leaking all the time. She was more pregnant, and more present, than Kylie had imagined. There was just so MUCH to her...

“Housewarming!” Terri said, holding up a wicker basket. She strutted inside, and there was no stopping her. Her big belly led the way. “Or—I don’t know what the word is. When you’re working together? Coworkerwarming!”

Kylie had already gotten a strong whiff of the girl, and that wasn’t good. Calving girls didn’t just smell, they reminded others how important scent was. That they were animals. Animals liked scents. They were a good way of figuring out who was in heat.

“Uhh—and you are?” Kylie said. Terri flopped onto the couch. This was going poorly. Now the couch would have to go. It’d be drenched and potent.

Now the air smelled like strawberries and warm milk. It was kinda nice...

“Oh, come on, you know who I am!” Terri said. “You’re with the government folks! You’re keeping an eye on me! I figured I’d bring you some stuff to, I don’t know, say hi, Pastor Flynn says he really ires what a good job you’ve all done figuring stuff out and making dossiers and whatever. Don’t worry! Nothing in the basket will make you into a big breedy bimbo! Flag of truce! I would’ve flown one of those white flags but I’m fresh out of clean undies.”

She pushed the basket over. Kylie had no intention of touching it, but the only things in it were a hairbrush and some pennysavers.

“Yeah,” Terri said, looking at the contents. “I know. Kinda sad. All I could find that wasn’t full of chemical stuff was like, your mail. But the brush is good! Hmm. Actually, maybe don’t touch the brush, thinking about it. I might’ve used it. And not, like, to brush my hair.”

“Get out,” Kylie said, changing strategies. “Get the fuck. Out.”

It had a much stronger effect on Terri than Kylie had anticipated. She looked genuinely hurt.

“Get out?” Terri said. Her tinny voice trembled.

Kylie clenched her teeth. This was a strategy, being severe, but she was getting genuinely angry.

“Get the FUCK out, is what I said. Leave. Get out. What is this, a pity party? Look how much power we have, look how omniscient we are, we know exactly what you’re doing, its pointless to try? Everyone is going to end up exactly as knocked up, dumbed down, and tarted up as you? We’re not. Because we’re smart, and serious, and you aren’t. So. Get. Out.”

She started right into the big bimbo slut’s eyes. Then she pointed at the door.

Terri started to cry.

A big bimbo breaking into tears was a full-body performance. Her face turned a rich, mottled, tomato bisque red. All of her trembled, and since she was so much, she also jiggled and wiggled. Even her tears were excessive, enormous fat slut drops that made a creek on the way to her tits.

Kylie wasn’t sure what to do. She decided to point at the door again. The fury built up in her breast, and she tried to fight it down.

“You’re being SO MEAN!” Terri complained, sniffling. She decided to wipe her face with one of Kylie’s throw pillows. That would have to get thrown out. “We work SO HARD to be nice to you, and everyone, and give them pretty bodies that are so hot, and you’re SCOWLING at me! I brought you a gift basket!”

“You’re turning us all into—pigs! Cows!” Kylie shouted, exasperated. She watched Terri blow her nose into her own t-shirt. The amount of particles in the air was alarmingly high, even if they were technically non-sexy. She touched at her mask, to reassure herself.

“I know! And no one EVER thanks us!” Terri said, shaking her head. “And I mean, we’re trying so hard to be inclusive lately, we’ve been seeding clouds ALL over Africa, we put all that stuff in the water supply all across China, and the butter in Europe—I mean—I know its hard on you girls to get all dumb and stuff but you don’t have to be a BRAT about it! Do you have any tissues?”

“Not for you!” Kylie said. What in the world was even happening? She tried to recall her training—a good strategy was to try and engage the intelligence of these brainless bimbos. They tended to short out when called upon to think, or use large words. She watched Terri ineffectually dab at her moist breasts with her already-wet t-shirt. “You think you’re doing us all a favor? You think you’re making the world a better place or something?”

“Well, yeah!” Terri said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the waterworks had stopped, at least. “Duh! And I thought I was supposed to be the stupid one!”

It was all very frustrating. She was losing an argument to the intellectual equivalent of a house plant.

Her own family was Calving-converted, living a life of idle snacking and sexual excess. Her sister had popped out twins, and then topped herself with triplets. They were all on that road to conversion, thighs sticking together, tits hiding any view of their feet, differing only in minor details about how their pussies tasted. Kylie clenched her fists. Too MEAN? She was scheduled to pump out a dozen tykes in the next six years, at the least, her hard-earned career turned into moos and coos.

At best she’d be a flabby holdout, tormented by her own need for snack cakes, breast milk, and meat treats. Wobbling around in exercise gear, trying to hold herself south of two hundred twenty pounds, while sniffing the sex hormones of every man and woman she ed. That was the future for the fighters, she figured, drinking rainwater in the woods that was nonetheless laced with potent hormonal chemicals. Trying to hold her breath at the mall, before running home to rub out a guilty, dirty cum. If she was lucky she could hold on to just enough brains to read the occasional pamphlet, and keep her reproductive activity to a mere five or six. At BEST.

But more likely she’d follow her sister and mom into full excess. Kylie was well aware that her genetics wanted her full-rumped, and big-boobed, and shaped like a very juicy pear. There was nothing waifish or stick-like in her family history. The girls were feminine from tip to toe, bursting with natural health and very unprofessional curvature. From a fairly young age Kylie had been aware that she didn’t have the kind of body that people took seriously. There was too much ass from the get-go. And with Calving’s involvement? She’d be lucky to be humored, men giving her affectionate pats on the rump, about how cute it was she was trying to read at a sixth grade level.

No. It wasn’t going to go that way. She was part of the resistance.

And it was obvious that, as much as they pretended to inclusion, that Calving was really just interested in fat white sluts. They didn’t know what to do about girls with kinky hair. She could lead a troupe of dark women stealing food from old fridges. They’d throw Shakespearean festivals in deserted parks, and read Proust with abandon, easily outrunning pursuers that were fat and pregnant. She would find their leader, the elusive Pastor Flynn, and she would—

She was—

There was a clicking sound. Something tightened around her throat.

Terri was—Terri was BEHIND her, Kylie realized, horror-struck. How had—when had—no. No, her daydreaming was intended to keep her AWAY from Calving, not leave her in some horned-up reverie.

“Since you’re gonna be a bitch you gotta wear the collar,” Terri said, sternly. She was still sniffling and upset. How long had—

Her mouth was open, Kylie realized. Her mask was down around her chin and her mouth was open. And her legs were open too. Yes, she was wearing jeans, but there was still that signal that—if someone jammed their fingers up the cleft—she’d LIKE it.

“Take it OFF!” Kylie yelled. She pulled at the leather at her throat. It was a big collar. :”You stupid cow whore! Take it OFF me!”

“There’s no point being nice to me NOW,” Terri said. She wiped her nose on her arm. “I will leave the gift basket because we’re still neighbors. But I don’t have to stay here and take this big time meanness when I am just trying to make you into your hottest and most pregnant self. You’re welcome.. When you have six kids of your own, you’ll come back and thank me. If you who I am. Which I guess you probably won’t. So, bye, BRAT!”

She had the last word.

Terri flounced out the door, leaving Kylie with the gift basket, the brush, and the collar, pressing in to the soft parts of her throat.

SUNDAY

On Sunday, Kylie wore her collar.

It seemed to just be leather. It wasn’t slimy, or filmy, or anything else that Calving used to slip drugs into bloodstreams. It felt like leather.

Of course, it was plenty demeaning even without getting dipped in hormones. It wasn’t even plausibly a choker. It was a collar. It sat on her collarbones, perfectly sized for her neck, and had a large gold ring attached to the front with a gold plate. Calving being what it was, it was very possible it was actually gold, and she was wearing thousands of dollars of humiliating jewelry.

“Fuck,” Kylie said, to her bathroom mirror. “God damn it.”

She’d slept in her car, so that the apartment could air out. In the short time she was there Terri had left her own aura, a milky fug that was hard to get out. Kylie had put all the furniture and pillows she’d contaminated into the spare room, and pushed towels underneath the door. Then she’d bunked down in the backseat and slept—

Very well, actually. She’d slept great, despite sleeping on a backseat next to aging supermarket bags. Was that a bad sign? Girls changing needed their beauty sleep. If only she looked like shit, her skin flaking and cracking, her eyes ringed with worry.

But no. She looked pretty good, except that she’d been collared.

Kylie tried to wear her professional gear. She owned a lot of stuff designed for the successful black woman—her armor, she thought of it. Very colorful prints that walked a masterful line between too bright for the workplace, and Strong African Woman. It felt—off, next to a sign of, she had to face it, ownership. Did Terri even know what the cultural significance was of putting a collar on a Nigerian girl? Probably not, the fat fucking cow bitch SLUT.

“SLUT!” Kylie yelled, at the reflection.

Anger coursed through her. That was unlike her, wasn’t it? She was supposed to catalogue changes to her physical and mental state, on a repurposed Department of Agriculture form. But it wasn’t a cooing, eager horniness. She was upset. She was pissed off. She should be pissed off! She was wearing a damn collar!

Instead she dressed down. A red tanktop from college, and a pair of jeans from also college. Her Dartmouth days, working on her Chemistry degree. Kylie thought about doing something with her hair, and settled for a tie. It settled behind her in a frozen fizz. There. She looked a little... undergrad... but fine. Normal. Except she was wearing a collar. Like a boyfriend had put her up to it. A WHITE boyfriend.

She was already on the curvy side. Although, Kylie had always considered, she should’ve been the normal one. It made little sense that the white girls of the world, dairy fraus following around milk cows, should’ve evolved to have little butts and boobs. Why would that even be? Logically, they were the genetic freaks. Her own ample rear and chest should be the normalized one.

But no, in this country she was seen as another thicc black girl, verging on fat. Kylie had played up her accent through college, with white and black co-eds alike, to put everyone on notice that she wasn’t playing by normal american rules. Her Dad was not one for making jokes, but he had one he loved. “, YOUR ancestors were the ones who didn’t get caught,” he’d said, a lot.

Except she had been.

Kylie sniffed. She could still—STILL—smell the remnant of Terri. The woman’s pussy oil just would not leave a room. It was time to get out, and calm herself down.

Getting out had not calmed her down.

There was a coffee shop nearby that was Deemed Safe. That was a small percentage of total coffee shops, now. Big chains were all infiltrated, pouring doctored milk and inflating girls with seven-thousand calorie drinks. And the very small crunchy shops, with elite and thoughtful clients, were irresistible targets to turn everyone in into the most craven kind of stupid cunt. So a small five-spot chain, with no bulletin board for vegan yoga, was perfect.

Except that this one had a lot of undergraduates in it, and they were very annoying.

VERY annoying. Kylie just needed to THINK, and the vapid endless chitter-chatter of 18 year old girls was not helping. Kylie felt a strong urge to shake each of them, in turn, until at least one grew up. Put on a serious bra and serious panties and obtained a W-2.

“No, I don’t even think—no, I was WATCHING herrrrr—you don’t think—” the most annoying one of all spoke only in sentence fragments. The half-thoughts were particularly excruciating. “Over on—you saw it on where? Tiktok? No? Where?” It seemed like part of the social contract that everyone should use nouns and verbs. Kylie kept losing her own train of thought.

Her collar itched.

The girl in question wore an oversized hoodie and, most aggravating of all, had a hot black boyfriend.

A man with Igbo written all over him, to boot. He could’ve been plopped in Onitsha, in any neighboring house. He probably had no idea. His girlfriend, by contrast, was barely coffee-colored, like Starbucks had gotten their sicko hands on her. Flooded with milk and a dozen other supplements besides, caramel-colored—no. Not even that. Butterscotch. At best.

Of course SHE was past that. She was an adult.

Yes, it had hurt to try to date men—men who looked like her—only for them to hear the accent and make swift mental calculations. Major cultural differences. Dad who would cheerfully throttle them for disrespect. And then date—BITCHES like this one.

“I gotta—oh man—hey—bathroom, okay?” the girl said. She got up—long but trim. She probably played volleyball. She wore straight white tights and had long, barely-curly hair. Bleached at the tips, too.

The idea hit her too fast, and Kylie found her own body moving before she could consider it. It was a nasty thing to do. But not juvenile, right? No. Of course not. She was an adult, a professional, who would be teaching this girl a lesson.

The man in question wore a nice, collared shirt, which made him hotter, in Kylie’s estimation. Men were hotter than boys. She liked guys with authority. As a partnership, of course. She didn’t need a male giving her orders, telling her what to do, how to dress, arranging her sexual and emotional availability for his personal needs. Instructing and correcting her.

When she made mistakes, correcting her....

Reducing her to obedience. A man in charge of her. Her man. She didn’t need that. She didn’t need it. She didn’t.

The word thrummed deep inside of her throat, right underneath her collar, still buried.

For now.

DADDY.

“Hey, can I get a swizel stick? Mine is the wrong color,” Kylie said, and let her accent flow freely. She reached all the way across the neighboring table, until the man had a lot of boob swishing around him. Kylie felt his sudden unease—black tits in his face, what to do? His options were to flinch back, put his face forward and motorboat, or, most manly option, not let some girl bother him. The man took option three. She grabbed the pointless little stick and pulled back.

The other girls at the table were unsure what had happened.

The man gave her an appraising look.

“Thanks!” Kylie said, holding up the swizzle stick.

Thrusting her boobs into his face had been unavoidable. Her real goal was to drip some strategic drops of coffee onto the girl’s chair. And, trained professional that she was, mission accomplished. Kylie was halfway out the door by the time the girl got back. She lingered in the doorway until the shriek. The girl even hopped up and pointed her butt at Kylie, very thoughtful, to give her a view of the new constellation of coffee dots painting her rear end. Now she was darker.

It was a little...... juvenile, Kylie considered.

Her collar felt nice and tight around her throat.

But she deserved a little steam release. It was nice to not think about global transformative change. Instead it was nice to think about a man seeing his girlfriend’s distress, and flick his eyes to Kylie, and not say anything.

She decided to ignore the warmth between her legs. It was okay to be a little horny, once in awhile.

Kylie ended up going to the apartment complex BBQ after breaking in to Terri’s apartment.

Breaking in to Terri’s apartment had been immensely satisfying. Finally, striking back, doing something that mattered. It had only stung a little that the front door was wide open. Of course cow girl was too dumb to work a lock. She couldn’t even keep her legs closed, much less a door.

Once inside Kylie had done everything perfectly to specs. Two rubber gloves, double mask, eye goggles. Extra pair of panties. She’d been in and out in three minutes. For her haul she’d selected a random assortment of goods from the fridge, along with a few of the cosmetics. Kylie doubted that Terri would even miss them—despite only living there for a few days the apartment was filled with snacks and bottles, littering most surfaces.

At first Calving packaging had been white bottles with gibberish labels, but they were, lately, getting more sophisticated. Smiling pictures of big-titted girls filled most of the available printing space, along with lots of exclamation points. The nutritional facts seemed actually fairly accurate—500% of daily fat, 800% of daily protein, and that was just for a small bag of CHUMMY SNOOPS. Almond-vanilla-vanilla-almond flavored.

There was, weirdly, a simple bag of coffee grinds there as well. Kylie left it alone. She kept thinking of the boy—no, the man—in his collared shirt, his breath hot against the top of her chest. Teasing boys was juvenile, but teasing men was fun and rewarding. If they had a problem with it, she could be swiftly corrected, with or without a small stick or paddle. She had plenty of butt to correct with.

Kylie blinked. It was definitely time to leave. The air did smell like candy corn and a very active vagina, and there was snoring in the guest bedroom. The mission was accomplished.

So why not go to the BBQ? For recon. She left the bag in her fridge and made her way to the roof. It was time to trade barbs with Terri, where her potent scent wasn’t an advantage. Show her that the Department of Agriculture wasn’t to be trifled with. It would be... PROFESSIONAL... to let some of her anger out.

The big man at the grill wasn’t part of her plans.

He was large, and bald, and shirtless. Gales of smoke from an ancient grill shrouded him. Previously his prominent gut would’ve been a problem for her libido, not to mention that he was very, very white. But—he was clicking the tongs, and enthroned before a wall of meats, and surrounded by a group of awkward women much shorter than he was.

The word coalesced in her throat, just as the man looked at her, and pointed with, with a hairy finger.

DADDY.

It was gone just as soon as it formed.

“Burgers or brats?” the man said. “Help me out and say burgers, they’re this close to scorching.”

“Brats!” Kylie said. The man gave her a look, and stopped just shy of rolling his eyes. But she had no faith in even a Daddy—no, a man, an ordinary heavy-set man—making decent burgers on ancient equipment. Her own Daddy—no. Dad. Her Dad. Had taken heavily to American grilling culture. They’d moved to North Carolina when she was ten, and the man had purchased his first smoker within four months. At a glance Kylie could tell that these were frozen beef patties with the spice content of an aquarium tank.

“Kylieeeeeeeee! Lets hug and make up! Or make out, that’s fine too!”

She was being hugged.

“Get OFF me!” Kylie barked. There were wet, milky tits pressed against her back, and Terri could even hug with her thighs. An even longer shower loomed. She felt Terri’s hand touch at the golden torc at her throat.

“Oh, right, I already did the collar thing!” Terri said. She pulled away. It felt like she was peeling herself off, slightly adhered. Despite hugging Kylie she was toting a plate with three burgers on it. All this bitch needed in life was poorly grilled meat, Kylie thought. The future was unseasoned. “Thanks for coming! I’m still hopeful we can be friends!”

“What, stall buddies?” Kylie scoffed, and made sure to move upwind of the heavily scented girl in her denim. Of course there was barbeque sauce on the upper slopes of her tits, and on her protruding preggo tummy, and probably on the back of her shorts. “We KNOW about the farms, Terri. I’m surprised you aren’t eating your cow people. I’m sure they’re nice and tender.”

“Oh no, we’re not gonna be friends today,” Terri said, her face falling.

“YOU PUT A COLLAR ON ME!”

“It looks cool. And you should listen to Pastor Flynn’s sermon of the herds,” Terri said. She looked up, towards the heavens. “You can’t hate someone.. or eat someone... who has had their nose in your pussy. The whole world needs to understand that.”

“Yes you CAN you—” Kylie stopped herself. The large man had come over with double brats, in big buns, slathered with ketchup and grilled onions. They did look pretty good. It was hard work, fighting global conspiracies to reduce women to cud-chewers. “Thank you, Daddy. Terri, you’re really fine just being a dumb animal, huh?” This was pointless. Why was she still arguing? She needed to icily storm off, or something, not be the loud bitch Terri was expecting. She had to be better than her, than everyone, as hard as it was.

So hard...

“Oh, honey,” Terri said, and the pity added to the real rage. She needed to tamp down on the anger. “Do you think cows have anxiety? Or depression? Half this country is already taking pills to make them happy, ours just actually work.”

She’d stopped taking her own meds when Pfizer had gotten taken over. Kylie tried to talk with half a sausage in her mouth, heated. “You’re—mffff—you fuuuckkkkkkking.”

“Careful,” Terri said. A slow grin spread across the fat bitch’s face. “Your mouth is full.”

Her mouth was all full. She was eating the food at an event thrown by Terri. Horrified, Kylie looked over to the table, where the ketchup bottle sat half-empty. It didn’t even have a label on it. The ketchup itself was bright, bright red. She swallowed, and the last of two half-pound sausages slid down her throat. She’d inhaled them. They’d tasted so, so good. Like she was in High School again, at a family BBQ, wearing short shorts and eyeing the boys...

“Here, I’ve got a napkin for you!” Terri said, thoughtfully. She turned around and presented her ass. Her jean shorts were already smeared with various sauces. And yet there was plenty of space for anyone to wipe their hands, with that much rear end.

The damage was already done. Her tits were noticeably bigger.

All remaining Department of Agriculture Special Agents were required to keep the measurements of their privates on public file. Kylie had diligently measured all aspects of her boobs once a week, stretching the tape across the tips of her nipples.

There was no need for the tape. She could feel the heft and pull in her hands. They were swollen and heavy, and she definitely didn’t the ache in these new nipples. If she held them Kylie could practically feel the proteins feeding into them, adding additional mass, new nerve endings, larger and more milk glands. And they looked great. Privately, before big whopping tits became a warning sign of turning into a fuck beast, Kylie had felt her yams stuck a bit too far apart, and could use a bit more heft. That problem was going away, nearly minute by minute.

Her mouth still tasted greasy and sweet. What had the damage been? Two bratwursts larded with the fixings. So why did she taste potato chips, and even some carrot cake? She’d washed it down with something, too. All sloshing around inside of her. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see what big-boobed bimbo laid in wait inside of her. her sister in blowjob heaven, doling them out three to nine times a day to whatever man was in the house...

Some strong man who wouldn’t think twice, sliding her head on his dick...

“No,” Kylie said. She needed to get a grip. Kylie pinched herself, and winced. It didn’t really hurt. It felt kinda good. She had to recall that she was now swimming with dopamine and other endorphins.

But she could grit out this euphoria, this wet happy feeling. First exposure was not the end of the world. A real professional would fight through it.

The girl in the mirror wasn’t helping. She had a collar around her neck. She was owned, and if not by a particular man, than by whoever came along. Her lips looked fuller, and she was cupping some nice, heavy tits...

“No. No, no, no!” Kylie said, upping the volume with each step. No. This was NOT her. She had made a misstep, deep in the lion’s den, and that was all. She was not some mewing piece of ass to be claimed by whatever big muscular man came around. It would have to be a very special D-A-D-D-Y with biceps like a rock and a stern, uncompromising hand. Who could explain to her that she’d been a bad girl.

Kylie yanked on her own collar. It failed to wake her up from her sluttifying nightmare.

A fantasy blossomed—she had been kicked out of school, for teasing the teachers. Cold fury steamed off of Daddy. She tried to play with her hair, chew bubblegum, and act nonchalant, but it was clear she’d pushed a little too hard.

She was going to pay for this one. Her pussy tingled, anticipating.

“No!” Kylie said. She stumbled out of the bathroom. There was a big pot on the stovetop, and Kylie picked it up, frantic. Her body tingled, tip to toe.

She threw the pot as hard as she could at the bathroom mirror.

It was ancient. Shards of glass pitter-pattered across the tile. The pot took a chunk out of the bathroom sink. But the girl with fat tits in the mirror was gone.

She’d stopped it. The ‘grope yourself to your own slutty reflection’ routine. She’d fought it off. She’d done it.

Kylie drooped. Who was she kidding? Now she had to clean the glass off the floor. And her boobs were still there. Still taut and filling in.

It whispered in her throat, as she looked for the dustpan. She was a bad girl. She’d been dumb and bad. And bad girls got punished. There was a man out there for her, the man she was ultimately able to. He judged every action she made, and took out the balance with stiff but fair discipline.

DADDY.

On Monday Kylie went undercover as herself.

She called in to her designated check-in at 8 a.m. sharp. She’d put all her professional clothes on, and her professional shoes, and felt not at all professional. The tit growth had continued through the night, and, worst of all, had been matched by an expansion in her ass. The bigger boobs looked pretty cute, if she was being honest, but the larger rear was just stupid and silly. Trashy and pointless, like an unserious person. There just wasn’t any professionalism in having a big fat ass.

And worst of all her underpants hadn’t fit. Kylie had found a way to get her bra on—the cups could sort of hold her wobbly new assets, through presumably surface tension. But her panties were suddenly getting swallowed up by the hefty addition to her butt. Both cheeks were shiny and new. It was clear that letting a thin strip of cotton floss her pussy would not be professional, so she left them off entirely. Nothing to distract her.

“I have to report contamination in the line of duty,” Kylie said, stiffly.

“The collar,” Stephanie said, peering into her camera. “You’ve been collared.”

“Um, yes,” Kylie said. Strictly speaking she should’ve reported the collar immediately. “Although I believe it to be just leather. Intended to humiliate me. Us.”

“I see,” Stephanie tapped her finger against her cheek. Kylie tamped down her anger—of course she’d gotten exposed, she was living in the same building as a primo slut! She’d done this for the TEAM! Where were her accolades? “Any physical effects?”

“Some mild breast growth. Is all,” Kylie said. “Two cup sizes.”

“TWO?” Stephanie said. She shook her head. “Mild? Kylie. Two cup sizes—I can clearly see them on the screen. And this is—in twenty-four hours, Kylie?”

“It’s Ms. Bankole,” Kylie said. “I believe I was exposed finding their primary distribution point in the area. A local supermarket. I have documented evidence.”

She awaited congratulations. Some sort of award would’ve been nice, or even an attagirl. She’d found a receipt stuck to the bottom of one of the bottles of milk.

“What other changes? It can’t be just—how did she get a collar on you?”

“I can handle some boob growth,” Kylie said. “They’re just TITS. I’m not lactating or anything. Anyway, I’m requesting permission to infiltrate the supermarket.”

“It’s never just tits, Kylie,” Stephanie said. “Every expanded breast is a chemical factory pumping hormones and other manufactured substances into your bloodstream. Two cup sizes in such a short time means your body is being remolded at an accelerated—”

“It’s MISS BANKOLE,” Kylie said, heated. She fingered her collar. She kept catching herself doing that, tugging on it, pulling on it. It relaxed her. “THANK YOU.”

Stephanie stared at her. “Of course. Of course. Miss Bankole, I need to examine your pubic area.”

Kylie sucked in her cheeks.

She had to give her pussy up for inspection? Technically this was something she had agreed to—there was just no comparing the pale pink lips of a normal human female with the lush, oozing, dripping folds of a Calving girl. A Calving slit had its own personality, and damn near its own zip code. The ultimate honeypot, it was always dripping something, usually a patented lubricant much better than the thin slick stuff nature provided. And it was a very bright red, peachy red, with big hefty labia that could grip and swing a baseball bat.

She didn’t wanna do it. Kylie yanked on her own collar, viciously. She didn’t WANNA.

“No,” she said. “Don’t wanna.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Kylie, you know why I’m asking this. It’s for your own good—don’t shake your head like that! Are you—you’re a twenty-eight year old woman, Kylie.”

“I’m not showing my pussy!” Kylie reiterated. She folded her arms, which had a side effect of pushing her tits up and out of her bra cups. “I’m just NOT, you know? You’re on a computer! What’re you going to—”

“Do it RIGHT THIS INSTANT,” Stephanie’s voice was cold authority, and that was very hard for Kylie to resist. Her heart hammered inside her bigger chest. The switch between petulant and regret was new, and switching it left her confused and disoriented. Of course she’d been treated like this before, hadn’t she? She was disoriented—confused—didn’t she get pussy inspections regularly? To see what kind of slut she was, see how much cum she returned home with. Even when she squeezed her pussy shut, it would drip out, for his stern inspection. Nothing for him to do but top her off. He had a name.

DADDY.

There was nothing to do but lie down, slide up her skirt, and angle it for the inspection of the laptop camera. “Happy?” Kylie said, squirming. “Dry as a bone and just as ugly.”

“You’re not wearing any panties, Ms. Bankole,” Stephanie said.

“They’re—” but the Principal was right. She wasn’t. What was WRONG with her? She had to get a grip—just yesterday she’d been Icy Professional herself. Now she was waving her cunt around while her tits flopped out. Calving was so damn—insid—insidi—what was the word?

“You’re out,” Stephanie said. “Kylie. Ms. Bankole. I’ve rarely seen someone respond to Calving’s assault this strongly. They’ve put an entire collar on you. You’re out. Thank you for your service. Goodbye.”

“No—you can’t—” but the camera was already off, and as she lowered herself back down, Kylie felt the first guilty trip of moisture between her legs.

Getting roughly spanked behind the supermarket made Kylie more confident she was right.

It didn’t even hurt that much—one of the many advantages of having a well-padded butt. There were layers of fat to get through before she’d even begin to feel the swift slaps as anything discomforting. All the manager behind her was accomplishing was hitting a jello bowl, and making it jiggle. Kylie made sure the man knew how little he was doing, responding to each open-handed smack with a chortle or a giggle, and maybe a few choked gasps and subtle moans. She was human, after all, unlike the bulls stocking this backroom.

“I think I felt that one a little!” Kylie said, encouraging. “Maybe the right cheek is more sensitive than the left. Or maybe you’ve got more muscle on that side of the bicep.”

“ENOUGH, shoplifter,” the Manager said. He added extra heft to the next paddle to her heinie. And it was true that the man had Calving-grown man muscles. The next hit did send stars ringing through Kylie’s head, and probably wasn’t good for her IQ. A throaty moan tried to escape. She fought it back.

“Two out of ten,” she said.

Despite a big-boobed black girl getting literally turned over the knee of their boss most of the stockers gave them little notice. Not NO notice. Kylie would’ve felt a little bereft if her large brown tits, wobbling over this man’s lap, received no attention at all. But these were definitely Calving-addled men. Docile bags of muscle, too busy unloading endless pallets to take much notice of her squeaking and spasming. She’d gotten into the belly of the beast, and at the minor price of a sore butt.

It was perfect, Kylie reflected, right before another swift hit to her ass. Stephanie was so concerned about contamination, and failure, and conversion, that there was no real opportunity to take the fight back to the mind controlling sex creeps. They were just sitting around, waiting to be picked off, accomplishing nothing. Instead she was learning important facts about the supply chain that pumped gallons of doctored milk, and snacky-wacky-cakes, and big bags of oats, into America’s young women. It was happening right in front of her.

“Is your arm getting tired?” she said. “It feels tired. Maybe we should take a coffee break?”

The next hit really did rattle her brains.

But in all honesty, the main issue she was having was a definite reaction in her vaginal region. It was soaking wet. Her body had somehow interpreted the abuse as arousal, probably because the strokes were so weak and ineffectual. So Kylie did have to suffer through the usual symptoms of total body arousal—pointy nipples, short, ragged breaths, and a spasm of confused pleasure in her pussy whenever she got smacked. Worst of all, the man liked to grope and slide his fingers around, the dirty boy, and now her entire butt was lubricated with pussy juice.

But Kylie was willing to do whatever for the cause. Her anger burned hot inside of her. She’d be such a bitch, for the cause.

It was perfect, she considered. The man’s fingers dipped down past her exposed butthole, and landed fairly close to her mound. She could feel the calluses. True, getting picked up for shoplifting had not been the initial plan. The plan was to go undercover as a normal shopper, get all the samples of chemically-laced drug food, and bail. But, confronting the long lines of shoppers, their carts full to the brim with calorically-dense slut food, she had decided... why pay? Why give fucking Calving her money? And then, when—

The man’s fingers were right at her pussy, now. “Hey!” Kylie yelled, kicking her feet. She’d put on cute white socks for her cover. The outfit was a little teen, overall, but nothing professional fit her right. “Ass is up here!”

“Are you fucking ENJOYING this?” the man said. His fingers stroked the bottom set of her pussy lips, which were not helping, gushing and spurting. “Are you really WET?”

“I mean, it isn’t hurting me!” Kylie said. “Do you want to call a man up to take over? Maybe one who can do pushups?”

What had she been thinking about? Something about—about—right. She’d gotten caught, true, thanks to her dumb slut neighbor. But that, too, was an opportunity. Now she was in the back, turned over on a chair just outside the manager area, with a perfect view of shipping and receiving. Between meaty thwacks she was memorizing brand names and trucking companies, watching the march of male laborers, in their blue jeans and button-down shirts, dicks tenting their pants.

Most brilliant of all, if she was getting hit, she wasn’t getting bimbofied. Calving’s M.O. was pleasure, not pain. They could smack her fat ass all they wanted. The important thing is that they weren’t stuffing her with pot pies and pouring milk down her throat.

“You ARE enjoying this,” the man said. “I can SMELL you!” Kylie wrenched her attention back to the man. It was possible she’d underestimated him. He was a man, after all, and men were the smart ones. She was a girl just starting college—no. That wasn’t right. She was like twenty-five or something. So why was she wearing a jean skirt and a dumpy t-shirt? It was confusing. “Here. Enjoy.”

He put his fingers in her mouth.

“You taste that? You’re leaking all over my floor, you WHORE.”

Kylie panicked. There were male fingers, in her mouth! And they were coated with a thick layer of juices, a thin and acidic wash that she had made. Mixed with the musk of a working male they tasted—not too bad—.

“Oh, don’t lick them, whore,” the man chortled.

A switch turned. What was she DOING? This wasn’t some sort of brilliant scheme. She was barechested and bare assed and getting spanked in a dirty supermarket back room. She was getting paddled to the occasional, amused glances of dozens of men. And worst of all, she was juiced up like yet another silly cunt, getting off on the abuse, like the most ditzy and needy of young sluts. She was being DUMB.

No.

She had to—she was a professional. She was undercover or something. She had some sort of advance degrees. She had to do something.

Kylie bit the man’s fingers.

“Oh, was that a bite? Two out of ten.” But he did withdraw the digits. “Alright. I suppose that’s punishment enough. You know you ate like two hundred dollars worth of merchandise, piggy.”

That had to be a lie. She would never be so stupid as to eat Calving’s delicious, disgusting food, over 20% chemical by volume. Although that would explain why her stomach felt so heavy, hanging down between this man’s knees, and why, even despite their being fingers in there, she could taste a heavy, salty aftertaste in her mouth. But that couldn’t be right—they’d had training on Calving-brand corn chips, each wonderful triangle dripping with a salve made of dopamine and estrogen-ish compounds. Maple-pecan-cream flavored.

Kylie looked down. There was a little puddle underneath her. Had she... DROOLED?

Panic overtook her. She was a silly girl in way over her head. She needed to—surely this strong Daddy had no further need to manhandle her. She’d be good. True, she’d been bad, and bad girls needed spanks, to be sternly corrected until they were dripping and drooling. But she was good now, honest. “I’m very sorry!” she said.

“Oh, NOW you’re sorry!” the manager said. “Well! Only took this long. What are you sorry about?”

“I’m super sorry I took all that stuff, and I ated it, and...” Kylie chewed her lip. What else could she apologize for? “And took up some of your valuable time, and I’m really super, super sorry. Can I go now, please?”

“Please...?” the man said.

What was it he wanted? But her mind presented it to her. Kylie tried to rebel against it, but it was right there, looming in her head, inescapable.

“Please, SIR!” she yelled.

“Alright,” the man said, after a moment. Kylie relaxed. She needed to get out of there, figure out what she had learned, pull up her skirt, generally get her head back in the game. Calm her overexcited body down—it was dripping and generally hot and she was pretty sure one more smack would make her cum. Cum a lot.

“After one more good one,” the man said. He could sense how close she was. He put his hand up. Kylie turned her head, horrified. This was going to be a resounding one. She squeezed her pussy, to try and keep it from responding, from getting off to the vibrations. But it just made it worse.

Kylie had a brief moment of—professionalism.

All her training and adult learning came to the forefront. All of this was a classic example of another stupid cunt turning into a stupider one. Textbook conditioning and processing, complete with ridiculous rationalization and sex-linked cognition. For god’s sake, her pussy was dripping on the floor in time with her drool. She hadn’t even learned anything—all the trucks came in without license plates, and had blank white walls on the side.

Her new fantasies had a rhythm to them, and she was just smart enough to see the shape. Older man, confident, controlling. She yearned for his attention so very badly. The only thing that really mattered about his body was his hands—how they touched her, stroked her, spanked her.

Choked her. His hands on her throat, where they belonged...

DADDY.

These were all important things to think, but the problem was, the manager’s hand was already descending, and the chances of her ing it, post-slap, were not very good.

Afterwards, dazed, Kylie went to the mall to get her fuckin’ head together.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been to the mall for that purpose. Since being inducted into the big secret—the takeover of America by a religious fertility cult—she’d gone a number of times to people watch. To stare at the many girls wearing too-small bras with too-big tits, at the women going abruptly blonde, the roots coming out in a pure bleach. Ogle the boys having growth spurts at the age of forty, their polo shirts creaking at the bicep.

This was the first time she’d gone without a well-fitting N95 mask. Kylie wasn’t sure where her mask was. But whatever, whatevs, it didn’t matter. She’d just take shorter and smaller breaths.

The supermarket had left her uneasy. Even she couldn’t deny that she was—going through something. She’d been infected. That was the only explanation for her having a juicy screeching orgasm just because a man had smacked her butt. And it felt like that last slap had added another cup size, to boot.

It was also difficult to feel naturally superior, a cool, with-it girl in possession of secret knowledge, with a badly paddled ass. It was swollen and sore. The still-wet drizzle of her arousal was a relief, with how red it was. It seemed to act like aloe vera, soothing where it touched.

But the bottom line was still that she was little different, currently, from the girls in tarty clothes and cheap jewelry browsing the shops.

The men, especially, were making it hard to calm down. Every older man’s gaze was—disconcerting. Not exciting, of course. She was still in the game, still together. It was always a thing, to have some man with a pepper-gray beard stare speculatively at her rear end. To be fetishized and reduced to meat. Kylie reminded herself that she was only stopping, and stretching, and sticking out her butt, to relieve some of the pressure from it getting spanked to hell.

“Calm down,” she told the bathroom mirror. Professional. She needed to look professional. That was Stephanie’s secret, assuming the rumors were true. Tamp down the new urges and ridiculous sexpot body underneath an iron mask. Kylie leaned forwards and pursed her lips. Makeup wouldn’t hurt. Every woman knew that the Professional Woman was the result of at least a half-hour of vanity work, concealing and blushing and painting. And while she was still in a tatty tee and the world’s most soaked and spanked jean skirt, she could still do her face. After all, she’d just stolen a ton of makeup from the supermarket.

Kylie was all the way done with her lips before realizing she’d stolen a Unicorn Sparkle brand, evidently. Her lips shone like a galaxy. And then she added way too much blue eyeshadowing, turning a cool, collected look into a prom-ready display. Why couldn’t she get her damn HEAD together? She anxiously tugged at her collar. She looked like she was about to take her test for her driver’s license. And hoping to by sucking off the instructor.

“Oh damn, I got to swerve around this butt!”

Incandescent fury poured rough through her, and if she had claws, instead of great tits with chocolate-flavored nipples, she would’ve struck. But it died as soon as she twirled. The girl making fun of her was a clear Calving convert, with just traces of an elegant and refined face on a body made out of supplements and barbeque.

“I didn’t mean it in like, a bad way!” the girl said, at whatever she saw in Kylie’s face. “See, I got one of those too! It’s funny, huh, once you start going to the food court regular it’s like, immediate thunderbutt.”

As white girls went it was a sizable ass. “I’m Patrice!” the girl said. Of course she was trying to be friendly. Calving girls defaulted to tend and befriend. They’d be pussy-licking buddies with whoever. “Do you work here too?”

“Absolutely not,” Kylie said. Distracted, she added another sparkly layer to her lips.

“Oh, do you still go to High School?” Patrice said. She had uncapped her own stick of Mango Star and recircled her lips. Mango Star was a simple but effective estrogen-booster, capable on its own of turning any girl into a giggling paragon of femininity, triggering second puberty just from licked lips.

“You think I still go to HIGH SCHOOL?” Kylie said.

“I have advanced degrees” was on her lips. But—why not humor this inoffensive little slut? The girl billowed with gales of perfume, and it was nice to relax in the scent of irresponsibility. No job, no responsibilities, no wool clothing with expensive bras. And definitely, no stiff-eyed older men and women judging the black girl in wet jean shorts. Laze around all day and then go home, to the severe gaze and final judgment of the only man that really mattered. The word fizzled inside her throat.

DADDY. Gone as soon as it occurred. It lurked, waiting.

“Ummmmm. College?” Patrice said.

“I mean, when I ,” Kylie said, and laughed. She could probably investigate the mall or something. That sounded nice.

It was probably a bad idea to go to Claire’s, but—Kylie kept losing her train of thought. Something was—bad? Contamination or something? Her butt hurt, and it was distracting.

But it was so nice inside. A haven from a world where Stephanie made her show her pussy to the camera, where fat-titted girls with seven pregnancies kept outwitting her, where she was Kylie, BA, MA. Here she could just be Kylie, BAd MAd bitch. And Patrice was FUN!

“Can I shoplift these?” Kylie said, inspecting the rows of perfumes. They all smelled like cotton candy and the islands. They had all the adult sophistication of bubble gum. But they were so—relaxing. Carefree stuff. Her agency definitely needed to check them out, they were probably all loaded with drugs or whatever. She was definitely feeling pretty spacey just sniffing them. No wonder Patrice was so dumb.

“Uhhhh. Sure!” Patrice said. “Take whatever! You know they stopped paying me? I guess they got bought or something so its just like, sorry, Patrice, you gotta work for free. Just eat what you need from wherever at the mall. I’m like, living on Cinnabons and mall pizza.”

“I can see that. Let me see that ass again.” Patrice was happy to respond. She’d stuffed some very chunky thighs and a building P-A-W-G rear into a pair of white shorts. Kylie whistled. “You gotta go to that gym upstairs. It’s gonna go critical. You’re gonna explode.”

Patrice’s dull smile wavered. “I don’t—that gym is... strange. My friend Tiff was up there and...” for a second an earlier Patrice shone through, a very average girl who had just liked headbands and cheap fake jewelry, and not an aggressively-assed mall slut. “Hey. You might wanna... go. The air gets kinda... chemical-y... after like, four.”

“Nahhhhh,” Kylie said. Playing hooky from school... work, she meant work... was fun. Kylie slid cheap yellow glass on her wrists. “Damn, how am I supposed to wear a necklace with the choker there? Looks weird as hell.”

“Is that like, a boyfriend thing?” Patrice said. They were both nodding along to a pop tune. Kylie vaguely recalled something about... music? Music with the power to condition? Or was it the perfume, or the new line of pink lollipops they were selling at the ? It couldn’t be... ALL of them, right?

“Oh naw,” Kylie said. “I’m fighting this big conspiracy thing to give all ladies in the world big milk jugs and fat fuckable butts. I’m like, a BIG DEAL.” Patrice’s eyes opened wide, and Kylie laughed. This was what she needed. A girlfriend to confide in. They’d already exchanged numbers, although Patrice made her some dumb new app to communicate with—something called GRUNT. “Yeah, you don’t even know. You don’t even know!”

Patrice looked about to say something, but the mental effort was too much. She just giggled. “No... c’monnnnnn. You’re like, nineteen.”

Her saying it was such a rush. Kylie had to brace herself against a wall of earrings that all cost five dollars. Her eyelids fluttered. Why—what about that—

“I’m like, twenty-ummmm...ummmmmmmmm.”

There he was again, getting more distinct every time. A substantial gut. Hairy forearms. She was terrified of disappointing him, aware that she would.

DADDY.

“Twenty-ummmmm....” Patrice echoed, and giggled. “You don’t even have your ears pierced!”

It was true. Her Daddy had forbade such a thing when she was young, and when she was older it had felt... childish.

But now... it’d help her with her investigations, wouldn’t it? No one would look twice at a girl with hoop earrings wagging a big butt into important secret facilities. She could USE this nagging, sexed-up body. For good.

“Lets do it right now!” Patrice said. It wasn’t, actually, something she’d been programmed to encourage. Her duties were just to fill the world with cheap chintzy jewelry, and to push the mind-altering perfumes. She just was a nice person. Mall slut was a relatively good gig, as Calving went. She slept in the back room, and could eat and drink whatever she liked, not to mention taking whatever clothes fit her fancy. Her only problem was that she was off the beaten path for the men, and too shy to seek them out.

“I mean—no. No, that’s okay. That’s fine. I should be getting back to being an.. you know. What’s the word. An adult.” Kylie said. Patrice had picked up what looked like a glue gun.

“Take any set of earrings you like!” Patrice said. “I haven’t done any money shit in like, a month!”

That was too hard to resist. It’d be so nice to be back in college, free of all the responsibilities. Right? No. She liked being a boring-ass adult. Kylie slowly approached a pair of short gold hoops. They’d match her collar, wouldn’t they? She liked to tease her teachers, and jewelry was an easy to way to get what she loved most, which was male attention. He was trying to teach her History and had, so far, gotten not a single U.S. President into her head.

She was thinking of going without panties to his next class...

There was a brief pain in her left ear.

“Wait—wait!” Kylie said, but it was too late. She had a new hole in her head, for her brains to leak out of. Patrice had put a small stud in there—a disappointing silver, not matching at all. And worst of all, the new jewelry, the new sign of her youthful femininity, was an incredibly powerful aphrodisiac. Her body slushed around with happiness. What had Stephanie said, something about her boobs making the dopamine right there? She could practically feel it in her bloodstream.

She was panting, and Patrice was humming along to the tunes. “No,” Kylie said. She batted the gun away. “S-stop. Imma.... Imma professional. This is like, classic indoctrination bullshit. I don’t wanna have a.. have a big fat ass like you.”

Patrice looked puzzled. “It’s already bigger than mine? Here, sit down. How old are you, seriously? I get such weird vibes from you!”

“I dunno,” Kylie said. Her thoughts were sludge. Everything wanted to escape back to the fantasy her subconscious had thoughtfully prepared. Her, in school, getting spanked for her constant and aggravating misbehavior. She could feel his frustration with her in each stroke—her refusal to learn a single fucking thing, the single dumbest girl he had ever taught in his twenty years of teaching. The scent of her pussy wafted through the room. It was empty except for the two of them...

Chunk. Another brief pain. Kylie barely felt it. “I’m suuuuuper sorry!” she said.

“Sorry for what?” Patrice said, but Kylie didn’t even hear it. She was getting another stiff stroke. She could feel his hardon through his slacks, and he had to feel the fight go out of her. The man pulled her close, by the choker. “Are you going to misbehave in class ever again?” he snarled.

“Yeah,” student Kylie told him. “Probably.”

He threw her onto his desk. His thinking was obvious. If she wasn’t a student at least she could be a useful cunt. Her ass was sore and red, and her pussy was juiced up. He barely bothered to slide his pants down. The dick that Kylie had eyed, hungrily, was every bit as big as she had thought. Maybe even bigger. He was about to treat her like the dumb stupid slut she was. It was in her throat, too big to choke out.

DADDY.

In the store, Patrice watched Kylie slide off the chair, shivering, and crumple onto the floor. She considered calling the paramedics. They’d be men, and she really wanted a good dicking-down.

On Tuesday Kylie attempted to detox.

She didn’t have a mirror anymore, and had to film her own body, holding her phone out as far as she could. It took a long time just to run a camera over her curves. She was spilling out from all sides, and losing it.

“Fuck!” she kept swearing whenever a new bulge or curve appeared, on the video. “God DAMN it! What the fuck is that!”

She was especially worked up about the changes to her pussy. Stephanie was, Kylie grudgingly itted, right to focus on her genitalia. It was now puffy and permanently moist, with a slick and inviting exterior and two plump lips to smooch. The video showed how engorged her clit was—from her training Kylie knew that it was now bustling with a quadrupling or septupling of nerve endings. Even the proximity of her phone lens made it juice up, willing.

And that wasn’t even the part that had made her panic, forced Kylie to live up to the fantastic speed of her quick transformation into primo grade-A trim. It was her ears. They’d healed not just overnight, but within an hour. The big faux-gold bangles she had switched to looked like they’d been there forever. They definitely matched her collar, which had stopped chafing at all, like her neck had gotten stronger.

Also of course she had big tits and ass.

“Housekeeping!”

Kylie had no interest in housekeeping, and answered the door in full fury. This was one of her stupid bimbofying neighbors, wasn’t it? Bailey—that was her name. She had particularly fat lips and an even fatter butt, a badonk that could hold a selection of vases and portraits.

No. It was important to stay inside. She’d gone and checked the perimeter, noted Terri’s closed door. And seen also the poster for Free Fitness, which would inevitably be a bunch of half-made sluts rolling around and farting all over each other. She was definitely not going to that, even if he was there.

Him. She’d seen him, and tried not to. He was out there. It was getting stronger now, pulsing in her throat.

It was about to get very real.

DADDY.

“You’re not the fucking housekeeping,” Kylie told Bailey. “You’ve got like, maid disease. That’s what all this is. You’re the fat-assed maid they fuck—christ. Nevermind.” The woman was obviously semi-out of it. Girls deep in the throes of their personal transformative narrative weren’t even worth talking to. “You’re in brown-out. You’re all-in on becoming a butt slut who mops up semen. Congratulations.”

Kylie made an enormous effort. The place DID need picking up, and she could use the time to get ready for her freshman English class. She hadn’t read a single thing all semester, so her only chance to get a decent grade was to give the professor the best blowjob he had ever received. She could try out different lipsticks, see which one would really pop, forming a ring along the base of his dick. Truthfully she’d been thinking about his cock all year, her chair at lectures getting closer and closer to the podium, and her skirts getting shorter and shorter...

“No. No, Kylie,” she told herself. “You are... ummmmmmmmm.... ummmmmmmmmmm.....” She’d put her Driver’s License up on the counter, as a reference. But the birthdate on it just couldn’t be right. She wasn’t THAT old.

Bailey had wandered in. There was a ton to clean up, starting with the tetanus-risk shards of glass in the bathroom. She was humming some tune, probably whatever gross pop brainwashing garbage they’d used to make her into a trash-collecting slut. It wasn’t nearly as cool as the stuff Patrice had turned her onto, real indie acts like The Rainbows, not to mention the throaty singing of her new favorite singer, Brown Cow.

“Fine. Pick up my garbage,” Kylie said, to the big butt sticking up in her face. And it was a little reassuring, seeing that she didn’t have the biggest butt in the room, for once. Kylie watched it swaying back and forth, in athleisure. Was there even any way to break a girl down this bad out of her sluttification? Was there any value to mutual detox, working together, able with each other to spot obvious bimbo pitfalls they were individually blind to?

The cleanliness cow hummed a happy little tune as she worked.

Right. Kylie tried to keep her back ramrod straight. She needed to get dressed. The past several times she’d tried, that morning, she’d come out of the bedroom looking like a girl skipping Junior Prom to simply get fucked in her boyfriend’s van. Everything was skimpy. But part one of beating this was to force herself into a business skirt and a business jacket, even if it meant missing first period geometry.

“Careful with the glass in the bathroom,” she told Bailey. “I don’t want you to scratch up those big moo tits.” Bailey didn’t seem to hear any of that. Whatevs. A twenty-two year old hottie like her had bigger problems.

To her surprise the Organization called her, right after Bailey left.

“Agent Bankole,” she said, and was further surprised—Bethany was calling, not Stephanie. Bethany, second-in-command, to the extent they still had a functional chain of command. She wore big glasses with enormous lenses, and had frizzy black hair that stuck out on all sides. “Bethany?”

“Kylie. Good. You’re... you’re wearing a collar.” Bethany said. Her face fell.

“It’s a minor setback,” Kylie said. Internally she seethed—why call, just to complain? Plus it was obvious at a glance that Bethany had suffered her own brush with bimbofication. There was no way the lush, plump lips on camera were her natural set. They looked ill-equipped to close, much less form intelligent thoughts. “What the fuck is with your LIPS?”

“I—I—” Bethany’s finger reached up and rubbed across them. It took her awhile. There was a lot of surface area on them now. “I had my own close—close call. So you’re, what, you’re saying you’re fine? You’re wearing a COLLAR.”

“I mean, yeah, I am, so what,” Kylie said. She leaned forwards. “Doesn’t make me DROOL.”

Bethany was drooling. Kylie wasn’t sure why that was hot to men, a girl drooling. A girl drooling while giving head, sure, that was plenty exciting. She’d probably do that herself, if she had a fat cock choking her. A real chode giving her no room to breathe. But generically? All the time, drooling? Was humiliating women, that alone, enough of a turn-on?

It was a little bit of a turn-on.

“Listen, we don’t know where Stephanie is,” Bethany said. “We’re worried. We’re calling in everyone tomorrow, take stock, see what we can do....” she trailed off. Like all bimbofying girls, long sentences left her a little breathless.

And just like that, she was back in the Department of Agriculture. Kylie bit back another nasty comment about Bethany sucking on cocks. RIght, she had to be a professional. That was her goal, to be professional. She’d even managed to fit herself into a clean, collared white shirt. The two buttons across her chest were at their wit’s end, but she’d done it. And her makeup was really BORING adult stuff.

True, she’d had to compromise with herself. She wore a plaid skirt from who-knew-where that didn’t even come close to covering her rear end. It was not something she could wear in public. Bra and panties were a total loss, but all the shit she owned was grandma-tier stuff for women with fuckin’ crow’s feet.

A figure walked outside.

A man.

To the fitness class, probably. Even in the few seconds of age it jolted her, reduced all her careful mental rebalancing to shambles. He was probably wearing shorts. He would be grunting. He’d LOOK at her. It was pulsing in her throat now, so hot underneath her collar. She yanked on it, increasingly desperate. She could barely breathe around it...

DADDY.

“Are you... chewing bubble gum?” Bethany said.

What? Kylie let it pop. The bright pink stuff covered her nose. It smelled like candyfloss, and she had a huge wad of it pinched in her cheek. Hadn’t the principal confiscated it? No, she’d stolen more, her most blatant theft, walking in and out, counting that the pimply convenience store clerk had no interest in the criminal prosecution of a girl with no panties on.

“Part of my investigation,” she said. “I’ll bring some for the whole class, tomorrow, pinky-promise.”

Bethany removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.

She’d ed the task force in order to save the world for girls like her. Librarian types. Girls who just wanted to wear cardigans and read Agatha Christie books, and maybe raise some chickens in the backyard. She was starting to think that wasn’t going to work out. She’d sucked her husband’s cock three times just that morning, and didn’t exactly have much of an interest in reading a fucking book, anymore.

“Look,” Bethany said. “Do you need any... help? We really do need to help each other. Like, I appreciate you telling me I’m drooling. I don’t even feel it.”

Kylie shook her head.

“Nope. See you tomorrow. Maybe try sticking a lollipop in there, maybe it’ll keep ’em shut.”

She had to go to the workout session. He was there. Him. The man.

DADDY. She was rubbing her collar so much the gold was getting particularly shiny.

When the workout ended she ran to her door and slammed it, and locked it. She’d nearly lost it, around him. She’d gotten so close to giving in. Only a last preservative impulse had let her hang back, stop short of throwing herself at his feet, for spanking. She could never let herself smell him ever again. She had to get out.

DADDY.

She had to pack a bag and bolt. If he—if he even showed up in her field of vision—she wanted him so fucking bad. She wanted to be owned by him, spanked by him, split in two by him. Everything.

“Kylie!” he said.

He was at her door.

Kylie tried not to open it. Her hands weren’t listening to her, no matter how much she cursed at them.

It was happening. She couldn’t ignore it anymore. Her collar was so hot, burning hot...

DADDY.

He’d lurked at the outside of her thoughts, and taken a few different forms. The professor spanking her to a half-decent grade. The boss turning her over his knee to instruct her in obedience. But all just varieties on the same man. A very important man.

DADDY.

She had to get it out of her throat.

“Kylie, can we talk?”

She had to have agency in this. She’d so narrowly fought it off during the exercise class she’d stupidly attended, masking her inability to breath with snappish comments about the fat fucks in attendance. He was everything she’d imagined. She’d been shaped for him. She wore his collar. He’d been at the back of her mind, and now he was in the front of it. He choked her windpipe with just the thought of him...

DADDY.

“N-no!” Kylie said, and pushed her palms into her eyes. He was NOT there, haunting her pulse. She was a professional woman. She was not the accessory of a man, she was not a project for him to shape. She was a successful college graduate.

DADDY.

“Kylie, open the door this minute.”

It was hopeless to fight. She would just have to stay alert, calm, and professional.

Kylie opened the door to the most important man in the entire world.

A Daddy and his Brat were special.

Mostly Calving favored casual liaisons. The important thing was breeding—the ONLY important thing was breeding—and generally committed and feverish monogamy was an obstacle to that. It was better to fuck broadly and widely, without any particular jealousy or attachment. Fuck at the grocery store, at the doctor appointment, at mass transit, wherever a cock was around and willing. Drip with semen of all sorts. There were certainly relationships, but nothing that mattered deeply. Terri had gotten married a number of times, and although three or four of them were to the same man, and she was deeply fond of him, she’d sucked a dozen dicks at their last wedding reception.

But a Daddy and his Brat were special.

It was the pain part of it, Calving figured. It took a special and committed relationship to let you spank the other person. To exercise control over them, leash them, have them clean boot with tongue. Brats needed that level of devoted instruction, a man willing to put in the time to really enforce personal discipline. Dress them up in dolly clothes and tug on their hair. Normally Calving frowned on choking—the girls needed all the oxygen to their little brains they could get—but Brats were only truly happy when someone they trusted was reducing their windpipe. In their hearts they knew they were such bad girls, someone else should hold their keys, and reins, and leashes.

It was a big responsibility for special men.

A Daddy.

SETH.

Seth was becoming a Daddy.

For him the last several days had been calm and unlabored. Seth had previously carried a lot of anger around about his life and life choices. Life had been a narrowing path. Whatever dreams he had harbored had been steadily stripped away, until what was left was in the walls of a small second-floor apartment, one he’d been living in, encrusted, for way too long. He was nearly forty. He owned too many Funko Pops, he participated in too many internet fights, and, worst of all, he was self-aware of who this kind of person was.

He’d stewed and simmered in a rage of his own devising, turned entirely against himself, a frustration big enough to eat the world.

On Saturday he’d masturbated, for the first time, to absolutely nothing. No pornography of any kind. He’d just sat down and rubbed his cock, and squirted cum all over the bathroom floor. It had been strange.

In its wake he had felt—at peace. His angst was in the tiles.

He threw away all the clothes he had with holes in them.

On Sunday his dick was bigger, and he realized that he was the only male in an entire building full of girls, and felt—responsible. Responsibility, a new emotion, one he’d never really experienced. Fleeing it had been a centerpiece of his past relationships. Now, manning the grill, really MANNING it, brought a feeling like getting back on a long-abandoned track. He was putting his life back together, one hamburger at a time.

He bought a book online about home carpentry.

On Monday he’d grown a ten inch cock, and helped others at work and in his community. He’d jerked off repeatedly, thoughtfully, to just the imagery of his neighbors, who were now walking around the apartment complex with bigger bodies and smaller brains. It was suddenly easy to imagine a future, with any of them. He had much to offer. Women needed . And by the end of the day it was a full eleven inch cock. He would never look at pornography again.

He went to the mall and came back with sensible khakis, a number of collared button-down shirts, and some more personal toiletries.

On Tuesday he’d done a little research and found out it was all a plot to make men and women into endlessly breeding sex beasts. It had briefly bothered him. But the more he read, the more his sense of protectiveness grew. He needed to do something. He signed off the internet, forever. He’d never go back. There was nothing there he wanted to see.

The girls were getting so dumb, so randy.

He had to help them get along.

“Listen, I know you girls are going through a LOT,” Seth said. “Boobs getting big, brains getting—real real small. So stupid. But you can’t talk about Ateera and the others like that.”

Kylie had no idea what Seth was talking about. She was having trouble hearing him at all. During the fitness class his pheromones, while unbearably potent, were still diverted into six different girl noses. And she’d been able to hide in the back, doing her best not to look at his shining, radiant Daddyness.

Now his attention was on her.

“Uhh?” she said.

“Calling them fat,” Seth said. He stepped inside, ducking. He’d grown an extra two inches, which would eventually be four, and was unsure if he’d bonk against doorframes. Inside, Kylie felt a mental shift—her apartment had instantly gone from hers to his. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be possessed as well. “That’s not okay. You girls need to each other.”

“I gotta be nice to the herd?” Kylie snapped. “Why? You know about all this, right? They’re a bunch of cows with milk brains. They’re DUMB.” She gestured, meaning the building. “I don’t have to be nice to the cows. They’re fucking COWS.”

“Hey,” Seth said. He put his hands on his hips. “I’m pretty sure we’re all going through this together. We were all having a nice time in there, hanging out, and you completely devastated Ateera. You’re the only one being a big—big nasty about it.”

“Big BITCH? Is that what you were gonna say?” Kylie laughed. “Big black bitch! Just say it! Yes, Dadd—Seth. That’s your name, right? S-Seth?” She’d checked it on the mail slot, although it kept slipping and sliding away from her. Daddy. Daddy. She was being a bad girl in front of Daddy, and he was frowning at her. Their scents collided and mixed together, recognizing each other. Kylie had never felt so drunk, so stupid, so outside of herself. Who was this audacious slut, telling off an authority figure? “Yeah, I’m calling them fat. They are fat!”

“The only way we get through this is together,” Seth said, shaking his head.

“No, the only way we get through this is SEPARATELY, fuckhead!” Kylie said. Oh, that had hit. He flinched at that one. He didn’t like bad language, Daddy did not. “Detox! In little rooms! I thought girls like US were the dumb ones!” God, was her collar hot. He could cool it for her, couldn’t he? Hold it in his calm hands?

“Are you saying you’re not—affected?” Seth said. He was getting mad now, Kylie could tell. She was getting really juiced up about it. The only problem was, she just knew too much to feel like this was a meaningful argument, that she was in some blazing moment of glory, fighting back against her own inevitable spanking. Part of her—no, fully half of her—maybe even ALL of her knew that she was bathing in his scent, huffing his daddy fumes, and turning into a worthless cheap bratty whore.

This was all scripted. It was all so inevitable. He was her Daddy. No. But he was, wasn’t he?

“You know you have pigtails now, right?”

“No, I certainly DON’T,” Kylie scoffed. She felt another wave of renewed panic, touching at her twisted up hair, plus a blast of despair. Would there be anything left of her, or just a thick cunt with silly pigtails, suddenly all of nineteen years old? Already she felt nervous about drinking alcohol. That was for Daddys. “You think you can really grow an extra big dick and slide in here, telling me what to do?”

Seth closed in. They were both drinking in each other’s scent, figuring out how their bodies would fit. He was so white. He was going to make so many mistakes about her, about hair care and skin care, and she was going to have so many enjoyable tantrums about it.

“I want to help you,” Daddy told her, so close. “Really. I want all of us to get along.”

She spit in his face.

The enzymes and hormones seeped into his skin. Both of their hearts were pounding. Despite how hopeless it all was Kylie felt a surge of accomplishment. If she was going to become a bad girl, at least she’d become the baddest girl. He smelled so good. She was so wet for him. It was going to be so great to learn the error of her ways.

“Alright,” Seth said. “I get it. I get it.”

He didn’t bother to wipe his face. “I know what this is. Alright. The safe word is. Hmm. The safe word is ‘choker’, okay? Now, I’m going to teach you something important.”

“Fuck—” she didn’t get it out.

Seth slapped her.

It told her so much, information flooding into the brain cells that had survived repeated chemical washes.

First of all, Daddy cared for her. He had so carefully calibrated the power to teach her an appropriate lesson. And she had learned: Daddy was not to be trifled with. Daddy was to be obeyed, ultimately. She’d have a swollen lip, an open-handed red print on her cheek, to remind her of Daddy’s concern for her wellbeing.

Second of all, Daddy was mad. At her. Kylie was so proud of herself. All this, from a big man, from little her! She could see his cockhead pressing against his underpants, leaking a steady stream of precum.

Third, Daddy owned her body. She needed to take good care of herself, and wear cute clothes, because it was ultimately not really hers. She was renting it at most.

Fourth, there would be consequences if she stepped out of line. Wonderful, painful, exciting consequences. To think, he hadn’t even spanked her yet. Or was a slap a spank of the face? It’d be a lot to think about, if she could’ve still thought.

“I’m tired of the back talk,” Seth told her. He grabbed her chin and examined her eyes. Kylie blew him an air kiss. “I’m tired of the disrespect. Yeah, I get that it’s been programmed into you. Lets program it out of you, alright?”

He grabbed her collar, the gold ring, and used it to hold her motionless. It was well-timed. She was about to collapse. Her arms and legs were tingling, nerveless, from getting knocked around. The leather cut into her throat, her windpipe resting on his hairy knuckles, and she could barely choke in a brief breath. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

Even so she was grateful, so very grateful, for the small amounts of precious oxygen he was allowing her. Daddy was letting her breath, a little. She probably didn’t need the oxygen-starved synapses withering inside of her.

After a long, endlessly long, moment of wordless gasping he used his other hand to pick her up, by her pussy, so she was level with his eyes. She didn’t allow herself a huge gasp of indrawn breath. It would disrespect him. And if she ed out, he would hold her.

He kissed her, hard. Kylie bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

It was the only kiss that Calving approved of. Kissing typically just wasn’t done. Ultimately, as much as Calving approved of endless pleasurable sex, the organization was not big into personal intimacy, and definitely not into anything romantic. Kissing didn’t align with the doggy-style sex and slobbery blowjobs that Calving favored. It was considered overly exclusive, making out.

But Daddy and his Brat were special.

The copper tang of Seth’s blood tasted incredible. All of it, the spitting, the biting, the scratching, the smacking, was normal Daddy-Brat bonding behavior. The usual exchange of sex fluids wasn’t considered enough. It had to be blood-to-blood, face-to-face.

Daddy and his Brat broke off. What remained of Kylie was appropriately chastened. Daddy had taught her a valuable lesson about sharing and caring. Of course he was right about that, and everything. She would be nicer to her new sisters. There was plenty of Daddy to go around.

Daddy yanked on her collar again. Kylie didn’t fight it at all—she was happy to get on her knees, lost to him, coursing with his needs, full of his fluids. She rolled down his workout shorts, still wet from his sweat, to pull out the thick prong of his cock. “Suck it,” he told her, unnecessarily.

“Yes, Daddy,” Kylie said. Her pussy drooled. She opened her mouth wide. Her lip hurt—he’d given her a fat lip.

“I better not feel any teeth,” Daddy said.

“Mmm, Mmmmm,” Kylie said, cock in her mouth. She wouldn’t dream of it. There were some things even bad girls like her would not do. She strove to impress him, pulling him deeper inside. He rubbed at the top of her head, and she melted at the affection. Affection! After she’d been so bad for so long!

“How was that? Good?” Daddy said. “I’m still getting used to all this. Should I spank you, first? Or, no, I can do whatever I want, can’t I? Do you need like, aftercare, or is it better if I just walk out after I cum? Probably better to walk out. Hey, where’s your family from?”

“Nhmmmmiimmm,” Kylie said.

Her Daddy was such a good Daddy. He’d taught her an important lesson about friendship and sharing. She hoped she would it, after he came. She had a big important and above all PROFESSIONAL meeting the next day, after all.

On Wednesday Kylie gave her big presentation.

The remnants of the USDA/FDA Special Task Force met at a public library just outside the city. Bethany’s public library—the one she volunteered at. It was a light and airy space, although the displays and flyers had not been updated in some time. Book lending was at an all-time low. The public computers were hopelessly corrupted with viruses from Calving’s small but dedicated IT team, and displayed a number of different whorls and sworls.

Kylie was very late, and pretty tired. There’d been the whole thing with the fire. Her apartment was the farthest away from the flames, but she’d woken up to the fire truck, with its complement of many fire daddies. After that she’d been too nervous to sleep, working on her outfit for the presentation. She was vaguely sure that like, 80% of her final grade would be based on it.

“Sorry I’m late!” she said, marching in. The exhausted staff of the United States Department of Agriculture were assembled in the far end of the space, near the unread newspapers and the unread New Non-Fiction.

After many sleepless hours she’d realized that so long as she wore a blazer, she looked basically professional. Which meant it was no trouble to go full blast with her makeup, a now-confusing mish-mash of creams and ointments and different types of glitter. Kylie had opted for a two-tone lipstick, also with glitter, a pink/purple blend. It was a bit middle school, but since the blazer was grad school, she figured it evened out to college. Or at least, late high school.

The skirt had been a problem, with her butt now finalized as a fully smackable wagon. With some work and a lot of tugging and some wishful thinking she’d coaxed an old white denim pair to kind of cover her pussy. More than half of her rear was on display, but during the presentation she’d be facing them, so that was fine. For a top she’d opted for tube. Two of the finest tits in the county rested there. She’d completed the look with a ransom of cheap fake gold and silver, her blazer, and her ID card on a lanyard, showcasing a very, very different girl. For one thing, she didn’t have vacant, dull eyes in the photograph.

“Sorry! Sorry!” she sashayed past her coworkers. No one in attendance had the energy to say anything. Although they would—Bethany had provided the juice, the tea, and the pastries, and all three were doctored to the hilt. Bethany, wringing her hands in the back, did feel a little bad about it, but the truth was, she badly needed more dicks to suck. The craving for cum soaking the back of her throat was too strong to resist.

Kylie marched her big butt to the front. There were sixteen people left, not that she was counting, or very good at counting.

“Boys and sluts!” she said, She produced a clipboard, on which she’d written some notes, or at least some doodles of Seth’s big dick.

“Bethany, get her out of here,” Drew said. “She’s all the way gone. Why is she even here, breathing on us?”

Drew was destined for a hard but rewarding life of manual labor. Someone was going to have to farm, in the Calving world. It couldn’t all be light-hearted breeding, although the crops they’d designed were as fertile as the people, and packed with important amino acids. As a reward for his service, he’d have one of the biggest possible cocks, an amazing bitch-splitter that would make girls cum just looking at it.

“I am, excuse me Mr. Drew, MOST of the way gone,” Kylie said, brightly. “Please do not interrupt girls when they are trying to think, it is very hard for us! Girls, and boys, we’re all getting pretty fuckin’ hot, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not,” Angelica riposted. Her cam site, Resisty Girls, documenting every facet of her very slow but very thorough transformation into a particularly dumb slut, would eventually top the paysites. Few would maintain an attitude of defiance, while bouncing up and down on a rubber dildo, for longer. “You’re wearing a collar! Get off the podium!”

“Uh, I can TAKE IT OFF whenever I FEEL LIKE IT!” Kylie said, rolling her eyes. She unlatched it and held it up for the audience. Then quickly put it back on and relatched it. Her neck had been cold for those brief, unpleasant seconds. It felt weird, being able to breath freely. “And here’s what I’m saying, fuckos, you need to figure out how to have nice big titties and keep fighting, because you’re gonna have nice big titties!”

It was true, Bethany reflected, regretfully adding more special slut juice to the OJ. It had turned out that her husband’s company had gotten bought by Calving, some time ago, and if she wanted that sixth blowjob of the day this was the price.

No one talked back, for once, but Peggy raised her hand. “Why ARE you wearing a collar?” she said, tremulous. Her own struggle against her own femininity was about at an end. She was wearing frilly lace panties underneath her khakis, and had fingered herself, hungrily, looking at pictures of cribs. She would end up at a Baby Overflow Station, managing the many, many precious tykes produced by nonstop procreative sex. And produce quite a few herself, which would’ve surprised the Peggy that cropped her hair short and described herself as the “kind of Bi that hates both genders.”

“Uh, because I have an OWNER,” Kylie said, rolling her eyes. “And YES he’s white and YES I know that’s very problematic, but you know what, I literally can’t care anymore! I don’t got that ability! Look, bitches and bulls, I can smell all your pussies and I can see what packages you’re packing. We’re all dumb and horny. Lets just own it and keep fighting anyway!”

Roger got up and walked out, giving vibes of dissent, but really because his erection was too strong to hide. With a big manly beard and in a cutoff t-shirt he’d emerge as a trucker, hauling grain and feed, stopping for Suck Breaks at dedicated slut stations along the roadside. And never quite losing a stuffy British accent.

“I, myself, ummmmmmmm” Kylie said, and lost her train of thought. Some of the men in the audience were giving off Daddy, and it was distracting. Something about their annoyed focus. “Um. I broke into this Calving bitch’s place yesterday, let loose her man slut, trashed her apartment, and I did it with THESE titties and THIS ass and AFTER getting choked and smacked around! And you know how I did it, despite getting kinda spacey, and I think I might actually be like, a decade younger? !”

She jostled her tits, to illustrate what meant. It was a good bit, and she was annoyed when Sarah, in the front row, snorted at it. It was Sarah’s last semester as a teacher, although she’d stay at the school, teaching girls important facts about sucking dick and squeezing their pussies to make boys cum. Finishing School, the boys would call it, although she’d be too ditzy to get the joke.

“Not a person here is working together!” Kylie said, pointing, accusatory. “You’re just singles, waiting around to get bimbofied, because you’re scared you’re gonna end up sucking dick if you’re in a room with a man. Suck his dick anyway and get to work! This concludes my report, and I think I deserve an A+ grade.”

She dropped the clipboard and, on impulse, turned around and bent at the waist, just so the crowd could see what a perfect ass looked like. The resounding boos that crashed down on her just made her pussy more wet.

“Fine! Fuck you!” Kylie said, holding up double birds. “Stephanie was the only one worth shit! Fuck all of you! The boys want to fuck me!”

She stripped the blazer off—it was far too tight to button—and tossed it at the restless, unhappy crowd. They were feeling the medications very strongly now, a combination of confused lassitude and high-octane sexual energy. Pussies were already getting juicy, and penises were already erect.

Kylie stalked off, ass swaggering, and every eye in the house watched her saunter out, triumphant.

“Um, okay!” Bethany said, retaking the floor. “Big round of applause for Kylie!”

“Now, can we all look forward as my hubby has a video he thinks you’ll all enjoy!”

Her husband was a hulking man with a tie barely strapped around his neck. He wheeled up a laptop with a very large screen and pressed a button.

The screen showed a pink and blue double spiral.

The USDA representatives were too slow to close their eyes, and too dazed to stop listening.

On Thursday Kylie called her Daddy. Her Daddy Daddy.

They hadn’t spoken in—years. His college, A&T, had been part of an early effort by Calving to extend its reach to underrepresented and under bimbofied groups. Kylie hadn’t known anything was up until her sister had called on FaceTime, clutching her big new jugs, and telling her important facts about what her investigation had discovered, and how nice it was to get porked by so many willing dicks.

He picked up right away. Kylie had thought about making her own video call—to show Daddy her own much nicer titties, her own assets too big for any video screen. But it felt—fraught? Was that a word she still ed? Probably not—Kylie had caught herself sucking her thumb, and girls who could plausibly use a pacifier didn’t use big words.

She liked the pacifier idea.

“Hi Daddy,” she said, subdued.

“Kylie,” he said, sternly. “I’m in the middle of teaching a class.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Kylie said.

“It’s alright. Hold on.” She heard him raise his voice. DId he still wear those heavy, tortoiseshell glasses, or had Calving improved his vision? He apparently still had his accent. Her own always returned when she talked to him. “Sluts! Turn to each other and make each other cum. You must cum at the exact same time. Do you understand me? I said, DO you UNDERSTAND me?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Kylie said, in concert with the sighing bimbos off in North Carolina. He’d formerly taught African History, and been very good at it. But it was nice to see that he was still teaching.

“So, how is my Daughter?” he said, to a new background noise of moaning and rubbing. It had to be something to be in that room, dozens of girls trying to cum simultaneously.

“Daddy, I’m a slut now. They got me,” Kylie said.

“Of course they got you,” Daddy said. “Did you think you wouldn’t be caught?”

“Maybe a little?”

“That’s true stupidity. So now your body matches. Are you properly pregnant?”

“Um,” Kylie shifted. “I haven’t actually had sex yet, Daddy. I’m a virgin. I got a hymen and everything.”

He snorted, amused, and Kylie blushed deep crimson. “I’m barely out of High School, Daddy!”

There was a twin yowl of two girls getting off together in a distant classroom.

“Jazmine! Jess! Very good. Do it again!” he barked, and then returned. “Your sister has given us five grandchildren already. She lives with her husband now, you know. Very nice man, very respectful. He has a job making gas fumes turn girls into trashy sluts. So no one is fucking you, Daughter?”

“I mean....” this was why she had called. It WAS big news, she figured, that she had a master and a Daddy, of her very own. Albeit shared, a lot shared. “There IS someone. Who owns me. I guess I’m kind of his property? He has such a yummy dick, Daddy, I REALLY like him. He’s super nice and also super mean.”

“His name?”

“Daddy. Oh. Ummmmmmmmm. Seth? It’s Seth. Is it okay that he’s white? DIdn’t you used to teach stuff about white guys... owning.... black girls... do you anything like that?”

Daddy made a noncommittal noise. A single girl was crying out, now, in the far reaches of his classroom. “Clarisse! Lick the floor until I tell you to stop. And Adanna! You ride on top of her.”

“I don’t think the herd counts the spots or marks the hides,” he told her, dismissively. And added, a trifle sheepishly: “I myself now own a white bitch. Well, she is married to me.”

“Daddy!” Kylie said, shocked. “What about Mom?”

“My first and most honored. The white girl is actually my, ahem, third. I renamed her Chinara. She was named Payton before, if you can believe that. The second one is Abby. I allowed her to keep her name. I believe she is of Chinese heritage. I should also mention you have a new half-brother and will soon have two others.”

“Um.” What was there to say? Kylie looked at herself, in her new bathroom mirror. She was fully bitchified herself. Everything that could be made lush, and full, and doubly pubescent, had been. She looked like the type of girl who sucked dick in every single class, who seduced from both back and front, who often had semen trickling down parts of her. The collar sat proudly on her neck, waiting for her lead. She’d put on yellow shorts and a polka dot top, and just felt overwhelmingly curved.

She just had to trust that, in her eyes, was some remaining spark of resistance. She HAD spiked Terri’s coffee with a laxative, that morning. Not that it had mattered—Terri was so used to enormous volumes of truly wild chemicals that it hadn’t bothered her a bit. But she’d tried. True, she wasn’t sure if it was to get back at the bimbofying slut, or to give Daddy something to spank her for. But why not both?

“Daddy, I want to keep fighting back. I think I can. I’m a really bad girl. I think bad girls can like, do bad things. You know?”

“Not really,” Daddy told her. He was losing interest in the conversation, and fair enough. A large group of girls was about to reach a mutual orgasm, in his classroom, a big heaving mass of sweaty, overcome women with their eyes rolling back. Daddy probably had to go dick them down, and that was fair. “But it is good to hear from you. Have this Seth person call me.”

“I will, Daddy.”

“And be good. Or apparently bad, whichever.” the girls were starting to cum now. It was getting hard to hear him.

“I will, Daddy.”

“Do you want to speak to your Mother? She is here. Underneath my desk.”

“Um. Soon. Daddy.” Daddy, the word always tasted good.

He hung up. Well. Even before turning into a stallion, he hadn’t been big on goodbyes.

Kylie tossed the phone down and walked out of her apartment. Seth’s apartment. Seth’s building, really, and soon the subdivision, as well, might be his. She’d gone and apologized to Ateera, and Julia, and Bailey, and Elena, for any previous slights, although warning them that there’d be other moments. But they could simply tell Seth of any bad behavior, and he’d smack it out of her.

Stephanie was still out there somewhere, and she’d still have an agent, if a really dumb whore of one.

“You,” Jelena came up to her, the short Cambodian girl with a peremptory tone of voice. “Seth needs to breed you.”

“Um, what?” Kylie said. Her knees went weak. Breed her? But she was a freshman, or something. She couldn’t be a knocked up teenage slut. Bad enough she was a teenage slut. “No. No, no, no. I’m good. The rest of you sluts can walk around like bowling balls. I’m the other one.”

“We’re all getting pregnant. Lets go. Seth said you’d probably fight me,” Jelena hooked a finger in the collar ring. It worked. It would always work. But Kylie made sure to make a nice big scene, crying and carrying on, while she was frogmarched up to the lair of Daddy. So her sister had five? She’d have to beat that girl at her own game, and do it while carrying a full courseload. They’d all see how many loads she could carry.

“Sorry, Kylie,” Daddy said, as she was yanked inside. He was perfectly poised on his computer chair, wearing a very loose pair of gym shorts, and was shirtless. He waved a hand, and Julia and Bailey, who were generally doting on him, quickly walked out. “Jelena says that it’ll be a lot easier if you’re all synchronized. Saves on bottles. Whatever.”

“That bitch just gets off on it, you know,” Kylie said. She sat on Daddy’s lap, where she belonged, but he stood her up to wriggle her shorts off. He was so strong. “This is like, a bad idea. The complex is a mess and we all lost our fuckin’ jobs, and we’re gonna make...uh....” math was not her strong suit. How many babies would it be?

He gave her a casual slap on the rump to shut her up. It very much shut her up. “I can’t leave you out,” he said. “I already knocked everyone else up. And besides, this will be a good way to teach you responsibility, won’t it?”

It would be very difficult to be a cocksucking slut, and also a bimbo operative, while also juggling the responsibilities of being a teen mom. But... everything he said was true. It was Daddy saying it. Kylie slid his shorts down. He’d fucked every girl already that day, and his dick was still heavy and erect. For her. She decided, boldly, to face him while they fucked. She climbed aboard his lap, yet again, and reached back to grab his cock.

“If you say so, Daddy,” Kylie felt his cockhead press against her hymen, and then tear right through. Not many girls got knocked up the first time they had sex, but Daddy was special, she felt.

Daddy was very special.