The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut

1

In the shady suburb of Blueberry Bush, on idyllic Cream Tart Lane, the old widow Esther Biddy had at long last kicked the bucket. She had no relatives, left nothing behind her, save a shoebox stuffed of recipes and the odd scrip or two, some musty clothes out of style three decades ago, and her smelly house of cats.

Built long before the spate of upper-income families hit the block, her house stood testament to a dead architecture. The house possessed none of the cookie-cutter grandeur of that majority of new mansions surrounding it, whose inhabitants had but recently flown the city’s sex- and crime-filled navel for cheap, safe, unimaginative palaces on its bloating haunches. Hers was a shotgun-ranch style home made in a post-War decade, when houses weren’t built to scale of today’s garages. Most of Mrs. Biddy’s neighbors relished her passing, never mind god-fearing Cream Tart fancied itself the epicenter of suburban heaven; for those reigning yoyos pretending knowledge into arcane matters of real estate whispered that all the street’s “lots” were “devalued” by proximity of the eyesore.

Madeiline “Maddy” LaMode had never thought so; but then, as those same yoyos presumed their absorbing neighbor had her whole life conceived a total of maybe two thoughts in her pretty little head, none among them once minded the good woman her scruple. Maddy, for the record, had always liked Mrs. Biddy. She knew the dead woman’s house was an eyesore, not to mention the smell of cat piss emanating from there the likely culprit for the absence of grass in the yard; but she was sad all the same to consider its demolition, if only for memories she had of three winters back, cold afternoons bent over Esther’s oven, gleaning from the deceased the elusive Zen of baking.

Those afternoons had drastically changed the homemaker’s life. Baking was now Maddy’s one all-consuming passion!

For, make no mistake, Maddy LaMode—our hero!—was first and foremost a “woman of passion”. She wished to make of herself, in the vague terminology of our times, “active and influential!”, to be profiled in her favorite local tabloid, Orchard Pulp, or discussed on one of her favorite talk-shows—Dishing With Neapolitan, say, or The Quotidian Trifle—to be, in short, an honest-to-goodies celebrity do-gooder, right up there with such real-life women-icons as ex-lieutenant governor, Hilary Rodhug Crullers, billionaire philanthropist-wife, Belinda Gateaux, or that topheavy blonde vigilante par excellence, the alluring masked defender of Paradise City—The Trixter!

Alas, it seemed no matter how Maddy did try to “get moving and make a real-life hero of” herself, her efforts inevitably came to naught; she either messed up “big time” (as when she volunteered to teach a cooking class at the local Assisted Living and got her hair caught in the toaster); or else she messed up AND made everything “way worse” (as when Mrs. Cobbler organized the wives of The Bush for that “Raffle on the Lake” in relief of Hurricane Sundae victims, and Maddy accidentally jettisoned the prize money overboard along with her blouse!).

All this to say, it was a good thing she discovered baking; not only was Maddy actually good at it, baking gave her the chance to play champion to a whole community. To charity bake sales she could always bequeath her stellar whopping pies. Patrons of the B-Bush Soup Kitchen had no hard feelings left in them after handouts of the svelte little wifey’s plump buttered buns. And no church potluck would be replete without Maddy’s stacked and packed covered dishes almost topping over in their cossetting largesse.

For the truth was, Maddy felt a NEED to help; in fact, herein lay the nuclear source of all her weird passions. Maddy had always been, at bottom, nothing short of an aspiring heroine, and all for the conjunction of two unremarkable aspects of her character: first, she needed to feel appreciated, and second, without that she couldn’t feel good.

Thus Maddy had always had passions, even before baking, and each new passion she picked up replaced in her another passion just as strong. The love of contriving flaky, iced, sweet, or salty treats had usurped in Maddy’s somewhat unreflective soul her previous lone obsession for “mothering”. Before Esther had turned her onto the mysteries of confectionary, Maddy had been a full-time mother hen. She had all but worshiped her daughter, or worshiped, more aptly, the act of caring for the child to the point of lunacy, and as she had only the one, she of course worried the poor girl immensely. So little Clarabelle was nothing short of relieved, when, at the opportune age of fourteen, she experienced an abrupt bump to second banana in her mom’s overactive regard. For the first time in her life, the raven-haired track and fielder could go to school without a jacket if it were 65 and a chance of rain; she could ride her ten-speed without a helmet and getting admonished; she could tug a boy off in the backseat of her parents’ SRX because Mom, “has to put the pies in the oven, hon, so you’ll have to drive yourself to school today . . .” But the reader need not mourn the obsolescence of Maddy-Mother-Hen, for, in baking, the compulsive caregiver had found a way to be “mom” to all “B-Bush”—or as much of it had a sweet tooth—and she dived into her latest “heroic” role with all her token, senseless devotion.

Maddy loved baking nothing so much as pies. Hers were famous—and rightly! So big and round and full of soft, sapid goodness! Last year alone they’d ringed her the blue ribbon at the annual Cherry Orchard “BONAR, Inc., Collagen Days” (previously simply “Candy Days”; despite its longheld reputation as Desserts Capital of the Country, Cherry Orchard had, in the last decade, cleverly “re-branded” itself the nation’s top producer of gelatin and other smart reduxes of animal parts. During that time the world’s premier company in by-productive and psychotropic technologies, BONAR, Inc., was lured with non-unionized labor and exorbitant tax incentives to make a happy, profitable home of Old C.O.).

And Maddy wasn’t the type to rest on her bushy laurels; she continued daily to hone her technique, to seek out new and exciting recipes, and on her own intuition, mind you, to stuff more and more exotic nonsense into her confections. She baked pies of grape and vinegar, she baked ones of avocado, of hot dogs, cheeseburger, nachos, roast beef and beer—she even baked her own panties once (but that was on accident). She baked for holidays; she baked for regular days; for god’s sake, the go-getter dough-puncher baked in the middle of the fucking night!

Because Maddy couldn’t sleep; since a teenager, she never had got much more than a few hours’ winks a day—her lack of REM in part perhaps explaining that label which had stuck to the good lady from some friends immemorial of “Slaphappy Maddy”—for she felt a strange excitement within her almost always, at least since her “tits came in”, as the boys of her seventh grade used to remark, with an admiration verging on venomous. Doubtless that invidious admiration of her unconstrainable whole, which admiration had only grown, predictably, as she herself had, since her adolescent impressive sprouting, helped explain the woman’s odd excitement, and the excitement, why her passions consumed so much of her time, as well as, perhaps, why she nearly always had to have something in her mouth—usually gum, but sometimes a pencil, a paper-clip, a finger, a low-cal popsicle, ends of her hair . . .

As a teenager her passion had been for running, and in order not to offend her husband by gaining weight—and doubtless for a fear of losing that general admiration of men, without which, one suspects, she would’ve felt somehow less “heroic”—Ol’ Maddy still ran religiously, three hours on the treadmill daily, which in turn assured she hadn’t “fleshed out” at all as one might expect after a baby and her latest sweet obsession.

In college, she’d gone out for cheerleading—and then it was armchair-acrobatics, school spirit, and an inevitable busload of black athletes that had exhausted her, so much so that, but for the pity of her instructors and universal weakness for her looks, there’s just no way the peppy coed should have ever graduated cum laude. For a short stint after graduation, she’d been someone’s secretary, and then it was her boss’s spreadsheets that had worsted the slim miss’s slimmer discrimination; she quit when the choice over what color of paper to use on the annual corporate income report nearly caused her a nervous collapse. In fact, this peculiar ardor with which she took up so personally the meaningless matters of professional drudgework would either have signaled her out down the road (and sooner rather than later) the greatest of corporate assets or biggest of office bimbos—or, more than likely, these two are one.

Unfortunate, then, her marriage at twenty-two cut short any second attempts Maddy might have made to succeed in business without ever thinking. Her husband, Paul LaMode, became of course her life’s next passion; though, as his own passion was his political career, it wasn’t long before Maddy was hardpressed to puzzle out what she, specifically, could do for the guy. Besides sitting home and looking pretty, or being carted off to this or that Yellow Party fundraiser and looking pretty, or whipping a fancy meal together for those nights Paul had a “career-launching” dinner guest over and looking pretty—young Maddy seemed of absolutely zero use to her ambitious other half. Indeed, after a lacklustre honeymoon period with his animate trophy, Paul seemed to all but forget she existed. Fortunate, then, Maddy was already pregnant with her next passion. And that about catches us up to her present day . . .

Maddy’s “friends” from the neighborhood—i.e., those coevals and no-relations who packed her life’s sidelines but upon whom she could honestly trust less to accord her sympathy or the like than she might a complete stranger—these same people understandably loved to tease Maddy. She was the easiest of targets. Not only was she viewed enviously for having married a young, slightly famous (and getting more so), slightly affluent (and getting more so), and principled (and, as his career was just taking off, getting agreeably less so), tall, handsome man, the woman was, they asserted, also an “undersexed airhead”, with all the gaudy “dimensions” of an oversexed one. They would sometimes say, behind her back or to her face, it hardly mattered where good-natured Maddy was concerned, that it must have been baking, after all, that had made her “big boobs double in size” over the last decade. “All that kneading made ’em rise!”

But that was a joke, at least Maddy wondered: “Wasn’t it?” Because those were her friends: “Weren’t they?” And that wasn’t a very nice thing to say, if it wasn’t a joke, she “sure as sherbet” didn’t think so! However, it was no joke the thirty-something’s big boobs had gotten “way bigger”, as the good wife herself had recently put it, staring shamefaced at her DD’s in the closet mirror after a recent morning bath. They’d widened out as a result of her pregnancy with Clarabelle, probably, or her being of relatively well-endowed breeding to begin with, and not her pies, obviously, and certainly not, as some very vindictive and probably flat-chested neighbor-one-block over (Betty Cobbler?) had insinuated, a late-in-life boob-job to ensnare the wandering attentions of her husband with. Because that showed how much she knew, Maddy would sometimes fume despite her typical best efforts to keep up an inanely chirpy worldview, because Paul wasn’t a “boobies man” (and she might have emitted the subtlest of “alas” sighs at this inner concession).

No, Maddy was quite simply and decidedly a “late bloomer”. Whereas most women’s “flowers” were done “spreading their petals” by their late-twenties (save, of course, those several who steadily put a hundred pounds or more on promptly upon “selling the cow”), hers had just kept right on “blooming”. The growth proved, truth be told, a slow and gradual thing, invisible to most except by comparison of “before and after”—style photos of Maddy, those of her today contrasted with those of, say, ten years before. Such a contrast had been the root of her neighbors’ recent conspiracy and the joke about “kneading”. Maddy, of course, didn’t require such graphic juxtapositions, not when confronted by the rather pesky fact of having to “size up” her bras every year or two. She stood now, as said, at DD’s, and, as the cache of colorful, lacy-frilly brassieres in her top dresser drawer ill fit her enough already, she just hoped she might stay there, unless of course Paul saw fit to get her “preggers” again, in which case she would gladly invest in new undergarments. Having another baby had been her dearest not-so-secret desire since Clarabelle grew out of diapers, and so she’d even take bigger “boobies” if that were the bargain, anything for another li’l cutie to coddle her big cuties with.

And why not note here that, while Maddy found it extremely embarrassing to reference aloud, or have others reference, any part of her anatomy considered “naughty” and preached against Sundays by her favorite local evangelical, Reverend Buster Nutter, she always still did refer to those same parts of herself—if only sotto voce or in the appropriate “motherly” context—as her “boobies”, “tushy”, and “koochie”, more or less respectively; and though it may seem strange that a grown woman, pious Christian, self-attested feminist, and graduate of the University of Bain-Marie State would use such childish, even sexist, terms to refer to her own especially female parts—but that was just Maddy! She was at heart a child, perhaps, and, perhaps, certain fine points of consistency where it came to a person’s own character, and what that even meant, had slipped through the porous fabric of the lady’s cheesecloth of a brain.

But lest one think her overproud of her bust-line, as might befit a woman of easy virtue, who considers her bosom even at its most pragmatic (i.e., fostering an infant) as ever only in childish terms, it merits a mention that Maddy felt in fact rather embarrassed of her “risers”—not her baked ones, of course, her “fleshies”—and didn’t ever know what to say to such not so occasional allusions to their size and almost cartoony buoyancy as those of her friends’ jokes or complete strangers’ cat-calls, and so just got flustered and blushed or, if she’d had a drink or two, snorted at her own expense her characteristic giggle. Thankfully, such instances weren’t all that common: except to carry out her charities and good deeds, Maddy rarely left the house at all anymore—what with her kitchen baking, treadmill running, and intermittent obsessive mothering (nagging, snooping, cooking, washing, cleaning, hours unproductive worrying . . .), where would she have found the time? She still performed the weekly grocery shop, of course, ran out now and again to pick up the latest O Pulp, and, when demanded, accompanied Paul in one of his career-furthering visits to this or that bigwig’s Yellow Party barbecue. Infrequently, she would even, too, fulfill her neighborly obligation and pay her respects to the reigning wives of B-Bush, the proper and powerful Betty Cobbler, for instance, or the no less intimidating Bonny Eiffel, her daughter’s friend’s mom, who lived just two houses down and the other side of the street from Maddy. But all these outings were little more now than routines. And even when the odd instant came up, not routine, when “the wives” had a ladies’ night—never mind the occasion—and so got “a little tipsy”, as they eloquently phrased getting three sheets to the wind, even at such times references to Maddy’s oversized “cups” were not made more than, say, twice every hour. For, despite the remarkability of Maddy’s growth, Maddy’s friends had no reason beyond the typical in-passing malice to dwell overlong on the coincidence.

Because even Maddy’s shitty friends tacitly agreed it would be too cruel to take their little jokes farther: as was patently obvious to all who even slightly knew the shapely disgruntled stay-at-home, Maddy was “very bored” with her life. She baked as she ran or as she mothered, then, as if to avoid doing anything else more obvious with, well, herself. And things had only gotten worse in this way in the last couple years. Paul had moved “in city” from his post as fundraiser at the local Yellow Party office in The Bush. As of the last election, he worked downtown at the Mayor’s office, a huge promotion, all agreed, for any so young and inexperienced. But it meant he often went whole days with barely a stop in to see the house and wife and kid. Maddy couldn’t figure what all her husband did there. She pictured him behind a desk, feet kicked up as he rattled off words like “fiscal” and “fiduciary”, all the while a female stenographer dressed like a 50’s secretary clack-clack-clacked away with her overlong-fingernailed fingers on an analog keyboard. This despite the fact Maddy had been to Paul’s new office twice before, had seen her husband’s desk and had met the secretary, an impressive proud young blonde neo-conservative (or, if you like, “male apologist”) named Moffat Toffee; but the visits hadn’t anymore demystified her husband’s daily doings to the woman than had she had to rely entirely on her Sunday-comics imagination. To the contrary, stopping in at that high-profile power center, City Hall, had only brought home to Maddy how far behind her were her own “office days”, and if she hadn’t been so intimidated by the “professionalism” of that surrounding, she certainly would have felt more the jealousy she couldn’t help herself, that is, of course, jealous of the blonde, who shared so much time and what fools call “career orientation” with her own beloved “Paul-Paul”. Why, Maddy even worried times if Paul’s frequently taking “late nights at the office” was perhaps not wholly on account of “work”, strictly speaking; but on such suspicions, Maddy would stop herself from any out-and-out unconscious accusation of her dearest with a whispered gasp—HER “Paul-Paul”! The staunch Yellow Christian proud father husband game changer people person patriot golden boy she had come to love and marry! “NEVER!!!”

Whether or not he would ever, Maddy had little hope of seeing more of her husband in the near future. Paul was, by all accounts, the Yellow Party’s latest darling—handsome, able to speak whole sentences in a single go and so deemed “intelligent” by the press; possessing of a beautiful family; luringly half-witted in his desire to curb government excess wherever he found it; and claiming not one single scandal to date, a veritable first for one of that racy city’s male politicos. And thanks to the tenuous endorsement of one or so Party big-shots, and the timely exploitation of a precipitate opening in television punditry, Paul was now a minor C.O. celebrity, weekly making the rounds of the press, doing interviews for The Currant or answering questions about “How to please your hubby!” for O Pulp; he was even a regular commentator on C.O.’s most popular nightly televised news magazine, The QT. Of course, Maddy found all this new publicity around her husband very exciting at first. But now, only a few years into his political career taking off and she was wont to wonder if it just kept on going like that, his getting more and more famous, and so spending less and less time with her, and so her getting more and more, just, “very bored”. He was even now considering a run for mayor himself! What would it mean for their family if he actually won? That would be both so exciting and so frustrating, a formulation that thoroughly befuddled the protozoal Maddy—Wasn’t Paul’s being a celebrity and she a celebrity’s wife, provided neither shared needles or fought dogs on the side or something—weren’t people like they were now just supposed to be happier and better off than regular folks? Maddy had always properly assumed so, but that was before her “Paul-Paul’s” big break.

Paul LaMode had his new boss to thank for that. The year before, the Mayor had appointed Paul his Secretary of Transportation—never mind Paul had no practical experience, preached openly of his anti-spending agenda called “Race To Zero”—in which he wished to scrap all public transport—and the Mayor personally couldn’t stand the guy.

Mayor Piero Mousserschmarrn, the city’s first ever black-Italian mayor with a German-sounding surname, had squeaked to re-election last year, barely beating out the promising ex-lieutenant governor and Blue Party candidate Hilary Rodhug Crullers (known familiarly in the press as HRC). And it was for the purpose of improving his somewhat tarnished reputation that he’d appointed the goody-goody Paul to a high-profile (if largely ceremonial) post in his downtown office. Seems, two years before some individuals very close to the once outwardly reticent, somewhat “intellectual”, actually, Mayor had been implicated in, of all things, a white slave trafficking sex ring. They were busted initiating some teenage hotties into the forbidden realms of unbridled lust, with generous helpings of Chem-101, aka “Angel Spank”, its street name. The aphrodisiac party-drug was itself illegal, let alone administering it intravenously to high school girls; but the kicker was the size of the dosage administered and the girls it was given to—these weren’t some inner-city hos-to-be but honest to spanking college-bound suburban teens, one of whom had attended the same elite high school LaMode’s own daughter Clarabelle was now going to! Needless to say, the media sensationalized it, particularly with their anniversary retrospective on the scandal, christened “The Phyllo Affair”, after the now convicted Angelo Phyllo, previously a close associate of the Mayor’s and the director of the influential, right-wing SuperPac Trusting Responsibly In Powering Everyone. In the retrospective, several of the girls were featured, though unnamed and with faces obscured. According to Cherry Orchard’s darling celebrity journalist-extraordinaire Ms. Suzette Trifle (whose many credits included, beyond host of The QT, “lifestyles” columnist for Orchard Pulp Magazine and star reporter of Channel 11’s Night News Edition), the girls were STILL the cause of their appointed social workers’ shock and awe, with their constant demands for “cock and cum!” (That part had, of course, been edited around, but with Ms. Trifle’s eloquent insinuations, even godfearing Maddy had got the picture eventually.)

Mayor Mousserschmarrn, however, was never charged in connection to the scandal, perhaps as he had friends not just in high places, but all over: the COPD, the COPT (though what could THEY do for him?), BONAR, Inc., the Underworld, the DA’s office, even certain prominent reporters working for reputable news outlets. The guy had famously some sort of “network”, and rumors flew concerning the exact makeup of it, its plausible illegality, as well as the inevitable scrutiny it had garnered of the feds . . .

Two years later and the Mayor’s connection to the scandal had all but been forgotten, thanks in part to his politic use of employing such golden boys as Paul to appease the prudish minority of his constituency, as well as thanks to a certain notorious “animal” charisma he had never remotely possessed till very recently, after a car crash in the mountains . . . And lastly, his no less politically useful, absurdly telegenic family helped, too, staggering wife Tiara, and lovely twin teenage daughters—demure Marsha and mischievous Mala.

So it looked like Maddy wasn’t going to get any more attention from Paul anytime soon, notwithstanding her big boobs—and all because Mayor Mousserschmarrn kept him pushing paper so many more hours than the poor sap had done before, when, as a Yellow Party flunky, the young LaMode had canvassed neighborhoods 24/7, called donors, or hosted largely unremunerative shindigs at his marvelously aseptic suburban mansion, catered always by his beautiful superfluous wife. These events were the few at which Maddy got truly to shine, her cooking (and her boobs) always earning her the commendation of whatever tedious Party patriarch the civilities had summoned that night to the LaMode abode. But if such public dinners kept the married couple tacitly endeared to each other, as they had to “perform” together before an audience of older couples as the picture of traditional young connubial bliss, too many other things of late drove them apart, Paul’s roofless political aspirations being merely the most significant of these.

Paul worked constantly, that is, as much by design as by reason, as he worked only to no conceivable immediate purpose other than the suspicion he must have had that, if he stopped, that was an end of him. One thing that must be granted this most unimaginative man version of a slut was that he did at least try to live up to the pompous groundless (no doubt in part facetious) estimation of the bigwigs that he was “a visionary”, an “ideas man”. If that’s what he was, Paul astutely extrapolated, he had better get some visions and ideas, hadn’t he? And so, over the past two years, he had drummed up his so-called “Race To Zero”, a calling card to the genius inspiration governments ought to function on “zero revenue”, a kind of newfangled anarchy wherein everybody accrues just enough guns to keep one’s neighbors from eating one’s children.

Paul had, in other words, duly acquired “ideas”, all in all prefabricated, unnuanced, part-and-parcel purist philosophies of how governments worked or ought to—which, indeed, carefully examined, had nothing at all to do with how governments actually did work or ought to, but, fair enough, nobody of importance expected any of Paul’s ideas to catch on more than as cant and “wrecking-ball” to the city’s social infrastructure. The man’s deep-pocket donors—the existence of whom, it’ll scarce be believed, Paul had as yet honestly little to no inkling—were in fact very pragmatic individuals, conceiving an end to the social contract as it had for half a century or so been generally imagined, the better to create a new class system that catered more efficiently to the accumulation of their own wealth and indulgence of their consequently more and more esoteric desires. Paul had come up with his plan “studying” the thoughts and ideas of these same donors’ guardian agent, Ambidexter Jeckonty, Bain-Marie’s self-professed Messiah and C.O.’s famed founder—which meant, of course, this busy factotum had read a Yellow fanatic’s blog-post or two’s dumbing down of history and had even begun in on Alastair Crunchy’s acclaimed 1,000-page biography of the bigot-industrialist (Paul read it on the crapper every morning, opening the book and reading a paragraph at random).

All this kept him, as it was intended to, always plausibly busier than ever; and so more and more he worked always plausibly later than ever, even sleeping in his office on average once or twice a week (the story of him sleeping in his office, incidentally, became one of his favorites to recount while making his rounds in punditry, as illustration of his devotion to the rigors of governance; and one does wonder if he didn’t concoct reasons to sleep there solely so he might savor the chestnut). And so Maddy’s neighbors and anyone who knew her, basically, felt sorry for her and so didn’t tease her for her “big boobies” near as much as they might have, say, if they’d felt only envy of her, and not pity, as well, and so, at any rate, it was just a good thing her having those fantastic pies she batched always to “land on” and as concerns her loneliness.

And so, when it turned out Mrs. Biddy’s house wasn’t demolished—as everyone on the block but she had hoped and half-expected—but in fact sold at a steal in auction to a sole recipient a couple weeks after her death and the signing of innumerable and unespecial papers, and the new owner moved in right across the street from the LaMode family, Maddy was one of the very first of her neighbors to dutifully pop round and welcome the newcomer to the block.

But, lest one believe our heroine’s exceptional hospitality, which sparks off this saga of her apotheosis, be purely the clever by-product of her boredom in the bedroom, keep in mind, too, the practical exigency of the matter: these days, the honorary Full-Bra recipient had such a gratuity of pies to go around, it must have seemed positively stingy of her to be anything but openhanded with her “hand-outs” at every possible excuse.