The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On her way home, Maddy reproved herself with her characteristic smirking snort: “Mr. Mawserschnozz” was clearly not as tough a cookie as she’d first mistaken him for! Sure, he was sexist, but wasn’t everybody sexist back in the day? He was a product of his generation, and so (Maddy’s mothering instinct once more kicked in at the thought), wasn’t he really deserving of pity, not indignation, for his outdated views?

Besides, he’d obviously lived through a lot, “come down in the world”, or something; it was impossible for her to say precisely, for just as her new neighbor had predicted, she’d already forgotten most of the details he’d revealed concerning his personal history. But didn’t he say he’d worked for the government, and they’d fired him, because of that incident with the “um, ‘c-word-cutters’?”

No, where it mattered—Maddy mused as she joggled down the broken pavement of Mr. Mortarswan’s frontyard walkway, basket of fruit on arm like an aspiring erotic riding hood hopping off eagerly to meet her wolf—he was “way more” generous than most. After all, he had seen how badly she wanted his exotic fruit; and, instead of reaming her on the hard end of some exorbitant sticker price, he’d tickled her fancy with a large load’s worth, free of charge! Why, there was more than a dozen in the basket, easy, enough for three pies and then some, Maddy reckoned! No doubt about it, underneath what her daughter might call his “critter-perv” exterior, “Mr. Motorboat” was A-okay!

“It just goes to show, everyone’s nice on the inside,” Maddy put one of her habitual epigraphic spins to her present optimistic train of thought.

“This one’s on me!” had been her neighbor’s exact words only a few minutes earlier, never ceasing his leer as he spoke. “Got whole boxes of the stuff in the basement; can you believe, shit never spoils!”

Before he had said this, Maddy had been in the process of searching herself for the money, once again a look of singular bemusement stamped on her pretty face. That is, she had soon enough remembered she hadn’t brought her purse with her and never carried cash, anyway (she had sense enough to doubt her neighbor took charge; she didn’t own any checks; that was Paul’s department). So his words were a double relief to the mom’s mind, as they signaled she wouldn’t have to negotiate the logistics of running to an ATM, “or whatever.”

But then again, it hardly took carrying a whole basket of the purply bumpy fruit (“But surprisingly soft to the touch,” she actually said out loud on her way home, who knew to whom?) for Maddy to wonder a little at the wisdom of accepting gratis gifts from transparently sleazy old dudes. Like all bored housewives, Maddy loved a good bargain, and more to the point, “free stuff”, more even than a good orgasm; and this only made sense, for she had never yet had the latter and so, while perhaps still half-suspecting there were some significant mysteries of life she was yet sorely missing out on, she had no such suspicions about “free stuff”—she knew it was out there, and basically regardless of whatever it was, knew she wanted it! It was advertised practically everywhere one turned, and never took much imagination to reckon how to put to use. (Incidentally, concerning Maddy and orgasms, it practically goes without saying, had she had even one in the last twenty years of her life, O, how much she might have been spared the malignant fervor of her passions.)

But accepting the gift, on the other hand, left her feeling, as well, strangely in the new neighbor’s debt, never mind now she’d given him those two pies, that didn’t seem at all the equivalent. But why not?, Maddy wondered, before forgetting what for. One thing was sure, if this new pie of hers panned out, she was going to be seeing an awful lot more in the future of Mr. “Minkelspitz”, or “Pud”, as he’d urged her to call him.

“Never!” Maddy seethed to herself in a recrudescence of her previous ire. She had just cantered by the Swein’s Food truck parked in the street and then up the lawn to the frontdoor of her palatial two-or-so-storey suburban home. “I’ll NEVER call him that!”

And in a flash, her happy thoughts and new fond feeling for the lecher were replaced by as clear a remembrance of his importunate gazing at her body. “Creep!!!” She could still FEEL the way he made her nipples harden under his persistent bug-eyes, that was strange, as if she were still standing there, on his doorstep, and what’s more, completely in the buff! Maddy stopped before her own door in horror. Why—her nipples were hard now, just thinking back on it!

And that wasn’t all. She felt hot for some reason, too, especially in her “koochie”. It wasn’t at all hot out, incidentally, but a cool autumn day, and Mrs. LaMode was dressed for a warmer one. She stood before her door a moment flushed and flustered, and puzzled a bit on a half-recollection the new feeling summoned up of some as if long locked away poignant memory of something she’d done precisely THERE—something . . . INDECENT! But what had she ever done anywhere that was indecent?, who’d been a veritable virgin when she married Paul! (There were more than a couple teenage tug-jobs, by the by.)

“What a weird deejay-voo!”

But there was no denying, Maddy considered in a characteristic bout of self-effacing honesty, old “Mr. Missilewick” did HAVE something, though it was difficult for her to put her “fingers around all of . . . er, ON” exactly whatever that was he had! His age—that was part of it. It didn’t seem to match his . . . Maddy struggled for the word as simultaneously she reached for a stick of gum from her purple purse on the occasional table by the phone.

“Um,” she let her mouth hang open and slipped in the gum, smacked it noisily with her tongue and teeth (she was at last in her kitchen, nearly adjacent the door to the foyer, hunting out her choicest utensils). “He did seem so . . . VIRILE!”

Ugh, she almost had to slap herself in disgust at saying such a “grody” thing aloud about a guy “in his eighties”. “Let it go, Maddy Ol’ Girl,” she admonished herself in a squeaky affectation of a deep man’s voice, smacking her gum even more as she spoke. “He’s just some creepy old . . .”

Luckily, Mrs. LaMode had some serious baking to get down to. It was as though, if her mind were unoccupied by its typical pacifier, her body immediately prompted her to seek out these less orthodox trains of thought. But baking, that was the thing to get Maddy’s mind off her new neighbor, which is to say, off her own body, and good thing she had something so ENGROSSING to get baking with—that same new neighbor’s exciting novel “fruits”, of course!

Two hours later two pies were cooling on the kitchen counter and another was cooking in the oven. (Like many cooks, Maddy had her share of superstitions. Although her kitchen had two ovens, and so although she could have cooked all three at the same time, she refused to use one especially where her prize-winning pies were concerned, because in it, try as she might, “the crust always comes out too dry.”) It was doubtless a little reckless of her to make three pies at once by a recipe and a fruit she had never before tried, but Maddy couldn’t resist the hazard. After all, “Mr. Melonsap” had given her such a BIG basketful of them, and at any rate (the real reason), what if she had on her hands another winner?

“In that case, I should make enough so that the Cobblers can try it when they come to dinner tomorrow night!”

Maddy, ever the professional in her kitchen, had so far resisted the temptation to taste any ingredients individually before the pies were fully prepared. Upon first cutting the fruit open, she had been helped in her resolve to hold off trying it, as the smell of it on the inside had proved only more odoriferous and less savory than on the outside, musky and close, like someone’s gym locker; the bad scent alone, however, couldn’t scare Maddy off her ambitious task. She wanted, as said, to enjoy the pie as much for a “new experience” as for a “successful” one. If it turned out a disaster, why, then, at least she had given the pie her best shot, sat for the tasting of it in her favorite spot, her feet kicked out on the Ottoman in the living room, her back slouched far into the big white easy-chair—her favorite chair in the house—“Golden Hits of Classical” playing on the stereo, and a heap of homemade vanilla ice cream on the side to “make it up” if that first slice proved a bomb. And, of course, she imagined all this with her husband, “Paul-Paul”, sat on the couch beside her, his own slice of pie on a plate in his hand, a big smile and a fork with a bite before his mouth—and of course he would LOVE the pie—he would call it “the new taste sensation!” And of course she’d be so happy and reward him with a kiss, straining her lithe neck over the big soft arm of the chair to reach his cheek with her lips. And of course he’d be so proud of his “little Maddy” and reward her in kind with a . . !

Maddy once again felt a thrill of anticipation shoot through her. That settled that!

She tossed aside the blue, flour-stained apron she had just had on and about ran upstairs to run the bath and wash up and change before Paul got home (it could get pretty hot and sweaty in the kitchen with the oven on, and when you’re as habitually undersexed and oversexual as Maddy, taking up any excuse to bathe becomes too habitual), but just then the phone rang.

“Hullo, Molargrins’ residence, Mrs. Molargrins speaking,” she had barely got the words out of her mouth before she saw herself blushing crimson in the mirror above the occasional table with the landline phone on it. At once she began a hasty incoherent correction into the receiver.

“What’s that you say—what!” a crotchety voice shouted into her ear. “Who’s this I’m speaking to?”

“Um, M-Mrs. LaMode speaking,” Maddy finally, frantically, got her own name right.

“Speak up girl. Who is this?”

“Mrs. LaMode, Ma’am, Pies LaMode,” and so Maddy inevitably screwed it up again. Gosh, did she ever feel dumb!

“Ah—Good! Then I’m speaking with the mother of little Clarabelle?”

It was Sister Brittle, one of the nuns over at St. Pudding’s Girls Academy. She had called to inform Maddy that Clarabelle had not been present for her sixth period class, and was reported absent from her seventh period as well. The school day was almost over now, and Sister Brittle was calling the parents of those students who were suspected of “skipping”.

“And that includes your daughter,” the sour nun reported, after impatiently hearing out the confirmation of her suspicions from Mrs. LaMode, namely that the latter had not given Clarabelle permission to take off from school early.

“But Clarabelle would never skip!” Maddy was honestly shocked. Her daughter? Skipping! Clarabelle was top of her class, a straight-A student, one of the brightest at St. Pudding’s (she’d inherited those aptitudes from her father, perhaps, or it skipped generations . . .).

“It is unusual in her case, I grant it, but don’t rule out the possibility. Anyway, it’s the simplest explanation and it’s silly to worry over what’s probably just a schoolgirl prank. Likely, she was only acting on the advice of one of the other girls—that silly little ‘Kandi’ Eiffel, for instance; poor girl, not her fault her parents gave her a harlot’s name, suppose she feels she has no choice—Well, likely she talked your daughter into doing something impulsive and regrettable and that will haunt her forever on her permanent record. I’m sure your Clarabelle will be home the same time as usual, Mrs. LaMode. If you could let her know she’ll now have detention every day next week as a result of her irresponsible behavior, you’d be doing us at St. Pudding’s a favor. And, of course, if when she gets home you or your husband wants to put the little truant over his knee and give her backside a good tanning . . . Well, that’s between you and God and your daughter. We can’t do that sort of thing here at the Academy anymore, and that’s a pity. But you as a parent can still discipline your child however you choose—thank the Lord Baby Jesus for that small miracle. Rest assured, Mrs. LaMode, no child has ever gone to the bad from over-disciplining, so much as from the absence of discipline!”

Mrs. LaMode was speechless. It was hard to know which to respond to first, the implication of her daughter’s going missing, or the accusation of Sister Brittle, that her own daughter—Clarabelle LaMode!—would do anything so reckless as . . . skip class! And get detention! And she was only hurting herself, if that was the case . . .

Needless to say these thoughts left Maddy-Mother-Hen reeling, embarrassed for her whole family and, as in general when she was surprised by anything, thoroughly confused. She didn’t know what to say, so thanked the pushy spinster in uniform for the information and obediently assured her that she would follow through on the sister’s every suggestion.

“How strange!” Maddy said inanely to herself as she hung up the phone, and wholly probably for the sake of saying something to someone. It was slightly irritating to just stand there in front of the phone wondering about the news, especially when Paul or one of her neighbors weren’t around to tell her what to make of it.

Incidentally, Maddy had good reason for once to worry where concerned her “over-parented” daughter. Indeed, Sister Brittle, on behalf of her institution, had been nothing if not politic in her conviction that the whole thing was a schoolgirl prank. It was only a couple of years ago, after all, a girl from St. Pudding’s had gone missing under similarly unexceptional circumstances. It was this same resulting scandal, The Phyllo Affair, which had got two of the Mayor’s closest associates locked up and almost cost the man his re-election. But there was no reason to suppose . . . Maddy snorted at herself again.

“Such a worrywart, Maddy-Ol’—Girl! I know! I’ll call Bonny and see what she says. After all, it’s her Kandice the Sister said talked Clarabelle into it . . .”

Before she had recalled Bonny’s number from her phone’s stored memory, however, Maddy noticed the flashing green light on the receiver. She had a message. Caller ID showed Paul’s office number under “Missed Calls”. His secretary must have phoned while she was talking with Sister Brittle. She didn’t have to listen to the message to know what it said. She did anyway. Sure enough, Paul was “working late” again.

Mrs. LaMode sidled back into the kitchen, a sudden malaise descending on her spirits in the wake of Miss Toffee’s curt, familiar message, a malaise which made her not only disregard now the previously urgent news of her daughter’s disappearance and Maddy’s own intention of consulting her neighbor Mrs. Eiffel concerning it, but it even made her forget to run a bath! And what was the point of taking a bath now that Paul wouldn’t be home to see her all nice and clean and “cuddlingly”—attired, a five-star supper still hot on the table, or another state-of-the-art pie cooling on the counter for dessert?

The disappointment she felt with the news she wouldn’t be able to share the initial tasting of her latest creation with her hubby that night left Maddy wanting to do something even slightly desperate, even stand around her own house in a much too sweaty t-shirt (through which could be seen the lavender hints of her lace bandeau bra), anything to chase away these blues and return to her a trace of that excitement she’d felt only ten minutes earlier, fantasizing of her and Paul’s upcoming “dessert” liaison. How could she recapture that moment of slightly intoxicating anticipation, when she had taken out the first wakka-wakka pie from the oven and, admiring its glowing golden crust, was relieved to find the off-putting smell of the fruit had apparently “cooked out”? She glanced at the miniature wine rack by the fridge, considered uncorking a bottle—but got cold feet. Maddy didn’t drink, as a rule, or just a glass of champagne on holidays (and that one glass, to her husband’s chagrin, always enough to put her over the top).

She eyed the pie.

Like any frustrated housewife, Maddy LaMode was a purist in all things at first, and then, after a little slip, an out-and-out fille de joie; and so, before the phone calls she had stuck to her usual rule of resisting trying a slice till the pie was at a perfect room temperature. Now, on account of the desperate feeling she had, she sliced recklessly into the pie without even testing its temp with the digital thermometer she had set out in due diligence beside it. She cut into the pie impulsively, even somewhat sloppily—and strange to say, but this sloppiness itself gave her pleasure for some reason, almost as a subtle revenge against how all at once worthless seemed her hardwon propriety.

The pie was runnier than a good pie should be, Maddy noted, with less disappointment than that objectivity which reveals a professional at work; some of that runniness was doubtless on account of the pie’s still being hot, but some of it must have been a result of the fruit itself, Maddy reckoned.

“More shortening,” she muttered and then, after a requisite blowing on her fork, mulled over the first bite thoughtfully. “He’s right,” she said aloud, pie bite in her cheek. “Doesn’t taste sweet at all. It’s even a little bitter.” She continued to move the pie-bite around her mouth to test its flavor by every angle of her fat little connoisseur’s tongue. “Salty, too. Why’d he think it’d make a good pie . . ?” She had to stop here for the swallow.

“Eeeww!” In her disgust, Maddy about threw the pie slice down the garbage disposal, but at the last second, perhaps in respect for the hard work that had produced it, set it down on the counter next to the sink instead. Then she prepared once again to run upstairs, if not to run the bath, then to collapse on her pointlessly big bed for a pointlessly big cry (a not unusual afternoon activity these days for the neglected woman, and one she could execute quite stealthily during those hours she set aside for running on her treadmill, in other words, between Paul’s calling to say he was working late and Clarabelle’s arriving home from school).

But Maddy hadn’t even made it out of the kitchen when she stopped.

“Hm,” she said, moving her tongue around her mouth in search of an elusive aftertaste. “Cinnamon?” Curious . . . What was that? She turned back toward the pie. “I don’t remember putting any cinnamon in it.” She trotted back over to the counter, picked up her plate of unfinished pie, and started in on the rest of it.

She proved not nearly so thoughtful for the remaining bites as she had for the first. The flavor, though at heart elusive and at best a little gross, was at least familiar to her now. And what is more, she suddenly found her appetite was IMMENSE! It’s true, she had eaten nothing all day but a bagel for breakfast, but was still shocked at finding herself soon barely taking time to chew the bites, just letting the mushy dessert slide down her throat, before slurping up another, as though she were guzzling down some warm thick savory beverage she’d never before ingested, but somehow was as if intimately familiar with all the same.

“Oooaahnnn . . .” a very foreign groan escaped Maddy, and she was immediately embarrassed to hear it; but she was too hungry to blush long over the inelegant sound. Without thinking, she piled another slice of pie onto her plate and began greedily to scarf it down, just as she had the first. “Ono,” she muttered as a thought flashed in her mind between bites. “I’m gorging myself ’cause Paul-Paul’s not coming home! Whadda they call it? ‘Overconsummating’ for his not being here, or whatever—Popsy devoted that whole show to it last week. If I’m not cured fast, I could grow as big as that woman she had on, who had to be lifted out of her house with a crane!!! I know—I’ll make an appointment to see a wha-cha-ma-call-him, a psycocketrist, like that Dr. Slaw who has his own show, and is so nice and nonthreatening and talks about sexual problems, before it’s too late . . .”

True to form, the gusty good wife proved in the moment concerned less with finding her missing daughter than disgusting her prick of a husband by packing on a few pounds. She shrugged as she began to hork down a third slice, finding her optimistic middle again in a next-second’s better thought: “No, not fat. Not if I puke it later. Like in college.”

She had just finished her third slice and was reaching for her fourth, when it occurred to her that she felt funny somehow—not just weirdly hungry, but actually lightheaded and . . . Nice! No, not simply nice . . .

“Mmmmnnn . . .” Maddy unmistakably moaned, her mouth sticky and filled with off-putting pie flavor; she ran her fingers through the pie and stuck them in her mouth to suck them off. A delicious thrill shot through her.

“Yummiest pie yet, Maddy-Ol’—Girl!” She teased herself in the best attempt of a deep “man’s” voice as her own piccolo pipes could muster; she pretended she was hearing the words from a warm if unspecified male admirer, not from her own father, incidentally, a man so portly, soft-spoken, and pussy-whipped, she had never felt any kind of attraction to him but that accorded through pity; but it might have been the strong, deep basso of the Mayor she pretended hearing—now, HE had always been so unabashedly “fatherly” with her on those few occasions they’d met—or perhaps even . . . NO!

“Well, (SNORT!) maybe . . .”

Yes!, that weirdly old and overconfident new neighbor, Mr. . .

But, truth be told, Maddy was barely conscious at the moment of what the fuck she was saying or whom she secretly wished was saying it to her. She’d suddenly become much more aware of a very different kind of teasing.

Mrs. LaMode’s nipples had been bothering her ever since visiting her new neighbor’s that morning, a not unusual occurrence, actually, as her body had always been very sensitive, particularly those naughty parts she most vehemently tried to ignore. But something especially about getting stared at the way her neighbor had done to her had, despite all better reason, really excited Maddy. But, even still, that was hours ago. There was no reason she should be getting “uncomfortable” by it now, and yet her nipples were suddenly harder than ever, so hard in fact Maddy couldn’t resist touching one of them.

An unintentional, “Oah!” escaped her at the barest touch.

She was surprised to find herself touching it again and again, pressing down on it, even, if only to see if that wouldn’t relieve the strange pressure she felt building up inside that one “booby” somehow.

It didn’t. The pressure grew only worse at her pressing. But something else happened as Maddy’s hand again sought out the red cherry “O” of her sweaty white t-shirt.

“O my Gaw—um, oopsies!, I mean—Uhn! GAAAAAW-LEE!” gasped the good Christian woman, as toying ardently at her own erect nipple, a splash of absolute new joy broke from a very unexpected place on her body. “I never . . !” She concluded astutely, for she never before had; another wave of pleasure abbreviated all further expressions to an indecorous moan.

Needless to say, Maddy hadn’t a clue what was happening to her. As implied, she was perhaps not the smartest housewife in Cherry Orchard. But even she put together that the pie was somehow at the root of this new ecstasy, which had suddenly thrust itself unbidden and “headfirst”, as it were, into her life, like some fantastic and long yearned after huge new . . . “thingy” (Maddy’s slightly delirious mind reached out for the word, but couldn’t wrap her mind around all of what it was exactly, it seemed so BIG and hard a new “thingy” ever to get all her one little mind around . . .). Her one hand still toying the harder and the more with her left “booby”, she reached with her other hand clumsily meanwhile for yet another bite of pie from the pan. Strange, but Maddy’s fantastic ecstatic experience did not scare her off the new pie—nothing seemingly could do that. It wasn’t just a hunger now driving her to stuff her mouth—Maddy LOVED the pie!

She finished the rest of her fourth slice in this manner, stroking her breast and barely getting the dessert on her fork with her eyes closed, immediately shoving it into her awaiting gasping mouth.

“Shouldn’t be doing this, Maddy Ol’ Girl . . . (Squeal!) But sooooo . . . um, yummy!” but that wasn’t it, not what she wanted to say, what was it . . ? “So, um, GAWSH DARN yummy!” Better!

But whatever had gotten into Maddy! “Gosh darn”? That wasn’t the type of language Mrs. LaMode liked hearing on television procedural dramas, let alone from her own chaste lips in her own pristinely-cleaned, two-oven kitchen. Although saying the words had brought Maddy to another splash of carnal awakening, still the very modest expletive returned to the woman some sense of her previous rearing. Blushing, she looked around the room to make sure no one had overheard her.

Only Slim-Jim, the family’s flop-eared cocker spaniel, looked on, and he’d come in only to see if he couldn’t get a lick of the woman’s dripping pie (it goes without saying, Maddy had purple sticky pie juice all over her lips, chin, and other parts of her, too, by this point).

“Go on. Shoo!” Mrs. LaMode gasped very breathily as she set down her fork to wave the dog away. This was a rare moment for which Maddy, an implicit exhibitionist, did not appreciate an audience for her baking. The dog of course just sat there, hoping the lady’s wave signified something the opposite of what it obviously did. Maddy was too happy to care much. Since finishing her fourth slice, she had unconsciously been eating the remaining half of the pie straight from the pan. After the feeble attempt to wave the dog away, she did not bother to find the fork again, but only dug into the pie quite literally with her fingers, her other hand still toying her left breast.

“My new pie’s so GOSHDARN yummy!” she once again declaimed, in an oddly serious tone of voice and with the same predictable and pleasurable result as the last time. “Did such a GOSHDARN good job on this one! Best ever! Yummy in my tummy pie! But why all thish . . . um, tinglies, in my boobies and . . . tushy?” And strange to say, but the addition of these two more “forbidden words” in reference to her anatomy, words she would normally never speak aloud, or if she did, only in a thoroughly “sterilized” context, intoxicated her senses all the more, though as with “darn” making her blush and wonder at what for Petesake and besides pie had got so far inside her all of a sudden? Still, she grew steadily aware of a contrary wish in her, too, that all the same and despite the counsel of her conscience, she wished precisely someone WERE there with her, could hear her say all these unusual things out loud, as if that would only make the saying such things the more enjoyable, if there were an appreciative audience to all of it, though not Slim-Jim, obviously, and not her “Paul-Paul”, either (how could she ever . . . in front of . . .—she’d just die of embarrassment!), but maybe just about any other guy, Mr. Plumper from the “big and full” women’s clothing store she shopped at, say, now he always had a friendly smile for his “favorite customer” . . .—or, yeah, Betty’s husband Barry was kind of forbidding, but seemed like he could keep a secret, or . . ?

“Pud,” Maddy snorted dazedly, remembering her conversation with the old fart that morning, and for some reason no longer disturbed at all by the memory of his ogling her, but rather as if only made the more curious by it. Why—didn’t that ogling signify something?, she half-wondered between punctuated assaults on her nervous system by the most potent sensual mental-fireworks display she had ever attended, Like, he not only wanted to look but wanted to DO something, as well? It was that “doing” that Maddy had never really considered much before, beyond, that is, tacitly being “against”, because she had always been afraid of it before, but now she couldn’t be quite entirely afraid of it anymore, because, for the first time, to say the least, “it” piqued her “curiosity”.

The strange “tingly” pressure in her “boobies and tushy” was curious, too, and increasing immensely. She gasped, stupid as she looked down and a gratuitous reality finally sank in.

She had just grabbed another bite of pie, but in her shock at what she saw, let it drop to her bosom and from thence, after a sloppy second or two of its just hanging about the nipple, to the floor. Slim-Jim was on it in an instant.

“N-no, this ish’t happening,” she slurred, in that odd admixture of ecstasy and disbelief and shame and lightheadedness which had overtaken her. “My shirt . . . it’sh . . . SHRINKING!”

It did appear the front of her shirt would tear open at any moment. Her nipples, having escaped her lavender bra (but then, wasn’t that always happening with her strapless?), stood erect an unnatural full-inch from her chest, as if her old familiar “boobies” were remade a bulletin-board and her nipples oddly thick and tangible pushpins therein.

Maddy could think of nothing to do but hold both of her hands under that most strained part of her t-shirt, and stare goggle-eyed down at herself—the look of horror on her face only mitigated somewhat by her growing greater and greater “curiosity”.

“Nnnmmm!” Maddy groaned again as her breasts swelled with an automatic intake of breath (she had begun to pant like a racehorse in her excessive joy and shock) to all but burst her shirt. Somehow the cheap cotton fabric stuck it out, though in the process renaming the emblazoning city “Cry Ord”. The bra didn’t fare so well as the shirt, however. The clasp in back gave way against the strain. Her shirt, previously tucked into her jeans, now hung conspicuously open at bottom, as her bustline had in fact swollen three generous inches all the way round, and similarly her thighs had ballooned out in as pornographic a manner as was ever imagined by the horniest cartoonist; her burst bra thus dropped unimpeded to the floor, where it landed on the head of the cocker spaniel eating the dropped pie; the dog’s bemused expression in the event was positively eloquent in comparison with that of the more and more simply “curious” one of his overstanding mistress.

“Wha—?” succinctly began the very mistress, but she was just as soon apparently tired of this line of questioning, perhaps as she was more and more distracted by a simultaneous, suddenly much more important question: “Waitasecky—” and Maddy held a finger firmly if dazedly in the air in front of her face and squinted at it in an attempt to recall a second later why she’d done that, the rest of her body wavering there in lacuna where she stood. She steadied her finger, as if she hoped the world might stay less wobbly if she could only keep a single part of her body still. “O yeah, I ’member! Wasn’t there somethingy . . ? Needed somethingy, hm? BIG . . . REAL big . . . Wush jes’ on the tip of my mouth a secky ago . . . Needed . . . Gawlly DANG!”

Such a splash then sprayed her undersides that Maddy’s bottom half positively trembled, from her haunches to her feet, so it looked like she might just collapse; such crazy, mind-shattering bliss made the good wife wonder whose body she was in, after all; it seemed so . . . too much more curious than the one she was used to!

In consequence of this involuntary tremble of her lower half, that woman’s already tight jeans had become so tight over her newly swollen hip, thigh, and pussy flesh, Maddy could as if feel with delirious exactitude the crotch in-seam riding and rubbing up her ripening clit.

“ONO!” Maddy groaned again, “Not . . . THAT!!!” And the shapely housewife’s grown shapelier ass and thighs twerked mechanistically against, or rather, with the new invigorating strain against her womanhood, very much like a savage dancing advertisement of the first ever “for real” orgasm of her life—and this proved no ordinary orgasm. She gyrated like an overeager stripper for a good half minute in enjoyment of it, experienced alternating shocks of mortal terror and sensual ecstasy, believed herself for what seemed an eternity in a second to have actually physically died, and then . . !

Maddy was literally cumming through her jeans, squirting forth loin juice so powerfully and copiously, foam in fact accrued in white bubbles along the outside of her jeans’ crotch. She could resist the pull no longer—she wondered how she had so long!

Wailing like a mythic beast in estrous, Maddy abandoned, along with all remembrance of her former character, both her breasts, which, if unfortunate, were so pert and perky in their new enormity, they didn’t really need her holding up any longer any more at any rate; she reached down to her poor foamy “koochie” and began rubbing away furiously there through her impossibly slick wet jean fabric—felt like latex beneath her fingers—quickly matching the rhythm of her stroking to her loins’ subliminal pulse, like she was locked in a cosmic call-and-response playing itself out through her erogenous zones, and all quite as though this were the only significant skill the woman had ever acquired her whole life through. She came again!

There was a loud knock on the door.

“UHN!?”

With wet sticky and pie-covered fingers, she cradled the subtly pounding nucleus of her poontang, as another hand kindly refused to stop rubbing herself—

“Whossat at the door? Think, Maddy, think!” commanded this IQ-equivalent of a Pooh Bear, only to be distracted the moment after, not by the thought she had summoned with her words, but the flush of pure pleasure she had once again with her cleverly stroking hand.

“Uuuuuh,” the respectable woman drooled, pausing to hear out her own expression prior to leaving the kitchen. “Somethingy . . .

“I ’member! ’Bout Clarabelle. Skippin’ school. Pro’lly her,” as if drunkenly formulated the deliriously glad and smiling, mouth agape, Mrs. LaMode. “But then, why’she knock? She could jessawell cummmmm . . . Ooo-aaa-annnhh!!!”

After some further residual twerks, and only at last very reluctantly, Maddy pulled her hands off herself so they hung down at her sides, where Slim-Jim at once helpfully licked clean of foamy and sticky residue off. What did she have to do again, though?

“Doy!” popped out of Maddy’s drippy mouth, and she followed the ejaculation with a weak attempt at another of her self-reproving snorts (funny, but it was actually hard to giggle when one felt at the same time so through-and-through “curious” . . .). “Ansher the door, Maddy-Ol’—grrrr . . .” Maybe just one more bite . . .

Trip Ladyfingers, mailman to Cream Tart Lane, whistled an absent tune while awaiting Mrs. LaMode’s appearance at the frontdoor. What a beautiful crisp autumn day it was, he thought in that way one does who hopes to affirm a day’s existence, and one’s own cheery presence in it, without for a second really observing it. It was, in fact, cloudy, sometimes drizzly, and growing colder by the hour. But Trip was in a good mood is the point, because the latest issue of the popular teen boys’ magazine Pork Pie was just out, and some dozen or so houses along his route had a subscription. He’d just finished off a “five-minute breather” (it had lasted a half an hour) surveying the pretty women of the issue. Most famously, Cherry Orchard’s own favorite newscaster Suzette Trifle had at last bared skin for a soon to be army of adolescent fans (Trip at forty being shamelessly one of them). Ms. Trifle, as a celebrity, had of course not appeared nude—or even appeared nude by the limited sense that word applied to the magazine, wherein, outside of a little coin-slot or cleavage now and then, all the typical teen floozy’s dainty bits were strategically shielded by ingeniously contrived arms, hands, and elbows. Miss Trifle, or “Su” or “Suzi” to her devoted, had appeared in “uniform”, that is, in a version of the standard skirt suit-style of female reporters of only several decades ago. True, the skirt was recklessly flirting a mini, and her button up blouse was in one photo (gasp!) left entirely unbuttoned up, so one got a good look at the gorge that had long kept cyberspace abuzz with the search query: “Trifle—are they real?”

In other words, Trip had the remainder of a very healthy boner indeed when eventually he got around to actually doing his job, which on the present day was about three o’clock in the afternoon. He knew almost all the housewives on his route, of course, having worked it now some ten-odd years, but on account of their being, by Trip’s usual colorful way of describing members of the fairer sex, “stuck-up bitches” (not to completely overlook his own being a self-described horn-dog and, even more damnably in the minds of the elect, a government worker), most of the housewives ignored Trip with a determinacy more inveterately hostile than indifferent. Mrs. LaMode was a good deal friendlier than her neighbors, less judgmental, probably as she was by Trip’s reckoning “a braindead bimbo.” The accusation was clearly less based on any mindless flirting the woman had engaged in with him specifically (though it’s possible the deluded dick thought she had) than on the girl’s terrific set of “matching yobbos”. And it was of course on account of these Trip always took the opportunity to knock and say hello to the stacked mom, if not every day, then every one on which he needed a pick-me-up (which, as he was a government worker, after all, was a majority), or any, like today, he had an excuse to, for he had a package to deliver (with any other housewife in that posh neighborhood of B-Bush, he would have just as soon left the box on the step or wherever, rather than risk the inevitable ridiculing eyeroll or veiled insult of the homeowner). One thing about Trip, besides being ugly, stupid, and horny—he was incredibly unobservant, even for a government worker. For instance, like most mailmen, he made a veritable habit of delivering the wrong mail to the wrong houses, and though the lapse had been pointed out to him on many occasions, he had done nothing—or perhaps there was nothing he could do—to correct for it. Another case in point, the package he was set to deliver to Mrs. LaMode that very instant had no postage on it, just the address of the LaMode family. That would seem to imply it had been slipped into his mail van unbeknownst to him that very day by anything but the orthodox channels. Perhaps it was on account of the earbuds in his ears blaring out the third inning of some ostensibly neverending game going on somewhere apocryphal and solely to be broadcast, one imagines, to postal workers—who knows!—but the man didn’t notice.

Trip wondered what was taking the “rich bitch” so long, though, on the present occasion; it wasn’t like she actually had to work for a living. “Maybe she went out,” he thought, though he knew it wasn’t likely. Usually at this time of day she was jogging on the treadmill—that is, after all, the reason he always did this street last on his route, all so Mrs. LaMode might be in the most prime shape to be espied through her large living-room windows, i.e., sweaty and be-spandexed.

Nothing, however, could have prepared Trip for the shape and garb in which Mrs. LaMode actually did answer the door that afternoon. He was just about to leave, in fact, had just left the box on the step in lieu of giving it to Mrs. LaMode in person, had just resigned himself to a jerk off in his mail truck without the edifying vision of the famous “yobbos” to inspire him (but then he did still have his revealing “Su” to return to), when at last Trip heard the sound of the foyer door opening inside the house, and an instant later, there was Mrs. LaMode standing before him—quite a sight!

First off, her “matching yobbos” had certainly never in Trip’s memory appeared more terrific, stretching out and pressing hard against that sweaty and sorry excuse for a t-shirt the lady still had on. Add to that just how voluptuously her large yet firm ass and thighs muffin-topped her too-too tight college-day jeans, or (and here the horny fellow’s eyes did go buggy) how those same jeans were somehow bubbly on the crotch!, like the randy woman had just been interrupted in a mid-dishes muff-rub; and finally, what of her nipples, which were not just visibly erect through the lady’s practically transparent shirt but seemed especially smeared over either acme in what looked to Trip like nothing so much as hardy splotches of purple jelly!

“Uh-huh?” Maddy proffered groggily from the doorway, swaying a little as she leaned in closer to the mailman’s pocky face, evidently hoping to call to mind what manner of visitor he was. She had not a minute ago anticipated seeing her daughter there, but upon seeing the paunchy ugly postal worker, for some reason or other promptly forgot she had ever expected to see there anybody else.

“M-Mrs. LaMode!”

Maddy didn’t seem entirely to recognize the name (perhaps as it wasn’t Udders Pies Molargrins?), or to recognize much of anything beyond how this mailman stared openly at her foamy crotch. Now, wasn’t that curious!

“Hiya,” she managed to pipe out at last, a bit in that flat, atonal voice with which very bad actresses read silly lines in very bad films: “Gotta package for me?”

Trip hesitated only an instant in what seemed so obviously a slutty proposition—and that only because it is hard even to answer the call of one’s nature when one’s prayers are answered so implausibly frankly. Then, with a silent nod and an unceremonious drop of his mailbag, the be-bonered man at once grabbed the presenting woman by the breasts and pushed her butt-first back into the foyer.

“O!” squealed Maddy, as the mailman glad-handed her handfuls with unmistakable goodwill. “You’re squeezin’ ’em . . . Sooooo HARD!” No joke, the excited worker had already in the short minute of his molesting the housewife freed both nipples by an eloquent, almost effortless, tearing open and subsequently away of the woman’s ridiculously stretched t-shirt, was pinching, pulling, and occasionally sucking ferociously on them, to which Maddy could think of no better response than to climax abruptly and with a violent shudder and squeal in the most unimaginably empty information of it. Soon, however, she had found these words to stutter moan:

“N-n-n-n-no! O! S-s-s-s-stop! I-I-I-I’m a happily . . . m-m-m-married w-wife! (Whimper!) Don’t SQUEEZE ’em! P-p-please! W-w-whatever you do, don’t . . . (Oooooh!) Squeeze ’em! (Shriek!) Squeeze my BOOOBIES! Please-please-p-p-please (O GAWD!!!)! My husband’s never squeezed ’em like THAT. Don’t stop—Please! Soooooooo good!!!”

This outburst, whether a protest or a call to further action, only aroused the two horny idiots the more. Trip was already working his hard dick out of his pants and Maddy was as if hypnotized by the man’s struggle, practically drooling in inelegant concentration on the man’s thumbs as he pried desperately the button of his starchy postman pants open. At last the member freed itself of an obstructing pocket’s back and popped happily out before the horny mom’s eyes. She squatted automatically to get a better look.

“Bigger ’n Paul-Paul’s!” she gulped appreciatively, her hand unconsciously reaching out at once to dandle the dick, stroke it, cradle its cockhead, though it was clear by her simultaneous clueless expression Maddy LaMode had no idea what next she would do with it. “Such a big hard mailman penis . . . How dare you take it out and show it to me like this! I’m gonna put it right back away for you this very . . . in a second. Once I’ve, um, just . . . But then—shtraight away. After all, Mr. Mailman, I’m a . . . um, happily married . . .”

“Start fucking sucking already!” and Trip forced the silly woman’s mouth onto his throbbing cock.

Blushing and beside herself with the residuum of her four recent cums, Maddy sucked mindlessly on the hard cock for what felt to both her and Trip a veritable eternity. Really, it only amounted to about thirty-five minutes. Strange miracle neither got bored once in all that time, the brains of both having succumbed too well by then to the most hyper-stupid state of suspended ecstasy. When the half-hour wound down, however, Maddy finally did something unintentionally creative, that is, when to accommodate her aching jaw, she slipped the dick with her tongue into her cheek a split-second longer than ever previous. This first-year, Blowjob-101 maneuver sufficed to bust the bulkheads on Trip’s generous nutsack, and the sweating moron blew his load down the sucking moron’s throat—an emission so apparently unexpected by Maddy after so long on her knees noisily and fruitlessly sucking, she choked very hard on its pith.

Trip Ladyfingers gulped, dry-mouthed, glanced over his shoulder, coming to, as if from a drug-induced daydream. Had anybody seen?—He could get fired just leaving his mailbag lying on the front step like that.

“Th-thanks, Mrs. LaWhore,” Trip waved behind with scarcely a glance as he retreated from the foyer. “See you Monday!”

Maddy coughed out a word or two of incredulous wonder and with that, a scant remainder of the mailman’s spunk onto her sweaty, swelled up bosom. “Hhn, bu—. . . (Akkh!)!!!”

What on earth, indeed, had gotten into Maddy this afternoon!, Mrs. LaMode had good cause to wonder as her first-through-third attempts to rise from her knees were foiled by two enormous breasts she didn’t at all even yet recognize. In truth, the bewildered matron was so beside herself with new sensation, she scarcely reckoned at all having just sucked off the equivalent of a complete stranger; but the proof was in the pudding, or at least in that figurative “pudding” which now constituted the amateur blow-jobber’s erstwhile “koochie”, presently just a soppy, foamy, and incredibly “curious” squishy place constantly calling out for somebody’s—anybody’s!—fond feeling up. She blushed crimson, stood finally yet unsteadily to her feet, her prodigious bosom swaying with the motion, and in its new weightiness, causing the rest of her thin if hippy body to sway as well.

“P-Pie!” she sputtered aloud, and began a feverish waddle back towards the kitchen. “GAWSH-DARN jeans!”

Despite their having brought her to her first-ever mind-shattering orgasm (for which you think the woman might have been at least a little more grateful), Maddy was still right to curse them. For every time she so much as wiggled her swelled up round onion-ass ever so slightly—which, given its sudden new size and fun suggestibility, was really with every slightest movement she made—it set off a lustful chemical chain reaction inside of her, the crotch of the jeans riding up into her “c-word” something awful. And, besides, wearing pants only made it harder to get her hands down there, didn’t it?

“(MNUH!)” she groaned like a birthing Jersey as she unclasped the button of her fly at last and tugged like a first-grader who needs to pee at the belt loops of her jeans and her panties’ elastic waistband to get everything off her fit-to-bursting bubble-bottom as quick as could be. A couple times she about fell on her face this way, as her tugging at her jeans and panties did nothing to halt her scrambling simultaneously toward the pie in the kitchen. At last she’d so worked the tight jeans down to her shins, that her hands could reach her “koochie”, neither the jeans nor the hands hindering the determined wiggling motion of her haunches enough to keep her from moving convincingly all the while forward. Mr. Ladyfingers had kindly left her hanging free, as it were, not to mention left her that strange flavor in her mouth, too—a not altogether unfamiliar taste it turned out, but why? That was the first time she’d ever . . . But of course, she recognized it!

“Wakka-wakka!” Maddy cried out upon successfully reaching the kitchen, like a perverse if no less caricatured Muppet clown.

She glanced at the counter, and saw—O horrors!—she had finished off the pie she’d been eating before the mailman came (in her house . . . in her mouth . . .).

Wait, weren’t there two of them? She glanced over at the window sill, a fatigued yet invigorated smile overspreading her flushed face. There—another! She began a decisive waddle in that direction, but something unexpected got in her way.

Slimjim yipped, whimpered, shot to the corner of the kitchen to cower sheepishly. Maddy looked up confused from where she lay on her breasts and splayed knees on the floor, ankles bound together by jeans. Curious, but the fall hadn’t so much hurt her as brought her to a smaller, yet another messy climax. She stared around glassy-eyed, a puddle of her own making pooling on the checkered tile under her.

“Issonly you, Schilmschim . . .” she babbled when she espied at last the animal by the kick-top metal garbage bin in the entrance arch of the pantry. But something caught her short in her slurry observation.

Slimjim again whimpered and tried to cover himself, as if exactly in that kind of shame his owner had entirely grown beyond, apparently. Even for the dazed and delirious Maddy, it was easy enough to see in a moment why. For the dog’s cock had swollen, just as had Maddy’s “boobies and tushy”, and despite the floppy-eared “best friend’s” best efforts, could not be got down again, but poked out, high up into the air, in constant battle with the small animal’s legs and body.

Maddy blinked, rubbed cum in her eyes in an unsuccessful effort to make them less bleary: “Din’t we havya’ fixed . . ?”

But not awaiting an answer from the dog, Maddy looked back to the cooling pie above her on the window. “One thingy at its place,” was the goodly wife’s honest-to-goodness next thought regarding this whole disturbing series of events.