The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Thank gawlly-all-mighty for itty-bitty-titty miracles!” Mrs. LaMode breathed a sigh of vapid relief at the sight of her daughter lying ass in the air collapsed on the floor, and scratched her head a second after, wondering if she’d got out what she’d meant to say exactly right. “Right enough!” she patted herself with an optimistic slap on the rump, as deserved the “good girl” she of the moment implicitly believed herself.

The teen had gained consciousness only to pass out a few seconds later, either from the after-effects of the drug or from the shock of her mom’s odd appearance and even odder behavior—Maddy only reckoned on the first one.

“Kids and their drugs,” Maddy shook her head disapprovingly.

She set aside the brush she’d just fellated and walked over to the passed out girl on the floor. “Just like Popsy did that show about the other day. Said it’s ’cause no Daddy in the home to lay down God’s law.” Maddy sighed. “O Paul-Paul, what’s become of our little girl?”

And it looked as though Mrs. LaMode might even have shed a tear or two at this saccharine lamentation, if only as it did seem a tragedy not to have some sort of man or other around her house at all times, preferably one with big strong Daddy hands, soothing her with his musky warm Daddy breath, commanding her in his deep gravelly Daddy voice, to . . .

Although still only too arousable—she’d just felt a warm sprinkle beneath her at the evocation of those hands, breath, and voice, for instance—Maddy felt her more habitual senses slowly returning after the terrific orgasm of a minute before. The shock of being “discovered” doing exactly and only as she wished above all else (anymore) to do should have brought (that is, conceivably) the bimbo’s endangered better sense back to her—but such was apparently not Maddy’s case. She didn’t blush at all for her daughter’s having seen her; she only worried the aspiring street-walker might tell her father—and what would HE think!

This woman who had once been so singularly devoted to her “little Clare”, she would even do the child’s homework for her (she had, that is, up till middle school, when a mortal combo of Pre-Algebra, Life Science, and French for Beginners led even the slothful tweeny to conclude it was better to do the work herself, or even “take the zero”, than let her mother carry on failing so miserably all her assigned tasks for her), was all at once strangely indifferent to her. It was as though, with this very newest other-eclipsing passion of hers, Mrs. LaMode had for once in her life infinitely “better things” to obsess herself with over. At any rate, she didn’t wring her hands long for the child’s improvidential state, but merely dragged her by her legs, and all rather oddly effortlessly, from the kitchen back to the couch.

“Should prob’ly take her to the hop’sital,” the fond mom observed. But then she recalled what the “copper” had said—how it was best not to get the authorities involved, if they didn’t have to, in consideration of the two teen neighbors’ scandalous predicament at the time of their rescue. Those girls from the event involving the bust of the sex ring two years ago would never likely live a “normal” life again, for all the media play the crime and trial had got, all the interviews the girls were subjected to, all the notorious images and videos that circulated of them and—never mind they were illegal—were still in much too hot demand . . .

No, better to keep the whole thing under wraps for now, see what the nice “copper” said tomorrow, see what Paul said to- . . . Well, when was she going to see him next?

But whenever that was, Maddy would straightway tell her dear “hubby-baby” all he needed to know of the . . . Well, what was it exactly?

Rather than strain her wits analyzing hypothetical answers to these questions, the pious homemaker set her sights on what she thriftily denominated the “doable”—getting Clarabelle out of those slutty clothes, for one, and into bed proper, the poor little . . . “O yeah—No doy!”—and getting some clothes on herself—something even perhaps a little bit sexy for whenever “Paul-Paul” . . !

“Only . . . Will anything still fit?”

Maddy again looked down at her hilariously over-taxed thorax—“Ugh! That’s right—What’s Paul-Paul gonna say when he sees THESE?” Maddy’s face felt hot again, and her thoughts grew dim again, and her koochie grew dank again, with the ever so slow dawning of renewed, exciting embarrassment. What a salacious spectacle she made now, and how entirely not her fault!

“That darn Pud!”

But what of everything that HAD been? (Maddy’s Christian conscience could never let her off the hook so easily.) What would Paul have made of all that weird stuff she had got up to today, as it were, voluntarily—if he only knew!

“Eeek!” thought the good wife.

Renewed humiliation rushed through her as she considered her recent unladylike behavior now in conjunction with the endangered good opinion of her “dear-dear” significant other. She had for reasons beyond her brain’s ability to ascertain been guilty against him of so many unheard of unspeakable sins! How could all of this—any of this—BE!!! She, the good girl she had just so assured herself she was, what had happened to her, and why was she so different—or was she?—from this “her” she’d suddenly become?

The buzzing and aching increased in Maddy’s mind, but neither could ameliorate the gut-crushing compunction she suffered before the mental image of her scorned Paul. She saw him in her mind, shaking his head contemptuously, lowering his eyes, turning away . . .

She stood now in the living room, succumbing to a panic made the worse by the tantalizing realization of easy and unincorporable pleasure quite literally within her short arm’s reach, a pleasure, however, she could yet not fully claim her own, by virtue of this same importunate shame. At last, fearing she would lose her mind if she didn’t at once snuff out either the panic or the desire, Maddy searched the room she was in and the adjacent one, grasping for straws, hoping something her eyes alighted on might hold the promise of an escape . . . The empty basket! The same she had got from her new neighbor that morning!

An uncharacteristic anger flared up in the chipper suburban furbelow, and because, like a good many people, she was incapable of sustaining two strong, non-complementary passions simultaneously, quickly blotted out all her prior feelings of grief and guilt. It was at that perverted old “Pud”, her new neighbor, she was angry, without whose stupid fruits all this unaccountable new “weirdness” might never have been!

“I’ve a good mind to march right over there this instant and give that old coot a piece of my tail—Mind! I mean, mind!” and the blooming boobstress said all this her arms akimbo, a stern look on her silly cute little doll’s face, rather like an honest to goodness righteous vigilante for all of a couple seconds.

But of course she had first to solve the problem of putting some clothes on. “O yeah—no doy!”—and getting Clarabelle washed up, better dressed, and in bed. Maybe she could just throw a blanket over the all but naked teen where she lay now on the couch; that would be easier . . .

An hour and a half later, and Maddy DID stand, fully clothed, before her nocuous neighbor’s front door, although not nearly as resolute and stern as she had appeared standing stark in the living room, when envisaging the scene to come. For one thing, she didn’t think what she at last had on left her in much position to feel holier-than- . . . truth be told, anybody at all, even a self-attested old horn-dog like “Mr. Myrtlesnitch”. If, earlier in the day and in the comparatively modest habit of jeans and t-shirt, she’d been surprised to feel herself “undressed” by the ogling eye of the septuagenarian, imagine the tolerable woman’s trepidation as she awaited the very ogler in question, dressed as she now was, in the only thing she could find in a rush that still “fit” (as ever, optimistically), her spandex exercise shorts and a stretched-to-near-fraying white cotton tank-top.

The tank-top should have proved revealing under the correctest circumstances, a scoop-neck racerback Maddy used to wear under a tight t-shirt when she ran (“because sports bras pinch”), but in the subsequent strain her new “boobies” gave the flimsy piece of sweatshop manufacturing, the naked to clothed tit ratio was at an unparalleled mean. Maddy, as she stood there awaiting her neighbor’s answering of her first timid knock, impetuously tucked her extruding flesh back under the thin fabric; impetuously she did so more than once, not noticing, perhaps, how this hasty preparation merely made her nipples press out the more up front, made them poke their areolae up to good advantage, twin pups nipping free for a treat their shared kennel.

Her biker shorts were, by contrast, more conservative. Indeed, there was nothing scandalous about them, so much as about the earthly lineatures they so scrupulously brought to bear. One might have spent an hour marveling at just how wedged up an ass-crack tight shorts could get, or just how perfectly visible two perfectly formed girl’s butt-cheeks managed fully clothed—but not, in truth, in the current event. For she still wore the fur coat, which covered that much, and anyway, who’d want to miss the front view? Here irradiated the swanky girl’s camel toe, so graphically stenciled as to engender an optical illusion, belying the resilient black nylon altogether, persuading one the girl’s pudendum was either naturally that color or painted over, Rio-style, for a cheeky Carnival. Surely, were it not for a wise fear of setting off another of her nether torrents, the housewife should have tried to push in this divulgence, the same she had just done her sum at top: she could feel the very fibers of the shorts riding up her shagged-out pleasure-bulb . . .

And that accounted for another reason Maddy’s attitude before her neighbor’s door was not near so sober, or vigilant, as she had hoped it would be the hour and some before when she’d first conceived the plan—Mrs. LaMode had spent the entirety of the intervening time, not seeing to her delirious daughter, but “going at” her horny self, and rather than taking the edge off her insatiable license, as had been her self-professed purpose in choosing the late and ill hour to “get the lead out” (and she had never let so much out in all her days before), she had merely achieved that hard-sought, hard-shaken peak of arousal, which for women of susceptible character is akin to a state of itinerant orgasm.

As only understandable a woman in her off-balanced state, she had hoped her neighbor would answer her first knock and immediately; but when he didn’t, she hesitated more than a minute before resigning herself to knocking again, this time louder.

Mrs. LaMode was barely dressed for the hot gym, let alone the autumn night, turned positively frigid after an evening downpour, the diligent freezing drizzle and loud wind making Maddy prick up in more than goose flesh. But when she lifted her arm for another knock, a quickening chill infused her, starting oddly at the tops of her hips, where her coat hung loose, and working outward, reminding her the more annoyingly of her hot loins.

She was glad she’d grabbed the fur coat (which, incidentally, for some reason no longer smelled at all “musty”), but pouted a little on why the dead old woman hadn’t bought one a little bit longer at the hem—“It couldn’t be, like, she wanted to show off her legs . . ?” At the strange idea, a stranger image flashed through the clean housewife’s thoroughly dirtied mind, the thought of Ol’ Mrs. Biddy dressed in nothing but the old fur, as she herself was that evening, the coat hanging open, and the over made-up face of the deceased (as it never had been in life) positively leering at Maddy—“Mrs. Betty, a two-dollar whore!”

Mrs. LaMode should have been scandalized at the froward liberty of her imagination, but the same second she heard a wheezy man’s voice call out to her from inside the house: “C’mon in, so long as you’re not the cops!”

She barely recognized the voice, though she knew it instantly to be “Pud’s”—it sounded so stern, strong, authoritative . . . Or was that just another effect of her betraying brain?, Maddy wondered. Whatever the case, she obeyed the command implicitly, without the slightest conscious rearing of her will, and entered her neighbor’s house.

Just as she had some twelve hours earlier, Maddy stepped again her white canvas shoe onto the ugly shag carpet. It was too dark inside to make out much besides, at the far end of the hall before her, the faint glow from what was doubtless a TV in the next room.

She followed that glow into the living room with the plant in it, where she found her neighbor sitting on the couch, his dick out; he was watching a porno with the sound off and stroking himself with one hand, while alternately glancing down at a magazine he was evidently reading (and very assiduously, never mind the lack of lamplight) and holding close to his face with his other hand. When Maddy came in, he looked up, squinted at her through his big spectacles, smiled when he recognized her, set the magazine aside on the glass-top coffee table in front of him, and leaned back on the couch, his very erect, very portly, and not at all “withered” manhood twitching arhythmically, as if to spell out an ellipsis in Morse code, dot-dot-dashing the too pregnant pause between them.

Maddy gaped in horror. Yet, for all that, she couldn’t tear her eyes away . . .

“I-I-I . . .” she stammered, struggling to find a thought to speak in her cock-enrapt brain.

“Ah—Miss Pies! Good to see . . . um, so much of you,” Pud winked at the awestruck beauty, who had looked up just in time to catch it, blush, and look away again. “I see you tried the fruit. And what’d you think? Tasty enough for you?”

“I-I-I . . .” stammered Maddy anew; her eyes had fallen back on the old feller’s “har-har”—he had just put a hand back on it, as evidently it had been in danger of softening some, and, with a glance sidewise at the porno on the TV, was once more stroking it very lazily. Finally, she discerned a word or two in her mind to say despite the fog that familiar dull ache, the re-emerging buzzing, had put her under: “H-HOW DARE YOU . . !” And Maddy pointed at the old man’s spry pecker, one imagines, to save on the rapidly inflating cost of words.

“But Maddy Ol’ Girl,” Mr. Mortarswan happily chimed back, and something in the way he said it somehow abated the woman’s felt need to affect hurt feelings: it was as though he were speaking to her in an old accustomed, friendly, even revered, voice; the very way of his addressing her, “Maddy Ol’ Girl”—wasn’t that what she called herself when alone and wanting to be comforted, wanting to pretend she was somebody special’s “little girl”? He continued: “How shouldn’t I? I’m in my own home, after all. If not here—where? You wouldn’t have me jerking off in the middle of the street . . ? Or would you?”

Though logic wasn’t Maddy’s forte, even she recognized there was something basically inarguable in “Pud’s”. In light of it, she felt it hard to maintain the pretended severity of her earnest anger, until, that is, her neighbor’s well-remembered leer at her magnificent and all but exposed country-crocks sent her thoughts back to the reason of her visit.

“Mr. Mastersmut!” Maddy felt herself so flustered and excited and flushed and confused, she was relieved to get out any words at all, didn’t bother herself overly if she got them out right or not. “H-how could you . . ! My-my-my—BOOBIES!”

And with the word the fulsome figure unconsciously flung back her coat for further testimony of her hardly articulate charge, an action, of course, very much to her antagonist’s delight.

“Why—they’re marvelous, my dear Mrs. Udders-Pies! Simply wonderful! I urge you to bring ’em over any time you like; they’re very much to this old guy’s taste!”

“R-really?” Maddy was scandalized . . . But . . . she always HAD liked receiving compliments. She shook her head to recall herself: “Why didn’t you tell me about the fruits—’bout what they DO? Before!”

Her neighbor looked across the room at the woman, lit eerily in the blue cast-off brightness of the television. She really did look gorgeous to his eye that moment, her fur coat half hung down off her shoulders, her giant chest out and “presenting” in its own right two fantastically erect nipples, and the biker shorts—holy shit!, “Pud” grinned; he’d an inkling to pound his dick straight through those!

When at last he answered the woman (in the meantime Maddy just stood there, blushing even more at the man’s again unabashed ogling of her, only this time illustrating his excitement even more explicitly, increasing the speed with which his right hand worked before her, his smile growing wider and wider; Maddy again wondered why she didn’t just leave, again felt, as his guest, she needed his tacit permission first to do that, again put her eyes on the floor for fear of what more she might read in his look), “Pud” spoke up in a philosophical tone of voice, one Maddy found in the current circumstance irritatingly soothing: “But Mrs. Udders-Pies, would you have tried them if you’d known? Probably not, and then . . . But, God, woman!” And “Pud” scratched his head with his free hand and chuckled a little his chagrin, “Even I never thought you’d eat ’em ALL in one day, as I guess you must’ve, if you’re back here already for seconds . . . But I don’t figure it—your man don’t fuck you, or what?”

Maddy blushed even worse at this, attempted to speak up in her “man’s” defense, but no defense coming to mind, merely stammered: “U-Um!”

“Guess I did you a favor, if that’s the case. You had big ones before, of course. But—HO-LEE-SHIT!—not like this! And I bet you’re feeling just great—better than you have your whole life through, am I right?”

Maddy found herself nodding, though the whole business of being interrogated by a stranger simultaneously masturbating to one’s appearance struck her terribly embarrassing, or at least she reckoned so it should have struck her, that is, she WISHED it would . . .

“And just look at ’dem goddamn juggs o’ yours! Hot-golly!”

Something about the positively redundant attention he was lavishing on her breasts in particular—easily her own most redundant feature—it made Mrs. LaMode feel almost like she weren’t all there, only those specific parts of her that her neighbor kept so violently admiring. But, as he’d said, she always had had “big ones”, particularly since Clarabelle’s birth, and, of course, was used to a certain amount of attention down there from guys, whether it was the old Party bigwigs her husband brought home for dinner, or the horny teenager who rang up her groceries at Mr. Zabaglione’s. And of course she pretended to be upset about this added attention, particularly when, then as now, guys just gaped and stared and grabbed themselves before her, but that was just for appearance’ sake, Maddy knew but had never entirely admitted to herself, never before.

But even still, she wasn’t used to this yet, the way they weighed on her body and, even more, her mind by the second, heavy and excitable, the way “Pud” kept frankly and crudely referencing them, staring at them, beating off to them, the way his unhidden admiration seemed, in turn, to cause them to perk up, stick out, do precisely what she “didn’t want” them to do, getting her all the more excited somehow. It made her feel more than just inhuman, a doll—it made her feel horny, too! Small wonder she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask him to quit.

“Mr. Murdersins . . .” she tried her best to sound disapproving of the direction their interview had taken, secretly relishing the hidden understanding she grew convinced she and her neighbor shared more and more, by dint of his big cock and her big boobs. “What did you put in those fruits; what have you DONE to me?”

“Me? What have YOU done to you, Mrs. Udders-Pies? I mean, JEESUS!, that’s some appetite you got, if you’ve finished off all that basket in less than a day? How many were in there? A dozen? I mean, really, that’s unusual, Mad—um, by the way, you mind if I call you ‘Mammy’ from now on, just seems kind of appropriate?”

“Yes I DO!”

She really ought to slap him for that!, Maddy thought, albeit more now from a kittenish than a shrewish precept. She didn’t even feign a follow-up on her mind’s dare, however, as, what with her new girth, Wouldn’t she, in bending down to strike his face, actually dandle his erection with her . . ? (She couldn’t rule out their reaching that far in an “open hang”, because, quite frankly, she had no idea yet of what all they were capable.) Not to mention all the knee-jerk jiggles she’d of a surety entertain him with by her swift “storming” over his direction. No, it was better, she concluded half-panicked and all-aroused, to just stand as still as could be from now until she got whatever it was she’d come for “out in the open”, at which point, she could finally . . . But—“Wait a secky!”—whatever had she come for . . ?

More fruits, he’d said, but . . . Could that be right?

“Why’s it so cold in here?” Maddy suddenly and quite pettishly spoke up. “Aren’t old people s’posed to keep their heat cranked up year round?”

“Pud” didn’t answer, but stared avidly at her “boobies”, whose nipples, in the chilly room, had piqued to a palpability almost cartoonish.

“Gawlly!” breathed Maddy, whose arousal was growing dangerously close to usurping the preeminent place currently held by mixed panic and anger in her muddled mind. “What DID I eat all them pies up for? I mean, I don’t know what got into me. You must think I’m, like, a real piggy. (Snort!) Prob’ly I should jes’, like, go now, before . . .”

“But Mams—you like, ‘Mams’, better?—don’t you want the wakka-wakka? I must say, you’re not acting very neighborly, though, if that IS the case.”

Mrs. LaMode gulped audibly; why was her mouth so suddenly dry? But, she thought on what her neighbor said . . . “NO!!!” She hadn’t come for THOSE—she had come . . . She had come . . .

“Um. Prob’ly should jes’, like, go, before . . .” Maddy repeated, searching her mind for the resolve she felt sure was still in there, but just lost amid all the wayward desire flooding in. “Yeah, just get outta here, before I, like . . .” And all at once—there IT was again! like a timid bunny poking its head from its hole—her anger, her resolve: “’Cause, like, I’ve had enough o’ your fruits, Mr. Nutterschlong!”

“Judging by appearances . . .”

“Stop—Stop looking at me like . . . What! Your guinea pig?”

“You’re far too sexy, I’m afraid, to be a proper lab animal, though maybe a pet . . . But in a manner of speaking, yes, you’re absolutely right—it WAS an experiment, of sorts. But don’t worry, you’re not the only one on the block getting a ‘bump’ of Ol’ Pud’s homegrown organic dietary supplement—just the first to try the fruit straight. And don’t pretend you don’t like the results! The big-boobed Betties always do! But you really don’t have to thank me, Mammers—is it okay if I call you ‘Mammers’? A little civility, though—we ARE neighbors. Keep up this ungrateful act, and I might not give you any more.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m some, like . . . brain-dead floozy!” Maddy breathed hard and spoke fast, afraid her indignation would evaporate again as quickly as it had materialized. “I already said I didn’t want any- . . . Whattaya mean my neighbors . . ?”

“That’s right. The supplements, Mammers. Remember, I told you of it this morning—Vitamin-J, is the official name. Not as potent as ingesting the fruit directly, but . . .”

“You gave me that stuff knowing it’d make me into—THIS! You-You—I’m gonna-unna—call the COPS! I’m’unna have you ’RESTED!” Maddy fumed the harder as the futility of her anger grew more and more self-apparent to her.

Now it was an enervating confusion that was threatening to usurp the place of her righteous ire, confusion at the discovery of what her strange new neighbor had intentionally done to her and the humiliating way he constantly talked down to her, which despite her best efforts to recollect her very elementary gloss on the feminist code, brought her much too quickly to doubt herself and trust him. And this growing doubt in herself and trust in him in turn made any anger she entertained inside herself oddly rootless, as if she couldn’t say for sure if it were “Pud” or herself she really oughtn’t to be the more angry with, if she was determined to be angry with anyone—But why be angry? The question struck her with all the staggering intuitive majesty of E=MC(2). And her increasing lack of confidence in her own every capacity but one, in contrast with the undaunted (and visibly “staunch”) confidence evinced by her proud exhibiting neighbor, gave rise to a not at all anticipated or unpleasant feeling of expectation in her regarding precisely this man, her present “nemesis”—How annoying!

In her mind next came the recollection of the events of that morning, afternoon, evening—they seemed not a series of horrifying escapades any longer, but of numinous, delicious climaxes, which promised to hold her mind forever in its vice of bliss, eradicating in her all affect of lower principle and indignation—Who cared how low it brought her, if it always felt so good she couldn’t care! Her body wanted nothing but to go back and dwell in that homely nice nothing joy again and again and again and a- . . .

“But what are you getting your clit in a knot for?” intervened her civil neighbor, as if not noticing Maddy’s growing abstraction. “Tell me: Who’s the one came over to MY house, big tits all but hanging out, practically begging me for more fruits? And now you’re saying you’re ‘gonna call the cops’? Really, Mammers, never figured you for the uppity type. The dumb housewife type, maybe, but not the meddling bitch. Still, (sigh!) if you came here for a free handout, you at the very least ought to have offered me something in return.”

“ ‘Bitch’?” Maddy felt herself repeating this word in particular for reasons she scarcely understood; but, if “Mr. Bubsandsuds” said she was that, then she must be, right? And that was a truly awful thing to be, the worst, by her own sudden new estimation, wasn’t it, Maddy Ol’ Girl . . ? “I-I’m, like, REAL sorry, Mr. Prettyshins. Really. You’re, like, TOTALLY right, prob’ly. Or we’re, like, both right. I . . . I feel a little out of it. (Snort!)” Something suddenly struck Maddy as funny about that, but not a second later and she couldn’t say what. “I-I should prob’ly jes’ leave you alone with your big . . . self, till a’ least I know what the heck I’m talking about, huh?”

“Sure thing, Mams, but maybe you’d like to have a seat first, you know, to gather your ‘thought’. You must be pretty exhausted, what with your poontang about fitting to burst your shorts there—can’t help but notice it, you understand. Bet you been stroking it all day, huh, Mammers?”

(Blush!)

“And of course, carrying those whopping pies around with you everywhere you go has got to be a strain . . .”

“Yeah,” Mrs. LaMode for some reason smiled a little at the recognition of the truth in that; he was right, right about everything! Her face had never looked more flushed and—with every new reference Mr. Mortarswan made to her breasts—she kept feeling weirder and weirder down THERE, too. “Wait, no, that’s not what . . .” despite the aborted protest, Mrs. LaMode at once tottered over to the couch, shaking a nipple loose of her over-strained tank-top in the process, that side of the top wedging conspicuously up into her cleavage; she at once breathed the easier for the slight freedom and sat down.

“Would you like something to drink, Mamslammers—you don’t mind that one, do you—‘Mamslammers’? Got a certain ring to it . . .”

“Huh?” Maddy stared blankly up at the old short wrinkly man with glasses; he had gotten up in anticipation of fetching the proffered drink: “Uh, no, I don’t mind . . .”

“And to drink?”

“Um.” Maddy pursed lips in evident deliberation. “. . . Milk . . .”

“That’s better, Mamslaps; you’re finally coming round, I think, more polite and ladylike. You’ll find you get what you want from me a lot easier by being friendly. After all, we’re going to be friends, aren’t we, Mammies? Real close neighbor-friends?”

“Huh? . . . Yeah, I’d like that,” Maddy murmured in a rare moment free of aroused distraction. And she did like the sound of that, as a matter of fact.

Because maybe she had “Mr. Mintorsage” all wrong; like he said, there was no reason they couldn’t still be friends, was there . . ? So what if he gave her those “fruits” without telling her that . . . She smiled. He made a lot of sense when he said she wouldn’t have tried ’em, otherwise; it no longer seemed like such a bad thing to Mrs. LaMode that she had tried ’em.

“Not everything new is necessarily bad, Mammers,” her neighbor volunteered as if reading her thoughts. He had just stepped into the adjoining kitchen to get the drinks. “Particularly when it looks that good and comes in twos!”

“Yeah . . .” Maddy repeated, almost automatically: she felt flustered, befuddled, as though she were drunk, and she couldn’t think for the life of her why she’d been so upset just a moment ago. Hadn’t she come over to ask “Pud” for more “fruits”, just like he said? Why be mean to him, then, if that was the case? “Beggars can’t be choosers”—the expression popped into her mind unbidden. What was she being such a “b-word” for? Because her “boobies” were all of a sudden so much bigger? Bigger and more sensitive . . . “Mmmm . . .” She slid a hand lovingly over her new additions and toyed with the right one a minute. Felt good, if she were really honest, “real good . . .”

And they HAD to look good, if he kept staring at ’em like he did. Nice of “Mr. Morbidslums” to notice, actually, Maddy thought with a naughty smile (a smile she should have reserved in past days for an unaccounted slice of death-by-chocolate), unlike SOME people . . . And “Pud” would know, too, wouldn’t he? He was a MAN, after all—the rare, REAL Proven Man! Who cared if he was kind of old for her, not the young ranchhand stud she might have spent that very evening in her bedroom imagining a very long and raunchy horsey ride with? Sitting on Mr. Mortarswan’s couch, she was no longer sure why she had elected on this type for her ideal fantasy amour. Wasn’t someone with Pud’s years and weird sophistication sexier to her than one of those “date-bait” dudes they showed on the soaps she tried always to avoid watching but so often did? The thought popped into her mind, a bizarre thought for her, though in the current instance she had no trouble believing it her own: “The only thing that matters is how big’s his . . .”

Maddy gasped a little as she massaged her right exposed nipple and with her other hand felt out and prodded, not her clit (the direct fondling of which she had learned since her orgasm in the kitchen made her explode too much too fast), but everything possibly around it through the spandex. In doing this she pushed herself back on the couch, sliding the coffee table meanwhile forward with her knees. Something fell off the table and onto her white canvas slip-on shoe.

“The New Orchard Journal of Produce?” Maddy squinted down at the magazine and read aloud its name by the light of the TV refracted through the glass of the table. “Hmmmmm . . . AND he’s smart . . .” Wasn’t he some kind of doctor or whatever . . ? Maddy found that sexy . . . “Dr. Pud . . .” She snorted.

Being older, smarter just meant he had more expertise when it came to knowing “what she liked” and—what’d he call ’em?—Whopping pies! Well, they certainly were big, so that made sense—“real whoppers”.

Her desire-drunk eyes came to rest next on the porno playing on the TV. She’d only glanced at it on entering the room, and only long enough to know it WAS a porno, had, in fact, struggled her best not to look over that way since. But now she wondered why she had so struggled, and more, why she had struggled her whole adult life to avoid all run-ins with like smut, as if she feared something she might discover in herself only in watching others flout their inhibitions . . . The current skin-flick featured what looked to be a teenage girl—she couldn’t be much older than Clarabelle, Maddy observed, but not with any pangs of parental regret, only, as it were, objectively and from a ripening curiosity. The girl was dressed in pig-tails and a very short little-girl style pink and white dress that wouldn’t have hung past her hips were she standing up, because she was really quite tall; however, she was sitting on, of all things, a couch—just like Maddy! And just like Maddy, she was stroking herself with both hands—Small world!

Maddy unconsciously took note of the girl’s beautiful youthful thighs and legs, her delicate pretty face, twisted into an expression of that agony preceding insuperable ecstasy, and Maddy noted well her technique, precisely how she held her hands just so and splayed her legs like that. What most impressed her was how quick and hard the young woman thwacked away at herself—“She’s going to hurt herself that way . . .” Was her first thought, but she at once snorted at her own inanity—“No—!”

A second later, and sure enough, the girl sprayed forth what must have been a very loud orgasm, by the looks of her face, loud but for the television volume being all the way down. Maddy felt disappointed a little, she couldn’t hear. She herself knew how good that felt.

The familiar thrumming sensation returned to her, as if she were sitting on the back of some beast or machine that couldn’t sit still or wouldn’t shut off, and all by simply watching this other one getting off . . .

And all at once, Maddy was decided: “Pud” wasn’t her enemy; he was her FRIEND!, maybe the best and closest friend she would ever have, to do something like this for her—give her those fruits of his, and without even asking anything in return!

And everything “Pud” had ever said to her had been nice, in its way, “real neighborly”; it was SHE who had been rude. The way he talked to her and looked at her? There was something even reassuring in all that, when she thought about it; it was because he LOVED her, right?, wanted to make her feel . . . safe and happy! She needn’t worry about all that “dumb stuff” that was previously bugging her, never again now that her “dear-dear” “Pud-Pud” was there to protect her, to guide her, tell her what to do, or rather, tell her what she COULD do, do what she wanted. Just relax, Maddy thought she could hear her neighbor speaking to her right then, inside her mind . . . So what if her “juggs” (she almost snorted again when she called them that to herself; it was even more pleasantly familiar than “boobies”), so what if they were enormous!: “Mr. Minkinstoal” didn’t seem to mind. She felt happier by the second, the mere thought that “Pud” “didn’t mind” ’em seemed to signal she could let herself go even more than she had ever yet done so far . . .

She heard him bustling in the kitchen. Her mouth still dry and hot, she felt that one breast uncomfortably constrained in the tank-top, while the other called out the more it was free for her massaging hand. She had ceased momentarily from her nipple-fondle in observing the porno, but now resumed, her other hand abandoning her camel-toe for a time to pull out her left breast and massage away at that one. Her arms were crossed in front, her right hand on her left nipple, her left on her right; her tank-top shoved up now to the heart of her cleavage, no longer in the way.

Much better; now, if she could just . . .

Mrs. LaMode moaned.

And “Pud-Pud” wouldn’t mind if she . . . just a little . . . Would he? Not her “real close” neighbor-friend, not after . . . just like he said . . . He was the only one who knew . . . Mmmm, that felt almost TOO good! All she had to do now is rub one finger over it and wait and feel the intoxicating burst she had experienced twice that day already . . . No doubt about it, her new neighbor sure did have a way of making her feel more . . . “um, comf’table. Re-e-e-e-eal comf’table . . .”

“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home, Mam’ries,” Mr. Mortarswan said looking down at her from her left. He was holding two glasses of milk. How long had he been just standing there, watching her rub herself? For a second she felt a flush of forgotten shame; she recalled, by some absurd association, how Mrs. Biddy had stared down at her just like that, standing in the kitchen doorway, while she cooled off after a particularly rigorous cooking bout with Christmas candies. She blushed, but he cleared the air immediately by handing her the milk.

“Thanks,” she drank it all down without lowering the glass, taking several big gulps.

“Don’t let me stop you . . .” he said then with a vague wave at her shorts. “You were really enjoying yourself, almost as much as I was enjoying watching you.”

Mrs. LaMode stared vacantly up at her neighbor; then without a word, set the empty glass down mechanically on the table and resumed her orchestrations.

“God, you got me hard again, Mamslams . . .” Mr. Mortarswan gave his own large hard cock a good luck tug in illustration. “But go ahead and give me a tour of the grounds first, ’cause ‘Big Daddy Pud’ means to be movin’ in real soon!”

Maddy tried to snort at the old letch’s quip, because she didn’t really understand it, but by that understood it was a joke; however, she could barely get the sound out for all her growing and gasping arousal, and it was only with an effort she managed: “I know it’s bad of me, Mr. Mudders . . .”

“Please—as we’re being so informal and as, as I said before, that’s not my name—call me ‘Pud’.”

“Pud . . .” echoed the happy Maddy.

“And to think only a minute ago, you were threatening to turn me into the cops! You sure do loosen up quick, Mrs. Pies.”

“Hummm...” she was feeling looser, indeed . . .

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually preferred being a big horny slut to whatever you pretended to be before. Is that right, Mams, do you like fondling your own huge tits in front of a stranger like a big horny slut?”

“Uuuuuh,” there was something not quite, necessarily . . . “(Snort!) Pud-Pud, you’re . . .”

She had at first been understandably flustered at his choice of words, but a second later and she was too distracted by the huge hard erection Mr. Mortarswan was having a great deal of trouble apparently keeping from shoving down the big horny slut’s mouth; he had walked up to her stroking it the while, till he was practically jerking off in her face. With a rather limp finger Maddy pointed at the penis, but misjudged its distance from her face, her finger landing square on the prominent potbelly of the old man’s shaft. Maddy gulped, smiled, and stared blearily at it.

“What do you expect? I’m only human, Mamslut,” the old man, finishing off his own drink in a hardy shot, threw the glass on the carpet and fiddled his dick conspicuously for his neighbor’s edification. “Look what you’ve done to this poor old guy’s cock and balls!”

“Cock and balls,” she murmured again in echo. He was the only one who had ever talked to her like he did in adult conversation.

“I bet you like saying that, don’t you, Mamsies? You’re a real big-tit cock-whore, aren’t you?”

“Huh . . ?” something about that didn’t sound quite true, either, when just he had said it, but then—before her staring eyes—he actually slid his penis between her appropriately parted lips, and so she swallowed her anticipated protest in a grateful suck: “(SLFP! GLRP! FKSR!) Pud-Pud! You’re SO . . . Nnnmmmm!”

“Supplements, my dear Mammries, didn’t I tell you—Vitamin-J—At my age, a guy’s got to stay healthy!”

Mrs. LaMode instinctively leaned in farther, her hand slightly raised, her mouth now hanging open, so her tongue poked out a little despite the enormous cock in the way.

“But you never answered my question, Mamsies: You really love cock, don’t you?”

“Pud” slipped the cock out of her mouth, and she looked up expectantly.

“Love cock,” she repeated—it was hard for her to concentrate with that big dick staring her down like a greasy cyclopean bratwurst. She shook her head and for a brief second shook some of her departed common sense back into it: but—her “Paul-Paul”! her little daughter, “um, Clara-something!”—what was Maddy doing! This creepy old man was exposing himself to her! “Put it away Mr. Pudders put it away!”

“Real nice, Mams! You started it, you know! Rubbing your exposed fuck-juggs like that, right in front of a guy! Got me all hard and ready, only to hoist me a second later on my own hard-on, hope you’re happy.”

“But . . .” Maddy stared dumbly up at Mr. Mortarswan, then down at his huge hard cock, which he was teasingly making pretend to put away. Wasn’t he right! She HAD started it, couldn’t keep her hands off her, “um, fudge-juggs”, just like he said. And now look what she’d done to this nice old man’s hard boner! What she all the while still was doing!

For at her protest to put the dick away, Maddy hadn’t, all the same, pulled her hand entirely off it; presently, she wrapped her short little fingers round the fat prod only the firmer and slowly pumped it, up and down . . . “Mmmnnn . . .” She couldn’t just leave it like that, could she?—it looked about to burst! What if he had a stroke or something?

“The least you could do, Mammsy, is finish what you started . . .”

She didn’t need any further enticement:

“Mlph! (Gulp! Slurp!)”

“Much better Mammers!! Woah-woah-woah! Not so . . . Down girl! Got to work on your technique a little. Don’t tell me this is the first cock you’ve ever sucked, Mamms?”

“Ulp!” Mrs. LaMode looked up at her neighbor and tried to answer his question, but something big got in the way.

“Mammy! Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?”

“S-Sorry, Mr. Pud . . . I mean, Doctor . . .” She swallowed and stroked his shaft firmly with her hand as she spoke, licking the wet thing gratuitously between words. “Not my (lap!) first . . .”

“Really! But ‘mister’s’ fine. Technically never finished my degree. You’ll wonder at my working for BMU . . . Well, I faked it for a long time, but there’s no reason to anymore . . . But so there’s been another one? Let me guess: It was today, after you tried the fruits?”

Maddy nodded.

“Well, who was it? How’d it happen?”

Maddy looked up at her short nearsighted loverman again, a little sheepish, as if she were being interrogated by her father about a boy she liked but knew he wouldn’t: “On the doorstep. The mailman.”

The proxy-pater stared disbelieving down at the woman with his cock in her hand a second, then let out a loud raspy whoop of laughter: “Why—that lucky ugly dick! But don’t worry, Mammers, a few pointers and you’ll be a grade-A cock-slut in no time, so good you’ll have your pick of the prick litter, not have to settle for losers like that—That’s better . . . Slo-o-owly . . . There! more with the tongue, easy with the teeth; just pretend you don’t have any (Wheeze!). . . Good . . . Here comes the pre-cum!”

“(GLP!)” Maddy came off “Mr. Pud’s” cock a moment for air, to swallow, but just a moment; she was back on it the next, sucking and stroking.

“You’ve tried the cock, Mams, now try the balls.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pud-Pud, sir,” this new tone of respect came automatically to Maddy and whence she knew not, but it didn’t seem to her uncalled for, under the circumstances. He WAS her teacher, after all, teaching her something she more and more really wanted to learn how to do right! She lifted his hard cock straight up (it throbbed excitingly in her hand) and, after a long loving lick up its shaft, the stacked lady locked her lips on the old man’s shriveled ball-sack. It too tasted slightly of wakka-wakka: “Umm. . .”

“Don’t stint the tits, li’l Mammies, flaunt ’em if you got ’em!”

“Yessir!” she was only too happy to present “the bouncing twins” to their figurative “father”. Her nipples felt so hard, like they’d shoot straight off her skin if she didn’t press something firm against them first thing!

“Real nice hooters, you got, Mammers! Have I mentioned that yet?” Mr. Mortarswan wrestled the left one up onto his hairy thigh, so he might feel its nipple while simultaneously rubbing his cock into its copious side-flesh; Maddy meanwhile herself twiddled the right one. “Best on the block!”

“You mean it, Pud-Pud!” she beamed. That’d show Bonnie! (And, of course, she had compared them, even before.)

“O, you’re welcome, Mams! Always welcome with tit-juggs like these!”

Mrs. LaMode was just happy she had such an understanding best-friend-next-door again—“WAY better than Mrs. Betty”!—she immediately started massaging ’em again, even harder, once they were pressed tight against her neighbor’s cock, alternately licking first the one erect nipple, then Pud’s cockhead (she couldn’t have stopped herself, regardless). She had no trouble doing this, the movements were as if automatic—it should be said, she’d gotten a lot of practice with her tongue that day.

“So you’re finally grateful for your ‘enhancements’? It’s about time. You’ll be even more so after I show you what all you can do with ’em . . .”

“Yes, ple-e-ease . . .” Mrs. LaMode stopped slobbering a second to groan out appreciative.