The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Part 1 — 13 Months After Eggy’s Hatching

Los Angeles, California, early 1980s

Annette Bullman pulled the key out of the lock and pushed the door open. Shit, she’d not put the air-conditioner on, having expected to be back in a few hours, not the week-and-a-half that it ended up being, hospital time and all.

“Go in,” she said as she nodded her head towards the open door. The two women with her moved towards the door, but not as quickly as Annette would have liked, they’d been trailing her like ducklings since she was released, and she was sick of it. “Scoot”.

And the two scooted into the heat.

Annette followed. She turned on the air full cool and tore off her clothes, popping one shirt button.

“Whew, too hot. Strip.”

Without hesitation they removed their summer dresses, bras, and panties, which they piled neatly on top of a chest of drawers.

Annette looked them over. Sylvie and Nameless. Sylvie Delgato, 22, a year younger than Annette. Maybe the sharpest of the four rescued women, and a bundle of happy optimistic energy the two days they were captive together. She is also short, curvy with a flawless caramel skin that reminds Annette of Aram, and cropped close into what used to be called a Dutch-boy her slick crow-black hair is soaked wet from the heat. A bead of perspiration slithers down her chest. Even dripping with sweat she has a broad smile as she looks around the room.

Nameless. A mute mystery. The only time she seemed to be able to speak was when she was orgasming, and even then all she could shout was “Oh my God!” Nameless was quite tall, almost six feet, and stands with very erect posture, shoulders back and breasts thrust out. A California blonde with dimples.

“I’m going to have a shower. You can go next.” Annette sniffs. “You should go next. You two can shower together. Make it a Brentwood-type shower if you want to. Your choice, just come out squeaky. Any questions?”

“Permission to clean up?” Sylvie asks.

Annette looks around at the take-out food containers, the sink full of dishes, clothes thrown in corners. A cool breeze from the finally-working air hits her nipples and they harden as she shivers slightly, sending a gentle swing to her healthy young boobs. Both Sylvie and Nameless notice.

“Yeah, good idea. Go for it.”

Sylvie flushes with the praise, and starts gathering up things from the coffee table to get thrown out.

Annette looks at Nameless, who’s still standing posed. “There’s laundry too.”

Nameless blinks, realizes she’s been told to do something, thinks about how to do it, then acts. Sometimes it can take a while. Her shrug clearly communicated, “How?”

“Do you know how to use a washing machine?”

A nod yes.

“Do you know how to read labels and sort correctly? There’s a small in-unit washer-dryer in the hall closet. I’ve a hamper in my bedroom closet. Don’t run anything until after my shower, and I’ve seen the sorted clothes. Some of it is expensive. Just get it ready. Your stuff too. Do you understand me?”

Another nod.

Annette’s shower relaxed all the knots in her back. She could have asked either of her “guests” to soap up with her, she was tempted, but she needed some alone time to think. And she was curious as to what kind of shower they would be having. She planned to invite herself in to watch if they chose the Brentwood-type shower. It was all so fucking weird. And it’s not like her world hadn’t been weird enough since the Egg-thing came into her life. She still didn’t quite understand what she was dealing with, and what to do about these girls. It needed thought and study, things she’d avoided all through high school.

She waited until she was sure from the sounds that Sylvie and Annette were making out in the shower before entering the washroom. “Ignore, me, keep going,” she instructed. “Act like I’m not here.”

Nameless was sitting cross-legged in the tub, Sylvie stands over her, straddling her hips, knees bent as Nameless mouth is buried upwards in Sylvie’s crotch.

Annette casts a professionals eye on the scene thinking, “Good natural technique, but both have a thing or two to learn.” Teaching was going to be fun.

I guess it was partly me not paying attention. After all, the last time Annette and I met she told me to get the hell out of her life entirely, that my “help” was no longer wanted, except for all the changes I’d already made—she didn’t want to lose any of those. She just didn’t want to be pregnant. And she was, not by me. At the time she had eleven months at most before she went into gestation if she didn’t trigger it earlier, with the first stages of new life activating as the stasis bubble surrounding her just fertilized egg winked out of existence. Having Carl’s child was the price she had to pay. No choice, her genetic facts needed to enter the mix of DNA I was brewing. I’d spent some time reading all I could about breeding show dogs. I learned a lot and was applying many of the same principals.

Plus it had put up some automatic protections that had just saved her pretty ass setting her and the girls free of the clutches of some sick fucks.

All the other Eggy women were pregnant too except for her mother Betty, who gave birth to her new brother Roscoe. It wouldn’t be fair to let Annette off the hook. She started thinking about Carl’s size, particularly his spectacularly huge dick, and started to worry that giving birth to his child would wreck her figure. Despite me trying to convince her that it was an opportunity to body shape. Didn’t trust me not to turn her into a fat-assed housewife. Plus the fact that her mom now wanted to have a child by Carl as well, but didn’t want to take in via some magic transfer of the stasis-bubble-encased just-fertilized egg Annette already carried—if it was possible.

Betty got very angry at Annette’s suggestion that she could still have her own child with Carl, and that “it could be like, twins.” It was quite a mother-daughter screaming match, and somehow it became me they were both screaming at. I shouldn’t have told them that it was fast and easy to do. When Betty said, “No way!” I told them, “Then I won’t do it”, and that set Annette off. Sometimes it was like I was their servant. (Refer to previous incarnations in the book to see the mess that comes when in the past I’d tried to rule as a king or god—didn’t end up so well.) I’d also read that people who kept cats often felt as I did.

This time I was going for subtle.

I guess I should reintroduce myself and provide some context of when I am writing this. The ‘Why’ is same as always, to update the book—it is owned by Vicky now, but she’s mortal, and it serves as my memory between incarnations, to borrow a Hindu idea that is close enough to what is actually happening.

Since I hatched—I guess I’m no longer Eggy, am I then Birdie? I don’t think so. Anyway, when any of the original group wants to talk to me even after I left, they call for Eggy and I come. And happily they call not only when they’re in trouble—for example when Sam and Annette’s book became an international million copy best-seller the publisher threw a lavish party for them in New York. Despite the fact that they used obvious pen names, and that the publisher imposed title was My Dear, You’ve Got Good Taste-A Personal Journey which Annette hated, generally the book was known as Taste from the emphasized word on the dust jacket, it became the ‘in’ party of the season, there were rumors that the authors were father and daughter from suburbia and the jaded jet set all wanted to gawk. No press and no cameras. The Bullman’s and their guests arrived to find three large suites for all 14, everybody was flown in a private jet donated by the billionaire publisher. And the first thing they did after unpacking and arranging who sleeps where, and showering off the travel dirt, and doing a bit of shopping and eating dinner and then drinks in the bar, they called me up to thank me for their good fortune, and for old times I watched as they had an orgy of epic proportions. Aram danced with each of the ladies, turning their desire level up into the beet red zone. Rose’s chest flowed with revival tonic all over the furniture and carpet. So did Marc’s jizzum. A joyous amount of manna was generated. Andy later described it as a religious experience.

The next day Sam slipped the cleaning team a couple of hundred extra dollars. They thanked him and got on with it, careful to glove up first.

I didn’t ever tell them I no longer controlled how the manna was used, now Vicky did and she too had told no one. I still gleaned it when it was generated by their sex acts, but I had to get by with what Vicky let me use and she was cautious—no big projects for either of us for a while. Now that the gang wasn’t restricted to each other Sheila and Carl made up for lost time, going out to as many swinger parties as they could fit into a week, sometimes inviting Sam and Betty along. Will had got the hang of using his special black book, which he hadn’t revealed to Rose who he was still dating regularly and semi-officially engaged to though she was still often fucking his father as well, and at the time they were still sort of engaged. Plus Will sometimes dressed up in drag and visited Babey Steps, the cross-dress club Sheila and Carl had introduced him to. And Marc was on the road, visiting and making a deposit in every sperm bank he came across and in every hot groupie who wanted backstage passes—someday I’ll go into depth on what happened at that place in Boulder after the hot and kinky female grad student technician testing the donation not so accidentally tasted what was in part Wills special sauce and called Marc back for a bigger gulp. But the others had fallen into a comfortable sex four or five times a week routine and the manna flowed, but didn’t gush.

Once the new kids now being sown became adolescents there would be a regular flood of manna—Aram and Gail had done their part, knocking up a klatch of society wives, some young and some older at a snotty country club, and Troy trolled supermarkets for hot moms aching to be seduced, many for the first time since marriage, by a handsome and confident young man, nice though not one of the world’s sharpest tacks. Still there was an artless charm to him that had them wet standing next to the bananas, which he used to make a crude gesture that caused them to laugh. Escorting them out, he often paid for the fruit, and later would show them that he wasn’t joking. He too was destined to travel the world for work, but more about that later.

Instead of trying to get as much manna as fast as possible and doing too much too quickly, I used the strategy of going wide. I’d be able to reap manna from the next generation as well, though the “gifts” would only manifest when there was more than one of the original group in the ancestral mix. With time it would become fairly common as the number of descendants increased and spread out.

I took a moment to check to see if Vicky had made any changes to one of the most significant and complicated improvements I imposed on the males very early in our association. The guys’ sperm still had the same super-charged status that I had upgraded the first week after I met them. Their “swimmers” lived a long time—decades, lay dormant when deposited and wouldn’t wake until the next time it was possible for there to be a pregnancy through lack of any attempt at birth control during consensual sex. Then they fought and absorbed any other sperm that entered the womb and took their place. They radiated chemicals that cured any infection or disease in the reproductive system including cancers, even leukemia as blood passed in and out. Once pregnant, her body would give the mother-to-be an easy run up and delivery, the child would be from one of the genetically top ten remaining super-spermatozoa as determined by a number of factors, crudely whichever sperm of the ten had the best combination of healthy, attractive, smart and lucky genes. The woman would bond strongly to the child and raise it to the best of her abilities, and if she has a romantic partner, spouse or not who triggered the pregnancy with unprotected sex, they will believe the child is theirs. If the partner was not a romantic one, but for other reasons then it would be up to the woman and man to work it out, either case both wanting what would be best for the child.

The only two changes Vicky had made were: number one regarded the naming of the child. After Aram told her what he was doing with Gail’s egging on to the racist snobs and those who thought the gorgeous suddenly-single Gail was a threat to their marriages, who signed a petition to have her kicked out of the Country Club when she started bringing Aram to their dances, Vicky thought it would be funny to make that group all call their kids after the cuckolded partner yet look nothing like him, to which they would remain blissfully oblivious. But only with the country club set. Otherwise they would have at least one prominent feature, shape of the ears, unique eye color or chin cleft that made folks who looked at the muscled-aside males and the offspring believe they were father and child. Change number two was that if the sex was non-consensual on the woman’s part, a special squad of razor sharp sperm swam upstream into the penetrating dick and into his balls, painfully ending his erection, both now and forever in the future. Vicky felt that change two was a little additional payback, along with the improved health benefits that came with bearing one of the guy’s children.

The bottom line is each of the women in the original group had or were going to have in the next 22 months or so a child that would inherit some variation of their parents special traits. And there were a lot of half-blood babies in the pipeline. Over two-hundred. Now that the restrictions to keep sex amongst themselves has been lifted every new woman the guys left with a loaded womb would have his child next time they were pregnant, which they became very easily unless they were rigorous with birth control. Because Marc’s cum seemed to be very successful for use in-vitro, the sperm banks he had donated to recommended harvesting his copious sample to couples looking to conceive; in fact Marc’s cock-spit cocktails mixed jizz from all seven of the guys, so despite visiting lots of sperm banks, he only had one in seven chance of actually being the genetic dad.

The guys were convinced that they were improving the human race by spreading their Eggy-approved baby batter far and wide. They hadn’t needed much convincing; the hard part was them keeping their mouths shut about it, with luck it’d be several generations before some clever doctor or scientist start to study the freak genetically linked family that could do weird sex tricks. So I made sure they couldn’t talk about this except among themselves, and they all gloried in sowing their seed far and wide, though Wisconsin would remain the epicenter. LA would become a minor hub but not until five years or so later.

The men became quite competitive; in Sam’s room Vicky created a magic self-updating whiteboard that listed each pregnancy and birth in a column for each man. Lots of pregnancies, but there were only a few baby names and details in smaller print on it as yet, soon all the guys would have a bunch as Marc’s mighty blasts could result in a kid that’s any of theirs. I fiddled with their heads a bit so whoever was low count on the list felt they could be doing better, and went to look for someone to knock-up. Never gratuitously, I helped a few times in the selection process but that’s a story for another day.

What I did do for them over the next few days in New York was keep the curious—journalists and other onlookers—looking the wrong way at the wrong things in the wrong places. Despite the fame of Taste, the authors remained blissfully anonymous, as Sam and I wanted it.

They had a couple of days to be tourists before the party. I’d influenced the party planner in charge of the guest list towards inviting a combination of A-listers and up-and-coming beautiful people—many with membership in one of the most exclusive and notorious sex clubs in Manhattan, Saturn’s Grotto. That meant in pithy conversation at the party and at the after-party orgy the guests—those 28 couples invited upstairs by the group—2 each by agreement—had the home field advantage. But the away team had come to play, and had some secret weapons. It spread over all three suites and lasted a dozen hours before the last participant left or dropped asleep. In the end, it was deemed a win-win result. There was a line waiting for Sam the muff-diving maestro to personalize each book copy the women brought with them or bought at the party by eating her out to orgasm on top of it. Some of them he fucked as well, so it was a slow moving line, he was in no rush to get through it, he had a flask of tonic and nothing else to do than give each lady a full Sam experience.

More than a few gay or bi-curious and horny honeys were also lined up for Annette, who was charging fifty bucks cash-money per signature. The suck was free, she was no whore. No credit accepted. There always seemed to be the next waiting beauty reaching into a bra and pulling out a wad of bills when the last one was wetly finished. About half those who found that their credit cards were no good went to their date, husband, lover, or a random stranger to borrow from, and when asked and answered ‘What for?’ most went to watch as their girl got his money’s worth. Annette both propositioned and bullied the best looking of these into a man fuck, it wasn’t quite ‘whoring herself out by doing a book signing’, but it was close.

Marc and Will zeroed in on an actress who was a later replacement lead on “Charlie’s Angles” a couple of years before. She giggled as they competed for her attention, then she settled it by agreeing to go to the master bedroom with both of them, plus call over her friend to join. That friend turned out to be her twin sister.

“Y’know, my dad has taught me some tricks,” Will said to her.

“I’m counting on it,” she replied.

A small crowd gathered around the stereo at one end of the suites, the lights are low and the music slinky and sensuous. Gail and Aram were giving a master lesson on how to dance and have sex at the same time. In the audience were the survivors of Studio 57, so they knew a thing or two about dancing and sex. Challenged, an NBA star and his six-foot two girlfriend joined in alongside to shake it. After admiring their moves, Aram asked, “Switch?” The couple looked at each other, then nodded, and with one fluid motion in time with the music the basketballer was balls deep into Gail, who used her extraordinary cunt muscles and prehensile pussy lips to wrap his loosely hanging gonads in a fleshy massaging wonderland. Shorty Aram solved the height problem by dropping to his knees between the amazon’s meaty thighs. Instead of going up he went down. He gave a strong two-handed squeeze to her big firm muscular ass. The arm lifted off the record. There was an awkward silence; all that could be heard was the sound of panting for breath. Someone started to speak but the next 12 inch 45 in the stack dropped, DeFunkt, Thermonuclear Sweat, and the watchers all joined in the dance fuck. It was darn funky. Aram and Gail made many new friends with common interests, dancing and fucking.

Sometime around midnight Rose snagged herself a lesser Ramone and left him in no need of sedation. Later another leather-clad rocked filled her Voidoid. At one point she was watching Television as he came between her tits, at least that’s what she thought he said his name was.

An iconic gay photographer found himself entranced at the sight of Stella’s enchanted tush. No cameras were allowed to the party of course, but between studly guys who were actively interested in giving it to her she agreed to a photo session for her bum before they left the city.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” she asked.

“Sugar, you’re just not my type.”

“Who’s your type?” Stella waves her hand at the four guys who’ve loosely gathered around her, hoping for a turn.

“Him.” The photographer points to a ruggedly handsome young man fondling himself through an open zipper.

He looks vaguely familiar to Stella. “OMG, he’s that guy from General Hospital,” she thinks.

“How about it Doctor? Aren’t you the pretty one? You can go next, but you have to get me off first and then let shutterbug here bang you as you butt-fuck me. Don’t worry, I’ve done it before. It’s fun.”

The hipster who had just rolled out of Stella sat on the carpet, relaxed, arms back, legs wide, cock dripping. “Go for it, man. Totally worth it.”

“Start with a kiss,” she orders as the actor strips confidently and pulls her tiny naked body up into his arms.

The photographer strips as well, and Stella tells him, “Not until Pretty here’s deep up my ass. There’s some lube in that dish. Use it.”

They gave each other a passionate kiss, then she made sure he was hard by sucking deeply on his pecker.

She was mindful that there were folks waiting she also wanted to get to know better, she’d found that after capturing a dick-load in her magic cavernous multi-dimensional ass she could ask anything of the guy by flooding her womb with the man’s spunk stored in the magic cabinet in Sam’s room. It was messy but mostly effective. She had a short “U” shaped hose that connected her ass and cunt, and she’d have to squirt it from one hole to the other—she could get enough velocity in the expelling so that the sperm ended up filling her, and while it was there she could get the guy to agree to do anything. Once she realized this, she started building a collection. Politicians seemed to be the easiest. So she said, “You can also pussy-fuck me next time, but for now I think you’d better start pumping”, and she turned over and stuck her ass in the air. The actor hadn’t even gone half way in before he felt his hips grabbed from behind and an intrusion that pushed him forward and deeper up the slutty girl. Stella was later to learn that the actor and photographer were long-time lovers, and they’d done the double ass-fuck routine before, but never without them guiding it in that direction. It was one of their favorite fuck types, and usually they had to work hard on a lover, man or woman, to try it. And here it was, no fuss, no feathers. Did she know about them in advance? How? She never did say. They were in love with Stella from that moment on.

Most of the suits from the publishing house slipped off nervously or weren’t invited up to the suites after the official party, except for the editor of the cooking books and magazines. Betty had cornered him, hoping to sell him on an expanded cookbook written by her, based on her parts in Sam’s book where the recipes for the oils and ointments are. To make sure that she’s got his full attention, she’s had him taste some of her punch and then had him sample the creamier concoction directly off her pussy, “as intended.”

Betty’d planned the pitch since the day the party was suggested. She spent the afternoon at a spa that was featured in Cosmo as the place to get prepped—mannied, peddied, waxed, shaved, oiled, sculpted—before a hot date. She’d had Roscoe four months earlier and had a hard time believing how quickly her body had snapped back in shape while recovering, it felt to her like she was five years younger and twenty pounds lighter, though not unshapely at all everywhere it counted. Giving birth generated an enormous amount of manna—remember this all started with Ishtar the fertility goddess, and it only seems fair to pump all the manna back into the new mother and child. The child had an insubstantial and invisible balloon “yolk sac” that floated on a flexible tube from their belly button after the umbilical cord detached which contained their portion of the birth manna as a reserve of—for a better word—luck. This lasted different lengths depending on circumstance, making sure they started life loved, healthy and safe. Sometimes it was still there when they graduated college, sometimes it was used up almost immediately, unfortunately.

Betty came to understand that by having a child every three to five years she and the other women could stay youthful and become very long lived. So her plan was to have one with each of the guys except her son Will. And Carl had already asked, so he was next despite that her daughter Annette was already going to have his child within a couple of years. After that Marc or Troy, she hadn’t decided yet.

Sam rented a separate single bed hotel-room for the baby and hired a pair of nursemaids to help while they were in New York so Betty had some free time.

Vicky went with her to the spa, and at my suggestion she used a touch of her store of manna to make their flesh both more pliable and more moldable. The famous everywhere-Cosmo-is-sold make-over artists at the spa were able to rework and perfect Betty and Vicky’s bare skin into a satiny flawless glow. Nails were glossy. Hair conservative yet stylish. And the technicians had enough taste not to try to change their essence. Betty was like Super-Betty. Vicky used the opportunity to look a little more mature and lose the last of her baby-fat, adding the lost mass to her tits and hips. Just a bit closer looking to Andy’s age. If they didn’t like the changes later they had the option of reverting on any part or the whole. Super-Betty may have too much wattage to be comfortable in suburban Milwaukee, but tonight in New York City, she felt a million bucks. She also felt very horny whenever she looked at her hot new self in a mirror—I didn’t cause that, honest—it was her natural reaction. However she was also having a case of nerves, writing a sensual cookbook would be much more real and likely if it a publisher was committed. She already knew who her research assistants would be. To her it figured to be six months of cooking and fucking, then three months to get a first draft. Faster if it was just recipes, though she wanted to make it more. She also planned to start her second pregnancy once the basic research was done and she had ten good recipes to base chapters on. Do the cookbook now while they had interest, then a new baby as a companion to Roscoe, who was a gem.

But first she had to sell the idea. She’d made sure the top editor was on the guest list. In fact it was a very easy sell, the publisher was looking for a follow-up in the worst way but Sam had resisted, hence the party. The editor stuck his tongue deeply into Betty pussy, chasing the last drop of her cream concoction. Of course, he’d tried it previously with his wife from the recipe in Sam’s book, and as he had been a chef before editing cookbooks he was a very good cook, and knew the sweet orange and purple swirled liquid he’d just licked clean off Betty’s quim was going to be selling point number one at his pitch meeting next week. “Deal” she said and shook his gland. “Deal” he said as he slipped his penis of confirmation into her recreamed hot and gooey acceptance slot.

Troy had at Betty’s suggestion earlier taken the editor’s silver-tressed but still stunning trophy wife to one of the furthest bedrooms. Betty planned to bake him a very special pie for clearing the way. Later, the wife would let both her husband and her regular Tuesday gentleman visitor think they were the father of her late-in-life unexpected bundle of joy. And she felt ten years younger after giving birth. All she remembered of Troy was the handsome idiot forgot to use a condom and at the time she didn’t care.

Andy and Vicky were also doing a little business, despite Andy’s efforts not to. Vicky had turned their bedroom into a mini-gallery, with Andy’s original drawings for Sam and Annette’s book nicely framed and hung with good lighting, the bed moved aside to a far corner and an overstuffed wing-backed armchair from the hotel lobby set just to the right of the three charcoal drawings of Vicky, Stella and Rose’s spread vaginas done on that memorable day in the park. In keeping with the anonymity of the book, they had been published without caption full page as a “thank you” credit for the research assistance. Vicky had borrowed the other drawings from that day, which clearly showed the models faces as well at other attractive bits of their anatomy; these were also displayed, on a side wall. She’d managed to get a few of the artier crowd from the party to come with her to have a closer look at the originals and see Andy’s other displayed works. She also found a couple of wealthy patrons of the arts, snobs who had to have the latest and greatest, and weren’t afraid to spend on new talent.

But Andy had found an old friend, a kid who had once hung around his shop reading underground comics and caging rolling papers. He’d come to New York one step ahead of a shotgun wedding, and reinvented himself as a white Rasta manager for bands out of Jamaica, Queens. And he had some genuine Blue Mountain Lamb’s Bread that Andy just had to try, in exchange for not telling anyone that he’d come from the suburbs of Wisconsin. So instead of schmoozing as Vicky wanted, Andy was out on the balcony getting shit-faced. Outside was too windy for the cokeheads, they’d commandeered the master bathroom, but Andy and the pot purists liked the view from so high up.

As expected, one of Vicky’s guests asked which drawn twat was hers. She had prepared for this by wearing a long dress that was slit all the way to the waist in front. So she smiled, sat on the wing chair with a leg over each arm, then showed her flexibility as she placed one then crossing the other foot comfortably behind her head, looking very relaxed all the while pushing her pussy out, and asked if the questioner could tell. Soon the dozen or so guests were clustered around her looking, then scanning the drawings and looking back. The spa day had paid off, her pussy was perfectly framed by the folds of her open dress, the split crotch panties and garter attached to peach stockings, her skin with an alabaster freshness and just a hint of the blood rush of excitement.

It wasn’t that difficult a question, Andy had captured the essence, the pure “Vickyness” of her closely-shaved beaver in his drawing. “The one in the middle” blurted a department store heiress, who was very much the queen bee of the gathered crowd; they immediately agreed with her.

Just then Andy, stoned but not stupid, stumbled back in to the room from outside, bringing in a blast of fresh air tainted by the odor of strong ganja. He saw Vicky spread wide on the chair, surrounded by expensively dressed beautiful people. She started to move her legs, but he gestured and said, “No babe, yer beautiful. Stay like that for a bit so I can see too.”

“You see it every night,” she replied.

“And it gets better every time.”

The heiress interrupted, “Will you draw me?”

“Dunno. You got an interesting snatch?”

“Fascinating. Here look,” the heiress hitched her short skirt and pulled down her satin panties.

With his hands Andy motioned Vicky to get off the chair and the heiress replaces her, kicking her panties across the room. Behind Andy the crowd gazed at the multi-million dollar cooze.

“May I,” Andy asks.

“Go ahead.”

He began to manipulate the somewhat skinny but fit young woman, making her cunt flush with blood, arranging her soft downy pubic hair so it stands up and out. “Could do,” he says pensively. “Still needs something. Do you want to keep the drawing or just model?”

She pants, “Keep.”

“There’s a price.”

“Always is.”

With that Andy unzips and plunges his pecker into the dripping and spread-wide gash. “Vicky, get the easel out.” The flush moved to the stuffed woman’s face as she cums for the first time. Despite the fact that over half the art-fags, hags and hangers-on in the room had been her lovers at one point or another, she’d never performed like this in front of them all as an audience, which turned her on even more. Andy looked down at her and stroked her chest which had popped out the side of her deep slit front, while he kept pumping in and out, “If you like it, five thousand dollars and you walk away with it. If you don’t, the fuck is enough, and I keep it with no name attached and the option of a promise not to tell.”

“Done,” she half screams as she cums again, “You must put my name on it,” and Andy blasts her a special load that will give the world one more wealthy over-privileged brat after she forgets to refill her prescription for the pill at Easter next year when all the pharmacies are closed and just has to fuck her weight trainer.

Andy pulls out, cock dripping, and arranges the breathless socialite spread-wide on the chair, positioning her long ring-laden fingers to spread herself open with a sparkly emerald resting against her clit, and quickly gets to work with the charcoal while the scene is fresh. She’s grateful not to be put with her legs up like Vicky was, that looked freaky. Kinky freaky. Ten years of yoga freaky.

Vicky drops between his legs and sucks him clean. The jaded onlookers walk around the tableau with cocktail glasses in hand, looking at the scene like it was a sculpture in a garden. A particularly interesting sculpture.

Andy’s done in fifteen minutes, and sprays a preservative over the heavy paper. The model gets up and arranges herself, wiping with a hotel towel Vicky hands her, digs out a checkbook and writes them payment on the spot. Vicky puts the drawing in a large envelope and hands it over.

“Me next,” a slightly older society matron calls. Andy’s still flying, but it doesn’t seem to be effecting his concentration or motor skills, and there’s a punchbowl of Betty’s tonic on a sideboard, which all knowingly and unknowingly have been dipping into rather than heading back to the bar.

So he thinks, “Sure” as his still exposed dick stiffens slightly. He looks at Vicky.

“Not tonight,” she says. “We’re in town for a couple of more days. I’ll take appointments later.” She regrets this a bit once she notices Andy’s disappointed frown, but she has a plan to stick to, setting a limit so the drawings will be more valuable, not just souvenirs of a half remembered fuck—they’d all be getting one of those too. “It’s ten grand for anyone of y’all who wants one. Plus to get an appointment before we leave town, you have to fuck Andy tonight.” Andy gives a sloppy stoned grin at this. “There’s a sign-up sheet on the clipboard on that table. Leave a name and phone, I’ll call tomorrow—late tomorrow. We’re not doing any more than a dozen before we head home, no time. I want Andy to see the Met Museum before we leave. And the Guggenheim. And I want to fuck that guy,” she points at the heiress’ date, a body builder squeezed into a tuxedo who’s her latest boy-toy, “and him, and him too, and her if she swings that way. Andy, why don’t you invite your friend off the balcony to join us with his stash. C’mon people, are you just a bunch of Lookie Lous?” She lifts her dress to the side and thrusts a leg forward through the slit, showing again her hot cunt, “Who’s first? I thought they knew how to party here. Anyone? I’m flexible! You!”

With the gauntlet thrown down that part of the orgy began in earnest, giving Andy a dozen future progeny in comfortable nests atop some of Manhattan’s tallest buildings.

A cry of “Oh my gawd!” came from the second suite’s parlor as Carl revealed his mammoth dick to a tipsy tootsie who’d come to the party in a golden, fringed flapper dress from the 20’s. He’d coaxed her to join him on the sofa. She called full voice to her friend in the next room, “Hey Mabel, you gotta see this,” in a full Bronx accent. “You just gotta. It’s like a Louisville Slugga.”

Meanwhile Sheila was showing off her tongue tricks to a Wall Street type who’d brought his secretary along when he couldn’t find any one of his regular girlfriends that wanted to be seen in public with him, especially at the party of the year. All Sheila remembered of him the next day was that he even tasted slimy. In happier news, the secretary ditched her boss date, found herself on the dance-floor with Aram, and had a very good time indeed.

It was the last big roadshow for the group for many years. It was baby time. Will and Rose married between college years so that she could start her term in both senses at the same time. Gail and Aram had a double wedding with them, and Gail waited a full month before starting her gestation, to show the world that the wedding was no accident. Vicky and Andy bought a house together and she triggered herself as well. Stella and Sheila both were still waiting. Stella mostly lived at the college dorm, where she majored in Party!

Annette and I had our set-to shortly after that when she found out her mother was now thinking about getting pregnant again with Carl as the dad—Betty had initially been eager, then dithered about starting, and the idea rankled Annette that she would too soon be knocked up by the same guy as her mother, when what she really wanted to do was go to Hollywood and try her luck—she figured that with her looks, her improved memory and concentration she’d be a shoe-in for TV acting. She was another of those girls who never took a theater class, or voice lessons, or even read plays but thought she could be a star if she wanted it enough. The deep maternal feelings I built into all the pregnancies wouldn’t kick in until Annette was actually gestating, then still over ten months away if she left it to the last minute and a year and a half to the birth. When I refused to delay it for her, or stop it all together, or transfer the embryo into someone else, such as her mother who wanted Carl’s kid and Annette now didn’t. So Annette found the idea that she and Betty would be pregnant by Carl together terrible, there had always been a tension between the two, Annette was a daddy’s girl and she cursed me something fierce for herself being in this situation, and she said she never wanted to see me again. Then she headed out for California.

She had a good chunk of cash from her royalties of the book—enough for a good one bedroom apartment for a year, a used car, and generally support herself.

Unfortunately the camera didn’t love her. It liked her just fine, but the town was full of actresses the camera adored. I could have put some glamour on her to address that, but I didn’t. Vicky could have as well, but didn’t either.

Annette’s B-plan was to look for a writing job. She knew she could do it, but it seemed like hard work, with little of the adulation she was seeking. She got some acting as an “Extra” jobs, and even one or two line speaking parts, which inevitably ended up on the cutting room floor.

Then she was invited to that party in Brentwood. I didn’t hear her mental scream to me for help. I’d tuned her out as she had requested. One of the side products of gathering the manna is that memories come attached to it, just recent memories, and older memories that are relevant to whatever was going on at the time the manna gelled, and the main way it did this was during sex. So I pretty much knew all about their sex lives by default. I only paid attention during the interesting bits. Sad to say paying close attention to a lot of the rest of it was like watching people exercise. There was a lot of their lives I didn’t know, and what I did know came from what they were thinking about during sex. So I pushed them to have lots of encounters. The pregnant herd only became even hornier as a substitute for morning sickness. The way I explained it to Vicky was to generate the manna to combat the morning sickness, a certain amount of extra sex would be needed by the ones baking a bun in the oven. She agreed and made those changes. And the guys, fearful that there’d be a sex drought once the babies arrive wanted to squeeze in every fuck as though it was the last. Even though there were horny pregnant women everywhere they seemed to look.

If she’d said my name out loud I’d have heard it and come to help. But the ball gag and the drugs prevented it.

Annette, Sylvie and Nameless walked naked back to the main room of Annette’s apartment. Sylvie had done a decent job of tidying and dusting given the time. On the coffee-table piles of clothes were sorted into piles.

The air had cooled and it raised goosebumps on Annette’s chest and arms. Without being asked Sylvie brought her a housecoat. Nameless smiled broadly at Annette, looked down at the clothes, and back up.

“Thank you Sylvie. Yes Nameless, I see, very good. Now go wash them. Wait. You two sleep out here, the couch converts to a bed, There’s linen and a spare blanket in the hall closet. I’m going to make a call and then crash, I don’t want to be disturbed. Yes I know you’re disappointed I’m sleeping alone, get used to it. If you’re hungry, there’s some stuff in the pantry, I wouldn’t trust anything in the fridge. Come to think of it, here’s twenty bucks, there’s a market at the corner, Sylvie, can you get something for us to eat for breakfast and whatever you think we need for the next while. Toothbrushes. Tampons. That kind of thing. I like 2% milk. Clean out the fridge of anything that’s gone bad. Garbage chute in the hall. You don’t need to go now, I’ll probably sleep ’till 10 or so, and the market opens at 6, so in the morning. Can you handle that? We’ll do a bigger shopping later. Bring me a fresh coffee with milk and a half teaspoonful of sugar when I get up and call you. Nameless, put Sylvie’s and your clothes in the first load of laundry so you can be dressed properly when you go out. Be polite but say little. Goodnight.”

With that Annette turned and strode to her room, turned down the bedroom air-conditioner to a low hum, and called Vicky on the phone, “Hey Vicks. ’Nette here. I got something to tell you, it’s so fucking weird, but bottom line is I’m OK, but you can’t tell my Mom or Dad. Promise? It all started when I was kidnapped...”

Lying in bed awake but tired, Annette could feel the confused need and desire to please flowing from them down the psychic leashes, invisible to everyone except the three of them, which connected from Sylvie and Nameless’ necks to her right wrist. A third leash led across the city to where the fourth ex-prisoner Cindy lay with her husband, Annette could feel them snuggling, and sent a feeling of approval back down the connection, and soon felt second-hand a small fraction of the pleasure Cindy had as her man mounted her while stroking her hair. Distance didn’t seem to matter, they expanded over distance, in the hospital they’d been kept in different wards, the medico’s didn’t seem to know what to do with Nameless, and it had taken a promise to look after her and bring her back for more tests that finally resulted in her release into Annette and Sylvie’s care. That and no proof of insurance.

Annette had wanted some alone time to think, but laying on her back she drifted half awake, remembering the eventful last few days, how Sylvie had protected her on the first day and how Nameless had taken the blame after Annette’s escape plan failed.

With a sigh she arose, walked to the door and called, “OK, you can come in and sleep with me. That’s it, I’m too tired for anything else.”

A happy Nameless bounded out of the hide-a-bed, followed by Sylvie, who only wore a shy smile. Annette lay down in the center of the queen-sized bed and the two cured up on either side. Nameless pointed at her mouth, then Annette’s.

“Yes, you can give me a good-night kiss. You too Sylvie. Here.” Annette pointed to her cheek, where her mother used to kiss her nighty-night as a young girl. Both women gave her a solid peck, and then Nameless yawned, so did Sylvie, and all three fell into a contented deep sleep.