Cammi exaggerated her disgust at having to hide her plumpened snatch, putting a cartoon frown around the word “panties”. Hers went rolling down around a glittery pair of anklets, not halfway through the appeal. “Fuck it,” she muttered.

Kitty nodded a vacant head vigorously and yanked hers off, too. ”Totallies,” she sighed, relieved that she didn’t have to suggest it, for a change. She didn’t understand how her twinsie could be comfortable in all those clothes she wore, so overdressed sometimes.

Why, just the previous night, Cammi had a bra on, and a sheer tank!

(“Bitch, git over yerself,” Kitty had chided, “One or tha other.” Cammi looked down and blushed. “You’re, like, right!” She opted for the tank. A girl just looked like toxic waste if guys couldn’t even see her nipples. “It’s like you don’t want the fellas to be able to tits– twist ‘em whenev,” Kitty had gone on, making her friend-pet blush.)

When the porch sluts’ slut butts were finally freed for maybe the second time, a sticky but nice gust of spring air puffed its way up and around them. It touched down between their welcoming thighs, scrumptiously.

They shivered at the same time, going, “Eee!” and doing a little bunny hop together. “Twinsies!” they squealed, belching only a microsecond apart. Then they oinked and snorted at each other. Until Cammi felt a pink rumble starting to build.

It’s kinda sad that this is how we deal with this place making us so gassy, that defeated, mournful chunk of her conscience, piped back in. Kitty looked as if she was about to burst into tears, because her slutster wasn’t oinking anymore.

The tit-brained betties were thoroughly trained to anticipate, then accept, some big and rather unnatural “natural” changes. Like it’s not messed up in the slightest to be treated like a fucking pig! We’re supposed to appreciate that men moo at us and call us cows, so much that we do the same to each other!

She had the strangest flash of something in the past. It was her, but not even with a third of this big body. She was being awarded some kind of medal. Long distance running.

With great fear, she appraised her exaggerated bimbo-ness. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t even jog down the street without getting winded, or having her udders smack her upside the face with every step.

Did she really get shorter since moving to Cherub Cove, too? For some reason, it didn’t feel right to have to look up at almost every guy. What was worse, the womanly sway her thickset, swooping hips gave her, and the general hugeness of her tits, made any hope for self-reliance in this masochistic town quite unlikely.

She almost didn’t take into account the rather obvious floating stew of hormones, either, travelling freely around the town. Every time she ventured to think about what it might be like to leave and take charge of her life, there was a big red pole with a hefty nutsack, to hump her back down to “reality”.

Cammi was easily distracted by gifts, too. Especially food. She had no idea what was in Cherub Cream, she just knew she needed it all the time. Her tits and ass felt raw and sore, punished, if she went half a day without it.

All a man has to do to get my attention is shove a tube of food-like garbage in my face. So pathetic. Then, in a vacuous cycle, after she got her euphoric “fix” from the tube that made her happy and horny again, she’d just drown her old concerns in dick, forgetting the nice-feeling nightmare that was her day-to-day.

It was a terrifying pattern with diminishing returns. Feel sketched out and humiliated, then treat her big ass to a mind-melting donkey dong ride. Feel a little less gross, then fuck that nagging, creepy feeling away even more on the next dick.

What would it be like when it reached the point when the only thing she’d take major issue with was how fast she was ruining a t-shirt with her forthcoming milk stains? She wanted to at least see what was going on, even if she had no real choice to live otherwise.

That’s the really distur —

Another pastel pink brain-flash. She shook her head, kept shaking it, not entirely sure where all those sinful thoughts were coming from. It just wasn’t like her to question her man-approved, child-bearing trajectory.

She found a possible culprit before all the evil intrusion was washed away. I probably should have given the milkman that second BJ like he wanted me to, she scolded herself.

My jaw was so tired, though! Kitty was still oinking now, tentative, hopeful for more “piggy-piggy”. Cammi let out a raspberry-scented fart and joined in, with glee. Whatever. It was an easy life. It was her life.

She reckoned that she might as well own it fully. I’m such a needy little tramp. Not every moment can be a proud one. That’s why men were so necessary, to provide that pride.

We’re such fuckin’ piggies! she thought, claiming her hog-bimbo status, settling back into her comfortable role as girly livestock, picking yet another wedgie out.

This booty’s gettin’ outta control! Then she “remembered” she’d had this fat ass since junior high. It was almost real enough to believe, and she didn’t need to let more fake memories intrude. Of her fake first fourteen-year-old boyfriend and his fake fourteen-inch tool.

Then, the inexplicable post-bimbo limbo confusion settled completely, disappeared into her candy-smelling, man-bait flatulence. Now, the only thing bothering her was that she had fucking underwear on.

No, wait! We definitely took those stupid things off! Okay… Cammi burped long and loud, to feel real.

“Yore, um — yer all soakin’ wet like me, too, huh?” she inquired of her other, knowing the answer already, giddily clapping her freed buttcheeks together, just for the sound and feel, keeping sharp. (No one ever appreciated a chick who was rusty with a booty clap. Bimbo calisthenics at its finest!)

“Of course I am, sweetness,” Kitty gleamed, batting the same long, rainbow-colored lashes that Cammi had, squelching some digits into herself. She pulled them out to prove it to her, like a little kid showing off a jarred lightning bug. Thick sex-syrup trickled off of them. “How could I not be?”

“Yeahh,” Cammi heaved, playing at bashful, “we purdy much always juicy as fuck, huh?” They were trash-talking the “pitiful small” size of each other’s titanic jugs, after all. They’d swatted them, mashed them together, gave them funny voices, tried to feed them to disappointed stuffed animals.

“That’s right fine by me,” Cammi chatted on, dipping a knuckle into Kitti for a quick taste. She loved her yummy raspberry flavor. Cammi-cunt was mango infused. “Slutty little cherubs like us is s’posed ta be juicin’.”

The girlies had started to mock-moo at themselves like all their manly roommates did, whenever the twinsies took too long with their chores, or complained about irrelevant stuff. Like how two hours in the sun shouldn’t change a dark brunette into a near-platinum blonde.

That their lipsticks wouldn’t wash off: they just turned different, more vibrant colors instead. That shorts cut any lower than the very bottom of their bottoms made them break out in hives. That honest-to-goodness pants made their T & A shrink a little bit (but a noticeable bit, surely), seconds after they pulled them on.

That it just wasn’t normal to get so deliriously horny, simply by thinking of a man’s voice. Any man at all…

That was ages ago, though. Four whole days! There wasn’t a thing about their bodies they couldn’t appreciate on this one. Everything was swelling, shining, and throbbing just right.

A cowbell, coming from somewhere on their neighbor Tina’s property, rang into the girlies’ pussies with a perfect pitch. Panties not a problem anymore, they switched targets and lampooned their more earnest mooing abilities, tried to get it as authentic and bovine as bimbo-ly possible.

They had an audience now.

It took a serious turn after a few attempts. “No!” Cammi husked, all dry hot breaths, wet as fuck elsewhere, frustrated. She knew she could do this better.

“Not, like, like that. Go deep in yuh-umm… deep throat. Deeper an’, um – more th’oatier! Like, from yer chesss—” Kitty doubled up and gave it a go as her double trailed off.

Cammi didn’t bother to suck up the clear string of dribble sliding off her lip. She was too busy balancing her evaluation of Kitty’s lowing, while also having to contend with how blindingly sexy it was to play cows with her.

“Nahhh, girl. Totally hawt, but – It oughtta be a li’l more…” She thought if she bent over, stuck her rump out a little and let her boobs hang more like a cow’s, she’d find that ten-dollar word she was looking for. “Guttur-er… somethin’-er-other…”

Cammi’s voice grew unnecessarily timid, as if it mattered one bit. Like there was some college-type person watching them, making sure that half-naked curvy ditzes couldn’t finish a thought. “Butterball, maybz?” No, that wasn’t right at all. “Hmmm…. mmm….”

“Butter… buttery… butt…” The amount of pussy juice souping her ass up had drawn her hand right to it. She wasted no time in stuffing her anxious cunt with half a fist. “Who gives a cow. I mean, really,” she laughed, patting a tubby buttock, congratulating herself for giving in.

“Just moo-cows, Cam-a-lot,” Kitty comforted, her ass up against the screen door, taking a breather from her own vadge and sucking one of her heavy, floppy hooters, slobbering loudly. They’d probably both need to use two hands pretty soon, to bring a single tit up to their faces, if they kept on getting bigger this fast.

Bimbo brains were slowly powering down. One of Tina’s cows mooed for real, a little bit closer, lilting long. Almost like it had heard the sluts calling, was a wise teacher. “This is how it’s done, girls. You’re almost there. Keep trying. You’re family now. Know that we’ll love you forever and ever.”

The cherubs’ minds, now operating with a more mammal concern than a human one, had translated the cattle call, regardless of their state. They felt the words, yet understood the moo. Their imitations hadn’t been half bad, apparently.

Cammi’s impassioned moans had eased into legitimate, “Sounds of the Farm”-ready, perfectly replicated moos. She thumbed her clit speedily, grunting out quick, sharp breaths through her nose. She wanted to excavate the longest, deepest moo she was capable of.

“Mooooo it witcha bess moooo,” she mooed over the next forty-five seconds. Her best shot rose from her well-tended pussy, swam around her itty-bitty starter belly, clanged back and forth in her teats, and rushed out primally through her mouth, like a sonic avalanche.

When she finished it, more than a couple neighbor dogs were barking. A different cow spoke up now, sounding rather impressed. Mutterings of approval from its peers ping-ponged around its “voice” atmospherically.

“Yes, child, we certainly know what that’s like. You’re probably just homesick, somewhere deep down. You need to understand that none of that is worth fighting for. It’s all gone. The old you is dead, but the new you is the best you. I think you know it. I know you think it. Welcome home, cowgirl.”

If they weren’t fucking themselves into a frenzy, they could have maybe cogitated that clit-massaging message on the sort of level any young dumb girl could recognize. The magic of such an event might actually astound them, straight to their ditzy-ass hearts.

For a few minutes, anyway. Cocks always found a sexy way of interrupting those kinds of moments of clarity. Not that Cammi or Kitty minded.

“No mind,” they took to singing, a favorite new mantra of theirs, among many. Their slits were extremely difficult to argue with, and they were so rarely logical. Cake made Cammi horny lately. Cake!

Whenever a man derailed the girls’ trains of thought, they sung this, feeling their pussy lips harmonize gorgeously. “No mind,” as they lowered a hole onto whatever dick, it didn’t matter whose.

As long as the divine rod was as thick and huge enough to match and serve their bumpkin booties, they couldn’t care less. No mind.

There was a bimbo blackout period of about fifteen minutes: advised by intuition alone, both twinsies were reaching around their fat asses, alternating fingers between cunt and butthole, then both at once. Repeat. And again. And again.

It wasn’t something that warranted a whole lot of discussion. Kitty and Cammy’s fingers simply knew what they had to do, and they kept on doing it. They were drooling far too much to talk, anyhow. Their tongues felt oddly swollen, besides.

This double-pronged attack brought forth much more plaintive, believable mooing tones. Of course, they didn’t realize this. They just obeyed their bodies. Their bodies, in turn, obeyed the mysterious, magic order of the non-human livestock across the way.

A unified chain of cows, real and honorary.

They stood right next to each other now: asses up and out, girl-udders wobbling and active like chubby antennae, powered by dairy dreams. Long blond curls obscured their downturned faces, making them resemble zombified headbangers.

Not a minute after they aligned themselves in the mystic moo-stance, some human was trying to rouse them. They couldn’t see him and they didn’t want to see him. They couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t there.

Kitty and Cammi were hard at work, communing with church country cows. Their brains were on vacation, a few billion light years away. Their bodies, though, felt more at home than they’d ever felt before.

“Package,” said Big Pete, the only mailman in town, not registering the hypnotized honeys and their reverie. “‘Ey girls, are y’all okay?” He’d never seen anything like this. “Girls!”

Verbal language had been bypassed by Cow for the time being, but their bodies still understood those deep tones of man. Side by side, as if the twinsies were one cowgirl spirit connected by two butts, their tushes wiggled ever-so-slightly. He took it as a tease.

“Y’all ignorin’ me? Y’all don’t want me to tell yore owners that yeh been playin’ tricks on Big Pete, now.” He slapped Cammi’s rear. She maintained her stance after her lower body worked on its own accord to keep her stable. A few cups’ worth of her juices spat down onto the peeling paint of the wooden planks.

“Y’know, sweethearts,” he said as he slowly backed away, stepping cautiously off the porch, “it’s against the law to meditate here… Bootyism, or whatever yew commies callin’ it.” He clutched a burgeoning hardon through his shorts, tugged on it, even prayed for it to go away.

The mailman just couldn’t condone whatever was going on, couldn’t let his dick approve of blasphemy. He called to them from behind his truck. To him, they could be the living photo that went alongside a dictionary definition for what locals termed “big bloomers”.

It struck Big Pete that the more newcomers made their way to Cherub Cove, the faster and bigger they grew all over. Within five years, he reasoned, all a girl would have to do is take one little breath and boom — tig ol’ bitties!

He smacked his lips and scratched on the back of his neck, not sure what to do. “I’m-a let it slide this one time, gals, uh-kay? Y’hear?” They mooed to themselves and to their new companions: in low, sensual and even rhythm. Away from him.

They had accelerated to mere chit-chatting with the cows by then. The cows had more tantalizing gossip on girls in town than they did. It was more than impossible, for one, to believe that Carmen was a waif-thin vegan upon her arrival into town.

“I won’t even call it in to the Butter Bimbo Bureau, I can promise yuh that, yew sweet little pieces uh pole-smokin’ devil….” He didn’t care to finish his unheard thoughts, unzipped his fly, and, drawing out his dick, stepped back onto their property. “What’s wrong with you heathens?!”

Under some spell of his own, he found himself standing with his cock an inch or two from Cammi, masturbating furiously. He spurted a little “get ready” squirt onto her back. She didn’t even flinch. It was only then that he realized the girls were simply elsewhere. He gulped.

“My garsh,” he drawled, as Cammi’s snatch, with all its temporary authority, sniffed out his bone. It told her legs to move back, and they did, lumbering like tired, soft machines. Her ass hesitated for a moment, then started to descend with intent, like a wrecking ball in slow-mo.

All of a sudden, not knowing how, he was inside her. Her hips shimmied and ground down like a corkscrew: animalistic, cock-milking machines. It was as if they had somehow folded time, going to great lengths to prove they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Nope! Uh-uh,” he told the butt, pulling out immediately. Cammi’s cunt muscles clenched with redistributed strength. He had to use two hands to get himself unstuck. “I ain’t about to get beat up by a jealous farmer for the third time this week! Not gonna keep fallin’ for that.”

He went back down to his truck, reluctantly, finally ejaculating a storm of semen, when he saw one of the girls’ titties start to dribble milk. It was a reflex, from having seen these two move in. They’d come a long way. His cumshot landed on a basket of old clothes left out for a thrift store donation. Maybe that’s what got him so excited.

These girls couldn’t have been in town for three weeks. They were skin and bones then. It took most chicks months to get bodies like the ones they were prodding up there. He reckoned either one of those cherubs was enough woman to house three or four of the girls that fit into that Temple t-shirt he jizzed on.

Kitty and Cammi, or their bodies anyway, were still locked into their sluggish, girl-cow trance. Poke, poke, double-poke. Poke, poke, double-poke. “Yew gals jus’ keep pluggin’ an’ pluggin’ away, dontcha?” he whispered to nobody.

Some time later, well after the mailman had snapped about twenty pictures and left, the twinsies had become too horny to stand. They came, powerfully, at the same time, collapsing in a jiggly plop on the floor. The cowgirls let out some final, sincere moos of thanks before their brains took over again.

They carried right on razzing one another some more, once words started working. This time, it was under the imaginary pretense that Joe definitely wanted to use his skyscraper on them, but would have to pick one. It was a fun game that they’d already played a couple times.

Kitty and Cammi hugged, held, tickled, pinched, slapped, smooched, and plugged each other too. They knew they had just gone through something, they just weren’t sure what. Kitty got the feeling that whatever it was had to have been emotional. They were both sobbing.

She wiped a bunch of salty tears away. She shook her head, did a double-take, then rubbed at her eyes. When did Cammi get black contacts? That was kind of creepy. And what was up with those dark, shapeless spots dotting her skin?

Kitty blinked and they were gone. She blinked again and blanked, and her memory of them was wiped as clean as she’d gotten that crossing guard’s meat stick . All that remained was that intense feeling. She rolled over onto her trim stomach, slow and satisfied from whatever.

Even though her taut tummy wasn’t nearly as sexy as Cammi’s poochy little pot, it was handy in situations like this.  She smooshed her udders to either side of her, and peered through the bushes at the side of porch. Mrs. Goodwood was watering plants next door, without a stitch on underneath her gardening apron.

A speckled redhead jumped rope down the dirt road, concentrating on some inane chant. Her sunburned knockers kept interrupting.

“Okay, so like, in the three years since the little baby boom we’ve had here in Cherub Cove,” said new Nutrition and Fashion Secretary Sandy Bardetti-Majors, making sure to rub her own distended belly, “we’ve been making money hand over fist due to our market saturation not only in our neighbors’ towns, but in almost every major city on the east coast, and the midwest.”

It was almost the 400th town hall meeting. They had been scheduled once, sometimes twice a week since the rural town’s inception. Arriving as it did more frequently than church, a couple or a “sainted single” only had to go once a month. Its typically tiny, cramped locations bolstered an exclusive aura, and the promise of an occasional, usually sexual Event sealed the deal. Everyone loved showing up, and made sure to call the babysitter before doing so.

Sandy was beginning to perspire quite heavily. It was nerve-wracking being the center of attention, even if she thought it’d be a cakewalk. She had, in fact, already made quite a show hours before, getting reamed in broad daylight on the town bank’s steps. She and her hubby Grant, newlyweds honeymooning for all the town to see.

Newlyweds with a bun in the oven, even. The random cheers and whistles she got then surely meant she was appeasing her constituency. Every camera click made her that much more unstoppable. Summer was kicking off nicely.

But her husband couldn’t make it tonight. He was off working in the Cherub Crunch factory. She’d chided him about it, especially lately. That he should find another job with better pay and hours. That if only he was built like Joey or Hank, he could be a farmer like them. She so wanted him to excel like she was, but she knew he was having a bit of a tough time adjusting to country life, having finally been persuaded to move to town only months ago. She let out a deep breath and remembered she was supposed to be talking or something.

This was actually her first public address since getting appointed; a lot of ladies in town were resentful that she had only been in Cherub Cove for a year and had risen up the ranks so swiftly. She switched a slide in the projector and struggled to remember what the talking points were for the beach photo of some hot girl’s bounty of booty, clad in a touch-too-small neon green bikini bottom. She wiped a sweat-matted mess of blonde curls from her brow.

“Um…” she struggled, her glossy lips ready to drool at any second. Half with it, she flipped to the next slide. It was the same butt, but now the unidentifiable girl’s tan, manicured hand was trying to pull the swimsuit material out of her crack. “Okay, yeah. Butts. Big butts. As many of us here tonight cancertainly attest to, the booty ripens in Christ’s name quicker than the boobies do.”

Speaking of which, Sandy’s own, long-since-overripe melons were beginning to feel stifled in the sticky air. She undid all but one button on her canary yellow cashmere tee. When she heard the gasps of a half dozen townsfolk and felt the majority of eyes gravitate to her blushing bosom, she felt satisfied enough to pop the last button off.

A lot of jaws dropped as her maternal mammaries took their time to settle and slush down just above her stomach. This must be what they mean when they talk about political capital, she mused silently.

She served her massive right tit up to her lips, tonguing a big nipple for a moment. Giggling, she continued. “Okay, so now you’re probably wondering how St. Brittany’s is taking advantage of this knowledge in our city markets.” She went on to the next slide. Again, a hottie’s trunk junk. This one’s ass, though, was sheathed in — “Booty jeans. Urban denim. Whatever you want to call it, Angelwear boutiques have opened up and dominated in the hippest neighborhoods of all our target cities.”

The following slide showed another nondescript waist flaring out into thick hips. Two hands were struggling to close the top button. “Angelwear brand Silly Jeans sales have spiked and are poised to overtake what’s left of the retail of skinny jeans. Because, let’s face it, Cherub Cove, an accentuated ass… is a healthy ass.” Now the people were genuinely applauding. “And us sister-soldiers of the family way know that a healthy ass is inviting to–”

A braceleted hand shot up from the back left corner of the small log cabin that posed as a town hall. Sandy could barely see the tiny lady, flanked in the crowd as she was by so many beefcake men and so many thick, plush girl-parts. “Yes, ma’am,” she obliged, squinting to try and make out whose question it was exactly. A pair of bubbling bimbos stepped to the side to give her room, sneering. It was this derision that clued her in. It was none other than Frida Capasso. Who invited her?

“Mrs. Bardetti-Majors,” the woman sternly began, “I’d like this town to show a little more transparency as to the true moral and social costs of these so-called ‘healthy asses’.” Her use of air quotes beleaguered the crowd into booing her. Sandy wasn’t ready to make the transition between ditzily placating her audience and dealing with a serious question. “Your tawdry line of clothes, your fattening and hormone-loaded ‘beauty foods’, your whole sham church, are all taking back women’s rights about fifty years!”

The whole town hall was now erupting with jeers and shouts. “Settle down!” Sandy cried above the din. When the unrest in the room got even stronger, she reached for her shirt. She held the soft garment in her hand, motioning with it to her audience. “If we can’t stop acting like farm animals, I swear to St. Brittany I’m-a put this shit right back on!” Within seconds, the cries of protest dissipated.

Once it got quiet enough, she started to address the awful-sounding fibs of complaint. “Ms. Capasso, is that right?” The woman in the audience nodded slowly but assuredly. Hearing the name made a few people hiss. Frida Capasso was an outspoken critic of the practices and fundamental mission of Cherub Cove, having lost her businesses to the new crop of Angelwear storefronts. She gained enough prominence to appear on cable news and in newspapers around the country.

She had made such a stink that her ideas and name soon spread even to the town itself, a rare feat indeed. Usually the Cherub Cove newsletters kept any outside news, especially any items of criticism, far away from the insular society of its citizens. Sandy considered for a moment that that leak could have had something to do with the fact that Frida’s ex-husband had left her to be a day laborer in town. She was on a mission alright, but this was the last place the new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion expected the bitch to pop up.

“Ms. Capasso, if I understand correctly, you owned and operated a bunch of high-end fashion retail in downtown Philadelphia. You lost your business ’cause our threads is flyer than yours.” The ghetto tinge in her voice caused a sector of the crowd to whoop. “Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, but it’s a free market out there, and we can’t help it if more and more girls everyday want to look as hot as possible and prepare themselves for a life of salvation and Christian servitude.”

“If you were a worthy competitor,” Frida countered, “I could maybe look beyond your church’s inherent bigotry and see your point. As it stands, in the case of your clothing line –” She turned her attention to the crowd and tried to speak at it, straightening her short black hair and crossing her bony arms underneath her flat chest. With a gaunt body like hers, she hardly stood a chance.

“Those benign-looking pants, skirts, tops, socks, and undergarments are loaded with tiny metabolism-slowing microbes that also pump out insane amounts of estrogen.” People looked puzzled. Too many big words. “They’re making you girls into curvy cumsluts!”

Once again, the town hall erupted with boos. They didn’t like their way of life criticized one bit. Happy with the unrest she caused, Frida used the moment of noise to uncap an ice-cold-looking, condensating tube. She pushed the contents quickly up and into her mouth. Sandy saw an in and went for the kill. “What was that?” she demanded.

Frida wiped her mouth off and looked sheepish. “What was what?” Sandy leaned into the podium authoritatively, bending down and letting her jugs brush against it, swaying lazily. A couple guys whistled. She even saw one of the dude’s wives elbow him in the ribs. Sandy could see why — she had to have been a newbie with a tiny little rack like that. She looked to be about a D cup. Pitiful.

“What you just did. What you just drank. You just –” A jocky looking guy in a tight Eagles tank grabbed Ms. Capasso by the wrist, humiliatingly lifting it up to the celing. “It’s one of them beauty creams!” he blurted. The whole room lit up with laughter, and those around her began to point and laugh. Their collective bemusement seemed to electrify the room. Sandy looked around, at all the faces that seemed to be in heat. She recognized this as what Father Paul called “a stirring”.

Some couples seemed to be really getting into it. One girl, whose fluffy round ass was pouring out of her Angelwear daisy dukes, let someone behind her pet it while she dimly unzipped her own man’s fly and worked a light stroke into a jack. The crowd was getting out of control, igniting itself into a sexually rapturous frenzy.

The dude who called Frida out was pinching her butt now. She was trying to get away but she ran right into a rock hard torso. Spinning around, she was met with another rock hard torso. The gigantic men wore black t-shirts with white crosses on them that read “security” in the middle. Sandy sensed that something had to be off. She scanned her gryrating, dry-humping people for a confused face, but they were all stopped momentarily to gawk at Frida getting kicked out.

In the opposite corner, she saw Mayor Darey waving to her, frantically trying to get her attention. She just couldn’t get her mind straight at all, her train of thought getting clogged by the pheromone stew floating through the room. The only thing she could do was smile inanely at him ’cause he was hunky, her bottom lip drooping down dumbly. Once he met eyes with her, he dragged his finger to his mouth, shushing her. Then he put it to his heart. The signal for her to wind this abbreviated meeting down with an emotional wrap-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen of my one true home,” Sandy started, using the mayor’s preferred mantra of spiritual solidarity. The room was inattentive, either grunting in ecstacy or cheering. Within moments, most of the attendees had started a chant: “WE GOT FRIDA! WE GOT FRIDA! WE GOT FRIDA!” It was hard to scan the town hall and not feel proud of her sisters and brothers, even though she still kind of felt like an innocent bystander. That is, until she joined in on the chant too. She realized that the four or five couples who were openly fucking were now porking on beat with the crowd.

Sandy felt a spotlight descend, illuminating her naked and pearly white hooters. The light was bright and supernatural, and illuminated the veins in her breasts like they were twin lightning globes. Some in the audience had slowed their ministrations to a halt, but they were mostly still far from quiet.

While the lot of them weren’t looking, she flipped a switch on the side of the podium, and a thick, rubbery rod began to rise up from the lectern. It was shiny to the point of glistening and glowed red and orange. “The Holy Bone!” various residents whispered, joyful and amazed.

By this point everyone got really quiet really fast, eyes wide and fixated on the thing. It churned to a stop at about a foot tall. The new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion had really only heard tell of the Holy Bone, but it was basically just a more sci-fi version of her Banger brand blessed dildos. She figured this would come naturally to her.

To her credit, Sandy felt very proud at not only being present at a stirring (there had been only four times prior that this happened, and they usually precipitated some milestone in the community), but the fact that she was instrumental in it, well… that made her fucking horny. At first, she was going to kiss the tip of the Holy Bone, succulent as it looked. Then she remembered the exact proper procedure.

She pulled up her well-lit boobs and wrapped them around the rod, tentatively moving them up and down the length of it, surprised at the flowing warmth radiating from it. “Go faster, Sandy!” yelled her best friend Carmen, a roomy Latina who was getting her own tits felt up by someone behind her that looked too black to be her fiancee Joey. “You can do it!” cried a curly-headed brunette with a lip ring. “Don’t be afraid!” chimed her twin sister, doing a reach-around nipple frisk.

Sandy worked the Holy Bone faster, smooshing her big breasts in suffocation around it at every downstroke. She could feel it begin to twitch and buck in her cleavage. The sensation was amazing. Awash in the feeling, she noticed a helping of semen splash her cheek. Her first inclination told her it must have been the thick stick. Pumping it with her tits even more rigorously now, her heavy-lidded gaze made its way to a man standing front and center in the crowd.

She recognized him as Big Earl Watts, the slab of masculinity that had once been Frida Capasso’s husband. He had a bottle of beer in one hand and was still stroking his big fat cock in the other, and it was still spurting, all over the front of the podium. Whoever was manning the lights put a strong beam on Big Earl, and both Sandy and the people of Cherub Cove knew what that meant for the stirring ritual.

Pausing to wipe the cum from her cheek, then just rubbing it in with a reckless rush, she asked the throng with religious fervor, “Is this my donor?” They responded, rapt, in unison, “It is he.” She focused her attention back on her titfucking, practicing her microphone skills while in motion. “Is it time?” she asked them. “It is time,” they answered her.

Sandy held out her hand and invited Big Earl Watts onto the mini-stage for the final act of her stirring. It took a little bit of effort, but she managed to pull the ribbon of a skirt she had on off her big hips. He positioned himself behind her, placing a paper on the lectern. She could feel his sticky, re-hardening dick brush up against the small of her back and slick its way down to the top of her asscrack. He put his huge hands on her lush sides, and prodded her pussy whimsically, ready for some holy upright doggy.

He entered her full on and that charge made her work her tits overtime. She was kneading and shimmying on the Holy Bone with them while being fucked so right from behind. “You know,” she said, dippy and deviating from the rigor of the process, “my husband’s cock is nothing like yours.” She ground back into it, wanting to savor the width of the Little Big Earl. The townspeople didn’t register, still staring in awe.

“We know, your husband’s cock is nothing like his,” they all said. She clenched her cunt around that dumb bitch’s ex-husband, and finally began to nurse some fluid out of the Holy Bone. Big Earl pumped faster as Sandy tried to get her mouth into a tight seal for the spurting, sanctified phallus. Some of its inexplicable neon blue fluid dribbled out of the side of her mouth. Her nostrils flared reflexively. Whatever kind of gunk it was, it was letting loose like a geyser.

She coughed, and tried to slurp it all in, thankful that the big man started to go slower at his end of the DP. It gave her pause to swallow it all, licking the residue from the load off of her gums and teeth. She looked down at the text, and ran a finger along her cleavage to pick up some stray holy seed.

“We are united – UNGH – in the – mmm – pious purr- WOW – pursuit of a chari– OH GOD – a charitable Christian enterprise. This is my message to the proud people of the only home I’ve ever had. Tonight, we have — ooh — Tonight, we have slaked a wicked dragon, and nevermore shall she be free to spew her foul aposs – uhposs – impozz – sss —” It almost sounded like she was sneezing, but somehow she managed to get it out. “Apostasy.” Her nose kept hitting the microphone at every other thrust.

She had to take him out so she could finish her closing remarks. It was at this point that she realized her voice had unmistakably changed. She sounded even more like an airhead now, but buoyed with a new purpose and determination. It was hard to tell if she manifested it herself or if it really was some divine meddling. She picked a last bit of blue from the corner of her mouth and, closing her eyes, realized she didn’t even need to read from the page.

“Tonight, we have proven once and for all that our imperative is not one of bodily corruption, but one of spiritual salvation. For it is the holy spirit that makes our bodies bloom with desire and need. Desire for the preservation of the patriarchy, and need for well-defined familial roles. The enemy was here tonight, and the enemy brought lies. Our truth shall set us free, and we shall take our enemy in and bring her to truth.”

Little Big Earl made his way quietly through the crowd as they applauded the new secretary, chanting “WE GOT FRIDA” some more. “She’s gonna be another mouthpiece for the movement,” he thought to himself. “And I fucked her on her big night.” He met the mayor outside the door. “We did good tonight, didn’t we?” he pridefully asked him.

Mayor Darey looked in on the town hall as Sandy made her way to the customary three-minute trampoline time that ended her portion of the evening. “For now anyway,” he said with a glint in his eye, “only in Cherub Cove will you see preggo politicians who can handle all that bouncing and still find time to inspire. We’ve made the fantasy real, brother Earl,” he sighed, unable to refrain from jerking off at the sight of another wondrous creation.

Big Earl had nabbed Sandy’s sweaty sweater-tee on the sly and handed it to the mayor in embarassment before retreating into the humid night. Without thanks, Darey masturbated himself to completion inside of it, tossing it just outside the door. Trixie Butterman, Entertainment Czar, ambled up to the podium now to make her speech. Her wide hips followed along, slowly.

It, however, would take some more time before the crowd gave her any attention. About forty minutes to be more specific. The orgiastic, barnyard racket had to die down first. And for that to happen, each and every one of those craven, “family first” psuedo-Christians had to climax. Again, just part of the procedure. A lone string band tried to spice up the carnal festivities as well as speed them along, but it was futile at best.

A few people were already leaving, and some were partially present, smoking and chatting. The moon was low and full, the air crisp. She was ready to try and make sense of what had happened. Her presence and speech had started a stirring! Sandy was on top of the world, reeling with newfound determination. If she could make a crowd all spontaneously copulate, then they must have been fine with her being the new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion.

Look at you, girl, she congratulated herself, smirking. Stripping to ensure faith. Then mashing her tits like she owned that Holy Bone. It was all so nice and hazy thinking about it now, though, like it never even happened. Like she was possessed and trying to remember what her presentation looked like as a spectator. She gulped. She didn’t… fuck any… person, did she?

Before she could even deny her infidelity to herself, the loudspeaker’s volume kicked up a notch, as if someone was reading her thoughts, then drowning them out. Sandy quickly nixed that idea. It was just too silly to be true. She listened to the sexy, cool Entertainment Czar instead:

“Last week saw us becoming the second-highest grossing online music distributor. Only iTunes beats us. What’s really remarkable, as you all must know, is that the roster at Cherryco Records is only two artists. Shayla Belle is an American institution at this point, currently gathering the flock in Japan on her first world tour for the double platinum dance-country album ‘Saved and Shaved’. We’ve already signed a deal to build a St. Brittany’s in Yokohama.

Shimmy Shields is our second and newest upstart. She wowed the public this past season on ‘American Idol’ by being the first winner to perform all of her songs in just her tube socks, distracting judges and censors alike with her amazing voice. We found our perfect pop tart and we changed the face of entertainment with her, and brought our message to millions more. You all know that by the end of the season, even classic tunes were sung with more of Our Family Way friendly lyrics by competing contestants, in an effort to keep up.

With that in mind, our next step in the music industry should not be just to settle for being on top, but a complete and total Cherub Cove immersion. We need to make fertility and family the only relevant topics in pop culture, and we need to let the people know that the only true way is through St. Brittany. We will make it so that it won’t seem possible that any other music but ours ever existed. How do we do this?

We need a new superstar. One that makes even those two seem like drops in the bucket. Someone who can push our beautiful way of life into college towns and cities in a more subversive way. This singer will be nurtured from the ground up and be inevitably embraced the world over, but she must start from the underground indie scene. One of our most important pockets of resistance is still the subculture. We aim to flip the script.

People will end up buying this theoretical product in droves, all the while believing they are supporting something that doesn’t have our scent. Cherryco will be an umbrella company for this as-yet-unnamed ‘independent’ label. And when the time comes that our superstar gets some real mainstream attention while maintaining her cred with feminists, hipsters and punks, a move to Cherryco will come as no surprise to any of the tastemakers because they will all be believers by then.

DIY art communities rely on personable, tight-knit bonds. To diffuse these bonds and replace them with ours, we will be calling on some of you sainted singles to act as plants and maybe even artistic collaborators with this soon to be discovered superstar.”

Sandy had to admit that tricking people over time into the milfy way was kinky-hot in a “Mission: Impossible” secret ops kind of way, and she had total faith in St. Brittany that it would work, but nevertheless she stopped listening. It didn’t affect her. She couldn’t go back to a city or to a college town for that matter, as she was blissfully with child and husband. Who she was faithful to. Naturally.

The last time she was in Philadelphia was too fast-paced and confusing, anyway. And most of her old friends had scoffed at and abandoned her after they saw the new supernatural force of ass-n-titties she had morphed into.
Cherub Cove was home now, forever. Especially now that she held public office. It didn’t matter that there was an ever-growing Little Cherub neighborhood in the city, threatening to swallow South Philly whole, or that there were five St. Brittany’s megachurch/buffets now. This was where it all started, and it was still the alternately meek and mighty epicenter.

A few of the members of the town’s board of ed ambled up to her in a half circle, practically pinning her to the wall. Jake, Jack, and Mack, with identical, refined physiques. All young, and all rugged. Sandy breathed deep. Their presence made her feel so good. Nobody made her feel so alive, so beyond-horny than Cherub boys!

Jack or Mack offered her a hit of his joint. She accepted. “Your speech was so much better than hers, she’s so boring!” he complimented her. “Her tits aren’t nearly as persuasive as yours,” another of the guys added.

Sandy laughed, babysitting the joint after taking a second hit. None of the guys really seemed to care. “Why thank you, gentlemen. And while I must say I’m flattered by your acknowledgement that the good people of Cherub Cove elected a star breeder,” she choked out before finally exhaling, “we need to look beyond my beautiful body toward other expansions. There is still room to grow in the American public, and the world at large. We –”

“We-we-we cain’t look past yer body when iss all nekkid and sweaty like ‘at, now can we!” mocked Jack or whoever. Probably Jack. One of the others bumped his fist. Sandy felt her whole body boil with self-consciousness… She only had a handtowel on her shoulder! She’d grabbed it to wipe off her overworking physique before putting her barely adequate garments back on, and forgot to do both of these things.

“Oh no!” she squealed sarcastically. “I feel so violated!” Rolling her eyes, she and the boys shared a hearty laugh. In truth, she felt very comfortable to be part of the gang. Even if this “gang” was made up of three baseball players masquerading as political players. (The idea for them was to ditch this job if one of them got drafted to the Phillies, then the town would try to ifniltrate the MLB covertly. It was another of the newly proposed, more aggressive implementations.)

That was another on a long, long list of Cherub Cove’s pluses. A girl could just hang out in the buff in public and nothing bad or creepy could happen. Like right now, how one of the dudes put his calloused hand on her buttcheek, his finger slyly skimming its way to her asshole. All because he wanted to watch out for a servant of the town. Sandy felt very protected, and positioned his ring finger to give some attention to her wet vagina too.

Then she realized what she was doing and had to take it out. She compromised by putting his hand back around her cheek proper. “You can squeeze me all you want, I know you’re a man and stuff, but no pussy play.” She crouched a little to sink into the big grip of the guy next to him, though, to not come off too bitchy. After taking a third hit, she finally passed the roach off to somebody. “I’m, like, a married woman.” She showed off her wedding band to prove it. It was streaked with some of the Holy Bone’s mystical blue jizz.

“We know,” said whoever. “You said Earl’s pecker was bigger n’ better than your husband’s.” Sandy blanched, now in full recollection of the scope of the stirring. Only two days in office and a week since eloping in Father Paul’s rec room, she had most definitely cheated. At least it was in a totally awesome, epic way, she reasoned. It surely explained why some of the white, real stuff was seeping out between her soft thighs…

“Whatever, guys, I’m totally a faithful wife!” Sandy was getting a bit delirious now, not sure what to believe. She wanted to believe what Carmen had told her about political office and getting married, that it would make things a little more normal for her, that she wouldn’t need to rely on using her bodyso much. If the stirring really did happen, being the new Nutrition and Fashion Secretary was already proving to be more of the same with a different name.

Someone took his shirt off. His musty manliness ravaged her nostrils. Frustration became embarassment, which gave way to abject giddiness. Sandy panted hotly. “I’m a loving wife and I’m a loving servant of Cherub Cove, my home. I will always be a –” She sniffed and sniffed again. “Guyyyyys,” she pleaded. “Whose dick is out?!” A tattoo on the navel above it informed her it was Mack’s. His shorts were at his knees.

Wasn’t she trying to do right by the ladies of the town, make sure they were eating the right cosmetics, wearing the right lubricating thongs? How was getting felt up by a bunch of hot boys going to alter the landscape of St. Brittany’s flock? Either way, it must not have mattered too much, because she put the hand of whatever guy was caressing her ass now right back up her cunt, three fingers pushing in and out handsomely.

She thought it was Jake who was laughing. She officially didn’t care who it was. “I thought you didn’t want us fingerin’ ya,” he chuckled. Sandy spread her legs a little farther apart to make way for some more hand, her own fingers circling her fat nips. “Shh-shut up!” she whisper-screamed, exasperated. Hunky fingers were flitting like fan blades inside her. “It huh-huh-HOMIGOD — helps me, like, concentrate and shit.” She smirked at her lie.

“So,” Mack began self-righteously, stroking his magnificent pole, “maybe if you get on all fours and I fuck you silly with a dick, you can gather your thoughts even better.” Sandy just had to giggle at that. “Mmaybee,” she hummed. She could try again to be monogamous tomorrow. Right now, she reasoned, she was indeed serving her community. This was just a scrumptious, if predictable job hazard.

“Gee golly, just think about how clear-headed you’d be if you was jackin’ me off at the same time!” the one she thought was Jake said. “Uh-unh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” she teased, getting down on her hands and knees, wagging her ass and slinking backwards toward Mack’s cock like a kitty-cat in heat. “First thing’s first.”

Her pussy slurped the head in and she tried to push it deeper, but had severely underestimated its size. Mack was huge, even for Cherub Cove. All of a sudden, a camera flashed, catching her joyfully agonized expression, upturned rump, and low-hanging titties. Sandy gulped. “No pictures, please! I’m taking private counsel.” A feminine hand extended itself to her.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bardetti-Majors,” the woman said, “I only take pictures for textbooks. This won’t be the lead-in photo for the chapter on civic duty until the new edition of the social studies book comes out next year.” Somehow this appeased Sandy, and after Mack graciously pulled his tempting member out of her, he helped her hobble upright to shake hands with this woman face to face.

“I’m Fancy Melendez, and this is my husband Rick.” He had a handshake that made Sandy’s boobies shake hard. She liked that he noticed her big girls, approved of them. “We just wanted to let you know that your presentation tonight was very inspirational.” Her husband sized Sandy up and down nervously, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.

“Why, thank you!” the young politician beamed. “It’s awfully nice to touch base with my people. I’m sure you do your own part for the community with the worksmanship necessary, and for that, Cherub Cove extends its gratitude.”

Sandy checked Rick out. He totally had an erection. That’s what it was. “Rick, is it? How long have you and Fancy been together?” She cursed her dumb, pandering luck as Jake, Jack and Mack fled the scene. She blew her chance, apparently. Not that she wanted to fuck them anyway. She was definitely going to be a good wife.

Rick just stared at her, lost in eye contact. Fancy nudged him. He was awfully cute for a young guy. “Forty-three years this October,” Fancy replied for him. Sandy did some double takes. Neither of them looked a day over eighteen. Fancy’s arms and face had that tail-end-of-puberty kind of baby fat, and Rick even had some light acne.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the woman said. “Four years. We’ve been here four years, almost since the beginning. We were both infertile and came here on a last ditch whim. But we’re working on it. Doctor Hardrod said we’re almost young enough to conceive now.”

“That’s not really all of it, Mrs. Sandy,” said Rick sheepishly, talking at the naked politician’s breasts. “We still have one last checkup for sexual calisthenics. All we have left to do now is simultaneously orgasm while 69ing. I never have a problem, but Fancy here says it doesn’t feel right when I’m going down on her that way.” Fancy held her hand to her mouth. “I never!” she gasped, the only thing so far that made her seem older. “Maybe if you didn’t ram your chin into me so hard at that angle –”

“Mr. and Mrs. Melendez,” Sandy advised, “have you taken any of Pippy Baynor’s pussy-eating classes yet?” They shook their heads no. “Well that’s certainly a good first step. There should be a link on the town’s homepage. Or you can go down to her soda fountain and talk to her personally.” She rubbed her belly. “She makes great root beer floats by the way.”

“Ohh,” Fancy mewed, “we’re no stranger to Pippy’s Luncheonette. Rick jokes all the time that I owe my figure to her cheeseshakes.” The couple laughed. Sandy’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten in almost two hours, and even then it had only been a medium pizza and some burgers. She wondered what rich country food she could make for Grant, and if he was already home. It was getting late. “So, anyhow,” Fancy carried on, “how did you and your husband meet? I’ve seen you around for a little while longer than him.”

“Well, you know, it’s like totally a long story, but like. So okay. Back when I was new ’round here,” Sandy sang, twirling her blonde tresses around her index finger, “I was missin’ the outside, you know, so when Forward Mothers took its biannual field trip to the city, I ran into Grant who I had known before, and thought he might help me escape.” Mr. and Mrs. Melendez looked at each other, concerned.

“And for a day or two, it might have worked out alright. I stayed with Grant in his loft, applied back at the used bookstore, and tried my hardest to keep up with him on bike rides. But eventually, I got homesick for my new sister and her family.

My curves were shrinking, I was losing all my good weight so quickly, and it felt like shit. It may sound crazy, but I needed farmer’s lemonade and Myra’s triple-butter brownie baskets. Even Cherub Creams weren’t cutting it. Somehow I convinced Grant to take me back, if I promised it was just so I could stock up on our food.

He didn’t want to go into the Mami Mart, but he had to when I told him I spent the last of my cash on a Banger. ‘Course, I didn’t tell him it was because his prick just felt too small in me, but anyway… When we finished shopping and got back out into the parking lot, his car was gone. First we called the tow company, and then we had to call Myra to see if she and Clyde could put us up for the night. I was more than happy to be back with them.

Everything felt so right, especially with Grant in my little pink bed with me. Fortunately the next morning, he was in no rush to leave. By the time dinner rolled around and he had three good old fashioned country meals in him, he conceded to let us spend another night. After a week, he was growin’ to be such a pleasant fit in my cunny, and in the Kings’ gas station, that he stopped mentioning the city life altogether.

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend’s husband admitted that he stole Grant’s car and then he actually drove it to our new place! My man didn’t even want to look at it. Even so, he may be adaptin’ a little slower than normal to Cherub Cove, but I’m as good a teacher as any. Some critics of this here Eden like to think it’s luck and trickery that gets the people here. But I, and I’m sure you’ll both agree, believe it is a higher calling that leads women and men to Our Family Way.”

“Amazing,” Rick admitted, “Amazing ta-ta’s you have there, secretary.” His wife smacked him on the back of his head. “This is how you treat a woman of the people?” she asked, masking her jealousy. “Just for that, I’m not gonna ride you tonight,” she assured him. “Only missionary for you.”

Rick groaned. “You don’t deserve it!” Fancy cried. “Can I at least get some oral?” he whined. “Fine. But only two blowjobs on account of your behavior,” bargained Fancy. Sandy couldn’t help but laugh. They were so precious!

“Well, we’d love to go ride bikes with you one of these days if you have the time,” Fancy said, all smiles, in sharp contrast to her hubby’s now hangdog expression. “We still use our tandem from the seventies, and –” Rick whispered something into his wife’s ear.

“What I mean is, our seventies-style tandem. I’m not sure if we ever really used it.” She let out a laugh that said “What was I thinking?” For all the warm, brain-sucking distraction around town, it was still difficult for most people, including Sandy and the Melendezes, to let go of their past lives completely.

“Ooooh,” Sandy moaned, letting her pursed lips linger closed. The memories of biking around ten or twelve miles of Philly a day, and of her once cumbersome, now faraway attempts at fleeing the town, meshed together and gave her tingles. “Gotcha. Mmmm, you know, I’d love to, but I’m almost six months pregnant now, and besides, my husband says a bicycle seat is no place for a woman, no matter how good my ass might look on it!”

She closed that sentence with an entirely chipper lilt, comforted in the fact that she had elicited empathetic laughs from her present company. Still, she could swear she was forgetting something. Her eyes peered in and shuffled around the room, through the couplings and pairs of defined calves and cargo shorts marching along, away from the ramshackle town hall. Then she realized he was right next to her, trying to fend off a nearby town’s newspaper reporter. “Excuse me,” she burped, and left the inspired couple.

“Um… Mayor Mike Darey?” Sandy asked adorably, anxiously. She even tugged on his shirtsleeve like a little girl. He seemed relieved to have a handy exit to the outside media’s grilling. His pearly white smile in a crisp, angled jaw let her know how delighted he was to see her.

“As you can see,” he told his impromptu interviewer, ushering his new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion under his broad shoulder, “I’m a very busy man tonight. If you could be so kind as to forward any further questions and concerns about the safety of our edible lassos to Honey Fontana. I think she and her sister are inside on the trampoline right now. Thank you.”

“But what about the so-called water shortage?” the petite female reporter begged. “AP reports suggest that you bullied dozens of towns and convenience stores along I-80 to stop selling any other brand of bottled drinks. Clearfield’s reservoir is 100% Prep2o!”

The mayor ignored this and extended his hand to Sandy and she graciously accepted, comforted when his hand closed around hers. “Let’s go to my trailer where we can talk in private,” he said, leading her a short walk away from the meetiting. It was slowly but surely wrapping up.

He let his grip fall from her shoulder down to her forearm. Then back up to her elbow, sneaking a nipple-tickle on the way. She didn’t have her guard up for the touch at all, and melted into it as they strolled on, her pelvis smooshing her butt up into him, of its own volition. Like he was a varsity running back and she was his teen dream sweetheart.

Mayor Darey’s trailer was ornamented with candles, crosses, and posters for Cowboy Candy grindhouse fare ranging from the classic Hollywood style bible epic “True Tales of Man and Woman” to the light cowgirl romp “Dimples Rides Again”. Two cigar store Indian maids stood, zaftig and bottomless, at either end of his office.

A cardboard cutout of the Latina musician-turned-marquee-idol Shayla Belle, with a “caught in the act” expression. She was holding a beautified hand, replete with watermelon-red French tips, to her perfect circle of an open mouth. Her soft kissable lips glowed, even in 2-D, shiny as a Krispy Kreme. The other hand was cradling two suckling babies, both fitted with matching knit hats, one red and one green.

“Jiggle All The Way”, the movie it advertised, made it to the top ten for holiday DVD sales the previous winter. The life size cutout was autographed in thick, gold Sharpie. Sandy coveted it, wanted to stick it in on her front stoop.
So that everybody could see the beautiful relic.

Darey poured her a glass of farmer’s lemonade. She guzzled it in seconds without so much as a thank you. It settled in her stomach just about as nicely as a meal. “You did great out there tonight,” he congratulated her. She licked most of the cold froth off her lips and squeaked out her thanks.

“I still feel like we have so much more to do,” she said, and the mayor began to unbuckle his belt. “N-no, not that, not right now at least.” She probed her free-drooping boobs for what she wanted to say. “It was almost dangerous tonight. How did that reporter get clearance to attend?”

She didn’t want to ask if any of the girl’s accusations were true, preferring to leave those particulars to the men. Darey helpfully got back up from his desk and refilled her glass, stopping to massage her neck and shoulders. It felt reassuring and marvelous.

“Sister Sandy,” he told her, “we invited her here with the promise of total transparency. Besides Frida Capasso, and three other women who will most certainly be in attendance at next week’s town hall,” (Sandy perked up, remembering that it was kiddie pool night next week) “she is the biggest critic of Our Family Way. After tonight, I doubt she’ll be much of a problem for us.”

Spiritualeyes, the new contact lenses that St. Brittany’s scientists were beta testing on Honey Fontana, were just about proven to persuade the staunchest nonbelievers. He reached down her smooth skin and tickled an armpit. She giggled as he sat back down, bathing in goosebumps.
“What about Frida?” she asked. “We used force on her tonight. I thought we didn’t have to do that.” Her eyes kept drifting back to a poster for “Coptease”. She helped out with wardrobe for that one! She recognized the bedazzled dildo harness she’d designed one lazy afternoon.

“Sweet, sweet sweatermeat,” he baby-talked her, “we bought her off last night. That was just a dog and pony show to drum up more enthusiasm for you on your first big night. Judging from all those satisfied faces, I’d say it did the trick.” He paused, wondering whether or not to give her the whole truth.

“She’s going to go right back into the city and she’ll make a few press appearances confessing that she was lying. She’ll rhapsodize about our teenage outreach program, and our church’s many charities.” He wagged his finger at Sandy, laughing. “You really were on a roll out there tonight, though, you know it? The way you delivered your lines, oh, and how you were so well programmed that you memorized the protocol on how to handle a spritiual invader. Just incredible.”

“What do you mean, programmed? It was a stirring. We were all possessed by the holy spirit.” She looked at him hopefully. “I was moved by St. Brittany’s awesome power to say those things.” She squeezed her thighs together and crossed her legs in anxiety. “Right?” That farmer’s lemonade was good. A well-brewed batch never failed to make her sopping wet down there. Actually, a whole lot of stuff did, but especially this tasty slushy wonder.

“Uh,” his eyes darted back and forth, “yeah. Sure. And the Holy Bone isn’t just a translucent, lubed piece of rubber.” Sandy could now feel the calming docility flush into her extremities that two glasses of farmer’s lemonade usually gave her, and only picked up “bone” and “lubed”. “Huh?” she managed, still sort of stoned too. “Nothing, Sister Sandy,” he promised. “Anyway, what are we still doing here?! Don’t you have a husband to go home to?”

That’s right! Sandy cursed herself. Her neglected obligation was making her worried as she juiced even more onto the vinyl seat cushion. She wondered idly where that towel went. Maybe if she… “I do, I do. But…” She put her hair behind her ears and tried to say something to impress the man. “Do you think it would be rude if I stayed here for a little while longer, you know. Just to finger myself?”

“Not at all,” he smiled. “Do you think it would be rude if I masturbate as well?” Simply asking the question made Sandy all the more randy. She shook her head no and bit her lip, working her clit as she saw her favorite long shape for the dozenth time that day. She was still loopily shaking her head when a man walked in. Mayor Darey had enough sense to put away his johnson, but Sandy’s conscious mind was all pussy. “I’m.. sorry, I can come back another time,” the man said.

“Nonsense, Mulvaney, come in!” The salacious, vouluptuous woman came to, and, suddenly wanting to be politically correct for some reason, felt the shame of nakedness and looked on the floor for discarded clothes that were never there. This man was bald and one of the oldest guys she’d seen in a while. She gathered enough strength to stand and tried in vain to sop up the juices on the seat with a hand. Her sex soup just coated it and made it sticky when she shooked Mulvaney’s.

“This is my new Secretary of Nutrition and Fashion, Sandy Bardetti-Majors,” Darey introduced. “Sandy, this is Ronald Mulvaney, my new right-hand man. He just moved to Cherub Cove from DC with his wife and two daughters. Maybe you can show them around in the coming days.” She just nodded and kept shaking his hand as she stared up at the man who was staring at her jiggly jugs. “You can cut some coupons for them, even. Save them some money at our boutiques and eateries.”

“Nice to —” Sandy started, then whined, looking back over her shoulder for the mayor’s approval. “I really gotta go pee, can I go pee?” Mr. Mulvaney looked at his new boss quizzically. The mayor just laughed boisterously. “Of course, Sandy, of course. You’re free to go home to Brant, too.” Sandy did a little pee-pee dance. “It’s Grant, silly.” “Whatever,” he replied, scooting her out the door by her booty, locking the door as she left. “Thank you, Mayor Mikey!” she called, muffled from the other side of the door.

“That’s an elected official?” Mulvaney asked in disbelief. “I mean, sure I’ve seen your travel brochures and the report on 60 Minutes, but good God!” He sniffed the air. It was a tangy mix of raspberries and slut. “You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted a complete overhaul of your politics!”

He had certainly seen some Cherub Cove politicians in press conferences and debates before, but they had all been men. The dripping, curvy thing that flounced out of the trailer was the farthest thing from a man. Until that man wanted something from her, that is.

“Call it premature, but I think you just met our next mayor,” Darey taught Mulvaney with a wink. “And it might be hard to believe, but she was one of the hardest nuts to crack. She tried to leave us four times. You have to break them down to build them up. Chicks need a nest.

And you can’t build that nest with plastic bags and hamburger wrappers. You throw all that junk science and secular hogwash out of there, and you build something natural for men, women and children. A family united in Christ and a family of plenty at that,” he sighed, stubbing his cigarette out.

Mulvaney looked around the decorated room, taking it all in. A fresh, newly printed copy of a graphic novel called “My Flight From The Feminazis” lay on the mayor’s desk for his approval. “Is this place even legal?” he asked him. Mayor Darey guffawed. “No, sir, no it isn’t!” He placed his hand on his new aide’s shoulder and squeezed it. “But with a little time, and with your help, Cherub Cove will be the only law.”

Glasses clinked and bar-hoppers chatted above the last chords of the last song of Jess Rabinowicz’s set. It was a drone-filled, noisy rendition of “Stand By Your Man” played on electric banjo, her instrument of choice. She had rigged up a projector on the wall behind her that cycled through different photos of meth-faced, unfortunate women. 

Not that any of the seven people in attendance noticed. Furthering the irony was the fact that her own man, Jude, was AWOL. She hadn’t heard from her boyfriend in three nights, so her playing was distracted and spotty at best. She didn’t even have the energy to cleverly retort to some dude’s cry for “Freebird” during one of her more abstract numbers. 

Kidz Kult Records had been nice enough to sponsor a 20-date, small venue tour in support of her underselling debut LP “Wishtron 8000″. The president of the label called her the night before, after she had capably performed for a slightly less modest number of people in Pittsburgh. “Make sure to hock as many copies as you can.” He went on to make some complaint about piracy and mp3 sales that didn’t add much to the dialogue.

Jess locked her banjo in its case and gathered some stray cords. She highly doubted she could even give away a single copy. Pittsburgh awarded her some sparse, polite applause, but tonight, during her murder ballad “Choctaw Moon”, people were straight up laughing at her. 

She sighed. Poren Springs, PA. God bless these hicks. Only five dates into the tour and she was already thinking about cancelling the rest of it. Going back to school to be a pharmacy tech suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

A sweaty, swaying fat man in overalls ambled up to the stage as she was just about done breaking down her equipment. He scratched his neck, unsure how to put what he was trying to say. “Uh, we don’t usually pay the bands unless we get at least thirty heads in here.” He paused when he saw she couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. “We make our money on drinks, sad to say. Maybe next time play some more covers or something.” He didn’t know what else to do, and awkwardly left.

Typical, Jess thought. She didn’t even get offered a complimentary beer. The tour, such as it was, would on occasion land her at a DIY arts collective or college campus, where she could most certainly make a little gas money. But it was mostly going to be dives like this. She sucked up her pride, tied her bandana around her neck, and went outside for a smoke. Nobody congratulated or looked at her as she walked past.

She went into her jeans pockets and checked her phone. No new calls. She was about to dial Jude but thought better of it, having already tried him twice earlier in the day. She pulled the last of her American Spirits from the soft pack and flicked her lighter. A spark, but nothing else. It certainly added insult to injury. 

Before she could gather enough willpower to step back into the sports bar and see if the bartender had any matches and maybe buy a beer, a woman ambled up from around the corner and held up a lighter of her own. Jess graciously accepted, cupping her hand around the flame.

“That was a great set,” the woman said, and lit a cigarette of her own. It smelled flavored with something, sweeter than a clove. “Thank you,” Jess said meekly. “That’s really sweet.” “No, really,” continued the woman, stepping into the overhead light, making it easier for Jess to see who she was small-talking with. 

“You don’t see many independent women playing independent songs ’round these parts. I’m Trixie.” Trixie was wearing a short denim skirt with an undone studded belt under a poochy little belly. Her lavender halter with lace trim wasn’t even trying to hide a pair of whopping breasts. Her heavily made-up face was framed by thick, black curls.

“Jess,” the frazzled artist offered. “And thanks again, it really means a lot.” She looked the woman over again. It was really hard not to, she demanded attention. She definitely didn’t remember her in the crowd. “Say, where’s the cheapest motel around here?” Jess wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending any more time cruising around this town if she didn’t need to. She had at least three hours to drive the next day.

Trixie took a drag, exhaling in poor Jess’s face. At least it smelled good. “Well, there’s always Burt’s Lodge, but that’s over in Cherub Cove. An’ judgin’ by the looks of you, you wouldn’t want to go there.” The musician felt slightly offended and stereotyped. “Why?” she asked, forthright. “I’ve never even heard of that place.” 

Trixie’s eyes went wide for a second then receded into a wholly pleasant smile. If this girl wasn’t bluffing, she really was off the grid. “Where are you from, Jess?”

“Originally from Western Mass., but I moved to Boston with my boyfriend two years ago to pursue my career.” She didn’t exactly feel compelled to ask this woman where she was from. She could guess by the fact that she was barefoot that it couldn’t be too far away. She couldn’t imagine living here, it was much too quiet. Even just standing out in front of this bar, she hungered for some kind of sound of activity. An ambulance, anything. “So, where did you say this Burt’s Lodge was?”

“Screw Burt’s Lodge!” Trixie resounded, pulling another drag and sending it seemingly deliberately at Jess’s face. So much of the exhalation made it her way that she had to cough. All she could smell was that weird, delicious smoke. She hesitated but eased up. This was certainly an experience, at least. “Why don’t you come back inside and stay a while? Let me buy you a drink.” Jess couldn’t refuse. Maybe it would lighten her sour mood.

Forty minutes and five rum and cokes later, Jess and Trixie ambled out of the bar for a cigarette, bumping into each other, messy and laughing like old friends. “Did you see the way that guy kept looking at your boobs?” Jess asked in hysterics. 

“See him?” Trixie cried. “When you were taking a piss, he motorboated ‘em!” They both let out out gales of giggles. “No!” Jess said loudly, in disbelief. “Uh-huh, yep,” Trixie admitted. “But don’t worry, he used to play football with my big brother back in the day, so it’s all good.”

That made sense to Jess, somehow. The drinks had been inexplicably rich and creamy in this way that they went down so easily. She hadn’t felt that drunk in a long time. The sound of crickets was now deafening. She reached for her pack of smokes only to recall she’d smoked her last one already. Trixie offered her one of hers without even being asked. “You’re so nice!” Jess said, and laughed some more.

“Honey, that’s juss how we’re raised here,” Trixie told her. Jess took her first drag and almost immediately felt a tingling lightness that interacted with her buzz very nicely. She started to feel worked up in a way that only showed itself when she was around Jude. She felt cursed. Now she had to think about him. 

He had to help his sister move. Big whoop. He didn’t even say where he was going. What kind of moving lasted three days? She paused, aware she hadn’t said anything for a little bit. “This cigarette is really tasty, Trix.” That’s what all the guys in the bar called her. “It’s like I’m stoned or something.”

Trixie pivoted inside the door to stick her head in and check the clock on the wall. In doing so, her little skirt rode up, revealing a bare, big ass. Jess blushed. Normally she would have been embarassed for such a woman, but she found it hard to pass judgement. Not when Trixie was so self-assured, comfortable, and providing. 

“It’s quarter to 1,” Trixie said after she turned around, making a half-hearted attempt at pulling down her skirt, her cheeks still in loud opposition. “Almost last call.” She straightened out the musician’s kerchief. If Jess wasn’t drunk, she might have thought the gesture condescending. “I have some real weed back at my place if you want to smoke with me. My treat for the road-weary tour machine.” 

Jess laughed and mulled it over. She had picked up an eighth at the beginning of her tour in Asheville, but had used the last of it the previous night in Pittsburgh to roll her own personal blunt, to stave off encroaching loneliness. Still, as dry as she was, and as nice as Trixie had been, buying her all those delicious drinks… 

“I dunno,” she said, uninhibited enough to turn the tables and adjust Trixie’s clothing now, pulling the backwoods bombshell’s skirt neatly down her hips as much as she could, “I’m thinking I should probably just head out over to Butt’s– I mean, Burt’s Lodge now.” She hiccuped as Trixie pulled the songwriter’s keys from her pocketbook. 

“Uh-uh-uh, I don’t think so!” Trixie sang. “After you finished your third rum and coke, you gave me these and told me not to let you get behind the wheel.” She plucked the funny purple cigarette from Jess’s fingers, almost ashed to the filter, and took the last drag for her, getting up close to the girl, blowing it right in her eyes. “Remember?”

“–koff– Kinda…” She really didn’t remember saying that, but she couldn’t argue that she was sloshed. “Alright, well… what are we going to do?” Trixie hopped up and down, giddy, a crucifix almost getting swallowed off its necklace by her jugs at every bounce. As charming as this semi-stranger was, she was starting to get a little obnoxious. It was certainly a weird omen for the rest of the tour, anyway. “Well?”

“Settle down, sister!” Trixie said in a mock drill sergeant tone. “I can get us a cab. Also my treat! I keep treating you!” She petted Jess’s short, limp brown hair as she said that, wishing for a barette. “Then we can head over to my place and smoke ganj!” She sized Jess up. 

“I’m sure we’ll get the munchies, but don’t you worry about that.” She grabbed a roll of flab collecting around her own waist to illustrate her point. “Mama Trixie can cook!” Jess was kind of hungry already, she had to admit. “Make you look like a woman and not a little girl!”

As tipsy as she was, Jess was present enough to get simultaneously offended and perplexed by that comment. Even if Trixie looked twice the woman as most pin-up girls. Jess’s own body, while trim and fit and nothing to scoff at, lacked in the hips and bust department. Not totally flat, most people still thought she was. Especially when she hid it in loose flannel. 

Even so, she didn’t see how this total woman’s food could make her look better, nor did she want to. “Fine, but Trixie — where am I going to –”

“Spend the night?” she finished the artist’s question, now grabbing her by the wrist to the corner of the street where, inexplicably, a taxi was already waiting for them. Wasn’t it just, like, a minute ago that Trixie was talking about phoning for a cab? 

She couldn’t be sure, though. She was drunk. “Of course you can crash at my place! My husband’s out of town, so you can sleep in my bed with me, or take the sofa bed.” The second option had an acrid, disgusted tone.

“You have a husband?” Jess supposed that it wasn’t so hard to believe, but what kind of happily married woman dresses like an overgrown schoolgirl that’s trying to look grownup? Perhaps more pertinent, what wife shoved their breasts in another man’s face just for shits and giggles? “I mean, yeah. Whatever works.” She smiled, feeling good but feeling rushed. 

In a blurry flash, Trixie prepaid the cab driver with a big, ruby-colored coin that scarcely resembled U.S. currency, and they were on their way. Neither woman noticed that the singer’s instrument case was sitting there on the curb.

*              *              *

Back at Trixie’s pastel-swathed pad, at the tail end of their second, easy-paced bowl pack, Jess had a slow but potent revelation. It was of great metaphysical import. 

“I’m like.. beyond stoned,” she intoned like a sorceress, using measured syllables. “That’s good, sweetie,” Trixie the hostess placated, placing two ornate silk doilies on the coffeetable, then big, big glasses of strawberry-chocolate milkshake on top of each one. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Mama Trix,” Jess sighed. She would have to tell her labelmates not to miss Poren Springs and to look Trixie up. She was an excellent help. She made the best double bacon cheeseburgers, too. “Those onion rings were bangin’.” 

Trixie ashed her cigarette and chomped on a fingernail, preoccupied with something. “I’m glad you think so, my little genius,” the picture of femininity said, making Jess blush with her compliment. “I just hope you have room for my world famous sweet potato bimborritos!” She lilted that last, sketchy-sounding word, and rolled the r. 

Jess’s slim but bloated tummy grumbled even though she had filled it three times over already. “Well, if they’re world famous,” she shrugged, lost in her dim haze of overconsumption. She hardly heard what her new buddy reccomended. Something about burritos. She was basking too much in the waking food coma to get it all in.

“Okay, county famous,” Trixie admitted. “They just so good and warm and filling, they made couch potato sweeties out of every one of my girlfriends who’s tried ‘em.” Jess sucked down the last hit of weed. “Whut?” she drolled, in a daze. Trixie began to refill the glass piece immediately. 

“Sweet Tater Girls, you might have seen their reality show on TV?” The banjo fetishist shook her clouded, blazed head. It was some powerful pot.”Oh, that’s right, it doesn’t have its nationwide premiere on Oxygen for another month. I got confused ‘cuz their tie-in ads for Revlon and Kit-Kat have already dropped into all the major soap operas.” 

Jess didn’t catch all of that, but what she did seemed kind of nutty. What interest would a big cable network have in a podunk burg like this? Maybe this boisterous, shame-ignoring lady was just exaggerating — probably more like Oxygen webisodes or something, where they’d have to hock corporate junk. She grinned, feeling her eyes getting puffy and itchy. She’d have to remember to blog about all this hilarity.

Trixie wiped a bit of mayo off her chin and stopped and stared at the girl for a second. It would probably be better to not be so admissive, the Entertainment Czar surmised. She was a cute little stoner, and something about the very idea of any show with that name had sent her into a fit of chortles. “I’ll tell you about it after I get started fixin’ you your proper meal,” Trixie assured her. 

Jess drifted and tried to imagine what that program could possibly entail. The potency of the strain and how much she smoked had trickled into her at first, but the high was now cascading all throughout her brain and body like TV fuzz. She hadn’t felt this faded or this good in quite a while, if ever. 

She closed her eyes and the first image that came to her, for whatever toasted reason, was of herself, dolled up shoeless in bobby socks, and a tight, suggestive yellow mod dress. Only for some reason, her waist sloped a bit more cinched in, accentuated by a chunky cow-print belt. Her legs looked better, too, longer and healthier, like the gams of a classic B-movie starlet. 

It was less playful imagination and more like a dream or a vision as it went on. Glancing down to compare virgin pot bellies with another townie girl, her eyes skittered down at the creamy crease of cleavage that lounged on her chest, much too sumptuous to be really be hers. A dog and cameraman had their respective sights on her daydream boobs, too. 

She winked and blew a kiss at both. The puppy hopped up to her neck and slobbered heavily on the tit-distressed cloth of her snappy rayon number. Jess had the blurry urge to present a nipple to it. She just loved being a reality TV star. 

When she opened her drugged lids, that bountiful woman from the bar was shotgunning another hit into her, and she immediately lost track of her fleeting, vintage vision. She let the smoke seep out slow and white. “Do you think you could put on the AC or something?” She coughed. It was worrisome how close and comfortable the air in the room felt. Trixie instead sprayed some semi-noxious mist that smelled like marshmallow cereal. The musician coughed again.

The cherub sashayed out of the living room and back into the kitchen. It was only then that Jess realized she didn’t have anything on under that pink cotton apron. That butt looks even better with nothing on it, she admitted, in awe. 

For a moment, she thought it odd that she’d flounce around like that in front of her, but whatever, they were friends now. It was her home that she had the privelege of entering, after all. She peeked into the kitchen to get a better look at the natural wonder and found her hostess bent over, rummaging for something under the sink, her full booty and slick vagina on display. 

At this point it was practically undeniable that something really bizarre was going on, but an unquenchable envy at the forefront won out. It must take a huge dick to satisfy that, Jess thought. The heat she felt blotted out the knowledge that she never thought about dirty stuff like that. It was probably the weed. 

She sat back down when she noticed Trixie coming back, and slurped the remainder of her shake. It was so thick and creamy and good. She almost had to chew it. Her hostess sat down on the couch almost too close, crossing her legs. 

“Jess,” she began with the concern of a guidance counselor, “I want to ask you something. Where do you find the inspiration for your songs?” To the musician’s surprise, Trixie pulled out a copy of her last EP, “Zodiac Zombie”, down from her shelf. She really was a fan. It was even the first printing, on orange vinyl.

“Well,” Jess tried, letting out a strawberry-chocolate burp, “I don’t usually put too much thought into that. I just sort of let the songs come to me from my own experience.” Hearing herself say that made her feel narcissistic and hollow. For a couple moments in this apartment anyway, she had almost forgotten she’d played a show earlier in the evening. Trixie did that motherly, superior thing to Jess’s hair again.

“I just wonder, you know, because you have the voice and talent and all that, but your songs are kind of miserable.” Jess was slightly taken aback, but decided to welcome the constructive criticism of this wonder woman. “I mean, I can tell you’ve been through a lot emotionally, but… Don’t take it out on men. They’re not all bad.” 

Trixie paused, stroking Jess’s chin and tilting it up to make eye contact. “You remember in the bar, when we were talking about how your boyfriend has a habit of putting unrealistic expectations on you, and then expects you to do the opposite?”

“Not really,” Jess admitted. “But it’s true.” He was the one who made her go on this stupid tour, then backed out on accompanying her at the last minute. And now he couldn’t even be reached by phone for moral support. 

“You need to do something for you and only you,” Trixie gave counsel. “Something that will make you feel like the independent woman you want to project yourself as. And once that radiance is there, it never leaves, and becomes insatiable. He’ll see it even it takes other guys seeing it first.”

“I guess, sure.” What am I agreeing to? “What are you talking about? What do you suggest?” Jess wondered, honestly. It was hard to read between the lines, being super-stoned and all. “One second!” Trixie interrupted the topic at hand. “I think the rice is done.” 

Jess watched that unbridled megabutt wag out into the kitchen again, then fixated on a disc stuck to the archway. It was a swirl of different shades of pink. At first she thought it was cute, if silly, but the more she looked at it, the more she wanted to look at it, get lost in it. 

*              *              *

Trixie wiped drool off of Jess’s lip when she came back in, just like any good hostess would. It felt like it had only been a half a minute or so, but it must have been a lot longer, considering that Trixie was already putting the burrito platter down on the table, flanked on either side by two little serving dishes of guacamole and sour cream. 

Jess tucked in right away, sawing off a big bite of burrito with her knife and fork.”Whoa there, cowpoke,” cajoled Trixie, nun-slapping her guest on the wrist with two fingers. “Remember what we agreed you’d do before I fed you your next course.” Jess, drooling again (this time because of the delicious size of the food), locked onto the crucifix hanging just above her hostess’s fat mams. “Mealtime prayers?” she guessed around too much saliva.

“No, silly.” Trixie took a box from behind her back and held it out. It was hair dye. Bright, brick, fake red. Sure, they were friends now, but this was too weird, in a way Jess couldn’t quite pin down. “Angelhair? The brand name is Angelhair? Like the pasta?” The woman on the box did look pretty content with the results, even if she was done up like a tramp. 

“Yeah,” Trixie said, eager to get on with it, “like the pasta. It really puts some weight on a girl. All those complex carbs.” Jess looked at her, searching, mouth hanging open like a dumbass. “I’m just kidding!” Trixie laughed, even if she wasn’t kidding at all. 

“Now are we gonna do this or what? It’s 4:30 in the morning already!” Jess gulped, before letting out a tiny, troubled fart. Was it really that late? Didn’t she have to get an early start tomorrow? And wasn’t her car still across town or something? It was time to put her foot down.

“No,” she said, weakening already from the aroma of the food in front of her, “I can’t do this. I didn’t sign up for this. I feel more than tended to at this point, seriously, but –” 

Trixie’s eyes began to well up. “Jess, stop bein’ a spoiled bitch. This is what I get for being so hospitable. I mean, really! Smoking my weed, eating all this shit I didn’t have to make — Are you that much of a stoner that you can’t remember our simple agreement? You said you would make the committment to do something for you!”

“I guess I did, yeah,” Jess said, even though she still wasn’t sure and could have sworn she didn’t implicitly concede to hair dye. She figured she may as well just do it, as Trixie was acting so erratically now. She still had her car keys, after all. And if she didn’t like it, she could just wash it out, right? 

“Come on, girl, it’ll only take a couple minutes, it’s an easy set. By the time we’re done your food’ll be cooled down enough to eat.” Jess reluctantly followed her hostess into her bathroom and sat down on a stool in front of the sink and leaned her head back, ready for her new color.

After a luxuriating shampoo, during which all Jess could see was Trixie’s belling boobs knocking back and forth as she worked her fingers through the girl’s scalp, Trixie started combing the dye through. It smelled great, like cherry candy. 

“Just lean back and we’ll let it sit for a minute, that’s all it takes. I’m tellin’ you, this stuff is a miracle.” She rubbed the singer’s forehead and pinched her nose. “You’re going to be so beautiful. You really are.” She ducked down and they were face to face. Jess had to hide laughter, thinking this all very silly. It was as if Trixie wanted to kiss her. 

*              *              *

Some time after, with the sun coming up, burritos long since finished, and more weed smoked, she wasn’t sure if she hadn’t gone through with the act. 

“Okay,” Jess sighed, standing naked before Trixie. “I’m only doing this because you said my hair doesn’t match my clothes now.” She held a maroon and orange leotard in her hand and deliberated, whether to wear it or not. Why was she constantly just going along with whatever this woman told her to do? What did that have to do with independence?

She checked herself out in the mirror once she had it on. It did look pretty damn good. And it was stretchy, which was nice for her stomach, temporarily expanded from all that eating. It would be better to sleep in than her jeans. She only had one question. 

“Does that hair dye always set so wavy-like?” Jess patted her hair down, or tried to. The new dye job seemed to frame her face quite well, now that she thought about it, even if she couldn’t really remember her hair settling down past her chin.

Trixie was in her bedroom, throwing empty cardboard boxes around, huffing and puffing. She could hear her new ingenue say something, but wasn’t sure what. “I’m sorry, dearie?” she called, pulling out a long, thick rubber vibe from a shoebox under her bed. 

“That’s the one,” she whispered to herself.  She sniffed it to see if the cherry scent was still on it. “I’m just getting you set up for bed!” she called out again, hearing it buzz on, ready to test drive it for a little bit. She turned up the hot country station and snuck the thing in, finding out if it still felt as good as she remembered.

The sounds of construction, kids playing, motors revving, and skateboarders rolling eventually nudged Jess awake. She yawned slowly, itself quite the curious task. Her lips felt coated in something fruity, and her mouth was all sticky and hot, like she had gone to bed right after drinking a liter of strawberry soda.

She burped, then yawned again, low, and moaned, feeling pleasant. It was actually grape soda, she remembered softly. Glorious Grape, locally bottled and highly alcohlic, though you’d never guess. How many did I drink?

The heavy, pudding-ish texture was… different at first. After a six pack, though, she was too busy gummily shooting/slurring the shit about boys with Trixie to notice that she was sweating translucent purple. Or that the discharge disappeared as soon as it came, erasing any body hair it touched in the process.

Jess smiled and kicked her feet on top of the fuzzy pink comforter. She saw the alarm clock a foot from her satisfied head, and at first didn’t want to believe it. “1:53?!” Her mind raced and fought to come back down to earth, while her body barely moved, save from a subconscious caress of her thighs.

They seemed smoother or something, she considered, before she realized she was alone. The musician felt it out. The deafening silence she detected in the apartment was mortifying. She tried to piece together what had happened.

She sat up, groaning at the smudge of pudge around her waist that sat up with her. “What did we get into, babygirl?” she asked herself reflexively, startled at a sassiness she never used. I must still be in dream mode, she convinced herself, foggy in her recollection of the number of different men that populated her sleep. But she was still kind of high, so she lost them all. All she could grab were fleeting visions of loads of tan muscles, burly hair, and overalls.

The one constant through all of it had been her breasts. Somehow in her dreams they were enormous, even bigger than Trixie’s. Trixie. Jess shuddered at the thought and name of that woman. That sexy goddess, she thought in passing envy, clutching her chest to make sure she still had “tiny tremblin’ titties”, as her hostess called them. Snapping the spandex shut around them, she knew that she did, even though they were kind of puffy. She put her hand down on the bed, and the bottom of her palm made something roll.

This shock nearly plunged her out of her skin. A beet red dildo, realistically engorged with “blood”, shuddered at her touch. She got goosebumps and, peeking at them, saw that her soft skin was still a milky white. She was sure she had to have been in a tanning booth, because what else could make her skin feel so tight?

She inserted a memory, just in case, of Trixie shaving her. She pulled on some fabric. That explained her smooth legs and her hairless vadge. She felt the breezy country air tickle it, and, fear now beginning to outweigh arousal, refused to let her straying fingers go anywhere near it.

She tumbled back down upon the bed, barely aware that her hand was still on the strangely, organically rhythmic vibrator. Tickling the tip, even. “No, no, no!” she chirped, clearing the rest of the sweet muck from her throat. This isn’t happening!

Figuring she acidentally turned the thing on, she fumbled for an off switch. In no time, she knew there wasn’t one, and was absently stroking the imitation (but nice-feeling) pubic hair that bristled from the base. It was handily equipped with a very lifelike scrotum.

This thing’s balls are almost twice as big as Jude’s, she guessed. Did she already get to feel the girth of the play-shaft? Last night was such a blur…

Suddenly, she forced herself to feel skeezed out by the fake wang’s realistic throbbing, hiding it out of sight underneath the covers. That wasn’t enough, though, because then she couldn’t stop staring at the thing as it spasmed and made indentations in the fabric. Drooling, it took her a couple seconds to remember how to make her lips not pucker and pout. Somehow that had become their restful state.

Jess managed to let go of the cherry-smelling dick-thing and stood up in front of her hostess’s ornate, pastel mirror. Her nipples seemed to be more attentive than her eyes, and they poked out in rapt attention through the tight maroon fabric of her leotard. The color was complemented by the brighter, candy red of her lipstick, those soft things back again in their pucker-and-pout formation. She held a newly manicured hand, with lime green french tips, up to her mouth. Even half-touching it made her wetter downstairs.

The singer gave in only partially and licked her Skittle-tasting nails, also trying to put in work scratching a newfound mole, recalling her hostess placing it there as a “cherry on top” for her makeover. She managed to flick it off her upper lip, and a slightly bigger one popped out on the same spot.

She had to admit that it did lie there perfectly. Even if it felt like some kind of biological brand. Beyond the mascara and lipstick, it slutted her face up nicely. Jess begged her reflection not to look so damn good.

When she caught herself beginning to wonder why her hair growing and curling into its redness should worry her, she stopped looking into the mirror altogether. Otherwise, she was just going to get overcome by her narcissistic wetness. On the endtable, by the damning clock, there was a note in dark magenta ink on light pink paper.

“Jessica,” it read, “Got a call from the bar to come and get your car before it got towed. You looked so calm and cute, I didn’t want to bother you with it that early. Be right back with it, Luv, Mama Trix.” Jess sighed.

So not only did this celestially curvy lady still have her car keys, she had her car now! “P.S.,” the note went on underneath a rouge lip imprint. “Feel free to smoke the blunt I left on the kitchen counter. You’re the funnest guesty ever.” Jess shook her head, still stupid and stoned from the nighttime shenanigans. The clock read 2:35 and nearly gave her a panic attack.

That can’t be, I just got up! She checked herself out in the mirror again. Her eyes screamed for help, but her lips were pursed with sexy promises. This time, when she started to get wet, she understood that part of it was that she really needed to pee.

Flouncing to the adjacent bathroom with a sultry step she seemed locked into, she shimmied out of her straps and pulled her leotard halfway off, sitting down on the toilet. It was then that she remembered she didn’t even have her bag with her to change out of this ridiculous thing and into some clean clothes.

A quick peek around the room told her even last night’s clothes weren’t there. When she finished and scanned the living room, stepping in and looking deeper and finding nothing, she minced to the kitchen to at least get stoned. It was all she could do while she waited.

Ass glued to Trixie’s luxurious purple sofa a half hour or so later, Jess hazily popped off another tab to another Cherub Cream. She had taken three from the fridge since they were all her hostess had, and because she was surprisingly starving. I must have cleared her out with that four-course meal, it dawned on the girl. She didn’t know exactly what was in these Cherub Creams, but they were thick in consistency and seemed to do the trick. And she liked the name. It was kinda cute.

Also, getting a bunch at once this way, she wouldn’t miss any of the action in the weird, sexy-silly soap opera that held her attention firmly on the TV. She slurped, getting a good pull, and finished the tube in record time. This one filled her to the core, and made her tum-tum feel even tighter.

She rubbed it as she continued to watch, wondering whether or not Clem was finally going to trick Ginny into “helping him out with his zipper”. Jess identified with Ginny because they wore the same leotard, except Ginny’s was royal blue and gold.

She could hear her phone buzzing as she thrummed with envy on the couch. As if they were her only choices, she deliberated between getting up and answering it, or boring some fingers into her snatch. She chose what she thought was correctly, creaming around knuckles and venturing that even if it was her boyfriend on the phone, he couldn’t fuck her like Ginny was getting fucked now on the TV, so why bother. And even if somehow he could, he wasn’t as big as this dude Clem. She marvelled at her airtight logic and assumed more would come, right after she did.

Seconds after her phone stopped buzzing, she realized she should probably go back to the bedroom anyway to retrieve that bucking bronco of a vibrator. There was no way she and Trixie hadn’t done some stuff with it, she thought. “I can’t wait to leave this horrible, horrible place,” she huffed, neglecting to check her calls, plopping back onto the sofa, guiding the thing in as it began to flex tastily inside her.

*              *              *

At around 3:15, Jess had finally cummed and was letting the dick slow its thrusting down until it got calm. She tickled the balls, just so the shaft could jerk out of reflex and give her a little reminder of how great the play felt. It made her giggle.

In her reverie, Trixie unlocked the door and ambled in, throwing the musician’s car keys on the coffee table, next to the empty Cherub Creams. Her eyes followed an easy path to Jess’s naked crotch, leotard pushed aside to better welcome her old magic cock. Not the most ideal position of opposition.

“I see you’ve been making yourself comfortable,” she laughed half-mockingly. “I got two cases of those… meal replacement creams for you, babygirl.” Trixie sat right next to Jess and helped her get the big dick out of her. It was receding in size slowly but surely and had enough give to eventually slide out. “I had a feeling you might take to ‘em. They’re in your trunk.” The musician looked up at her with unbridled adoration. “They good, ain’t they?” her hostess asked her.

Jess grinned and nodded feverishly before pausing to try and remember what had been so ugent before she got stoned and fucked herself while watching country soaps. “I mean, no!” She shot up, straightening out the bottom of her get-up. She didn’t remember it being so tight around her hips the past night.

“You got me high as balls and forcefed me like some sick pervert!” She looked at her tiny little belly pudging forth, ran her hands along her newly thick hips.

She wasn’t the biggest fan of these new discoveries, even as each one made her hornier and hornier, again. It was a sort of bean shape and she felt guilty about finding it absolutely adorable now that she really thought more about it. But she didn’t want to tell her that.

“I feel so fat,” she whined, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as if it proved something. Jess knew there was something beyond strange going on, making her so ditzy and horny and lazy, something other than that whole blunt. “And I look so hot!” she blurted, betraying her stupid meddlesome brain.

“Why don’t we go to the gym, then?” Trixie suggested. “You’re already dressed for it.” Jess managed to find a halfway reasonable out. “Soundcheck is at six,” she told her hostess. She still had at least a couple of hours on the road, too. She didn’t really have time. “So we have some time, then, right?” Trixie asked, hopeful.

Jess sighed. Mama Trixie did go get her car for her, and she didn’t even mention any towing fee. And had given her so much weed, food, and a place to stay. Just this one last thing, she assured herself. “Fine,” she said, sticking a sticky finger between her candied lips.

“I left a pair of cute orange trainers at the foot of my bed ‘cuz I had a hunch you’d want to work out in your cute little leotard,” Trixie cooed. “You go put ‘em on while I start the car,” she said, picking up the musician’s car keys and twirling them on her finger. “What?” she asked the girl arrogantly.

“You think I’m gonna let you drive? Honey, you’re way too blazed.” Jess nodded and accepted this blindly, too distracted now by the prospect of new sneakers to complete her kinda-sexy excercise look. She was already in there tying her laces as her hostess called out one last thing from behind her shoulder.

“I knew you’d eventually come around to that magic cock,” she giggled, mortifying Jess and making her heart drop. “I honestly can’t believe you lasted the whole night. ‘I’ll just wait for my boyfriend.’ ‘This is where I draw the line.’ Yeah, right.” Jess gulped.

Despite the warnings of confusion, she’d never looked or felt this good in her entire life. She’d be a show-stopper that night no matter what, and felt entitled to a little excercise time. I wonder if Mama Trix has any armbands around here, she thought, as she pulled her back into a ponytail with a scrunchie. That would really make the whole gym bunny look.

Stepping out a few moments later, Jess saw Trixie’s opulent, cartoonish sunglasses frame her cute little button nose. Silver hot pants were almost getting sucked up by her butt, and a tight ribbed tank that said “MILK” in university font gave her big breasts little support. She was chewing on gum, waiting.

When her hostess didn’t smile, Jess dreaded that something was up. Trixie offered her new girlfriend a stick of the gum. It tasted like warm apple pie. No, “It tastes like a sour apple cream soda!” She looked up and saw that she still wasn’t smiling. “What is it?” Jess asked her, a little worried.

Trixie moved aside and leaned onto the back of a cheery pink pleather recliner. There was the touring musician’s instrument case, split almost directly in half. Jess couldn’t hide her tearing eyes, and didn’t even care enough to. She sobbed and sobbed into Mama Trix’s shoulder. Still with heightened, luxuriating senses, she burrowed deep into it, trying to sniff in all the melange of tangy citrus, berry deodorant, and sun-dappled sweat.

Trix was grinning above Jess’s cradled head, kissing it, running her fingers freely through her new red curls.

*              *              *

“What is this again?” Jess asked in the passenger seat after slurping a healthy amount through the electric blue bendy straw, safety buckle sort of chafing against her softened arm. “A Family Freedom Frostie?”

It wasn’t the question she had wanted to ask, but she was finding it hard to remember when Trixie’s jugs danced around like they were doing, nips firing off wildly in every direction while the car slogged along the rocky dirt road. Plus, the ice cold drink was pretty damn delish, a frozen white mocha thing with a hint of mango.

“You sure are catchin’ on,” Trixie beamed, “yup! A Triple-F with two extra enhance-o shots,” she wagged her finger, “but you’ll catch on to all of our lingo sooner or later.” Jess’s skin crawled. That sounded like some sort of dialogue from a lost sex cult episode of “Designing Women”.

Even so, she didn’t feel like arguing and compromising her hopefully quick exit, opting not to remind her of her departure. She was just going to do this one last thing, and then she’d be on her way. She even promised to call Mama Trix once she got to the city.

She chuckled, sipping the dregs of her 20 oz. cup. Family Freedom Frostie, she repeated in her head. Abilene Cowgirls, a coffee chain whose billboards she saw around the highway near Poren Springs, had a location on the way so Trixie convinced Jess to let them get drive-thru, treating the girl for a millionth time.

“Wasn’t that cashier cute?” she asked the girl as she tore into a lemon-lime cheesecake muffin. Her new artsy New Englander friend opted for just the drink, having had all those Cherub Creams back at the flat, and one more already just on this car ride.

“I guess,” Jess said, even though she had only seen this supposedly cute girl’s whopping tits plunging out of a low-cut, cow-print uniform. Trixie’s done-up halfro was in the way, too. Whatever face the barista might have had up there was likely made irrelevant by those hooters, regardless.

“But you’re totally hotter,” Jess inanely complimented her. She didn’t even have to open her wallet since she got offstage the night before, really. She was grateful and began to feel pampered, and worse, preferred it. But it was like being pampered in the wrong way, or something.

Pamper guilt… Wasn’t that mentioned in a commercial Jess had watched earlier when she was snacking and snatching? A stern-looking reverend standing at a glowing, hot pink pulpit — warning with some fairly disturbing intensity about what might happen if St. Brittany’s corn-fed flock didn’t stock up on Potty Poopers brand diapers during the Chow-Barn’s 3-for-1 sale.

She took a long drag of one of Trixie’s fun fruity cigs. Just this one last thing. You can do it. Work off all these empty calories for a little bit, make a showing, and you’re off. “Can we maybe do something about my banjo?” she requested timidly. Trixie blew a bubble and ignored her.

“But McKay said he’d reimburse you if you could take me to a local music shop and get a new one,” Jess said, fiddling with the shiny gold bangle Trixie goaded her into wearing, then ran her fingers along the soft feel of her foofy, ruffled white socks.

Her record label’s president had been very accomodating about her damaged banjo. Checking her messages soon after stepping in the car, she saw that it was he who had called her (of course it couldn’t have possibly been her boyfriend or anything), and Jess had told him an abbreviated story of her wild, wobbly night. That apparently ended in the late morning with somebody running over her case. “C’mon, you know I didn’t want –”

“Jesss,” Trixie hissed in the driver’s seat, like it was the most obnoxious name on earth to her, “Don’t worry about it.” She looked relieved as she pulled into the parking lot. “At least, not now. We’re here. Honestly, I think it’d do you plenty good to sweat out your frustrations.” She lowered her sunglasses to share her warm gaze at Jess.

“Look at you,” she said in awe, straightening out the silk bow she put in the singer’s hair before leaving. It was a finishing touch after they re-applied mascara that had run wet with tears. “My superstar bestie!” Trixie squealed, unbuckling.

She hugged Jess and held her close, excited nipples grazing confused ones, huge boobs mashing up against budding bitties. Trixie’s hoop earrings were hitting Jess’s neck as she whispered into her ear, soft and sultry, “You make my pussy purr,” she teased, the words sounding wet and hot, consonant-heavy.

Jess’s own pussy understood those words so her head didn’t have to. She didn’t keep Mama Trix from lightly kissing her neck but was planning on stopping her if Trixie’s lips got any higher. Then she felt them on her chin and forgot why she didn’t want them there.

Somehow, she managed to squirm free from the fun sexiness, and stood at the side of the car, checking her look in the reflection of Mama Tease’s car windows, puckering to make sure her lips looked rad. “C’mon, Trixie, puh-lease can we get thith over with!” she called, feeling exposed in the warm air wearing only a leotard.

“Trixie?” Jess peered into the driver’s seat. There her devoted hostess was, blubbering helplessly. The sobbing shook her boobies, and it suddenly made sense to Jess why random guys would want to stick their face in them. They took up some room, and even as she sighed in exasperation at the woman behind them, she had the urge to motorboat now.

Jess opened Trixie’s door and got down on her knees, putting her head innocently in her lap. The act of supplication must have made her butt stick out, because in a pickup tumbling by, a few rowdy shirtless dudes soon snapped a towel smack onto it. Someone in the truck cranked up the radio, and it was, embarassingly, “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry.

“..and I liked it!” she sang as the men rolled further away on the gravel, hooting. Jess giggled, and so did Trixie, through her tears. “This is so stupid!” Jess cried, halfway because of the insipid, culturally void “irony”, and halfway to lessen the apparent gravity of the situation.

“Should we?” she asked Trixie, already freeing the woman’s mammoth mams, lingering on the second strap. Just this one last thing, she repeated, twisting one of Trixie’s nipples gently. “Should we what?” Trixie asked, sniffling.

I’m practically right next to Philly, Jess deceived herself, just this one simple thing. She couldn’t take it anymore, and climbed on Trixie as best she could with the door open like that, half-grinding on her lap and making out so sweetly, slobbering away the salt of Trixie’s tears.

When one of them pushed too hard on the steering wheel, the conspicuous sound of the blaring horn made the hot and horny girls adjust. Jess got back down on her knees at the side of the car, felt them scraping on the road as she was kissing Mama Trixie’s titties now, sucking at either nipple when she thought the woman was giving off milk.

It felt natural and totally right to let it flow down her throat, like a baby. “Jess, we, -oooh-, maybe we should start our workout soon.”

“Sshhb — just one more minute,” Jess said, letting go of a boob for a second, letting milk dribble its way down it and splash on her chin, too. She was going to get this over with. To brighten Trixie’s mood. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She changed her stance slightly, and in doing so let Trixie’s abnormally gushing nipple spray all onto the seat and all the way down to the floor mat. Whatever. She’d worry about cleanup later. Just one last thing.

*              *              *

“Nope! Nuh-uh, no thank you,” Jess sang, trying her best to not look in the rearview mirror as she drove away from Trixie and her friend Sandy, who were slowly jogging with all their extra curves, calling out and trying to convince her to stay and get treated to an early dinner.

It was 7:30 and just starting to get dark out, but more present than the worry of being late to the gig was the worry of never seeing Mama Trix again. Jess allowed herself a few tears, but desperately tried to get a grip. She was on the road. She was doing the right thing.

Even if her body was telling her how right the full workout had felt and would continue to feel, she wasn’t so brainless that she didn’t recognize how wrong it was in actuality. Even if she was losing any grip on the events of the day. It had started, innocently enough, on a balance beam.

The old high school gymnasium had been converted into a 24/7 fitness room and was filled with balance beams, jump ropes, and trampolines. After walking a beam carefully and proud, she was on to the trampoline. Working up a sweat there, she felt inadequate all of a sudden, wishing she had more bounce.

The final station of this part of Trixie’s customary workout would only deepen her low self-esteem. She had to jump rope in front of a council of about twenty seated judges, all of which were total, already well-blossomed, women.

Even though she could swear that there was more of her butt to go around, and that it had a little more give as it cutely jiggled, they booed her the entire time. Jess’s boobs were just too small for them, and the resulting look was pathetic, a waste of a trampoline.

“They’re going to be disappointed, but harness their disappointment, let it motivate you to work harder,” Trixie had warned her. She obviously never had a problem with trampoline time. And she was even joining in on the humiliating jeers in the front row, shouting, “Flat whore!” and play-gagging.

Jess tried her best to take the insult as positive reinforcement, but had far from positive feelings about noticing Trixie still had her keys, strewn just a little too far from her seat. She shut her eyes and kept on jumping, trying not to cry from all the booing and laughing, soldiering through this part.

Downstairs was where the really good stuff was. All sorts of weird, strenuous-looking equipment. After jumping jacks, toe touches, and about twenty minutes on the treadmill, she wiped off her sweaty body and asked Trixie, “What’s next?” Her hostess and gym instructor led her to a corner of the flourescent-lit basement.

A failing light buzzed on top of a lone weight bench, unattached to anything. A black box rested on top, with a cord and a switch, and what had to have been a dildo. “Cowgirl Ride Simulator,” Trixie said with pride. “Now, you’re gonna need to strip to get a complete workout, honey.”

Jess had already done so before the confusion set in. She shook her head, trying to parse what she was about to say, so as to not let it come out too ungrateful. “Mama Trix, I know what that is. A Sybian is a Sybian by any name.” Trixie laughed it off. 

“So what?” she asked gallantly, grabbing the girl by her bangle and guiding her to the bench. “You need to get a good workout for your abs, anyway,” she giggled, poking Jess in the gut. “The Cowgirl Ride Simulator,” she went on, making Jess shudder at that ridiculous fake name, “is the best tummy tightener this gym has to offfer.”

Fifteen minutes and a cum later, the musician could scarcely disagree. Though one brawny man held her up by by one wavering leg as another (both helpful employees, apparently) held another, she still had to work her pelvis down onto the plastic cock. And besides rocking her hips, she used other, heretofore inactive muscles to clench her cunt around the rod. 

Trixie peeked into the room, having left to take a phone call. “Sweetie,” she called from the opposite side, “I think your hot little cunny’s had enough.” She motioned something to the men. “Now put it in your booty for a bit and we’ll almost be done.” 

Trix swiveled out of the room, and before heedlessly turning around in unquestioning compliance, Jess felt a bit more comfortable knowing that her keys were safe in the corner, out of the overly protective hand of Mama Trix. I can leave at any time, she told herself, as she sat down on the Cowgirl Ride Simulator. 

It hammered now, into her butthole. Jess had never been penetrated in this way. Tears, this time of agony, slicked down her face. The way they mixed with the sweat trickling down from her forehead made her eyes burn. She gave an attempt to use them to look at the blurry clock. She couldn’t see what it said.

Some time after, during a cool-down session of toe touches, her sore ass was being caressed and tended to by Sandy, a blonde bombshell who Trixie introduced as her friend and colleague before ducking out of the room again. 

Jess started to feel that nagging concern once more as the woman, after a quick girly handshake, immediately went to stand somewhere off behind the girl, clipboard in hand, whistle hanging around her neck and plunging into her impossibly long and smooth line of cleavage.

Jess’s uneasiness was amplified by the sight of the built, bristling bodies of the two male employees re-entering the room. Her foggy guilt exploded when Sandy’s hand left her cheeks, and she heard the unmistakeable, porn-world sound of buckles clanging open, of flies unzipping. The increasingly familiar aroma of hard dick.

On her umpteenth, dutiful descension, she felt one of the guys’ warm members poke into her backside. Her body was ready to give in to repetition and grind into it, the easiest choice. It took her simpering mind comparitively longer to work against the simple, needful act. 

She thought of her boyfriend, and was chagrined to find she could barely picture his face. After almost two years of dating, and three years of being friends before that, it was proving to be some powerful brainwashing. “Sssandy, what — what’s going on?” she begged, half-knowing the answer, putting whoever’s cock back in his shorts, but not without the good graces to stroke it.

“These men are hired to support us ladies in our rigorous duty of sculpting our bodies toward an easy transition into Our Family Way. To unite and concentrate our hormones by law of St. Brittany.” Sandy did a weird bunny dip with the general tone and execution of an alternate sign of the cross as she half-waddled up to the girl. 

She tottered around Jess and massaged the small of her back as the disturbed girl held onto a down position, her growingly substantial rump hoisted high. Jess was too lost in the sweaty fog of the workout to see that every time she bent over, she was presenting her sopping sex. Sandy was amazed. This one almost didn’t even need encouragement.

“But right now, specifically, they’re just here for your balance. Rumpus Room Fitness suggests deep-dicking as the perfect method of maintaining the proper position. Now if you’ll just let them take turns and do their jobs, we can get right on to squats, and those are the most easy-peasy, and plus they’re the funnest.” Sandy ran a lithe finger up and down Jess’s crack. 

“Shit, darlin’, you might not even want to stop.” Jess blushed, confused yet again. What was the matter? Something about the tour she was on, or something. “I’m just a visitor here,” she appealed to Sandy, “I’m not looking to join any church. Plus I have a.. a man. What does Trixie care if I don’t want to fuck some random dude? This is dumb!”

“First of all, it’s not technically fucking. We prefer ‘squatting with support’ or ‘sanctified sitting’. Either or, it’s a part of the process and I’m sure Trixie wants you to wrap up. Otherwise you haven’t gotten a true country workout, and that’s what we all care ’bout ’round here, I can assure ya.” 

Without looking behind her, Jess could hear the slight sound of skin moving with skin. Sandy talked some mean game to be simultaneously jacking a guy off, Jess reckoned. “Oh, yeah,” Sandy moaned, “Young Jake here is pretty fuckin’ hung. What are you, scared of guys with big dicks?”

“Noooo!” Jess pouted, which she seemed to be doing more and more. Something sure was off. “You’re not even listening to me, I told you why I –” Trixie busted through the doors and back down into the secondary wing of the gym, thankfully gliding right past Jess’s cell. But her speed and the rough intent of her walk scared the girl. 

She let a thick stack of papers smack onto the floor, chucking a pencil down there, too. “What now?” Jess asked, incredulous but fighting tooth and nail to retain her dignity. “I have to sign a waiver that says I wasn’t coerced, that I — that I didn’t have any sex or drugs that I didn’t want?”

“Nope, nothin’ like that, silly girl,” Trixie talked down to Jess as someone was pouring a cool, silky liquid on the butt she was still proudly showing off. It dripped down to her lips. “That’s a questionaire and information packet for you. Take a couple days with it, even. We’re almost done.” That word, almost, was beginning to give the girl a rushing, anxious feeling now, that only compounded her hornies. 

“Why are you putting baby oil on me?” Jess demanded and sniffed, wanting to let Trixie know it wasn’t going to get past her. Just as soon as whoever it was rubbed it all in and it shined just right, she would get the hell out of there once and for all. “Because we generally think it’s sexy as shit here,” Trixie admitted. “And because it’s edible.”

Jess’s pussy twitched as more of the stuff pooled to it from her buttcrack. “What are you talking about, edible?” she asked, pouting with her new cartoon bow lips. “What good is an edible lotion for when I’m excercising and stuff, and –” 

She gasped as Trixie’s warm wet mouth gave her starving snatch a kiss. “Ohh,” Jess laughed, as she finally got it. “Heh-hee, that’s sooo corny.” 

She’d never been eaten out by another woman before, and couldn’t quite remember if she herself had gone down on Trixie, or if that was just a pleasant daydream. It just didn’t seem like her to do that. “Ssseriously” –slurp– “sstupid.” But whatever recognition or regret Jess had was melting into a sex soup with every spit-soaked flick of Trixie’s tongue. Letting herself morph into a ball of lust came a lot simpler than wondering why too much stuff was the way it was.

She was sick of wondering why she was drawn to this woman like a daughter to her mother. She was sick of wondering why the workout was toning her up so quickly, and how all the inexplicable ten or so pounds she gained overnight were settling downward on her hips and thighs. She was sick of wondering why it felt so amazing, exciting, why it made her priorities fizzle and shrink. 

Jess appraised her belly as she happily worked her muscles through her joy, creaming as Trixie gave her superhead, barely taking her face off to breathe. While much flatter than when she woke up, a small fluffy layer of baby fat winked out on top of her stomach in a slight bagel shape. Her innie navel was a bit more obscured in the soft flesh. The kind of chub that was hard to work off when you had such curves, a little perennial pudge that reminded her she was a thick girl now. The workout was, in fact, diminishing her frustrations. Trixie totally knew it would!

The only thing Jess really knew for sure was that she was far from home, low on cash, and touring to make more cash. Her number one priority was getting out of dodge and playing her next show. Even if it meant denying herself this idyllic bliss. 

It was annoying and made her asshole itch to so much as consider stopping, but she had to do it. Right after— “Mmm,” she mewed as she started to give in to the presence of a second thrumming tongue, Sandy’s. 

The way the two guys in referee-stripe muscle tanktops and tight soccer shorts just stood there on guard unnerved her more than if they had been trying to fuck her again. But she was content in letting them watch. They obviously had big boners over the scene, anyhow. The singer sighed and heaved her squatting body lazily lower. 

With a bit less physical discipline, she’d have been sitting on Trixie’s face as she performed her expert wet magic. Sandy was kneeling in front of them now, rubbing some of the oil generously into Jess’s smallish breasts, pulling at her nipples at the end of each coating.

Jess, nearly consumed in her sexual suffocation, ran her hands through her bright red hair, roughly combing it away from its sweat-stuck place on her forehead, trying to get some air and clear her head. She put her locks past her ears, astounded that there was so much hair to pull back, getting wetter all over when her curls slicked down below her shoulders. 

Astounded, that is, until she shimmied her pelvis on Trixie’s face more, and all her field of vision became tit. That did the trick. No more unhappy dumb stuff. Cherry red goo collected on her collarbone, running off her lips and chin. “My makeup is starting to get leaky,” she said, out of nowhere.

Satisfied with the extensive coating of greasy baby oil on Jess’s boobies, Sandy took her addictive hands off her and put the cap back on a phallic bottle. The way the cyclical, mind-warping, libido-teasing night and day had been turning out made what Trixie had to say next rather unexpected. 

“Okay, honey,” she chimed, pleased, “I think you got a decent enough workout here.” She bit Jess’s ass playfully and slid out from under her, causing the girl to squelch down to the gym mat, still locked into a pattern of gyration, lubing up the rubber with her juices. “You don’t have to fuck those guys. You look great already.” 

Still, Jess let one of them pull her slow-moving body up as the other held up her left leg. Sandy placed it carefully through a strip of fabric. Jess knew what to do now, and put her other leg through the glitter-speckled metallic purple thong, pulling it up. 

Trixie admired the butt, not quite a booty yet, but definitely an ass. Jess knew it was illogical, but she craved at least one of those dudes to fuck it! But she was supposed to be a good girl and get back on the road, or whatever. She pouted, then pouted some more when she remembered she shouldn’t have been pouting.

“What do you think, gentlemen?” the curvy Entertainment Czar asked the two dudes as she swatted it a half dozen times to make it blush. One of them was jacking off, he had to have approved. The other couldn’t hide his bone either, the nylon of his shorts growing white around the point of its distension, ready to bust forth with his meat. “I’ve seen better,” he lied. He certainly had never seen faster.

“You’re gonna wow ‘em at your concert tonight,” Trixie went on, trying to boost Jess’s confidence and bring her brain back to reality. All it did was make her hornier. All that logic and obligation just made her want to plant her body far from it, fucking and sucking until nothing else mattered. “Now which of these do you like more?” the matronly pin-up girl asked her protege. 

She held up a black demi bra and a wan, beige one that looked clunky and wrong. It was almost a joke to ask her to choose between the two. Jess snatched the black one out of her hand and glanced at the tag, forgetting that she had a bra, and other clothes of her own. “A C cup? I don’t think that’s –” 

Sandy was already pulling the second strap on for her. Trixie was hooking it together in the back. For a second, Jess thought her boobs were puffing up to better fit, but that was ridiculous. She shook her head and there they sat, filling the garment perfectly on their own. Maybe they did only look bigger. “Bra sizes run differently around here?” she smiled.

“Not really,” Trixie replied, uninterested, “no.” She wheeled over a rack of clothes so Jess could get a better view. “Now pick out a flirty little number for tonight,” she said, as the girl graciously flipped through a dozen or so dresses. 

She looked for one that wasn’t cut so high, marvelling at the sparkle and shine of the synthetic fibers she thought “fun”. Her fashion taste wasn’t getting worse, as much as it was getting radar-tuned to her new, bullying needs.

Failing that, she looked for one of the skimpy dresses that wasn’t cut so low. And finally, not finding one much different than the plunging necklines of the others, decided on a red one. Since everything else on her was red. 

She bent over, then straightened out. “You sure my ass isn’t hanging out too much?” she asked everybody, trying to pull down more satin that didn’t exist. 

“You can’t even see it at all,” Sandy said, pushing Jess’s undies out of the way without having to move aside any of the dress. She poked a finger in to see how wet this young trainee still was. 

When she pulled it out and it sloshed onto the floor with pussy juice, she met eyes with Trixie and both of their jaws dropped. “It’s tasteful. You just look very pretty.”

*              *              *

“Okay, I promise I’ll call you when I get into the city,” Jess said minutes later as she minced along, slowly and supernaturally getting used to the four-inch, white pumps they convinced her to wear. She could feel her butt sway along with her as the cute shoes clacked along the pavement of the parking lot now. She winced as she adjusted a bra strap, trying to smoosh her boobs back in place. It felt tight somehow. 

“I told you this isn’t my size,” she complained, as if it was going to make any difference whatsoever. Sandy and Trixie totally ignored her and were exchanging phones, looking and mewing over each other’s most recent baby pictures.

“Don’t you get hungry after working out?” Sandy asked the musician, petting her own pregnant belly. “Jeez, Sandy, I do!” Trixie answered for her, putting her arm around her one last time. “Why, Jess here never had my famous Thanksgiving dinner I make every Thursday! My husband’s probably home by now, I’m sure he’d love to inspect what you’re wearing. I just love it when he puts me in his lap and feeds me.” 

Jess didn’t know the women were joking and despite being very interested indeed, hastened her walk, close to tripping, back to her car at last. “All our girlfriends come over and we wear nothing but bibs!” Sandy yelled behind her. “You don’t know what you’re missing!” 

Jess politely declined as quickly as she could and rolled her car windows up, locking her doors like the bimbos were axe murderers, and skidded away into the sunset.

They tried jogging after her, but with their abundant, fertile bodies, it was useless. They were just doing it for show, anyway. “So, if you think this really is our next superstar,” Sandy asked, “why let her just leave like that? She didn’t even get any cum in her!” It made little sense to her. 

“She needs a bit more time on the road to ease into this lifestyle,” Trixie told her, “otherwise at the rate she’s gettin’ blessed, she’ll be breathing through a cock by next week.”

“Once she gets a taste of what it’s like to perform in St. Brittany’s name, she won’t ever get enough. Especially not after tomorrow. Beach show at Cape May.” She lit up one of her trademark cigs. “And her loser boyfriend she keeps whining about could try all he wants to stop her, but it won’t matter.” 

Sandy looked troubled, and flipped her phone open. It was Grant. She manually ignored it. “Do we even know who this guy is?” she asked, closing her phone again.

“Who knows?” Trixie said, not too concerned. “But dollars to doughnuts says that boyfriend is hung like a fuckin’ brazil nut.” Sandy laughed at that and checked her watch. “Alright, which one of those guys in there is yours tonight, Jack or Jake? I don’t really care who, but I’m gonna have to titty-fuck one of them soon!” 

The last penis to be between her swangers was her husband’s, and that was like, three whole hours ago. She couldn’t help it, really. 

Trixie seemed distracted. Sandy waited for her pick. “That girl is just way too frisky and pent-up to begin with!” Trixie cried, throwing up her hands. Sandy was confused, she didn’t get it. Did that mean she wanted Jack? 

Two miles down the interstate, Jess saw the light of a little country gas station and remembered she’d needed to tank up once she made it to the club the night before. “Phew,” she husked. That seemed like ten years ago. 

She pulled off at the exit, and right next to the off-ramp, was greeted by a weathered wooden sign with a hand-painted, old fashioned bombshell enjoying a Cherub Cream. “Welcome to Cherub Cove, Good Church Country Since 1887.” She took the beat-up billboard at face value, neglecting to see a Clear Channel tag at the bottom.

Pulling into the lot, she could see the attendant, who she assumed to be Clyde from the name of the place hanging on a rickety sign over the station. He was standing just outside the door, puffing on a corncob pipe. She rolled her windows down and unlocked her doors, poised to get out. 

He ran up. “No, ma’am,” he chivalrously offered, “pretty little thing like you shouldn’t move no muscle,” and he unlatched the handle at the side of her car, pumping her gas for her. “Were you planning on picking anything up from the convenience store?”

Jess struggled to slurp down the red candy drool that was practically gushing from her. “I guess just something to snack on if you got it,” she muttered, feeling conflicted over this princess treatment. After he was done pumping, he came back not a minute later. Jess thumbed through her wallet to pay the nice man, trying to find a couple twenties. 

He reached in and clasped her hand shut around it, holding out a candy bar in his free hand. “Uh-uh-uh. You look lost, little lady. Gas and that Big Bitty are on the house.” She unwrapped the king-size candy bar savagely and took a healthy bite. “Where’d you say you was comin’ from?”

“I didn’t,” she said, around a mouthful of berry nougat. The chewy treat was hard to eat, but seemed to be sopping up her excess saliva. Unfortunately, within the same process, it was making her horny again. It sure picked away at her hunger, though. 

Upset that her arousal hadn’t subsided since leaving Trixie and her hot friends, she told him “Poren Springs” between bites, and that she was a musician on her first east coast tour, and that she was thankful for the free stuff but really had to get back on the road. Lest she do anything rash and slutty. She left that part out, of course.

Eventually, he backed away from the car to let her finish eating, wishing St. Brittany’s tidings upon her on her trip. St. Brittany. Everyone mentioned her around here. Jess had never even heard of that particular saint before, and she was raised Catholic. She made a promise to eventually ask her mom, preferably whenever she was feeling less sexed-up and not stuffing her face.

When she was halfway down the candy bar, she saw that the attendant was still peering into her car, and it creeped her out. So she pulled to the side of the station, out of his scope, and took some deep breaths. Simply finishing this rich candy bar was proving insanely difficult. That it made her more turned on with each bite made matters more pressing.

She kept on chewing and working it down her throat, checking the lone new message on her phone. McKay had called her sometime during her workout. “I just got off the phone with Darren,” her label rep said. Darren was the student who organized her Philly show. She never saw it before, but with some time away from her computer, she remembered him being quite cute. Some crumbs landed on her lap as she wondered about his stamina.

“I don’t know where you are, but you weren’t at soundcheck. I can only assume by your silence that you’re on your way. Remember, show starts at 11. And if you don’t already have a new banjo,” the word nearly made her choke, “I e-mailed him instrumental tracks for your set that he can run through a PA.” That was easy enough. In reality, replacing the instrument hadn’t crossed her mind whatsoever in at least a few hours. “Be safe.”

Once she plowed through the rest of the Big Bitty, Jess felt an emptiness trickle in and spread out through the whole of her body. Then a soft heat travelling through her erogenous zones by way of pinpricks. 

She needed to cum soon. She didn’t want to, as she was out on the road, on her own now, getting later and later. But she had to. There was no way she could get back on the highway in this state. 

First, she ran her fingers along the inadequate fabric shielding her snatch. That didn’t work, so she pulled it aside and dug in. It still didn’t adequately make it any better. 

Thong around her ankles twenty minutes later, grunting and restless, she had four fingers pounding in and out, only getting more worked up. Someone knocked on her foggy window. She rolled it down, reluctantly. 

There Clyde stood, dick out, with his fists at his sides like Superman, grinning ear to corn-husking ear. “Couldn’t help but hear ya. Need some help?” 

He’s so huge, Jess thought ashamedly. Maybe one quick ride, and if I get off super-fast, it won’t be cheating? Then she remembered the strengthening correlation between feeling good and being misled. 

“No, I should hope not,” she said, affecting a southern accent of her own. “Thanks anyway.” She left her window down and let the man continue jacking off though, spurts of semen landing on the trim of her door and all the way to her seatbelt. 

“I’d… love for you to help me… help ya, honest to St. Bethany,” she told him. “Brittany,” he corrected. “Yeah, Brittany,” she sucked. “Wha’d ah say?” Clyde batted away the question, pulling his overalls back up, and started back to his post.

“‘Course, I never even heard uh no Saint Brittany before I come here or nothin’,” Jess continued, in a conversational tone, behind his back. Her voice cracked and melted into a smooth molasses rasp, like a bad Carolinian summer stock actress in a Tennessee Williams play. Hearing herself made her jump. This is weird… But weird is hot! Duh!

“Now, all that’s runnin’ through my brains is family way this, and ever-lovin’ livestock of the covenant that!” She popped open a Cherub Cream as the man stopped in his tracks. “Ah haven’t even been here a damn day and these my titties! Can you believe it?” Naturally, she didn’t mean any of it, just grabbing clusters of buzz words she’d heard around Trix and her friends. 

(Well, except for the titty part. She was an artist, though, and performing came naturally to her. Just like being on the stage. What was awkward was how it was coming out of nowhere. Why did she want to play dumb belle for this random old fart?)

Clyde turned around, strolling back up to her, slowly. She leaned up and out of her car, hefting her boobs out of their meager cups and cradled them, pushing them together. It was like she hadn’t truly noticed their new presence until she got out of Poren Springs. It didn’t feel right to just grow tits, sure, whatever, but she was far from wishing them away.

“Ready to give me a titty-job with them thangs?” he asked, pulling his pecker out again. It looked amazing. Jess smacked herself. Amazing meant awful somehow! She had to remember that. It was like Opposite Day, but with fucking! 

She knew she was advertising herself, too, so his randy request wasn’t so unfounded. Her dress still held on tight to her bust, even without the pestering bra. Men really are persuaded by a hot bod, ain’t they?

“Yeah, you’d like that I reckon,” Jess said, sounding play-bored. “But I’m a growin’ angel. You can still watch a growin’ angel, y’just cain’t touch her.” She hoped that was an accurate recalling of a rule from Mama Trix’s questionnaire and info packet. 

She didn’t want to look unfaithful in front of this dim-witted, God-fearing man. Ugh, why do I keep on flirting? She couldn’t seem to get her tits back in place and frowned, frustrated. All these new problems. A tour was hardly the time for all these new problems.

She wriggled out of her dress and unclasped her bra, throwing it to the ground, not figuring Clyde to be the kind of pervert that he was. So, not only was he peeping at her, he scooped the underwear up almost immediately. “You sure must have a gallon of cum in ya,” she sighed, lighting up a cigarette as he started jacking it again.

Jess gazed at her pretty fingernails as she absently dialed the number written on her glovebox. “Ooooh, why can’t I stop funny-talkin’?” she whimpered, waiting for the line to connect, uneasily taking drags of her cig and worried that something very wrong was happening. It felt like her mind was harpooned, locked into destroying itself from the vagina up. Clyde’s grunting got so loud that she couldn’t hear if someone picked up or if it was still ringing.

“I got a problem,” she hesitantly said, disappointed at the idea of inconveniencing Mama Trix. “I forgot to ask you if I could borrow something.” She took a tissue, and, pursing her lips onto it, got all the sticky red lipstick off. Her flirty pillows felt soft and looked natural, but had an even more vivid red tone to them. Like she was a born coquette.

“Ha, yeah, girl! I should’ve known you’d know what I was talkin’ about.” She laughed over the phone to Trixie, but looked in her mirror and saw that she was gritting her teeth, about to cry. Trying her best not to smile, or smooch her reflected image, she scanned her messy mind for reasons not to want those lips forever. They were just hot, juicy, sexy lips. No big deal.

“No, Trix, I’m not suckin’ on anything,” she chortled, wiping a tear from her eye. She winked at herself and turned her face to either side, to get views of her perfect face at different angles. 

“Do your kissin’ lips ever feel wet like your fuckin’ lips?” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and was working it like a toddler, then pulled it out when it started to feel amazing again, like so many things. She squeezed her thighs together. Just one last thing. “Nevermind, yeah, we’ll talk about it more when I get back.”

*              *              *

Jess breezed down the interstate, Trixie’s magic cock bearing balls deep in her, thrusting along with the beat of some inane pop trash on the FM. She’d clocked miles in what felt like no time at all after swinging back to retrieve the thing. 

“I wanna be a girl / I wanna wanna be a girl / I wanna wanna be a fun girl / I wanna wanna be the best girl / Oh yeah”, she sang along to the so-far 23-minute long song. It was nothing but that “chorus” repeated over and over again, with instrumental breaks that signaled key changes, overlayed with the sounds of ass slapping and girl-cumming. Now it sounded like some dude grunting on the downbeat.

In line at a toll booth, she put her favorite bandana around her neck and got her pink-rimmed glasses out of their case. Jess put them on while she checked herself out in the mirror, looking like a nerdy Veronica Lake after a hormone bath. She took the vibrator out, trying to tame it as it moved on its own accord and made a break for her thighs. 

It was time to give it a rest. It had already done its job twice. She wanted to seem indie and mature for the show, because that’s who she was, or something. She looked herself over and felt startlingly improper. Her dress’s hem totally exposed her pussy. Sandy straight-up lied to her.

The singer lamely held a pair of bright orange hot pants (that somebody left on top of her bag) bunched up around her crotch in an unsuccessful attempt to cover it. Her hips and ass were still exposed in the weak act. 

“Thongs are weird,” she said to the slowly powering-down dick in the passenger seat, as if it could listen. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t realize that she had rolled up to the attendant already and that he was listening, too. And watching. Once she did, she tried to defend herself like it was perfectly normal. Blushing with the color of a ripe tomato.

“Well, they are!” she told the man in plain grey uniform. He looked unimpressed. Was this lady actually getting mad about lack of coverage from underwear that was at her feet? He sniffed the close air seeping out of her car, and his heart dropped when he saw white splotches of what looked like milk, or worse… 

“Cherub Cove is back the other way, ma’am,” he said, laughing. Jess mistook it for a helpful laugh. “Sweetheart,” she husked, fake country accent getting realer and realer despite her misgivings, “I’m-a play a show in Philadelphia in like a hour or somethin’. You got the wrong lady.”

Jess pulled up her thong and was wriggling through buttoning her hot pants up, too, as people in the cars behind her began to honk their horns, getting restless. She caught the operator looking at her and assumed it was in lustful appoval. “Ma’am?” he tried. She smoothed the bratty short shorts around her thighs, and the tight cut made the new flesh of them pool out too obscenely. 

I look weird with hot pants on under a fancy dress like this, she convinced herself, hurriedly. “Yes?” she asked, pulling them back down, the elastic of her thong being taken down with them. “A dollar sixty-five,” the man said, uninterested.

Further down the road, she pulled into a rest stop, hungering for at least some coverage down below, before she made even more of a fool of herself, and maybe an iced coffee. And maybe a muffin or a burger, or something. 

“Nevermind, I —” Jess grumbled into the phone, sticking her teensily flossed ass out further as she rummaged through her back seat, and flung the contents of her bag across it. “I found ‘em.” She had to spend some time anxiously convincing Trixie that there probably were some girls, and maybe even guys, that might not take kindly to that much booty on display. She stammered through a a weak defense of her definition of proper.

She worked the ribbed white cotton panties on as a woman and her young son walked by, the mother attempting to shield his eyes, surely having to explain the situation away in a moment or two. As soon as she got the slighty more conealing undies on in a nice fit, desperately pulling her red dress down in hopes that its snugness was caused by how she was seated in the car, Jess noticed her crotch was already soaking through. 

“Yesss, Mama Trix,” she sighed, wanting to get on with her fourth phone call to or from her since leaving. “I’ll try my best not to preach too hard tonight.” Her hostess, since the workout, had consistently urged the singer to keep quiet about her changes and new, brainwashy faith. 

Truthfully, even though she was fired up and halfway ready for some inane, sexy sermonizing, it was getting harder and harder to remember all the particulars of her time in Poren Springs anyway. Or how much enough of it was already implanted. “I love you, too, Mama Trix,” she said, lips grazing the phone in an almost-kiss. “You go with Britt, too!”

Jess barely heard the ringing of her phone over the loud music, that silly, ditzy song still pounding through the car stereo some fifteen more miles ahead. Her fingers were deftly seasoning her panty-soup, and the fright over her constant horniness bounced along into pride with the banging beat. 

Pride that she’d somehow refused the crushing need to put the magic cock back in. She unkinked the twisted, sticky fabric, smoothed it over her pussy, licking off a finger or two as she checked her cell out. It was her boyfriend. It was actually her boyfriend! She freaked.

The touring musician was almost about to call Trixie out of reflex, to find out what she should do, before she (wisely, she thought) ignored him altogether. How could she possibly recap, as late as she was, and as still in the dark about so many things herself? She tossed her phone onto the seat and shifted her concentration back on the road, refusing to give in to her tricky fingers’ process. 

That long song was getting better, anyway. She turned it up. The song would make everything better. It had to have been the same singer whose songs were wafting out of the ceiling of the gym, at almost subsonic decibels. “I wanna be a slut,” she sang/chanted, wanting to keep up with the shifting lyrics. 

“I wanna wanna be a slut / I wanna wanna be a dumb slut / I wanna wanna be your cum slut / Y’big man!” Jess ran her arm out her open window, grinning at her private karaoke, feeling so free. She was so distracted that even if she had seen that her iPod was missing, it wouldn’t have made a bit of a difference.

Within no time, she breezed right into the city, and eventually found some parking a couple blocks from the house show. Jess turned the volume knob down and didn’t seem to hear that it did absolutely nothing. She also didn’t realize the radio was locked to whatever station she had on. She felt much, much too amazing to notice dumb crap like that.

The far proximity afforded her a tiny bit of grace as she immediately tripped out of her car, one of her heels somehow caught on the damp thong thrown carelessly on the floor mat. 

There was, thankfully, nobody around to see her tumble, or the quick, supernaturally sci-fi speed at which her skinned knees healed. The new, perfect flesh that formed around the cuts looked remarkably pliable, and her knew knees shone in the city night. 

Satisfied, she noshed on a Cherub Cream as fast as she could, nearly forgetting to stuff a few tubes in her purse for later.

*              *              *

“Yer all so sweet! Thank you suh gosh-durned much!” Jess shrieked, absolutely delighted. It didn’t occur to her that it was quite the turnaround from the night before, all these adoring… I actually have fans, she told herself. She simply picked her wedgie and took another ridiculous bow, her practically mooing, lily-white tits hanging kind of low off her chest for the first time ever. 

Not anything like Trixie’s, surely, an appraisal which kind of worried her because, a) why was she holding herself to the beauty standard of that woman, and, worse, b) why was it so easy to do just that? Whatever. 

She was here now, and she put on a hell of a show. Jess treated the den like a tucked-away jazz nightclub, gliding sultrily across the makeshift stage, free to dance around as she had no instrument to impede her. Most of it was crunk, totally ghetto maneuvering. Moves that she had little to no experience with but was making do with them swimmingly.

The banjo-free backing track afforded her all the room she needed to rock just a mic and her hips, and the studio recording, with all its booming rhythm section, was intact. It was such an easy setup, the singer wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. She had spent so much time in concerted effort to impress her audience’s minds, when she was really overlooking wooing their bodies was half the battle.

The way “Native Tears” bled into “I Wanna Wanna Be a Girl” was magnificent, a call to the dance floor, a fever rush that extended down from the stage and into the hearts and overpriced denim of the crowd. Though still a newbie to the song herself, the crowd seemed to recognize it and consider it an ironic tribute. At least she hoped that’s how it came across, and why Darren had snuck it in there.

She belched openly and tugged at her sopping, sticky panties, sweatily surveying her fanbase. It was Jess’s night. She owned it, Trixie or no Trixie. She blew a kiss to the crowd, staving off her stupid brain at least for another moment. “We love you!” someone shouted as others whistled, most of them applauding as if in rapture. 

She blew another kiss and, without knowing why she was doing it, or caring, pulled her panties down, the elastic finally unchafing. She let her booty bounce and wobble like a jello mold into better view under her now-skintight red dress.

Jess wrung her white cotton panties dry onstage, much to the delight of the laughing audience as gobs of her juices splashed thickly onto it. She held the dripping undies up, miming with her shoulders, “Can you believe this?!” 

A tiny, introverted-looking hipster-y guy caught them when she decided to throw them behind her head, aimlessly, adorably. He had his face buried in them in no time, then even using the garment to, with all hope, hide his growing hardon. The kid walked to the stairs, horny but conflicted. Soon, two girls followed suit, suddenly quite interested. 

Neither the flustered, randy audience nor its hapless entertainment had the slightest clue that the young songstress was pumped full of all manner of inhibition-lowering, invasive pheromones. Subtle but present little helpers that made their way with tremendous force to the pleasure centers of anyone within a twenty foot radius. 

For the members of the crowd who hadn’t heard of Cherub Cove and all that, it would be only a matter of days, perhaps hours, before internet research told them the answers to those certain unaskable questions like “How did my dick triple in size?” or, “Why do I get so turned on whenever I notice a guy staring at my new titties?” On this night, they weren’t ready for the truth, except to maybe cling onto it viscerally.

She tried not to stare too obviously at the two girls sharing handjob duties for the geeky dude lucky enough to catch the musician’s underwear. She did a bit of a once-over of herself, trying her best not to linger too long on her exploded curves, for fear of getting even hornier or worse, freaked out. Especially considering she had opted to wear the trainers with the sexy little red number, Jess felt terribly clumsy since leaving Poren Springs and she nearly fell off the foot-high stage. It was almost embarassing. 

Sure, a few people laughed, but the crowd just cheered louder. She idly wondered if she should have gotten her balance tested by those boys at the gym. I just have to remember to use my brain, that’s all, she lamely comforted herself. Even though her body was being shown off well by her outfit, and assuredly did the legwork for her quasi-performance.

Those childish, clementine-colored sneakers. They cemented an image that was humble, more down-to-earth, but still fashionable, enhanced by the strapping, ever-tightening red dress. It was a smart, rebellious look that converted the women in the audience who thought it was ironic comment on something, and the jumping jacks she did toward the end of her set converted the lot of the men, for obvious reasons. 

It was quite the performance workout, and she surprised herself with how addictive excercising was, that she’d just lapse into it even onstage. She spied a spray bottle, purple and translucent. It must have had glitter on it to shimmer and sparkle as it did.

Thinking it filled with water, she thoughtlessly sprayed her face, neck and chest, but all it did was make her already-sticky skin stickier. And splotchier. Rubbery spots had formed where the mist hit, fully clear and colorless. Jess held it up with a familiar anxiety. 

“Frecklespritz?” Lilac-scented? A burgeoning bimbo in a many-buckled snakeskin-pleather catsuit snatched it from her hand. The pink, chintzy hoops dangling from her ears were the only hint of any softness in her soul, and she gave off the vibe of a diabolical Janet Jackson.

“You weren’t supposed to see this product until tomorrow,” she reprimanded Jess in a cold voice. Who was this woman? Before the singer could start to get really skeezed out by whatever her deal was, she felt an arm around her shoulder. Phew. 

“Hi, Darren!” She felt rushed in a strange way, and pecked him on his angled cheek. The ice queen tottered away with two other, similarly clothed minions, standing a foot shorter each, and with identical black bows at the back of their short locks. The mystery lady towered above them, her height advantage exacerbated by a massive beehive hairstyle.

They acknowledged no one, nor gave any goodbyes as they strutted out, like high-fashion military. Jess was barely conscious of being led up the stairs by the boy who set up the show for her. “Who are those –” He covered her fluffy mouth with his class-ringed, unexpectedly manly hand. 

“Loved your set tonight,” he smiled, “just want to get that out of the way.” Darren had the nerve to let a couple thick fingers press playfully onto her lips. Jess had the spunk to seal her lips around one and suckled like she had a pacifier in them. It fit wonderfully, almost funny in its perfect feel.

She soon had her hand in his, gleeful and trusting, beyond the point of their mere internet correspondence beforehand. Never having met each other in person, they had swapped MySpace comments on one another’s band pages without so much as a phone call before Jess left Boston for the tour. 

The singer assumed he was taking her to his studio, to maybe illustrate how he remixed her instrumental tracks so irresistibly. “That was just my sister and her friends. They’re just jealous.” Jess sniffed. That didn’t exactly get to the root of why she asked. 

It also didn’t seem possible, something she knew even in this state. This woman was black. Darren was either Irish or Scottish, but definitely an alpha ginger. She flared her nostrils to get more of his weird, hauntingly familiar, primal scent making its dumb, blocky presence known.

The most potent layer was that of overworked, over-hung farmer that curiously reminded Jess of Clyde and the boys at the gym. Quite unusual for this college boy all the way in the city to have that country aroma basically gushing out of him. 

“Well, awright,” she said, forgetting what she was really talking about, let alone about the weird spray bottle or its name, or its even weirder owner. A sizeable portion of the words she uttered over the course of the day were habitual, practically meaningless, and usually not what she intended to say. The imprinted inclination to get chatty. “I juss love it here in Philly,” she sighed, sniffing. 

Fresh flowers, Trixie’s cigarettes (she couldn’t remember lighting one but was half done with it), and her own sweat and juice mingled together so mystically with Darren’s inexplicable, hard-working musk. “Why’re we in the bathroom?” she whined as he locked the door behind them. 

Jess hiccuped. That voice was back. The one that made her sound all dumb, druggy, and sorority-southern. She tried to understand what was going on, and took another breath, lightly tasting the supernatural smells of her own stressed body and the young indie rocker. She figured a “little girl lost” act might speed things up. “Don’t you have a more comfor’ble place where we can talk in private?”

The only thing this reminded her was of a time her boyfriend pulled her into his parents’ bathroom when they were over for Thanksgiving one year. That had ended, she remembered fondly, in some amazing, if abbreviated sex. The memory, such as it was, paled in comparison to her first orgasm with Trixie’s magic cock earlier in the day though, or whenever it was. 

Darren ignored her and simply took down the straps of her dress. Her growing, wobbly boobs helped it off. “I have a boyfriend,” she drooled, “an’ shit, and –” She unzipped him and worked his dick to full mast in no time. “I’m just going to jack you off, that’s it,” she pleaded. “Believe you me, yer not the only one who’s missin’ out right about now!”

A daub of precum seeped its way from his cockhead to Jess’s fingertips, and she started to spread her legs out a little more as she stood, hiking up her already revealing dress with her free hand. “Well, actually, um…” She whinnied. “If nobody can see us fuck, then that cain’t possib-lie count as cheatin’!” Darren hesitated and wriggled free from her sensual grasp. All she wanted was for his great rod to be back in her hand. “Right?” 

He answered by putting his dick away, his boner still rudely tenting overworked denim after zipping back up. She could nevertheless smell it, and it made her irritated. She smacked her forehead. Why was she ready to cheat so willy-nilly? This guy was trying to stop her!

Darren got behind Jess and held her boobs, caressing either nipple one at a time. She reflexively backed into him with her exposed rump, grinding down on his clothed crotch. She felt so safe. “Truth is, Jessica,” he said, already fibbing, kissing the back of her neck, making her melt deeper into his arms, “This is the only room in the house with a mirror.” 

She gazed at her reflection, scarcely recognizing herself through all the curves and makeup. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, almost bored-looking, like she was a professional at these sorts of situations. Going through experienced motions. “Notice anything different?”

It took her an eternity, but she did. “My left nipple is a little bit harder than my right?” Darren backed away slowly, flabbergasted at how quickly she was going Brittany-bitch. 

Jess just cupped her boobs right where he’d left his hands, pouting to her reflected image. Neither of them knew if it was out of desperation or because it made her look that much sexier. He toggled his phone to play a snippet of live video someone took of her Pittsburgh show. The disparity between that Jess and the one in the mirror was intense and undeniable.

“Jessica,” he said, using her full name, making her feel more relaxed and comfy all around. She loved that he called her that. “Jessica, I’m concerned about you. I think you caught the ‘family way flu’.” The girl in the poor-quality cell phone video was slight, tiny even, as she stood onstage, warbling a morose tune. 

To Darren, it looked as if she had gotten a completely new lower body in the two days since, her hips nearly three times the size they were on record. He thumbed an asscheek as she wimpily egged his hand on lower. He refused, peering at a tiny but clashing birthmark on her butt. 

“You have to know what I’m talking about. You’ve got the mark right here.” He poked at the spot and it sent a cascade of pleasure throughout her whole body, almost as good as if he had decided to throw his meat inside of her. The little mole radiated red outwards, looking like hives until he got a closer look. 

Sure enough, it was the sign of a newbie-cherub. Little tiny crosses made up the light rash. He swallowed, tempted to unzip his fly and ravage her pussy right there. “You said you wuz – I mean- were in Poren Springs last night?” 

The past two times Trixie had tried this and orchestrated other girls’ tours had proven slight experimental failures and they’d have to abandon the project attempts. By the time the first one made it to his house venue, she did not have that birthmark yet, signalling to the members of the top secret operation that something physiologically was not gelling. The second girl’s birthmark was already close to black, well lived in. It was decided that she was too far gone, barely able to speak, let alone enunciate enough to sing. 

That particular inductee’s “performance” was just her rolling around and jilling off onstage. After fucking her following a lukewarm reception, Darren made the arrangements to send her back to Trixie. He made sure that the next musician she tried out was in the middle of a tour instead of putting a seasoned cherub on the road right after she graduated from Cowlick College. 

This girl was

just right

, though certainly progressing quickly. He tapped the button on her butt and it made her knees lock together. “Yessss,” she moaned, “yeah, I was there last night — Hey, if you do that again, could you, like… dry-hump me or something, at least?”

Darren pushed Jess’s butt-button again brattily, and that was apparently her final straw. She just about toppled to her knees, licking this pseudo-friend’s package through his jeans, gasping and panting, comfy mouth oscillating between tongue-attack and hanging lustily open. She got his cock out in a manic rush, like a spoiled child on Christmas morning. 

But before she could duck down and start to quench her thirst for this dude’s dude-cum (a first, since she rarely even spit whenever she gave Jude oral, preferring him to spurt on her tits or more frequently, a dishrag), Darren had to be a party pooper, again.

“Tsk-tsk, you can touch, but you can’t suck. I don’t have any condoms, and I’m sure you don’t either.” Jess couldn’t figure out if he thought that about her because she seemed innocent, or if she just seemed to be starving to get herself preggo. “Come on,” she complained as she stroked. “What the fuck?! So I can’t blow you?” She traced his abs as she looked up sadly at him, all emotionally riled up.

“I don’t want to catch Angel Lover’s Disease,”  he said, which is an entirely harmless condition afflicting almost every one of the unlucky (or very lucky, depending on who you’re talking to), uninitiated men who happen upon a cherubgirl and decide they can’t resist, and fuck them. Which is basically every one of them nowadays, including an alarming amount of gay guys. There were downtown protests for St. Brittany’s “Swing Both Ways, You’re The Lord’s Gays!” conversion campaign, to boot.

*              *              *

Angel Lover’s Disease is beneficial for men in almost every way. It’s good for the skin, builds muscle faster than any supplement or standard excercise regimen, and makes a man not only hung like a mule, but rock hard at the drop of a hat, with feats of mythic stamina and super-potent sperm replenishment. 

The lone drawback is that, depending on how many cherubgirls one screwed, he’d run the risk of a brain drain, particularly if it was an exceptionally hot day. Darren definitely had the “ailment” for months and so already reached half his country pussy quota for the day. Angel Lover’s Disease promises you lots of angel lovin’, on the real.

These days, all he had to do to scoop up some tail was just stroll shirtless through Little Cherub, which was swallowing South Philly whole. A streamlined mega-neighborhood for downhome, sex-crazed flesh-gods. A gentrification of another kind, if you would. Babby, Shana, Lissa, Polly, Misha. There was even a girl that insisted on being called Titties. She had her name legally changed to Titties Menlove, and is working as an actress for Cowboy Candy B-movies and lives off of Reed, working as a recruiter for St. Brittany’s between jobs. 

Of course, he never talked to any of these girls again. He didn’t need to. Little Cherub was literally swarming with all manner of similarly unbeatable pussy. His favorite come-on line was “Excuse me, miss, could you spare any milk?” If the Brittany-bitch got the reference (A hobo-gigolo to Shay-Belle in her movie “Motherload”), which she would, she’d smile back, they’d talk for a minute or so, maybe get a drink or a bite to eat. Invariably she’d be too worked up to not invite him back to her place to watch another foreign movie from church country. 

Within fifteen or twenty minutes, as it happens to urban Brittany-bitches with all those silly DVDs, someone was fixing to cum, and cum hard. The movies are just that great. Today was one of his favorite days yet. Twins. That only happened four times before, so he felt kinda proud. 

He tried a handful of times to stop fucking those girls, but it was a lost cause, all he did was jack off and start to lose valuable memory, like his name or social secturity number. Yup, a hot day without fucking a real live cherubette, if you had ALD, would cut you down some IQ points to boot. 

Afflicted physicists and politicians alike have had to resign their posts and become cafeteria workers and custodians. Before they realize how much more fun they could be having in Cherub Cove and move there, of course. It becomes clear when examined in this way that the “disease” is really, ultimately a blessing. It eliminates the gravity of most problems and replaces them with a trusted route to a fertile family unit.

*              *              *

Jess’s eyes glazed over as she half-listened to him go on and on, sucking up her drool every once in a while to keep up. “It travels through oral sex,” he continued, and Jess was way too trusting and dim at the moment to see that he was already well healthily afflicted. “I didn’t know that for the longest time,” he lied; it was more like a half a day at best, his first while visiting his cousin Maddie two summers ago in Cherub Cove.

(He couldn’t believe the odd rumors about the town and was mystified and had to see it and Maddie, magnetically attracted, beyond intrigued. It took some time, and a dozen or so conversation attempts, to realize that this was no longer his cousin, or “Big Sis” as he often called her. That girl was gone and this new girl didn’t miss her one bit. In fact, she loved her plasticky-smooth skin and unbothered mind, both ready to be commandeered by cartoon curves. 

He was uncomfortable about fucking a relative, though. Even if she was nothing like the Maddie he knew, and was even taking to the name Madison. That new precocious name, despite having nothing to do with her real one, Madeline, seemed to signal a shift in her behavior and demeanor. 

Although, after four or five mean blowjobs all the way into dusk, he figured he could accept at least those and her new silly name. After visiting her every weekend while her boyfriend was away, just for a couple in-and-out, dessert-treat BJs, he was finding it hard to believe Madison wasn’t always her name. It was as natural as the three or four FarmFrappes he had to order every time he “checked in”.) 

“You could, uh… You could say I’m a fan of blowjobs and must have been dick-milked by a Shimmering Shield of St. Beverly somewhere down the line,” the kind, hospitable but more and more masculine-seeming dude admitted. “Nah-uh, you did not just do that!” Jess caterwauled. “It’s St. Brittany,” she reinforced, highly annoyed, huffing and puffing. 

A curiously pleased smile fell onto his face as she exposed her perfect programming, wondering if he should play it cool or just bend the chick on over. Jess was already halfway there. All he had to do was pivot and reposition her, like she was an opposable doll. “I don’t wanna quarrel with ya, but get it right.”

She was already on her knees. She looked up at him with glistening, puppy-dog eyes that seemed to suggest, “Oh, pwease, pwease let me thuck your penith.” Jess didn’t want to fuck, though, not really. Sucking wasn’t cheating (as long as you didn’t look up at the guy too much while you were doing it. One of Trixie’s town’s infomercials had told her that, and that was quite helpful.) and she was just jonesing for it for whatever reason. 

Darren totally has Ass-Girl Lover Syndrome by now, I’m sure, Jess thought, unaware of how true her wild guess was.

“My cock’s like, two thirds bigger or something already,” Darren informed her, complaining as if that was somehow a setback for him. Even in the throes of discovering her new, hyper-erotic self, Jess called bullshit, but in the process ignored the implication that he had fucked more than a couple cherubgirls already. 

She knew, somewhere in another silly-sexy sector of her brain that was forming and staking its claim, that she had to have been the freshest, most delicious ass he’d seen. 

He unbuckled his belt and slowly unzipped his jeans, stopping not too far from the fly, and whipped his dick out as it shot upward, slapping onto his toned stomach.

“Oh, you poor, poor baby,” she cooed like Marilyn, sarcastically, spit adorning her lips like molasses, a glut of sugary saliva making her speech start to border on redneck. And not a refined one, at that. The more she talked after, or during her jumbled, flailing, half-thoughts, the dumber she felt. 

It made her weak with the twinkle-tinglies when she recognized that she only got horrified about once every twentieth sentence by the ditzy crap she was saying. “Gotta walk around this whole wide world with a strong dong, huh? Sex must feel awful!” 

Those flashes that told her something was destroying her brain made her a lot wetter than they should have. They were getting fewer and too far between. When she first noticed something naughty was happening to her, it had been a lot more obvious. Even if she was still pretty much compliant and almost gleeful for some of those excercises earlier that afternoon, she knew who she was. 

How to locate dreams and aspirations. Maintaining a somewhat grounded outlook as her brain begged for sleep mode much too often, and her body started asking and answering more questions each minute. “I wish it was smaller!” she joked at his prick, rolling her eyes as she tried to graze the tip before her hand was swatted away again. 

Jess surely knew who she was. She was an adventure-seeking touring musician, and she wanted to have just a second of fun. (Figuring her boyfriend into the equation was annoying and almost sad, so she didn’t.) Wasn’t she entitled?

Now, it was also getting troublesome to remember where she was a lot of the time. It smelled like she was back in the lazy sex gravy of the Poren Springs / Cherub Cove border. The fact that they were playing Shimmy Shields on the stereo, muffled through the bathroom walls, only added to the backwoods ambience. 

“So… Do you like music and stuff? Like, art and… I bet you work out, huh?” She was trying, adorable but desperate, to sound smart and invested. Really, she mostly wanted to keep hearing and using words that made her panties (when she wore them) cream.

Jess held a tit, idly trying to make its nipple meet her lips, as casually as biting a fingernail. “You work up a sweat and build that bod up so you can pound the living –” She sat on the edge of the bathtub, fidgeting, and crossed her legs together. 

“Um…” She put on somebody’s glasses, left on the soap dish. They almost reminded her of something she might wear, and, holding them up, could have sworn she had a pair just like them. But that was ridiculous – she had perfect vision! They’d make her remember how to be smart, though, anyway. Or look smart. Whatever. “Ummmmm… So like…”

The more Jess let her changing body carnally luxuriate in itself, the less her mind could attempt to give a shit. Now when she tried to make herself feel extra wrong, feel extra guilty, her conscience simply pre-empted those pesky intruders with a Pavlovian urge to fuck something. 

She couldn’t stop teasing Darren, even though she knew this was not like her. At all. She fought and fought to remember what she would have done to such a nice and nicely exposed cock before all this bimbifying. Probably something lame like run away. Ugh, that was so two days ago!

But, logically, the best part about teasing was that it gave her more ammo for the hot session with the mighty magic-dick toy that was sure to come at some point. At least for this moment, all she could do was tease Darren, and felt altogether justified. 

“Guys that get better and bigger dicks are sooo persecutie,” she giggled once and then at her mistake. “Gimme a break, boy.” The powerful, rich scent of basically just his straining cockhead teased her right back. Jess purred. 

“You know you want it,” she sang despite her slushy will, making sure the door to the bathroom was locked. Of course it is. I’m such a dumb whore, she accused her ever-shifting self. 

For the past couple hours at least, she had taken to poking fun at herself, to force her to laugh at her libido-enriching troubles. Much, much easier to be amused than get freaked. Every little thing she could do to avoid a breakdown on the road surely helped, she reasoned. Even if it meant stuffing her holes, like, a lot of the time. (At the moment, her mouth was of course her loneliest hole.) 

Playful little jabs to herself reminded her that she, as incomprehensible as it sometimes seemed, had other responsibilities besides being sexy and waiting for sexy shit to happen. It did seem like her self-worth was dwindling to hay-pennies, though. I’m a triflin’ little bimbo and I’ll never make it without a man and a ring.

She wondered, frightened as to where that “settling down” trip had come from. It almost sounded like something Hilda would say, Ginny’s twin sister on the “Pastures of Promise” soap. “I know you know just what to do with ass-n-titties like mine.” She slid the rest of her dress off to better advertise, and present her request with a little more color. I’m a silly, stupid ditzy-girly. That’s all. That’s who I am.

“I am not!” Jess shrieked, hardly noticing Darren’s smirk. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge that surely misplaced blurt and let her continue. “I haven’t tried out these new lips yet,” she pled her case extra-irrelevantly, “and I already ruined a perfectly good top from all this spit, and like, just before the show, when I got an iced coffee, I kept suckin’ on the straw even when there wasn’t anythin’ left in the cup. ‘Cuz it felt so good.” 

She stuck a prim, fashionable finger in between her lips, because she mentioned them. They felt good, but she had a hunch they could feel a lot better. “I dunno, it’s like… My mouth is getting horny.” She threw her hands up, making her new boobies shake. “Weird, huh?” 

She got back down on her knees, and he was going to let her blow him this time, overcome by how cute and genuinely carefree her personality was, complimented and still put in another context by her voluptuous, lust-built second bod. Jess got as far as a couple jacks after wetting her fingers (too easy) before someone knocked on the bathroom door and barged in, not waiting a second for an answer.

“Oh, for Sister Sandy’s cankles! Did I interrupt?” Darren’s smoky sibling’s eyes went wide at the secret scene. Jess still had her hand on the boy’s johnson, but hesitantly took it off when she met eyes with and recognized the black cat-woman. “Don’t let me stop you, hussy,” she laughed, sliding a hot pink gardener’s mat under the singer’s appreciative knees, rubbing Jess’s back as she took her brother in her mouth, both of them forgetting anything said about Angel Lover’s Disease. 

The girl, already past peaking with a fever pitch, creamed at being called “hussy”, and wore that as a badge of honor. The boy liked it too, because she didn’t fight it, just welcomed the blowjob as if she was about to receive St. Brittany herself.

“But Darren,” his sister carried on authoritatively, denying herself the urge to give Jess pointers, watching the young tramp’s ability and suck-style take care of themselves all on their own. The more Jess sucked, the better she got at it, and the better it felt. Merely a hair or two less intense than getting fucked for real, she knew she’d still be able to cum just from having him in those pleasure puffs. 

So did he. He thrusted a bit more emphatically now, close to facefucking her. He gathered her long, succulent red hair and clumped it together in a temporary ponytail, jerking her head back and forth in her lascivious labor. “Darren!” his sister called again, aggravated. “Yeah?” he wondered, shockingly meek. Bitch could suck.

“You can’t forget to christen her with a new stage name. You can’t forget.” Jess grabbed on to Darren’s solid thigh to steady herself and gagged, her head being pulled up as if it would make her nice, helpful man think better. The sharp, rough act was a hot reminder that she was putting in work. She sighed, gurgling a little from the precum sludging off the roof of her mouth, putting a finger in her mouth at least. 

She stumbled to the side of the bathtub, sucking on two fingers now, too hot to say anything but admitting, “I love sucking cock.” Darren’s sister laughed as he jacked himself off, and she said, “Of course you do, Britty-bimbo.” More resolve dissolved in Jess, in the shimmering shape of a unicorn made of sparkles. Acceptance!

The crowd was still milling about the house. Darren and Jess could hear the dozens of loud conversations going on but it didn’t bother them. Darren’s hard rod stood strong and red in front of him as he lit up a cigarette. He emitted a timeless, rebel sort of cool as he spoke between his first puffs. “I gotcha, sis.” 

Jess finished putting her lengthy, lustrous hair into a real ponytail and demurred, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your brother is like… hot as shit,” she beamed, already with one thumb on her clit and the other in her mouth, “and shit.” 

Darren’s sister glared at the performer as she took off her glasses that kept sliding off her face from the sweat of sexy-time. “Okay, Darren?” she asked, bored by the trifling tart. He dumbly nodded.

“Jessica’s got a lot of fans out there, so she should set up her merch table soon,” his sister went on. The singer could not or would not hear, and spread her legs out more, silently deciding whether or not plugging her cunt with the end of a hairbrush would feel as awesome as she hoped. 

“I’m not telling you to rush, but just be careful about the clock.” She stepped into the bathroom, fidgeting with a tissue dispenser that rested at toilet level on the wall. She met eyes with her brother and grinned a knowing grin. 

“I think you two need to take a look over here and maybe fix that before you come on out, too,” she sang with a sultry wink. Jess didn’t know what they were talking about, because she was so barely conscious that they were even talking in the first place.

“Jessica! Jess!” some fangirl shouted as the feline mistress closed the door. “She’s busy, she should be out soon,” the chocolate sister could be heard saying on the other side of the door. There was a decent amount of audible groans at the news. Jess stumbled backwards into the door, locking it. 

She studied her body briefly and smoothed her hands over her partly familiar curves. Hair is up, face is rinsed. Let’s suck some more cock. She slunk down to her knees, pulling Darren forward by his shins, hungry and close to dehumanized.

“Fuck, Jessica,” he said, worried in his own dim-bulb way. “My sister was right. This Kleenex box is off-center.” Jess blindly trusted him and didn’t want to peel her gaze off of his dick, now deflating, the poor little guy. She wanted to help it, to stroke it, to suck it. But she knew that the second she went near it, he’d push her back down with those strong hands of his. 

While punishment and discipline were oddly making themselves known as major turn-ons lately, she understood it would be best not to rock the boat with him. She just wanted to give some head, that’s all. Was that really so much to ask?

“If you could just,” he grunted to get her attention, undoing the fixture with a screwdriver that seemed to come out of nowhere, “pry your eyes off my pecker for a second and watch. That’s all I ask, and then you can have your little dick-snack. It would help me a good deal.” She complied, anything for her oral reward that doubled as his. “Teach your dumb little trailer trash ass somethin’ about home remodeling.” Impatient, he grabbed her by the butt and scooched her over to him.

“You might even like it better than smokin’ pole, you slutty litte dummy.” Fat chance. He snuck a finger in her cunt as he plopped her down next to him. Glancing at it once it was unglued from her snatch, he saw it was covered in her juices. Jess grabbed onto his leg like a monkey to a tree, squeezing. He couldn’t believe how perfectly this indoctrination was working out. Her mouth felt better than most vaginas he enjoyed since contracting ALD.

“Slutty, dumb little dummy dumb-girl,” he murmured dreamily. The words swam around in the wayward singer’s bliss-ravaged head, until they rubbed up against each other in a special new kind of prayer. “Trailer park trash-ass,” he prattled on under his breath. “Slutty, dumb little trailer park girl with a dumb, big ol’ trash-girl slut-butt.” She attempted to mouth the words, as they seemed too important to forget, but all that came out was a simpering moan.

Jess was way too wet after being called those names. They were so far from the truth, yet so close to the Truth. She squelched up and down on her fist. She was delighted to learn how to unscrew a tissue dispenser, and didn’t even put up a trace of effort in keeping her drool from splashing onto the tile.

Her hands went animalistically to his dick, and he wordlessly allowed her to go for it. He was granite hard in seconds. The sweat that covered every micron of Jess’s body was heavily made up of runoff Cherub Cove product, the ultimate all-purpose aphrodisiacs, and just those fleeting moments of getting blown were enough to enlarge his junk. 

It was only a little, but he could definitely tell. This newborn Brittany-bitch would easily pile another one or two inches on his prick by the time they were through. Jess jerked him until it was big and strong and begging for a two-handed tugjob. She didn’t want to let him down though, and worked his wood as best she could with just one, eyes on the almost unscrewed tissue box.

“There,” he grunted, relishing in the sweet thumbing his engorged cockhead was getting, as he rested the dispenser on the floor. Jess was gobsmacked. In a hole in the wall, encircled in a pink neon light, was a veiny, monstrous, yummy-looking megacock. Two big dicks? And here she was, barely able to contain her joy in handling one!

“A glory hole?” she asked, only having read about such a thing. Something about it seemed familiar, though. Something beyond the instantaneous recollection that she’d seen the ads for Gloria Gobble’s Glory Holes back in Poren Springs. The shape of it and the pitch-black negative space around it seemed mighty and commanding, like a home you’d never need to leave.

“Can I kiss it?” she asked irrepressibly. “Sure, but just for a few seconds,” Darren encouraged. “Get him nice and wet. You’re gonna be sucking my dick, after all. Or did you forget that, you tit-wit bimbo?” 

She’d figure out what would happen with this dick after she blew it. She propped an elbow on the wall to get a better grip on the big wang, to do her job better.

It was best not to worry about it, and to let her spit do the talking, and her hand do the jacking. It seemed hasty to do anything like think when Darren was already saying such sweet things. Egging her on so cutely.

“You’re a pro at this suckin’ shit, honey bun” he said, petting her shoulders. “Why, I bet you’d just suck harder if I told you there were two cameras in here, both pointed at you.” She sucked harder and felt the heat of surveilance. It felt like being onstage. 

—-To Be Cum-tinued…—-