HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
11
“Bye-bye,” Maddy waved to the real nice, pretty, intelligent, big-bootied Officer Turnover, as the black cop stepped finally out the LaMode’s residence and into the brisk day.
“Tummurrah . . . I’s be stoppin’ by den, Miss LaHo. Uuuuuuh . . . O yeah. Tah question the kid n’ shit. Er, naaa-aaaaah (GRUNT!), fuck-it, bettah if n’ it’s Monday. Fo’ sho’ won’t be in NO damn shape til’ a’least Monday. Er, Tuesday . . . ’Pologize, Masm, but can’t seem to think ’bout nuffin’ else since yer pies ’asides big dicks n’ shit. Reckon this ’ere big thick ass o’ mine needs a big-ass thick daddy in it like a ho need a smackin’ (Hee-heeeeeee!) . . . Shee-YIT! Twat’s wetter ’n a fuckin’ dog’s nose!” And, to punctuate her excited little dialogue, no sooner said this than the cop, reaching down between her legs with as rough and automatic a gesture as she might have used to swat a fly, sprayed her firm black thighs with a geyser’s burst of slutty juices.
“Mine, too,” admitted Maddy, reaching down between her own legs just as she had seen her friend the nice copper do, and in time therefore to feel herself copy in her spray the wobbly police-woman on her doorstep.
“I’s-a . . . I’s sayin’, um . . .” the cop spaced off an instant before regaining her train of thought. “O yeah, ’n shit. Yer daughtah, Missim LaMoon—should get ’er to a dick, er, dock-tor ’n shit, if ’n ye know what I mean . . . Some sorta rehab ’n shit ([in an appealingly high-pitched voice] fuck, feels gooood!) . . . Cuz she gonna be comin’ off HARD when that spank gets outta her veins, Ma’am, ’ll need some social work ’r shit . . .”
As should only be imagined, Officer Turnover looked a mighty bit bustier, hippier, happier, and more brain-addled and cock-hungry than at the end of last chapter. Her new and improved, even bigger booty strained the seams of her skirt at the fleshy apex of her either thigh well beyond the point of tearing. Her button-down blue cop’s shirt, on the other hand, was luckily roomy enough by design not to tear outright at her expansion, though the spaces between buttons displayed an awful lot more than before of newly “blossomed” black titties and a white lacy bra worked to a near invisible strain between the all-eclipsing skin.
Maddy just nodded to the stacked slut’s appraisal of what she, the mother of the passed-out teenage whore upstairs, should do, though with such a dazed and slutty look in her eyes, it wasn’t likely she had understood much of it.
For her part, Maddy looked just the same as five minutes earlier—huge boobied, dressed the slut, expression that of the horniest fuck-toy—only now all in all more so. She was redder faced, even more glassy-eyed, and a good deal even wetter than earlier on the couch; she was somehow, too, even a good deal prouder than when she’d first cum on her fingers in tacit company of the cop, specifically prouder in her latest preoccupying passion. Just as once she had based her estimation of her self-worth on the outcome of a pastry and the slim results of sharing it with a family member or neighbor, now she based it on the climax of her lust and the more compounding interest of sharing that climax with a big dick “daddy” or another slut just as busty as herself. So she had just “initiated” her new slut-in-arms to the secret delights of projectile-cumming. “Don’t worry,” she’d reassured the cop in the kitchen just a moment before, unconsciously pressing her huge boobs into the newly huge ones of her newest “bfff” (“best friend for fucks”), and fingering herself the while with a very hopeful expression on her very red face, “Lookee . . !” And the slut thence commenced a shouting obscene moan and judder-squirt.
The bonded harlots had just shared one of Maddy’s home made pies of wakka-wakka, in other words, and of course despite the cop’s insincere protest of five minutes before. And on Maddy’s heartfelt assumption it was always better to give than to receive, she had, by her own way of reckoning, very good reason to be prouder than ever, for she had given and received much more exponentially than she had ever before, as Officer Turnover had shown her gratitude to the slut-wife’s “squirt” with a “squirt” in kind, a much more salutary, not to say, salient, response than any had ever given in receipt of the good-cook’s dishes. The cop had “squirted” her compliments all over the chef, in fact, which Maddy realized at once it happened had always been, more or less, her secret true object in baking—she had always wished for no less dramatic and all-felt a compliment from those she fed than their consequent, unexpected cum on her tongue.
It was the pungent remainder of this same copper’s, as well as her own, complimentary secret sauce in her mouth (for, as was typical the bimbo, she had slipped her fingers in her there automatically after her hands had received some splash-back) that reminded Maddy at last, once Officer Turnover had departed in a swerving screech of her cop car’s tires (hard to drive straight, mind you, one hand still whacking the box), of her much delayed bath.
A good thing she finally recalled it, too—by this point in her short but storied career of heroism the woman reeked with one very raunchy day’s worth of butt-sweat, nut-loads, and cunt-squirts.
For, lest it need further testimony, ever since finishing off a pie with Officer Turnover, Maddy felt “real good”. She had, in her own new apposite phrasing, At long last “got [her] squirt out”, was now free for a brief moment to comparatively lucidly consider other things besides the fulfillment of her uncanny hunger for pie and fucks—her dinner that evening with the Cobblers, for instance. Gone now the panic she had experienced on the phone with Paul that afternoon, at the news of the forgotten dinner date. No longer did her mind seek to hide itself from what seemed the evening’s inevitable awkwardness, the public discovery of her “growth”, and the ruin this or its “lewd consequences” could likely spell for her reputation, her husband’s career, and her marriage. In light of that last joyful climax in the kitchen with Officer Turnover, Maddy felt at once at her most maximally optimistic, as well as weirdly blasé at the acute possibility of disgrace, the buzzing in her head as if encouraging an enduring indifference to any and all predictable obstacles, just as might a favorite mindless pop song or opiate.
“What must be . . . um, as stupid does,” Maddy slurrily observed, lying up to her neck in affording bubbles in her big Jacuzzi bathtub, a wineglass of a just before opened Chablis perched precariously on the porcelain rim beside her. By her own corroboration, Maddy was “spoiling” herself, but, it deserves note, for the first time in her life, she was actually loving doing so. Her body’s new sensual affinities gave the woman this unparalleled freedom: to give into her body’s slightest urge rewarded the woman with incredible pleasure, so different from how it had once felt to indulge herself, which, unless the indulgence gave some admired onlooker satisfaction, had always left her feeling hollow and unfulfilled. A new frontier for Maddy, the exploration of her sensual whims for solely the satisfaction of her own insatiable appetite; but there was an elision in this, for it was not wholly for her own benefit she pampered herself, but, more fundamentally even, for the benefit of that “fatherly” big-dicked neighbor. Wouldn’t HE want to see her doing just as she was doing? Didn’t HE want to see her indulge herself to the point of redundancy? In her “Pud-Pud” Maddy had found the stern but approbative “daddy’s” eye her life had always lacked and she had always longed for.
She took a slight, grateful sip from her wine glass. A few moments later, the buzzing in her head quieted significantly, as a pleasantly comatose feeling suffused her brain, like all her thoughts were now packed for her own “safety’s sake” in Styrofoam.
Maddy scrutinized the clock above the toilet for about half a minute—the fanciful timepiece had a base shape of a tub of ice cream and a mechanized scoop at top, that “flipped” seven rotating balls of white and black-speckled “ice cream” in a halo-like circle tracing the transparent glass face of the clock. She laughed when the design struck her: “Silly!” she said. The clock was a gift last Christmas from Paul’s mom, she remembered, and had always irritated her before from a poignant memory of the woman’s condescending remark at the time of her giving it: “Because you like sveets, da-a-arling.” The way the old woman had said it then, spoken with her mother-in-law’s thick accent, had, it seemed to Maddy (however, only some many days later when she unconsciously recalled the exchange), been meant as a nasty hint regarding Maddy’s growing bustline, which the old crone, jealous as any mother is of her son’s strayed affections, vindictively accounted for as her daughter-in-law’s putting on weight. Maddy had always hated the clock, therefore, and so had hung it in the bathroom, where she thought she’d rarely have cause to look at it (it would never have occurred to the obedient submissive daughter-in-law to throw the thing away or hide it in the “sports” closet in the finished basement, not a gift from her Paul-Honey’s mommy-dearest!).
Now, looking at the clock, Maddy rather liked it; it made her feel happy, for some reason, and it no longer pained her to think that the person who had given it to her hated her, and hated her, moreover, precisely the more, it seemed, Maddy tried to ingratiate herself to the old witch. It didn’t bother her now even that “Cookie”, as the old woman insisted everyone call her, in one of those strange as if self-mocking extravagances of character only women exceedingly safe and disagreeable seem to devise for themselves, had never made any secret of her thinking Maddy wasn’t good enough for her favorite son Paul, or that Maddy was, by the old woman’s estimation (for, indeed, she was), little better than a braindead walking trophy. Even the countless recollections of her mother-in-law humiliating her in company with comments like, “Well, OB-viously Paul didn’t marry you for your brains, da-a-arling” or, “A good thing you can cook, as you’re not at all clever. Just be careful you don’t get too fat like a little piggy . . . He’ll lose IN-terest, da-a-arling . . .”—these recollections didn’t cause Maddy to blush now, but merely to chuckle a little more. For the first time in her life, she felt “real good” in her skin, no doubt because her skin felt “so good . . .” and even the well-deserved insults of her mother-in-law could never take Maddy’s delightful skin away from her.
“Mmmmnnn . . . But’s time to get dreshed for tonight,” Maddy formulated at last, a half-smile of nigh-intoxicating sensuous self-love transforming her cute, button-nose face—which communicated normally little besides “I’m harmless; what would you like me to do?”—into the leering half-delirious mien of the most ecstatically coddled DIY concubine. Maddy ran through in her mind the entire closet-inventory of her formal attire—a skill, incidentally, every women has mastered. She wasn’t at the degree of self-forgetfulness and lurid abandon that she would have considered wearing any of the outfits from Pud’s bag to dinner that evening—even “Slaphappy Maddy” knew still what the words “formal occasion” meant, in other words, and that Pud’s gifts were practically by definition anything but “formal”.
“But will any o’ mine still fit!”
As the question recurred to her, Maddy glanced down with a proud mock-chagrin at her archetypal cleavage, sticking free above the water of the bath like two great buttery soufflés, speckled here and there with soap foam as bubbly and insubstantial as whipped eggwhite. She smiled again, now at the thought that, likely, none “o’ hers” now would, shrugged, and with an almost excessive lack of ceremony, stood up in the bath.
“Gettin’ better at balanshing these babies,” she even had the unexpected force of mind, or new pride of corrupted character, to quip, with an obligatory jolly juggle of her juggs by the upheld palms of her either hand. “What would Cookie say if she saw ’em now!” Maddy finished this unfamiliar flight of braggadocio off with a well-remembered snort.
Remarkably, she even stepped from the bath without falling down. She did kick the wine glass over, of course, which consequently shattered into a dozen or so large shards of especially sharp glass. Maddy barely noticed, and she barely noticed the shards crunching to all looks benignly under her delicate feet, as she tread heedlessly about the bathroom, first to grab two towels (one for her hair, one for her body), then to dry herself, then to walk, still mostly wet and naked but for the towel on her head, to the bedroom down the hall.
Despite her joshing pessimism, Maddy found there a dress that “worked”, though, yes, only as not especially intended to do by the designer. It was a blue evening gown left over to her from a friend’s wedding five years before, easily the most expensive one she had in her huge walk-in, but not for that reason a dress any more preferred by her to the by and large less gaudy, mall-bought attire that otherwise stocked her shelves and hangers. The particulars concerning how she ended up with the rather revealing dress in the first place—more provocative than was ever before the good Christian’s habit to wear—eluded her memory. She had the vague sense it had been a wholly unsolicited gift of the male relation, whose wedding it was, a fact in itself that should have caused her pause before wearing it to the wedding in question, as he was a notorious weirdo; but whatever had reconciled her to wearing it at last—whether as a favor to the groom or the unspoken wish of her essentially sensual nature—the dress had inspired a very unusual and much too exciting evening for the timid, and yet nothing if not accommodating wife of Paul LaMode. Suffice it to say, the woman’s curves had never received to that point in their career such flagrant even groping public attention of either sex and every age group as they did that night of her relative’s reception; and if it weren’t for the lucky fact Maddy had been, like 99% of the guests, “a wee bit tipsy”, and that Paul had himself “popped off” before the worst of it in order to fuck the bride’s blonde mother in the family Escalade (i.e., car du jour pre-SRX) and, after a premature cum in his tuxedo trousers, to pass out there on the mother’s wrinkled naked tits in a slobbering snore, and that Clarabelle had gratefully left with a spinster aunt for the hotel already, whereat she could read the next chapter of her novel about effeminate male vampires seducing bossy young women who still more than they want to be bossy want to be seduced, Maddy should have doubtless remembered the night with a great deal more embarrassment herself, and certainly in more detail than was inevitably the case. However, she remembered enough of the attention the dress had garnered her “boobies” and “tushy”—perhaps as, examining the dress at those places the following day, she was hard pressed otherwise to explain the rather incredible cake and champagne stains that awaited the dry-cleaner—to refrain from wearing it once more these past five years; and, in fact, she doubtless would never have worn the dress again, as the longer it sat unworn in her closet, the greater the aura of forbidden-devil-dress emanated at her from it—would never have, but for the aforesaid fact of nothing else in her closet even slightly, in her new more voluptuous state of frame, more fit to wear for the present formal occasion.
The dress in question had been tight and revealing the five years earlier when she had worn it to such popular fanfare to the wedding; imagine how much tighter, more revealing it was today, with Maddy so interestingly altered. Maddy glanced at herself in the mirror again to make sure her appearance was as plausibly scandalous as she could not help—even with the thoughts in her brain-on-Chablis “packed for safety”—but imagine it was; she stood there before her reflection in the body-length mirror of her closet, adjudging her appearance so, on the abridged testimony only of what she saw within the narrow frame. Indeed, this was scandalous, but not, by Maddy’s proud estimation, too overtly. For besides some immense cleavage afforded of the plunging v-neck front, the articulate presentation of either nipple under the dress’s strained-near-to-sheerness blue silk at the peaks of either breast, and, at the hips, though it stretched to fit her there with as if yet plenty left to give, in doing, it left little yet to guess—besides all this it never occurred to Maddy just how many more, and more scandalous, angles her body was prone at an instant to presenting any less tethered witness to it than herself. For instance, consider what view it presented that least tethered of all witnesses, the omniscient narrator, who might appraise the woman’s body as he would a doll’s in his collection, not at all hindered by the angle a mirror or any other image-catching device presents, but free to lift the model at any slightest whim, as he might as easily the model’s skirt, to pry, poke and peep into every crack, space, or cranny of idiosyncratic interest to him. But the guests that evening need not have boasted such uncanny vantages merely to receive an eyeful of the busty harlot the same harlot herself didn’t at all ascertain or suspect the existence of that afternoon staring at her reflection in her bedroom mirror (like, for instance, her panties being so pressed tight beneath her skirt in back, it was possible to see where, precisely, on the crack they ended—about two-thirds the way up it—as well as the distinct presence of their virtually every frill). And so, in short, though Maddy reckoned how risqué she looked, she didn’t reckon herself, as the witless never do, in three dimensions, and so mistakenly concluded she looked rather more sexy than usual, than flat-out strange than usual, for she was not mistaken in thinking these were two distinctly different affects by combination of a woman’s get-up and innate shape and nature.
Still, she was self-conscious enough of her look—doubtless as to look merely too deliberately “sexy” seemed yet scandalous to her—to warrant she needed somehow to distract the eyes of her husband and her guests away from the veritable “Pandora’s box of candy” presented of her lurid lower parts. And so, she put a lot of makeup on.
When Maddy had done composing her face, she recalled the dinner—that is, that she had been supposed to prepare something for it. And recalling this, she recalled the pies she had already prepared. And recalling the pies, she recalled how hungry she was once again for pie. And so, forgetting about the dinner, Maddy went downstairs to eat some pie.
She was in the very act of finishing off half another one, pausing a minute, as she had just “eaten herself” to a resounding squirt through her lacy blue panties and slight stain of the lap of her skirt, when suddenly these words from behind her (she was eating at her usual spot now, standing, her back to the kitchen doorway, at the oven, whereat three and a half remaining pies were set to cool) alerted her she was no longer alone:
“Smells . . . weird, Honey. What on earth have you cooked up for us this evening?”