HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
4
Maddy awoke with a start to the sound of a wailing alarm.
“W-What time issit? Paul-Paul?” She asked the air around her airy head, out of which, despite her most vigorous attempts at blinking her weirdly watery eyes to see, nothing seemed interested in denominating itself: “Da—Uhm, someone turn off that gosh-darn alarm . . . Please . . . ”
She tried to go back to sleep but some nuisance was hindering her from doing so. Something was getting in the way, something BIG, something making the simplest things so HARD: her lungs burned, she realized at the recommencement of a terrible ongoing cough, like she’d swallowed a charred beefsteak in her sleep. Mrs. LaMode made another half-hearted effort to discern anything in what seemed a weirdly reciprocative haze both within her and without her.
Finally, she did recognize something: the sound and smell of the family dog, who had apparently sought her out to be comforted in the ruckus, for he was whimpering a very strange, very unceasing whine, a bit like a growl, and at the same time caught up in a series of unspeakable violent gestures with a very conspicuous part of him against a very conspicuous part of her, a weirdly bulgy-firm right butt-cheek, to be exact, which for some reason (not to make things weirder) was completely bare for the experience.
“What the—GAWSH!” Maddy cried, sitting up at last and crushing the poor beast’s very conspicuous part beneath her own conspicuous part in the process—this animal apparently didn’t begrudge the woman’s license, for although he howled, it was to all evidence with relief.
Mrs. LaMode stood up then, and nearly at once toppled back down again. She caught herself just in time on the armrest of the beige couch in the living room. What in “fudge doodles” was she doing there of all places! Had she passed out . . ?
Fleeting memories slowly returned to Maddy’s invigorated and yet even more vitiated mind. She remembered eating a pie, for instance, and blushed at the recollection of consuming it with her fingers—What in the “H-E-double-hockey-sticks” was going on with her? And more prudently, why in the name of “five-alarm-chili” was she having so much trouble just standing up!
And that darn alarm! where was it coming from? Inside her head . . ?
At the same time her mind struggled to make sense of the innumerous unusual impressions assaulting her both contemporaneously and by retrospect, Maddy’s body felt, well, um, GREAT!, actually. It was just her senses were impeded by the most voluptuous languor she’d ever experienced in her life. Strange, but trying to breathe seemed far less important to her at that moment than just going back to sleep—She felt as if certain, if unconsciously, her body, in its current condition, could go a very long time without needing to breathe overmuch. She longed to lie down and sleep what she felt sure would prove the most restful sleep of her life, not least of all as breathing had only gotten harder since standing up. But something was again hindering her from acting out her desire . . . Ah! That stupid siren. Where was it coming from . . ?
She made a half-awake turn towards the stairs, and thus the bedroom, but realized not even before setting out that the alarm was wailing from the opposite direction—the kitchen!
Finally the smoke cleared in Maddy’s mind, if not in her house at large—“The smoke alarm!”
And then—“The pie!”
Maddy made a very exceptional effort here to run straight-off to the kitchen, and was quite modestly successful thus in ignoring for a remarkable span her own chest’s being weighed down by somethings fat and heavy.
“Ugh—my boobies . . .” was her coughed, half-formulated next expression as she at last made it to the kitchen and began the desperate scramble to open the door to her favorite oven and remove the burned-to-a-crisp baked good from it. This she did without even the aid of an ovenmit, simply reaching into the hot place with her bare hands and grabbing out the smoking pie. And the groggy, exceptional woman didn’t even notice the lapse, even after she’d thrown the blackened dessert into the sink and turned the oven off.
And then to the pantry she galloped, to root out that illogical alarm. However, in her strangely wobbly stride—for her new hips as if insisted on sashaying the more the faster the good girl got up her pace—she managed to clip her head on the archway of the pantry entrance going in.
“Poopy!” Maddy blurted in her surprise, rubbing her head where she’d just hit it.
“MEEP!!! MEEP!!! MEEP!!!” blared the alarm right above her ear.
Sticking out her under lip in a concentrated pout, like a favorite daughter who’s been told in the nicest way possible that she can’t actually eat ice cream for every meal, Maddy pulled at last the smoke detector from the ceiling in her walk-in pantry (she had to stand on tip-toes to reach above the entranceway). She then tried desperately with her longish housewife nails to pull open the sinister plastic back of the doohickey, the back that contained the battery and was as though especially designed to be unopenable by hasty, unthinking people. Finally, she cried with a grunt half-vicious, half-victorious as she worked the plastic back open and, after another shorter struggle, successfully ejected the battery. Maddy panted there satisfied a moment, as must have done the First Woman, when, left alone by the First Man for the First Time, she successfully slaughtered solo her First Edible Lower Organism. But then, a nine-volt battery in her one hand, a smoke detector in the other, Maddy had good cause to wonder: Why on earth hadn’t the wailing stopped yet?
But scarcely a second later, and it had. Maddy snapped to in another invigorating fit of violent coughing.
That’s better, she thought, after a patting of her chest demurely above her fantastically fat growths. And it was—or almost . . . Fresh air!
Again she galloped fast across the wide length of the kitchen, now to throw open the nearest window, and saw along the way the sparse remains of the second pie speckling an otherwise empty piepan, which had been left without so much as a rinsing on the marmoleum countertop by the fridge; this second pie she must have eaten just before passing out on the couch, Maddy surmised.
And sure enough, the conclusion recalled to her mind the very clear memory of these events, which recalled to mind, in turn, the clearer remembrance of her body’s strange metamorphosis, which, finally, brought home to the busty madam the quite lucid recollection of swallowing the mailman’s, “um”; which, too, at long last, brought squarely to bear on the lady’s conscience the full consequence of her having . . .
“O—GAWD!!!” Maddy full out gasped and her face burned with much more than the heat of the smoke-filled kitchen when she finally pulled the window open and popped her pretty little head out in hopes of clearing it in the very cool, gray October evening . . .
“Pud!” And Mrs. LaMode a second later recalled her new neighbor, his strange plant, his “generous” gift, and all that afternoon’s weird events in short.
She turned and looked dazedly about her.
Ceiling fan, the thought flashed like another directive in her mind. She went to turn that on. Before she had, before she’d even picked up again her last topic of thought—decrying her ever having met that dastard new perverted old neighbor of hers—before all that, she heard another loud knock on the door, then a ring of the doorbell, and—because she was slow to answer it and just stood there in a suspended aporia, trying to recollect who she was or supposed to be and what that meant for what she should do in this most peculiar of circumstances—another knock.
“Ugh. Put yourself together, Maddy Old Girl,” Mrs. LaMode admonished herself, rubbing her head to clear it of a buzzing that had only increased in the wake of the alarm’s having stopped.
She had already made it to the familiar foyer when the torn remnant of her Cherry Orchard t-shirt on the floor of that alerted her of something one would think glaringly obvious—she was completely nude!
“O—fiddle dicks!” Maddy blushed, realized the slip of tongue, quickly corrected herself. “Sticks-sticks. Fondle sticks! Um . . .” She rubbed her head again, in hopes that might steady her topsy-turvy senses a bit: following the smoke, the alarm, the hitting her head, the queer circumstances of awakening to a superhumanly horny dog’s humping her ass-cheek—in short, Maddy felt a little out of it. Not altogether bad exactly, but acutely ashamed of herself and . . .
The nub of it was, she worried she might any moment discover something ELSE very embarrassing she had done and forgotten, or do something out of the blue not at all like the Maddy she thought she knew she was would ever do—the Maddy she thought she knew she was: That woman was not enough unlike the new Maddy she felt she might be really, if only she let her guard down enough for a split second, not enough unlike this new Maddy to quell the woman’s fears. Under the weird circumstance, in other words, Maddy felt it was just too easy to be herself in a way not at all like herself and yet precisely more like herself than she had ever let herself believe herself to be before.
O, it was all just way too hard to unravel, or was that “put together”? Regardless, Mrs. LaMode had to admit, even then, in the moments following her waking up to her house being filled with smoke and someone demanding her attention at the door, and lest we forget, the rediscovery of her tremendous new growths in tremendous new places, Maddy felt, basically—really-really good! Better than she could ever remember feeling in all her life, in fact. Felt rather like being drunk, only instead of that overall sluggishness of her physical reflexes that usually she experienced after just one drink, on the present occasion she sensed a total heightening of those reflexes, if not any consequent quickening of her mental ones. Thus it was that, though her motor skills were in no way impeded, she yet found words very hard to say, or say correctly. She felt, in short, equally addle-brained and equipoised, capable of anything and yet capable of who-knew-what!, all in all a very curious and exciting and, yes, imminently embarrassing, or possibly heroic, way to discover oneself feeling.
However, on spotting the torn remains of her Cherry Orchard shirt and realizing she was naked, Maddy made the intelligent provision to turn round and fetch herself something to wear. Another knock from behind her stopped her at the door back into the house; a woman’s rather articulate and husky voice called out: “Miss LaMoan! You there? Dis is Officer Cherie Turnover with ‘Blue-Bush’ PD, Ma’am. Got a . . . sitchoo-ashun here, you might like to . . . uh, Is ever’thing a’—ight in there? Miss LaMoan?”
“Ye . . . Yeah,” Mrs. LaMode, still dazedly, called back, her voice cracking on the word, less on account of her throat (which still felt scratchy from all the smoke), than on account of a rather curious new thought had just distracted her at first mention of the officer’s name.
“What! Miss LaMoan, dat you? Please, Ma’am, open da door.”
Maddy looked desperately around for something to throw over her naked body. If only she could reassure this pesky “Officer Bendover” and send her on her way, Maddy thought in a practical panic, then she could sit down and be alone with herself at last and really feel all good and over . . ! that is, THINK over all these new changes in her life once and for all.
“Nothing’s as bad as it first looks like, if you just get a chance to sit down and really feel ’em all over and over again with your . . . um, your brain,” she reflected in one of her ill-timed, if totally characteristic flashes of optimistic spin. What a way to wake up, though! She looked down agast again at her newly huge “boobies”. Way worse than that time she woke up at Zabaglione’s Corner Market in just her nighty—but that hadn’t been her fault; sleep walking was a neurological condition and needed to be treated with the utmost “what-cha-ma-call—’ems”.
“Just a seckyyyyyy!!!” she called back again, this time trying her best to use as domestic and “house-wifey” sort of a voice as she could manage in her current state of alternating panic and increasingly “curious” circumspection.
“Miss LaMoan—dat you!” called the voice from behind the door again, more sternly than before. Maddy had already darted off to the large closet just inside the front doorway, from which she grabbed the first coat she could find big enough to cover those biggest essential parts of her; and there were predictably very few up to the task. In fact, only one sufficed, and barely, a bushy fur coat she didn’t even remember owning at first.
“O that’s right the old lady’s estate sale, right . . .”
This coat, as said, was big enough to cover her big front, and hopefully somewhat belie by its fluff its size, too. In addition, it hung low enough to cover at least the most of her cherry-plump back; so long as she never once bent over from the waist, she shouldn’t make a scene.
“And what are the odds of that?” Maddy reflected in that strange lucidity on superlative minutiae with which the clueless can sometimes approach incredibly interesting situations. “It’s just ‘puffy’ enough to hide the ‘biggies’. And to think, Paul-Paul said I’d never-ever wear it! ‘Not like buying some old junk is going to do the old lady any good now,’ he said,” Maddy snorted. Yeah, but think of all the good it was about to do HER! “Thanks Mrs. Betty,” this loyal friend whispered sentimentally. Then added in another whisper a second later: “Hope the police officer doesn’t just think I’m fat!”
She bundled herself up as best she could, not bothering to button the coat for consideration of time, and so half aware she’d just have to keep one hand holding it closed the whole interview with the “copper”, if she didn’t want to accidentally flash the officer. “Ugh,” she did reflect, though, and with a scrunch of her button nose, cantering back to the storm porch door, “Did the old lady die in it!”
Aloud she called out to the door: “Coming! I’m co-o-o-o-o-o-oming!”