HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
8
Maddy awoke to the odd sensation of a dream orgasm fading into a non-dream one. She was foaming at the crotch again, her ass and thighs twerking sporadically, never mind she was sat in a strange way in which to do so, cross-legged, knees-bent on the carpet, her head flopped over on the couch, for all the world as though she’d passed out there the night before, mid-fuck.
“Aa-uhhn!” Maddy articulated as the shock of messy bliss awoke her more fully from her horny slumber. She reached down with the hand her head hadn’t just been resting on—and so the arm of which wasn’t too stiff to move—to find the conspicuous place under her. She found it easily enough, though she had to twerk her ass a little more even to get her hand wedged in between her pressed-tight thighs. A moment later, she held the proofs of her orgasm up to her just opened eyes in evident hopes of determining what it all meant. “Aa-uhhn?” She groaned again, this time as a question.
Maddy wondered at herself, at her aching head, her pounding cunt, the strange sounds she was making. Automatically, she rubbed her head where it hurt most, inadvertently wiping her own spunk into her already very messy hair that way. She must have hit her head again on something . . . That’s right . . . Last night, the coffee table . . . Funny, she’d barely noticed at the time . . . Thankfully, the soothing, internal buzzing of her skull that she had first felt the day before came back, and even greater than the day before, as the haze around her first waking moments dissipated and she grew more aware of her surroundings . . .
Nothing around her, in her, of her—none of it seemed quite in keeping with the life of the Maddy she knew. In particular troubled her some vague, lurid memories of the night before, the remarks she’d just made, not at all alike the demure grunts and mutters she usually made first thing in the morning. These new sounds were so . . . animal . . .
Mrs. LaMode squinted around the room, not recognizing where she was. She discerned the light of day streaming faintly through the window with the enormous wakka-wakka plant in front of it.
Slowly the events of the preceding night, preceding entire day, as well as what they signified in conjunction with what she still reckoned her broader life, came blow-by-blow back to her. Had she really . . ! With . . !
“O GAW—!” Her voice cut off in a safely swallowed hack. Her throat sure did feel weird this morning—not exactly painful, but just different, like someone had been scraping her tonsils for . . . whatchamacallems, “lab staples”, like that time she had the strep.
She was still dressed the same way she had been the night before, except she no longer wore anything on her lower half but her ankle socks and one white canvas shoe (who knew where the other had gotten to?). Her tank-top, it should be said, had suffered so much from the aggressive fondling and even more violent fucking that followed, the elastic had abandoned its product-tested war with gravity, so the neckline of the thing hung down far below her huge new bosom even, never to scrunch again. Her fur coat was half down her arms, covered all over in sticky patches—she discovered this wholly by accident, and more than once; any time she put her wet hand down, essentially, she at once discovered under it already very sticky patches.
With a half-incoherent “Yuck!” Maddy struggled to loose the coat off her and toss it wearily aside.
Having just climaxed in her waking, she was understandably very aroused. But she was also very afraid, very confused, very all in all “Maddy-esque”. She felt inspired to try to stand to her feet after her success with getting the coat off, but found her legs too stiff in their current locked under her position to do so immediately. She tried to speak up to call for her neighbor’s attention, but her voice still sounded hoarse and unusual to her—like somebody else’s—and at any rate in the moment of she couldn’t decide on a name to call him by.
“Mr. M-Muh-P-Puuuaahhrrrkk . . .” and she ended in another hack, this time graduating to a full-out violent cough. The guttural sound her verbal indecision had elicited from her throat mined from the depths of it a vast reservoir of untapped white and translucent fluids. She turned her head away from the couch and vomited the copious potion onto her own legs.
“O—G(ACK!)—ross!” Maddy spluttered, teary eyed from the abdominal exertion as she tried futilely to wipe the thick trail of spunk from her trembling lips.
At last Maddy stood up, though it was a wobbly, timid standing. She tried to move forward but again stopped herself. It wasn’t because she was unable to move, but because she’d just grown conscious of something stuck to her ass. She reached down and tore a magazine from her fat, fleshy, firm butt-cheek. The cover stayed attached to her ass; apparently she had sat on it so long, it had become practically glued there in cum-sweat. She glanced dazedly at the magazine ad on page 1 of the journal.
“Dr. Mortarswan recommends a ‘high fruit dose’ diet for you and your favorite submissive miss (or mrs.!).” And beneath these words in all caps stood the smiling picture of her neighbor, “Pud”, holding up one of his by now to her very well-familiar wakka-wakkas and pointing with his other hand at his trousers; the reason for his so doing was gratuitously implied by the bevy of teen beauties, dressed in white or otherwise pastel-colored mini-togas, kneeling to either side of him and all reaching out simultaneous with gaping looks of wonder for the old man’s fly. Without meaning to, Maddy smiled back at the picture. She couldn’t see the image of his face and the image of that fruit without envisioning that of her neighbor’s massive erect dick in her still fuck-drunk mind.
She sure did like her new neighbor, “Mr. Pud-Pud!”—these words popped into her mind as if unassuageably, notwithstanding the embarrassment she still shouldered for all she’d obviously done with him just the night before.
“He’s so . . .” she said aloud, wondering only how she ought to finish the observation, as the only way she could think of struck her as not at all an appropriate way for a married Christian woman to talk about any man—not even her own husband!—and so she alighted at last on: “He’s so . . . um, nice . . .”
However, her facile observation might have been belied a little by her consequent drool, eyelids drooping, and without making a sound, her messy—, sudden-squirt again all over her legs.
“Gawtta nice co-o-aw-awck!” and try though she didn’t, the tried and true slut drawled these words out raunchily, the unsolicited orgasm as if forcing from her mouth what she never would have dared say otherwise.
No sooner were the words out of her mouth, Maddy blushed, scandalized! Had she really just said . . . just done . . ! Yes, she acknowledged mentally, if still a little vaguely, she had said much worse things only the night and very early morning before (she couldn’t remember what she had said, or what all they had done, only knew whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good, to have given her, in its forgettable specifics, such unforgettable, indeterminable joy . . .). But that was during . . . (ahem) and, anyway, even less reason—her thoughts dithered along—to start the new day off on such disgraceful footing. That settled it! She determined that second, with a very admirable little nod of her empty messy little adorable head, she wasn’t gonna do anything “like that” ever again, not that day—or any! “Starting today,” Maddy mumbled before finishing the thought in her mind, She would be the best little good little girl for her dear hubby-baby Paul-Paul she could be—and then some!
“Paul-Paul!” the dirty housewife croaked in her shock of fully recalling her husband—and more aptly, fully recalling the mental image of his censoriously shaking head—for the first time properly at least since “giving herself” to her neighbor the night before.
She naturally assumed she’d fall back down on the couch in the protracted swoon of compunction that followed, but her body surprised her in its unexpected fortitude, withstanding as it did the most massive wave of bliss that had hit her on recollection of her neighbor’s dick, only to alternate the next second with the deepest valley of cringeworthy embarrassment at the recollection of her scorned propriety. She better maintained her balance by walking. She paced around the room, no clue as to where she was going to go, what she was going to do, trying only in her peripeteia to cross over that valley of shame just mentioned, the same the recollection of her husband had discovered to her otherwise highly selective conscience. Eventually, she found herself standing by the plant in the window.
“Uuunnh. Fruits . . .” groaned Maddy, her face redder than a tomato and her head hurting worse now than before she’d stood up. She found a small but riper one along a far extending wiry branch some three feet from the plant’s base. She pulled the wakka-wakka off and, without concerning herself with peeling, chopping or cooking it, began at once to stick as much of it into her mouth as she was able. Maybe it would help her headache, forget . . .: “AAAAACK!”
An erotic idea penetrated dimly her imagination, then; without ceremony, she slid the bulky musky thing between her legs.
“O-O-O-O!” she cried in shameless anticipation of the ecstasy she wanted very much to distract her from her simultaneous humiliation, her hands and hips taking over the motions, so she began automatically to shove and twerk respectively, alternately. It wasn’t long before she orgasmed again, a particularly jiddery orgasm. She fell to the floor in the midst of it, the bliss too much this time even for her body’s new surprising fortitude, hips performing a weird air-hump the while, the familiar juices spraying terrifically from her loins as though from a pop-up impact sprinkler. Her pelvis in the air, a wakka-wakka between her legs, the orgiastic mother fell back on her elbows, threw her head back behind her so it hit the carpeted floor with a “Thud!” Somehow she managed to keep moving around the room in this odd situation, a bit as if she were performing an esoteric, very lame breakdance move. All the while she squirted conspicuously in about every healthy direction.
“Uuuuunnnhhhaaaahhhhnnnuuaaahhhnnn . . .” Maddy sighed seven minutes later after the latest violent orgasm had run its course. She was now lying on her back on the floor of her neighbor’s house, her head pain no longer bothering her, no thought in her mind but appreciation for bliss and the unceasing anticipation of future bliss. She began again lavishing tongue-love on the sopping wet wakka-wakka. Forgotten were her previous promises to herself, her Paul, that unsurpassable valley of shame. She had the sudden desire to eat the fruit straight—wouldn’t it taste soooo good? she wondered, Who needed it cooked in a pie? Some things were better raw . . .
“Lotsa thingies!” the not at all subtle Maddy corrected herself at once the raunchy thought struck her and as so did the fruit, one last time her burning-hot pussy before chowing down on . . .
Maddy took it out and took a bite, nearly choking on just how generally disgusting the raw vegetable tasted—somewhat like raw eggplant but saltier, less plausibly edible.
“Yeck!”
But her quease was not enough finally to discourage her from the task, as she still anticipated feeling so much better by the by. She had choked down half the fruit when she felt the first definite effects.
“Woooaaah . . .” Maddy moaned. And why was the room spinning . . ?
“Hee-hee . . .” Maddy chuckled. Seemed kind of funny, something-or-other, nice surprise, a relief, actually, because even delirious Maddy reckoned she ought to be scared . . . But not at all . . . “Mmmmnnn . . .” Maddy slid her hands over her body and a weird new erotic sensation greeted her. She really wished her neighbor were there with her that moment.
“Pud-Pud!!!” screamed ecstatically the wakka-wakka addict, as she fingered herself almost religiously.
No response.
“Huh!” Wait, did that tree just move?
She must’ve imagined it . . . But there it went again!
“Hey?” Mrs. LaMode asked the tree. “Yorra tree!”
“No I’m not, Maddy.”
“Omigawd!” Maddy gaped. A talking tree!
“I’m your neighbor.”
“Huh?” O, the voice was coming from behind her, that explained . . .
She rolled her head calmly over and smiled as soon as she recognized her favorite illicit next-door fruit dealer standing in the entranceway to the kitchen. “You should probably go home now, Mamslapper, else your limp-dick hubby’ll be wondering whose hard on your ridin’.”
“Y-yours, Puddy-Pud!” Maddy immediately jumped at the jybe as if it were a proposition, in the process conveniently forgetting to feel guilty concerning the “limp-dick” in question. She struggled then vainly to climb to her knees, reach out to his fly, like had just been represented to her in the magazine ad.
“Ha-ha! You’re a funny little dirty whore, Mamsies, but ’fraid not right now! It’s the vitamin J: leaves a guy dehydrated and with a rapacious appetite the next day. If I don’t get a dozen glasses of water and a few big burgers in my gut, I’m not gonna be much fun when Ol’ Bon-Bons comes over later for her own ‘daily dose’—incidentally, I’ve developed a special ‘smokable’ variety of -J just for her, to help her kick cigarettes . . .”
Maddy tried really hard to look like she understood what the fuck her neighbor was talking about; really she was trying to think of a way to get his dick out of his pants, into her mouth, without his getting mad. She tried by smiling ditzily at him from the floor where she’d finally managed to kneel—did that help at all?
“Vitamin-J’s great, no question, Mamslut. But the occasional ‘hangover effect’ is one small drawback. Incidentally, I doubt you experience much of that. It’s not an effect of the wakka-wakka at all, but the chemical Jupropolin, which is the only one we could find in the lab that would bring out the fruit’s healthful potential, while minimizing to a great extent the permanent and brain-altering effects that you’ve doubtless observed in yourself by eating it straight, as well as the cardiac arrest afflicting ten percent of females and near a hundred percent of males who try the raw stuff . . .”
Having crawled over on her hands and knees—easier in her current “unbalanced” state than standing on two feet—Maddy knelt directly before where Pud stood. He explained things she didn’t understand, as she instinctively stroked the impressive outline in his pants of the familiar organ.
“What’d I just say, you brain-dead slut—“
Maddy shot a panicked look up at her “teacher”—she hadn’t thought there’d be a test!
“Not this morning!”
Maddy again smiled vacantly at him—Was that all!
She had concluded from a subtle jocularity in his tone and a not so subtle bulging of his dick upon her touching it that, despite the forcefulness of his words, her “Puddy-Pud” wasn’t serious—not, of course, as regarded her being a “brain-dead slut”; where that was concerned, there was no doubt, and in her current “dead” frame of mind, Maddy didn’t give a flying fuck that there wasn’t. In fact, she just felt more turned on the more forceful he was with her in general, because, Didn’t that mean he liked her, if he was so rude to her? “You don’t punish something you don’t love,” was Maddy’s strange thought on the controversy. No, she knew her old neighbor was joking about his not wanting her touching his “daddy-stick”, as she comically phrased his penis to herself, the outline of which bulged the more the more she teased it.
“Well, you might as well be doing something with your hands while I explain this really VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION to you concerning the wakka-wakka you’ve been horkin’ down like it’s the only thing in the world you care about as much as cocks . . .”
That was the first thing he had said that morning that made any sense, thought Maddy as without a thought to what she was doing, she stuck her cute little tongue out and began licking up and down the crotch of his pants.
“. . . Uh (Ulp!) . . . Yes . . . Where was I? Right—the fruit! You ate it raw, Maddy, and before today you ate it cooked you said, in a pie, right?”
“Mmmm.” Maddy confirmed moaningly.
“Well, guess what—because you’re one of the ten percent of women who weren’t killed or driven instantly psychotic on the stuff, that means you’re pretty much a super human now!”
“(GRCH!),” Maddy looked up glassy-eyed and clueless at her big hard “Daddy-Pud’s” serious dull explaining face—Was he SERIOUSLY still talking?
“That is, if you’re body is responding to the fruit the same way Ol’ Doctor Trick-er-Treats’s did—and to all appearances it is, those juggies are any indication . . .”
“Juggies . . .” Maddy repeated leeringly, trying a wink but failing and so snorting in self-reproof at what even she perceived was her own enduring fecklessness in any sort of affectation.
“My erstwhile ‘lab ass’ Trix is living proof there’s much more to wakka-wakka than that shit smell. You’ve heard of the mysterious new crime-fighter in Paradise City? The one who wears a funny costume, a mask, and goes by the name of . . .”
“The Trixter! Of course!, Su talks about her practically every night on The QT! She’s a hero: ‘PC’s blonde vigilante, taking a stand for women everywhere, fighting for truth, justice and Real America-small-town values’! I mean, my daughter, what’s—’er-name, is really into her. ”
“Yeah, that’s why you got that whole dumb-ass spiel memorized, ’cause of your daughter, right . . . Anyway, point is, it’s the same slut—the Trixter and my old lab ass Dr. Trixi Treatems; though mind you, I don’t think she goes much by ‘doctor’ anymore, says it ‘scares off the fun-fucks’. Funny they’re painting her the model of women’s empowerment in the media, given how she traipses around the streets at night in that slutty costume, tits-n-tang all but hangin’ out, not to mention the dozen dicks a day she gets in her, by her own proud testimony—but then that’s the reason for the secret identity, I guess . . .”
“I don’t get it,” and Maddy indeed looked convincingly like she didn’t, or for that matter, like she got much of anything else besides. “You mean, um . . . What now?”
“You’re like HER!”
“Huh? Whaddaya . . ?”
“The question you’re looking for, Mad-about-cocks, is ‘How—How are you like her?’”
Maddy blushed and smiled, “Yeah.” Her “Puddy-Daddy” shore was smart!
“In fact, it’s rather hard to say. Every lab animal we tried raw wakka on, who survived or didn’t lose its mind—10% of the female ones, if you’re following—they all came out a little different. One, I remember, could run round its hamster wheel so fast, it could power a large generator; another chewed through the bars of her cage, and then on a whim of mine, some titanium cylinders we had just lying around the lab—they were this thick!; a third survived a fifteen foot fall from the top of our annex (that was a messy day of testing . . .). And one, well, I’m not exactly sure it’s anything to boast about, even for a hamster, but she could make herself physically die and come back to life—we must’ve flushed that one seven times before we got wise! The wet thing practically crawled up Trixi’s ass while she was on the crapper—if you’ll believe it!”
“So, uuuuuh . . . O yeah! (Snort!) How do I know what’s my special thingy?”
Mr. Mortarswan blinked, honestly shocked a little by just how stupid a stacked slut the whorish housewife apparently was, but rather than remark upon the gratuitous, for a change he just answered the question: “No way to tell until the trait presents itself, Tits-for-brains. It could be anything! But one thing I CAN tell you, because it was the same for ’em all, like the swelled up mams and clit and the being in permanent estrous—incidentally, I hope you’re not too attached to your periods, because you’ll never have one again. Want to know what happens to your ova? Your uterus EATS them! Fascinating to watch! People think the supernatural is weird. Science is weirder! In addition, your body’s resistant to pain; regenerates itself in a matter of minutes if you suffer a bruise, cut, or even broken bone; and last—what you’ve doubtless noticed already if your fucked-silly gourd is capable of even the simplest thoughts anymore—your body possesses incredible physical strength and endurance. Whether or not you want to start fighting crime or nonstop fucking everything ‘insertable’—that choice is entirely up to you. I advise against the first one, at least, if only because you’re far better bustin’ ball-sacks than bustin’ hoods with those tits you got, in my humble opeen.”
Maddy had grown fittingly distracted again by the old man’s reassuringly hardening cock under her touch—too distracted to confirm or deny Mr. Mortarswan’s suspicions regarding her nascent heroic proficiencies or lack of.
“Anyway, I figured it was a good idea to let you in on the little secret of wakka-wakka; consider it another little perk to the HUGE favor I did ya yesterday by giving you those ‘free samples’, and without telling you what they did.”
Maddy had learned her lesson of the night before—not to talk when her mouth was otherwise occupied. But it was clear by how lovingly she continued to lock her lips around the outline of Pud’s man-meat she no longer had any wish or will to contest her neighbor’s conviction that he had done her a “huge favor” with his gift.
“And, incidentally, don’t go blabbin’ any of this shit to anybody else. Not that you would remember enough of it to make any sense if you tried to, but still—keep your mouth shut about the Trixi thing; she doesn’t need the Feds makin’ her day-to-day a royal bitch, like they did when she still had more on her brain than cocks and worked at the University; and if you have any sense, you’ll keep your mouth shut about your own special powers, too. City Hall finds out about ’em, or worse, those creepy freaks at BONAR, Inc., they’ll bag your body up for testing and you’ll never see the light of day again. Believe me, it’s better in your case to keep a low pro . . .”
“Um,” Maddy uncharacteristically interrupted the man who—of the moment at least—she respected more than any other living person on the face of the “thingy”; her cunt was positively dripping to get his dick out, already, “Puddy-Daddy, can I—pleeeeaase . . ?”
“Ha!” The old letch gave his usual hoarse, abrupt wheezy chortle, though a little weary. “Shit! That was a lot of explaining. I’m thirsty. Think I’ll order a pizza . . . Make that two . . .”
Maddy looked up again at the old man, who seemed to her all at once, despite his thumping hard cock under her hand (though still in his pants), very old indeed. But oddly that only turned her on more, as she was in that highly suggestible supremely aroused frame of woman’s mind, when the old guy might have shown her he had six fingers on one hand or that one of his eyes came out, and she would have found such discoveries no less patently erotic. Her eyes pleaded up at him, for all the world like she might start crying if she didn’t get his cock in her mouth that very second.
“Ah! What the fuck!” Mr. Mortarswan threw his hands up, “I’ll grin and bear it, Mammary-doll! This thick cock’s on me!”
“Goody! Thank—!”
But Pud had already torn open his pants by this point in the whore-wife’s show of inane gratitude, and so thankfully stuffed the slut’s mouth too full for her to continue it.
“GLWRK!” Maddy articulated, as she went cross-eyed and, at the first taste of her neighbor’s cock, came copiously a fourth time that morning on her poor over-cum-stained legs.