Thick Country Sluts
1. Christenin’
(2009, mid-October...)
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of them,” Madeleine said, faking a look of curiosity. The slender and petite hipster was getting officially bored, and half-nodded to the laid-back beat being pumped into the store.
At least that was stimulating enough. “How come?” She flung a tiny glob of day-old pesto off of her gigantic, tie-dyed Donald Duck tee. She shrugged her spindly, obscured shoulders, and glared. ”Should I have?”
Her admission made her companion blanch, looking wide-eyed, almost mortally wounded. Like she was back in the fifth grade again and an impossible crush had rejected her. Like a parody of a horny animator’s wet dream.
Sure, this girl usually played at being “offended”, whenever she “had” to deal with knowing someone who (gasp!) wasn’t in the know about all the latest art, but...
“Holy shit, are you crying??”
“Nuh-uh, no I’m, like not! You’re just... yer jus’ a skinny o’ meanie!” The girl in the cartoon character shirt and throwback stonewashed jeans was taken aback. Skinny? Was that some bad attempt at an insult?
Before this childish outburst, Gloria, Madeleine’s onetime roommate and bandmate, just wasn’t shutting up about an extended shopping spree that, apparently, must have lasted all week. It was a wonder she wasn’t broke.
No... It was highly confusing, actually! Didn’t Gloria miss rent here and there, because the coffeeshop she worked at bumped her down to part time? But—right before they stepped into the cassette section:
“And then, because of all my gol-dern lucky-lucks at Angelwear Denim, I knew I had to at least check out The Barn Babe, if, ummm, only for some shoes-er some hot jewelry or a couple of cute-n-sexy-like...”
Madeleine, at first, did her best to placate the star avant-garde cellist, but now she was getting a bit of a headache. There were only so many boneheaded squeals over “steals” that she could possibly take.
Only so many so many meaningless and repetitive descriptors tossed off, like “soooo cute” or “too flippin’ gawj”. Unbelievable, Madeleine thought. I could be doing anything else.
It was fortunate, then, that there had been some kind of issue with the subway, and she was forced to miss their earlier lunch date. Quite handy, truth be told, in light of all this silliness.
That would have doubtlessly magnified her current aggravation. She imagined this weird new Gloria, belching with abandon and chastising her for picking at her food, or... something. “That’s not a meal!”
Ugh. She snickered, suddenly hungry. Gloria ran some of her “skinny” friend’s messy brown locks behind an ear, uninvited. “What’re you laughin’ ‘bout, sweetpea?” The skinny girl recoiled.
That was surely another weird thing about the girl, too. This pseudo-southern accent she employed on this afternoon. It was that it somehow didn’t sound off-model to Madeleine. “Nothing, just...”
It consequently took here a good amount of time before she could even register that new voice of Gloria’s. But it felt wholly natural, not put on at all. Whatever this all was, it wasn’t some act. It was not a persona. It was, incredulously, some awfully legit-seeming existence. It felt lived in...
...Kind of like that big new pink pleather-sheathed butt of hers...
Madeleine realized she was basically staring at that thing before she noticed Gloria’s lower body was very considerably bigger than it had been the last time she hung out with her, which was... what? It couldn’t have been a month!
This inexplicably revamped booty was giving her a saucy, slinky strut. Forcing it on her, to be fair. It seemed a touch more than unlikely that the chick had done much jogging of any kind since Madeleine had last seen her.
At the very least, she hadn’t done very much of her daily and notorious (occasionally disconcerting) fifteen-mile morning runs. Nobody was going to gain weight, let alone all that Gloria had, from a regimen like that.
No way—she couldn’t have been doing anything more strenuous than the idle sashay. Especially since none of the scores of new shoes she’d blathered on about picking up had anything less than a four-inch heel!
The glittery toenail polish job, a garish pattern that looked like a cow’s spots, except more glittery, didn’t look exactly like anything she’d wanted to hide. Gloria’s gaudy neon mini, too, was making zero effort to cloak her obvious growth.
That thing was so tight that it squeaked a bit as she sassily slushed down the aisles. It was so tight, her partially exposed asscheeks dimpled quite plainly under the overworked fabric.
Dang thing’s so tight and short, I can even see her... pussy! It was so short, she could see it dripping at the slightest bend. Drip, drip, drip... hot wet drippy-hot lippies... Madeleine’s eyes bugged.
Wait—whaaat?! It took some amount of brain settling to remember that she should think such a sight indecent, borderline repulsive. Certainly not the slightest bit delicious!
She smacked her face and kept her place behind Gloria, only partially because she was mesmerized by the young woman’s ample new lower body. Really, it was mostly because her friend’s hips had evidently widened so drastically, they took up nearly the whole length of the record store’s meager rows.
She couldn’t squeeze by, even if she’d wanted to dart out already—on several occasions. I wonder if the Big Butt Diet involves a lot of pork and sausage, she considered, and surprised herself with how earnest she was being.
Whuh? Quick, blurry mental pictures flitted through her head at the arrival of this strange thought: thick, long, yummy-looking links of sausage hanging in a butcher shop. A tall, broad butcher molding two mounds of ground meat...
...The butcher’s towering and fat cock. Gently throbbing in her hand at first, then pumping steadily straight into her oinking mouth—
Madeleine blinked and threw her head back and forth. Her stomach bubbled, easing fast into a snarl. A quick jerk of her hand got it swiftly away from sliding underneath Gloria’s skirt.
Now just... What in the fuck?!
She tried to cover everything up by humming along to the extended groove wafting through the overhead speakers. She was still tapping her foot, despite herself.
Her stomach voiced another quibble, though. It felt as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. All the while, she was oblivious to the drip of saliva dousing her bottom lip.
Gloria swiveled around as speedily as she could, sluggish and hobbled by her rabid, unchecked voluptuousness. It was as if she was now fully equipped with the ability to hone in on any “underfed” girl within a hundred foot radius.
“Didn’t you do breakfast, honey? Me, I have, like, three—four courses every mornin’ an’...mmmm... Most times, like, by second dinner, even a couple, y’know, triple-thick milkshakes’ll sometime do me just—”
“I’m-fine!” blurted Madeleine, struggling with every fiber of her being to not call her friend out on referring to her as “honey”, or ask her again what the hell was going on with her... or let her clouding mind imagine the orgasmic delight of a butterscotch shake...
...or drool about Gloria’s big giant tits, now threatening to cascade out of some sort of puny, bikini-halter hybrid, all stretched to hell. The cups were tiny and outlandish, cavernously cut, shiny purple. Dotted with grapes, two of these cartoon fruits were curved outward at the end of each of Gloria’s hard nipples.
Since meeting her on this day, Madeleine hadn’t seen those things in any other state except puffed-up and porky: overstuffed in the somehow-chafing confines of her gag gift top. She guessed the thing to be at least a D cup. She also guessed the udders that Gloria tried to stuff into it to be twice that big.
Triple-thick, for sure... “For realsy—gah, I mean—really. I’m fiiiine....”
Her friend’s big chubby chest was certainly new, as well. Just weeks earlier, Gloria was flatter than even her. She was prone to go on about how thankful she was that she could wear anything she wanted—how grateful that it gave her a leg up in the world.
Not so much anymore. This afternoon, she was packing a tremendous pair of wobbly, honest-to-god knockers. Standing still, they defied their mistress, took forever to settle down to as much as a gentle jiggle. Her chest had skipped all points between flat and fat.
Straight men wouldn’t take anything she said seriously ever again, even if she could manage something serious to say. Straight women were going to laugh, but pity was going to win out eventually—when they saw how perfect and buoyant they hung, how painless they were for her to cart around.
Super-gawjus boobies, Madeleine thought, enthralled at their magnificence. Totally super-duper titty-trooper teaty-teats! Reflexively, much like a shiver, she giggled. She hated it but did it again. And again.
And again... She resentted the way her eyes wouldn’t budge from those ballooned boobs, too... the way her mind kept gravitating toward the very vivid, crisply visual idea of a light sexy romp with her sexy, thickened, friend-slut...
...Fingering one another in a church pew, side by side, trying not to scream...
Getting held after class at Sunday school, waiting for a nice schlong to slide down Gloria’s huge thingies and into her own mouth, twisted up and fingering her bestest gal pal while some other holy dude is maybe pounding her from behind or someth—
No! “So,” Madeleine accidentally drawled, sugary and wispy. She swallowed, beginning again, more firm this time, and zipped her curiously undone jeans back up.
Omigod, like, WTF! By the time she’d buttoned, she’d already forgotten—everything except actually thinking the letters “WTF”. She bit her lip, annoyed at her brain. The worst part of it being that she found it impossible to remember what those letters stood for...
White trash female? It wasn’t only that Gloria’s exaggerated features commanded her field of vision or attention. It felt like the girl’s booty anf boobies had grabbed large lumps of her mind along for the ride, too. “So.”
She had to apply some concentrated effort not to pepper what she had to say with a “like”. “Tell me more about this band. S-sounds like, like... fun,” she sighed, unable to stop it, a smile coming now slathering its way onto her face, disturbingly light and easy.
The thin indie girl’s fluffy pink horniness lingered, even as her cognizance of it dropped off. Within a few seconds, though, she went right back to feeling annoyed, listening to this weird curvy Gloria dopplenganger jaw on about her shitty new fave.
“...Them porno samples really go along nicely with that bangin’-ass banjo they got...” At least they were talking about a band now, even if it was some really lame-sounding one. Not cute clothes... Not titty-fucking...
Not growing huge fat tits or growing even huger fatter tits so you outgrow all the cute clothes in America so you end up always topless, willing and ready to titty-fuck all sorts of huge fat delicious country cock and grow even huger fatter tits and titty-fuck even huger fatter Christian cocks that give you huger and fatter cherub charms so you can keep titty-fuh—
head-shake That was... cool, right? Wasn’t she in a band herself? Madeleine’s head felt sticky, unsure. That topic itself, though, had to have been a substantial step in the right direction. At least it would be easier to pretend she gave one solid fuck...
Trying to keep track of which miniskirts Gloria got at which boutiques, and half-wondering whether or not “Dreamy Pinky Blitz” nail polish would even match those new lime green short-shorts she raved about, was making her feel kind of gross.
It had taken more than twenty minutes of idle browsing at Sonic Soul for her friend to mention anything remotely related to music. When she finally did, it was some awful-sounding new band called, embarrasingly...
Bubba’s Big Jugg Band. Really. And there was nary an undertone of smarmy irony to be found in her voice as she rolled out that retarded name once more. Her tongue hung out to accentuate the name with a spit bubble.
Likewise, Gloria didn’t once bring up any of her usual claptrap about “repurposing folk music” or “genre-hopping”, or, whatever. The granny glasses that used to complement such geekiness were long gone, anyhow.
(The bimboized girl’s thick glittery hot pink sunglasses, nestled high atop blonde curls, just couldn’t have been prescription. She hadn’t slid them down her face once. Besides, Madeleine didn’t know of any optometrist that sold novelty frames that were shaped to resemble two asscheeks instead of twin hearts.)
Her familiar restrained pretension was today pre-empted with vague but very emphatic gushing. The only pointed thing she had to say, though, about this “totally, awesomely amazing” act was that she “abso-loopy appreciated” the fact that their “daisy dukes keep on gettin’ a-tighter an’ tighter wit’ each new vid.”
“Personal, I thought this one part in the video for ‘Jiggle For Jesus’ was, like, real insprin’ and amazin’ awesome... awesome. Sally-Sue Jugg breaks Wanda Jugg out them there stables, and they has a mud-wrasslin’ tickle-fight, to prove their, like, love for, y’know, America an’ stuff.”
She spoke as if Madeleine was intimately familiar with “church country’s flyest honeys”. “Pow’rful stuff, y’know? It blows my dang mind!” Really? Madeleine thought. You don’t say! “And you don’t give a care!”
Gloria was straight-up blubbering over Bubba’s Big Jugg Band now, hurt that her old friend was dismissing her new favorite band. “Them gals is gosh golly geniuses, and nobody give ‘em any credit, cuz they real womens, who ain’t a-scared to show some titty!”
The slight hipster chick and her inflated and exaggerated, ruthlessly transformed friend, circled back near the register at this point. “Hey, handsome!” Gloria cooed at the dude manning it, waving dippily. Madeleine groaned and flinched. Awful!
“Wanna, umm... oh yeah! Hee-hee... You wanna, like, see my boobs?” This brain-deadened, so-called “Gloria” pulled down her microscopic top and set them free before the salesclerk even responded. “Really, they nice boobies! They don’t, um... like, bite or somethin’...”
Big blubbery peach-pink boobs demanded everyone else’s complete attention a second later. They bounced around exuberantly, overjoyed in their jiggly freedom. Long thick puffy nipples pointed up and down at nothing, darting around, wild. ...Were they... leaking... something?
“Umm...” said Madeleine, all mushy, convinced it was the beginning to some word she couldn’t remember. She said it again, thinking that maybe it would help her remember the phantom word. It didn’t.
She squeezed her trim thighs together, frustrated. Her mind was turning pink. She wasn’t just going to stand there and let it get all soft and pink and squirmy-sexy... Was she?
Everything around the over-curvy skank began to reek of fake raspberry. Like... pie and... pussy. It smelled as pleasant as pastel pink looked... Some kind of cream or creamy fatty buttermilk, too...
The distracting scent puffed up invisibly, softly, sickly-sweetly. Madeleine blushed. She was getting wet. Time seemed to stop. The boy behind the counter, Gloria, and she herself (along with a few other intrigued male onlookers, wisely keeping distance) were transfixed by tit.
All eyes were on the giant jugs gleefully on display—rapt, as if the two huge hooters were giving some crucial sermon or lecture. No one watching could quite figure out if the things took thirty seconds to stop moving and sit in their feed-ready place, or thirty minutes... It felt more like three hours, anyway.
Some dude started to do a teasing slow clap when they stopped their wobbling. Another whistled. A few girls could be heard giggling from across the store. Madeleine felt these sounds, but they just didn’t stand apart from the insistently catchy song being pumped even louder into the record shop.
The rhythm and melody bypassed her brain and went straight into her body, telling limbs and organs that it was okay to just giggle and be girly. A wave of hot happiness slathered itself over her whole being, like an electric blanket made of endorphins and hormones.
She bit her bottom lip as she recalled there hadn’t been a big wad of chewy fruity gum in her heated mouth. She could almost taste it. It was a subtle, nearly bland kind of peach cobbler-ish flavor, but more tangy, more... salty. Why didn’t it exist, right now! Her lip just wasn’t yummy enough!
Out of nowhere, she appraised its plushness, or lack thereof. I can’t even really suck on stuff the right way with a heathen mouth like the one I got! She told herself she only meant lollipops and popsicles, not some hot huge cocks or anything...
Flushed, she brushed her hair behind her ears, taking note of some sweat, starving and nervous and... horny.
Yup. So very much all-encompassing, all-pink and pussy-pleasingly horny! She licked her lips to mimic her friend, happy to be led to the sexy fluffly land of Pink: where every guy pounded and ruled, and the girlies all tittered and drooled...
Bimbo Gloria blew a big cherry bubble, basking in her own busty and magnetic allure. She let a healthy morsel of the big bunch of gum stick to both her lips. “An’ what’s, like... ‘suh-cuse me... what would be yore name, ya hot fuckin’ stud-man?”
She sighed, giggling timidly, no doubt very intimidated in the presence of a guy. Madeleine sighed for that reason as well, but also to copycat her friend-slut, and to give in. She didn’t think that was why at all, though. She didn’t think at all, in fact.
Everything was all pink and nice, and pink and nice... She lowered her eyelids halfway to make things pinker and nicer... Smiling and giggling helped, too. She craved big, scandalous tits like the ones her girlfriend sported, positive that carrying those jugs around made stuff just totally, like, the pinkest!
Madeleine wondered what it was like to have breasts so awesome and big and pink that they became your new brains. It was probably really really pink to let every inch of fluffy flesh, each weeping milk duct, decide what was best, for you and your breasts.
A new song started up. She couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to it. It was all about feeling it... right between her thighs. To let the song listen to her.
Words came slow and sticky to Bimbo Gloria now as she saw the effect she was having on her, so she opted to give words a rest for a bit, moving her boobs to slush back and forth slowly, nudging them along hypnotically with thoughtless hip swiveling.
Madeleine tried to make sense of their unspeakable power. They were, without a doubt, much bigger than... before (that word, that concept, still seemed off somehow), but did they get even bigger in the hour they’d been hanging out?
They didn’t droop quite like that, did they? Am I imagining things? Those stretch marks weren’t there before. No way! Bending over, fat pink pussy lips smiled upon all in attendance to her slut-show, slushy and shiny.
At any rate, Bimbo Gloria was clearly not going to be mistaken for anything but a chunky country ass, an unfathomable pair of moo-cows, and that empty fluffy blonde head on top. The big butt slut loving her cottony pink chains. Boobs for brains. Thinking hard.
Pink and soft...
She put a silky smooth lily-white arm around Madeleine, kissing her on the cheek. “My best bitch!” The lanky hipster girl blushed, making her ruddy cheeks a darker shade of tomato. “You this cherub’s favorite little cunny, honey chile.”
“My bestest bitch in all of God’s Christian country! ...along with meeee, of fuckin’ course!” Being called a bitch was, like, the best kind of compliment, right? Only thing to rival it was “big hot slut”, right? It was hard to decide which she preferred, as Gloria cooed the latter while tickling her friend’s bony stomach.
“Y’all skin and muddy-fudgin’ bones, dahlin. How you gonna get a boy’s tension if yew walk around with the ass of one?!” She tsked. The curveless girl’s blood ran cold.Something’s... not-right, er whatevvvv...
Madeleine’s own arm now felt like it was made of lead for some reason, but she was able to wring herself free, before she inexplicably kissed the new version of her friend on her neck. Not like she really truly wanted to.
She whimpered despite herself. She forced a frown, unsure. She tried, hard, not to immediately miss this lazy embrace and want it back right away. She thought pink thoughts. Really, what’s so wrong if I, say... make out or have a hot little lick on one of her big beautiful...
Her train of thought chugged slowly into more pink, light and hot, duly enveloping each coil of her brain... As her improved hottie friend decided to push some more pink words on through from her fat pink not-pussy-lips...
Yummmy... The inevitable resulting snapshot of her slick, almost flourescent snatch, with the glistening sheen and the delicious fruity aroma, was ten billion times yummier. Almost as yummy as the way her booty and little tummy helped each other push forward and prop cutely out.
Nothing like high heels to showcase a girly’s yummy charms. And yummy stuff, artificially and pinkly took its place over the bullying prominence of old, lame stuff. Like DIY, independence, feminism, and college. Books with words instead of pictures of hot naked hotties. Yuck!!!
It was a good thing that the thick slut was about to continue, definitely, because: Thinking stinks! Madeleine was hit with a realization (when she sifted through all that pink, enough to understand that the reason her old new friend sounded sexy was simple: It’s cuz she’s sexy!):
I’m-a just think pink until pink thinks me! It wasn’t going to be easy with a flat chest like hers, she reasoned, confident in her airtight logic that made no sense whatsoever.
She guess-timated that she’d have to be at least ten cup sizes bigger to make everything just pink enough. Pink bras, too, like the one her adorable awesome girlfriend had on now. To start with, anyhow.
Once I prove my complete pinkness to the world, I can move on to lime green, electric tangerine, and even lemon tart yellow! Madeleine felt half-startled that she knew what all the cool colors for proper and sophisticated slutwear were, and in turn thought nothing of it.
Be sure to dress real shiny / so your man can bless that hiney! Uh-uh! Like, duh! I wanna be a good fun girl!
She didn’t notice that all of this was a string of lyrics, being sultrily spun into her blindly accepting ears. Pumped and thumped into her rump. Movin’ and groovin’... No. It wasn’t just some song.
It had come on in a wet flowing wave, reassuring, just one of many natural facts of life. A girl had to be good. For her man. The truth of it all was blinding. Blindingly pink! I wanna be the best bimbo I can be / I want him to fuck my brains outta me!
Bimbo Gloria puckered and got ready to chirp. Madeleine put her hand over her mouth self-consciously, ashamed at the shocking burst of complete ecstasy that erupted from it. Gloria shot her a coy wink that made her melt in her jeans.
That voice... like that of an all-American angel... “I reckon yew got a fuckin’ real sexy name...Is it... lessee here... is it... Mr. Studly-man?! C’mon... You kin tale me!” That Gloria! Such a cummy-dee... such a... funny-type girly cummy slut-slut! “Don’tchew go ‘bout fibbin’ ta this missy, nah, y’hear?”
Madeleine wiped her damp slick chin, groggy and confused, brain rushing through to stamp out desire quite improbably... Again, Gloria sure sounded like a dumbass trailer-pork hick, but it was just impossible to remember what her voice had sounded like... before.
Before... before what, exactly? Something about boobs, or... butts... getting bigger and bigger, growing... beautiful... pink... don’t think... be dutiful... breed, beautiful... sink deep... suck di—
She laughed. She sighed. What warped aesthetic sense did she acquire that translated the super-silly sour apple ring pops, dangling down from lobes and fashioned into childish earrings, as an indisputable signifier of beauty?
Madeleine worried that her pink thoughts were struggling to make themselves annoyingly clear and... non-hot... A slow blink turned strong and defiant in a flash. Things were most assuredly getting way out of hand. I can just leave, I can just get the hell out of here, she was convinced.
Then she convinced herself to stay put. Or maybe those big huge boobies did. They were very, very convincing. They were so very chubby and totally cute...
The buxom blonde now play-scratched her perfectly smooth, blemish-free forehead with a lengthy french tip. She winked like a 50s bombshell. “Umm...” Flirting was sucking up what little brainpower she’d maintained. “Ummm...”
Ummm... Madeleine again tried to locate the elusive word that began with “umm” in her diminishing lexicon, then chided herself. You’re really stupid, you know that? She did the smart thing instead, and hung on her friend’s imminent haze of pink words.
“Mmm, I’ll just, like,bet it is—I’ll bet my big butt that’s what it is! Mr. Studly Studly-man... Isn’t it?!” The cashier chose not to dignify this with a response, only looked at her with a curious combination of pity and boredom. It knocked the skinny girl out of her pink fog without warning.
He and Madeleine shared a knowing glance. “You know what it is,” he said, in an annoyance that matched the “too thin” girl’s. “I’m Jamey.” He lingered on each syllable, as if addressing a toddler. ”Jay. Mee. We played in three different bands together.”
He held up four fingers, though, barely hiding a chuckle. Gloria nodded, playing along. Madeleine grimaced, inferring her mixed-up friend’s retarded thought process, approximating by just looking at her soft-cheeked, glitter-dusted face:
Three is four. Of course! Yummy hot guy says so. Yummy hot guys are yummy and hot! Then, just... nothing. A bimbo-y blankness. Wait—nope. That look said, as if acknowledging a far-away and milky-clear Bimbo Buddha, “Gum tastes great!” “Hehe! Ummmmmmmm...” Gloria reached around, to pull her mini down, apparently to cover half her ass instead of just a quarter. It was a completely misguided and inconsequential move, but, in its process, made some of the rawhide fringe along the bottom of her titty-top twist together.
“Uh-oh’s!” She slowly untied all the knotted fake suede with her thick long nails, trailing a hand down to another new acquisition: a tiny but indisputable pot belly. “Anyways, like, so where were—Mmmmm... ”
Scraping fingers eased into gentle strokes, then soft and circular caresses. Gloria acted like this was her proudest new addition to her blossoming bod. Like the heavy tits and ginormous ass were merely okay. Like they were just some nice little side effects.
Madeleine gulped, suddenly worried. She did her best to ignore the hot, fruity essence of this dairy-on-legs that by now clung to the roof of her mouth, and to take good stock of Gloria... after gazing lazily into her beautiful cleavage for a few more seconds... and just a teensy bit more after that...
There was something about the contented half-smirk that seemed to be her default, springing right up directly after each pout or sob. She looked to have reached some kind of bubblegum-aided enlightenment. (Madeleine scolded herself when she realized she was about to ask Gloria for a stick of whatever she was chewing.)
Early crow’s feet and worry lines had completely vanished. Generously thick blush and foundation jobs accentuated the filling out of prematurely aging, worried and sallow cheeks. A nose made much smaller and button-like (when prodded, Gloria had sworn she didn’t get plastic surgery on the long and severe hook nose she used to have, claimed ignorance of its existence) was off-and-on runny, provoking slurping and sniffles.
An irrepressible mixture of relaxed maturity floated into that careless childishness... There was a kind of pinkish glow about her... all that excess burping, too... not to mention all those candy-smelling farts...
Above all, though, it was her pudgy new stomach that gave up her secret: perfectly round and protruding, more on the firm side of fat like her tits and ass were, but with only a hint of the jiggle so brazenly advertised by those bimboized body parts. It was put on shameless display. It was... obnoxiously fetching.
It was when Gloria grabbed a tube from her handbag and worked a palmful of delicious and aromatic, raspberry-scented lotion onto it, that Madeleine was met with a fleeting revelation. It slipped just as soon as it came, flickered into less than nothing right when it seemed ultra-important...
Something about... that belly, insouciant and playfully chubby, giving way to those nonsensically broadened hips below... Something about the change in her coo as she stroked...
Madeleine didn’t need to waste any time wondering if her thoroughly feminized friend was pregnant: if it wasn’t a baby bump, it was a prized placeholder. The oozy dab of white goo, just beginning to trail slowly down her thigh, ripped away that curtain of suspicion. Still: She just can’t be!
Although, she considered, it would explain why she wanted to know what my favorite kind of pickle was. (Though, to be fair, she was also grilled about her favorite chocolate, pie, chocolate pie, donut, and pizza.)
And it would similarly explain, maybe, why she hugged a random preggo customer at the store and called her “brave sista-soldier”...
Madeleine unscrewed the cap on the bottled water the record shop was giving away, chugging a good amount of it, unstoppably thirsty. It was her second bottle. That was weird, too, but there were a million billion other weird things going on...
Whatever, she thought, smirking. She’d get the nerve to ask her, sooner or later. Maybe at that barbecue lunch buffet that Gloria invited her to... It didn’t make sense to wrack her brain now, though, looking for coochie-dripping clues.
I’m not no science-type girl or somethin’... What was the word for a science-type girl, anyway? She swigged down the rest of the big bottle of water, hoping the delicious and refreshing cool of it would help her think a little bit more clearly.
It didn’t. It just made her thoughts quieter, drowned out and suffocated. It made the overhead music much louder and much more pleasant. Madeleine blinked and blinked, trying to get rid of a curious pink film that had wrapped itself over everything in her field of vision.
She couldn’t. She did find that if she let her eyes fall closed and opened them again really slowly, kind of let her lids rest half-shut in just the right way after every couple of blinks, that most of those fun pastel bubbles went away, anyway.
After a while, she kind of gave up and let her eyes lie low, letting a dozen light pink bubbles pop and reform and get bigger, breeding more bubbles. The glaze turned to a more intense, hot pink shade, but the bubbles stayed just as pretty and looked really cute, the way they clustered together to bounce around the shoulders of every guy in the store...
She pursed her lips together brainlessly as she eventually cogitated some legit observations about her friend, and tried—really, really tried—to feel bad at all, about any of them... It’s totally okay, it’s all just biologi-cool...
The probably knocked-up, almost aggressively fertile-looking new Gloria kept right on, blissfully rubbing her tummy, as if unaware that anyone was there, waiting for her to say anything.
She blew a big blue bubble and winked at the guy staring at her instead. He looked at her with a deeper gaze of great shame and a tiny touch of empathy. She winked again for good measure.
“You used to date my brother,” Jamey hinted. The skankified vixen popped a big bubble of watermelon gum, shivered a tad, and cooed. It was as if she’d heard the shape of these words, but they only registered as mere slit-slickening tones.
“So, like... hmmm...” Then a giggle, then a sticky gum-bubble pop. She looked as if she was poised to say something, but chose to stare at him slack-jawed instead. She mewed, overworked in her quest to think a single fucking thing.
She began to count with her fingers again for some reason, humming vacantly. It sounded like some half-cooked combination of the Star-Spangled Banner and “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”.
Conveniently, Cartoon Gloria did look a lot like Marilyn... if Marilyn’s T & A were almost four times as big, and she was equipped with a rather rednecky gap in her teeth, to perfectly complement a rather rednecky rasp, all backwoodsy and bubbly.
Dovetailing neatly for effect, Gloria had even acquired a replica of Ms. Monroe’s trademark mole, somewhere down the lust-drawn line. At least, that’s what it had to be. What 26-year-old woman’s face just busts out with a beauty spot? Then again, it was just as hard to fathom someone in their mid-twenties packing on six or seven bra sizes in just over three weeks.
Along with the puffy puppy fat that seemed to airbrush her familiar and angular, craggy cheekbones with dollops of flesh, the new mole helped to present an ultra-soft and smoothly seductive exterior that clashed with her old tough, take-no-prisoners aura.
She looked shy underneath those chubby cheeks, like the only moments of confidence she could find were during those hot moments, bouncing around in bed, letting her body take over. She had this look now, of “eager to please” taking the place of “aiming to piss off”.
“Strong” had morphed into “simpering”. “Self-reliant” pitifully buckled at the knees under “all-compliant”. Swoops and curves up and down her body surely did their part in brushing out her will, ensuring a softened life of servitude and submission, but really—it was all in the face.
Corners of the bony chin she used to have had often gotten scraped on account of her active lifestyle: the aformentioned jogging, the furious moshing, the short-lived supplementary job as a bike messenger. She didn’t mind drawing blood. She meant business. It was all in the face.
Before, Gloria had a strong, almost violent one that intimidated men and virtually guaranteed short, barely-there relationships. Now, however, a second chin was subtly but surely budding. It made her look a decade younger. A decade dumber, too... Not that she needed any help with that. It was all in the face.
Before Madeleine lazily decided that it wasn’t nice to upset guys, under a new coating of that pink glaze, she was having great trouble imagining this Gloria saying “fuck off” to a guy making a rude comment. Maybe “fuck me“...
(She’d already beamed and squealed at a hurried skateboarder that called out, “Move your big ass!” as he skipped to the techno section. She could only hear it as a compliment.)
Something like, “Stop it, silly goose!” was probably the closest she’d come to telling a dude off these days. She’d probably profusely apologize for things she’d have demanded an apology for, once upon a time. Madeleine reasoned that she’d definitely apologize with a blowjob... or at least a titfuck. Guys loved those.
From now on, the only red marks on her face would be from slobbering her cheesecake’s cherry or strawberry sauce, or putting way too much blush on. She wanted, craved, only pure and sloppy pleasure. She was built for it. It was all in the face.
The slut-mark, a mole like a little dab of chocolate syrup dribbled onto that voluptuous cheesecake, certainly looked to be as authentic as those new errant freckles, too,—the ones peppering her somehow resculpted new button nose and big new breasts.
(Gloria had insisted somewhere in the ska section that those had come in as a result “all that sun” she’d been getting. If that was the case, why did “tanning” make her dark olive complexion all milky white in most areas, pale pink in others?
“Some girls get sunburned,” she explained while taking far too long to inspect an imported Beyonce CD single, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t missing some fifty-odd IQ points. “Me, I jus’ freckle! I fart yummy-smelling raspberry-peachy farts, and I freckle... and, like, to be completely frankfurter with ya... it’s kinda fun!")
Like these new attributes (and particularly her big and broad, eye-velcro, cock-magnet hips) the mark appeared commanding, cajoling Madeleine to believe in it, to rewrite memories of her friend—it was always there—it was never there—wait a minute, which was it? Madeleine couldn’t seem to figure out what was real anymore. How did this big, buxom and bouncy superskank bubble forth from one of the smartest, hippest punk chicks in the city? How was that reality?! It wasn’t. Was it? How could it be?
The brown dot had sprouted at the curve of a cheek, nestling there like some kind of pesky and out-of-turn brat, looking much more like a birthmark than a makeup-kit-applied beauty one. Every time she smiled, which was practically always and always dumb and dippy now, it winked and said, in its small way, “I’m a fun slut and I want to have some slutty fun slut fun!”
This floaty, dreamy vortex of voluptuous gorgeousness was precisely what made it sort of difficult for Madeleine to tell if her brain-drained girlfriend was idly half-singing on her own, or what. Also, her cushy red lips were so pretty and very, very distracting.
Maybe the big bimbo was simply trying to keep up (albeit shrill and out of tune) with the propulsive rural rhythms of one of the more groove-oriented tracks of what must have been Bubba’s Big Jugg Band. She knew it was when she caught herself whispering its constant chant: “big jug”.
If Jamey had put it on to put the group’s stupidity on display, it was an act that was lost on Madeleine. She was occupied with Gloria’s big and juicy new lips moving, considering giving them a nice wet smooch more than what was floating out of them. Slutty bunny, bimbo bunny / life’s so funny, you’re so funny / slide that cunny, get real cummy!
These were the words that floated into her tired mind with safe passage and no second thought, because there hadn’t been an initial one. She was so caught off guard by the music and Gloria’s humming that it almost didn’t register that the thickened new tart was still counting whatever mid-song.
Do I have to count again, too?
Gloria had begun to suck on each digit when she got to the number five, then attempted to shove her whole fist in her mouth. It was a 100% insipid kind of logic, but it was definitively a kind of logic nonetheless. It left her lipstick smeared and blurry.
Madeleine grumbled, floating foggily to reality for a bit. The Gloria she once knew was now irrevocably, absolutely in absentia. (Her eyes were just about the last vestige of her old self, and even those had turned baby blue and wider, more naive.) That much she knew for certain.
In her friend’s place was this biped baby with a fluffy glamour girl’s body. A cheesecake model over-inflated from extended, misguided evenings with two or five slices, and hot times with twice as many throbbing cocks.
Slutty bunny, bimbo bunny / life’s so funny, you’re so funny / slide that cunny, get real cummy! Madeleine actually heard these lyrics this time, but instead of finding them offensive, simply laughed. It felt easier to just laugh instead of worry, to grin big when you felt confused...
She wasn’t sure why she had gotten so upset with Gloria, and began to feel extreme jealousy. She was clearly quite happy and healthy. It was just society that was stupid, not Gloria! That bitch was smart! A genius, really. The truth hit Madeleine’s sopping slit first, then slushed to her brain, but only when it was good and ready.
What girl wouldn’t want to get all thick and curvy, lose that annoying conscience, and have all the answers to life answered by hot guys that are really delicious to suck and fuck? All at once, Madeleine clung to a eureka moment. It would be her life’s work to be a good girl, to want nothing more than to be a good girl.
She knew that God, in all his manly might, created woman to serve man. It was scientific. In a spark of clarity, it became obvious to Madeleine that women were put on earth to grow big boobies and butts, and that Jesus favored thick country sluts.
Bikinis weren’t just for the beach. Most importantly, she needed to have a really girly laugh, and to remember to try and use it instead of speaking, unless she needed new mascara or a breast pump or something.
Slutty bunny, bimbo bunny / life’s so funny, you’re so funny / slide that cunny, get real cummy! The bouncy chorus of Madeleine’s new favorite song of all time receded, and a man’s words crashed into the center of her consciousness.
She perked up. It was probably important. A guy talks, a girl listens. It’s only natural. My pussy’s on loan. It belongs to God, it’s His to hump and own.
She didn’t think twice about what her brain was telling her. It was elementary, really, just like red meant stop and green meant go. And pink meant to smile and be nice. Duh!
“If you had three big, juicy cocks right in front of you,” Jamey prodded Gloria, slowly, holding up an open palm, “and I gave you one more, then how many cocks would you need to make cum?”
Madeleine was about to answer for her, but managed to remember to at least pretend as if she was “above” this... for whatever reason. Was it that it was unfair? Probably. But what was fair, anyway? So much inequality in the world to go around...
The tramp stamp on the dimpled small of Gloria’s back was like a roadblock to any offense one friend could take about the situation. It read, barely noticeable in white bubble letters: WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE.
She held on to her heightened detachment, even though it seemed more unfair not to simply play along than risk ridiculing her friend (wherever she was hiding under all that cheesecake). A guy was clearly enjoying himself, and kept looking in her direction to see if she was too.
When they met eyes, she looked away, canceling out a complacent smirk with a sigh that left her mouth about twenty times louder than she would have liked. The yawn that followed, caused not by sleepiness but by imminent sex fog suffocation, floated out in a big wet moan, slapping shut around an sticky, elongated “mmmmmm”.
“Excuse me,” she burbled, and laughed. Giggling felt polite, neatly apologetic. Jamey held up three fingers, then one, then four, teasing. Gloria teared up, a big little girl pout puckering, struggling to keep up with his fast fingers. “W-wait a sec, kay?” she begged, hopeful.
“Three cocks,” he said, like it was a price tag. He cracked open a beer, which seemed unusual to the wispy noise-making college girl. Wasn’t he straight edge? “Three cocks, okay, okay by you, but then how many fingers do you wish were all up in that revved-up new shocking pink cockpit of yours, Gloryhole?”
Madeleine somehow missed the cashier’s blatant misogyny. It came off like a harmless jab, maybe a little mean, maybe, but nothing hurtful. It didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary for cordial record shop banter. Something was getting in the way.
“If I have three cocks...” It was probably all those soft pink cock-related thoughts. Of course, there was a chance that it could have been the unprovoked but welcome thought of his flitting fingers, all up in her soft pink soft stuff...
A thought that couldn’t get unstuck, growing sweeter and hotter as she watched her fleshed-out friend struggling with the simplest math. The tiny part of her that allowed herself to get jealous at the blissed-out vapidity was gaining traction. Thighs like that are just wasted on her.
“Ummmm....” Gloria tiptoed in place, heels hovering above her bejeweled heels, squeezing her thighs shut, before finally sticking some digits within them. It was clearly intended as some mind-clearing ritual that must have always backfired. “Is the answer, um... let’s see... God an’ America an’ the angels?”
Luckily, she was saved by a phone call before she humiliated herself any further. “Hiyeeee,” she answered, waving inanely. “Uh-uh, nopers! Yesterday was my interview for Trampoline Tramps.” She clicked her high heels like some bimbified Dorothy, knocked off balance, almost falling out of them.
The act also broke Madeleine out of her randy reverie, putting back vindicating feelings of pity and repulsion. She cast aside a burning need to take her oversized t-shirt off, going so far as to almost assure herself that having just a bra on in public wasn’t so bad, wasn’t trashy at all.
To be certain, it felt five degrees hotter to her all of a sudden. She reasoned that this was probably why, maybe faulty central air, and to have patience. She took a big gulp of the bottled water they were handing out at the entrance under the show flyer bulletin and it cooled her off half-decently.
“I dunno, you deep dreamy-licious whoever-you-is. Who do you think you called?” Mid-conversation, one of Gloria’s giant boobs escaped its pointless clothing. She turned red, nervous, and picked it up, stopping before stuffing it back in.
“Of course I know my own naaame, silly li’l billy. It’s em...boss-uh-m’fied on all my holy Banger mp3 clitty toys.” She juggled the errant teat with a couple wimpy fingers and flicked the big puffy nipple on it instead of putting the meaty thing away. “For all big Christian women who love to dance in their pants and cream big!” she spouted vacantly, a living droning commercial. “...Yes, this is Lady Glorious.”
Lady Glorious? Seriously?! This was Gloria “Manstomper” Cranston, she of feminist fanzine notoriety—Philly’s famous “bitch blogger”, right? The chick who got into Twitter wars over some guy who dared to reply to her using the word “honey”???
“Miss Girlyslut to you...” Jamey and Madeleine smirked at each other in knowing disbelief, and then, a deeper look of...
She noticed the geeky boy looked older or... something. More mature, maybe. It seemed impossible. This boy’s latest project was called Squirreljuice, after all. What was it, then?
He had heavy stubble dotting his face, where only peach fuzz used to grow. It rested on a markedly squarer jaw, a stronger chin. He had some kind of... awesome cologne on. He winked at her.
Freakily, she had to really try not to melt as Gloria gabbed on. It was shockingly hard. What the fuck is going on?! Jamey had set up all of her earliest shows in the city. He was like a big brother. And he was ugly!
Wasn’t he?!
She winked back. Gloria shook her fat ass to the music as she continued her loud chatting, and it was like Madeleine had no choice but to mimic her with her own bony, flat one. She had to. This was important. For some reason...
Jamey’s hot gaze had drifted to Gloria’s chest, and she had to win it back somehow. She glared at her garishly talkative, transformed old friend. With a finger, she mocked putting a gun to her mouth. She didn’t realize she’d started to distractedly suck on it, lost in the chipper babbling. Besides, sucking made her see a bunch of new pink bubbles.
“Well, kinda! I mean, I was wearing a a thong leotard when we went out dancin’ that night... Mmm-hmmm... No, not gold, silvery-ish.... Uh-huh... Yep, you got it, baby. Yep—it’s Lady Glorious, but you can call me Gigi, cuz, like, I got G cups! mmhmmm! Yeah, I totally know, but they’ll definitely get bigger, I swear... I’ll only work for your club under one, like, uhh-dition...”
Madeleine sidled up to the register, nervously threading her hair out of her face, blushing and sweating. Desperate for dignity. “How could you be so...nonchal...uctant?” she hazarded, feeling weak for a moment. That was the right word, right? “One of the, like, best musicians in the city has turned into a dumb plump bimbo!”
Jamey laughed. “She’s not the only one, Maddie. Jenny Haverbrook traded in her bass amp to afford her new wardrobe. Half of Mad Rocket can’t even play their instruments anymore, because their nails got too long. And don’t even get me started on Becca Collier. Her butt’s so big, there isn’t a drum stool yet that she hasn’t destroyed!”
He started to unbutton his shirt, then a little more when he saw that she was looking—and, despite herself, liking, maybe even loving what she saw. Sometime since the last she’d seen of the guy, he had hit the gym. Big time. A healthy plumage of chest hair at 28 was a late but welcome addition, as well. Hottie McHotterson...
“Frankly, I’m a little shocked you don’t know about our fair city’s outbreak of Family Way Flu,” he intoned, shaking his head. “It turns out that all those news reports about Cherub Cove are all true. Whatever’s making the people in that town dumb and super-sexualized is infiltrating the city. And so far, nobody can figure out how to prevent or stop it.”
He smirked upon noticing his friend slowly stroking her collarbone, letting her lips hang open. She smirked at how his words sounded so good even though she wasn’t paying any bit of attention.
“I mean, Maddie—there’s whole blocks, like, right by where you live, that were quarantned off not even a week ago. They’re calling it Little Cherub. Where have you been? How in fuck do you not know about this?”
Madeleine blushed, her open lower lip trembling. “Like, oh my gosh, shut up! Ummmmmm, hell-lo! I was in Wyoming!” She abruptly stiffened a bit. “For a few weeks,” she admitted, unconsciously twirling her hair. “I just got back.”
He grinned wolfishly, then cut it right down. “Robert or your other roommates didn’t say a single world about a city-wide epidemic?! You must be concerened with the warnings about riding the subway, the drinking water, the coffee recall...” She shook her head no, bored with having to understand stuff.
She kept shaking it, losing hold of what it contained, and scarcely realizing it. She thought it might also clear it out a bit, maybe.
Just like drinking that thirst-strengthening water, it didn’t. It got even mushier, way more stuffed and cottony, when he finished undoing his shirt, pausing before taking it down off his shoulders. “Mind if I just get this thing off all the way? It’s really hot!”
Madeleine purred just like a cat, aghast but allowing of herself to do it. ”You’re really hot, Hottie McHotterson!” This time, she didn’t wince, nor did she blush from embarrassment. She genuinely believed it to be his name. She was much too horny and determined to think of any other.
She giggled and walked back behind the desk and sat down on a chair next to him. “Poor little Jamey junior,” she sighed, her voice softly pushing out, like a teensy puff of helium. She took hold of his fly and unzipped him heedlessly.
“Yummy,” she whispered. He mouthed “no”, but moaned wordlessly, accepting of her messy head of hair, now descending to the partly unwrapped package on his lap.
He howled even as he started to grin wide. “We—ohmyfuckingod—we really shouldn’t—unnngh—I mean, we don’t have to—FUCK—I mean, do you want to do this?”
Madeleine popped him out, wearing a rather certain expression. “Do what, studly? Suck your beautiful dick until it cums, so you can stop fuckin’ around and tell me how to not become a thick country slut?”
The words hurried out of her before she could understand that she desperately craved to be this exaggerated woman-thing she’d just heard about. “Alls I want is to become a yummy dumb slutty-slut!”
She went “hm”. She dove back down with renewed vigor, gagging and drooling and needy. Opening her eyes to gaze appreciatively at his copious balls, she saw that Gloria had finished her phone call and was greedily hoovering the weighty nutsack.
She was about to grab a bunch of the newly transformed babe’s hair, but decided to caress it instead. POP “Hey Mr. Jamey-Jame,” Madeleine goaded, play-nagging. “Hunnh,” he offered.
“Do you think I might be able to get a body like this dumbass here, but, like, without the dumbass? But still, um... with the hot ass and the sexy boobies? Please?” She and Gloria frenched while she waited for the answer she thought she wanted.
“Yeah, sure,” Jamey grumbled, noncomittal. “Whatever.” Two cameras were locked on the sweaty scene as other members of the production crew stayed closeby. The other customers in the store, apparently undercover in some capacity, served as an audience and focus group, doing dual duty.
“No,” whispered one in a neat pinstripe suit, into Jamey’s ear. He pushed the brim of his fedora down and stubbed out a cigarette. “This is new American reality television. You will tell that skinny-sinny the truth, with whole milk, by Brittany’s bible-butt.”
“I’m sorry, li’l Maddie. I spoke too soon. Your body, mind and soul are in God’s hands now. And he’s the type of guy who likes his women to be hot, well-built, and stupid. Now are y’all ready to be expectin’, in the name of St. Brittany, your sexy savior, your one true, purpley-red-n-blue, spiritual guide to everlastin’ slutdom?”
“Yeah, yeah,” rushed Madeleine, nonplussed. “Whatever-whatever. You gonna cum fer me, or what? I’m fuckin’ thirsty!”