Thick Country Sluts
2. Reckonin’
* * *“And then she said, ‘I don’t care what you think. I love that I got a fat little big ass now, cuz real men are—get this—startin’ to take notice of—wait for it—Lady Glorious!”
Madeleine had taken the train back to her apartment, rushing home from the record store directly, to tell her roommate Robert all about her awkward encounter. They had played in the same Italodisco/noise hybrid quartet for over a year and a half, and a few streetpunk bands before that. They had a tight bond.
He was lanky, shaggy-haired, quite striking, and quite unavailable in a long-term relationship with their keyboardist. He was a close confidant, at any rate. Though, it was hard on her to have to encourage him in his glacially-paced quest to get up the nerve to pop the question to Emily.
“Oh man, she honestly referred to herself like that?” He was pulling a toke from the tail end of a joint. Madeleine was so flustered and heated, she didn’t think to smoke any of it until just then, and grabbed it from him, antsy. “You’re kidding. I really didn’t think all those tall tales about cherubs were actually—”
She inhaled long and deep, compensating for missing out. “Listen, that’s just the tip of the iceberg as fas as I’m concerned. First of all, you and I both know this is the most closed-off chick of all time. She wouldn’t even kiss Michael from Stranger McDanger when they went on a date!”
She took another strong toke that made her cough a bit, causing her blushing face to grow a deeper shade of red. She didn’t mention that half hour or so which, disturbingly, she could not remember. She knew it would eventually come back to her. ”Real men. I mean—can you even believe that shit?”
“Last I knew, a real man to Gloria was a guy who chopped his dick off, as a sign that he’d never be able to prolong a history of patriarchy. Not some musclebound hunk looking for a... big-titted... biggie b-butt... ssslut...“
She took a substantial breath. Robert stared at her, examining her face. It might have been the weed, but it looked like there were a few years of hard touring and draining clerical work washed right off of it. She shined. “Madeleine... you’ve got a little something.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Right above your lips. You eat something? It’s like.. like a little dot of chocolate or something...” She blew her hair, and it floated for a second off of her glistening forehead. Why did this seem so familiar?
“Whatever,” she said, punctuating it with a stoned giggle. “I don’t give a fuck. Anyways...”
He didn’t bother complimenting her on the new curly hairdo (were there blonde highlights, too?) she seemed to have gotten done, at some point since that afternoon. Or this new and unmistakable beauty mark.
All of it looked nice, but that stuff didn’t seem to matter half as much as the details of this weird brainsucking epidemic that sounded like some awful horror porno. He chalked it up to her being stoned. It couldn’t be that bad.
Nothing couldn’t be that bad.
Madeleine then proceeded to tell him about all the women in the local music scene that she ran into on the way back, and how, if they didn’t have variously indecent Bubba’s Big Jugg Band tees on, at least tried to talk her ear off about the group.
She got offered free tickets to their show three different times. Somewhere toward the end of the fourth time, she accepted out of sheer annoyance. She got sick of having to use the girls’ insipid new names. “Plus, the smell of that gum is, like, totally superstrong...”
Vic Steinberg, notoriously hard-bodied and butch lead screamer of the all-girl straight-edge hardcore band Blood Vegan, was showing off two enormous hooters and a substantial gut, all with the help of a tiny little sports bra. Every bit of her was jiggly.
She “wore” a pink and ruffled strip of fabric stretched over her hips that gamely advertised her lack of underwear. A gaudy tattoo of a chicken wing on the side of one of her impossibly wide thighs. Her new name was Vicky St. Slicky.
Danielle DeWitt, now Dani Delish, had informed Madeleine that she hadn’t been able to sing a note, ever since she lost her voice “from screamin’ so much whenever I ride my plowboys.”
Elizabeth Longhetti had to be reminded she was a guitarist. Or even a musician whatsoever!
“Can you imagine? This, the girl who slaved for a whole year on that thesis of hers on music therapy!” That night on the train, she wore a cherry red unitard with large holes cut out for her generous breasts, and the erudite words “KNOCK ME UP” written across the stomach. She demanded to be called Libby-Lee O’Loveylumps.
Bonnie Holden was probably Baby now, but it wasn’t official. It just happened to be the only word she could say, repeating it noxiously. The only clue as to her former existence was the appearance of one of her trademark red drumsticks... lodged safe and tight in a doused vadge, submerged, twisting and sticky.
“Airheads, thick country sluts, all of them!” Okay, he conceded, so maybe it is that bad...
“I know it’s getting late,” Madeleine went on, “but do you have any interest in watching this promo DVD? They were handing them out at Sonic Soul, along with these organic soft drinks.”
Robert nodded, having already twisted the cap off of his, so she took the first swig from hers. They both had developed some serious cotton mouth from the pot. “Just to see what could possibly appeal to these chicks,” she said. “Maybe it could give us some clues as to what’s making them braindead bimbos, too.”
“Wow, this is pretty good!” He looked at the label after chugging down a few ounces more. “Mountain Dude. Almost sounds like some secret hillbilly potion from that Cherub Cove place, huh?” He laughed, but nevertheless felt an immediate stiffness at his crotch.
“Urgngnh.” Why was that idea making him hard? “It’s pulpy, too. Tastes really... fresh.” He fought to keep his dick down, though all it wanted to do was spring right out of his designer denim. Madeleine fought to keep from drooling at it, much less keep her eyes off his now-obvious boner.
“Y’know—I mean, I was kind of, like... spectacle at first, but Jamey said it’s just as safe as this Princess Water.” She was halfway finished with hers already, dribbling huge sploshes of it all over her shirt. “Mmm, peach cobbler!” she burbled, her lips leaking puddles of it.
She peered at the fine print on the label. “Full of fun ‘pink power’ ee-leck-tro-lytes..es,” she struggled, employing air quotes for far too long, “fun-filled and juicy for ev-eh-ry... Amurr’can... sweety-pie... filling... full-figgered to buh-better...” She squinted, holding the bottle way too close to her face. “Betties, er... some-th—”
She scratched her forehead, deciding that throwing her hands in the air and laughing would have to do. Robert’s eyes bugged out, but he tried to remain casual. He was well stoned, after all, and decided to just keep listening to her and her unbelievably hard time reciting the simplest words.
He chalked it up to the glittery and neon pink-and-green swirl on the packaging, because once she put her bottle down on the table, she was coherent once more. “Jamey said the bottles came shrinkwrapped with the DVDs because the... dis-tur-butt-ore owns that band’s record label, or... contract-ur-all...lee...”
“Or, y’know, like, something. Y’know? You know how he is,” she said with a wink, knowingly. He didn’t. Robert honestly hated him, the two-faced way he was about women. All nice to Emily when he happened to be around, but constantly saying the grossest, most sexist shit to her when he wasn’t with her. To top it off, he always seemed more offended than she ever did.
Although... he could now admit to himself while relishing a chug of his Mountain Dude, she really is sort of a prude sometimes. He belched. Most of the time. He downed a huge amount of it, suddenly determined to prove his masculinity and finish his drink before she did hers.
The thick, vaguely fizzy drink slushed downward, rocked straight to his pelvis. He let himself bulge big in his jeans, pivoting away from the safety of the couch’s armrest, now comfortably front and center. He slunk down and it rose higher.
“Aw, heck,” he drolled, drooled, playing at “stereotypically Southern” a bit too perfectly, catching himself thinking aloud. I can’t really be too sore at the guy. He’s got some points. That raggedy old twig I call a girlfriend really would look better if she had at least a pair of triple-Ds and a decent little 40-inch booty...
He tapped the last of the Mountain Dude bottle down, unsatisfied. Start ‘er off easy—real small, so she can at least feel sorta womanly... He gazed over at Madeleine, openly ogling her, giving her a slow and lurid once-over very obviously.
He was going to hold his gaze until she noticed.
She appeared antsy, flitting a few fingers up and down the neck of her Princess Water, preoccupied. Switching between that motor motion and one of running her hand downward, to cup and caress the base of the bottle, was evidently sapping all her resources. She didn’t look at him. Still, he ogled.
He knew that she could feel his eyes on her regardless. She didn’t, she just squirmed and gave in to a new rushing blush of arousal, not positive and not caring where it had come from. Panting, he tore his eyes off of her and forced them to make contact with the framed portrait of Emily and himself on vacation at the Grand Canyon.
Robert’s cock rocket softened just a little bit, just enough to drain some of the enflamed fuck fuel from his brains. In the twenty or so seconds he had before his boner got back to full mast, he could see and understand why he was being drawn to his roommate. Why she was basically forcing him to lose the Mr. Nice Guy act...
It dawned on him with utmost precision. He felt confident that, should it come down to it, fucking her behind Emily’s back would be no big deal. It wouldn’t even be cheating. With a fervor equal parts religious and patriotic (he didn’t give a shit where this all stemmed from), he knew for sure that he was right.
He was a man. Madeleine was a woman. He was definitely feeling a lot more manly, and before his woody sapped all remaining reason again, he allowed himself to notice that she was, with absolute certainty, changing herself. Getting more and more womanly with each sip.
It was crazy. It was unbelievable. It was retardedly hot. Madeleine, for better or much better, was becoming a real American woman. The same fortuitous inner voice that told this to him explained that it was all a part of ancient Christian teachings, that he shouldn’t be worried, and that he should give thanks. Physically. With her.
Just accept it. Accept this angel and watch her grow. It was all in the little details. The lighter, longer, curlier hair and the coquettish beauty mark, sure. That was what tipped him off initially. But it was other, more subtle shifts, that had all but sealed her destiny. To his. He licked his lips. She licked hers, like they were equipped with antennae.
Her own lips were bigger now, first of all, plumping up at some point in the last hour when he was trying not to look. Besides that, her arms looked thicker and softer, almost filling her shirtsleeves. Strangely and suddenly, he felt guilty to have the errant urge to squeeze them. What was up with that?
Isn’t this wrong? Madeleine’s chest had even begun to tent the tee out a tad, giving Donald Duck’s beak a pleasant curve. Her jeans looked as if they had a little less room, too, and when he caught a glimpse of the tiniest bit of baby fat puckering out atop either side of that denim, he let loose a muffled but cagey growl.
Robert lost his train of thought again. Between the realization that her own body was rebuilding itself for easier reproductive uses, and the silly sight of her now closed-eyed and sloppily fellating her almost-empty bottle of Princess Water, his brain didn’t stand a chance.
He opened up a beer, stared at her, convinced he could see her tits growing, little by little. Madeleine felt his eyes with her snatch, could smell his dick stiffen back up to full force. She swallowed a bunch of the cloudy and translucent gelatin, barely wiping any off her lips, gargling the thick stuff a bit, for whatever reason.
“Mmmm-mmaan, uhhh...” She chirped out a staccato string of dumb giggles. “This rilly, like, slits my sna—um—This really hits my spots!” She put her head on his shoulder. He allowed it, didn’t budge. “But don’t you, like, worry yer pretty little peck—er—self away none, cuz they not, ummmm... affilly-mitated in any...mmmm—like, way, or... whatnot.”
Robert was going to placate her and say “that makes sense”, even though it didn’t, but he was feeling too high and playful. He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what the fuck she was going on about, anyway. Bitch sure is a cutie, all sayin’ stuff like she smart or some shit. Instead, he flirted just a tad.
Emily was gone and wouldn’t be back for some time. He was a man, too. It was time to start being one. He thought of his girlfriend’s vanilla, unexciting physique. This allowed his uncontrollable hardon to again recede with just the right amount, for him to better (if vaguely) piece together the topic of his and Madeleine’s conversation.
His low, increasingly countrified voice was set to poke fun. “So if Jamey told you them thighs is just as slim an’ uh-slender as they always was, you’d believe him, I reckon?” For a microsecond, he was scared. They were so much wider now, approaching haunch status. Then, fright fell right back to fever.
She looked down, blushed scarlet. A gasp ended in a prolonged and tactless burp. Her hips were performing some new transformative mating call, urging the rest of her body to snuff out her brain. She knew that much now, knew that fighting just wasn’t worth it.
She knew that it would be best to just run such a mating call through a bullhorn. “Hush up, hoss!” she rasped.
Madeleine let that reassuring, happy-horny pink gauze float over everything in and on her, opening her legs slightly, slowly, marvelling at their expansion. Her hips tugged harshly on denim at either side, stressing it out, making spots of her pantlegs white and threadbare.
She ignored the infrequent blasts of trepidation and concern, wagging her feet and unbuttoning her tightening jeans instead. This gave her stomach room to breathe, and to slowly but sure grow. Cherry pop bubbles popped pink and fizzled.
She had a silly hunch that flirting would make so many of those cool pink bubbles of fun bubble up. She arched her back, propping her butt out. She knew he could see her crack, because her butt told her so. They were becoming fast friends!
“I’m a good Christian woman. Don’t be talkin’ smack ‘bout my bony little behind, nah, y’hear?” She smirked and stuck her tongue out. It hung there for a moment, leaking thick spit.
He ran a brash finger up and down her asscrack. She shivered. Her butt told her to thank him. She did, and shivered again. The wiggle made her jump, and her zipper fell down most of the way. Bony behind, yeah right. And I got a little dick!
“What’s this,” Robert prodded, “y’all got a crush on Mr. Jamey now?” He stuck his mitt between her butt and the hard-working elastic of the panties that were now fighting to make sense of its growth and contain it. They never had to sheathe an actual ass before.
“Maddie and her cute widdle fatty have a crushy-crush?” he sang to her like she was but a puppy-dog. He took two scoops of cheek and thumbed around on it, squeezing it unscrupulously, a sexual stress-ball. A bubble-butt suits this slut mighty fine...
Madeleine giggled, swinging her legs open and shut, juicing. “No, I do not! Ewwww! Like, grossss!” She scrunched up her face and giggled some more. She scrunched up her face again. “Ewwwww-uh!”
Minutes later, as the lilting drum loop ran its course over an extended, boring, text-only credit sequence, the two roommates burped long as they finished the last drops of their large one-liter bottles.
“Who-zat big bimbo hoppin’ up and down like ‘at?” Robert asked. The sex aura had briefly eased up. Still, he clearly asked so that he could have some context for masturbation later.
Madeleine knew because he’d grabbed and squeezed on his swollen but covered dick twice: once when he said “big” and once for “bimbo”. She wished he’d just yank it out already so she could help him out with it. She could be really quick about it, she just knew it!
The least she could do was blow him if he didn’t want to fuck her right away. She’d understand that. He had a girlfriend and he loved her or whatever, blah blah blah. She scooted closer to him on the couch. She decided to be patient when he noticed, letting his legs fall a bit more open.
“I’unno,” she said, drippy and sighing, popping open a beer. He grabbed her by the face, smooshing her fluffy cheeks together. “Did I tell you that you could have another one of those?” he admonished.
She pouted, getting up to put it back in the refrigerator, a show of dim playful passive aggression. She lingered in front of him, making sure he saw her chin quiver. “I so sorries, sir!” she chirped, not positive if she added a squeak on purpose. Then an avalanche of bad feelings flooded her.
That’s not my voice! Her eyes shifted down. She was alarmed to find her chest obscuring her view of her feet, the elastic on her bra tugging and chafing. Her thighs rubbed together, and her face reddened along with the unpleasant sensation of feeling fat. Tears poured out of her.
What the fuck is going on?! Something really bad is happening. I need to get out of here! “I’mmm...” Madeleine chewed the lone syllable of the word, wondering how to make it somewhat less high-pitched. “I think I just better, like—”
“Would you get down on the couch here, honey, and stop bein’ such a dern hysterical bitch for a change?” His brute and confident grasp that tossed her back to the cushion interrupted the hazy flow of her slow mind. She heard “bitch”, but the heat of the situation translated it as “woman”.
More hot juicy pink bubble action. She loved the way her ass bounced as she collapsed onto the sofa. It was really sexy to feel her titties jiggle. She deserved to finally get some. Twenty more pink bubbles floated in front of her face. She squealed because her pussy ordered her to do it.
He thought she was a woman and he wanted her to sit down next to him! She sipped the beer timidly, unsure, but this somehow only made her slurping louder. She courageously put her hand on his shifty thigh, ran her fingers along it, slowly, slowly.
Confused and unselfconsciously snorting, he put his arm around her. She dripped and melted, a syrupy soup of arousal pouring all over and inside her. Her brain was closing up shop. Her eager body was getting ready. It knew that he’d put it to good use.
Robert had his hand under her shirt now, ruled by evolutionary intent. He was about to paw at her little sports bra, his self-assured fingers working on their own accord and already deciding they were seconds away from tearing the thing off.
Before that could happen, his mind, not yet wholly submerged by animal instinct, did its job. He squinted, frowning. “Huh! That guy looks a lot like... hey, that... that is Jamey! What is this?”
Pretending to be angry and apalled instead of jealous just made him ten times hornier. He fumed. “This is such bullshit!” he raged. He started to grunt and clench his fists when he heard Madeleine start to suck air in and out fast, dribbling and sobbing on cue.
They shared an unnoticed thought, felt it between their thighs. This is what a man and a woman were put in this world by God to do.
Madeleine peered at the screen foggily, tears in her eyes, remembering she maybe shouldn’t have been gawking at his crotch as he fumbled with it to straighten it out. Why, she didn’t precisely remember...
What she did chance upon, in some fastly diminishing corner in there, was that you had to sometimes actually listen to what men had to say—not just look at them adoringly—or they’d play games and not give you their delicious cocks. Boys are so weird!
He crossed his legs, scuttled away from her on the couch. “Madeleine... tell me why you have a DVD of you—of you sucking Jamey Paterson’s cock?” In a stuttering flash, she remembered it all. All the sensations. All the smells and... tastes...
“Omigod, this totally isn’t what it looks like, I swear!” She got up to fish the DVD out of the player, but he pulled her back down by the arm. She kind of admired his tactlessness. Such a good man. Such a hot, well-hung, super fuckable boy-man.
“No!” he demanded, unzipping his jeans and openly jacking off, unsure of what was coming over him, but completely positive that his roommate was exhibiting some rather expert oral techniques onscreen.
“We’re watching this. I don’t care if it takes the whole length of this video, but you’re explaining what the fuck is going on here.”
She couldn’t even remember, though, and was just as engrossed as he was.
Where did she learn that cool tongue-curling maneuver? She practiced on a couple fingers for a beat, right there on the couch. “Oh, Robert,” Madeleine said, undoing her own jeans, diving in to herself, uncaring that she was masturbating to her own craven image.
“What-ever you say.”
The two roommates opened their eyes in their twin heaps at either side of the sofa, jeans bunched up around each other’s ankles. A lazy fiddle tottered atop the resilient banjo beat that accompanied a strobe of hot pink and black.
Neither of the underground rockers had any recollection of what they just finished viewing. Robert yawned, absently stroking his flaccid penis, half-unconscious still. Madeleine hurriedly yanked her pants back up, racing to the bathroom without buttoning.
She peed more than she thought was humanly possible, then remembered the complimentary bottle of gooey Princess Water.
There was still some of that stuff stuck to her chin. She peeled it off and was just starting to chew the scrap when Robert knocked on the door.
He wasted no time in throwing it open, not even granting her a moment to respond. Madeleine huffed and puffed, petulant instead of furious. She heard him growl at her. Actually seriously growl. “Seriously, Robert?” Worse, she heard herself think “wow, hot” and not “eww, gross”.
She ignored that, letting it become surely her hundredth “whatever” moment that night. Boys will be boys! A pout landed on her lips when she tried to sneer. “What? You got some kinda p’oblem?” he dared, audacious. “We need to talk, roomie.”
“Ummm—excuuuse you! Can I put my pants on first?” she whined, half as stern as she intended, flustered. She forgot that a girl’s voice was supposed to get deeper if she wanted to show that she was mad and feeling mistreated.
Robert gawked at her as she groaned and struggled with the threadbare-looking jeans, unable to zip them up all the way around her hips’ curiously broader breadth. She gave up after managing to seal her fly almost halfway, panting and wheezing.
“I don’t know, can ya?” he chided.
“Omigod,not frickin’ funny!” she sang, tittering once more, through complete and increasingly carnal bewilderment. She rubbed circles on her little new tummy, looked disgusted at the love handles she grabbed, peeking out the sides of her pants.
Madeleine held her chin down to her neck, fingering the puff of flesh that had doubled it underneath. “Tale—” she coughed. Her voice picked up, raspier, higher, girlier. “I mean, tell me the truth. Am I gittin’ kinda fat?” She leaned forward to show him she trusted him, that they could get through this.
The back of her t-shirt strained from this simple gesture and tore violently apart at her shoulderblades. He tried to think of a way to reassure her without lying to her, but it was hard when she was bouncing her half-exposed ass up and down on the bathmat like that, visibly revved up and ready.
“N-no way, totally, totally not...” Robert tried not to look at her boobs, pushed to prominence under the tight tee, a suffering bra clearly outlined underneath, flesh pooling out over its cups.
“Be honest!” she simpered, hit with the not-so-bright idea that pressing down on her rock hard nipples (now freakishly long like a tube of chapstick and about as wide as the bottom of a coke bottle) would make them calm down. It just made her squeal and shiver.
“I am!” he shouted, thinking... thinking... Staring at her big nips, wondering if she’d bat one of those new dusky eyelashes if he reached out and twisted them.... “Yore...” He licked his lips. She bounced her butt faster, impatient. “What, whuhht! Tale meeee!”
“Listen, I always thought you were kind of hot...” She whined like a kindergartener, dubious. “But now you, like...” He drooled, surprising Madeleine that guys did that too. “Yore really fuckin’ hot now, okay? I said it!” He tried to help her with her pants but she refused to cooperate and suck in her itty-bitty gut.
“How can I say what I’m—slurp—a-fixin’ ta say?” He actually had the zipper up but the button was being a shiny brass terror. “Yer just... fillin’ out, y’know? You look all healthy an’, urrrngh, uh... stuff... There!” He got it. As long as she stood up really, really slowly...
“Ain’t no harm in a girl growin’ up, gettin’ kinda nice and curvy in all the pretty places, gettin’ all ripe an’ thick.” The button popped and pinged, proving his point. She wailed like a fire truck.
“Nah, I ain’t—aw, gul-dang it all to kingdom come. I’m not a-turnin’ into no thick country slut! I’s tellin’ ya, I ain’t! I’unno what’s goin’ on, and yer jus’ bein’ jus’... plum mean!” She covered her mouth, disgusted.
“Listen here, my feller pro...gresso-rock-uh-fishin’-Idaho! I kin talk all normal-like once I lose, oh, I reckon, like, thirty or so, like, pounds.” This wasn’t wishful thinking. This was wishful lying. “Maybe git one o’ them type-uh boobie reducerin’ surgical thingies...”
They both went, “Yeah, right,” at the same time.
More confused giggles escaped her occasionally cooperative lips, to smother her denial in pink pulses. She let her overstressed cords tightly curl around her very large new booty, defeated. So what. She had a big fat ass now. So what. “Whaddayew wantin’, anyhow?”
“Lookie here, at the man-you-factor-er dealie on this here water bottle,” he said, with a leathery twang that made Madeleine’s knees buckle. She hung an arm loosely around her roommate’s waist, grabbing at some Y-chromosome guidance. She knew that he could figure everything out, what with his being a guy and everything.
She gave a half-glance in the general direction of the bottle. The words bumped into themselves strangely, and though she knew she recognized a couple of them, it was impossible to tell how she’d even begin to decipher or recite them.
“Ain’t got my glasses—fer my eyes,” she pouted. “Read it for me, sir, oh pretty-pitty peez!”
Robert chortled. “Seriously? Y’don’t even wear—Aw, heck with it. ‘Princess Water. Brewed in Christ’s name with all our freshest and healthiest all-American fluids, right here in church country. Guaranteed to get you good and cowed, so your man can stand firm and proud. Brewed by Bubba’s Big Jugg, banned wherever sinners take refuge.’”
It took him almost five minutes, unsure of the words himself. She looked at him blankly when he was done, grinning: horny and mindsucked. He sighed, smacking his forehead. Some of the resulting sweat landed on her lazy hangdog tongue. She cooed. She moaned.
He started saying something. She moaned just a tiny bit less loud. “It means that this stuff is, like, essack-uh-ly what done makin’ all them girls into redneck bimbosluts!” She licked her lips. “And y’all don’t even wanna know whut that there Mountain Dude might do to this pecker I got!”
“Awwwww, cain’t we, like, find out an’ shit?” she begged. He didn’t even have to answer with a bodily gesture before she freed a heavy, long and upright wang from his pants. It was ridiculous how few seconds it took for him to erupt like a geyser.
Madeleine struggled to get right on down and keep it all in her mouth, but some cum had forced its way out of the corners of her lips, just as Robert’s fiancee walked in.
Time stopped. It was hard to tell if Robert was trying to pull her head off of him, or ease her emptying head into a more rhythmic bob. It was hard...
So she licked the rim of his cockhead and hoovered his sticky dick all the way to his balls. Then she gingerly tounged the length of the shaft, lingering on the way up... just to show this skinny emo bitch who she was messing with.
“Ugggh, what the fuck are you two doing!” Emily wailed, violin case tumbling to the ground. “What... the... f—” Her mouth dropped as she stared in shock as her boyfriend and their roommate were transforming, now totally nude, in front of her.
Madeleine was already working Robert’s hesitantly receding dick back into a hardon with her corpulent cleavage. “You couldn’t even close the door?!” Emily’s disgust, however, was morphing into awe even faster than Robert’s dong or Madeleine’s tits.
The wan redhead was in a state of rapture, watching her bandmate pack on another whole body’s worth of curves in a matter of seconds. Half a minute gave her cartoonishly ample melons, that she in fact needed now, to match the growing, bursting new measurements of his rod.
“What’s that smell? ...Raspberry tart?” Assmeat filled the anointed bimbo-to-be’s shapeless cheeks right up, fuller and fuller still, cushy curves swathed onto her behind, by the pound, with each thrust.
Robert had already begun ramming into the brand new cherub, doggystyle and on her stomach, positioning her right on top of the instrument case, even before Emily had buckled over from shocked need.
He didn’t give a shit. About fucking a fertile urban angel in heat on the bathroom floor (if anything, it might remind her that she needed to give it a good scrubbing), and about his lame and shapeless liberal cunt of a “girlfriend”. Four whole years, and she only blew him twice?
About to let himself feel shame at that, he bristled and thrusted more mightily into Madeleine instead, tickling her stomach, a tiny tummy baked anew into a firm and definitive pot belly. He grabbed hold of a marshmallowy side, but had to let go, for fear of cumming right there.
Madeleine was a new and different woman. A bigger woman. A sexier woman. A holier woman. The type of woman you know for sure you can trust, because slits just don’t get that wet unless they’re real American Christian slits.
Emily probably just seemed extra sinful, really, because he’d been converted and was already praying so majestically. Her long pants and long sleeves certainly weren’t helping. That boring and black short hair of hers would simply have to go, too.
Ditto with those Doc Martens. He almost untied them and pulled them off of her feet mid-fuck, but decided not to tempt fate and risk slipping out of Madeleine’s snatch. God gave his life a new and blessed direction. He knew the path to heaven was a vaginal one.
Moreover, they were really hitting some awesome kind of groove. Growing, getting better with every fucktastic second.
He’d never dreamed of having a bigger dick, let alone one this big. She’d never dreamed of ever being able to accomodate such a mythical thing, let alone somehow get slicker and even tighter in the process.
It was as if he was as if he was pounding a brand new pussy into her, just as she enveloped his prick to plump it up inside her. She slow-roasted the prick into its God-approved, gargantuan size, with so much of her Brittany-loving juices.
They bonded over all of this. It was a miracle. It was the hottest, sexiest sex they could ever imagine, and it could only get better from here on out. They thanked the Lord. They used their own language of grunts and groans to do so.
He looked over to his fainted girlfriend. Emily was a total prude with no style, whether he could admit it to himself in his old life or not. He wasn’t sure if she had a single pink item in her whole closet. He wondered now if she had secretly been a Satanist behind his back.
“Book club”? “Band practice”? Yeah, right! He could only guess what she had really done during these appointments. Socialist brainwashing... Feminazi training... Excercising even more, so she could get herself farther and farther away from the church’s definition of womanhood...
She didn’t even own any hot pants! Instinctively, though, he knew, enmeshed as he was in destiny-changing holy hormones, that she’d definitely go cherub by sun-up, that there was also a good chance she’d get even sluttier and curvier than Maddie, if not just as slutty and curvy, at the very least.
He’d deal with that underfed goth when she woke up, though. For now, he shifted all the attention his cock could muster to his speedily blossoming roommate. “How it’s feelin’ like, t’be a real woman an’ junk, yew know, what’s worth some time in the hay?”
Madeleine smooched on one of his pecs and reached behind her to grab him by the ass, to shove his still-massive and still-growing meat deeper in, and to ultimately provide a better angle for the both of them to fuck more comfortably. Without saying a word, they both knew they’d probably be screwing for a good long while.
In the end, she was being plugged far too righteously by his giant-sized dong to do more than simply squeeze his butt and then let her wrist go limp. She knew, way deep down in her pussy, that a woman was no match for a man. Besides, it was fun to let go and let him have his way. Being a good Christian was way fun.
“Thank you, Jesus!” she yelped between humps, face now smooshed into the tile, burning cheeks slipping and sliding on her own saliva, chubbing up and dimpling like a cherub should. Just like she knew, somehow. She was saved. “I’m a real Amer’can woman nah!”
“...I’s a thick country slut!” While her roommate (the onetime crush gone bucking broodmare, all from a soft drink and a DVD) vigorously pounded more of church country’s glory-goopy spiritual DNA into her, she thought back to a few hours before. Before her total salvation, from which there was no going back.
That was probably why it felt so strange, why it was almost impossible to piece together into a solid memory. Like it was six years ago, and not just six hours. She clenched her cunt, because she knew that it was there and only there, where every good girl’s thinking muscles were.
Having a cock inside it gave her that extra little buzz of clarity. Triple-thick, she thought, trying to place the enigmatic but hot-sounding thing.
New and long curls fell down in front of her softening face. She blew them away. They were thick and they were blonde, which was totally awesome, but... no. Triple-thick... Triple-thick...
“What?” Robert demanded, grunting, but not so callous as to let some genuine concern slip out. “Whatchew want now, you big beautiful cow?” He pulled out of her halfway, allowing more than seven thick inches to remain flexing inside. “What’s on yer hind-mind?”
Once she could finally place it, she asked if he’d be so kind to buy her a couple milkshakes. “Maddie!” He cried. “Of course!” She managed to take hold of his new big strong hand that was devoutly smacking her fleshy rump, and doled out a dozen sloppy kisses of gratitude onto it.
“But, honey—you really gotta shut that fuckable trap uh-yours the fuck up, y’unnerstand, an’ let me fuck you ‘til you’s fully fertile—you got that?”
“Yezzuh,” she huffed, well-fucked yet still steeling herself for the wondrous lifetime of all the awesome fucks still to come. I can feel the warmth of God’s love go straight to my butt. I’m a good Christian girl. I’m a thick country slut!
“Whatchew thinkin’, baby? I bet yer pow’rful thirsty. Four scoops or five?”
Late one morning the following week, Mae-Lynn was fixing to get in yet another fight with Emmy-Lula. There had been a handful of these fairly innocent altercations since breakfast. Sister-wife squabbles that seemed so much more heated whenever they started, then always simmered like the saucepans they slaved over.
Emmy had simply gone on much too long in her prep-time prayers with Beau-Bob. When Mae was done making double chocolate chip ho-cakes, Emmy was still busy on Beau’s big bone, working it between her new boobs slowly.
Mae, though jealous that Emmy had indeed grown bigger jugs (not to mention a gorgeous mane of strawberry blonde tresses), decided to be the bigger girly and not make much of a fuss. She was trying to be a proper Christian, after all.
That is, until she’d browned the big sausage links, squeezed the OJ, made thick cinnamon french toast, cheese grits, and bacon biscuits. All of this bounty got cold while she waited for one of them to cum. Masturbating didn’t speed things up any, either. It didn’t matter at all that she came twice.
Now, Emmy was rather audibly enjoying some coffee-table-rattling missionary in the living room. “Praise Jesus! That’s jus’ the finest Christian cock in all the U.S. of A., and it’s allll miiiine!” She kept screaming louder and louder, fully aware of how much she would annoy Mae.
This time, Mae raised such a holler that even Beau, the man of the house, apologized. Working himself to a slow but still steady thrust, he promised Mae that her cooking smelled “dee-lish”, but that he had to make sure that Emmy knew what to do with her new body.
Emmy clarified further, moaning, “He right, honey chile! These new watermelons is, like, mighty confusin’ bidness.” Mae nibbled on a greasy bacon biscuit and held back tears, stamping her bare housewife feet. “It’s all for the goodliness of this here family,” Beau assured her.
He licked his fully improved old girlfriend behind an ear, oblivious to the fact that Mae had brought all the food into the living room. Emmy impatiently brought his head down by the hair and stuffed his face between her new watermelons. Mae whinnied and whined. “I’m sorry!” her daddy-hubby screamed through pounds and pounds of boob.
Her stomach grumbled in perfect mimicry of her sister-wife: a disappointing kind of clockwork. As Beau’s burrowing face was busy burying itself deeper into her giant, envy-provoking jugs, Emmy opened her mouth wide, as if faking a smile or a sneeze. Mae groaned. Both the cherubs’ tummies rumbled.
Emmy reached for one of those absurdly sized sausages on its conveniently placed platter, and wolfed it down, hardly pausing to chew. She grabbed a second one as Beau continued with his own feast, suckling at her dark silver dollar nipples now. A stream of white flowed off his chin.
As his field of vision became nothing but prime titmeat again, Emmy bit off half of the sausage and spit the remainder out to her sister-wife’s feet, as if she was a puppy-dog begging for scraps. As if she hadn’t spent close to an hour making it!
Mae snorted, shocked. It was all too much. First of all, Emmy was making milk already?! What a gol-dern cunt! So, not only did she have considerably bigger bazongas than her, but they were gushers, too! She added that to the list of things to hate about her.
It got filed away to nowhere, disappeared just as fast as all her other complaints. Boobs are boobs. Both us slutties got them humongous hangeroos!
She knew that list must have been long, but she couldn’t remember a single solid offense. It was hard to stay mad after they fucked and made up. Emmy could make Mae cum like a superbitch, so anything else between them ended up feeling so trivial in the end.
Mae hadn’t been thinking straight. It was painful to admit it, but she could be a total dummy sometimes. She’d brought in all the food and put it all on the computer desk because that’s what Beau’s head had been closest too at the time. It was shortsighted. There was pink everywhere. She was just a girl.
It was remarkable to think that they switched positions in the time it took for her to turn the corner, just to fetch the bottle of white chocolate maple syrup. For being so thoroughly mega-thick, Emmy was quite the agile angel. Or maybe it was the lure of simultaneous breakfast with her boning that caused that slutty new bod of hers to spring into action.
Cooking for her family brought Mae such ecstatic amounts of joy and happy pink bubbles, and even though her family members’ extended session had compromised the deliciousness of this morning’s meal, she knew they still appreciated her efforts. She was a real American woman. This was her dutiful womanly work as a Christian.
Emmy grabbed a big chunk of a tall short stack with her bare hands, smashing it into her face, shoving it down her gullet, going, “Mmmmmmmmm!” like a brat. She kept on moaning, bragging wordlessly that she was eating and getting eaten out. Somewhere under the blanket of pink, Beau had moved south, was lapping at his bimboized girlfriend’s swollen pink clit.
Maybe she deserves it more, Mae reasoned quite hopelessly, soon completely overcome by the sight of Emmy’s gluttonous abandon. Messy fingers scooped another big helping of pancakes up, but then she just huffed and brought the plate right up to her face, hogging all the rest of the eight big pancakes like it was a fine china feeding trough.
“What a pig!” Mae cried. It began in her messy pinkened mind as an insult, but left her glossy, spit-soaked lips as a swooshy exultation. “I know!” Emmy agreed, and started oinking. Mae had no choice but to follow suit. Her throat hammed and swined it up for her before she could even decide. A few oinks in, and she couldn’t stop, addicted as always.
Being a slutty little pig was the coolest! She must have been oinking her booty off for a long, long time, because when she finally settled down and fired off the last of her swiney snorts, Emmy was yummy-wailing extra-loud and extra-extra-girly, fixing to cum something fierce.
Gooey chocolatey crumbs clung to her tight and deep cleavage. It was okay to get a little messy. She was a hot Christian slut in heat when all was said and done. The messier the better, really. But this bitch could really get on her last nerve.
“Bitch!” she yelled, agitated that her cunny concentration was in danger. She wiggled and wagged her finger at her sister-wife, in a rapturous and distracted sort of sleepy corkscrew. Mae nodded, acceptant. She just wasn’t being the best little piggy she could be.
She knew what to do, pulled the scraps of what remained from her ten-times-outgrown panties down, the terrorized elastic snapping thickly, happy to be put out of its misery. She extended a dainty digit out from the center of her plump rump, winding it in circles like a tail, going, “Soo-ee! Soooo-eeee!”
Beau picked his head up from between his bitch’s thighs, and tsked. “Nah, nah, Miss Emmy-Lula! You be nice to your sister, y’unnahstand?” Emmy nodded immediately, folorn, apologizing profusely. She pulled her master’s head back up to her massive mams and opened her super-plush legs to invite his donkey dick back inside.
Having come so close to cumming, she’d lost her pussy’s privelege. She had to settle for just plain old hot sex. Beau doubled up and rammed into her faster and harder this time. It looked like the funnest thing in America to Mae. He motorboated Emmy with renewed adoration, too, gobbling up the leftover bits of boobsweat-soaked pancake as he did.
She sucked down another sausage and winked at Mae. Already locked in an unceasing mechanical fuck rhythm, she’d been prettily grunting on baby-making beat now for a while. A few of the new grunts were starting to get peppered with low, satiated burps. She wiped her greasy chocolate-coated mouth on a handful of her lengthy pink-blonde curls.
“Fuck you,” Emmy mouthed.
Without missing a beat, Mae apologized for “making” her man apologize earlier. It struck Beau as so pure and sincere that he lost control and shot his load upon hearing it. A bit of the old Robert had mustered the will to glimmer and shine on through. It wasn’t lost on his women.
“R—Rob-ert?” wondered Emmy, hesitant, eyes glistening. He’d dumped his spunk on her belly out of reflex, some fleeting recurrence of old heathen logic that told him cumming in a girl without a condom was wrong somehow.
“What’s happening, Robert?” she asked, absently rubbing his jizz into her poochy flesh. “I’m confused,” Mae admitted too, sheepishly. She’d fetched a big black dildo from one of the drawers on the coffee table and was vigorously fucking herself between her sad lapses into plaintive confusion.
“I feel like this isn’t me, or something. It sounds crazy, but I could’ve sworn I wasn’t your maid. Either that, or I wasn’t your personal whore—something’s very very wrong here, just...” She found a nice sweet spot, and worked the large toy accordingly.
“Just promise to fuck me, like, at least a couple times today, mmkay, my big and strong—” She twisted it around inside herself, pushed it up and in and slowly out, then repeated. “My hot little Bobby-Beau-Bob for Emmy-Lula an’ me, with that awesome... fuckin’... U.S.A....”
Emmy wept, letting a mess of ignored emotion flood forth. She attempted to get herself up on her own two feet, but at first had no clue she was not maneuvering around with a thin and tiny frame any longer. The fattened weight of her upper body forced her down immediately. The ultra-wide, juicy pear shape of her new lower body ensured she wouldn’t dare try that again.
“You look really strong, though, honey,” she tried, starting too coo and droll in a faded, Emily way, looking mortified. She cupped her hand over her lips, but more slick spit oozed out the second she moved it to catch a breath. “Yer baby cain’t a-stop droolin’!” she chirped, losing hold of her pre-cherub voice.
As if he was blind! She juggled her two jumbo jugs in weak, unprepared hands, trying to make sense of them. She looked at him again, a wide-eyed fleshpot of confusion and hunger. “Sexy McMuscley... mooo...”
Her cooing had graduated right back to the cunt-sure sound of Emmy-Lula once more. She moaned and mooed alternately, letting her mind readjust into the fluffy bubbly pink world, where the only meaning was up to her man, and being a perfect bouncy bimbo was her one ticket to heaven eternal.
Beau’s bimbos were suppressing vital memories with their bodies. He vowed not to do that, tried to remain calm and stalwart, pick up the far-flung pieces of his reality. Something happened last night. There was... some kind of weird soda... a porno DVD? Think!
It was hard to be rational when two super-voluptuous babes are fucking each other silly, burbling out little sticky spit bubbles and meowing. “I don’t know who or what is behind this, but I promise, I’m...” One of the girls was shushing the other. The other one was whispering, begging her, “Pleeeeease.”
“Thank you. I knew there’d be an end to all this bimbo bullshit!” His eyes bugged, surprised there had still been a sliver of reason in Mae. Or should he call her Madeleine? He couldn’t look her in the eye, but had a lock on her well-tended vadge.
“Robert, we need to act quickly. I’m forgetting this plan I just—omigod!” She guided cartoon Emily’s wrist to probe deeper into her sex, like this was a completely normal, everyday occurrence. That was how he knew the flesh was winning.
“I’m like, tryna... like, I done thunk up this here getaway, an’—mmmm!” She yanked her inflated roommate’s dildo out of her, shoving her arm away, pushing her aside. Emmy-Lula had wobbled to the floor but dragged cheesecake Madeleine down with her.
Slapping Emmy’s titties, then dipping a half a fist into her supernaturally imposed sister-wife’s snatch, whispering promises of “just a few minutes” to her, Maddie stood up a good deal more effectively than Emily. She reached into the previous morning’s laundry basket, pulled out a matching set of beige underwear, and stretched it on as best she could.
It was rather presumptuous to think she was anywhere close to fitting into an A cup or XS bikini cut panties. The bra covered a sliver of her hooters, though, so that was something... for five whole seconds, anyway. The panties, remarkably, were able to conceal most of her pudgy pussy. It was a notable effort at modesty.
“The way I see it,” she began, then lost steam immediately. She grumbled, unhooking the tiny bra and flinging it across the room. It landed on the boner that Beau-Bob told himself not to get. He shimmied the bra off, telling himself that the thing wasn’t dotted with the same wet and sticky daubs in the middle of either cup.
“The way I...” Beau’s line of vision found his way to Madeleine’s bazooms. He couldn’t help it! She was doing jumping jacks. Making matters worse, Emmy-Lula had crawled his way and taken to his extended schlong, treating it to a warm, wet blowjob. It was uninvited but it went uncontested.
Beau’s patience was waning. His mind was ready to just fall into a pussy-pounding coma again. “The way you what, slut?” To be fair, she was involving herself in the most awkward rep of jumping jacks. Basically, she just hopped up and down, stared in wonder at her tits, then squeezed them to spurt out milk like cowgirl cannons.
Cow-bitch’s milk came in. Whatever... “Well, like,” the voice of Madeleine began, faltering. Emmy-Lula bobbing away on her knees, getting her puffy bows all the way down to his nuts, wasn’t easing his concentration and wasn’t earning Maddie any extra sympathy. “Speak up, moo-cow!”
“Hey!” she yelled. “Don’t you speak me to like that. I’m a human being.” She stood still, but her giant tits still wobbled and just kept shooting out milk. He tried to treat her with respect, but it was difficult when she was slipping and falling in pools of her own making, mooing low and long every time she got back up.
“Robert!” she appealed. He popped his dick out of bimbo-Emily’s mouth, though smacking it on her cheek for some friction as he listened. “I know that there’s some way, somehow, to get us back to normal. There’s got to be. If we can change this fast, we can change back just as fast!”
The more he stared at her awe-inspiring, unstoppably milking teats, the harder it was to remember what she looked like before. The harder it became to remember why settling for a much smaller version of this superwoman was somehow more appealing in the long run. Logic eventually seeped through.
He rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Hmmm... well, first thing’s first—we’ve got to get out of here, immediately. The longer we hang around here, the easier it’ll be to slip into that fucking fuck haze. Emily, open up that window, please.” She dribbled a spit bubble into her tits.
“Oh for cry—Emmy-Lula, git that fat country keister uh-yourn off the ding-dong floor and open up that there winder!” She gathered the brunt of her chunky curves forth and pushed open the glass, only to have it come closed again. On second try, she used her boobs. That just mashed them against it, made a bunch of people on the street below whistle and holler.
Bimbo-bodied Madeleine shared a laugh at the big slut with the backwoods gladiator-looking Robert. “You really do have a sexy redneck voice, you know that?” He flexed his arms and then each bicep, to further play along. “I mean it. It’s not just ‘cuz I have this big slutty—” He picked up the bumptious nymphet at his feet off the ground with one hand.
It made her swoon. It made her drawl. “Hey nah, Beau-Bob! Don’t you go a-fuckin’ that slut no mo’, y’hear me nah? I got such a nicer ass’n her, an’, like...” No! That wasn’t what she wanted to say at all. Why hadn’t he opened the fucking window yet? Why wasn’t he treating this like the emergency it was?
Why was he ramming into Emmy-Lula doggystyle right up against that window, for all the spectators on the street to see? “C’mon, slutty-butty,” he beckoned, urging her on with a soaked index finger. “Yer next!” Madeleine wasn’t amused, but just the same, couldn’t see the harm in one more delicious fuck.
One more... positively scrumptious... super-yummy hump party... with all sorts of yummy white gooey stuff flying around everywhere... and so much fun bouncing... and all those cute little fizzy pink bubbles... She whined long, with utter abandon, horny and hopeless.
Beau-Bob opened the window slowly, grinning. Emmy-Lula’s head was softly clunking against the wall. He held a pillow up to the wall to lessen the blow, and began to prop her ample ass up using only his pistoning dick. Mae-Lynn stood close to the open window, breathing in deep.
She came, an unbelievable and majestic pastel pink orgasm—with gooey, sticky hot pink bubbles popping in and out, over and over again. “Wouldja lookit dat chunky cherub cum!” shouted a gradeschooler to his buddies.
One of the other boys high-fived him, and, laughing madly, added, “Don’t I know it, Jeb Junior! A body might could always tell which sluts is prime pussy by just a-peepin’ over at ‘em titties!” He whistled. Then someone else did. “Honey’s girly-parts is all like a puddin’ avalanche!” A high-five.
“This here bitch like a big ol’ girl-quake!” All sorts of different shades of pink were swirling and crashing around in Mae-Lynn’s head. She couldn’t see a thing except for the erratic pink play. She could only shiver and quiver, agonized by the extended pleasure of it all.
A gruff voice piped in and it only made her cum harder, jiggle more boisterously. “Allow me t’apologize for my son here. Hoss just don’t know the meanin’ of the word ‘po-lite’. If-n it makes ya feel any better, I s’pose if you moan real sweet, I can come on up there an’ fuck the shit outta ya Big Duke doggystyle.”
There were mutterings of approval and light applause. Some betty with a throaty voice complained, “Awww, why you gotta be such a prude sometime? Ain’t no real man ever got nowheres from bein’ civil to a girl!” Another girl countered, “Well, he could just go up there, you know. It’s his God-given right.”
Mae-Lynn opened her mouth to respond, but it ripped her breath away, shoved more pink visuals into her brain right up through her lips. She was soon suffocating in pink, stuffing every cell of her body with it. Then she remembered that a good Christian woman could communicate with her boobs.
She took the old adage literally, tried to make them say, “I appreciate all y’all’s kindness,” but they only shot out milk. Every spurt allowed her to witness, in filmy blasts, the scene down on the street. Then she slipped on the gallon she already expressed onto the floor.
It made her tumble, jugs-first, out the window. Her melons were gigantic enough to support her and keep the rest of her body from falling out of it, burying the sill. They shot a new cascade of baby food down onto to her spectators. A TV copter flitted above the apartment building.
Some ghetto bumpkin sassed, “You famous now, boobie cow!” Everyone below was having with field day at her free-spurting fall, bathing in bimbo. She was stuck but still leaking. The jacked-up pheromones of her wild spray had prompted random outbursts of humping and sucking down on the street.
Meanwhile, Emmy-Lula’s strategically placed pillow had strangely made her bouncing head that much louder and louder and louder and louder and...