It was a big hotel, luxury, but they had rented it anyway. Damien had paid $1 in quarters and had made the manager’s wife fall in love with nylon thigh-highs.
The rest of the staff found nothing wrong with the oddly dressed men and—rarely—women arriving from far corners of the earth. The manager had passed out bubblegum to all female employees, and they all chewed it softly, giggling to themselves and getting wet between the legs.
Conference Hall Arcadia was over capacity, but Samantha didn’t feel like complaining. She tugged her skirt down over juicy hips and marinated in a pink, candy-scented sweetness. She manned the bottled water station for all the guests.
Some of the guests wore lab coats, with goggles, or hodgepodge Victorian leathers and velvets, or cheap blue jeans with video game t-shirts. But the man who took the stage wore a dark black suit with a power red tie. He had made a considered decision to have boyish, neatly-parted hair. He had dark eyes and a face that he used as a tool to communicate.
“Thank you all for coming,” Damien told the crowd. “I know many of you are worried, scared, and that’s understandable. Because I’m about to put us all out of business.”
There was a low murmur in the crowd. Samantha sighed, bored. The bubblegum in her brain told her that rubbing her pussy through her skirt was a good way to pass the time.
“I know we’ve all created our own little bedroom harems, or clothing-optional apartment complexes, or even towns where the girls bend over when you wink, but over the next year I’m going to move us all beyond those tiny enclaves.”
Samantha grunted, half-listening, and bucked her hips forward as her fingers dipped deep into her honey pot. Apparently she wasn’t wearing underwear for some reason. No one in the crowd paid any attention to the girl masturbating herself to the side of the room.
“First thing we’re going to do,” Damien told them, “is… just slightly… loosen up the world. Make it a little more flexible, a little more friendly. A little more likely to say “okay, you can fuck me in the ass.” Right now, our telepath corps is assembling in a basement for a three hundred mind concert. That’s linked with a dozen satellites capable of broadcasting across the globe.”
“I call it the double dose.”
He winked at them. “I’m going to bimboize the entire world,” Damien told the crowd. “And no one is even going to complain about it.”
It wasn’t a major sleepover. There were only three of them, and all three were friends more or less out of necessity. Anne and Candice had both moved to town recently and were shut out of any larger social circle.
Rebecca had fought hard against having any friends but, reluctantly, had needed someone to talk to. It was rough, having to be both the town indie girl and the town goth. People talked about you twice.
“I really do want to study something before we go to bed,” Candice said. Her eyes strayed to the books. Everyone thought she studied hard because she was asian. She could’ve told them, she just wanted to escape this nothing suburb town, and no one with a Ph.D. ever came back.
Rebecca examined her nails, bored. She kept them long. She was tall, but kept herself gaunt, with pale eyes that looked out from between a dark brown curtain of hair, parted to either side. People, including her parents, had learned to read her mood from the colors and designs on her tips.
“I think you’ll really like this, guys,” Anne said, plaintively.
“I don’t like anime,” Candice said.
“But…”
“But you’re ASIAN” hung on the tip of Anne’s tongue. Candice heard it anyway.
“We live in the midwest, Anne,” Candice said. “You’re going to have to live with that. There’s no mecharobots, there’s no magical fantasy girls, there’s nothing but cows and horizons. Japan is terrible for girls, anyway.”
Anne looked hurt. Bringing up the midwest was a sore point. She was a born milkmaid, with a generous body that was made for milking cows. She was eighteen, and had just a few years left before she looked like her Mom, and she knew it.
“Japan is horrible towards women, anyways,” Rebecca interjected. “Treats them like chattel. All the girls out there serve coffee and bow a lot. And they get their asses pinched on the trains. It’s a male-dominated society.”
Rebecca had read enough books on feminism. She favored heavy, dark coats and jeans. She owned one dress, which was black, and she had only worn it once, for a funeral. No one she knew, just seeing what they were like.
“It’s not even anime!” Anne insisted. “It’s western, with anime influences. It’s… it’s ironic! You’ll like it! It’s not girl stuff or anything.”
Anne had put on pajamas as soon as it was dark out. She had ideas about how girl sleepovers should go.
The conversation lagged. Candice dragged her eyes towards the Calculus books she had brought along for a night of studying. Rebecca considered rolling her eyes. Anne looked ready to cry.
And the air… fizzed.
No one human could hear it. Dogs across the country briefly raised their heads, concerned. But it didn’t affect anything except for a small section of the hindbrain of the human female, where the fizz left small but different imprints. Instructions were written, or rewritten. Dormant circuits opened up.
Certain hormones started to flow.
The girls blinked.
“I’ve got some anime you’ll like, Rebecca,” Anne said. She took control of the keyboard, taped in a new address.
They flashed to a new website. The video was bookended by ads of naked girls, with fake breasts and lopsided nipples and stupid smiles. One of them had a squatting blonde, fully shaven, pulling her pussy aside for a better look.
Pretty soon there was a cartoon girl getting it from both ends.
“There,” Anne said. “Now it’s adult. So you’ll definitely like it.”
Both Candice and Rebecca… leaned closer.
“Could anyone bend like that?” Rebecca said. She took a deep breath. The tall girl was used to a bookish detachment. But her heart was starting to pound. “Look at that poor thing. She’s got her spine all twisted.”
“It’d snap right in half,” Candice predicted. She leaned in. Her hips twitched. “Do you really like this stuff, Anne? Everyone’s so squeaky. And rape-y.”
They all watched for a few minutes. The girl on screen coughed around a mouthful of censored cock. Moments later, a flood of semen burst out of both ends of her mouth, spattering the ground beneath her.
All three girls licked their lips, unconsciously.
“Do… boys… really make that much stuff? That’s like a gallon,” Candice said. “That’s crazy.”
Candice had a wide, thin face with too much exotic in it for the boys of a midsized town in the middle of nowhere. A tomboy body didn’t help.
“They don’t have much else to do besides, you know, bring the glue,” Rebecca murmured. “Girls do all the, um, work.”
Anne, her eyes wide, clicked a link at random. This time the bodies were real. A blonde girl, not that thin, with a headband on her head and a pair of cutoff shorts. She started to nuzzle on a dick. A bead of sweat broke out on Rebecca’s cheeks, and Anne was flushed pink.
“I don’t think they’re ALL that… large…” Rebecca said, after they had watched, silently, for some time.
She eased back from the group and tugged discreetly at her jeans. So did Candice, who stared, unblinking, at the grunting, gyrating flesh on the screen. The girl was so passive, so consumed by gobbling on the insistent phallus. The man was really working her mouth hard.
Anne rocked back and forth, consumed by it. There was a tiny wet patch on the front of her panties.
Unseen, secretions and hormones wormed through each of the girl’s bodies. And all over the world. Girls already having sex got a little louder. Women buying dresses wondered if they should take off another inch. Ladies surprised themselves saying ‘yes’ at the bar.
The man on the screen exploded on the girl’s face. It was almost all pink on the screen. Ropes of jism dripped on the girl’s mouth, and she licked it off with obvious satisfaction.
Anne squeaked.
All three girls looked at each other, shyly. Candice and Rebecca were far too distracted themselves to mention the small dampness on Anne’s pajamas. Their jeans hid their own.
“Well, boys WOULD like that,” Rebecca tried.
“Girls, we are going to do some STUDYING,” Candice insisted, firmly, shoving the book at them. Anne shut the browser window, and no one said anything about the fucking and sucking that was still very much at the front of their minds.
Except that eventually did go to bed. And around 2, Rebecca let her fingers creep into her shorts and gently, quietly penetrate well past the knuckle, until she had an orgasm that was barely a shudder. And at 3, Candice, on the old bunkbed, bit her lip rubbing her stubby nipples with both hands. Not to mention the several times Anne went to the bathroom.
“It is my birthday,” Colin explained, to his wife, patiently.
“Birthday blowjob?” Alicia said, wrinkling her nose. “Do we need to? Can’t we just have sex?”
Colin shook his head slightly and looked meaningfully downwards. “You only turn 26 once,” he explained to her.
Alicia sighed, internally. Blowjobs were gross. There was hair, and it was coarse, matted hair. There was a not-unpleasant but unusual musk. And, of course, the salty ending. But it was Colin’s birthday, and she had only gotten him a graphic novel otherwise.
So she warily licked at the base of her husband’s cock, avoiding the first white droplet that emerged from the head of his dick. She approached it like a lollipop she had dropped on the ground, one hand gingerly gripping the base.
Which was the position she was in when females across the globe got… just a little rewired. Something about the musk and sweat of an aroused, male cock became that much more interesting. Being on her knees, letting him spray her… that was a thought she could work with, that could make her knees turn open.
When Colin opened his eyes, Alicia had her mouth wrapped around his dick, and was staring at the show with wide open eyes. Her hand gripped the base, not too tightly, and slowly started to jack it up and down.
She made a low purring sound at the very back of her throat.
“Damn, happy birthday to me,” he said, surprised, overjoyed. This was a new side of his wife. Usually she treated sex like—if not exactly a chore—definitely an item on a checklist somewhere. But this girl was getting into the length of his dick, letting it strain and slide around the warm inside of her mouth.
Alicia was doing an excellent job keeping her teeth out of the way.
“Babe, I’m gonna spray, you might want to…”
Cum in her mouth, right. But neural pathways had already been reconfigured. Alicia could see how drinking his cum was hot, was right, was so wonderfully wifeish. The ultimate sign of fidelity, letting his seed blow down her throat.
“Go right ahead, honey,” she said, around a mouthful of dick.
Krista didn’t have much to do besides sit in her chair and try and control the rapid-fire hammer of her heartbeat. She had already done all the prep work for the upcoming moment.
Professor Davies liked to lecture with one hand on the table and one hand gesturing at the slides behind him. It was a firm, masculine posture. He was posed like a greek statue, a paragon of manly authority. Krista had catalogued the many different ways he tied his ties, the burly shock of black hair that shone on his arm when the Professor—eee—rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Krista checked the lines of her outfit for the tenth—the hundredth time. The idea had occurred to her last night, and she had fallen asleep with her fingers still dripping and scented.
The foundation was, of course, red nylon briefs pulled up tight against the V of her slit. She bought them for special boyfriend days, and they were still her go-to “fuck” underwear. Krista had deliberated between naughty and nice, and eventually gone with nice, a white denim mini that she had scooched up her tanned, toned legs.
The Professor walked slowly up the aisles, passing out quiz answers. Krista had barely studied for hers. A failing grade would nix her scholarship.
The top was the masterstroke, a striped blue and white athletic tank with oh-so-thin spaghetti straps. Krista had seen the way Professor Davies examined the girls bound for the gym, watching their backsides wiggle in tight yoga pants or stretch polyester blends. It showed her cleavage line to full advantage. And, of course, she had dolled up in red lipstick with powder-white cheeks.
The Professor reached her, and she melted with a smile, breathing in, letting her boobs do the talking.
“Perhaps not your best effort,” the Professor said, pulling out a paper with a bright red D written on the top. “I’d like to see a little more care given, Krista.”
“Oh, of course!” Krista said. She casually uncrossed her legs. Professor Davies was still bent over her. He stiffened, then his eyes lingered on the unmistakable fire engine red between her legs. She couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips.
“Well… I don’t want to… discourage you this early in the semester,” the Professor conceded. He reached into a pocket and uncapped a red pen. A D turned into a B so easily.
The Professor moved on. Krista let the tension go. Her pussy was absolutely throbbing. But the important thing was that she was going to pass Intro to Feminist Theory.
In fact… if she visited office hours, maybe she could convince him to raise that B to something just a little.. more exciting.
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