It was time to win the crowd back.
“Of course, once we’ve got the men primed, it’s time to do a little something about Intelligence Quotients,” Damien said.
The crowd gave him their rapt and absorbed attention.
“IQ has always been a tricky concept to deal with,” Damien allowed. “And I don’t want to shut down discussion over how smart is too smart. Fortunately, I think we’ve developed a way to make everyone happy. It’s a concept we call “Too Hard.”
The powerpoint slide slipped over to a very complicated MRI scan. Arrows pointed to various parts of the brain.
“How many girls do you know that want to do particle physics when they’re just coming down from a killer orgasm? None. Their body is telling them to forget math, forget science, just sit back and enjoy the ride. And that’s the trick of Too Hard.”
Various colored shades of the brain dimmed to black, one after another.
“In a surprise move, members of the Federal Radio Commission announced a unanimous decision to allow the surprise pop hit “slutty slutty pussy” to play on the radio unaltered.”
“We couldn’t censor the sounds, the imagery, and, lets face it, the scent of this music,” the Chairman, Anne Bukowitz, announced. “We do not want radio to languish in a creative hole, and if that means some new language, so be it.”
“With this decision, broadcasters are free to use the words slutty, pussy, fuck, fuckable, cooch, snatch, twat, and also up to a minute of uninterrupted orgasmic screaming.”
“The singer, former Gospel artist Sandy Resnick, recently appeared on MTV with a dildo stuck up her cunt, necessitating an emergency Federal Communications Commission approval.”
“The script isn’t working,” Jeremy said, tossing it onto the table. “It’s not working, it’s not working, it’s not working. There is a narrative here that simply isn’t coming together.”
Matt tried not to let panic roll across his face. This was a problem that good screenwriters dealt with by being creative. And, when that inevitably failed, by trying to guess what the executive wanted you to say.
Pandora blared on a tinny iPod speaker, back in the recess of the office. It was a new song that Matt had never heard before. Even hamstrung by the production it was peppy, poppy, sung by a Katy Perry knockoff without the nuance.
Matt closed his eyes, flipped to a random page, and poked his pencil at a line. “There. That’s what we need to change,” he said, and then looked to see the scene.
“The big GMAT test?” Jeremy said. He rubbed at his chin. “Go on.”
“She fails the test this time. Yeah. Completely bombs it. She’s too distracted with trying to get Brad back, and we all know girls can’t handle that much on the brain.”
Jeremy started to nod.
“So she fails. She goes to… a shoe shop. She self-medicates with a dozen pairs of shoes, completely forgets about med school. Realizes that it’s at the root of her problems, working too hard. She shows up at, uh, Tom’s place, flips her skirt up, she’s completely shaven bald down there. Roll credits.”
Matt leaned back, exhausted.
“This would be an… NC-17 movie, then,” Jeremy said.
He licked his lips. “We’ll have to cast the actress very, very carefully.”
He picked up the screenplay again, with renewed interest. In the background, the song kept blaring on, looped and looped.
“Can you turn the music down?” Amanda asked, flinching as it replayed once more. Or maybe it was a different track. This new singer filled the brain up like every good pop singer did. Thing was, it never left. It just recorded over her brain cells and kept playing sugar-coated bubblegum pop until she caught herself singing along in the shower.
“No,” her boss said, coldly. Lindsay was a tall, elegant blonde, every inch the Corporette, dressed in black if grey was too summery. In a previous life she had run an abbey with an iron hand. “The music stays. Sales are up. It’s the dead of winter, and people want something that doesn’t remind them of black ice.”
Amanda turned to the table. “In that case, can we just throw these out? They’re so slinky, we could just wad them together, toss them out the door…”
They both regarded the knee-highs. It was an obvious departure for Ann Taylor. Knee highs, for crying out loud.
“I can’t sell these. I sell to professionals. I sell to women with blackberries in one hand, Lexus keys in the other. These are for… for schoolgirls. Not even schoolgirls. Skanky schoolgirls. The bunny bimbos that couldn’t just advertise with boobs and butts,” Amanda protested.
“And what’s more…” she stopped dead. Her jaw worked. Amanda HAD lined up at least three arguments. But (2) and (3) had been apparently overwritten by the lyrics of that stupid pop song, “I’m Your Baby (ft. Baby).”
“Work attire is changing. When’s the last time you sold a high-necked dress?” Lindsay said.
Amanda reddened, looked down. She wore a collared blouse, and yes, there was some cleavage on display, with a girly red bow for a middle button.
“They’re…. sleek, they pair well with pencil skirts and A-line skirts, they’re easy to up-sell. So we sell them. YOU sell them.”
“They make you look like a Japanese schoolgirl!” Amanda burst out. “We’re not some sex-starved tramps..”
“I don’t know, I find them to be an interesting addition,” Lindsay said. She rose, stepped back from her desk.
Underneath her usual pleated blouse, the ice queen wore a frilly blue pleated skirt, well above the knee, and lightly-striped kneehighs strapped into high, high heels. Smooth, white legs shone between hem and sock.
Amanda gaped. Lyrics pumped through her head, leaving her speechless, glassy-eyed, confused.
“It’s… it is cute,” she said.
Lindsay smiled and clapped her hands together, girlishly.
“I KNOW!” she said.
Candice’s grades were slipping. Sometimes she wondered if her brain was slipping.
It had been so easy, for so long. This wasn’t some grade pressurecooker, after all. This was a podunk high school in the sticks, where they thought “AP” meant a type of ammunition. Candice had pulled straight As with minimal effort, and A+s with just a little more effort then that.
But nothing was coming easy, anymore. There were too many… distractions. Every time she tried to lock her mind onto decoding Shakespeare, or Calculus, there was something lingering to knock it away. First it had been the weird sensation of pert, attention-grabbing boobs. Then the new distraction of boys trying to chat her up.
There was a mirror next to her desk. That was a mistake. Every time Candice glanced at it, she didn’t see a future doctor, anymore. She saw a surprisingly sexy girl with a languid, bored expression and a pair of above-average legs.
“I’m turning into a dumbass,” she told herself, staring at Antigone, as if that would make it any more interesting. “Don’t be a dumbass. Be a smart girl. Dumb girls get dicks.” Oops, dicks were distracting, too.
“Honey, I don’t mean to be a stereotype, but you’re falling behind,” her Mom told her. She didn’t bother knocking. She wasn’t that kind of Mom.
“You’re being a stereotype, Mom. Leave me alone,” Candice said. “I’m studying. You’re a distraction.”
“You’ve filled this entire room with distractions,” her Mom said, sniffing. “Stop playing around with that dumb perfume. Your entire room reeks of it. It smells like a fire at the candy corn factory.”
Candice sniffed. Funny, she never even noticed her Pink! perfume, anymore. Although she always went out with plenty dabbed on. She felt… weird… without it.
“I’ll ace the big test at the end of the week,” Candice said, turning around. “All the girls are struggling, Mom, we’ve got these big weights—“
“Nope. No more blaming your knockers. I got them too. Yes, they’re… distracting. But they’re not THAT distracting.”
“They’re like bowling balls.”
“They aren’t making you DUMB, sweetheart. Study.”
Candice turned back to the books.
Until her Mother left the room.
Then she tossed them shut, sighing theatrically to herself. This was a waste of everyone’s time. She needed to cool off.
Candice dabbed neck, hands, and, of course, tits with her latest bottle of Pink! It… calmed her. And made every day just a little bit more arousing.
She ended up walking past the arcade. It was barely an arcade, really a pizza joint with its own entrance, and held two rail shooters, a claw machine with fossilized toys, and a single DDR machine.
A DDR machine. And here she was complaining to her Mom about stereotypes. The only asian girl in town had better stay away from DDR. Then it was a short hop to glitter on cheeks and neon-colored hair.
On the other hand… there was that… tune blaring from the speakers. Candice had heard it around town, an annoying pop jingle that was made to annoy. And yet it kept making its way into car stereos, store entertainment systems, ringtones…
…DDR machines…
Candice paused. Then she hopped aboard. She didn’t have any quarters, so she kicked the machine. That did the trick.
She swung around in time to the tinny, pulsing beat. Just moving her algebra-compressed legs felt great. Especially in the cool night air, blowing in from the open door. She never got to do things like this, sitting motionless over endless oversized textbooks. Never got to step forward, hips swung low, then hop back like a cute little bunny.
Candice had heard about this from the track girls, but her new boobs felt fantastic when they swung around. And this tune was definitely making them swing. She pumped her hips just so they would oscillate the other way, rubbing against cotton fibers every step of the way.
The only problem was how constrained she felt, in jeans and a light cotton hoodie. It wasn’t right to be dancing like this. She needed to be set loose, in a shirt and shorts and maybe some cute pink socks with white converses.
Candice let days worth of math blow away, shouldered aside by the pink chipset in her head.
She felt bleary and dull in class. Like her head was chunky and thick. Part of that was the usual deprivation from not getting her Pink! during class hours—she felt lifeless without the familiar strawberry scent keeping her close and warm.
“Ms. Wu. Please derive this,” Mr. Robbins said. She was his go-to girl, the safety valve when the rest of the class was dumb.
“Drive it where?” Candice said, and shrunk when the rest of class giggled.
“I can see that calculus isn’t holding anyone’s attention,” Mr. Robbins said, eventually. He glared around the class. It was pretty obvious what the problem was. Half the girls wore brightly colored V-neck sweaters and tight blue jeans. And they were the conscientious ones. The rest had picked up on the new trend for knee highs, and looked like oversexed Catholic schoolgirls.
A cellphone rang. It was that new pop song. The girls stared at the ringing phone, smiling.
“I love that song,” one of them whispered.
Candice snuck out the back door. She didn’t really need to bother sneaking. Mom was snuggling with Dad on the couch. Dad had one hand wrapped around her boobs.
The weather was cold, and it was ridiculous to hustle down the streets in a pair of jean shorts with the pockets hanging out. And her shirt tied underneath her boobs. Honestly, it was downright dumb.
On the other hand, it felt kinda good to have her legs out in the air, for once. And it felt even better to stay away from stupid history for one night. No one cared about Germany in the middle ages. There were knights, they jousted, that was all anyone needed to know.
This time Candice climbed right aboard. Same song. She didn’t even think about it.
The song warmed her up real quickly. Starting with her boobs and radiating down between her legs.
She was doing a better job, this time. Candice found that it helped if she shook her rear end, really got the butt into the action. And it helped even more if she just… forgot about math and science and her Mom and geography. She was a hot number with a flexible body, a big smile, and if she arched her back the boys would probably spurt all over the place.
Candice closed her eyes. It didn’t occur to her that she danced just fine without watching the little arrows. The music told her what to do.
Candice rubbed her ass against the back bar. She was so achingly aware of her body. It was such a needy, desperate thing, always looking for stimulation. Her tits were sparkplugs, her lips alone wanted to be nibbled on so very badly.
Eventually she realized that there were two boys watching her. Thank god, not boys from school. A little too old for that.
Their eyes were wide open. Candice stopped, panting, and wiped a thin sheen of sweat off her face. Her shirt clung to her its, glued there by sweat.
“Wow,” one finally said. “Do you need more quarters?”
“Hey.. I’m… yeah, I have to go,” Candice said, heaving up and down. She tried to stop. It made her boobs bounce like the empty-featured anime girl on-screen. But her girls didn’t want to cooperate.
“Whoa,” the other boy cautioned, smiling. He had his hair parted and knew how to shave, unlike his friend. “It’s cool. You were great. We were really impressed.”
“Thanks. Um. I’m Candice. Hi.”
She elbowed past them. “Same time tomorrow?” The clean-shaven one called out.
“Y-yeah,” Candice said, and cursed herself. Stupid!
The boys kept their promise. They just watched. And grinned.
For the first twenty minutes Candice just burned a ton of frustration. She had bombed the test. Completely, utterly bombed it. A low C. Candice had wasted the first twenty minutes of test time just humming that dumb pop song to herself, spacing, twirling her hair between her fingers. Then she had panicked and written down a bunch of numbers, then back to swimming in the pink soupy cotton candy that was her brain.
“Fuck it,” Candice had said, afterwards. None of the other girls had cared. Actually, Patricia had ‘accidentally’ dropped her pencil and given Mr. Robbins a full up-skirt view of her shining white thong. She was probably the only female guaranteed a letter grade.
Candice had gone to the store and bought two identical pairs of semi-rigid skirts, with all the frills. One in pink and one in bright yellow. And a set of kneesocks. Why not? She’d probably do her hair up in pigtails, too, just to make clear that she was a sexy schoolgirl with nothing but cum on her mind.
“You’re doing great, Candice,” one of the two called out. Greg was the socially aware one, Daniel the hopeless nerd. “push your chest out a little bit more.”
Candice couldn’t help herself. She let her tits bounce. The song rode her hard. The music had gotten louder and louder. She heard it all the time.
“Twirl a bit,” Daniel suggested, and she did. The cold winter air pushed her bright yellow skirt up. She had matching panties.
The frustration died off. It was hard to stay frustrated when there were guys around. The air was smoky with her perfume, the music blared in the arcade, the eyes of the boys examined her boobs and butt for every curve.
It was too much. Her brain was melting under it all. And it felt fantastic.
“C’mon, Candice. Smile more,” Greg said. “Enjoy yourself!”
Candice giggled. This WAS pretty fun. A lot more fun then punishing herself before a set of French vowel conjugations. It was so much easier to not think too hard.
“Pull up your shirt,” Daniel suggested.
Boys. Candice gave them half a glimpse of underboob, just enough to keep them wanting more. Then she went back to dancing.
“Ms. Wu, before we go any farther, let me just state that I am a happily married man,” Mr. Robbins said. “My relationship with my wife is just fine. So if you were intending to uncross your legs and flash me, or bend over, or whatever, I have seen probably thirty hindquarters in the past few months. The novelty factor is gone, but the legal ramifications remain.”
Candice nodded, earnestly. She kept her legs shut.
“I am not certain what is the story with all my female students. It seems that all they want to do is listen to pop music and fiddle with pencils. And I don’t mean number twos.”
Candice kept smiling and nodding. She tapped her legs together to the rhythm of the song. It just played on repeat in her head, now. And she had a copy playing on repeat in her room. Her Mom was coming by a lot more. Just to chat. Fashion. Boys. Stuff.
Mr. Robbins took his glasses off and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “But I am alert that there have been.. physical changes. Double puberty and such. So I am giving all the female students a take-home makeup test.”
Candice perked up. “Do you mean it?” she said. Her voice was like music.
Mr. Robbins looked at the carefully arranged young girl. She wore a dark skirt, but with a hidden laminate hem, with the pleats down around her thighs. Her stockings disappeared up underneath, in pure white. Mr. Robbins didn’t even notice what shirt she was wearing.
“Go on,” he said, finally. “Do your very best. And Candice? Try not to drop any pencils, for gods sake.”
“Umm, this is really hard, Candice,” her Mom said. She giggled. Then Candice giggled. They both stared at the math test on the table. “I’m not sure I can help you with it.”
She toyed with her hair. Her Mom had finally taken it out of the ponytail her hair had languished in since the mid 1990s. Now she had it layered in waves around her face. And she had picked up some Pink! brand lipstick, at Candice’s suggestion.
“Moooom, you’ve got to help me,” Candice said. “This stuff is so hard. It hurts to even look at it. It makes my brain drown.”
Candice tried to conjure up some math. It was no good. Her mind was a sea of song lyrics and pink bubbles. She wasn’t even sure how much of her vocabulary was intact. There didn’t seem to be as many syllables.
“I’m not the one in school!” her Mom said. “C’mon, honey, just.. brain it up. Be smart. Do the test. I know you have it in you.”
The song played on and on, on loop on Candice’s computer. Outside the room it echoed over the intercom. In the living room it played on TV. And they both had iPods.
This was decision time. Candice could feel it. She had let her memory loop on brainless tunes and syrupy perfume for too long. It was time to sit out in the cold, on a dirty park bench, and let the confident young woman re-emerge from the fog of pink girly-girl she had let engulf her.
“Okay, Mom, I got this,” she said, and stood up. It was time to pour a hundred dollars worth of perfume down the toilet.
Thirty minutes later, she was flashing her panties to Greg, while Daniel chewed on a pencil and went over the test answers.
The boys had been very happy to make a deal. Candice congratulated herself on how smart she was. This way she was guaranteed to do well, instead of relying on her silly girl brain. She had boys to help.
Greg sat in a chair while Candice danced around him. The skirt came in two parts, a figure-hugging tube that clenched her waist together, and a frilly bit that would cover her ass if she stood quietly. It was royal blue, with a prominent drawstring.
“Don’t touch,” she warned, as Greg’s hands hovered on top of her cropped t-shirt. It was covered in rips, and had about enough total fabric as a hand towel.
“Whoa, strip club rules only get you a B,” Greg told her. “Back room rules get you an A.”
Candice sighed. But then the song fluttered again, some random drumbeat or vocal twirl ripping away her tissue-thin attention.
Greg’s hands were nice and warm, and they felt really good on top of her tits.
Daniel’s were rougher, but by now Candice was filled to the brim with music, panting and sweating and drowning underneath it. It filled her mind with sex and pink, drowning out her thoughts. She gyrated on top of the nervous nerd underneath her, letting her ass graze the tip of his dick, giggling from time to time.
She only stopped moving briefly, when Daniel insisted on rubbing her boobs together.
Eventually he came in his pants, the darling boy. The brown khakis flooded wet. Candice admired it, admired herself in the shiny metal of the claw machine. She was still smart, she just had to use her mind… strategically.
“Do you want a grade higher then an A?” Greg asked, as Daniel recovered.
“Oh, yes!” Candice said, eyes wide. She hadn’t even known there was a higher grade. What was it? An S? “What do I have to do?”
“Just get on your knees, and I’ll show you,” he assured her.
Candice did the smart thing.
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