Slut TV
Episode One: Common Grounds
It was late.
Tim had started work when it was still dark out. He had kept his head down through a short winter day, grabbing glimpses of the sun through the blinds of the office window.
He had interacted with his secretary only through phone calls and e-mails.
She was a temp, and she was blonde. And, worst of all, that sort of heavy, faded blonde that would be so… so EASY to fix. Siphon off some collagen from a pooching stomach. Stuff it ramshackle into her tits. Pump her blouse-wearing body with chemicals and natural narcotics, until she was ravenous for something stiff in a rejuvenated snatch.
Tim resisted. He didn’t take a look at her.
But he had the feeling that he only resisted because it was Friday.
And that meant he could go to The Grounds. For his Night Out.
He drove there, hands shaking on the wheel, in under fifteen minutes. Other cars calmly pulled over to the side of the road, to let him pass. Police cruisers saw nothing unusual.
The parking lot was full, so he dumped the car at a red curb, secure in the knowledge that traffic cops wouldn’t even see it.
Tim pushed open the front door. The scent of dark roasted coffee hit him. After a year of Night’s Out, coffee aroma had gotten mixed up with messy sexual release. His cock raised to half-mast, and he had to hide it under a quickly-grabbed newspaper.
The Grounds Cafe was three-quarters of a converted warehouse, and had high ceilings with pendulous lights. They cast off a low amber glow. The management overheated the cafe in the winter, and that combined with an espresso haze. The atmosphere was stifling.
Tim liked the heat. He wasn’t young. It was amazing how cold found kinks in joints.
The couches were the big draw. They were plump and overstuffed, and striped, with little tables nearby to rest coffee mugs on. Easy to sink into, and difficult to clamber out of. His usual chair commanded a great view of floor space, and had a tiny rug nearby that came in handy.
A young man wearing an ironic t-shirt had commandeered it, tapping on his bright white laptop.
Tim stood nearby and gave him ten seconds to cede his seat politely.
He didn’t.
Unfortunately for him, it was Tim’s Night Out.
There was a row of tables on the far end of the Coffee Shop, nestled against the windows looking over the street. The second one from the door contained a lithe little brunette, a very short girl with wire-frame reading glasses on.
Tim closed his eyes, let his consciousness flow across the room. He fished for the name of the boy on the couch.
David.
David was engrossed in youtube videos. A subtle prod in his motor center redirected his gaze up, right at the glasses girl. She had her legs crossed Indian-style in the chair, and wore a sweater with blue jeans.
Tim mentally grabbed hold of David’s sex drive, and squeezed.
A wash of testosterone, endorphins, and all the other male chemicals spit fire into his brain. They flowed into his blood stream, filling it to the brim with orders. His body heat raised an octave. His eyes fixated on the Brunette across the hall.
Pure sexual aggression overwhelmed his unprepared mind. A coursing flood of images pocked his thinking. Slamming his cock into the girl. Making her scream. Possessing and owning her. How could she resist?
Tim bolstered his confidence, and David rose up, his laptop under one arm.
Tim sat down in his vacated spot, sighing, before anyone else could move for it.
Patricia’s eyes hurt. It had been a long day of failure. The exam was in two days, she hadn’t particularly studied for it, and her list of questions was four pages in length.
When the boy put his hand on her table, she nearly snarled.
“Hey. I’m David,” the boy said, grinning. He was standard issue web designer. With one of those stupid beards that couldn’t decide where the chin went. Her Ex had had one of those. “Can I buy you a drink?” Even unmoving, he swaggered.
The boy stuck her hand out. She felt like biting it.
Across the room, Tim waited for the perfect moment. The handshake fit.
He reached across empty space, killed the pumping flood of testosterone, cleared out the cesspool of hormones overwhelming the boy’s hapless head.
“I’m.. umm..” the boy said. His expression flittered between confusion and terror.
He stared at her, baffled. “What just happened?” he said, plaintively.
Patricia rolled her eyes. “You offered to buy me a drink. I’m thinking about it.”
The color had left David’s face. It left behind a lot of lines. He was older then she had first thought.
Patricia tapped her lips. “I want… the most expensive drink they make. With cinnamon on top. Is cinnamon extra?”
“Uh… no,” the boy said.
She sniffed. Pity. “Whipped cream, then.”
David swiveled, head down, and joined the queue to pick up a drink. He kept staring at his fingers, as if there was something wrong with them.
David returned with a triple-shot latte. The girl made just enough room for him to put the cup down. She acknowledged him with a half-nod, then a tiny dismissive wave. David looked ready to cry.
Tim felt a slight twinge of guilt. Funny how even tiny stuff like that hit at his conscience, these days.
He put David down at the seat next to Patricia, wiped away enough of the embarrassment to keep the boy indoors. Then it was over to the girl.
Inside her head was a mundane mixture of boring sexual fantasies. A tame fixation on chiseled men. Relatively few sexual experiences, standard passive grunt-fests ending in vague dissatisfaction.
Her initial revulsion at David’s silly goatee gave Tim an idea.
David’s brain was still recovering from the backwash of alternating salvos of sex drugs. Tim left it alone, excepting a strict command to stay interested solely in stupid online videos.
Instead, he set up shop below the neck. David had a fish-belly body with a few tufts of chest hair. And just enough unused, stringy muscles to carry groceries. The unused mass started to gain bulk and heft.
Above the waist, his stomach hardened into a defined set of muscles, replacing a ice-cream pudge with decent abs. David’s clothes shifted and resettled around his bigger, more powerful frame. His chest sprouted heavy tufts of dark black chest hair.
Beneath the surface Tim set up compounds of hormones, then injected them directly into the sweat glands of the bulked-up boy. The ambient temperature around the man rose a few degrees.
David started to sweat.
A musky cloud of concentrated maleness floated in the air. Tim flicked his fingers, and the invisible scent floated over, across the top of Patricia’s laptop, and up her nose.
Directly into her surprised head.
Patricia took another deep, startled breath.
She already regretted blowing David off so cavalierly. First, because the most expensive thing on the menu was a tea latte with four shots of espresso, topped with whipped cream. It was disgusting.
Second, because David was far more… built… then she had earlier realized. Hordes of muscles shone against his light cotton shirt every time the boy moved. He had thick, broad shoulders.
There was something... primal... about him.
She gave up on homework, stared openly at his back. David was sweating. She was starting to sweat, too. Innocent fantasies of making out in the back seat of a sweltering car started to intrude. He would tear her shirt off, unhook her bra with one easy motion, shuck her jeans off with a Neanderthal grunt.
All she would have to do was lie back, spread her legs, and let him rut away.
Her legs started to inch apart.
Patricia looked around, then discretely lowered her own fingers to her jean-covered pussy.
It wasn’t a word she used, often. Maybe jokingly, a few times, with sorority sisters. And a half-hearted reference during sex, followed by dim amusement when it drove the boy crazy.
But her mind, coaxed and intoxicated by David’s addictive musk, was starting to rethink things. Everything.
Her boobs, for example. She was so used to thinking of them as, well, hers. And not as anything particularly interesting. At most, as something she could use to tease and flirt with, smug and confident in their effect on boys.
But that was wrong, wasn’t it? They were for David to maul and abuse, however he wanted. To tug on and suck, while she watched, shuddering with orgasms as he had his way with her pneumatic titties.
And her slit. What a natural hole it was, perfect for boys and their toys. In many ways, the girl herself was unnecessary. If David plunged in and out of her, all she could do would be to lie there, screaming, a receptacle for the sweat-scented cock he owned. Fucking her so hard she would be knocked out with pleasure, reduced to a giggling, helpless sex toy, bent over or sprawled backwards or up against a wall.
“Sex toy,” Patricia whispered, and closed her laptop. She inhaled, sharply, then leaned forwards. She felt so weak, so powerless, and exulted in it. Her titties were burning with arousal, and she rubbed anxiously at the outside of her jeans.
And she had tossed him away! He had invited her to do the smart thing, to impale herself on his cockhead, and let him fuck her senseless. Why had she turned that down? Waves of anxiety and shame drilled her.
David shifted, and another wave of musk washed over her. Patricia moaned, low and deep. If he was going to take her, she would have to do something dramatic.
Sucking his cock, she figured, would be a good start.
Tim watched years of civilization and a stern upbringing roll away off the glasses-wearing girl. Her mind simplified, losing ambition and dropping away semester after semester of schooling.
“Animal Within” was a personal favorite of his, since it went on the guy but affected the girl. Reminding the female mind that, beneath it all, she was an overly complicated method of perpetuating the species. The right blend of hormones stripped away at the dross of education and upbringing, awakening a horny little minx with rutting on her mind. The only problem was a marked tendency towards territoriality.
But that was, of course, the nature of the beast.
Just for fun he dissolved her sweater, plumped out her hips and fattened her lips. The bra also disappeared, so that her boobs were slung in a sheer white tanktop. The twosome became thick and fat, big nursing tits, with heavy and thick nipples. Tim teased her hair out, wild-style. Then he shrunk her a few more inches. It all just took a few moments.
David’s new kitten licked her lips, and rubbed at her clit. Then she stood up, lowered herself at David’s startled feet, and mewed for access to his cock.
Tim kept an eye on Patricia and David.
The girl was fully entranced with his impressive scent. Her body was thoroughly lubricated, her mind given entirely over to a animal need for thoughtless fucking. Her thoughts blistered with complete submission. She mauled carelessly at her expanded tits while her right hand pawed at David’s zipper.
Tim waited to see if David would back off. About half of the time they did, scared at the public setting and, sensibly, worried about the moaning female desperate for their groin. That would be the intelligent thing to do.
David was in the other half. After his initial shock the bulked-up man shifted in his chair, eyes wide, and let Patricia undo his fly. The girl fished around in his pants, determined, and finally freed David’s cock.
It was fully four inches bigger, and, to fit the animal theme, no longer circumcised. Which meant a powerful piston dripping with sexual vapor. All of which flooded directly to Patricia’s simplified, sex-needy brain.
She opened her mouth and swallowed the first six inches without even looking up at him.
David stared, openmouthed. Her technique was unsubtle. A constant sucking vacuum, bobbing up and down on his rod. He groaned, still shocked, and coming to realize that his body wasn’t quite as he remembered. Patricia’s tits flopped up and down, and she gripped at the base of his cock with her fingers. Her glasses were smeared and misted over.
Tim nodded, approving. They were almost done.
But not quite. Patricia needed a true alpha male to match. So Tim made each longing stroke pierce through David’s own veneer of cosmopolitan learning. Her bobbing set off more bubbling cauldrons of aggressive chemicals, sparking at his libido and deep-seated urges. The fingers of pleasure each lick induced cut away at his old, educated exterior. Leaving behind a single-minded engine of male sexuality, with the muscles to match.
Eventually, David took hold of Patricia’s head, guided it up and down more vigorously on the length of his cock.
She diligently tried to keep up.
A tiny bit of Patricia was still hanging on, above the torrents of lust and primal heat that ruled her. And that tiny bit did not want to swallow.
She was past struggling, of course. She had shaped her lips into a perfect seal, running her tongue up and down his cock. David controlled the slide, pushing her up and down until the tip of his dick gushed up against the back of her throat.
It was obvious he was getting close. David’s face was screwed up into a tight grimace, and his cock shook when he reached the back of her throat. He obviously expected to jizz a gallon of seed down her throat, make her swallow however much batter he could produce.
And it was scary how much she wanted it. To suck him dry, to passively swallow with a smile whatever he produced. And then to lick him hard again.
She whined, deep in her throat. It was as much protest as she could manage.
In response, David pulled her to the very base of his cock, as hard as he could, and came. Fluid gushed down her throat, threatened to choke her, filled her mouth to overflowing.
It tasted like… some kind of honey. Patricia didn’t move, startled, and then swallowed eagerly, continually, spooning it out of his flopping cock with her tongue. Letting him fill her up like some kind of plastic receptacle, a sluice for his needs. The sperm mixed with the tang of his sweat, and that inherent maleness that ruled her every thought.
By the time David pulled her free, she had licked him completely clean.
Her fellow barista tapped Tracy on the shoulder. “He’s here,” she whispered, nodding to the side of the room.
But she had already known it, of course. Not just because the older man was so punctual. 7:00 p.m. every Friday night.
Because of the way her body knew.
Even before she looked over, Tracy’s breathing had started to turn short and hot. Her fingers began to tingle and shake, and she had to step back from the espresso machine before she burned herself.
“He’s going to want his special,” her co-worked said, urgently.
Tracy gritted her teeth.
That familiar feeling was already starting to wash over her. She turned back to her espresso station, ignoring it. But already she was beginning to feel hot and moist, her thoughts chugging through a hot soup of warm anticipation. To sparkle with free-floating pleasure.
Like something was trickling drugs right into her brain.
“I can fight this,” Tracy told herself. It was just a… a warm, happy feeling, after all. She didn’t have to do anything. Just stand there, and make drinks.
Tracy glared at the next person in line, battling it. She recognized the feeling. It was exactly the same as that feeling when she was on her back, her boyfriend poised above her, seconds away from piercing her with his cock. Contentment and satisfaction. A buzzing sensation in her mind, like someone was shutting down the lights.
“Espresso,” the customer said.
“Okey-doke,” she chirped, and blinded him with an inane smile. On the inside, she cringed. Why did this always happen? Already she was feeling and acting ditzy, inclined to grin and not think too hard.
Tracy looked down. She was getting wet and itchy between her legs. As usual.
Unnoticed, her trim fingernails grew sharp and long, capped with pink bubblegum enamel.
She turned “Es-press-o,” she said, out loud. The part of her already floating in a bubble world of sexual haze didn’t want to do numbers. She gaped at the big board behind her, bewildered by all the dollar signs and numbers and decimal points. Tracy twirled at a lock of hair, and it grew out of her conservative cut, slithered down to her shoulders.
“Trace, honey, you go get settled for Tim,” her coworker said. She guided Tracy with a sympathetic pat on the ass.
“No… no, I don’t wanna,” Tracy whined. Her voice came out all wrong, suddenly. Like a petulant little girl, high and chirping. She grimaced, and her lips plumped out, expanding into heavy bows of inviting pink pillows.
Her coworker didn’t bat an eye. Everything was normal. No one in line reacted when Tracy blinked her eyes and emerged with longer lashes.
She noticed her fingernails. The big bright pink captivated her. So pretty. She giggled and admired the way it sparkled with tiny bits of glitter. The cashier ushered her into the back room.
Tracy let herself be led. Her thighs quivered with anticipation, helpless and excited. A spark of her mind refused to accept it. But every other bit, from her moist and wet slit to her increasingly itchy tits, knew that she was this close to getting fucked in the bestest way ever.
The couch felt great. Tim settled in. The warmth soaked into his body, chased away chills he didn’t even know he had. The older man loosened his tie, just a fraction, and crossed his legs.
He idly checked in on Tracy.
He had arranged her body to his liking a long time ago.
Once upon a time she would’ve just been one in a category. One of the Bunnies. A basic template—huge tits, sopping wet snatch, cooing and brainless attitude. Part of a giggling harem numbering in the hundreds. She would’ve had a number, because naming them was such a bother.
That was all behind him, now.
Mostly.
The back room was a small collection of wire frame shelving, old pieces of coffee-based machinery, and anonymous bags of coffee beans. In the corner were a few stacks of lockers.
“Stupid… Tim.. and his… stupid…” Tracy groped for another word. They weren’t coming easily. She had a rich vocabul—vocab—word book, didn’t she?
“Stupid!” she finished, partially satisfied.
Pleasure was so, so hard to fight. Her body glowed with it, all over, like an ocean of happiness and smiles. Her intellect drizzled away like a raincloud. Why be intellectual, when your titties burnt with red-hot happiness? Why worry about stuff like words and stuff when your body was so completely satisfied?
She stamped her foot, vaguely indignant.
That let the first trickle of moisture slide out of her over juiced pussy and down the inside of her thighs.
Tracy squealed. She was wearing a pair of sensible white pants, and a big blotch of clear juice would be extremely embarrassing. The girl shifted to keep the trickle from impacting. Another drooling droplet of juice leaked out. Worse yet, the first one stained her pants just beneath her apron.
“Tim’s fault,” Tracy thought, squeezing her sex. “This is Tim’s fault.”
Although she was having trouble figuring out, distracted by dripping sex juices, exactly WHY it was Tim’s fault. He was just another customer. And a very polite one, as far as she could vaguely remember. He tipped her generously.
“Tim’s fault,” she repeated, uncertain. She had to fight back.
But she couldn’t go out there in pussy-wet pants.
Tracy tugged on her trousers. They were ruined. Her overly hot slit wanted to be freed, anyways. It was practically burning up underneath her dull cotton panties.
But her hips didn’t seem to want to cooperate. They had bowed out, gained curves and definition, shifted her center of gravity way down. Her pants gripped newly sensitive skin, anxious not to let go.
“Stupid… pants… stupid… Tim,” Tracy chanted, working them over her butt. She sat down on a metal folding chair, absentmindedly scratched at her rear end. Her underwear stretched over an expanded ass. It bubbled out from her waist, two perfect half moons.
The girl finally managed to shuck the wet pants off. The scent of wet, dripping girl started to fill the room.
She felt enormously better.
“What’s happening to me?” bubbled up, dimly, from her mind. Other parts of her brain told it to shush. But the body in the chair wasn’t her usual one, was it? She remembered boyish legs, with a rocky, straight-line ass. Didn’t she used to have hair on her legs?
Tracy ran a pink-tipped nail over rubber-smooth thighs. The skin was creamy and soft. Like she had been waxed, and the wax had never been removed.
Touching herself felt like she was tossing more rocks into the already-rippling pool of her intellect. She caught herself starting to moan.
One way to test. Tracy knew—for sure!—that she hadn’t shaved her snatch. Her boyfriend kept asking, and she kept turning him down. So if she peeked—down there—and she was bare—then something was totally wrong.
Tracy chewed on her perfect lips. Then she picked up the lip of her straining underwear with her glittering nails.
A glistening wet, pink pussy strained between her legs. It was absolutely smooth.
“Damn it, Tim!,” Tracy murmured, and pouted.
Tracy couldn’t stop staring between her legs. Moisture kept leaking out, running down her legs.
She was vaguely aware of how compromised she must look. Shirt half askew. Pants down at her ankles, along with her underwear. Dripping wet, and smelling like it. Staring unabashed at her own slit, like some dim slut.
It was a really hot scene.
Her snatch was such a turn on, too. So inviting and wet. She just had to check it out. Two fingers felt underneath her underpants. Her lips felt like velvet. Even the outside folds kicked up more waves in her shuddering consciousness.
Tracy pumped her fingers inside. She rubbed right past her clit, into the center of the smooth flower that was her re-molded snatch. Her fingers were greased by the halfway point, lubed up to the point of ridiculousness. Fluid gushed between her nails.
The girl bent forward to give herself better access. Her legs splayed along the sides of the metal chair. Images popped into her head. How to give a guy a decent blowjob. How to tease the tip, sink your lips to the base of the shaft. How to lick and suck until the inevitable eruption bathed you in cream.
How to please an older man.
Eyes screwed shut, whimpering, Tracy pistoned three fingers in and out of her sticky pussy. Juice flew. Her co-worker peeked in, noted the self-play, and closed the door again.
Tracy started to drool.
Tim listened for the first muffled shriek to bounce from the back room. It came right on schedule.
The extended bout of self-play was an essential part of the program. He used to lock in the mental changes by, essentially, fucking it into them. Driving the girls to orgasm after orgasm with an enhanced cock while the programming settled in.
But it wasn’t efficient. Even in a cocktail fuzz of endorphins many had been able to resist. Mostly by fixating on him, as the obvious cause of their unnatural shrieks of pure pleasure.
So he just had them do themselves. Masturbation was the mind control you gave yourself. Why resist the pleasure you yourself were looking for?
Tracy’s rubber-wet body slumped in the chair. Her right hand continued to scrabble at her slit, looking to soak more pleasure from the throbbing redness. But her fingers were gummy and slick, soaked with wetness, and she was far too lubed up to get any good friction going.
The rest of her was just as drenched. Her shirt was soaked with sweat, and droplets rolled down her face in waves. She panted, overwhelmed, as her legs jerked with leftover spasms of joy. The chair underneath her was pooled with juices. Her nipples collected sweat, and dripped it onto the floor.
A coworker opened the door. Tracy squeaked, moved her right hand to cover her slit. Otherwise she was too wet and tired to do much to cover herself.
Her coworker looked unconcerned, if mildly cross.
“Tracy! Get dressed!” she scolded. “Tim is waiting!”
Then she disappeared back into the Café.
“Tim,” Tracy thought, dully. Just the thought of him triggered more happy chemicals, swirling in the storm inside her head. He was such a delicious man, such an addictive thought. She wanted to bask in him, pleasure him, nestle her ass in his lap.
“No.. no,” Tracy whined. “He’s… doing stuff… to me…” She didn’t have big wet tits like these, sticking out lewdly on her chest. Certainly she didn’t have this velvet body, with rolling hips and a trigger-happy clit. Right?
She had to get dressed. If only to shut off access to her pussy.
There was a set of lockers in the far end of the room. Most employees didn’t bother with them. One of them, the bottom left one, was never opened. But Tracy wobbled straight for it, each foot in front of the other. When she reached the locker she bent over at the waist, and felt a new rush of hot air impact against her slit. She gasped and cooed. Another drizzle of sweat fell off her forehead.
Inside the locker was what first looked like a pile of plastic. It wasn’t until Tracy pulled it out that it unfolded, revealed itself to be a single tight sheath of vinyl. Even without a girl in it the material shone and gleamed. It looked like plastic packaging for a holiday gift, lacking only some tits and an ass to get inserted inside.
Tracy licked her lips. In her wet-hot condition, it would slide right on. And anything else would quickly be soaked through. Plus, it would show off her boobs nicely when she fought back against Tim.
She just had to put it on.
Already naked below the waist, she undid her blouse with long nails. Her bra—didn’t it used to fit?—had reduced itself to a wrap around her waist. She undid it, tossed it off, and felt enormously better. Fully nude felt so right, especially with all those men outside. And it was so hot, anyway.
Tracy eagerly reached for the sheath.
It fit perfectly.
Each curve was rounded off, right at the perfect moment. It started just shy of her waist, on the north end of her ass, and clutched at every inch of her newly supple body. A small, useless zipper highlighted the area between two boobs. Tracy felt like a perfect centerpiece, completely delectable and entirely fuckable.
There were a pair of high heels in the locker, as well. She fitted her feet into them, and watched with dull amazement as her toes entered with white nails, and quickly lacquered themselves over pink. She giggled.
At the back of the locker something was written in dark red lipstick. The lipstick itself was presumably inside a makeup kit on a small shelf.
Reading felt unnatural and strange, and the vowels were particularly hard. She could just make out “TIM IS BIMBOING YOU.”
“Bimboing… me…” she mouthed.
A flash of anger struck her. He was bimboing her! And he did it every Friday, dressed her up and inflated her usual, comfortable body. It hadn’t been ten minutes, and she was already soaked in pussy juice on the inside of her thighs. Even now her fingers were starting to tease again at her pantyless slit.
“Tracy isn’t gonna be a bimbo!” she told herself, outraged. And she would tell Tim that herself.
Just as soon as she got the makeup on.
Tracy outlined her lips in dark red lipstick. Then she checked her reflection in the compact mirror.
The goal had been to project a professional, confident atmosphere for her pending confrontation with Tim. A light blush on her powder-pale skin, some demure lipstick, and then her hair tied back.
That hadn’t gone according to plan.
Instead, her lips were glossed and re-glossed with a tube of wine-dark lipstick. Her lips felt huge and artificial, like candy-coated fakes. The blush had become a big pink starburst on her upper cheeks. Worst of all, maybe because of all the sweat, her mascara had created deep dark bambi eyes.
She stamped her foot again, exasperated. This time she nearly broke a heel. It also sent her boobs bouncing up and down, and her tube dress rode up over her ass.
“Not gonna be Tim’s little bunny slut,” she repeated, in her new sugar-laden voice. There was just a little of the original Tracy left, somewhere between the hormones and the tingling nerves, and she clung to it.
Although… where had “bunny slut” come from?
Her co-worker slammed open the door. “Tracy!” she hissed, “Come on! And get your fingers out of your snatch, geez!”
Tracy pulled them out, guiltily. She had to do her makeup with her left hand, since the right one insisted on exploring.
The tube-dress wearing, plastic-bodied girl with the long lashes stepped tentatively back into the coffee house proper.
Even past the artificial block Tim had erected, the men noticed her stumble over to the steaming coffee (decaf) he had requested. Tracy picked it up with both hands, careful not to spill. Then she pushed her delicate rear through the entryway, and out into the customer area proper. Over near the door, a wild-haired girl was getting her mouth jackhammered on a big, grunting boy’s cock.
Tim sat in his usual couch. He wore the same smile as always, a faintly pleased, distant look. His shirt was rumpled, and his wrinkled neck was starting to sag into his collar.
They faced each other. Tracy struggled with the right words. Her earlier plans to dump the hot coffee on his lap, to stamp out… seemed downright rude.
She managed to whisper, “Timmy, why are you making me so sexy?”
Tim seemed surprised.
“Because… I like the big titties, and the sexy pussy, and... the legs…” her mouth gaped open. He watched her intently. “But do I have to be so silly and stuff?”
Tim’s lips parted into a pleased, delighted smile. He laughed. “Tracy, that’s the most you’ve fought back in two months! Well done!”
Two.. months? How long.. she had been working for Grounds for over a year…
“Put the coffee down, dear,” he said. She quickly but carefully deposited it on the table next to him.
When she was bending over, his weathered hand snuck up between her legs. Tracy froze, waited, as his fingers traced a line in the lubricant still wet between her thighs. Each touch felt… like magic tricks…
“I’m proud of you, Tracy dear. How is everything?”
She groaned, spread her legs, anchoring her heels as best she could in the rug. One finger inched up between her dress, felt at the soft folds of her slit. He turned it over, hooked her inside, and gently pulled her towards him.
“Fine, sir,” Tracy said, suddenly eager to talk. His other hand turned her around, so that her ass faced the older man. His first hand was still entangled between her legs, pushing and needling her clit. She floated on clouds he kept creating.
“Your singing career? Moving forwards?”
“Of course, sir,” Tracy said. He sat her down on his lap. His left hand started to caress at her dress-covered boobs. Her nipples felt spongy and wet in the hot air. Beneath her, his cock stirred, pressing between her legs.
In fact, her singing career hadn’t been going anywhere until just recently. But, somehow, her voice had found a new lilt and grace in the past year. She could make it purr into the microphone. “We’re playing at the Black Room next week. It’s a big—”
“I know, dear, I’m not that old. And your boyfriend? Everything working out?”
Barry had surprised her just that morning with flowers. The kind she liked. He had cleaned up dramatically, becoming so thoughtful… and considerate… especially of her job…
“Perfect,” Tim said, smiling. “Just perfect. Bend forward, dear. I’m going to start with your ass, tonight.”
“Bend your head a little farther, Tracy dear,” Tim murmured. Her sweet little moans laced through the room, the dress hiked up around her alabaster waist. Tracy rubbed at her own tits, pressing them against each other, eager to pile on more sparks to the fire between her thighs.
Inside her head she was still fighting. Each upward thrust was meant to be the last, freeing herself from the pleasure, pulling off his cock and running for the exits, streaming lubricant.
Then she would reach the tip, waver, and slide back down again for another groaning blast of sensation. All in all it was an uneven ride, not very professional, but even more enjoyable for it.
That gave Tim the opportunity to look around. Patricia, legs floppy, was getting pulled off her knees and onto the table. An employee was mopping up the trail of juice Tracy had left on the floor on her way over to him. That left an entire room full of oblivious patrons, blissfully unaware of the activity around them.
And, glory be, there was a couple out on a date. A first date, Internet-assisted, based probably on some overly flattering photos. They sat at a table fairly close by Tracy and Tim, playing a desultory game of chess while they make awkward conversation. Each wracked—as Tim closed in—by life-long feelings of inadequacy and regret.
They were just… perfect!
Anna was a train wreck of a body. Big and lumpy, an elementary school teacher who had let herself go. Lacking any better ideas, Tim smoothed out a rough complexion, iced a reddish face with creamy white skin.
“Okay, confession,” Anna said. She pushed up on her glasses. “I don’t really like chess. I barely play it. Can we quit?”
“Really?” Travis said. He had shown up for their date in t-shirt and jeans. And dirty shoes. Who showed up for a date in dirty shoes? “Um, okay. What do you want to do, then?”
She started to put the pawns away. He hadn’t even had the social skills to let her win. Was that really so hard? “I don’t know,” she said, sighing.
“I mean, lets be upfront about what we’re doing here. This is all just all like a job interview, anyway,” Anna said.
“Job interview?” Travis said. He toyed with a King. The boy leaned forwards.
“Yeah!” Anna said. She pushed her hair back, suddenly attracted to the idea.
Her hair had been manky and long. Tim trimmed it shorter, pulling it back from a new, cherubic angel-bow of a face. Her locks slithered backwards into a professional little pixie cut, with a just-washed look.
“I mean, we make small talk and say stupid things, but what you really want to know is: Is she intelligent? Is she as hot as her ancient MatchHarmony picture suggests? Is she gonna put out?”
Travis blushed.
Her outfit was barely fit for the grade schoolers she usually worked with. Tim reached into his standard templates, picked out a classic, jean miniskirt with a red top, low-cut enough to show off some tit. Her ankle-length skirt unraveled upwards, freeing still-doughy legs, re-wrapping itself around her upper thighs. The dark black button-down skittered off her shoulders, came to rest around Anna’s chest. Her already heavy chest pushed up and out.
“So lets be honest, huh?” Anna said. Her voice rise, became soft and inviting. She leaned forwards. Travis nearly fell across the table, openly staring at her chest. “These are my tits. There are many like them, but these are mine.”
“They’re, uh, great,” Travis said, smiling.
It was the first compliment she had heard from him. Anna surprised herself by flushing with heat at the thin praise. Her chest tingled with the attention, and she bit her lip, softly.
When she looked back up, it was with renewed interest.
Tracy humped back particularly hard. Tim gasped, lost control, and Anna’s boobs surged from attention-getting to mammoth. Her shirt nearly popped open. He almost reversed it, then shrugged, and just shrank her waist to make them look even larger. Maybe it was fate, or something like that.
“I know they make me look like a freak,” Anna said, lightly stroking her nipples. She touched her own boobs all the time, unconscious of the effect on local men. “I mean, they’re just huge. Kept me off cheerleading, kept me from running. It’s SO hard to stay trim when you’ve got big tits.”
“I can imagine,” Travis said, bobbing his head.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” Anna gushed. She leaned forward as hard as she could. A nipple slipped out, and she giggled, before popping it back underneath her shirt.
Now what? Tim took a mental step back at the big-boobed cow he had quickly thrown together. An idea struck him.
“Aren’t they, uh, sensitive?” Travis ventured.
“Oooh, so sensitive,” Anna sighed. She kept fingering them, slow and lazy. The Moms at her school always looked at her askance. Father attendance at her Parent-Teacher conferences was always good. “Sometimes I just stay home and touch at them. You’re so sweet to ask. No one understands what it’s like to have giant titties.”
She let her hand slip between her thighs. Anna was used to drinking in male gazes, letting them admire from afar. To get lost in her tits, then turn and stare at the mouthwatering expanse of her ass.
“But that’s not why I picked you out, Travis-honey,” she cooed. Here it came. She had been sizing him up all evening long. “I’m tired of fucks that mean nothing. I’ve been off the pill for two months now, without any boys to make it easy on me.” Which had meant marathon finger-fuck sessions.
“Uh, what do—”
Anna squeezed her titties together. Her mind, glazed and primed, goaded her on. “I’ve been wondering if you should put a baby in me, Travis honey.”
Tim struck. A pre-planned cavalcade of images squished into Travis’ mind. Big, milky tits squirting as he thrust between them. Endless rides all over Anna’s bountiful body. Filling her up time and again with cum, watching her grow even more voluptuous and big. Even bigger boobs. All because of him.
His cock, already hard, pulsed with desire.
“Mm, it’s your interview too, Travis baby,” Anna said. Her own mind dripped with need. No more would she suffer the disdain of an endless circus of Moms. She had a body built for sex, for rutting, for getting knocked up. It was time to get on her back, to get big and huge, to let some man take her body over. Travis was so smart—a chess player!—he would have to fit the bill.
She slid onto her knees, still toying with her rack, and stopped in front of an unresisting Travis. The former prim and aging teacher unzipped his pants, freed his cock.
Anna smiled, delighted. It was already running heavy and thick with jism, spasming from his dick. She pulled his pants down, inhaled a heady scent of male, and freed two grape-fruit sized testicles.
“These will do okay,” she husked, touching gently at them.
Travis, surprised, looked down at his expanded assets.
“Mm, you’re gonna get me big and fat and pregnant, aren’t you?” Anna said, stroking gently at his cock. She tasted some of his cum as it spilled out. Just as rich and thick as she had hoped, big ropes off the stuff. “All this baby batter. What’s it doing outside of me?”
“You romantic,” Tim chided himself.
He altered body chemistry, all those telltale signs of mating that most couples took months to develop. He cloaked Anna in Travis’ scent, that invisible signal that she was his, that she would luxuriate in and spread her legs for. Travis, unused to commitment, had to be handled more firmly. Finally Tim just simplified him, just enough to make the man protective and devoted. It wasn’t love, it was just chemicals, but it would do in a pinch.
Anna’s panties disappeared. She rose on two spike heels, balanced backwards, and fell heavily onto Travis’ cock. He reached around, grabbed her tits, and mauled them.
Where Tracy was lubricant and slick, Anna was rough, enticing friction on the inside. She didn’t fuck her man so much as milk him, coax a spurt into her hot, slick center.
“Come on, fuck me, get me pregnant, knock me up,” she chanted. “You do, you pass the interview. You get the job.” Her boobs bounced up and down, unleashed within the shirt. They both inhaled, getting to know each other on a very intimate and personal level.
Travis grunted, spattered her with wet seed, then rammed his hips up and down until white cum poured out of her snatch. Anna moaned through her own slow orgasm, lost within it. Taking the initiative, Travis picked her up by the ass and pushed her on the top of the table, so that none of the heavy cream would fall out.
Tim wondered idly if he should let her get pregnant. It wouldn’t take much to coax an egg down. He hadn’t done pregnancy in quite a long time, nearly twenty years. And that had been a brief but heady mania for spreading his progeny, inseminating a dozen women in a busy few months.
“Again! Fuck me again!” Anna shrieked, pulling him back inside. They copulated blindly, furiously.
—
“Sir?” Tracy said, timidly. Her mouth was coated with Tim’s jism. He usually just let it spill out, to coat the girl in a bath of white goo. When he was feeling generous it tasted like chocolate and cream.
Tim was dumbstruck. Tracy never talked to him after a bout of ass-fucking. Her nerves fried, she usually sucked gently on his cock while more orgasms dazzled her head.
“Tracy? Yes?” he asked.
“Just so you know, next week will be the last I can service you,” Tracy said. She couldn’t hide her nervousness. She returned to cock-sucking as soon as the sentence was out.
Tim froze. Anxious, Tracy redoubled her efforts around his bobbing cock. He didn’t even notice the wet efforts of her tongue.
“Last. Tracy? Explain. Tell me.”
Tracy reluctantly let go of his penis. Even shivering with anxiety, she kept a firm hold of the base, and rubbed up and down the slick shaft.
“Umm...” the bimbo squeaked. “My band? Got a long-term gig at a club in Seattle? And we’re moving up there?”
She waited. Tim didn’t look at her. “If that’s... okay, sir?” she said, and squeezed her legs together.
“Yes... yes, of course,” Tim said.
He had encouraged her career. Taken an interest in it. Improved her singing voice and given a boost in dexterity to her hands.
And now she was going to walk away from him.
Not that it mattered, of course. She was a toy. A receptacle of sorts. A wastebasket with a sucking action. Easily replacable.
“Get back on the chair, Tracy,” Tim ordered, rising quickly. Tracy hastened to present her ass, casting adoring looks backwards.
“It seems we have something to celebrate, then,” Tim said, and his jaw clenched.
Craig’s eyes never stopped roaming. They slid back and forth between Angela and Erica, resting on the young chests of one or the other. Then over to any female asses in range, plus the side-boob of a fairly nubile older woman reading a newspaper and frowning. Next, right past the surprised squeaks of a hottie getting fucked from behind, and then back again.
“Craig, this isn’t easy for us,” Angela said. The two sat on the other side of the table from him. Both had legs crossed demurely under the table. Even with jeans on, Craig promoted that kind of behavior.
“We’re kicking you out of Anime Club,” Erica announced.
“I guess that was kind of easy,” Angela conceded. They were both on the wrong side of chubby, and wore heavy sweaters and jeans over broad, stocky bodies.
Craig drooped. For once, his roaming eyes calmed down. “Why?” he managed, biting his lip. His cheeks quivered.
Angela and Erica both rolled their eyes.
“Look, I feel like we’re getting in between you and your... creepy as hell sex issues, Craig,” Angela explained. “Every time you bring in a video I know there’s a one in two chance someone is getting wrapped up in tentacles.”
“I guess what we’re trying to say, Craig, is that anime is about more then weirdly proportioned girls wearing miniskirts, and you don’t get that.”
Craig looked completely baffled.
His face screwed up as he tried to understand.
“No miniskirts, no pink hair, no running around in six-inch heels,” Erica insisted.
She squirmed.
Under the table, things were changing.
Her jeans, old and heavy, began to grow light and thin, losing weight and stitching. The frayed cuffs at her feet shriveled, then sprang upwards, revealing tan skin inch-by-inch. The metal button pinged off, on top, and a small strip of elastic held the lighter fabric in place. Erica tried to shift positions, but the jeans held together, then slipped away into a simple skirt. The light blue skirt headed steadily north, well past the knee, until it required constant monitoring just to keep from flashing the world.
Next to her, Angela’s jeans had turned yellow and tight, growing shiny and plastic as they, too, crawled up her legs. Both girls lost their big, squat legs. They reshaped dainty and petite, nearly shiny, with liquid-smooth skin.
“It’s... it’s demeaning,” Angela said, trying to keep the rejection going. Something was happening, beneath the table, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate on it. Were her panties showing? No, a lifetime in skirts had taught her well how to keep them hidden—unless she wanted to show them off.
“Girls don’t paint themselves in a gallon of sparkle every morning to show off,” Erica said, as she discretely rubbed her legs together.
Craig opened his mouth, then slammed it shut. Because now Angela’s lips had started to turn thick and pouty, with a heavy layer of thick red lipstick sealing them nearly shut.
He shook his head, half-convinced that an adolescence of porno had made him snap. But no, one by one, Erica’s pimples were receding and disappearing. In their wake was a cool ocean of perfect skin.
Should he say anything?
The girls seemed a little distracted, like someone was softly calling their name. Angela kept blinking, and each time, her lashes grew out a little longer, until they were a soft, inviting rainbow.
Craig had an epiphany.
“But you two both wear makeup,” he tried, to start.
“No.. we...” Erica began, and stopped. But of course she did. She had since she was sixteen, painting and polishing. Now she felt naked without a half-hour of primping, making herself over into a perfectly featured girl. Her nails popped pink gloss, and a blue stripe of mascara appeared over her eyes.
She glanced over, where Angela was slowly opening and closing perfect lashes. Her friend had dark-rimmed eyes with brown lipstick—they made her look perpetually sleepy.
Craig grinned.
“And you guys wear the exact same skimpy outfits,” he said, encouraging. Both girls were slumped in their chairs, half-dazed, struggling just to focus. Both seemed to be melting weight, dropping it in large increments, reshaping onto petite, lithe bodies.
“Uh—ummmmm,” Angela said, confused. She looked down. Something seemed strange about her shirt. It was slithering inwards, the sleeves simply disappearing. Her little chest was getting nestled into a brand new bodice, with bare shoulders. Her hair swept over the tops, and made her giggle. Erica, to her left, kept sleeves, but a big sunbeam with a smiley face appeared on a light green blouse.
Craig closed for the kill. He leaned across the table, intent, his entire life centered on the next few moments.
“Hell, you two even have bigger tits then they do,” he said, with determined finality.
“Ohhhh,” Erica moaned, and both girls slumped over, hands raising to already-growing tits. Craig watched, mouth open. They inflated slowly, from the bottom up, filling up the cups of inadequate bras before stretching out on either side. Both cradled their heavier chests, holding them up, as mounds of new boob spilled out from either side. Erica’s was trapped under her shirt, and tented it outrageously. But Angela’s was free to the air, and filled in a heavy black line of cleavage.
“Two, big-boobed, slutty girls,” Craig said. He glanced around. None of the people seemed to have noticed, including the ones having sex themselves.
“We’re... slutty?” Erica said, letting her boobs fall between her hands.
“Dumb, slutty...” Craig searched for adjectives. “Sexy... horny..uh... slutty?”
That did it. The twosome squeezed their legs together. Simple cotton panties slid into newly-shaven snatches. They would’ve soaked through, except both wore tight lycra now; couldn’t imagine anything else. With identical heels, of course, hoping that a chill breeze would come by and titillate anyone nearby.
The twosome looked at each other and giggled. Both had slipped a hand underneath the table, to discretely release some tension in a well-lubricated cunt. It was so nice to have a friend who understood what a trial it was when your vibrator ran out of batteries.
“Aren’t you glad you made me President of the Anime Club?” Craig prompted. He fumbled with his fly. His cock was aching.
Angela purred. Erica had graciously slipped her hand over and into the familiar confines of her slit. She found the perfect spot and rubbed it just like she wanted.
“You’re not President of the Anime Club,” she said, puzzled, between pulses of pleasure. “We’re kicking you out. What are you talking about? Have you lost it?” She wriggled lower, to give Erica just a little more access.
“Oh,” Craig said. He pondered.
“How about a blowjob, then?”
The girls squealed with delight. Hands still inside each other, boobs aching with heat, the identical two slipped underneath the table.
“What’s the point?” Tim said, out loud. He had run the Geisha routine on two Chinese girls. Now they were heavily and permanently painted, with perky tits, and exquisitely trained in the art of sucking cock.
Big deal.
Tracy kept throwing him anxious looks. He still hadn’t reacted to her announcement. The barista had responded with her best tricks, her most explosive moves, squeezing and thrusting with perfect timing. Normally Tim would’ve blown a load into her, complimented her, and the temporary fuckdoll would’ve gone back to coffee work.
“I mean, really, what’s the point?” Tim said. His rhythm increased. He grabbed Tracy’s hips, slammed his cock in and out of her. It was all she could do to keep up, her body spasming as new threads of heat poured through her.
“If you’ve got the ultimate power, why—waste—your—time,” he punctuated each with a thrust “on fucking around with pheromones and pathetic little sexless people? Why try and be nice and cute with it? Why not do...”
Tracy moaned. Her tits were growing again, comically this time, into heavy watermelons of waving titflesh that pressed against her arms. Hair spurted from her scalp, pooling around her on the floor. And piercings appeared—two steel barbells, one through each nipple. They felt amazing. She explored her mouth and found another one through her tongue.
“Whatever the FUCK you want?” Tim roared.
David growled.
Mating was fun. The wriggling girl underneath him had a good grip on the table, and her occasional shrieking, shaking orgasm added to his pleasure. It helped that she had just grown heavy black nails, and could keep a good grip on the wood.
He was bigger then before. His cock had gotten bigger, too, with a leathery sheath that exposed a long pink cock. The female dripped on the floor, oozing fluids that spattered below them. She was starting to howl as they fucked, and he felt a new urge to join in.
Something got in the way. A tail, covered in fur, growing out from the female’s rear end. It nearly smacked him in the face.
The male pushed it out of his way and thrust back inside.
Anna could barely see, beneath the streaks of cum and her own leaking tits.
She was mostly boob, now. The growth had sped up, despite how constantly they leaked milk. Finally they had gotten too big for doggy style, so Travis had flipped her over onto the table.
Anna kept rubbing her hands over her tits, over her belly. They were large, fleshy, and tight with milk. Every one of Travis’s powerful thrusts sent streamers of white fluid jetting out, onto the windows, onto nearby patrons, who didn’t seem to mind.
Travis had his eyes screwed shut. He was leaking too, jetting white spurts from his cock. Testicles like a horse’s nuts hung halfway to his knees. He would thrust into her hole, pull out, then shoot onto her face.
“More,” Anna urged. Sometimes she could barely breath, between her own milk and Travis’ cum. But she had to have it. It all tasted so delicious. She needed it. The table beneath her ran sticky and wet with white fluid, and the floor was dribbling.
“More,” Anna gasped, and was rewarded with another fountain of Travis. She held her breath as it washed over her.
“Perfect, Alicia, perfect,” Craig murmured. The two girls were on their knees, on each side of him, nuzzling at his cock. Actually, he wasn’t completely clear which was Alicia and which was Erica. It didn’t really matter. The boy put his arms back and stretched.
The girls giggled.
“What’s funny?” he said, looking down, where Alicia was rubbing gently at his cock.
“Look! It’s getting so tiny!” Erica said, playing gently with his balls.
Craig’s heart froze.
His cock was shrinking. Fast. He willed himself to move, but Angela was chirping giggles and tonguing at a sunken nub of his penis, and his legs seemed locked at his side.
“Oh, it’s so cute!” Angela said, softly. She rubbed at it with slick fingers, pushed it into the center of his crotch. Craig couldn’t see, but he could feel the pink tip of her fingernail reach inside—and up. “You’re getting a pussy!” she said, gleefully.
Craig shuddered. Waves of sensation radiated from a budding clit. He closed his eyes, and felt long black hair swishing around his shoulders. When he opened them again, his lashes got in the way, and he could taste cherry pink lip gloss on his smooth lips.
“No—I’m—I’m a boy—” he tried, but it came out all wrong, with a lilt and too high. His clothes were changing, too. His shirt became flimsy and cheap, then grew blue sleeves with a useless neckerchief hanging from the center. He raised weak hands, and watched the hair fall off them, replaced by tanning, smooth skin.
“Here come your titties!” Erica sang, and reached up to greet them. These inflated like balloons, without any subtlety, reforming into impossibly-fake tits without any sag at all.
“I don’t—I don’t rike—dis,” Craig spit out, as Erica rubbed at her nipples. But she did remember—she was such a cheap little girl, a natural slut, straight off the boat and eager to please. Erica and Angela, the campus whores, had quickly remade her into their personal toy.
A few Chinese characters appeared above a shaven slit. Angela and Erica had asked the tattoo guy for “Big Slut.” It actually read “Water Fire” because none of them spoke the language, but Misako had been too horny to correct it.
“Our turn,” Angela sang, and jumped onto the table. Erica did the same, which meant that Misako had to rub her own heavy tits and paw at her own needy pussy.
The two spread their legs wide. Misako lowered herself onto two sock-covered knees, and smiled.
Tim raged. Power flowed out of him. Tracy was nearly knocked out from orgasms, and the rest of the room was getting slippery from fluid.
He reached out to Tracy’s mind, ready to cut ties, undo synapses, and make sure she would never, EVER—
“Tim? Is that you?”
Tim, naked, face red with rage, looked up.
A forty-something woman stood in front of him, just to the right of Tracy’s kneeling body. She was one of those he had screened from the Night Out, just another face in the crowd. Except...
“It IS you!” she said, smiling. “Tim, it’s Barbara! Barbara Levine! My goodness, I haven’t seen you in, what was it, twenty years? Since High School!”
She paused. “You do remember me, right?”
“Uh—” Tim paused. He nearly ripped the memory from her, but stopped himself, just in time. Below him, Tracy oozed off his cock and fell into a contented sleep on the floor. Clothes rematerialized around the embarrassed man.
The memory did come back. They had been in Yearbook and Newspaper together. Then his powers had shown up, at eighteen, and he had become much more preoccupied with Cheerleading.
“Gosh, I can’t believe it’s you!” Barbara said. She had to raise her voice over the sound of vigorous fucking. The couple in the far corner kept baying at the moon.
“It’s me,” Tim said, unsteadily. He finally pulled himself together, gave her a hug. A friendly one. It seemed strange to hug a girl still wearing clothes. It seemed strange to HUG.
“I’d love to catch up,” Barbara said. She wore a raincoat and clutched a newspaper. Tim checked. No wedding ring. She left the sentence hanging.
“Then lets... uh..” Tim pulled away from Tracy. “Go to dinner?”
“I’d love to!” Barbara said, pleased. “Gosh, oh gosh, I can’t believe...”
“Yeah,” Tim said. “What are the odds? Come on, I, uh, I know a place. We won’t need a reservation.”
Tim put his arm around her, escorted Barbara past dripping piles of goo, past two girls getting rigorously eaten out, past a wolfish duo, and out the door.
“Not this time,” he promised himself. A promise he had broken before. But still... he could always try again.
A car started, outside.
A minute later, red-faced, he ran back in, snapped his fingers, and ran out once more.
“I guess we can give you one last chance,” Angela concluded, reluctantly. Craig had promised, heart-felt, to be more sympathetic to the female side of things. And they were a bit of a tease, it was true, wearing short skirts and showing off.
The three got up to leave. A wild-haired couple were talking in low tones by the door, nostrils twitching. Another couple held the door open, two first-daters with twinkling eyes who had apparently hit it off. They smelled... milky...
On the floor, on the far end, Tracy put her finger in her mouth and tasted something vaguely familiar. Something sweet.
But she forgot all about it when she saw the tip that older man had left. It filled the entire coffee cup, after all.
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