Let It Happen
Erika wore her new tits proudly.
Kat had had some earlier clues that her old friend was post-orgasmic, that she had plunged over the giggle cliff. Of course, all of them in stable long-term relationships were at risk for letting it happen. There were the increasingly tawdry pictures on facebook, the lapsed game of online scrabble, the twitter conversations veering away from recent Nobel Prize winners and into boys and fashion.
“So you did it,” Kat said, neutrally. “You went over the edge.”
“Yep,” Erika said. She tittered. It was high-pitched and brainless. “Got myself a penis lobotomy.”
Kat gave her the up-down look. Erika understood instantly, sat proudly in her seat. Her breasts were easily doubled in size, and were high and proud underneath a dark pink cable-knit. Beneath that her friend wore a light grey pencil skirt with pink-matching heels. She didn’t bother crossing her legs. Kat could see right up, if she chose.
“And?” Kat prompted.
“And what?” Erika said.
“And we promised each other we’d report on it,” Kat said. She sipped her coffee. It was black, no cream and sugar. Erika had a mostly-milk latte with dollops of sweetener.
“Oh! Well, I guess I’m more forgetful,” Erika said. She giggled again. She had a whole new set of mannerisms. “And umm... I guess it’s great. I feel great. Calvin is great, I mean it was sort of his idea, his friends at work were razzing him that I hadn’t O’d yet. And he’s been really supportive about my new you know sexual needs and stuff.”
I’ll bet Kat thought. She watched Erika’s hands. They were constantly on the move, touching parts of herself.
“And you don’t miss... being smarter?” Kat said. This was the big question. Regrets. If anyone should have regrets, it was Erika. The scholar, Erika. The girl with multiple copies of Pride and Prejudice, Erika. Erika whose Netflix feed was 100% documentaries about people struggling. Erika who had nonetheless gone ahead and had herself a nice little orgasm.
“Fuck no!” Erika said, a little too loudly. “OMG, Kat.” She pronounced it O-M-G. “It’s so nice. I feel so much better. When you can’t cum it’s all tension tension tension and like there’s something inside of you waiting to get out. And then you let go and she comes out and she is a beautiful booby butterfly. You should totally cum. Please cum.”
Kat took another sip of her coffee, slowly and carefully. “I’m thinking about it,” she told her friend.
It was impossible not to. Jack had a big beautiful cock and it would fill Kat near to overflowing. There was only so much she could do with her mouth and her hands. And even that proximity made her increasingly eager to just let it happen.
“We can do it right here,” Erika mock-whispered. “No one would care. The girls behind the counter came.”
They had. The two girls behind the counter had that vague and lusty look, plus one had her hair in pigtails. They both chewed bubblegum and watched boys pass by on the street. It was increasingly common for girls to go over as soon as they were able. After all, their moms were bimbos, their older sisters were bimbos, and every female on television jiggled with tits.
Kat gently pushed away Erika’s cheerfully wriggly fingers.
“Oh, c’mon, Katty-girl,” Erika whined. She pouted momentarily, before turning her fingers back to scoop up whipped cream. “You even have a perfect name for it. We’ll have so much fun together.”
“At what, the opera?”
“I made a list!” Erika told her, immune to sarcasm. She pushed it across the table. It was written in black ink, but even so, bimbohood was evident in heart-shaped dotted-i’s and big loopy curlicues. And the misspellings, which Kat corrected in her head.
“You wrote shopping four times,” Kat noted.
“Shopping for different things,” Erika said. “I’m not stupid.” She considered. “I’m not completely stupid.”
Later on the list degenerated to lists of sexual acts. There were many that Kat had never even heard of, and Erika’s handwriting grew ever more degenerate and fevered.
“What’s a double-dog?” Kat asked.
Erika explained what a double-dog was.
“Holy geez,” Kat deadpanned. “How does that even—with both legs?”
“It’s worth it,” Erika whispered. She loved the stage whisper. “I couldn’t walk in a straight line for a week afterwards.”
Kat glanced into her cup. She had drained an entire large black coffee. It was, she knew, just five calories. She had to watch her weight without the magical metabolism of a post-O girl. And watch her alcohol intake so that she wouldn’t fall onto a dick in a drunken stupor and O accidentally. And how tempting had that been, so many times in college, boxed in on four sides by attractive men, getting her wet without even trying.
“How’s Calvin?” Kat said, suddenly.
“Oh, great,” Erica said. She reached across the table and touched Kat on the arm. Even her fingers had Post-O all over them. Or rather, a hard glossy red shell on her fingernails. Her friend stroked Kat’s arm, lightly. “He’s such a sweetie but it was SO hard on him to stay satisfied with just my mouth and my hands and those sad little pouches that were my boobs. No offense.”
Kat shrugged. It was hard to get offended at a post-O girl. It said a lot about Erica’s pre-O smarts that she could still read an inadvertent insult, and care.
Erica finally picked up on the fact that Kat wasn’t going to orgasm right then and there. She sighed. “I’m very dis-app-ointed,” she complained. “You’d make such a sexy girl. You’re just waiting to pop into it. I can just see you with big ’ol boobs. I can practically vis-ua-lize it!”
Kat had well-defined features and a pert, upturned nose and a slim and charming set of lips that went well with her vanilla-ice-cream skin. She dressed in flannels and jeans, which said first that she hadn’t come and second that she was not interested. But every girl spent time in the mirror figuring out their reflection when they had double the curves on an effortlessly trim figure.
“I should go,” Erica said, suddenly. She checked her watch. It was a digital job, now, with big easy-to-read numbers. “I haven’t cum in like, twenty minutes.”
They had been sitting there for perhaps nineteen. That explained Erica’s peaceful, pleased expression when Kat arrived, the wafting scent of strawberries from her direction.
“Just think about it, okay?” Erica said, patting Kat’s arm. “Just cum!”
“I’ll think about it,” Kat promised her.
And she did.
It was Jack’s morning blowjob that decided her. All boys cheerfully O’d as soon as they reached that age, indeed, some weren’t totally sure they had gone over. After all, they didn’t lose any smarts, didn’t simper at anything male and muscled, didn’t have to choose between career and cum sponge. They just grew bigger dicks, smelled like stallions to women, and had a sex drive that demanded constant satisfaction. It was an old Axe commercial come true.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like blowing Jack. Kat loved blowing him. Loved how good she was at it. Loved the morning scent of his cock, loved knowing exactly how long it was, loved even the salt tang of his cum on her tongue as she ate her cereal moments afterwards. Loved the way he slowly started to lose control, the sudden flood of cum that bathed her tonsils.
Hated having to take a cold shower afterwards, hated having to place her hands on the floor while she blew him so that they wouldn’t roam to her slit.
She feigned ill and saw him out the door. Usually he masturbated at noon and again at three. There was a girl on staff at his office for the men but Jack was a romantic at heart. He only wanted to bang one girl to absolute pieces. Just shatter her with orgasms. It was very sweet.
“Hi, Mr. Witherstone?” Kat said, on the phone. She had done the math on excel while she was still able. The new legislation and subsidies made taking the O a still sizable but survivable financial hit. “This is Kat. I’m sick today. And I’m only coming in tomorrow to resign.”
The man on the other end was unsurprised. And unconcerned. She was a married woman in a stable financial position. Going over was inevitable. “Okay, that’s fine, dear,” he said, already slipping into the paternalism towards post-O girls. “Don’t try to come in tomorrow. You’re not going to get here. Write your husband a reminder to take you next week, and leave it some place conspicuous.
Kat was ready with the biting rejoinder to remind a man that she was pre-O. Then stopped herself, and wrote down instructions on a blank piece of paper, and put them on the refrigerator.
Later she took a shower. Stared at the drain as the water sluiced easily down her skinny frame. Considered shaving her legs—but apparently all that hair fell right out after the O, anyway, so what was the point. Spent a half-hour posing in front of the bathroom mirror, making sexy moves, figuring out what they would resemble with a better body.
Already she felt different. Turned on, really. Twenty-six years on the earth, eight of them O-ready, six spent doling out handjobs and blowjobs and just a few tentative goes in her snatch, fighting off the pressure to just relax and rub herself on a dick.
She spent early afternoon thumbing through old books. Dumb chick lit books that frankly she’d probably be reading post-orgasm, so whatever. Jane Austen who would’ve fit right in in a post-O world, chronicling social interactions of men and women with additional interludes of wet, grunting sex. A bunch of authors she had duly read in college that had seemed so quaint and pointless in a milieu with so much more fucking in it. True, she’d be giving up understanding the better stand-up comics, and very few bimbos listened to Kronos Quartet, although maybe she could transition it to fuck noise.
At one point she navigated online to one of those comprehensive “so you’re a bimbo” websites, but closed it in a rush when a cartoonish blonde pointed to a line in large font entitled “The Famous Sneezes”. Suddenly she didn’t want to read about the negatives, the biological reality of it, anything that might convince her to back away from the very edge.
Kat was seized with the sudden urge to do it, just then, to just shove something up her already-wet pussy and come, come, come, and have Jack come home to a very pleased and available girl. But that would’ve been a very bimbo-ish thing to do and Kat, to her increasing regret, wasn’t really a bimbo yet.
But she was starting to really look forward to it.
They had a very mature conversation at the kitchen table.
Even so, Jack had trouble hiding his obvious excitement. His eyes shone, he hadn’t protested or even considered when Kat had sat him down and outlined her intentions.
Kat was a little taken aback. She had expected a little pushback, or at least a discussion along the lines of ‘I-don’t-want-you-to-do-this-for me.’ But instead her husband gave his immediate and enthusiastic approval. Jack had made it up to her, at least a bit, by promising to take over all outstanding chores and duties that she would be too busy with banging to properly do. And other things that she had never thought of, but which Jack apparently had.
“I’ll take care of getting rid of the books,” Jack said.
“You don’t have to get rid of them,” Kat objected. “I’m not going to be, you know, revolted by them.”
Jack tactfully changed the subject.
And, second, his raw interest and obvious sexual hunger was starting to get Kat more then a little turned on. The way Jack quivered in his chair, at the edge of his seat, the deep, male scent that hovered around the table. She couldn’t help but respond to it.
“So...” she finally said, and squeezed her thighs together. “...how do you want to finally do it?”
It was a tribute to Jack, she reflected, that he didn’t toss her on the table and bang her senseless right there.
“Up to you, baby,” he said.
Part of Kat had been thinking of a slow-fuse missionary bang in the bed. But she knew that that was just not appropriate to the occasion. Besides, the bed was way too far away.
“Why not just do me doggy-style over the table?” Kat said, casually.
She could’ve sworn a few beads of sweat popped out on Jack’s forehead.
“Sure. Sure, we could do that. If that’s what you want. Do you, ah, want to start on the couch?”
Kat shrugged, deliberately. “I don’t really see the point,” she told him. “I’m super-horny. I’m wet as anything.”
She gave him a mock-innocent look. “Want to see?”
Kat undid her jeans button with trembling hands and stood up. She wore a hooded zipup sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable blue jeans. She doubted she would ever wear them again. Already, just easing her pants down over her snatch, she was far closer then she had comfortably come before. Her body already sparkled with warning signs of red electric pleasure, and the cool air on her slit was usually a sign to back off right away.
Instead she eased herself over the top of the table and presented herself to her man. Years of tension built up to a white heat in her head, and she stared across the kitchen table at their notes and paperwork without seeing any of it.
Jack steadied himself on her ass with his hands, and, just seconds later, pushed what had to be his hardest erection deep inside of her.
“Oh, jesus,” Kat said, gripping hard on the surface. It was immediate. It was too much. A surge, a rolling wave of pleasure as she felt his shaft inside of her. Perhaps all the way in for the very first time.
He paused. “I can still stop,” Jack said.
“It’s too late now,” Kat said, face-down. It was hard to talk around the scent and the heat. “Just pulling out I’d... just go. Just fuck me. Fuck me so fucking stupid.”
It was all the encouragement he needed to drop the civilized act. Jack’s first thrust pushed her across the table, and he had to grab on to her hips to keep her wet pussy from losing its grip. Then, with a comfortable hold on her body, Jack began to use her. Filling her to the deepest part with a cock that was urgent to finally come hard in a willing slit. Kat spasmed against it, unable to keep any sort of rhythm being a mindless, endless friction.
She was starting to O, at last, in a flash of white heat that rippled through her. Kat was already moaning. She began to scream, into the wood, her body arching into Jack’s thrusts.
Kat came.
Machines the size of dust still floated inside of her, like they did everyone, swirling around in the breeze and inhaled with just about every breath. But these were quiet, even with the shockwave that tore through Kat’s frame. Similar machines had done their work years ago, reconfiguring hormonal/chemical reactions and setting up a cascade triggered by characteristic releases of hormones from a monster orgasm.
Biochemists who studied the O made a lot of its resemblance to puberty. The release of brand new hormones into the body, the sexual awakening. But this was no surprise; how else could the bimboization go on? And so naturally, until the best scientists in the world threw up their hands and went home to bang their wives and girlfriends into inevitability.
So, lying and cooling gently on the table, cum trickling directly onto the linoleum, compounds spewed from Kat’s most primitive sections into receptive areas all over. Plenty to her tits, of course, and to her genitalia, her brain....
But really all over.
“I don’t feel any different,” Kat reported, ten minutes later. That was already a lie. Warm aftershocks still coursed through her, and she had to be helped onto the couch by Jack.
“It takes awhile. So I’ve heard,” Jack said. “And... you know. You’re already acting a little different.”
He waved at her, gently.
“What?” Kat said. She examined her body. No watermelon titties. She ran through the alphabet in her head. A all the way through Z.
“Well your pussy is still just hanging out there, FYI.”
“Oh, I guess it is,” Kat murmured. She struggled weakly with her jeans. “Okay, I’m going to just keep it out there,” she finally said. “But only because I’m too well and truly fucked to pull my pants up. You can do it if you want.”
“And you’re getting my sperm on the couch,” Jack reported.
“Eh,” Kat said, shrugged. “I thought there’d be something more dramatic. Like my titties would balloon up while we were lying there. Like I had a flat tire or something. Oh, shit. I just realized something.”
“What?”
“I can finally MASTURBATE!” Kat said. She examined her slit with renewed interest, and tentatively stroked at the still-slippery outside. “God, I don’t even know how to do this.”
Jack’s eyes, Kat was pleased to notice, were glued to her fumbling hands.
“What do I do?” she asked. She felt, she noticed, a little drunk. A bit glassy, like she was three glasses in. But in the best possible way. It was hard to say what was surging floods of brain-altering chemicals and what was a natural euphoria.
“Stick your fingers in and waggle them around,” Jack instructed. “That’s basically what I do, anyway.”
Kat giggled. It was the first time, post-O. It wasn’t like she hadn’t giggled before in her life but it was obvious what this one meant. She caught Jack’s glance, wide-eyed herself. He smiled to reassure her. “Go ahead, as many as you like,” he said.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” Kat said, and squeezed three fingers up inside herself. “Now what?”
“Move them back and forth, dum—Kat,” Jack said. He restrained from rolling his eyes. A far better idea hit him. He moved forward, presented her with a half-mast dick, still damp with mingled juice and sex. As expected, the sight and the scent had an immediate effect. Kat stared at it, started to pump her fingers in and out of her slit. Soon they were wet and furious, and he slowly began to stroke his own cock, bringing it to full rise almost immediately.
Pushing it against Kat’s lips felt like it might be too far. But she accepted it without question, latching her lips around his shaft and then holding still, letting him control the pace. Usually she was the most skilled and sensitive of cocksuckers, putting all the talent she could into the reality of marrying a non-O girl. This time Jack could tell she was struggling, trying to cope with two rhythms as she worked on her clit with now four fingers.
It was hotter then ever, anyway. There were advantages to a non-O wife. Jack had reassured her of that many times. But every guy yearned to make a girl sneeze, to be lavished with adoration and constantly on-call cooze. The other guys at work swaggered in and swaggered home, and the boss had two O-girls working service between his legs practically nonstop.
And the first little piece of enjoying himself was not warning Kat when he came.
Jack just let it go, drizzled hot jism into her mouth, and watched in mounting delight as Kat’s expression went from surprise to shock to growing pleasure. She was chemically his, now.
Meanwhile, Kat was marveling at how Jack’s cum tasted like champagne and raspberries, just as her second ever orgasm hit her.
The sneeze hit her during pancakes.
Kat was ravenous. Jack put himself to work cooking while she went after whatever fruits were in the house, followed by all their cashews, and then a box of mixed nuts from the holidays years ago in the back of the pantry.
“Oh shit,” Kat said, putting down the syrup. “It’s coming. Oh geez. So long, calculus.”
Jack had quietly placed a box of kleenex nearby.
Kat sneezed her brains out.
“Oof,” she said, staring into the wet kleenex. There was nothing visible in there. No big brain boogers. But she did feel weird, a little light-headed, a stronger sense of that post-sex brainless euphoria.
“I’m dumber, I guess,” she announced. Another sneeze wracked her. And another. And then three more.
“Oh geez,” she said, when they were done. “That was...”
She searched long and hard for the right word. It was funny to go back into her head, after all that. Kat had worried that it would be like being an alzheimer’s patient. But instead her mental landscape was clean, anxiety-free, worry-less. Her to-do list had shrunk down dramatically.
“Weird,” she concluded. Her husband. Jack. The name still came easily to her. And she was eating pancakes. And they tasted like cum because she had just guzzled with sperm. Alright. Could she come up with a rhyme for cum? Dumb. There, that wasn’t so hard.
“More pancakes?” Jack asked.
“Fuck yes!” Kat exclaimed. She held her plate out, and grinned at him.
Kat had not slept well.
Most of it was the sneezing. It had gone on all night, forcing her awake to drip a few more synapses onto her growing pile of soggy kleenex.
What was dully disturbing was not just the number of sneezes but how they had started to feel good. Setting her senses awake and tingling with pleasure just moments after waking up. Kat was concerned, then pleased, then concerned, then pleased, to find herself fully lubricated and ready to go as soon as she came out of slumber to lose some more geography.
And when she did get back to bed, it was to dreams of erotic intensity. Kat had read about them, of course. But not how fleshy and fluid and indiscriminate they would be—her surrounded by acres of throbbing male flesh, in a long conga line of things filling her holes. Not at all of Jack, either. All sorts of men, in all sorts of colors, their faces blurry and indistinct.
The only comforting part was how surrounded, how consumed, she was by Jack’s scent. Of course she knew it pre-orgasmic, could’ve picked him out blindfolded in a room. But now it bathed her, calmed her, a mix of oak and sweat tang and the remnants of their triple bang.
So between everything it was already 10 a.m. by the time Kat woke up.
It took awhile to realize that the slow fog in her head wasn’t just waking up fuzzy, but a new reality. That the girl with the silly looking smile in the mirror was her, still getting going on basic cognition.
It was easiest to start talking and assume the words would fall into place.
“God damn, these are tits,” Kat said.
She toyed with them in the mirror, hefting them, pushing them, smooshing them. They were plenty big and, as promised, sexy as hell. It wasn’t clear if the rest of her was going to get much bigger; she was mostly the same Kat with huge tits and a slightly expanded rear end. And flawless skin. But that would be just fine, she figured.
Jack had gone already, apologetic, he had written out a note and made sure to use big lettering and small words. Kat worked her way through it, pleased to retain literacy. “If I need to have a big thought, I can just read it or say it out loud,” she said out loud, and made a mental note to get a dictionaurus.
The mental note floated away, untethered to anything.
Ravenous, Kat worked her way through a slab of bacon Jack had cooked for her, half of a watermelon, the remaining cereal, and cautiously picked her way through the preparation of hot oatmeal. It wasn’t that the directions were so hard to read as much as she kept getting distracted—by her tits, by her slippery sex, by someone walking by outside. And some of the microwave directions were so long.
Halfway through breakfast Kat realized that she was sort of idly masturbating. Her finger had just slid into her cunt and was poking around, creating low-level happy feelings. She started to pull out, shrugged, and then slid a few more fingers in.
It was like touching an electric wire. Starbursts shot behind her eyes, and she was gone, the remnant personality submerged as Kat worked her way to orgasm after orgasm. She sneezed after each one, and told herself that she should stop, only to keep jilling off at the breakfast table, her robe open, underwear around her ankles.
By the time she could stop the oatmeal was ice cold.
“Now what?” she wondered, aloud. It was 11:30, if she was reading the clock correctly. Past associations wandered out, flimsy and indistinct. Now she was getting the students to learn Shakespeare. Now she was dealing with the principal’s cold demands. Now she was wondering if she had time for lunch. Now she was sneaking in ten minutes of a novel before it was time to get back to teaching.
Now she was... sitting in a pool of her own juices, still.
Jack came home for lunch. Kat had dressed up for him. Primed to find her in full-on pink bimboware, he was pleased to find her in a hot parody of her former clothes. Dark black hose along with a dark blue miniskirt, and one of his dress shirts pulled over her tits. And she had made him a sandwich, although she had forgotten to put any meat between the bread.
“So, how’s it going?” he asked.
“I’m a little bored,” Kat admitted, twirling her hair unconsciously. It thrilled him. As did the fact that she was watching daytime soaps. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself,” Jack said. He decided to push. “You’re mine, now. You’re supposed to be my little jewel.”
It was too much. Kat’s lips moved. That meant she was still thinking. Some post-O girls still did that. “But you’re at work so much,” she said, finally.
“You caught me at a bad time, baby,” Jack assured her. “Wait until the weekend. Why don’t you call some friends up? Look, just relax. This will all come naturally. Here, I’ll show you.”
He copped a feel on her expanded assets.
Sex was incredible. When they are in the moment she can think of nothing, can do nothing but pant and squeeze, feel her body respond automatically to make it rougher, wetter, hotter. It’s athletic fucking, treating his dick like an apparatus, and just the barest thrust inside of her slit made her shriek and claw at his chest. The smell of him and the smell of lubrication buit everything into a primal act of total uninhibited fucking.
Jack insisted that they fuck in front of the bathroom mirror, against the wall. She—Kat—she reminded herself what her name was—it’s Kat—she was first a little taken aback and then mesmerized by it. It was just so perfect. Not just her beautiful white globes of tits, banging against her chest as they fuck. Not just her porcelain skin and the rivulets of sex running down her legs. It was the way they fucked together, him up to the hilt, moaning at each other as they orgasmed over and over.
When Kat (right, she is Kat) licked him clean afterwards it was her own idea. She giggled softly as she lapped at him, still naked, unsure if she’ll ever wear clothes again. Jack whispered at her, teasing, while she cleaned his softening prick. “My little sex kitten. You’re exactly what I wanted. This weekend we’ll go shopping and get you situated. I’ve already got a call in for one of those special credit cards. With the daily maximum. Oh geez, I’m getting hard again.”
And even going back to blowjobs was a thrill. Everything tasted better, like sugar and cream dripping down her throat, while Kat’s fingers thrummed wildly on her clit.
He left her drooling a bit, overfucked, stuffed and dripping and lying on wet sheets. “Be back later,” he told her. “Maybe late. You kept me from the office for a long time, baby. I’ll bring dinner home. Think of places in the house you want to get fucked.”
Kat promised him she would. And then catnapped in a happy haze.
The phone rang and rang. Kat checked the front door, the oven timer, and then connected two and two with the sound of the buzzer.
“Did you do it?” Erika said.
“Yep!” Kat exclaimed. “Mmm. I sure did. Sneezed all those silly brains away. Oh, Erika, it’s been so nice, I’ve cum so many times. Jack has been the very best and his cum tastes like—”
She slowly realized that Erika was moaning. It was a totally alien sound in the pink fluffy cloud she had entered, and Kat wasn’t really sure what to say.
“Everything okay, silly slut?” she said, trying to turn it into a joke.
“No! Not at all!” Erika shouted. “Oh my god Calvin left me!”
It was inconceivable. Kat had met Calvin. Even at the time she was surprised that the man tolerated a non-bimbo girlfriend. He was large and boisterous and smiled with his teeth and didn’t own a bookshelf. His favorite TV show was sports.
“What happened, baby doll?” she asked.
“Oh he found a girl with two other girls, and those two girls have another girl! So five girls! And he said that one of them is a redhead and also he says I’m too frigid and he thought I’d be different after I came!”
They both broke into tears. Kat didn’t remember the details, of course, but there were laws against this kind of thing. She struggled to remember them. “You need to get a lawyer or something, honey! Like one with...” how did laws work? Kat needed some sort of catchy song to remember. Something something legislature passed them, executive something something.
“Listen, Erika honey, I’m going to drive over to get you.”
“You just came, right?”
“Yeah-huh.”
“Ohhh,” Erika said, sniffling. “You shouldn’t. I did that. I got so lost, I ended up climbing in some mountains somewhere.”
“You live like, five minutes away from me,” Kat pointed out. She waited out Erika’s fresh burst of wails. “Listen, big bimbo girl. We are going to solve this problem. I don’t care if all our brain-os are in big piles of tissues. We can figure this out and make everything okay again.”
“Okay,” Erika said, in a very small voice.
Jack got home late.
He was tired, out of sorts. He wasn’t about to say no to Kat’s impulsive decision to cum but it came at a difficult time. What was usually an occasion for backslaps and congratulations and cigars at work was met with a distracted ‘oh, good, glad you plowed some sense out of her.’ by the powers. Then back to papers and angry phone calls.
Nonetheless his balls ached to be emptied. He only regretted missing Kat’s first day as a post-O girl, watching her over-sexualize and bimbo up and demand regular bangings. Besides, it was just common sense to keep an eye on a post-O girl, until she settled down and realized core competencies had switched to sex and light housework.
“Oh, crap,” he murmured, pulling into the driveway. Kat’s car was still on, the windows rolled down, the windshield wipers going like mad. Somehow she had made the headlights flicker. There were dings in the paint and what looked like a large pile of slinky clothes in the backseat, although no obvious body damage.
“Kat?” he called, opening the front door.
The house itself had been bimbo-i-fied. The air itself smelled warm and close, lightly perfumed with hair products and lubricant. It was new for Kat to smell like something other then soap and books, and Jack started to get hard through his fatigue.
He moved slowly, expecting to find a sleeping girl in the bed, enjoying the changes. The kitchen had been destroyed, then half-heartedly cleaned up with paper towels, then layered again with more dishes. The fridge was practically barren, and Kat had apparently gone through every ounce of grain they had. That had to all be fueling bigger tits, and Jack looked forward to handling them.
The big sodden heap out back turned out to be clothes. All of Kat’s clothes. Mostly black with some blue and green, dumped out back, then topped with a sprinkling of dingy cotton underwear he had seen too many times.
The DVR had been stripped of AMC shows and the channel was on the BVC network, selling some kind of vibrator-a-month club.
There was a paperback on the floor near the office, which Jack couldn’t quite understand, but it turned out to be Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, which sort of made sense.
The giggling inside the bedroom was a relief, because it meant he wouldn’t have to wake Kat up to fuck her senseless, not that she was likely to mind. Jack gripped himself and pushed open the door.
There were two bare asses presenting themselves, two pairs of heels, and two eager female faces looking back at him. The bimbified, sluttified Kat, her lips heavy with lipstick, her cheeks rouged, and a girl that he vaguely remembered as Erika.
“Hi Jack,” Kat chirped. “Erika is gonna be staying with us for awhile, okay? I got her ready for you! We can do the double dog!”
The air was heavy with sex and practically misty with arousal. Big veiny vibrators littered the floor. Both girls were shiny and wet underneath the overhead lights. The sheets would have to be changed no matter what he did.
Jack decided to let it happen.
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