YEAR TWO.
Glass broke. “Mazel tov!”
Jocelyn turned to face the crowd. Beaming friends and family looked back at her. She soaked in the triumph. It had been hard as hell getting to the wedding and she permitted herself a smug sense of superiority. Available doctor-to-be and she had snagged him unenhanced. Not a single pill.
Hell, she was flaunting it, in a weird way. Her wedding gown was high-necked, with bare arms—a shimmering sheet of white on white brocade that went down to her toes. No cleavage on view. Practically unheard of these days. She had needed to trawl vintage clothing stores, most of whom were on the very verge of tossing out any fabric designed to cover up a girl’s chest. She had discovered her gown in a musty rack of faded antiques. The busty proprietor, wearing a GOT MILK? T-shirt and depending on a very simple pricing sheet, had giggled at it.
She preceded down the aisle with her husband.
They barely ever talked about NN-HANC-F directly. They talked about his oncoming residency—they were moving cross-country—they talked about the rash of NC-17-rated fall shows, they talked about the porn movies in major cineplexes, they talked about all the new laws coping with legions of women leaving the work force for new opportunities on their knees.
She was afraid to broach the topic directly, just in case he looked at her and said something like “couldn’t hurt, huh?” She was afraid to know if he was going to prescribe the stuff because some girl had anxiety issues, and big tits were a known cure.
But now they were married, thank fucking god. She had WORKED for the wedding ring on her left hand, a small silver band. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Luke had gotten down on a knee less than two weeks after she had offered up her ass, waggled it in his face and said “hmm? Hmmmm?” And even with the gemstones on, god, how many spurts of spunk had she taken in the past year? How many hot loads trickling inside of her? Had she EVER said no to him, when he tickled her ribs? What was the total amount of time she had spent between his legs, hours? A day total of cock-sucking? He rarely bothered to initiate sex. Sex would happen, Jocelyn made sure of it.
It had been a rough year on a national level. Movement feminism was shocked, defensive, and starting to get collectively horny. There were inumerable “My Experiment With NN-HANC As A Feminist” essay writers that ended on day seven with “BRB got a boy cuming over lol.”
Her Mom beamed from the front row, thrilled and shocked that her pill-free daughter was married, and to a budding pediatrician, no less. Her new knockers shook and jiggled as she clapped, in a wine-red dress with a reasonable hemline that Jocelyn had needed to argue her into. Mom had picked out for herself a bandage wrap thing made out of cheap plastic. She had started NN-HANC-F for her arthritis. For the first week she had called to report happily how much better her joints were feeling, how much more range of movement she had. Then she had started to call to report about her increasingly acrobatic sex acts with Dad.
“Against the WALL, Jocelyn! Against the WALL!” MOM GIGGLING “Oh my goodness, I could not believe your Father! He was like a beastman. Did I mention how BIG I’ve gotten up top?”
Jocelyn held the phone away from her head, afraid she could catch bimbo through the line. Mom kept using the word “clench” and it was gross.
When Mom had called to report on their purchase and use of some kind of… fuck swing… Jocelyn had put down the phone and walked away. When she had returned, ten minutes later, Mom was still in the middle of a lusty recollection of getting noisily pounded with her legs splayed “ALL THE WAY APART! LIKE A CHEERLEADER! IN THE NFL!”
Not to mention the urgent advice for how to please a man, which got more and more nasty and explicit the more Mom settled in to her cheerful new life. “DEEP, honey. So deep. Any girl can suck, not every girl can deepthroat. He’s testing your commitment with every inch, oh yeah. You’re swallowing, right?”
“Mom. Please,” Jocelyn said. “Don’t ask me if I’m swallowing Luke’s jizz!”
“Okay, but you are, right?” Mom persisted.
She sighed. There was no help for it. “Yes.”
“Good girl!”
And yet… even so… with everything she had done… there was still that sense of jealousy, that low-grade worry. Was he REALLY being faithful to her? What the hell had happened on his bachelor party? He had refused her the next morning, which never happened, and it had put her on DefCon 1. It wasn’t like the “boys” needed to hire a stripper, these days. Just invite in some girls off the street. Hell, they’d pay the boys. It was hard to imagine a bachelor party without a casual fuck and suck, honestly. New laws had legalized a ton of casual sexual content. Bars and restaurants were experimenting with Pressure Rooms for that quick release. It wasn’t like a pill girl minded a fast bang up against a dirty wall, her hands on a courtesy bench. They thought that sounded like a great night out.
Not to leave aside the total fucking fiasco of her own bachelorette party.
She had nearly refused. Pauline had insisted and insisted. They were still friends, even if Jocelyn mostly listened while Pauline babbled on about her insane and insanely happy new life. She was a Swiper, these days. She’d wait, patient and sure, until some boy swiped right on an app, and then she’d go fuck him, and sleep in his bed. Night after night after night of one-night stands, an incredible collection of different mattresses. The app team had recently removed the limit on number of girls per boy, and Pauline was THRILLED at all the new girlfriends she was fucking.
There she was in the middle-back, in a dress so low-cut her nipples peeked out with every cheer, as she applauded wildly at the new happy couple.
They had first gone to a bar, and collected Sahar. She was a slight Indian girl who had escaped NN-HANC-F by apparently being too small and shy to be noticed by the bimbo hordes. She was in Jocelyn’s program. They weren’t exactly close, but pill-deniers had to stick together. The bar had been fine, except when Pauline excused herself to “freshen up,” and had her vibrator in her hand before she was in the restroom.
The problem had been the bar afterwards.
First, they had collected Jocelyn’s cousins, Tammy and Sarah. Dressed for a night out in matching rubber tube tops that highlighted their still-growing chests. And little denim skirts.
It was sort of funny, in a sad way, to see them dressed identically. They had always been competitive twins. Tammy had captain’d the debate team, so Sarah had started a literary magazine. Tammy had gotten into UCLA which meant that Sarah seethed at attending USC. When they talked to big cousin Jocelyn they had competed to show off—oh yes, Sarah was reading Margaret Atwood, and not just Handmaid’s Tale. Tammy had organized an anti-NN-HANC protest at the High School.
And then Sarah had taken just a little dose because she thought Tammy had slightly bigger boobs then she did. That her TWIN had bigger boobs.
“It’s like a boob arms race,” her Aunt had related, despairing. “They KNEW the risks. But you know how they are. Tammy took an entire pill. When you’re 18 you think you can handle anything. Sarah took two pills right in front of her. Tammy stole her boyfriend by—god, Jocelyn, you’re the only one I can tell these things to—giving him a blowjob on Sarah’s bed. And then Sarah sucked off Tammy’s history teacher. I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to accomplish. I’ve been taking them bra-shopping every other day! They’re so big! And then they wander off and come home with these—slutty clothes!”
Jocelyn had just sighed it off. She had tried, really tried, to talk to the girls. They had popped bubble gum at her and stared at their phones, uncaring, until she went away. They were both in thigh-highs and had put their hair in pigtails. At least the competition part was over—they had realized that they could get some AMAZING guys by going in as a double package, and had never fought again. Hell, Tammy had told her, turned out Sarah was an INCREDIBLE kisser. How were their grades? Well they were both getting DDs.
Pauline took them out towards the University. Jocelyn hadn’t picked up on what she had planned until they were already there, too late to back out. An aging warehouse with some pink neon plunked out front, and two long lines of boys and girls. No visible name on the exterior. This was a bimbo bar.
The big bouncer man let Pauline and the twins pass, and held out his hand to stop Jocelyn and Sahar.
“Cover for you two,” he said. “Twenty bucks.”
“What, my tits are too small to get in?” Jocelyn said, disgusted. Sahar clung to her arm, worried.
The man’s eyes widened. Talking back to a boy! Practically unheard of, not quite illegal. Pauline came back and snuggled up against the bouncer.
“Mattttttt, come onnnnnn, let them in. I’ve given you sooo many hummers.”
Matt’s eyes indicated that blowjobs were a sharply depreciated currency. But $20 total and Pauline’s promise for a “five-some. No, a TWENTY-some. Oh my god a THIRTY-some!” got them in. Jocelyn had to admit that she was curious. The boys in the other line waited patiently. They had a $40 cover, and were clearly young college nerds—who else would need to still pay for sex?
Whatever Jocelyn had imagined, the inside was worse. It was only superficially a big dance floor, pink and blue strobes blaring, music blasting the latest Swift/Perry collaboration “Titty Clitty”. Yes, the center was a swirling mob of girls, their boobs bouncing in a near-rhythm in vinyl and plastic tops, or no top at all. There were enough glowsticks around to make it seem a little like an old-school rave.
But not really. This was a big breeding pit. You could smell it in the air, the sweet scent all pill-girls made, that telltale sugar. Hundreds of wet, needy ladies revved up as a baseline matter, and even more so by the gyrating, horny presence of so many just like them. But mostly you could tell it because people were just fucking, simply fucking. Mostly around the outskirts, where the proprietors had thoughtfully placed cheap folding chairs all over, and a few couches for the ones who wanted to fuck fancy.
Boys would descend into the girl throng, pick one or two or three girls out, and lead them over in a jiggling mob, and fuck them senseless.
Pauline and the twins had already joined the crowd, one hand in the air, the other playfully mashing a tit, or up against an ass. Sometimes a pack of women would simply stumble out of the center, hands all over each other, and form an impromptu hand-fucking conga line. Sarah and Tammy flipped up Pauline’s shirt and gave her boobs mutual kisses.
A totally naked girl came by with water bottles. Jocelyn, watching with her back against the wall, took one. She had lost track of Sahar, which was worrying. She took a swig of water.
Her eyes widened. Sweet. The water was sweet—so sweet—oh god. She spat it out. She had read about this—pills mashed up and dumped into water. Hell, the pills were starting to get into everything. The supermarket was advertising NN-HANC smoothies, coming soon. She had PILL in her MOUTH.
But not enough. It was going to be okay. Jocelyn calmed down, until she caught sight of Sahar. The little Indian girl was moshed in with the twins. In one hand she held an empty water bottle, totally drained. Tits were mashed in on all sides of her. Her eyes were wide and feverish.
Then Jocelyn lost sight of her.
That was it for her bachelorette party.
She had touched base with Sahar a few days later. The girl had sworn she was detoxing. But here she was at the wedding, clearly finding it hard going. Her obviously thicker tits were pushing hard against a thin cotton dress, and she was looking with extreme interest at the boys. She kept licking her lips.
The reception was very, very nice.
Jocelyn had spent a lot of time planning it. She had a good amount of free time. Her program was sort of a joke, these days. It was female-dominated and so she had risen to the top just because all the other girls sank. Many came to class in short mesh shorts, and bra-less tanktops, and just ogled the hotter boy professors. The seminar taught by the eminent Professor Dotori had turned into a giggle-fest halfway through as the well-known expert had sprouted melons and taught in miniskirts.
“Jocelyn, don’t worry about it,” one male professor had told her, when she visited office hours. “You get an A just for showing up and asking questions. That’s the current curve. There’s enough curves in this class, frankly.”
“Alright,” Jocelyn had said.
“Oh, and Joce, thanks for not offering to suck my cock for a grade,” he had said. Totally sincerely. The professor looked tired.
“How difficult things must’ve been for you,” Jocelyn had deadpanned.
The man wasn’t used to girl irony, anymore. “Thanks. I am raw. These male supplements need to come out, soon. I am just dry. Alright, send in Brooke.”
Brooke had been freshening her lipstick out in the hall.
The Professor had passed her on her thesis, on Gender Roles in Early Dickens. She doubted he actually read it. Who gave a crap about gender roles pre-pill.
Dinner was a success, and the speeches, although her Dad’s speech required him to fend off Mom, who kept snuggling against him and tucking her hand down his pants. Everyone was very proud of the happy couple.
Jocelyn excused herself once to go to the bathroom. She lifted up her dress and took a picture of her newly shaven slit, texted it to Luke. It helped to think ahead about these things, these days.
In fact, everything went great until the dance floor. Jocelyn had left just briefly for a drink of water—nice, dull water. And when she turned around, there were the twins, mashed up against her husband—HER HUSBAND—shoving their mammaries in his face and giggling and kissing his cheek. And he was letting them! Was dancing with them, guiding them by their ample asses, smiling indulgently at the nipples on offer. Jocelyn gripped a chair. Fucking BIMBOS. She turned and turned her engagement ring, the one that she thought of, in dark moments, as her ass-fucking ring.
Alright. Fine.
They made it to the honeymoon suite. There were rose petals on the bed and champagne in an ice bucket. They toasted each other. Jocelyn could smell twin on his cheeks. She excused herself and went into the bathroom.
She had a pill in a baggie. She wasn’t going to take the whole thing. No. But it was her wedding night, and she was so fucking tired. And it needed to be special. Memorable.
Jocelyn cut the pill in half. She had a razor blade with her. She had known this might be necessary. The pill-dust she put into a water glass, and then drank it down. It was mildly sweet. She stripped off the wedding dress and put it over the top of the shower, and then examined herself in the mirror. She would just have to use her boobs as a sort of barometer. Boob-meter. She almost giggled, and caught herself. Surely it wouldn’t work that quickly…?
What had she expected, contemplating that pink ’lil pill? A burst of horny energy, a sudden keen awareness of her erogenous zones, her mouth overflowing with spit. A lightheadness as her interest in math drained away into her tits. And that was just the first five seconds.
So the sudden sense of calm, even serenity, caught her very much by surprise.
“Oh,” she said. Jocelyn felt a sudden sense of real relief, stress falling out of her shoulders, her headache lifting. “Oh, okay.” No—she had to recognize this as insidious. It wasn’t calm, it was submissiveness. A chemically-induced willingness to say ‘yes’ to anything, because she couldn’t...
“OH,” and there came the hornies. Not the red flash she was expecting but a comfortable warmth, way deep in her privates. And then making its way upwards. For the first time she truly understood how seductive, how addictive, the pill really was. This wasn’t some brutal drug high. It was like horny weed. A gentling. She reminded herself that all of this was hormones and compounds and molecules lying to her while they made her over into a fuck toy, setting up an IV drip of endorphins.
Then Jocelyn went out to fuck the hell out of her husband, in a lacy black shift and matching panties.
He had fallen asleep in his tux on the bed. Luke was snoring.
And the most disturbing thing of all was that it was fine. Everything was fine. How could she be mad at him, or mad at anything? He was a happy male—slumbering so peacefully—and that made her, his wife, happy, by definition. No—that was the chemicals thinking. She had needs, wants, desires. She wasn’t just some vessel for his physical pleasure.
Oh god, the hornies doubled at the thought. “This was a mistake,” Jocelyn thought. Already, nerve endings were forming, her very brain chemistry altering, libido getting stronger, hindbrain taking over. Could she sit there and see her tits plump up on wedding cake? She decided to see, right after she sat in a chair and masturbated, quietly, so that she wouldn’t wake up Luke.
