YEAR THREE.
“Stop FUCKING!” Jocelyn said, loudly. Jesus christ!
The happy couple were about 18 or so. The girl had dusky dark skin, medium-mocha, and the standard set of bulbous boobs still encased in a little blue dress. She wore what Jocelyn thought of as the standard look—a little dazed, a little happy, a little horny, all capped with a pleased tiny smile and dull eyes. She had her hands up on the bookshelf, three levels up, and had her back arched to present her sex to her boyfriend, or guy she had just met, or whatever he was. The boy was rail-thin, and was minimally disrobed—he had only bothered to pull his jeans down enough to pull out his cock. He hadn’t even pulled down his boxers.
They didn’t stop when Jocelyn yelled at them. She watched his cock pistoning out of the girlfriend’s eager, young slit with real enthusiasm. He still had the rough strokes of a teenager. No real sense of rhythm. Not that it wasn’t hot to watch him tense and shove balls-deep inside of the girl. At any moment he could blow off, flooding the girl with baby batter. A sort of male jack-in-the-box.
Jocelyn licked her lips. They were bigger than before. She was still pill-free, though, proud of herself and the owner of a bunch of “THIS IS WHAT A PILL-FREE GIRL LOOKS LIKE” t-shirts. Outside of the half snorted post-wedding pill she had never taken a pink doll-maker.
“C’mon guys… stop fucking....” she pleaded, watching them go at it. God, he was really fucking the hell out of her. The kid’s stamina was surprising. What a fuck. The pleased tiny smile on the girlfriend’s face was ticking over into something much more serious.
Jocelyn slumped against another bookcase. She was getting pretty horny. Not that she was exactly able to avoid NN-HANC-F these days. The pharmaceutical… and food and beverage… and pretty much everyone had figured out the active ingredients and chemistry and put it in just about everything there was. NN-HANC glazed almonds, milk chugs, all sorts of alcohol, string cheese, fruits and vegetables with a tit-enhancing spray, so many different candies and chocolates with bimboizing effects, breakfast cereal that made you horny and dumb, sunscreens that both protected and enhanced your tits, even NN-HANC-F toothpaste, of all the fucking things. Titpaste.
Sure, they all promised all of the good and none of the bad. Well, less of the bad. REDUCED minor cognitive effects, it said on the label. SOME minor libido effects. Now with LESS vaginal wetness. All of the tits, none of the daze! Okay, some of the daze.
But Jocelyn was on top of it. She was. It was just a matter of self-control and discipline and self-awareness. Use tit size as a guide. Watch to see how tempted she was to sit in front of the TV and squeeze tubes of drugged sugar goo down her throat. Was she so horny she’d juice through a standard pair of panties, or could she go the whole day just mildly damp?
She was going through a three-day fast, at the moment, dipping in to her ever-thinner supplies of NN-HANC free materials. Old gatorades to drink, long-expired, cereal boxes from long ago before they were enhanced with Vitamin NN. It was hard going, harder every time. The sense of well-being and serenity went away but the horniness, the distraction, that took so much longer to fade. She was so randy.
But she had found herself puzzling how to read a book, eventually realizing she was holding it upside down, and declared an immediate detox.
The boy was learning his rhythm. Or maybe the girl had just learned to match his eager, unready strokes. Whatever it was, they were locked in, making beautiful music, her hips stride for stride with his thrusting, beet-red dick. Jocelyn’s right hand reached down and started to stroke. Her mouth was watering.
She was sensibly dressed in abbreviated yoga pants and a similar sports tank, in blue and pink lycra. That was usually what Jocelyn went with—activewear of some kind. They wiped clean, always a concern, they made it easy to monitor tit size, they made it simple to access whatever needy part of her could use stimulation. It wasn’t super obvious when she soaked through her pants. Her ensembles were way better than the pill girls, who loved minidresses or miniskirts and tubetops that could quickly be pulled down, in fluorescent colors.
The boy started to come. It wasn’t immediately clear, since the girl had him buried to the hilt, but then the overflow flood of pearl-white jizz came pouring out. Jocelyn watched it pool on the store carpet. God damn it. This was her section. The last thing she needed was to have a cum puddle in it. The girl, at least, came quietly, with a quiet, senseless murmur. When the boy let her go she collapsed, brain turned off momentarily.
“Motherfucker,” Jocelyn murmured. She pulled her hand away from her own honeypot. She hadn’t even cum. And when she licked her fingers her juice was still sugar-sweet, a sure sign that she was still riding too high on NN-HANC derivatives. It had just been so easy to let her tits fill out, to indulge in a brand new chewing gum, to take a nice lil’ break from the pressures of the world, and she had come this close to being full fuckdoll.
Well, the cum wasn’t going anywhere. Or maybe it was, if some female customer decided to lick it up. Jocelyn decided she needed some coffee. It had just a tiny bit of NN-HANC in it. Hardly enough to matter.
She had been working at the book store for about six months. Getting the job had been tough—companies were quite reluctant to hire girls, and were legally allowed to discriminate—but she spent a week beforehand fasting and was bright and determined. Plus she did have that Masters in English Literature. So while girls exited the workforce in an unending flood she had stood against and joined it, handling “Women’s Lit.”
It had been good to be at work. For the first six months after they had moved she had been bored and chafed at home. They were in a new city and state per Luke’s residency. She had paced around a huge house, fighting a losing battle against her body, against society, betrayed by groceries as her waifish, trim figure slowly and surely acquired thicker curves. Her boobs were now pretty fucking big, even if not as huge as a bonafide pill girl. That sense of horniness, that she could really use a dick in her, had gone from a very occasional tingle to an enormous presence, while her ass had gotten swollen and tight.
For awhile she had been quite unable to figure out where she was getting regular doses of breast enhancement, until she had worked out that it was in fucking MILK, of all places. Boring jugs of white milk.
But she could’ve fought it more, could’ve grown her own fruits and vegetables, gotten into the wheat-thresher underground, and she hadn’t. How could she, when Luke was so into her? So eager to fuck her immediately after he got home, to even slip out on lunch breaks to put his cock in her mouth? Her big manly doctor, still in his so-sexy scrubs and white doctor’s coat, giving her a truly wonderful trio of orgasms? She knew he was surrounded by dim, fuckable nurses, and his constancy was something she had to ensure. So she let herself titter and start to drool a little and grow big pendulous breasts—plus, FuckMe Chocolates were god damned delicious, especially when eaten an entire bag at a time. And she had enjoyed long lazy days sitting on the couch, snacking and stroking, watching the new porn soaps while waiting for hubby to return.
Jocelyn hesitated. She really had to go talk to Peter, her boss. There was an assistant manager position available and she wanted it real bad. To not only be hired but promoted—the girls in her local Women’s Rights group would really appreciate that. But she was horny and buzzing for release. The professional thing to do would be to finger herself.
But first—right—coffee. God, the scatter-brained shit was so fucking real. It was just so easy to tune out higher brain functions, such an effort to force them to work against a big pink haze. It was scary how much doofier she was, how little she remembered about shit like Tale of Two Cities and that Dickens guy and stuff. She had written a thesis or something about him, right? Something like that. Jocelyn stopped, knitting her brow together in furious thought. Right… he had written… uhhhhhh…. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…. UHHHHHHHHH….. A Muppet Christmas Story. There, she was still smart. That had been a fun movie.
“Can I get a coffee, Ashley?” Jocelyn said, to the only other female employee.
The woman looked back at her, puzzled.
“Can you?” she said.
This was her main competition for the assistant manager job, and it pained her.
Ashley was a pill girl, for certain. She wasn’t fighting anything. Whatever the future held for big-titted brainless bimbos with enormous sex drives, fertile as farms, she was there for it. She favored a modified Teen Sexpot look, short shirts with underboob hanging out, and a huge array of stripy socks. She made terrible coffee.
Ashley held on to her job for a few reasons. One was that she was 6′2″. The pill bolted on tits and asses to whatever dimension you were, which meant she was now a towering giant of boob, with legs extending from about 5′5″ and working their way down very slowly. Even today, that was novel, and men hungry for anything different flocked to the coffee section of the bookstore. Second, she was energetic even for a pill girl, and methodical provided she had a well-written list of instructions in large type. And, of course, she was aided by a staff of enchanted teenage boys who were happy to service and be serviced by their amazon princess.
Also she made her own milk.
“So… the promotion,” Jocelyn said, hanging around the counter. She looked up into two big mounds. It could be hard to find Ashley’s face from close up.
“Yeah?” Ashley said.
“You know. The Assistant Manager position. Peter said it was opening up.”
Ashley opened her mouth, and Jocelyn anticipated her. “NOT an ass manager,” she said. “Assistant. Manager.”
“Oh. Okay,” Ashley said.
“Didn’t you apply for it? You said you were going to, last week,” Jocelyn prompted. Belatedly she realized that this was not in her own best interest. The dumb bimbo had just forgotten to apply. Jocelyn kept making these kinds of mistakes when she had penis on the brain.
Ashley considered this, slowly. It was sort of magnificent to see her ponder matters, her proportions statuesque, weighty. “Did I? I could use the money,” she said, eventually. “Socks are super-duper pricey these days. Okay, yeah. I’ll apply.”
“I… uh.” Jocelyn stopped talking. How dumb had she gotten, recently? She searched for words that would encourage her rival to withdraw, or forget all about the job once more, and came up totally empty. The hornies were surging again. She took a sip of coffee, made a face. Chock full of Ashley milk. That was like a SHITLOAD of NN-HANC-F. It didn’t metab—metabo—whatever. God DAMN it. She was already at her self-imposed tit limit.
This fucking week!
It had been frustrating all week. First she had realized she was on the verge of forgetting long division and had to declare a sudden diet. Then Luke had disappeared on a 48-hour rotation.
Plus the protest on Tuesday had been a DISASTER.
It had started so well. They had gotten 15, maybe 20 girls, outraged at losing the right to drive cars. The latest indignity of the Female Protection Act. They had even gotten a few boys, that vanishingly small male contingent against easy lays for whatever reason. And best of all, three Clean Girls, totally NN-HANC-F untouched, looking like pictures from a history textbook with their little busts and short, sensible haircuts. Jocelyn had figured they lived in the woods or something. The little group had marched around City Hall, waving posters with the spelling double-checked to prevent embarrassment—NN-HANC—DRIVING GIRLS LAZY; GIRLS CAN DRIVE BOYS CRAZY; LET ME DRIVE A CAR.
But then it had fallen apart. Maybe it always would’ve. There was something sad about most of the girls in the group, hauling out their old clothes from past identities and stuffing bimbo bodies into them. Alabaster tits practically ripping apart denim jackets, punk rock gear over slutty asses and pink-slathered lips, feminist t-shirts and slogans distended and riding up on voluptuous curves. Playing dress-up and pretend, the visual evidence of their total failure bobbling just under their chins.
And then the cops had played unfair, sending out the sexiest guys to observe, the chants audibly falling apart as the big authority biceps made their appearance. A few of the girls had simply walked over to say hi to the boys in blue, just dropping their signs.
All had broken apart in confusion when a couple of guys doused in NN-HANC-M cologne had walked by as a gag. God, it made Jocelyn so angry and wet just to think about it.
Plus Katelyn had gotten into a pretty bad accident driving home.
She came to a decision. She needed to just big-girl up and talk to Peter. Declare that she wanted the job, that she was a valued team member, that she was always on-time and ready to go. That she had never complained as her women’s literature section had shrunk and shrunk, collapsing from a quarter of the store into two sets of shelves. Now it was a few sad, remaining titles uncomfortably lumped together—The Feminine Mystique next to Harlequin novels next to The Girl On The Train next to Doris Lessing.
Pre-job Jocelyn had turned her increasing fascination with all things penis into a brief and productive career churning out erotica. She had determined to combine her penchant for long, sweaty fuck scenes with five or six participants and her refusal to give in to the new regime, to write stories set in a better past, with women who had ordinary tits and character development and interests outside of blowjobs. And for a brief, sweaty period it had been good. She had sold well off of amazon, writing long scenes of fading favorites like male pussy-licking and cowgirl position for an imagined audience of rebels.
But then sales started to flag, droop. Jocelyn had written more and more, stemming her fear with milkshakes and candies and chocolates and energy bars and chips and all sorts of trash. Ending each long sex scene with a loud finger-fuck, her body stuffed with treats. Justifying her simplifying vocabulary, her increasingly tawdry fuck-focused plots, as responding to her readers. Pacing her house in a horny haze, her body thicker and sluttier, touching herself as she ginned up outre bang sessions to write down.
Until she had been forced to admit the obvious: girls weren’t reading shit anymore and her writing career was helping to slut her up.
So she had gone to get a job.
“Peter, I… uhhh…” she said, dropping in. Oh, gawd. She was already starting to flag, to stare, slack-jawed at the male in the chair.
“Yeah, Jocey?” Peter said. He turned around, crossed his legs, and gave her a cheerful smile. He wore light-tan khakis and a polo shirt. Jocelyn’s mouth filled with spit, and she was super aware that her knees bent. “Jocelyn,” she said, automatically. She was NOT taking on a bimbo name.
She took a big step back, to get out of his range. It just wasn’t fair, not at all fucking fair. NN-HANC-M made a boy muscle-hard, smell so fucking good, gave them horse cocks, and not a single word on the box or elsewhere about MINOR COGNITIVE EFFECTS. Peter was a huge user. He had been a slight bespectacled comic book geek not long ago. Now he was a big slab of beef.
And of course, OF COURSE, NN-HANC-M boy body fluids had a slight effect on the girls. Minor cognitive effects.
“I wanted to ask about the… assistant manager position, SIR,” Jocelyn said, swallowing a huge gob of spit. THERE! She had gotten it out. She took a deep breath, and regretted it. Peter smelled like an oak tree, like leather and licorice. It was too much in an enclosed room. “I really want the… uh… position. THAT position. The job one! Not the… the position where I have sex… the position with ass! ASSISTANT MANAGER!” There!
“Oh,” Peter said. He started to push up glasses he didn’t wear anymore, and caught himself. “Well, this is kind of awkward.”
Jocelyn’s heart sank. Oh no, being horny and disappointed was never good for her bustline. “You gave the job to Ashley,” she guessed.
Peter laughed. “Ashley? No, no. I’m getting MARRIED to Ashley. Didn’t she mention it? Craig got the job. Shoot, Jocey, I didn’t mean to get your hopes up but… well, there’s a huge puddle of jizz in your section and you haven’t sold a book in three weeks. And you haven’t shelved anything alphabetically in a month. Do you still know how?”
Jocelyn was seized by the urge to answer him. He was a man, after all. If he wanted her to recite the alphabet then okay.
“This is… sexism,” Jocelyn said, summoning reserves of anger. “I’ll.. um… sue and stuff. For sex-having discrimination! And it’s JOCELYN!”
Peter spread his hands apologetically. She hated herself for noticing his big brawny biceps, the tufts of dark hair that had sprouted along them. She caught another whiff of him. Her libido decided to take charge, since nothing else in the brain had any willpower. “Is this because I’m not giving you free sucks and fucks? Because I’m a MARRIED WOMAN? You think I don’t have a tight fuckin pussy?” Jocelyn fell to her knees. No, no. She couldn’t do this. She was monogamous. She might be the only one left in the state. She couldn’t waddle towards him, licking her lips. She couldn’t stop herself.
“Hey, hey, whoa,” Peter said. He put out a hand to stop her. Jocelyn stopped, confused. He was turning her down? Was that still a thing? “Hold on, you had me make a recording for you in case this happened. Just a second.”
She waited, horny and dazed, while her boss thumbed through his phone. “Okay. Okay. Here it is.”
He showed her his phone. Jocelyn popped up. A version of her with somewhat smaller boobs, less lush lips, wearing an actual cotton blouse. “Jocelyn, if you are seeing this, you are about to try to fuck your boss. DO NOT DO THIS. I will be EXTREMELY DISAPPOINTED if you do. Go outside, calm down, and remember: YOU CAN BEAT THIS! This is you as of March 28th. DO NOT FUCK YOUR BOSS! Also thanks Peter for agreeing to this, you are a super sweetheart!”
Oh, right, she remembered making that.
“Ummmmmmm. I quit,” Jocelyn said.
Peter nodded, sincerely. “Sorry to see you go. You were a valued team member. If you want to clean up the jizz puddle on your way out, feel free.”
* * *
Jocelyn got home.
She was so achingly aware of the bottles and bags that would make her feel so much better. The crunches and chews and chugs. She could pour a big bottle of milk right down her throat and all her worries would speed away, turned into titflesh. Hell, she didn’t need to worry about anything, ever again, if she simply drank enough. She could be a happily married tittering little thing. She could make a career out of cocksucking. Jocelyn stared at the fridge, a big frosty treasure chest of drugged food. She could have some MAMMOTH titties.
No. NO. “No!” Jocelyn said. She threw herself on the couch, pulled down her soaked shorts, and rubbed furiously at her puffy pussy.
It was a point of pride that she didn’t use a vibrator. Just her fingers. Vibrators as a personal accessory, like a purse, was a thing—evening vibes in black, big pink dildos for co-eds, sensible hitachi wands for the budget-conscious fuckdoll housewife. Not her. She rubbed at her clit and felt the tension drain away.
There, that was the key. The little things. Whatever else happened she would hold on to the little things. SHE wouldn’t walk around with visible cum stains on her shirts. SHE wouldn’t masturbate on public transportation. SHE would wear underwear no matter how inconvenient. SHE would read a book, somehow, at LEAST every three months or so. SHE would do some MATH.
An orgasm flooded her. With the momentary release non-sex concepts came flooding back. “Great Expectations, Bleak House, Oliver Twist, Les Miserables, LITTLE FUCKING DORRITT!” she said. THERE. It was all still there.
She was halfway done tossing away every piece of junk shit when Luke got home.
Finally. “I’m in the kitchen!” she called out, happily. Thank god. She put her hands on the kitchen counter and braced her feet apart. Arched her back up in the air. A heavy pair of hands slid down her shorts, and then—mmm—casually tore her underpants in shreds. God, that was hot. She could just imagine her husband back there, in his doctor clothes, his cock rising to full-mast.
A cockhead started to explore her well-lubed slit. “I quit my job,” Jocelyn said, as it slid in. “I’m gonna… umm… get back to… um… my writing and activism and stuff. And no more junk shit.”
“Oh?” Luke said. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”
He pushed all the way in. God, he was so big, so thick. There was so much wonderful cock in her. Jocelyn delighted in it, the friction, the closeness. She could camp out, REALLY detox, really find a way to fight back. Get in touch with the no-pill girls out in their mountain fastness or whatever. The Resistance, something like tha—oh gawdddd Luke was big.
Wait, he wasn’t this big.
And there was a distinct and hot smell in the air, filling the kitchen. Luke started to pick up the pace, slamming her ass, and Jocelyn struggled to hang on, find her rhythm. He was harsh, fast, and it was hard to keep from falling over. Eventually he just picked her up, using her as a hole, and her orgasm was coming fast, holding off the realization that something was different—something was going on… Her orgasm took her like a train.
Jocelyn blacked out.
When she woke up she was on the couch. There was a bucket of cum dribbling out of her. She felt groggy, distracted by the sexy scent right next to her. Luke was admiring his heavier horse-cock, with its brand new inches, still squirting jizz out onto her nice clean floor.
“I’ve been taking a little NN-HANC-M,” he admitted, sheepish. His face was grizzled with beard fuzz.
“Oh,” Jocelyn said. What else was there to say?