+ - - + - _ Kitty and Cammi in Church Country + _ DELETED PROLOGUE

(Following this parenthetical is a batch of bits that I scrapped from my [perpetually] upcoming soul-slutsterly "epic" barn-yarn, Kitty and Cammi in Church Country. They were to make up what would have constituted  a prologue to a prologue, essentially. I already had the majority of a perfectly fine one already. I suppose I thought it might be nice, since the action takes place in spring 2008 [just when Our Family Way really started to gain traction], to do a little "state of the union" before introducing the big titular girls in the narrative.But then I realized there was already so much description of the social and community aspects of the town in the story proper. 

So this can be a little teaser for the tale I've overhyped in my fluffy hot pink mind as much as here on the (semi-) public intertubes. Even though I dropped a different teaser months and months ago. What can I say? Writing is fucking hard. It can feel pointless even when it's hitting a good stide,, and horribly depressing and embarrassing at its worst. Bimbo fiction is a completely foreign and extraterrestrial can of worms entirely. "Kitty and Cammi" has taken me longer to write than any of my other stories, and honestly, it's really nothing special. I need to accept that it'll never be as good as I want it to be. 

In starting this blog, I'm seeing the thing in a new way. I, like, totally wanna write, um, like, better and shit... No, seriously! It's challenging but really exhilarating to keep exploring where the limits of this genre are hiding, but -- the big hot bottom line can never be ignored. It won't work otherwise. It's still just porn, when all is said and done. There's only so much work in humanizing my girls I can stand to invest when they all [every last skinny, skeptical and independent one of them] will end up dirt-dumb, cummy bubble butt sluts with huge knockers and knocked-up tummies. My favorite bimbo authors grind right on that finely straddled sweet spot: the one that rests between a girl's old and new realities, the one seesawing back and forth between wit and clit. 

When I started writing "Kitty and Cammi", I set a goal to really try to make something (sorry) moving and touching. Thankfully, this didn't last very long at all! I had, however briefly, missed the very point of this weird and unspeakable "calling" I sometimes tell myself I have. Whenever a writer of this particular school of erotica sets out to tell a story, the final result should (naturally) be sexual climax in the reader. My bread and butter are those humiliating humorous moments that stem from social or situational pressures, however directly or indirectly. One teeny tiny droplet of sex makes this anxious cauldron bubble right on over. But not everybody likes a ton of laughs in their fuck fiction, or any at all. 

Forget about any room for poignancy, either. It's the white whale of text porn as much as it is for the "real", video kinds. Porn and art, for the most part, are like oil and water. To the culture at large, any prominent attempt at mixing the two is met with laughter. The bad kind, where they're laughing at you. It's tricky. The cream of the crop among those aformentioned mind control stories, those ones which also prominently feature bodily and/or sexual transformations, work a damsel's downfall into a delicate discipline. Mind-body excercises for only the luckiest unlucky girls. A real tai-chi forher brand new chi-chis. The tiny bits of brain that haven't yet been bimboized surely aren't what sets the girls' too-voluptuous bodies to moving, but! 

The new bimbo's brain needs to follow the pattern of being 1) distracted, 2) intimidated, 3) reprimanded, and then 4) dominated by her libido. Critics of bimboization have often cited the loss of intelligence as being a principal turnoff for them. To each its own kink, but to be honest, I think this is an unfair whitewashing of what these stories are and what they can be. IQ doesn't really interest or motivate me in my writing, with the exception of incorporating it into a joke here and there. Smarts, wits, reason, decency -- these things will always be there, they're just suffocated by the horny slut nabbing up all the property it can lay claim to. But the bimboizing force, while life-obliteratingly powerful, can never quite evict a determined conscience. The most overeager sopping wet vagina can never quite successfully kick out the lame but logical brain. It just assumes its squatter's rights and wears most of the mind down. 

I decided that if the girlfriends in my story grew those new bodies that told them when and where they could stop fucking, that I couldn't just let them mire in depression about it. I don't believe that anguish is sexy. Nothing turns me off more than flat-out rape, yes -- even the emotional kind. So I shifted focus to working this notion of "laughing through the tears" out as best I could, the only way I knew how. Kitty and Cammi, when stroking or slurping each other anyway, represent the "yearning bimbo". The yearning bimbo never forgets, she just gets lazy and wet. 

I mean, there's bajillions upon bajillions of crazy-ass fetishes out there. Is there even so much as a niche market for sad porn?? Still, for whatever sick and sadistic reason, I've been writing this thing for a fucking year. In my quest to write the swan song of Cherub Cove [which is what I initially envisioned it as], thinking I was seeing some cleansing light at the tunnel, I'd just keep thinking of more and more new things to add instead of trimming the fat. I was maybe letting myself get too into the idea of piling more onto the plate, in the spirit of my bouncy betties and the eight or nine big meals a day they enjoy. 

The more scenes and plot turns and jokes and inner monologues I added -- the more I touched up the new scenes with more sex, or funnier sex with more characters -- I realized how much I can still accomplish in this Uterverse. That there was no point in stopping. I'd wanted so desperately for "Kitty and Cammi", and the introduction of these rarefied cherubs, to be one last neat and complete hurrah for Cherub Cove, for all its good girls gone to seed for a fake but fuckable God. But, like every new convert who contracts a mean case of the Family Way Flu, your holes may get fully filled, but your soul will never ever find its true fulfillment. Nothing's truly complete. Sometimes, the only thing to do is have a seat. 

Perfection is just as irrelevant as patriotism and the unbending will of the patriarchy that's park of the package deal. These are motifs in the Cherub Cove stories, sure, but they also dominate all discourse and decisions for innocent people who were never taught to question this confusing place that tells them how to behave. The reductive and pathetic concept of democracy, the stagnant cop-out with the whiff of a lacerating whip that fills the room whenever someone says, "that's just the way it is," and really means and believes it.  These things provide only the illusion of importance. Standards are kept because it's eternally on the tips of everybody's tongues that we simply aren't who we think or say we are. You are only a version of you. There's no escaping this. Try as you will, you'll never meet the You that the world has hinted at.

This conflict is at the heart of every well-written bimbo. The familiar refrain: "What's happening to me?" She should be acknowledging, "I'm happening to me," Nobody wants to have their minds and bodies controlled and warped beyond all recognition, but on the same token, nobody asked to be born, did they? Maybe this is too fatalistic, I don't know. Kitty and Cammi's story doesn't need to end with them lying around a pseudo-Christian farmtown, eating beauty snacks and oiling up each other's corn-fed booties and popping out dozens of babies for the men they've convinced themselves they're biblically inferior to. They don't need to become slow, smiley bimbos. The truth of the matter is, they love it. And they don't learn this love. They earn it. Nobody is a victim in Cherub Cove. Church country life is only what you make it. I'm always way more fascinated by the "who" and the "what", rather than the "how" or "why".

When self-preservation becomes the bedrock of your daily existence, it becomes a living nightmare when compromised. Lies become real. Reality only takes a little vaction. Then it comes back around, sucks up to a bunch of bullshit, and works together with it, to ensure that every human being on the face of the earth thinks that playing by the rules of the real world is some kind of virtue. Like the concepts of God and the U.S.A., Cherub Cove is but another example of a lie made law. It doesn't exist, it never did, and so... it's free to live on beyond forever. It's my favorite fantasy world. Have no fear. Want a beer? Cherubs and cowgirls are always right here. Come on! You've already been here overnight. Why not spend a year?) Okay! Onto that excised sexy-funny stuff...

_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++

"If we're truly a new Eden," the handsome televangelist intoned, righteous and rigid in his chair, "all of us must surely dress the part. Sabbath nudity shall thus be extended throughout the whole of the week, while we enjoy spring." 

A girl offscreen cooed. Someone's zipper came down. Slaps and moans were closely audible in the broadcast, and it took a second for the shaky camera to settle. Something was going on with, or being done to, the man behind it. 

The priest loosened his collar. The Eve of Eden had officially begun. 

Father Paul was forthright and handsome, and nobody could think to debate him on a single issue. The men wanted to play a pickup game of basketball with him. All the ladies adored him, often taking a knee in his gaze. 

He'd be awfully gracious, at least pretending to shoo away any drooly ditz, wanting only to go down on him with their recently acquired country skills. "Most kind, ladies, but that won't be necessary," he said, even as a hungry girl unbuttoned his pants. 

In a low, bassy cadence, he continued his ordained duty, of melting the mind of any mami within earshot. Thick, fertile thighs got flooded, pussies slick and dribbly at the cloudy thought of how well-composed he kept himself as he got deep-throated.

"But you don't need to swallow the sainted seed to know that Brittany is a friend, indeed and in our breed." A few new girls positioned themselves around the luckiest one's indiscreet head-giving, untying their halters and slathering lotion on their moo-cows. 

He provided for his herd. He'd jack his wood to full power again, not even asking for any help from his fawning bimbos. One would invariably summon, however, the bravery to lube up her hand and work some more holiness out of the divine dong. 

Sometimes, after spending his jizz on the girls still waiting around to get sprayed, he'd have a girl jack a few more rounds. Again, without asking. A few girls ventured to call him "charismatic" because of such acts of seed-sowing, skin-soaking selflessness. 

(Once word of this reached their men, the lust-stuffed lasses weren't allowed to take cum-union for a whole half day. Withholding of any and all sex acts for twelve hours proved to be enough lasting punishment for using such big words. 

The shock to their systems was so great, "Fuck!" and "Daddy!" were the only things these ladies could utter for the next few months, when they weren't being put to their biblical use. Then, they'd be found mooing, cooing or giggling, hoping there'd be a man around to understand. 

This was how cherubs began to feel great guilt when uttering any word with three or more syllables. Even if they did remember whatever complicated word, they'd still stutter and stop halfway, so as not to offend anyone.)

Sometimes he dominated their dreams, too. A girl could wake up with his voice strolling through her head, sermonizing about toeless slip-ons. Or a chunky leopard print belt, that flashed pink after two hours if she hadn't had a man cum in her snatch in all that "sinful" length of time. 

The ergonomic benefits of a slutbutt, even. "What wouldst thou do if damned to roam outside our holy refuge with a flat little tushie? Imagine St. Brittany, as she once suffered, with all her pain, trying to sit down on any chair, or even a cock!"

Fully initiated girls couldn't even begin to imagine not having their plush, plump asses. It made their shrinking brains hurt to imagine such an inconceivable freak. So, the godliest of the Godly Gals learned early on, to not hazard an answer to that question. They didn't want to know. 

Most didn't, though, simply because they were just drifting off in their slit stroking, letting the mere tone and sound of his voice enter in, instead of any of his words. No matter. A girl just wouldn't be able to hear all the important stuff she was trying to concentrate on, before, or whatever. 

Like what her titties were trying to tell her. Or if they really were singing. 

Not until she reached her first giggly orgasm of the morning, anyway, and that could take as much as four whole minutes! A small, but growing (and growing, and growing) herd of blissful, contented cowgirls fought off jealousy at the TV, that night. 

During an installment of "Mealtime Prayers", more than a few moms and moms-to-be ended up calling Channel 36JJ to voice their complaints. Town officials loved nothing more than to field these calls. And to ignore any female voice on the other end of the hotline. 

The operators at LilyLine were under strict orders, for the proper handling of any girl who didn't call to gush out a breathy compliment. Or wonder which color and cut of undies would send the right message at the 3rd Annual Cornflake Chicken-n-Moonshine Dance.

Though the girls who'd spent more than seven days in Cherub Cove had their brains naturally and hormonally rewired, they knew it wasn't proper to drape their big butts in just any old rag (after making sure to stick a mini Holy Nightlife vibrator in, of course.)

They still wanted to employ some subtlety and tact. They just didn't have words or concepts for them. That sort of thing was shuffled aside to better house more useful info, like reciting the 33 flavors of LordyLube alphabetically, to get permission to leave the homestead, to go stock up on more Cherub Cream.  

"Y'knooow, like, _ummm_ --- what should I, like, do about pree-zentin' my uh, well, puss-puss, to a cool guy durin' the Stud Salsa? Somethin' that shows off all my charms, so he can see how wet I am. Y'know --- frisky and fuckable, but not too _flirty_, or somethin'. Should I wear a crotchless thong or is that, like, too plain-jane and... ob-nop-shuh ---" 

(Back in the beginning, the hotline was handled by a mere half dozen, male, "angelic architects". It wasn't one of the many hundreds of call centers throughout the globe today. It was a dusty supply closet, and one or two men high-fiving each other for their fake problem solving, hiding back gales of laughter.)

Most girls sighed in relief when they were ensured by misleading volunteers, that no panties at all was the perfect pair to attract a pious penis. They hung up, absorbed the notion that "underwear is only meant for teasing", and never dialed the station's number again. 

Still, there were bimbo-mommies so particular about the presentation of faithful flesh, that they would risk public penance to air their grievances. They ignored the warm, pussy-throbbing pulse of the BimboBangle on their wrist that warned them of transgression.

They maneuvered their church-mandated, manicured, super-long nails, and eventually pushed the necessary buttons. They stroked off to the hold sound, while waiting to complain: barnyard animals. 

If they couldn't manage to get that far on their own, there was always some hunky man around to do it for them. The man that didn't balk and report his cowgirl to the hotline for re-education, distracting her with a few workman's fingers, let her air out her cummy laundry.

Almost all of the comments were drawn from a deep well of jealousy. It was the first of what would become thousands of Man Plan-authorized broadcast blowjobs, but the novelty of seeing a man of the cloth get sucked off only wore off when it became apparent that this girl was a newborn-again. 

"She can't even be a triple-D, the flat fuckin' cunt!" "I'm sick of seein' tiny titties on the tee-vee." Only one woman on that historical night was put off by the very idea that a priest would be getting blown on the tube. 

Ginny O'Golly was sent a DVD espousing the holy joys of fellatio, along with a lifetime supply of Cherub Cream. Today, she's one of two sources for all M'udder's Milk brand dairy products, the most popular being Strawberry Sue's Moo Goo. 

G.G., as she prefers to be called, if the extra force with which it makes her tail wag is any indication, might one day write a book. Her journey as one of Our Family Way's few female entrepeneurs is certainly an interesting one. It's just hard to write with hooves.

Placate, placate, placate was the law of the line. The good girls knew to just stroke themselves a little, whenever the neon numbers flashed their glaring color, on the black-and-white tube. To not even consider it a phone number, let alone one that they might call. 

Going to church seven times a week was keeping most of them in check. During service, there was (and still is) a thrice-uttered refrain. First, it's recited prior to St. Brittany's prayer. The second and third times come before and after the taking of the blessed burgers. 

As such, it often needs to be repeated a fourth time, if the majority of the slutty matrons in the parish are still eating, or worse, repeating the Lord's law with their mouths full. They're expected to at least look like they're not just going through the motions, though most girls try to speed the service along, muttering through bites to get to the handjob portion. 

"A girl can ask a question with her mouth, but if her man don't respond with a rightful rod, she can only find an answer with her fingers down south, as the lesson lingers and she cums before a frightful God." 

Men had been the most vocal about wanting hi-def television, but were assured it would only become available, at a flat rate, on the day of atonement. Even the jump from black-and-white to color rested on the restraint of one hypothetical cherub. But "Pussy Purity" was starting to feel unattainable. 

The idea that a single bimbo could deny herself an orgasm for one consecutive 24-hour period was laughable at first. Then it  just sort of grew sad and embarrassing with each new slut's pitiful attempt. That any and all tries were authorized for springtime only, a most notorious season for the town, made it all the more improbable.

Nevertheless, a notable jaunt had even been sponsored by BoobyBatter spray pancakes, the first product offshoot of Our Family Way. It was introduced not long after Cherub Cream, but before Cherub Crunch, and proved to be a largely unsuccessful rollout. Bullboys hated the idea of breakfast in a can. 

They may have tasted fine, but they cut down on their wifey's kitchen time, which the men desperately needed (to sneak off and bone some other babe). The sedating level of carbs contained in one serving size (three stacks of six pancakes) made their women clean the homestead a lot slower, as well. 

The event, at any rate, was televised live. Most townsfolk had huddled on the green anyhow: not only to see if this skank could stick it out without sticking anything in (one guy was so confident she'd cave, he bet his wife, his tractor, and his whole farm against her), but for all the free stuff, too! 

(Besides, this way seemed a lot more fun than sitting at home, squinting at a 13" colorless box to see if the ample angel's pussy was being compromised.) 

It ended with the poor girl's face, hair and poochy belly getting splattered, caked with a whole bunch of jizz. 

There was so much of the stuff that her bare feet slid out from underneath her, and she landed on her bodacious booty. Her curvy body didn't stop quaking and jiggling until the crowd let out its last whoop, wondering who this airhead thought she was, stuffing cum back into herself, along with her fingers.

She saw that people were staring. "Wha?" She unglued some white, sticky digits from her cunt and suckled them, slowly. The coating was so thick that she had to scrape some of it off with her teeth. "I won, right? TV's for everyone!" Everyone guffawed.

Fried Chicken and Lip-Lickin' with Saint Chesti +

+ _ + + "A profile of Cherub Cove's first beatified lesbian, the church's patron saint of edible tube tops and #1 Americhristian pussy-poet, by Joey Joe-Joe Pounder. Her collection "For All Cherubs In Need: Words To Breed By" was the first chapbook of psalms published by St. Brittany's to crack into the New York Times bestseller list. It was this polarizing work, written alternately in crayon and lipstick, that rocketed her to nationwide notoriety. This interview, conducted not long after shooting ended on a softcore adaptation of the book, was originally printed in the September 2011 issue of DDDevout New Teen Health." + + _ +

_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++

(The iconic, strawberry-scented locker poster of Our Sainted Slut + All-American Angel, Lil Miss Chestina Swettacowski.)

Says our fully chubbed-up cherub Patriette today, of the routine Fertile Fashion shoot that went on to make best-selling hillbilly history: "I had, like, no frickin' idea, um -- that, like... I'd be this soul model an' junk. I was jus' a-feelin' all hot an' fancy 'bout fuckin' four or five dudes for lunch. I was pretty frisky that afternoonie, on account of the camera boys learnin' me how to be less afraid of their big nakey cocks. I swear, like... fuckin' suckin' shucks, amirite?!"

St. Chesti denies all of the commie liberal media's accusations, such as rumors that her then-unheard-of rate of growth wasn't a manifestation of gleaming godliness at all, but a standard issue transformation hidden by the church of St. Brittany, trumped up in some implausible PR move. "Growin' gals ever-wheres gon' be shocked as shit to know it took me, like, one whole week to know that all I had to do to get comfy for nakey picture times was jus' a-suck on them long, Christlike things!"

She also swears she wasn't, at one barely believable point, militant dyke and riot grrl Teresa Svetloska, leader of those feminist reactionaries the Infertile Infernals. "I can't even, like, say that ugly, ugly name! What is it? In...vitroid..." She crinkles her nose, as if she's being forced to eat some kind of food even slightly more ethnic than the all-American fare we're chowing down.

("I'm a beer an' burger an' burger an' milkshake an' burger bitch," she tells me with a straight face, between questions. "Girlies gotta grow!" we jinx each other.) She takes a long pull of a root beer float before abandoning the straw altogether, diving face first into the jumbo-sized confection, groaning like she's getting DPed by some well-hung country ghosts. "Jus' so fuggin' gooooood," she tells me "off the recorded records". 

She goes on to clarify her claim of complete legitimacy, all without clearing any of the gobs of cookie dough ice cream off of her blessed countenance. They tumble down off her giant chest, sticky and slick and creamy, pooling into her obscured navel, collecting around a big emerald stud. "I'm a good girl," she whines. 

Another customer at the diner, embarrassed, picks her fluffy blue poodle off the table. It's been lapping up the melted ice cream from Chesti's belly for close to a minute, as she mews and coos in search of a single word. ("I'm ticklish because I'm a girl!" she excitedly explains, once she calms herself down by sticking a few fingers in her snatch. "I'm ticklish because puppy-wuppy's just so cutesy-wootsy!" she expounds with a laugh.) 

"Believe you me, I believe with all my booby-meat in my holy redneck goddess Brittany. I'm proud as my peach that I's a authenticated, hunnerd-percent realchurch country cherub. Nobody done forced this ho to do nothin'. This is what I want. This is what I crave. This what every one of God's girlies needs." Still, "if y'all told me then I'd be fixin' to be a dang saint when I got all growed up and turned seventeen again, I'd prob'ly fuck you right there jus' to get you to stop teasin' me!" 

"It's kinda undie-lievable to think that thousands and thousands of new soulful slutsers is cryin' they skinny ol' selves to sleep at night, wishin' they looked like my picture. I mean, them guys took it when my body wasn't even fully freedom-farmed yet!" Her eyes light up as she continues with a steady stream of drool. The same incredulousness, then, goes for the scores of manly missionaries, sowing their God-given spirit seed in cities and campuses across that heathen "nation" that's outside our boundaries here in Cherub Cove. 

With the mere mention of our strong, brave men, Chesti blushes at once and squeezes her naked thighs together, squirming enough to make that special kind of sloppy, slurping sound that only the holiest honeys can make with their honey cunnies. She burps out a giggle and unbuckles her chafing, cotton candy pink belt, rubbing a relieved tummy.

A waiter comes by to eye her plate, as if to goad her into finishing the eighth, lonely-looking cornflake chicken drumstick still on her plate. Between mouthfuls, she carelessly (or, more than likely, out of her utmost level of contented country enlightenment) lets some golden crumbs fall off her doughy chin and into the deep cleavage of her biblical breasts. "Those boys," she starts, unable to hold back a gushing stream of tears, "those soldier-boys, those martyrs -- bronze gods among faggy liberal pussies, them's what they is --" 

"I mean, like, can y'all even fath-- um..." She looks at me like I might have whatever word she's looking for, the one that's clearly above her place and race, regardless. I point at her awesomely big rippling melons. "Fat titties?" I ask, in the most helpful tone I can muster. She titters tits-first, knowing full well one of those over-full things is bound to fly out of two tiny triangle cups on the shiny purple bra that she's trying to pass off as a swimsuit top.

They both do, and she says, "Nahhh," as I start to thumb on each nipple with one hand, to drive my point home. "Like -- oooh, that feels fine-n-dandy," she coos, and I'm twistin' and tuggin' in accordance with the scripture. She eyes the bulge in my overalls, and I shove my clipboard on top of it before she gets any ideas. I'm a married man. (While I know that this alone doesn't stop me from indulging in my right as a real American to bone any bimbo I choose, what can I say? My wife can be a real rough cunt sometimes.) 

Chesti looks at me with those famous shiny, ditzy eyes. "Do y'all know what it's like to be some weirdo skinny-sinny one week, and prayermate of the year the next? Can y'all even understamp what it's like to have missionaries pin up your poster in they hotel rooms, that I'm the thing that best reminds them of home?! ...wait. Under...stables?" Of course we can. 

It's just like the bumper sticker says. EVERYBODY LOVES CHESTI. As you know, the decal was selling like ho-cakes, so my friend Mack Slack made a song out of it. "She's the best-y. She's so chesty!" Even my wife Carmen sings it, only, of course, inserting her name.

After all, she's swishin' 'round these parts with nearly the heaviest, hugest hooters in all of Christ Lick county. Only Carmen out-boobs the bitch, and she's lived in town for at least twice as long. At the risk of over-writing myself into this story, it was only with the cattiest jealousy (and Carm taking away the privelege of number five of my daily blowjobs) that she'd even conceded to let me interview our Chesti. She even made me wear boxers. They feel awful!

When I see now that she's about to topple over and cum just from my light and sanctified teat play, I stop short and give a little silent apology to Jesus for being such a nancy. I whisper in her ear, licking along it as is St. Brittany's proper procedure for cowgirl communication. I put a hand on one of her sticky thighs, stick her face in my armpit, and ask her if she had any special final message to the readers of this magazine.

She squeals and bounds up and sits her big pink ass right down on my lap, grinding, melting and mushy. I have to pry that bare donk off of me, can barely sandwich my clipboard in between clothed cock and unclothed cheeks. (I never say things like this, but... homegirl maybe has too much butt. As it slops all over me, immediately making a large wet patch on my denim, I do realize one thing, anyway -- those hips mean business. Each and every swivel is totally the God's honest.)

She squeals and squeals and squeals, eventually simmering down, plowing through the half of a whole cheesecake she ordered, gobbling it down without a moment's pause, faster than you can say "what a big slutty slut-butt". She licks the glass plate clean of any errant crumbs or whipped cream, her lime green tongue stud clanking against the dish. She looks just like what she is: a drunk bitch speechifying.

She's drunk on dessert, though. One of those cherubs. "Listen, ladies!" she says into her fork like it was a microphone, then licks it clean. "Stop readin'. Start eatin'! Too much thinkin' an' them curves, like, start shrinkin'. If you're a twig, eat like a pig! A bimbo needs to be a li'l chubby for to breed with her hunky hubby. Why use, um... Why use that evil stuck-up mind when yer gettin' such a fuckably fine behind?"

Chesti burps loud and garrolously belches out a few follow-up non-words. She's surely the laziest, sluttiest holy woman this reporter has seen. She looks at me, waiting to congratulate her, or maybe call the dippy rhymes (that she basically rehashed ho-sale from Brittany's Book of Babes - Psalm 42-28-40 to be exact) "profound".

I laugh at her. She laughs at me laughing at her. I wonder if she's even thinking at this point. It's probably all giggles. She tries with all her softened might to continue, clenching those notorious, chunky-but-supple thighs around a finger-stuffed vadge. It's all just little parts of words, with possibly a "babe" or "baby" thrown in. I'm too busy snickering. "...an' America and stuff!"

There you have it, guys. Straight from the #2 Brimbo's mouth. I reckon you probably have a headache right now. (It's okay to feel all stupid and head-hurty. Real American Christians don't need to be smart. Just remember the 3 B's: Breathe, Believe, Breed.) That is, if you're not in the 95% of our readership that simply has a man read our nerdy scientific articles (you know: those complicated ones all about big dicks and bigger ditzes) to you as you do all sorts of yummy stuff to him...

When one of the sexiest saints in all of creation gets up to give me the customary goodbye kiss on each of my pecs, I notice most of my notes are ruined, muddled with so much pussy juice. (Thankfully, Channel 40H crews are there and have recorded our interview for a documentary on "democracy". I have to bribe a jumbo-jugged assistant director with my cock, but I eventually glean what I can from the footage.)

Chesti chirps out to me while shimmying out the door of the diner, flanked on either side by two of our town's curviest, swerviest redheads: Janey and Jilly Juttsenbuttsen, Our Family Way's second fruitful pair of bubbly Twinsies. ("My bimbo beards," she jokingly calls them.) "Tell Carmen I said whaddups!" I won't. But I'll never stop imagining the heaven on earth that will ensue whenever my wife can learn to get over her bullshit issues and invites Ms. Swettacowski over to our trailer for a holy three-way. 

+ - Sandy, Bimbo Mayor + + - _

The first of two journalism-style pieces I wrote recently that I kind of like, but just cannot, for the lady-changing life of me, seem to make them fit in the context of a few bigger things I've been working on. I don't want to sandwich them in at random somewhere, but I also don't want to keep these standalone snatchy-pusses to myself. This one was maybe too similar to the prologue of "Shimmering Fields" to count as a proper sequel. Perhaps some of you will get a kick out of it, though! :)

_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++

(The award-winning campaign promo  [in four separate categories at 2010's Like Awesome Angel Like Art Stuff & Sexy Toy Expo] that helped spell electoral victory for Sandy Bardetti-Majors, Cherub Cove's very first bimbo mayor. At her BBQ brunch inauguration, she famously cooed, "I know this is a man's job, but I's already the queen of handjobs. Just cuz I ain't a man don't mean I cain't carry out His plan!")

"I totally looked like shit," she recounts, "but I felt great! I hadn't showered or anything. I didn't even have my second lunch, and I'd fucked these three really, like, totally adorbs cable guys, but, y'know... folks can just tell I'm really proud and confident-like, by jus' lookin' at my face there. What can I, um... say?" The motto eventually placed below her powerful image said it all. THE SLUT Y'ALL CAN TRUST bucked the establishment right along with her acceptance speech, putting a law in place that banned Brimbos from uttering more than ten words an hour while preparing meals. Readjusting the allotted daily intake of cornbread to ten pieces instead of fifteen. Finally outlawing any and all access to computers, cell phones, and outgoing and incoming mail, once and for all, for every fertile farmgirl.

"We need to make, like, suck-sack-ro-ficies, mm-kay? There's like, twenty ka-billion big-n-bouncy real American princesses being growed-up, like, every second, practically! They need to be raised and rutted right." In a tantalizing moment of political theater, the post office was detonated within seconds of Sandy's announcement. Most in attendance, if they weren't occupied and grunting already, cheered. The girls smacked extra hard on their wads of gum. Farmer pecs twitched in approval. Droopy, candy red lips puckered low. Well-hung hunks hung on every nipple slip.

A meek slut-in-training hazarded a criticism, looking worried. "What about..." Words came slow. It was clear that this one was making progress, if petulant. Nevertheless, Sandy rolled her eyes and filed her lime-colored nails, waiting for her wayward charge to continue. "What about... newbies who have no other way of communicatin' - communicating with they... Gosh, their -- their friends and kinf--uhhh-- family -- b-back home?"

She rubbed at her temples. Purple and pink bangles jangled on her wrist as she soothed her overworked noggin. The color coding signified her level of Mami Maturation: she was 70% cherub. Fingers gooey and drippy, she wiped them off on the sides of her softened hips, one hand dragging above to detour at her navel, caressing a big and gaudy emerald jewel ring. She stopped short of rubbing her head again. One hand's fingers were now occupied with her mouth's idle sucking of them, and the other was still appraising her piercing.

"It's fun here, but I still, like, wanna go home! It's fun to learn how to cook all these differ'nt kinds of grits an' all, but nah lookie here...Mawma don't -- excuse me -- My mother probably doesn't know where I am!" Out of nowhere, she burped, destroying her train of thought, misrepresenting whatever it was she was convinced she had to get out. Another belch got out. "Sometime, I get the feelin' that each and ever' one of us... newbies is itchin' to just git on back home. Y'know... bee-yonder all that there a-fuckin' an' a-suckin'..." 

A bunch of her fellow cherubs tittered. One annoyed guy shouted, "This yer home, yer one and only home in God's American name, ya dang silly slut!" Everybody cheered. The new girl bobbed on a pinky like it was an itty-bitty penis. "No, come onnnnnn-uh! Like, for serious, okie-dokes?" She panted, all sorts of nervy. "Us... new...bees..." Saying the word "newbies" each time had come out sounding like it took some work. Out of reflex, she put a goosebumpy arm over her chest, but one boob pushed out of her grasp. She glanced down, at first startled. 

For five whole seconds, she stared into her hormone-stuffed newbie boobies. Then her soft, made-up face wore a vapid sort of "Oh, yeah!" glaze. A hazy, lazy look that chastised herself, mushy, for thinking those things could possibly be hidden any longer. "Uhh... new-boobies..." A disconcerted frown had evidently gotten sidetracked to the new girl's likely creaming crotch, on its way to her frippery face. When it could, it landed as a mindless grin, and it provoked a drooly dollop to fall down from it. 

She took the other arm off her boobs and let them jiggle to full disclosure in their superficially supportive encasing. What was intended as a groan exited her lush lips as a giggle. A fruitless half-second where she managed to stop giggling only made way for another minute. She made a porno-Marilyn pout at the camera when she noticed it was there, a couple inches in front of her, jogging up from her cleavage.

New girl primped her hair, pushing audacious spectacles up her button nose. "What about... um... the world, like, out there? Sump'n' about, like, it's okay for girls to have small boobies and not wanna suck cocks all the time, or somethin' weird like 'at..." The crowd seethed. She chewed slowly, smacking plump lips, and gazed at the squishy, "blessed and fully strokable" sculpture of Saint Brittany, affixed to stage right in an all-fours pose. In all her holiness, she didn't help the new girl's brain one bit.

"God," the frazzled girl sighed, under a bubbly breath. She said it to find her awkward, high-heeled footing, but said it a second time as a plaintive prayer. She mouthed a wet string of O shapes that couldn't have possibly been words, running what looked like freshly manicured fingers below her ears, along big gold hoops. "I can't think..."

"What about all that hornswoggle, honey-nummy?" Mayor Sandy pretended to be concerned, ripping off a tab to a new Cherub Cream and twirling her hair in confidence. The new girl's eyes watered at Sandy's famous ability to cut through bullshit, really get woman to woman. "Hmmm?" Chattering, coughing, and whispering died down. All eyes were on her. 

The new girl gulped as a much more chesty chick in front of her, who'd been absently grinding onto her, stopped gyrating. As she did, she clicked off a pastel pink walkman that was blaring Shay-Belle's "I Wanna Be a Dumb Slut" as loud as it could, through foofy pink headphones. It was hard not to hum the bright, bubbly melody as she (now without a hill-hottie working her hips onto her, for the first time since she entered the chapel) straightened out her increasingly fertile frame atop her five-inch pumps, propping her tushie out in keeping with the Cowgirl Code.

"Um..." The new girl fidgeted with her severely outgrown bra, huddling two thickened thighs into themselves. A translucent tangerine vest appeared to be some sort of ill-met grab at modesty, but the neon orange lace trim of her copious cups only exposed a quarter of a nipple on either breast. Most cherubs in attendance, more seasoned and sleazy than her, had at least half a nip out in the open, in accordance with the law for proper angel attire at all public events.

The Luscious Legion of All-Star Studsuckers, arranged by hair color in the first four rows, of course, kept their titties naked. As model mega-mammies for every bimbo in need, it was necessary that they twist milk out at every mention of Jesus or Brittany coming from the podium. The audacious girl interrupting the pussy power politicking stared at these curvy, creamy lactating ladies. The one with the leopard print bow in her blonde curls, that really looked a lot like a shred of cum-stained thong, captured the new girl's attention the most. She was emitting so much baby food that it was hard to make out the color of her too-sneer, too-snug bra. 

New girl just watched the milk gush all gooey for some time before remembering what she had to say. "I just wonder if all my credits is gon' -- sorry -- are gonna, like, carry over an' shit." The swirl pattern, speckled strawberry-and-peach, of the new girl's lensless granny glasses, betrayed any semblance of intelligence. The heavy, silvery blue of her eyeshadow didn't boost any fleeting sign of brainpower, either. Teased-out lashes, flecked with rainbow glitter, advertised just where her priorities had shifted. 

"It's just kinda, like, well... like, really... what's the word... meanie-pants, or somethin'!" A half-faded neck tattoo of the pi symbol (partially obscured by a chunky, chintzy "gold" and "pearl" necklace) was there to scream, however muffled, "I'm smart!" So was the clipboard she clutched to her bubbly chest. Only problem: it was clear and hot pink, and it held together three or four issues of Country Cockin'. "I'm a dumbass!" was clearly winning. Mayor Sandy went in for the kiddie-voice kill, cutting the girl down and addressing her as if she was fifteen years younger. 

"Honey. Baby. For a girl, freedom ain't s'pose-ta be doin' whatever it is us dumb slutties only think we wanna do. Thinking is sinking. Open your thighs. Let that sweetness rise. We need to think inside the box. We need to stuff hard yummy long things inside the box. Fuck and suck into our fertile future. Your brain is your weakness. Your bod gets you to God. Family is freedom. Elastic is made to break. A holy slutty soul is hard to fake. 

Help your man bust his nut by wigglin' your booty quickly. Move that gorgeous butt in accordance with Brittany, and cum to the truth all nice an' thickly. Any college that ain't a proper church country college just sucks. Knowledge is fine if you need your mind, but it can't help ya fuck." Someone hollered, "Amen!" "Only wet hot cum can truly please us. Blow every guy like you're blowin' on Jesus." The crowd went bananas.

_ + + Lollipop Taste _ _ + _

(This is, regrettably, all that remains of a very nearly finished, 15,000+ word tale ["Lollipop Training"] that I worked on between 2009 and 2010. I was very happy with it, but suffered a hard drive failure when I was maybe five or six paragraphs away from completion. Lesson learned: BACK THAT THANG UP! :p -- I may or may not attempt a rewrite, but for now at least: here are three slightly out-of-context snippets, presented as they would have chronologically appeared in the story. ::sigh::)


It was an hour from closing time at the drugstore.  Ana was cleaning up the bathrooms in the back room and had finished sanitizing the water fountain.  Nobody else seemed that into doing it, and twenty feverish minutes later, she took her gloves off and sighed.  Everything was sparkly and reeked of bleach.

She threw her supplies onto a stack of greeting card boxes.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a bundle of glossy photos tied together in cellophane.  It rested on top of a full box of identical packages.  Ana noted with disdain that they were surplus Lollipop Girls Halloween makeup edibles.  She felt a terror in her grow.

It wasn't even the second week of October, and already they were throwing out Halloween decorations.  It figured.  Most franchises of her drugstore had sold out of all Angelwear costumes, and it seemed like old Brittanians and new had flocked to her store specifically.  She couldn't exactly complain, though.  Even if she didn't endorse their lifestyle, they brought good business and kept her from getting "transitioned" out of a job.

Cherub Cove, the backwoods breeding town only thirteen unlucky miles away, was clearly on the make.  There was a stronghold of their products dotting the shelves of her store.  The town had bulldozed its way past other, time-proven shampoo and beauty companies.  Ana swallowed, startled.   "And girl, you know I do my own fuckin' nails," came a raspy voice as sweet as pure cane sugar.  

It was Britt.  The wayward student-turned-supervisor struggled to work the lock on the back room door.  Bangles and beads and all manner of other loud, plastic "jewelry" clacked against it.  "Hell nah, bitch, I don't care if Ana's scrubbin' no commode, I'm-a fuckin' smoke some weed!"  She finally forced the door open, shushing her similarly bimboized companion and closing the door behind her.

"I'm sorry?" asked Ana, growing red and defensive.  She pretended she had only half-heard Britt, and allowed herself a grace period of ignorance.  Her bubbly blonde super just took her shades off, revealing heavily mascaraed, bloodshot eyes.  Ana just knew she was already well beyond stoned.  Her supervisor emptied out her handbag into the freshly cleaned fountain.

Ana picked up an empty box for a pregnancy test.  "Britt, I didn't take you for a fool."  With all the different flavored lubes and candy thongs in her purse, she was surprised she couldn't find a single condom.  "What happened to Ani DiFranco being your hero?"  Britt burped and started chomping at a nail.

"Katy Perry's, like, soooo much hotter'n..."  She looked off into a stack of Tide.  Was it inching closer to them?  Why would it be? Ana thought.  "Oh baby, you don't even know what a real man is, do ya, bitch?"  Britt snickered, and opened the back room door to let her bimbo bitch in.

"...and I'm all like, hell nah, namean?  I'm not sucking anythin' unless it smells like straight donkey kong dick!"  The other bubbly bubble-girl laughed and coughed and hacked, and she spit out a neon purple jujyfruit.  She cleared her throat and her voice got light and scratchy.  She introduced herself as Mitzy but she sounded more like the love child of Kellie Pickler and a bunny rabbit.

She straightened out her big boobs and snapped her phone shut.  "You must be Annie!"  she squealed, and gave Ana a bear cub hug.  It was.. most unwelcome, and felt even more so when the bimbo reached around to squeeze Ana's ass.  "This ain't all uh-you, is it?"  Ana swatted the girl's prying hand away, begging, "Please don't call me that.  My name is Audriana."

"Okay, _Audriana_," she cooed, "you're going to feel a slight wetness all over."  Ana squirmed as she felt those boxes of detergent move again.  All of a sudden the room was filled with bimbo sluts, all plastic and panther print pleather, smelling like a bouquet of assorted berries.  

Mitzy stuck the mucus-covered gumdrop in Ana's left ear as a wobbling brunette held her down, affixing another one in her right ear.  Boxes flew everywhere as the bimbos assembled.  Ana couldn't hear a single thing but could plainly see these "ladies" were taunting her and giggling at her expense.  

Sure enough, it began to feel like every pore in her body was glistening.  One of the girls shoved a cherry chocolate dildo-pop in her face, and she tried to ignore the intense feelings of desire now welling up in her.  If her wrists weren't being pinned to the wall by two sluts, she might have straightened herself out.  As it stood, she could only feel her panties get saucier and saucier.  

Audriana trembled when she realized someone was applying lemon-lime lip gloss to her mouth, and that a warm, tingly kind of sensation was spreading from it to the rest of her body.  A tiny part of her was horrified, but the feeling was smothered by her body's overwhelming need to pass out.

+       _       +

"Nobody gets addicted until they've eaten like 30 of 'em," she tried to assure Audriana. "So you should be set.  Seriously, girl, just trust me.  That's all you have to do is just trust me.  Just trust me."  Okay, okay!  Trust her, she thought, baffled.  The smell of all these bimbo whore-mommies was getting to her.  She was lost in a sea of plastic cranberries.

"Fine!" she pouted, and took the sucker, making sure to dilute it with some pudding she brought from home.  She had gotten it at the local co-op.  It was called M'udder's Milk, made by a farm family over in Poren Springs.  The stuff had to be pure.  She rolled the lollipop in the rice pudding and began to suck it.  It was kind of weird.  What kind of sucker has veins?

Audriana didn't exactly know why she was almost fellating an orange popsicle in front of these girls.  She only really knew one of them, and just barely.  But one she didn't was pinching her ass now, and she wolfed it down, feeling a gush of blueberry spurt onto the back of her throat.  

The thing was creaming.  Once that pudding (made covertly in a Cherub Cove GigglePuppy kennel) came into contact with the pop, it had a country-cookin' side effect ten times the power of any bag of Cherub Crunch.  "Hold it in," Britt said, rubbing her back.  "You might as well just swallow it.  It tastes good, right?"

"Besides," she went on as Audriana let out an adorable little gag, "the only thing Cherub Cove loves more than people who squirm and resist, are big ol' udders fer feedin'."  She reached around and began to fondle Audriana's tits.  "Thurr yew go again, a-squirmin' an' a-resistin'..."  Britt teased a nipple with a moistened finger.  "Did you really think you wouldn't become a Cherub girl, Audriana?"

The mocking stung her.  She barely even registered what Britt had said, but the way she addressed her made her feel all weird.  "I told you not to call me that!"  She cried, sobbing between irritated, unprovoked giggling.  Her pussy clenched and dribbled with each tear.  "That's not my name, so don't you go a-callin' me that!"  She held her hand over her mouth in surprise.  A lapse into a fake southern accent erupted naturally, like a burp.

Britt laughed, and the bimbo twins giggled in unison after her.  "Honey, sweetie, hot-titty, I thought that's what you was goin' on 'bout b'fore!"  She blushed at being called "hot-titty" when hers were so wretched and small in comparison to these beautiful hotties.  

+       _        +

"The Lord or... whoever said to go forth and multiply," Britt said, between bites of Cherub Crunch.  She squirmed in her chair then splayed her legs out, revealing a nearly neon pink pussy.  A couple days' worth of stubble dotted her crotch.  She stuffed a sleek, baby blue vibrator in it like it was as innocent as breathing. "And multiplication tables are hot as shit, but I prefer a nice waterbed..."

"Thick Country Sluts" + _ + _ DELETED SCENES

(Here are two scenes from "Thick Country Sluts" I had to leave on the cutting room floor, for various reasons.)'

Madeleine and Gloria:
_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++

The bimboizing credos made her panties cream. She was oblivious and powerless. Let him know you wanna-wanna / really really wanna / suck his yummy dick / ride his cummy prick / grow your hips so thick / and some J-cups would look so nice / bigger bras are all half price! 

It was the chorus, though, that was about to make her knees buckle. America loves a big bimbo, and St. Brittany say: a good girl grinds her hips, shakes those tits for the U.S.A.! A wordless kind of Declaration of Dick Dependence was beginning to graft itself to her soul.

The commands went in through the ear, got pieced together down at her slippery cunt. Everything was revealing itself to Madeleine. Even if her own pussy was still trapped under panties and jeans, it was hot and gushing in compliance. 

The bridge of the nipple-stiffening bubblegum tune was extra-extra-bassy and peppered with staccato cries of unbridled girly orgasm. It sounded like some ho was alternating between moaning "Yesss!" and "Blesss!" She agreed, subconsciously, nodding at how it ended, blank: 

Be a big-n-bouncy backwoods bess / you know deep down it's, like, the fuckin' best! On top of all that, a high-pitched bimbo voiced a pitiful attempt at rap. 

Jesus tells us / that He swells us / country belles, ooh / get pink gum to chew / Now, have a good look at you / lady parts could be bigger / pull that fluffy pink trigger / be sexier, bitch, be biggy-bigger / like, a hundred times more beautiful / pray on a cock to make your booty full / fatty bloom go boom, rock his chub so dutiful / titties blub for sunday school / ya get an F for fertile / moo-moo Myrtle / thinkin's stinkin', fuckin's cool!

Her mind swam along with the big bouncy pink pop beat. The big giant truth, at one point infantile and offensive, though, was now becoming a painfully evident gospel. This thick country slut in front of her had changed for the better. It was true because it made her pussy wetter! 

She grinned, dopey. There was no denying it. The only option was trying it. Black doubts got suffocated sweetly, under hot pink caresses of luxurious belief. It was a lot funner and pinker to just idolize it. To hang on her every word, decided carefully by the sway of her massive hangers. Just try and supersize it...Yer gonna love yer new thighs an' slit!_

"Mmmmm, I fuckin' love this fuckin' song!" Bimbo Gloria pouted for a second before that puffy new mouth of hers drooped open once more. It was a relief to the exasperated rocker chick. This was surely a wise woman. It was all in the boobs. It was like being in the presence of a celebrity. 

She was sidetracked from her flirtation with the cashier, humming and bopping. "This music so, like soulful and totes... juh... jee... Y'know - ohh, heck! Whatever that big word is, what, like... suh-scribin' smart folk!" Madeleine knew exactly what she'd really meant. Genes. 

Good genes. Great genes. Like the kind you pass along by getting a baby fucked into you, after you grow up all girly and good and proper, like the scriptures say. Like on the six-DVD sitcom sermon, "God's Genetics Made Easy For Sleazy Giggly Gals". 

Get the body He wants, the kind every buxom blessed bimbo flaunts. Don't be naughty -- pray as you party... Grow a hot holy hill-bred body! Jesus don't smile upon bad girls that while away in sin by bein' all sickly an' thin. Lay with Brittany's light. Make every stitch strain, and every skirt tight. When you outgrow your fifth bra, you know that thing fits just right! 

By the way -- To be a righteous lay, try Our Family Way's brand new, fertility-fortifiyin' Lime Rickey Lush-n-Thicky flavor of the only church-approved edible beautifier and slutty soul-saver, good Christian favorite Cherub Cream! Just one twelve ounce tube is guaranteed to get you at least one cup size bigger -- tonight! 

Use it as a lube, and there's no tellin' the swellin', for to git you on into the hot pink and bright. Rub it on each boob and make God a happy dude. Warning-this-product-may-contain-the-secret-to-everlasting-joy-and-American-freedom.

Madeleine was scarcely aware that she was absorbing a satellite radio advertisement, as if through osmosis. It seemed like her own brilliant idea to "pile on tons of holy genes to know what being a real American woman means: to really fit into those skimpy hip-huggin' jeans and be just like God's favorite cock-chuggin' queens, burst at the seams, an' clap them fat dimply cheeks for weeks to make our Lord and savior weak, and teach the anti-American meek!"

Wasn't the chintzy pseudo-prayer that closed the advertisement something her own mother had taught her years ago, as something to say each night before bed, right before brushing with Truthpaste? ("The Christian life ain't never bleak when ya wear little tiny skirts so big hot boys can express their lawful right to peek! Let them know your peach is within reach and set to leak!") 

Madeleine tongued her two front teeth, dismayed at how close together they were. She remembered ancient, biblical words that the radio announcer was presently piping into her essence. "If there ain't a big gap in yer smile, y'ain't fit to strut a dang country mile!"

A new song slithered in at the very end of the promo, sealing in her desire to change and grow. But even if it hadn't bubbled up to reinforce Pussy Project: Pink, she still would give over her undivided, stiletto-sharp focus to Bimbo Gloria, her ultimate goddess. 

After all, St. Brittany famously said, in the sanctioned Hawt Mami Moo-measurements checklist toward the beginning of her Book of Babes workout video, that the bigger girl is always the better girl. It was just blessed biology. Kindergarten stuff.

That healthy, fleshy examples of the three F's (femininity, fertility, and family) are to be worshipped above all else, to be a true disciple of her teaching, to be a real Christian American, and to reserve your lawnchair at the foot of God in His hillbilly heaven. 

That it was unlawful, according to the Cow Code, to go more than three months' time at any smaller than a size 12, a 40-inch "dairy"-ere, or a DDD cup. That all those wannabes with teensy C cups that you see every month or so on Maury, claiming to "expose mistreatment and subjugation" of Brittany's bimbos through a "year" undercover in Cherub Cove, will be proven the feckless impostors they're doomed to be.

Those bitches' bubble butts weren't even close to dwarfing a farmhand's paw. Their "breasts" couldn't properly titty-fuck a cowboy dong in the proven Christian way. Any cumshot surely had to be landing on those bee-stings out of sheer pity or charity. 

Madeleine knew all of this. Every good girl did. It made her blood boil to imagine the thousands of "Americans" outside Our Family Way that labored under false impressions. Like turning misbehaving girls ("problem cherubs") into half-human cowgirls or Wheelbarrow Wandas, was somehow inhuman.

Madeleine desperately longed to go up, up, up in dress sizes and really make a mark when it was time for her to pose for the Juggz 4 Jesus! wall calendar. This new mental re-wiring wasn't showing itself in any concrete way just yet. It was being plugged into her psyche like new software on an old computer, waiting for the inevitable upgrade.

She'd only comprehend snatches like these here and there, with her own slick snatch. For now, Gloria was to be her girl-guide. She'd catalogue all this information later, after an orgasm maybe. For now, she just grinned, confident in the comforting, rut-ready radiance of cow country's Christ. 

Right now, blurring and snuffing all reality, with a libido-enriching new destiny that was still having to fight for firm footing, she prayed at the altar of Gloria. She rolled her head, as if trying to let a bunch of brains fall out, to the new country waltz blasting through the shop. ("Every Cherub Needs a Plowboy" had a swaying beat and a simple enough message to take in.) 

She gazed at her girlfriend. Omigoshies, she's like, omigosh totally pink all over! She beamed, thrilled that her goddess would shed some new light on the real American woman's situation. What it means to bounce your lovely lady lumps up and down in the name of Jesus Christ.

Perhaps she'd address the demonization of Missionary Plumbing (the "covert", or "forced" injection of Holy Hill Hormones into the water supply of campuses in every major urban area nationwide) from the socialist liberal mainstream media. 

Or maybe, just maybe, she'd settle those rumors that country-r&b pop tart Jessica Rabid's milk. Does it really come out as fast and easy as a soft serve machine? Does she really produce a gallon every half-minute when she does? And which is it -- does it taste like vanilla frosting, or is it more like lemon custard?

...Or she could just flirt with the boy at the record store. Whatever. That was okay too. Anything she wanted! She was ready. She was a fan. She was a superfan!

Madeleine and Robert:
_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++

Then she farted in her hopelessness, which made them both laugh. He stopped before she could, dangling a feigned kind of entitled maturity. His piercing eyes, lightened now to a cool silvery blue, bore into her, demanding and scornful. 

The sugar-sweet cherry-lemon scent of her tooting kept her giggling, though. "Seriously?!" She blurted the word out as a placeholder. It just sounded like the thing to say. It had more than one syllable. Well... it had to have been better than moaning.

She wasn't sure if it was in reference to the fact that he'd barged in on her half-naked, or if it was merely for amazement at that delicious smell and how something that sweet and comforting could ever come out of her butt. (That this was even a situation to begin with apparently wasn't worthy of consideration.) 

It slid about and hung hazily in the air like some warm, satisfying pastry... with an undertone of... some sort of elemental incense... from prehistoric pagan rituals that hadn't existed in forever... an earthy essence that fortified the body's voice and made the mind take a long nap.

She sniffed. Everything started to feel a tiny bit better. She sniffed. Everything started to feel really incredible and safe and pink. She sniffed. 

...There was something else in the mix now. She sniffed. What was it? It smelled important. She began to feel worried, like she had forgotten something big. She sniffed again to make sure. 

Oh yeah... It was the musky tang of hard, sweaty dick. She almost lost her balance. It was hard to think of a time when she'd ever felt anything close to this giddy kind of desire. It was harder to feel the slightest bit of shame about it.

It took Madeleine half a minute to realize that he hadn't said anything and wasn't growling, too busy sniffing and drifting into her safe sexy pink calm. Her lazily opening eyes drifted to his package before she could give them permission. 

What the -- wow... Robert wasn't completely silent. He was panting. She started to as well, heavily, soon matching up to husk her interest on beat with his. They met eyes and burned. He put one put forward to get closer to her. She stood still. 

Nope. No way. Madeleine half-laughed, with a healthy bit of fear in there. "Seriously?!" she defaulted. Her sudden sharp intake of breath, the wide schoolgirl eyes, clued him in that she saw the full extent of what her hormone-loaded flatulence had done to him...

It gave him an instantaneously erupting hardon of a naughty-looking size. A pink filmy fog blanketed the bathroom. It was really nice, but maybe came on a little too thick. Their breaths grew slow and labored in no time. She opened the window.

Nevertheless, she farted again, really let it rip. Robert grumbled even louder in his powerful way. "You..." Madeleine grinned, happy to have even a moment's pause to do some teasing of her own. She shut her eyes and held her hand to her ear, egging him on, kicking her legs together. 

An image of a waving American flag sprung up underneath her eyelids. "You got some kinda p'oblem or somethin'?" he goaded, brash and bold. He clutched the rather large bulge in the crotch of his work pants and tried to hide it behind a just-laundered sweatshirt. It backfired when he started to hump it, though. 

Madeleine giggled, about to poke fun. He knew the "I got you now" look that followed, stopped her with another grunt upon realizing he couldn't just plug her mouth with his bone, no matter how much it was yelling at him, ordering him to. 

"Urrrnngh -- I said, y'got some prob -- (vicious wolfish howl) Look, yew know I didn't stutter, slutter-butter!" Her jaw went agape. She needed to hear that primal, animal sound again. But she was supposed to be all mad or whatever. So retardedly sexy, though.

"Me?!" she chirped, again misfiring with the high pitch reflex. She knew it was because of being called such a sweet name, whichever it had been. The boy-beastly sounds, that he was still carrying on with at a lower volume and intensity, obliterated her short-term memory. 

He's just my roommate. So what if he somehow grew the kind of cock that belongs to a horse on steroids? Words, words... where were they? Astonishingly, she couldn't locate a single one. She couldn't panic over this while she was getting so wet, though. 

"I don't think so... sir?" She smacked her cheek, mortified. That was her replacement word for "asshole"?! Robert grimaced and grumbled, alternating between scratching a fresh dotting of stubble and some new but super-furry swath of chest hair, fully aware "Listen to me, now." 

Oh no... That totally lame guilty feeling trickling to the base of her spine. They were just playing, right? Madeleine was hoping beyond all hope that eventually he'd stop this game and return her veiny new sweater-cows and raging badonkadonk back to normal. 

She sucked her teeth, surprising herself that she could at least roll her eyes. It was a start, even though she reinforced this with a lurid lick of her upper lip. "I's listenin', sugah..."_____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +_____