(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...
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"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.
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