+ - 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! :)

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(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.