(Here are two scenes from "Thick Country Sluts" I had to leave on the cutting room floor, for various reasons.)'
Madeleine and Gloria:
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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:
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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..."_____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +_____
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