Norm’s
By Limerick
PROLOGUE: PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE
It was an ad for lattes that convinced Danica that she was no longer in control, really, of her fucked-up, slut-ass body.
It had not been hard to play dumb, to treat the big round ass and the bulbous boobs and the screaming libido as a fun vacation from boring and ordinary life. And it had all happened very fast. In just a week she had outgrown her clothes, bursted through all her bras, watched her pubic hairs circling the drain, detaching one by one as she rubbed at herself in the shower. A neat trip to a nympho world, an adventure in a hot and wet reality that turned on sex. Things felt good, after all—she was awash in the most pleasurable of chemicals, her ripening body enjoying itself with lush new sensations.
It was just a regular advertisement for pumpkin spice. A fall-themed, boring poster that she had passed any number of times. It had—had—excited nothing in her. Had led to no purchases, created no emotions. She had passed it with crisp strides in her most comfortable jeans, treating it like part of the foliage—it was just fall coloration. Maybe she’d make a joke about it later. White girls and their pumpkin spice.
But now she was the tentative driver in a body with a gumball clit. There were unnerving statements being made about irreversible brain changes from the newly sexy scientific community. Research subjects stroking themselves in the MRI machine.
Danica realized her body had come to a complete halt. She realized that she really wanted… really needed… badly needed… something fatty and sugary. Craved it—god, everything was a crave, all of a sudden.
And she was getting extremely horny.
Everything was horny. There was nothing that wasn’t tinged with base, animal fucking. She couldn’t just be hungry, anymore. God, no. Eating was like previous cocksucking—only faintly matched by when she, past Danica, was actually suckling hard on a boy’s dick. Now she felt the same wet, hot glow, the same anticipation, from just sucking on a straw, from eating a hot dog. Her body craved the proteins, craved the sugar, craved anything that was even slightly connected with pleasure.
“Oh, come on,” she said, weakly. And then slurped as a skein of drool threatened to make its way out of her mouth. Even her voice was bimbo-y, her voicebox betraying her, simpering and soft and melting at the best of times. Every girl she knew sounded half-asleep at best, speaking in a near whisper, studding every conversation with involuntary errms and uhhs that made them sound so, so stupid.
Danica fought her body. She didn’t need this. She was DONE stuffing herself with the fuel that had made her go from waif to whore, endow her with big chest pillows. Just to fit in her pants she had to let the buttons go, her boobs squished in a boyfriend t-shirt from the back of the closet. No bra. There wasn’t any need.
But, god, oh, man, even if the rest of her brain was atrophied and useless and sacrificed to a pleasure center the size of an apple, she could still imagine like heck. Imagine a warm, sweet, slightly salty coffee slush down her throat, filling her with a deep and contented surge tinged with a relaxed horny fuzz. Her tits would probably get a bit bigger. The caffeine would make her hornier. The sugar would make her happier. Why deny herself that? Why deny herself anything? Why not spend life in heat, reduced to a big horny animal that fed and fucked?
There was a time not long ago she could think why not to.
But it was hard, so really hard, to figure out why she shouldn’t go inside and get the biggest fucking latte of all time, slurp it down while fingering herself, riding a mild orgasm. Self-denial was—there was nothing in it. None of the fun flashes Danica had so quickly gotten addicted to, the brain-dissipating waves that accompanied each of her many orgasms.
“Ohhhh, man,” Danica said. She sat down on a chair. She was just drooling, now. Her chest heaved. Her tits felt like they were on fire. It wasn’t fair that they felt that good. Tits were just fat. She had treated her boobs previously with minor exasperation, occasional fondness. They had felt okay if stroked. Now they were veiny, thick things with bright red nipples, and they were directly wired to her brain. It was clear they would enjoy a milky latte.
She really wanted to stroke herself. And that was pathetic. That was part of her plan with this uneventful autumn walk—to train herself out of the pussy-petting, slit-stroking routine she had gotten herself into, where her fingers automatically slipped underneath her pants. She had finger-fucked herself for a solid week, strumming on her clit monotonously, cumming religiously. It was soothing and addictive and, Danica was realizing, a part of her. She had looked herself in the mirror and reminded herself, with all the sternness her fat lips could muster, that she was NOT just a bundle of nerve endings that could walk. She had plans that didn’t involve penises. She DID.
Maybe she did. God, she could really go for a latte. Danica sat on her hands. Was she really addicted to—to EVERYTHING?? Had she really been remade so thoroughly that horny teenagers had more self-control? Pleasure wasn’t something people could really fight. It felt good, therefore it was good, and right.
She stared at the ad. There was a little puff of steam coming off it that was probably photoshopped. She could practically taste the cinnamon, the hint of what might be ginger. The fat cloaking the surface, the milky white cream pouring down her throat.
Danica was so wet. She was wet all the time, practically sloshing. It had been mortifying for a bit, the feeling of pussy juice trickling between her thighs. Like she was the most desperate whore, the most cockhungry slut. But then it had gotten normalized—EVERYONE was pussy-wet, everyone was hot and horny. It’d be weird if she wasn’t perpetually dripping, ready to go. Her pants were soaked. It was fine. She’d passed a few other ladies taking tentative walks out in the world, and they were all hot and horny, ready to go.
It was almost reassuring that she could rationalize. Like, dumb girls didn’t rationalize this hard and this creatively, right? They didn’t bargain with themselves, they just drank delicious lattes while touching themselves. So it was good, right, that she could tell herself—drink the latte, but you can’t touch yourself. While in the store. Wait until she was outside. There was still a part of her that wanted more than maximum pleasure, maximized time. Look at her—she was practically normal, sitting outside on a pleasant autumn day, looking inside a coffee place, just like before she had gotten a clit like a joystick. True, she was drooling, and her thighs were a matted wet mess, and she would happily say yes to a dick up her butt, but right then—at that moment—she was practically Danica.
She had even tugged an old hoodie on—a faded green one, half-zipped to just beneath her boobs. Yes, there were cum stains on it now—she had invited an old boyfriend over and painted her apartment white. And there were six or seven other guys mixed in there. She had combed her hair back and put it in a bun. She wore glasses—that had to mean she was still pretty smart. They were still her old pants, just wet between her legs. And y’know, there were parts of her that weren’t tarted up and super-sensitive and fuck-friendly. Kidneys. Presumably. Other organs.
Danica’s cell phone buzzed at the worst time. And yes, it was her fault for keeping it in her back butt pocket, squeezed in there, where the alerts would ricochet across the tender expanse of her ass. And yes, she had turned vibrate on for everything and kept it all the way up. She had to. There weren’t batteries to be found in the entire city for vibrators. Smoke alarms had been cannibalized. Danica had burned hers out immediately. The best she had been able to do was find some dumb iphone game that buzzed at a score and play the hell out of it. That plus stick anything phallic well up her slit.
But it reminded her body that she was saying no—denying it stuff it wanted—sitting uselessly and pointlessly with her hands squeezed underneath her butt cheeks. Made it upset. She was HORNY and she was HUNGRY. Danica tried to moan through it, but it was useless.
And what the hell was she trying to prove, and to who? Who in the world CARED that she was fighting herself, fighting her urges, fighting to keep herself from the twentieth orgasm of the day? Who would care if she pulled her pants down and fingered herself? Who would give a single shit if she leaned over the table and made herself public property, into a receptacle like the garbage can nearby. That garbage can, lucky bastard, had more pumpkin spice in it than she did. The employees would be glad of someone to do on their smoke breaks. Customers would see it as a convenience, a grade A piece of ass willingly plumping up for friendly neighborhood fucks. Hell, she’d be getting into—inventing even—an exciting new career as a local buttslut. No doubt in a month or so all the good public hole jobs would be taken, and she’d regret not getting into a primo spot with a nearby bathroom for freshening up.
No denying it—she was doing it for old Danica, no-longer-around Danica, out of a faded and idealized version of herself that was gone, way gone. She existed in photographs and in pairs of underwear that didn’t fit big new hips. Books that weren’t gonna get read, to-do lists and MFA programs that were no fuckin way getting completed. Like her nice new pussy and her great new tits and her overall super-hot smokin self were slaves to this boring bitch who had way too many opinions about Netflix programming. Who had every DVD of the fucking Gilmore Girls.
Danica got mad at Danica. Fuck Danica! Old Danica had a sex life that was 90% snarky comments on social media. A few shit dates were she had—good lord—DISCOURAGED sex, had sought men who were respectful little shells with decent careers. Had weighted a good sense of humor ten-fold over getting reduced to a mindless rutting beast of pleasure from the first skillful stroke. Had got nervous about excessive dick size! All in service of some boring existence where the highest possible achievement was writing a book that eggheads would approve of. God. Had sucked two dicks ever. No anal sex. Talked a big game about getting head and then would never dream of getting licked out like an ice cream cone—too embarrassing, somehow.
It was maddening. True, new Danica was sort of an animal. Wasn’t particularly good at math beyond ten fingers, or interested in culture that didn’t involve banging. Fucked only to teen pop anthems, had deleted every boring drama from the DVR, and now just left porn running nonstop on the widescreen, volume turned up high. Was just another pussy slut in a country now full to the pink brim with them. But hey—she knew how to have a good time, at least. There were worse measures of success than a bajillion fantastic orgasms a day.
Danica was vaguely aware she was stroking herself. It helped her think.
Anyway, old Danica was gone. She had tried, really. Had attempted page one of Middlemarch a dozen times—highlighting each word, dictionary next to her—dictionary then highlighted. Had read it out loud, haltingly, aware of how phone sex she was making it sound. Had thrown it across the room a dozen times, frustrated and scared at her own struggles, her wandering hands, the sweaty fuck-fantasies that were so hard to fight. Had listened to the audio book, had listened to the audio book while fucking a boy. Had finally left it there in the middle of the living room, abused, wet with juice from boys and girls, and decided she’d start with something easier. Like a walk down to the coffee shop.
Danica stuck her fingers down her pants. It wasn’t exactly hard to find her clit. It was really big, lately, and drenched. Those familiar waves of pleasure started to hit at her.
“Gawwwwwddddd…” she mumbled, staring at the ad. A customer walked out—a man—and gave just the briefest look at the bright blonde slut stroking herself outside. He gave her a nod and moved on.
Maybe it was time for a little acceptance, a little self-care. Yes, she was an addict to pleasure, rubbing off in full view of everyone, with all the control and discretion of a junkie. But she was hot as hell, and came like gangbusters with a single spank of the ass, and maybe that way okay. What was she so scared of? A lifetime of satisfying cums? Sampling every penis in the world, making tons of great friends, and fucking them? Why would she WANT to go back to worrying about foreign policy, and her bank account, and obsessing over comments left on dating apps? Just last night she’d fucked a guy who jogged by her house. He’d put his dick right in her ass, made her cum a half-dozen times. Now he was fuckbuddies for life. Was that so bad?
And why the hell not enjoy a beverage? The CALORIES? She was burning the hell out of them. Danica ate when she wasn’t fucking—and eating felt great. Was she trying to maintain some girlish figure? She was all tits and all ass, and that wasn’t going anywhere. She needed the carbs! She could burn them off right there in the store just by banging the barista, if that was still an issue. If she sucked off a customer while getting tag-teamed from behind she could probably risk a biscotti and still stay calorie-neutral.
An orgasm shook her with its usual fury, shaking Danica, her pussy squirting and spasming as she half fell out of her chair. She caught herself and hauled back up, wiping her wet fingers on her hoodie. It smelled like the rest of her—sweet and hot.
There was a frisson of the old fear, the old Danica, but Danica swallowed it back. That’s all that was left—pointless shame, pointless worry, pointless concern. Carping and whining about everything that felt fucking fantastic, hewing to behavior that made no sense.
Danica was decided. She stood up, wiggled back into her pants. A tit had come loose at some point—she stuffed it back in. She deserved this. She had no reason not to. She would suck that latte to the dregs, and then every male in the store, clockwise, until she was totally full on cum and spices and could head home for an enjoyable round of fucking passerbys. All with an aftertaste of warm cream and cinnamon on her heavy, ruby lips.
Danica waddled inside.