CHURCH COUNTRY GIRLS
06. Chunielle and Muh-Mella
“Uh, look, okay? Right there. You just walked twenty feet without taking your eyes off’m. Not even ONCE, girl. I’ve been waiting for it.”
Chunielle looked disgusted at her newly bimbo coworker, now Muh-Mella. Not—whatever she was called, long before.
“All the way past the Starbucks kiosk, then that bad sandwich place, and then onto the elevator!” Just. You know, staring at her own tits.
As you do. Totally normal. Like she was studying for a pop quiz, this girl. I mean—they WERE nice, huge jugs, swinging around in a low cut top, and stuff, but—
Actually. What was she trying to find out in there, exactly? Like, if sweat built up faster in a pair of giant fat tits? As opposed to her obscenely flat old chest? Stuff like that?
Anyway.
Melissa? Did she used to go by Melissa? No. That surely allowed for a better, more quality nickname. One thing was for certain.
“Muh-Mella” sounded like you had a spackling of pink peanut butter on the roof of your mouth, no matter HOW you chose to say it. Try it.
Muh-Mella. It’s like literally one of the dumbest sounding names.
Of course, it could’ve honestly been something like Stacey, for all Chunielle knew. a) She couldn’t remember her own name most of the time lately, herself. (Like right now. Something Chinese-y? Maybe.)
And b) a lot of girls were given completely different names than the ones they were born with. Times were changing. Phone listings and debit cards were all sorts of fucked up, had been that way for months.
But, you know. Give one group of Noo Christian girls a shot at legally changing their identity for religious reasons, and of course corporations all of a sudden will want a piece of the action now, too.
Up until just recently, anyway. The DairyVergent American Welfare Protection Act was signed into law, and that changed everything, and everyone agreed this was mostly for the better. It didn’t matter if some of the stuff was weird. Most people thought it was fine.
It used to be that if you caught the Family Way Flu, someone , anyone iving in your county for more than six weeks could vouch for you, and officially rename you as either of you saw fit.
Not anymore. A Danielle, for instance, could just as well be a Ronnie or a Chelsea-Lou in the algorithmic identity lotto. Anything that didn’t resemble Danielle, that’s all. It was some stupid new provision, tucked into the Noo Patriette Act.
The house and senate were moving fast. Supposedly, some senator, or something in Nebraska, got it in the president’s head, and consequently the heads of the rest of all of us. . .
“You’re just following my heels again?” Chunielle asked, weary patience buckling under the pressing weight of her own new titties. . .
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
Sure, Muh-Mella had contracted the flu like all the other girls, but this was nutty. This was a nutty case. “I knowww,” the big new babe smacked, popping a ginormous grape bubble.
“But it’s like. How often does this happen? You know?” She still hadn’t really looked up, maybe barely made eye contact once or twice for a second. Mella was definitely transfixed, enraptured by her fatty new tits.
“Uh,” Chunielle stammered. It was getting hot in here. In a lot of dumb ways.
The sarcasm engine still chugged along, in spite. “Uh, actually. Every third flu girl contacts the titsplosion too, Maya. It’s not a novelty at all.” She picked at a nail. “Like, AT ALL.”
Even for someone with such a mild-ish strain of the Family Way Flu, Chunielle could still swing around a five-dollar word like a new handbag, or a new titty, for that matter.
Novelty. Damn. Now she’d gone and already forgotten what it meant. So stupid.
“Yeah, but I—” Mella started to drool. So embarrassing. It was one of the biggest cliches of angel girls, but it was also one of the most legit.
Every good Christian slut drools. It’s in the bible. “But, they’re so—” she tried to continue. She really did. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t anything in there with which to continue.
“Fluffy, I know!” Chunielle said. Even Chunielle couldn’t stop staring at her coworker’s titties. Who could blame Frank or Harold? Wait, actually.
She had still signed that thing, right, what was it, that sheet, about the both of them, and other dudes. Uh—“But the whole point of in—filtrating this board meeting is—”
“I never understood them,” Duh-Mella interrupted.
“Understood which, sister?” Chunielle asked, barely able to hide her annoyance. She was starting to predict the answer, because even she wasn’t that dumb, yet.
“What ARE they? If people mad, why they go to a borin’ ass meeting?”
Wow, Chunielle thought—you really are dumb. “Stop. Literally all you have to do is bend over or stick out’m new titties of yours. You remember our protocol, yes?”
Mella sighed in the affirmative, and it came out like air wick cotton candy. “Every time I change a slide, present my ass with angel pride. . . ”
“And?”
“Every time a new board member sits, I smile big and primp my tits.”
“Perfect.” She grabbed the girl’s ass. It was definitely fatter, roomier. She could get any hetero dick she wanted, now. “Thank you,” she told her, just before Chunielle dipped a knuckle in her cooch.
“Now say it again.”
“Oh, your arms is so big girl now!” Chunielle squeaked and fizzled, readjusting and administering brain power to carnal, erogenous areas of the body and mind. “Really soff.”
It was true, though. Mella’s whole body, her face—and even, it seemed, her curly pink and blond hair, had all gotten a little tubbier. She was cuter, or something. A big cute little bimbo in training.
“Did you want lunch anytime soon? I could eat at the Tiddie Troff, girl. I’m so hungry!” She couldn’t stop giggling. And neither could Danielle. Or Chunielle, right. Chunielle. Right?
“I had—what’s the one that’s NOT breakfast?” Chunielle decided not to stop the bitch. No helping big bimbos, especially no helping them girls learn stuff well past their level of cum apprehension, or...
It was almost cheating, trying to make them SMARTER. As if. “Breakfast!” The thick new dummy eventually shouted. Then she insisted it wasn’t her that farted. But it was. Everyone knew it. She had farted out of excitement. It smelled like cotton candy energy drink . . .
* * *