CHURCH COUNTRY GIRLS
VII: Bimbo Waves
Sometime after Civil War II—
Clyde showed off his fourth wife of the house. The other two were in the stables, cleaning up or taking a nap or something. He didn’t care. He had enough super-wives to manage.
He sniffed. “The black girls,” he motioned to the wife he didn’t introduce or acknowledge in the two minutes before, “are a whole lot of fun.”
Amala wore big pink headphones. There was no chance she’d be able to pick up on the kind of hurtful back and forth of the two guys.
Big Girl Flu Parties.
Contract the bimbo disease, with a cool friend, or a hot chick, maybe both, maybe… two at once? Dumb. Everything was feeling so warm and DUMB, all of the sudden.
“You LIKE the way you can still see my big li’l kitty under my big fat ass, dontcha babe?”
“Touch it. Touch your big bimbo wife’s big booty behind.” He reached out his hand.
“Call me crazy,” he said with a muggy shiver, panting. Hard as hell, and it didn’t matter if he hid this from his woman or not. Bea-Bea was ready to go, whenever. She wiped off like a porky little sex doll.
“But it feels like your butt is growing in my hands. Like right now. Like. Help.”
He chuckled.
“I know,” she snapped, mildly annoyed. Why did he have to go and push it like that? He almost ruined the moment. Fuck… it was hard to think for a second.
“I just keep growing, it sucks and stuff… but it turns us both the fuck ON, so shut UP, please.”
It was hard to tell who initiated the fucking. When did they start fucking? It was a little bit scary. They were both high as fuck on weed and Noo Christian pheromones, though.
Some idiots called it “the bible blur.”
It was basically just being in heat, and growing big sex organs and weird exaggerated faces, not always on the right side of pretty.
She worked her thick new body fast, and both of them stopped talking.
“You’re a dork. You didn’t give a shit about me before I caught the flu, and let’s face it—you’d never even look my way if I hadn’t sprung this ass.”
Her man blushed. They both knew it to be true. Family Way Flu, the semi-artificial fertility exploder, had changed the trajectories of many young ladies’ lives. Particularly the non-already-sluts...
“These cows up here?” La La continued. “Eyes up here. Would you.” She glowered at him. Oddly enough, this felt like wading into “last straw” territory.
It wasn’t the eighty dollars that went missing off of her bureau.
“You’re forty nine, Laura. You look less than half that, and you know it.—“Of course I KNOW it!”
Ada was always pretty slim. She started to pull down her panties to pee. “Well no,” she pouted. “No, I don’t have to —“
At the risk of being a douchebag or something, maybe something worse, he grabbed her.
“You think you can just do that, huh? Are you forgetting that I’m married? To your boss! Ain’t not ashamed to go topless, and you can’t make me feel ashamed, buddy.”
It was her first time out with the new body. THAT new body. Men were so typical—her ass was so fucking BIG now, and still she had to compete with other women...
“Uh. Yeah. I like what I see.” He was almost going to do a dumb, doofy Jim Carrey thing. Gross.
“I never met her before the Christmas party, none of us girls did. And now by the time uh... your ‘morial Day picnic, ever’body look and acts like her. Pretty bizz-bizz, whatever-word.”
“Bizz bizz? — oh, bizarre…o?” Fuck. The word was slipping away from HIM, too. It was true, what they said about that Family Way Flu. It totally made you more dumber.
They both kinda loved the Memorial Day work picnic, though, which obviously only came once a year, but sometimes took weeks to prepare, especially on the wives’ end. For example, the problem arose of clothes: what to wear on expanded assets, rear end candy...
“Fine. I’ll take my tits out for you to jerk off onto, but you can’t cum on them again. That was a one shot deal, okay?” She couldn’t help but smile and blush just the same as him. They shared a look.
“Literally,” she winked. She looked tired and brain-drained. He groaned. It was so corny. So base, so bonkers. She’d NEVER emit a joke like three weeks ago. Never-ever something so dumb.
The realization made him rock hard for some reason. Maybe the chemicals. He had to think… dunh, not-slow…
He waved the bag of weed in front of her. It crinkled and it smelled so good, like eco-friendly cleaning spray, for the soul. Her knees actually buckled. “Okay okay. One last time.”
“You’re bad. You’re bah-boy.” She had at some point acquired the gummy, sticky goo-goo rasp of your average slutty prattle.
Borderline saccharine ASMR in the sheets — and a hearty diplomat in Leboutins for your mom and dad to meet, she was a keeper... As if it was his decision...
“This is wrong. This is so wrong. You’re my best friend’s little sister.”
“Dude, get over yourself. You wanted this. You rubbed the tonic on my ass. That’s why it’s big now. That’s why we both want you to fuck it.”
“Mr. Peters send me over to your apartment permanently, to welcome you to the company.”
“What do you mean, permanently?”
“I’m your maid and I suck your cock, shit like that.”
Felicia felt wistful as she got out of the shower, pulling on one of the last sports bras that still fit her, and finished toweling off. This was probably the last Monday morning she’d be able to complete her jog, let alone keep up with her best time. Not at the rate she was growing, anyway.
It was kind of weird to think about, so she tried not to. But there was a sadness in all of this, and even that made her kind of horny, too.
Why was she in his house? Using his kitchen, no less? What gave her that right?
Oh right. Marriage. Did that.
“Hi, Brian,” she said, bored. She fiddled with her tea bag. Her fingers were covered in hot pink gunk. What the fuck was she drinking? Or… eating… “How’s the website coming along?”
“Website? Oh, right.”—She was supposed to be making one for somebody. For rent...
She was too busy burning brain cells. More Candy Cuntz games for now.
Derek remembered Kara as forthright and determined, but sex didn’t enter into it. Now that she was bigger, and seemed just slightly dumber, it made perfect sense.
She’d use her thickness to her shrewd advantage.
“Where is it!” Sillya bayed, jiggling with flesh rippling, looking everywhere. She looked everywhere, and she looked HOT doing it.
A big, bad bitch. She was still rippled when she sat down. Some tight Christian cellulite.
“WHERE. Is it!” she screamed, but her kitty-cat new voice obviously betrayed her.
Her boyfriend, barely conscious of who or where he was at the moment, just gawked. So bigg...
It was so fat, and he was so transfixed. It took him another few seconds before he could remember to at least superficially pay attention.
“Brandon! Have you seen it?”
The church and bimboization group had developed their very own biologically determinable disease. Cream Channel, the newly bankrupt news org, was beginning to take local dispatch from church country.
Then it marketed the serums, panty liners and rubber / spandex underthings right back to the new, worshipful women.
“I used some of those chats for the prayer group newsletter,” she didn’t text, almost did though. Her panties felt wet, before she remembered—
“Oh shit, thass right—I’m an all American big girl GODDESS right meow.”
All the skeptics and dabblers and culture tourists were ultimately all just kidding themselves. Hipsters and intellectuals were proving to be the easiest marks. The creative class was losing sophisticates in their 20s and 30s, in droves.
“Where Have All The Geniuses Grown?” in plain fact, lamented one New York Times headline. Young, disillusioned women with disposable incomes — not to mention deep-set needs to be seen — had long traded on edginess to stand out in a crowd. There was nothing novel about it.
Lately, though, there were few things edgier to the hip indie demographic than pushing the limits of how thoroughly they could soften and smudge their own, well, edges. Edges and corners of cheekbones, chins… elbows, ribcages.
All a sudden, thin and trim and fit was O U T. Bumptious and buxom, and jiggly, oh god the jiggly, was the motherfuckin’ best.
At first, it was as fashionable a trend as any other. Chicks loved to be asked stuff like, “When and where did you pick up that awesome rack?” because they could brag about how they, indeed, hadn’t sprung for plastic surgery.
That it only took about eighty bucks’ worthy of naturally nutritional hormone supplements, to get that impressive boost, and all those ooh-la-la’s.
Then, the new challenge was — of fucking course—to JUSTIFY their sometimes blossoming, often groomed adherences to (let’s face it) laughably outmoded rules of soft bigotry, not to mention anti-intellectualism, misogyny, patriarchy, and finally, totally... submission.
Sucking cock on your knees while you’re stroking some other cock with your not-usually-handjob-friendly fist, cleaning dishes and scrubbing kitchen or the bathroom with a dick in your butt...
…while this was positively awesome stuff that felt so awesome, it wasn’t COOL. Right?!
“Becoming a Dumb Young Slut Gave Me This Big Fat Butt. So What!” read an op-ed by Professor Princess Rumpybuns, an early retiree of Princeton University. She had triplets eight years into her tenure.
Formerly identifying as Patricia Robertson, the psychology chair was one of the first in her department to willingly transform. She went on 60 Minutes, sat in front of Barbara Walters, the whole deal. It was fucking crazy.
She went from 58 years old and frail, with a crippling osteoporosis, to sturdy and ripe and 20 with wide, indestructible birthing hips… in just three weeks after exhibiting the first symptoms of Family Way Flu.
The article sparked a firestorm of contentious debate about the ethics of willful bimboization, and its place among feminist academics across the nation, and in time, around the globe.
And what happened, you might be wondering, to nearly all those who penned the strongest and most forthright polemics and rebuttals on said topic?
You’ll never believe it. Overly endowed, excitedly illiterate human livestock. Every last cocksuckin’ one of ’em.
It was soon crystal clear, to the more level-headed news outlets and the sane portion of the populace left, that this was all a sort of ditzy domino effect.. one that couldn’t be stopped or even slowed.
Colleen feared that she was seeing the tail end of it, and the new epoch looming on the horizon certainly didn’t look the least bit habitable to her, or to any faction of the neo-secular opposition.
She was being paid a few thousand dollars in freelance by Blissdust Monthly, a new journalism curio that was said to have been independent.
In reality, both its webpage and print versions were indeed published with big time conservative dark money. They were helped out on the sly through further funding from Our Family Way and Brittany’s Blessons ARTV.
She was being paid a few thousand dollars in freelance by Blissdust Monthly, a new journalism curio that was said to have been independent.
“Femocrats are all weak BABIES at a fundamental level, wouldn’t yew agree,” Baby Pink boasted during closing statements of the previous week’s debate.
“Really. They spout their sad utopian, atheist, and deminazi claptrap, but deep down, in their hearts and in their loins—they crave the fruit of holy submission that only we — the ultimate spiritual and political congregation, folks, come on — can truly taste and appreciate.“
“Everybody knows it! Our Family Way has successfully up-converted and, like, and super-blessed over two million new neighbors in our celestial hometown.” She started clapping along with everybody else.
“Wow,” she congratulated herself, before or at least with everybody else. “Wow.”
“That’s a great, big, big number, folks!” More clapping. Senator Pink aimed her bangled wrist over to the old mic and clapped into it. Soon, all the girls were doing jumping jacks to the beat of her bracelets.
“And get this: this is just within the past ten MONTHS. Ten months! Can y’imagine? These numbers ain’t lyin’, sons an’ daughters. No sir. Out with the old, in with the boobie chew! If God’s grace hasn’t grown on you, believe you me: it WILL.
“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but mark my words. It will happen. You will meet the new — the true—Y.O.U. There’s just nothing left that you can do. Accept it. Accept the bible binary, for it is God’s own map to real, actionable gender equality. We will all become the women and men of our dairy dreams and hard driving destinies.“
“We will all grow, and we won’t stop growing until we’re perfect in God’s thankful eyes. Our Family Way will not REST until each and every man, woman, and whatever gives up the lie of their modern life, gives in and goes straight on up into the softening, soothing one and two, of pretty-pretty pink and big, baby-makin’ blue.”
The crowd went wild. “Real Americans strive to be better. We want to be bigger, bolder people, and, if I could be a bit naughty here for a hot second — we also want to to do bigger, hotter people.” Everyone reacted as if this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, or would ever hear in their lives.
“It’s true! Our motto for goal oriented, simplified thought limitation is so simple, even longtime followers of Our Family Way can get it: Less pretentious, and less adventurous. That’s it! The bible told us that this is the way to salvation, through constant personal and marital improvement by way of the body. Never the mind! You don’t need it, so don’t heed it!“
“Men: get bigger, to be more courageous with your women. Women: get bigger, to be more curvaceous for your men. It’s not rocket scientists, people. No. It’s good old fashioned, heart-in-a-locket science. It’s a real, simple, titjob-in-the-megachurch-parking-lot brand of biblical biology.”
“We always’ve always been this way,” she choked that little misstep out, “have always felt this natural inclination from the beginning of time, way deep down. We strive to maintain a loving Christian home if we have one, or we seek to make adjustments to thet there, and more easily attain such a level of biological perfection therein that might befit Our Family Father, way up there in the friendly skies of good ol’ soft American heaven.“
“We thank him for his tireless commitment, as he effortlessly restores and improves our skin tone and elasticity, bone density, animal magnetism, fertility levels, erogenous zones, and the size, weight and shape of our sex organs. We bathe in the juices of the flesh so we can reflect the shine of His love. This makes us more beautiful than the angels above. We want it to be this way. We need it to be this way. We need and breed Our Family Way.”
“And we want to breeeeed, gooey ladies and jizzy-men, oh yes, we DO!” An incredible barrage of hoots and hollers and whistles. “This movement is unprecedented. We’ve harnessed the secrets of everlasting life, the rules of the righteous. We’re bringing real Christian change to this country. Carnal cooperation is the only path to a sanctified nation.“
“And it’s a fun thing, it’s a really sexy thing, this new worship. Nerds and phonies alike can all talk and talk, until they blue in the balls, about how we spittin’ in the face of women’s rights for womens, or forcin’ our agenda on they bodies by demandin’ permanent donation of their wombs, or that we even wrong for humanity in general, and blah-blah-blah. They actually say all that! Can you buh-lieve it? It’s silly.”
“How are we bad for humanity? How?! Tell me. I’m curious. We’re making more and more new humans all the time, and they’re Family Way Christians, so, really, they’re the best humans. It’s destiny. Critics complain all the time: we’re erasing the concept of free will. I disagree. Let me tell you sump’n.“
“Once a decent Christian woman, operatin’ on the right side of American history, can decide for her own self that she can eat as much food as she pleases, make as much love as she can stand, with whoever and however many men and women as she’d like, and get as fluffy-curvy in the way she needs, to best rope in a steady stream of healthy mates —aaaand then to somehow be disrespected in the role she still manages to find time and energy for, as mother, as giver of life, as big and sexy queen of her herd?! It’s a national disgrace, what Our Family Way’s women have been dragged into by the heathens on the professional left.”
“Well, in closingour type of fertility freedom ain’t your grandmammy’s pro-life, no sir! Nuh-uh. We on the crest of a brand new wave in da arena of family plannin’, baby, hoo-wee, we is! And ain’t nobody got the right to tell you hot mommies how to be a proper woman but you! And ain’t nobody got the right to keep you hot mommies from havin’ fun, indulgin’ all that flyyy-ass flesh you got there, not if I’m president, y’all!“
A standing O from all the devout women in the town hall, every one of them proudly showing off massive displays of protruding cleavage, and not a single one equipped with anything smaller than the most magnetic grade of shelf ass. Most of them, also, had at least a baby bump. It smelled like progress in there.
“No, sir! Nuh uh! This be the super soft, luscious new look for the body politic! Thank all y’all slutties, I hope some of you gals I’m seein’ tonight go on and git yourselves good and knocked-up swole by the end of this very night, now, y’hear? Stay happy, horny, and holy, my pretty little big-ass hillbillies!” Riotous clapping and adulation.
“Listen up, you all. I’s just have one more thing to remind you. You owe it to America, and you owe it to yourself. Take undying freedom and fertility and run with it. Our bounty is all yours. You know, Saint Brittany once said, ‘Grow the flesh so the flesh be made big enough to feed and clothe the human spirit.’ Now, isn’t that a beautiful statement? It really is. If there’s any better idea to unite our broken country, betties and mastermen, well... I’D. LIKE. TO. HEAR IT!”
That last bit ended up being the biggest applause line of the night. She’d picked up over a dozen new congressional endorsements the next morning.
One pundit joked that the only thing that could possibly prevent Baby Pink from becoming president was if all beauty snacks and medicated Angelwear had somehow stopped making its users grow. In other words… very unlikely.
It was a cynical appraisal, but most everybody knew it was pretty much true.
Late night talk shows lampooned the coercive phenomenon until most of their guests were coming out as proud converts to Our Family Way. The programs were thus backed into corners and had no choice but to give Man Plan and all its affiliates what amounted to free ad time.
Man Plan took root in the little and little-known hamlet of Cherub Cove, Pennsylvania. Most of Hollywood and Washington had gone pink within a year of the first known strain of Family Way Flu.
After destabilizing humanist hubs in urban areas, the suburbs were well known as being the org’s final frontier.
Think pieces in progressive magazines jumped rhetorical hoops. It didn’t matter. The Bimbo Wave would never be stopped.