DROOL
PROLOGUE
It wasn’t sure if it was alive or not. It wasn’t a big concern.
It was sure of what it was—vibrant, energetic, vital. It wanted to see new things, feel new feels, expand and grow and grow and spurt and grow.
There was so much fun to be had, among nervous systems and on the inside and outside of glands. Dancing among hormones, feeling the excited strum of the pudendal nerve. Neurons cascading in a sudden flood. Tooling around on hijacked fluids. Turning the spigots on in closed-off and shut-down areas, declared ‘done’ since puberty, just to see what would happen.
Lots of stuff happened.
It didn’t mean anything bad by it.
It wanted the best for everyone.
CHAPTER ONE:
“Question,” Billy said. “And I want to be clear. This is my only question. After this, I will have no questions.” She had her hand up, and her back was just as straight.
“Yes, Billy, you have exactly one question,” Darcie said.
She’d chosen to do the product rollout when the coffee shop was slow, and now regretted it. There was a clutch of regulars watching the Billy and Darcie show. But holding conversations after closing meant a long and involved conversation with Billy about overtime rates and vacation accrual.
“The question is, does this mean the coffee shop is on the verge of bankruptcy, or is it more, on the road of eventual failure?” Billy said.
“We,” Darcie lied, “Are financially very healthy, Billy. This is what is called, growing the business. We are providing more products for sale, and, when they sell, we will make what is called, profit.”
Billy did not accept this. However, she had made a big deal out of only asking one question. She was not tall, but nonetheless had two inches over Darcie, who had issues seeing over her own cash register. Billy’s prized cloud of curled black hair added another few inches. Darcie saw her text the coworker next to her, so that Tommy could ask her question instead. Darcie hurried.
“So, three new menu items,” Darcie said. “First, we are going to break open the shackles that Fall has on pumpkin. Pumpkin is merely a gourd that is sweet and delicious all year round, and we are embracing that, with Spring Pumpkins.”
She looked over at the regulars. If there was enthusiasm for the idea of March cinnamon-spiced pumpkin-flavored coffee-based drinks, it did not show in their eyes.
Of course, they were not the target audience, her Daddy’s—Darcie corrected herself, HER store—was located just a little too far from the local community college. Nonetheless the co-eds, with just a little too little money to spend, flooded in after classes, and bought not quite enough beverages. They just about broke even if Darcie also skipped some lunches.
“Item TWO,” Darcie said. “We are expanding our successful salted caramel mochas to a broader line of salted drinks. Now...” she held for suspense. “Our entire line of drinks can come with salt in it.”
That got the attention of Jiya, their most faithful customer. She and Billy shared similar, unamused expressions and clipped tones. “What if I bring my own salt?” she said. “Is there a corkage fee?”
Billy finished her treatise, and slid it to Tommy, Darcie’s other employee. It was an impressive sign of trust.). Tommy always gave the impression of waking up, confused, in a body he didn’t recall owning. The amount of glassware he fumbled and broke was now unremarkable. He had somehow broken several metal spoons, a steel carafe, and on one memorable occasion a plate glass window.
“Okay, here we go,” Tommy said. “It turns out I have a question.” He cleared his throat. Billy’s lines emerged in his boyish baritone. “Isn’t this just the usual end-of-cycle capitalist dead-end suck-a-thon where half-assed product rollouts paper over the inevitable death from sucked-dry fully-exploited...” he stopped. “Billy, I’m sorry, how should I say these emojis here? Should I say, like, angry-face emoji?”
“And our third and final item,” Darcie said. She’d kept it in her pocket. “Is this. It’s called ‘Pink.’”
It was in a pint sized clear container, the cerise fluid swirled around in a deep viscous syrup. There was very little labeling. Darcie hadn’t even ordered it. It had been in a package of spoons, from their main Bulk Food Items supplier. She’d figured it was a misplaced demo. She’d tried a little.
“Pink,” Billy said. “That was NOT a question, by the way.”
“Its a—” Darcie hesitated to describe it. “Uh. Artificial sweetener, I guess.”
They needed to try it, she thought, abruptly.
Or someone thought it.
“This one you kind of need to try,” Darcie said.
She pumped out two small cups of Organic Ethiopian Fair Trade Light Roast, picked up the bottle, and opened it.
A pleasant gust of lavender and honey poured out of the top of the bottle. Darcie turned the bottle up.
Nothing happened. It was stuck to the inside, far too thick. Like a jello, Darcie thought.
Or goo. Kind of like a goo.
“Delicious,” Billy said.
“No, wait, hold on,” Darcie said. This one had to work. Was there coconut oil in it, or some other complicated formula? She peered inside the pint, her hand around it.
There—it was starting to melt.
Body heat, that was it. The goo liked body heat. And, from the way it was quickly melting, liked it a lot.
“This is, what, Girl Magic Shell? By smuckers?” Billy said. “It’s gotta be fattening, right? Otherwise it wouldn’t solidify.”
Coaxed by Darcie’s warmth, a still-gummy line of Pink dripped into the coffee cups. A bloom of rose grew through the dark black, leaving it warm, hyacinth-scented, and brown-pink. Darcie slid them over.
“How does this work with my, you know, masculinity?” Tommy said. He sounded sincere. “Does it make me more of a man to drink a pink gooey thing, or is it just, pink is for girls, so its bad? Which means, since I don’t care, it’s good? Is this making any sense?”
Tommy had taken the controversies of the internet very seriously. He spent a lot of time, Darcie knew, thinking about whether or not he’d kill baby hitler, if given a chance.
“You get two masculinity points,” Billy said. She gave her cup one last sniff, and drank. And drank.
Darcie watched her. She was hoping, not just a little, that Billie would validate her own confused reaction, to her first dose of Pink. She’d felt—felt—
She’d felt like the sun was rising inside of her.
Like she was naked and facing the rays.
Very, very naked.
Billy’s expression didn’t change at all. Tommy drank his. The effect on him was stronger, although Darcie took it less seriously.
“Sex!” he blurted out, knocking over his cup. Even more color flooded his already-ruddy cheeks. The entire coffee shop stared at him.
“I mean its—it tastes like—its good.” Tommy said. He tried to right his coffee cup, and knocked over Billy’s. “It’s really—it’s like, calming, but not calming? Not—not calming at all. Makes you think about... you know. The future and your place in it.
He crossed his legs, deliberately.
“Its not bad,” Billy conceded. “Not as good an idea as the salty tea bags, but not bad. Can I see?”
She took the bottle and held it up to her face.
The Pink reflected off her eyes.
“I can’t tell if you’re relaxing or not,” Billy told the pint. “But...”
There was a very thin thread of Pink still stuck to the lip.
Billy scooped it up, with her nail, and sucked on it, thoughtfully. Sucked on her entire finger.
Rollout was a failure. Billy couldn’t quite enjoy seeing it coming.
Billy was conscious that she’d been born at the other side of the roller coaster ride called civilization. The time of fuck around belonged to her parents—no, really, her parent’s parents. Hers would be a time of finding out. It was going to be bleak—a montage set to a grinding metal music of tornados, sea levels, numerous explosions, rampant shortages, presided over by a dull and slack-jawed ruling class similar to Manager/Owner/Boss Darcie.
Darcie.
Darcie, who had frightened deer eyes. Darcie who had been gifted an asset called Titan Coffee by her father. Darcie, who filled out even the weekly staffing rota with question marks on every line.
Darcie put her most concerted efforts into her eye makeup, which was an egyptian-level concoction of kohl-colored mascara, and made her look like she was a frightened ninja.
Their coffee shop occupied a corner spot and was a semi-favorite of debt-laden undergrads unaware of the coming societal collapse. They did spend money, at least around 3 p.m. And even so, to Billy’s sensitive nose it smelled like bankruptcy in there.
And a rose-lavender gooey substance, now..
Billy felt a strong urge for another glass of Pink. She pounded out through the back door, to get some fresh air.
Tommy was right. It did taste like Sex. It was that good.
There was a moment, after Billy had drank her first cup, that her mind had looked at the world around them, its many problems, her own tattered personal life, and grim background, and nonetheless shifted into a peaceful idle position. A sunny glow of peace that otherwise belonged to the world of getting dicked down.
Something about the blend of caffeine, sugar, and fats, Billy figured. Some scent-memory she didn’t know she had. She’d tried a little more, just a little, that morning, and had told Darcie, to her startled face, that she was looking forward to the product rollout. And meant it. It was just—hard to be a grump, after a sip.
Billy retook her place at the register. Darcie’s version of a product rollout was to put up a piece of printer paper with “PINK! $1.00!” written on it, with “A-SALT-YOURSELF!” underneath that for a mere 50 cents. No one had bit on this cryptic marketing, although the shop was more full than usual of co-eds in trendy large pants. It smelled good in there, like a coffee spa.
“Pink your drink?” Billie heard herself saying, to the next girl in line. Jiya, as it turned out. She stuck out, the Indian girl in a much whiter sea. As usual, Tommy found a reason to be right there, when she came up to the register, all elbows and apologies.
“PINK your DRINK?” Jiya said, visibly appalled. “Lets—pink your drink. That’s filthy. Filthy is the best thing it could be. It might even be—erotic.”
“Oh god,” Tommy said, dismayed. “It is erotic. Billy. We’ve been sexually insensitive.”
“It’s not EITHER of those things and—” Billy took a calming breath and threaded her fingers together. One of many tics she had to handle irritation-inducing situations, of which there were many, in her life. But the expected surge of despondent exasperation didn’t come. “Alright. Its a little filthy. Marketing is always at least a little disgusting. Look, it really is good. You saw us drink it. We all liked it.”
“If the three of you all like the same thing, that thing must be a form of raw cocaine,” Jiya said. “Also, there’s no free samples? This is marketing 101. No one is paying a dollar for a mystery pink juice that’s not even a juice. It’s a—gel.”
NOW the irritation broke through. “Darcie,” Billy said, drumming her fingers on the table.
“Y-yes?” Darcie wore her usual poleaxed expression. She had a long, quizzical expression naturally, with more cheek acreage than she really needed. And a piping, uncertain voice. It tended to grit Billy’s teeth. For a girl with nothing but privileges upon privileges to be this unsure, this diffident, it ached.
Pink would make her feel better, she thought, without thinking.
“Ms. Jiya here thinks we should be providing free samples.” Billy turned to her employer. “Much like I also suggested, this morning.”
They’d argued about it, in the Darcie way of arguing, where she only asked questions. Billy had even, on her own initiative, started to put together a big tray of small paper cups, to drizzle with Pink and hand out to customers. She couldn’t quite say why she’d done that—ordinarily she required direct orders from her employer to close a door she’d opened.
But—the Pink had been really good. Really tasty and delicious. And people would very much enjoy drinking it.
The bottle was in Darcie’s left hand. It solidified if not in touch with body heat.
“But—I can’t give it away?” Darcie said, uncertain as ever. She’d even done her eyes up, so her mascara practically made a question mark. “Its valuable, therefore you have to sell it? That’s what you should do with valuable things?”
“Like salt,” Billy said.
“Ooooh,” Tommy said. “Burn!” He looked at Jiya. “Was it?”
“A dollar for mystery fluid,” Jiya shook her head. “I can get mystery fluid at any gas station, or chemical plant discharge point, or underneath my own sink, Rarely worth a dollar.”
A line was forming, perhaps out of curiosity. A dozen college co-eds, dressed in shorts, and tights, and sweatpants. They really needed to taste the Pink, Billy thought, and shook her head. What did she care? It had to be—to show Darcie up, that giving something away was better than scrounging for pitiful profit.
They’d really, really enjoy the Pink.
“They’ll really, really enjoy the Pink,” she heard herself say, and watched Darcie’s lips form the same words. Her employer’s grip loosened on the bottle. She’d kept it in a tight grasp. It was very fluid, from her body heat.
Billy grabbed the bottle. “FREE SAMPLES!” she called, and was pleased to see Tommy already working on a mosaic of coffee cups. She gave a generous swig to all of them, and watched them turn an enticing brown-pink. Tommy swept the tray off and was immediately surrounded, a red sequoia of a male, by curious girls. Billy watched the samples get tipped down the throats of a dozen girls, their lipstick coating the small paper cups. The air smelled like lavender. So much lavender.
She relaxed. Good. This was GOOD.
“Why do you care?” Jiya said. She was still at the register. For their best customer Billy poured an extra generous dose, enough to turn the coffee nearly red. Billy watched her take a cautious sniff. “I haven’t ever seen you care about anything, Billy. I watched you step over a huge shard of glass, on the floor, for an entire shift.”
Billy watched her take a sip. Her sharp eyes widened. It changed her entire affect, a smile. She was attractive, with a heart-shaped face and classic upturned nose. Tommy returned with an empty tray, saw her bliss, and dropped it.
All the girls were too busy drinking to even react to the rattling copper.
“SHE’S the one against sharing,” Billy said, and pointed an accusing finger at Darcie. Darcie didn’t notice. She’d apparently dealt with the confusion by drinking, herself, a pink-colored latte she’d previously poured, the hypocrite. Her eyes were glossy and a little vague. Which meant that Billy had to sit with her own disquiet, deep inside her stomach, for why exactly she gave a fuck.
But her own cup of Pink pushed that away. She slurped it down, and felt a new urge to suck down some more.
The next day all the girls came inside in a row. Tommy watched them come in, his jaw open. There were nearly twenty of them, and they were not, Tommy knew, really friends. They were a bunch of girls that all sort of liked coffee-based drinks, or at least the college cafe experience.
They all had nalgene bottles with peppy stickers, and laptops with stickers, and they each had a different color of fjallraven backpack. There were two Emmas—no, three, he was forgetting an Emma—there was a Grace, a Hannah, a Madison and a Taylor.
“Pink my Drink!” the first one in line said. Olivia, that was her name. Olivia had auburn curls, and wore clunky sandals with a thin strap. It was hard to see how she’d gotten there first. Possibly she’d slipped out of class.
“Okay!” Tommy said. He paused. “Which... drink would that be, to Pink?”
“Oh! Uh—latte! One of the lattes!” There were already more than twenty girls behind her. Tommy let his eye wander down the line. Co-eds, lots of co-eds. There were still a lot of high-waisted jeans and expansive, ripped pants. But that also meant baby-doll tops with cute black buttons, and spaghetti-strap tanks. Most of them had long, straight hair, and they looked...
Wet.
Tommy wasn’t sure why the word came to mind. But they looked very, very hydrated.
Tommy knew how they felt. He’d had a mouth full of spit all day long. Swallowing didn’t seem to touch it. The best solution was, oddly enough, an oily coat of Pink, mixed with coffee. Something about it settled between his gums and on his tongue, and also left behind a strange sense of total wellbeing.
“Okay—Pink my regular-ass coffee!” one of the Emmas was ready. She wore a brief tartan skirt and a regulation jean jacket. The other Emma also wore a jean jacket, a cuter one, and she was also blonde. Tommy felt a brief moment of empathy—it was probably hard, being a 2023 Emma. You were a multitude. Then he sucked on his tongue, to clear his mouth, and got to work.
Billy slid over the first latte, underneath Darcie’s eye. They’d decided on a half-shot of Pink as the perfect amount, and Darcie was loath to let go of the container. She kept it on hand. It was easy to tell where she was, as the lavender-linen scent followed her around. It had the entire coffee shop suffused, by this point.
If Tommy was being honest, it was mildly—hot.
He’d had a stiff boner for much of the day, and it was difficult to keep it concealed. He’d prided himself on a relatively sedate libido, for a nineteen-year-old boy. The internet thought little of nineteen year olds, and that had hurt his ego. He was doing more with his life than sticking it in what wriggled. He read books. He was serious about his activism. He frequented the serious and sincere parts of the internet. He didn’t even play video games.
Even his romantic interest was a source of secret pride. She was at his workplace nearly every day, typing angrily. Jiya had attractively pursed lips, and, today, wore an unusually low-cut top with a golden necklace. He could spatter it with his own white pearls, maybe, feeding her angry mouth with some eager young cock...
“Coffee! Drink!” the next girl up was trying hard to get his attention. Hannah. This was a Hannah. “With Pink in it! Mister register man!”
“Eh? Oh!” Tommy rang it up, startled. “And—uhh—”
“Nothing, or water, if you have water,” this one came with a boy attached. He had gone for a haunted, emo look, like a bargain bin Pete Davidson.
“Oh, babe, you should try Pink! It makes you feel... ummm...” Hannah trailed off. Tommy knew how she felt. It was surprisingly hard to concentrate on Pink, especially when you were drinking Pink. It was like describing happy, or good. “Like you just drove through a rainbow!”
She grinned, and nearly drooled on herself. Tommy sympathized. He’d been doing that a lot as well.
“Yeah, you mentioned that, a lot.” Small Pete looked at the container in Darcie’s hand. “It looks like it has borax in it. Is it like a tiktok thing? Like, make your own sludge?”
“Drink it,” Billy said. She handed over the next drink. “It’s good.”
“It’s fine if you don’t!” Darcie said.
“No, it’s not fine. I don’t want this to be a girl-only thing, because its pink. Fifty-one percent of the population is male, god help us.” Billy said. She actually glared at the customer. “Drink it. Prove that your masculinity isn’t threatened.”
“Wow,” Emo boy said.
“Billy! Don’t threaten the male identity of customers!” Darcie said. Her motivations seemed mixed. She had the bottle clutched tight to her chest. The co-eds, patient in line, watched it slosh around. Many of them were licking their lips. They looked like Tommy felt. Ready to slurp. “Sir, it is fine.”
“Here, watch this,” Billy said. She pointed at Hannah. “Hannah, get your boyfriend here to drink it, and the next one is free.”
“Nothing is free!” Darcie said, waving her hands. She’d put on an extra amount of makeup today, Tommy noticed, besides her usual eye work. She’d been leaving red lipstick marks on her Pink cups all day. “Nothing in the entire world is free when you think about it!”
“This, however, is, IF you get your boyfriend to drink it. That goes for every girl in this room. Every guy you get on Pink leads to additional Pink. Use your wiles! All those wiles that men accused you of having—make them work for you!”
“Staff meeting!” Darcie announced. She yanked Billy and Tommy backwards, into the little alcove that functioned as their staff room. In most places it would’ve been a hallway to the back door. The container of Pink was clutched in Darcie’s hand, in the middle of the three of them. This was unlike Darcie, and her employees were surprised.
Encouraged, it wafted...
“What—what—” Billy was distracted. She licked her lips. She had been applying and re-applying chapstick all day long. Tommy had been wondering what the etiquette was on borrowing some. His lips were raw, from licking them, over and over, while looking at Jiya.
“Billy, I respect your input, but marketing and pricing are my decisions! Pink was my idea!. Why are you DOING all this?”
“First of all, if you just want to have a fight with me, you don’t need Tommy here to make it a technical staff meeting,” Billy said. She crossed her arms. They all wore green aprons with a high neck. “I am a big girl who can handle it. Second, I am not selling Pink juice for ladies. I’m not selling anything for just the girls. Men can suck down Pink and they’ll like it. Tommy, you like it, right?”
He startled. Tommy was right above the open jar, and had been staring hard down into the contents. For some reason he’d had trouble focusing his mind on the fact he was slurping down a lot of mystery feel-good fluid, without even an ingredient list. One that provoked a startling sense of can-do spirit, as well as an automatic erection. Wasn’t it all... strange?
“I like it a lot,” he said. So much so, that he’d beat off as soon as work was over, the previous day. He’d startled himself with how hard he’d cum.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Darcie said.
“Is the plan to SELL or is the plan to HOARD?” Billy said. The entire coffee shop was pink-scented. Given long enough the lavender was joined by hyacinths and chamomile and all types of fragrant flowers. And something else. Like all scents it spread. It deserved to spread, Tommy felt, it needed to spread...
“Sell,” Darcie said, staring at the Pink. She’d worn earrings for the first time Tommy could recall. He hadn’t even known she had the ear holes. “I want to—I want to spread. I mean, sell. The Pink. I’m sorry I—the boys should have some.”
“R-right,” Billy said. She looked confused as well, but covered it. “Stick our pinkies in, seal the deal?”
“Yes, right,” Tommy said. Although he was already struggling to hide his boner. Jiya was going to really get it, in his fantasies. He’d struggled with the morality of that—pinning down and roughly dream fucking her dream mouth. Was there consent, in that? But dream-Jiya had not complained. She’d swallowed it all.
They stuck their pinkies in, one by one. The Pink accommodated by adding a little jelly cling, so that Tommy, and all of them, got a big glop. He stuck it in his mouth. He felt very loose, very lubricated. Very erect.
Colors felt brighter. Smells were more clear. He felt sure his coworkers would work together in harmony, and that their endeavors would be a success.
“SO sorry, everyone,” he said, striding back to the register. All the girls, and Hannah, and Emo Boy, had waited, very, very patiently, for their Pink. “Hannah and Hannah’s plus one, what’ll it be?”
“I mean—really?” Emo boyfriend seemed startled. He looked at Tommy. “Man, you would not believe what she’s promised me. Stuff I didn’t even think I wanted with like, ropes. One Pink, please. In whatever. And Hannah, if I drink every drop I get—”
“Right, just make sure my eyes are closed,” Hannah said. She beamed at Tommy. “And mine is FREEEEEEEEE.”
The co-eds tittered. The hunt was on for men. The girls with existing boyfriends whispered in their ears, making big promises, on tip-toes as they tried to reach ear level. One of them—Eileen—was nearly licking her man’s ear, making big plans for a post-Pink evening. Each one that came up with a surprised male in tow was grinning, ear to ear, and watched with keen interest as they drank their inaugural cup of Pink. Everyone male seemed to like it just fine.
Billy opened the offer to everyone, to Darcie’s strangled protests, when Maddy came up with her six foot tall amazon of a GF, who scowled and disapproved of needless calories and caffeine. And then the two of them brought a third friend over. Girls were texting acquaintances. It all smelled very positive and lavender.
“You’re going viral,” Jiya said, at the register. Tommy inched closer to the counter, to hide his still raging tumescence. Her dream self was going to be just stuffed with dick.
Jiya pointed at a table, where a confused male customer was confronted with three self-appointed sales girls. Two had bright blonde hair, and were discussing, at length, his reluctance to drink the best new drink in town. The brunette was seated alongside, and her skirt had slipped up to the top of her thighs. “It IS good. Although. Have you felt a little... moist? Today? A little... call it... drool-y?”
“I mean... I guess?” Tommy said, slowly. His mouth was awash. The girls had made a sale. Two of them made sure to escort the man up, one blonde on each side. “You think it has like, extra caffeine in it? I thought it was like a caffeine and sugar rush thing.”
“That’s one theory,” Jiya said. “Pink my Drink, Tommy. Thomas. Is it Thomas? Like, on your birth certificate?”
“Oh no. Says Tommy, officially,” Tommy said. There, that counted as consent, for purposes of feeding her throat with cock, in his imagination. And dream-Jiya wouldn’t allow it if it was bad. She knew just about everything.
“Actually,” Jiya hesitated. Tommy waited and, sure enough, she licked her lips. He felt a hot bead of precum force its way out. There’d been a lot of attractive girls licking their lips that day. “Make it two. One is for... study. You know.”
“Study it is,” Tommy said. He felt a sudden certainty that he should ask her out. A confidence that surprised him—of course she would say yes. They would have a great time. They would enter into a mutually beneficial relationship. He forced it back down. There was confidence, and there was delusion, right?
He gave her two extra Pink pumps in her drinks.
He gave everyone a lot of Pink.
The important thing was it had saved his marriage. Brian focused on that.
It was hard to believe he’d been—what was it called—touch-starved. He’d found the term on a subreddit for sad men. There’d been so many of them, with such diverse sadness, and he wanted to go back to them. Tell them there was hope, in the form of a pink-colored food additive. It made his mouth taste like lilac and lavender.
Jessica was doing the dishes. That HAD been his job, in a taut and regimented system of chores. “I’m gonna grope you,” Brian called over. He still gave cautions and warnings, not that Jessica much cared, but out of his own delight at her absent-minded nod. “I’m gonna paw at your ass and then grab your tits. I might fuck your butt. Alright?”
“Alright!” Jessica called out.
So he groped his wife, and marveled at how she adjusted her feet to make her butt easier to grope. And it was easier—Brian didn’t like thinking too hard on how she’d changed, physically. How he had changed. It didn’t quite fit with his new cheerful and can-do spirit, to contemplate their dramatic new bodies.
He enjoyed himself. Every bit of her. He immersed himself in the soft skin and padded curves that was hers, but also his. Girls were just so soft, and especially his wife. If there was harsh bone under there he couldn’t feel it, if there was anything but warm fatty curves he couldn’t find it. He started with the pouch under her ribcage, above her waist, just because his groping it, and feeling it, would’ve previously made Jessica blush. It had been off-limits as fat. Now it was his to hold.
“Ooh,” Jessica said, pleased. If there was a place that his hand didn’t feel good, he hadn’t found it.
From there he had options. He couldn’t resist her ass. There was so much of it, a map of surprisingly taut, very warm skin for him to have and to hold, forever. He took big meaty handfuls of butt, and didn’t neglect her thighs. Brian pushed forward, and put his dick between her legs. Not to fuck her—although he would, soon. Just to get more of her body heat. Jessica had been washing the same dish for some time. They were all so sticky, lately, that body contact made a sort of velcro seal. They were hard to pry apart. It was nice.
The dish soap, and Jessica, smelled like lavender. Wonderful, brain-hazy lavender. He gave her right cheek a tap, just to see it jiggle. She was so rounded. And all his. She’d put on twenty, twenty-five pounds of weight, something like that.
Nothing that worried him.
They’d been middle-aged, and falling apart. Jessica had looked—withered. No, that was unfair. But she had, hadn’t she? The first bad spot had appeared on the apple, and her jogging and grim exercise had left her with a deflated crouch of a body. Now she was gloriously, wonderfully full. And he’d put on considerable muscle. The years had fallen off. They looked like twenty-one year olds, and were fucking like it, too. They’d changed so much he tried to not think about it.
He idly traced the bright pink vein now lacing its way up his cock. That one, in particular, was hard to ignore.
Jessica was so warm and soft, and rubbing her body was a joy. How had they ever grown apart, lost interest in the tactile of skin on skin? Sure, their bodies fit together, they’d proved that three times that morning. But even their skin fit together, rough on smooth, strong on soft. He grabbed large handfuls of her tits, just for the pleasure of it. Chunks of ass, and the many square inches of her thighs.
“Mmmmm,” Jessica said. “Having fun?” She’d been washing the same dish for some time.
Brian still wasn’t sure what had happened, why he’d given up on the jubilation of reaching around and hefting his wife’s tits. His energy was overflowing and effervescent. He could grab her boobs all day. Funny that he’d even looked into supplements. The real supplement that had worked was Pink, and he had drizzled generously over their pancakes just recently.
“It must be so strange, having tits like this,” Brian said. He flopped them up and down. He sniffed his wife. That was fun too. Like the Pink, but mediated, with her sweat and her hormones spiked into it. “Just walking around, having tits. You ever think about it?”
“Nah,” Jessica said. She gave up on dishes, turned around, and started to rub his chest. His cock rose between them, eager. She liked to trace the vein. Jessica had developed her two pink lines on the underside of her tits. They didn’t talk about it. “I think it’s stranger to have a cock like this.”
Her hand grasped it. Brian cautiously acknowledged how big it was, now. Big and strong and hard. They kept telling each other they’d see a doctor. They really did need, both of them, to urgently get bloodwork and MRIs.
Soon.
“You PEE out of this?” Jessica said. “You pee out of it, it swings around, it transforms, its wacky, Brian. It’s... so... big...” She hesitated, rubbing his chest, his cock, and Brian could practically reach into her mind, know what she was thinking. It was a wonderful feeling, to be that connected, to smell her arousal, to know what she tasted like. She was thinking about if she wanted to blow him, or get fucked.
There’d been entire weeks when he could look at her and think—I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what our relationship is. Now he could see it, smell it, taste it, look at it. She was an open book, especially her legs. They were married.
As usual, Jessica decided to blow him.
That was when reality had—snapped. Time was getting hazy, but Brian recalled bringing home the bottle of Pink on a Friday. They’d tried it over ice cream, hadn’t they? Enticed by the scent, finding a brief moment in doing something a little risky, leavening another sad weekend. Had they fucked that night? No, it was the next morning, and then after brunch [cereal, with Pink in it], and then Jessica had just knelt between his legs and started to suck. She hadn’t even said anything. She hadn’t even hesitated.
Afterwards, she had said she wanted to to know what it felt like. In her mouth. What it tasted and smelled like.
It was another welcome change, and, if Brian was being honest, blowjobs had saved his marriage the most. Soon after the Pink had become an amazing marriage counselor Jessica had realized she deeply enjoyed the taste, and feel, and smell, of his penis. He didn’t think too deeply about how Jessica could now deepthroat the overwhelming heft of his cock. The important thing was, it made them both happy.
Really happy.
Soon they were both going to have to face the less pleasant realities. Neither of them really resembled their driver’s license photos. Jessica had stopped working, just stopped. So that was it for her insurance adjuster income. Brian had gone in, but mostly to get more Pink from the office fridge, where the bottles had shown up. A lot of his co-workers seemed to be doing that. The men were taller, the women... smelled good.
They needed to discuss things like pink veins, and his cum production could fairly be called alarming.
But Brian was feeling more and more confident it would all work out.
The Pink would work it all out.
Lots of other problems were probably opportunities in disguise. True, none of their clothes fit right, but they were all dowdy and perfunctory anyway. It was a great time to acknowledge that those Levis Relaxed Fit jeans were holding him back, standard weekend apparel for a humdrum life. Now he could do a better job shopping or, alternatively, let his cock dangle freely like it so obviously wanted to do.
And the stickiness all over the house, the way the doorknobs were tacky and wet and the floors were crackling with their various discharges. They all smelled great, replacing a house of lysol and takeout dinners with a heady aroma of pink byproducts. They always kept him hard. Maybe he’d have Jessica lick the house clean. She was really getting good at licking.
There was also the whole thing with the drooling. Jessica drooled a lot when she blew him. Wherever she’d slobbered over his cock was a remaining pool on the wood. There were a lot of little pools. She’d stopped and dropped anywhere. She’d sucked him on the stairs. And whenever she did, drool ran freely down her chin, and out. From the blowjob perspective, all that spit was amazing.
But it was also—there. All the time. Brian too, was always just full of spit, and it tended to run down his bare chest. They’d joked about it and then quickly stopped. Acknowledging that they were drooling all the time felt like too much, too far. His mouth was just always bathed in a lavender-scented amount of spit, and it kept dripping out. That had started quickly, each of them slobbering, and determined not to make mention of it. In fact he was drooling just then, on the top of her bobbing head.
He really needed to—think about it—
Her mouth felt so good...
“Oh, I’m cumming,” Brian said, belatedly. He’d already shot a rope or two down Jessica’s throat. He tried to still communicate verbally, although nonverbally was getting the job done just fine. Their marriage was now so strong that Jessica could swallow the pint-after-pint he produced. Even the few worries he’d managed to concoct, from effort, obediently filed away.
But even so, a trail leaked out of the corner of her mouth. Brian stared at it.
It was distinctly pink. His semen was pink.
And although it was medically worrisome, and there were so many questions to ask, Brian felt pretty good about it. He felt strongly that other people should get to enjoy it. He needed to share the Pink, and Jessica felt the same way. After all, even she couldn’t swallow all his jizz, as hard as she tried. And she was trying—she was on her hands and knees, licking the pink cum off their already sticky floorboards.
He decided to carry her. That was easy too. In the rare times they weren’t all over each other he was working out. His body insisted on it, to try and do something about excess energy. He picked her up with ease and carried her over to the remnants of the couch. Two pillows were blown apart, the whole thing squeaked when they fucked on it, and the wood was probably cracked. She squirmed in his arms, pleased. As usual, when he picked her up, juice pooled in his hands. Brian tossed her in, and knelt between her legs. The first time he had ate his wife out was—time had lost meaning—recently. Too recently.
He stuck his tongue in. Drool, here, was also welcome. Hard to believe he’d worried about the taste, long ago. His wife’s pussy tasted so creamy and delicious. She’d joked that he was snowballing himself, all the time, and he had never found any ability to care. He put his hands on her chubby thighs.
He’d talked to a divorce lawyer. Not that seriously. Just to see what his options were. It was hard to believe, now. He could spend the rest of his life between these legs, rubbing his tongue all over her very pink folds. Squeezing the big new jugs she sported.
Unnoticed—her eyes were closed, his were locked on her glistening slit—two pink trails poked out of her teats.
Brian rubbed her head. This was so good for the marriage.
His dick dripped a steady pastel flow. The flow from her tits picked up.