The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was still learning about itself. It preferred warm, wet environments. Very wet. On the one hand it was particular, requiring a close collaboration with another being, thriving on their energy, growing in their unused spaces. On the other hand it could spread with a single kiss. Given time, and moisture.

Lots of moisture.

It wasn’t really thinking, but it did understand joy. When its partner came, that same flood of dopamine, that same electrical overload, cascaded through it, as well. It was the most marvelous thing. Every part of that engine it inhabited was sparkling, the equivalent of a meteor shower in its humid and damp world. A fireworks show.

And from its privileged position it wasn’t that hard to encourage more. All the necessary levers and neurotransmitters were right there. Easy to coax.

It was learning so much. And very fast.

Billy was barely three steps inside the mall when she smelled it, so strongly that she stopped walking entirely. She put her head up in the air, dog-like, to better catch it, and sniffed.

There was Pink in the air. Unmistakeable. A lavender and lilac she, now, knew down into her bones. And so strong that she felt the standard Pink reaction—a full-body flush, a spit-filled mouth, and, most of all, an enduring sense that things would work out, that people would see reason. Also her nipples prickled up, warm and swollen.

It couldn’t be their own small beverage operation. First of all, Darcie didn’t have the commercial nous to promote broadly. She could barely sell Pink in her own store, much less have wider dreams. Second, Pink did not leave the shop in a container. It was consumed on premise, and immediately, and as fast as possible. That was, actually, Billy’s current explanation for the oddball side effects of wet tongue + total wellbeing. They were drinking too fast.

She followed her nose. There were two malls in town, and this was the dead one. It fit her mood and her politics, usually, to stalk a forest of empty storefronts. Watched over by a shiny MallBot often found dead, battery depleted, by the half-empty food court. It was great. And now it even had Pink. Somewhere.

Pink. Billy licked her lips. Her body really liked Pink. Another theory she had was that it was SSRIs, or a cannabis extract, shipped across the country by a heroic crew. She felt so much better on Pink. If it was Zoloft, mixed with weed, that was fine with her.

Billy had a lot of theories about Pink.

True, none of them fit all the available facts, just yet. Such as why her bra was so taut and tight. But Pink had also taught her it was best not to mope. Or wonder why she was experiencing bigger boobs, post-puberty, and over the course of a week. She was gaining a little weight, and that was good and fine. This was an opportunity to get a well-fitting bra.

After she found the source of the Pink.

She beelined for the Sephora. It made perfect sense. She was even several steps inside before remembering—she was not going in Sephoras. They were not The Trauma, but they were trauma-affiliated, affiliated with that black box that was Friday, September 3, 10:04 p.m, not long ago enough. Billy backpedaled. And, anyway, and surprisingly, it was not the perfumerie. Everything there was ambergris and tiktok-inspired scents, and smelled wan and faint to a Pink-touched nose. The scent was—next door.

The candy store.

She skulked inside, confused. Behind the register were two heavy-set girls, each with a ponytail, and wearing a visor. The scent of Pink enveloped the place, as strong as the coffee shop. Did no one else notice it? There were other girls there, Billy noticed. Girls that didn’t seem particularly focused. They browsed big bins of candy, favoring it with gentle, silly smiles. One blonde was leaning up against a vat of kit-kats, giggling softly to herself. She wore a cute jean skirt.

Billy picked the register girl with the biggest, happiest smile.

“Look, I don’t know how to—” she said, at the front of the line. “—I mean, you know. Should I wink at you? Pinch my nose or something? Its—” She slurped back some spit. It was as good as a nametag. Side effect: opposite of dry mouth.

The girl, name tag reading Roxie, gave a serene nod. “Pink.,” she said. “Right?”

Billy was unprepared for the sudden need that gripped her. Yes, yes. That was right. She was leaning hard against the counter. Billy hadn’t worn a bra—that was why she was there—and her nipples rubbed hard against her shirt, underneath her jacket. The desire was strong enough to be concerning, even over the Pink-enabled breeziness, regarding a new chemical addiction. She wanted it. Yes, she’d told herself she was going to take a break, but she wanted it.

Her mouth watered...

“Yes, yes,” Billy said, quickly. Roxie reached underneath the counter, and pulled out a ziploc baggie. Inside were three heart-shaped melts. They were an intoxicating pink. “Yes, yes, yes. How did—how much?”

“Oh, whatever is fine,” Roxie said. “Just fine. Do I look like some worked-up manager?” She gave Billy a kittenish, pleased smile, and was then elbowed in the ribs by her fellow employee. This one had to move to get her ass out of her own turning radius, so she could face Billy, from behind the narrow counter. Her nametag read Rachel, Manager.

“No. Not the manager,” Billy said. “Not even a little like the manager.”

Rachel stuck out her tongue. It was a subtle, but thorough, shade of bright pink. Like her normal tongue was cartoonist-colored. “My price is, we want to watch you try one,” she said, and poorly hid a giggle.

That explained the lightly stoned girls. There were five of them, staring at the candies and chocolates with a pleased expression. Pretty girls, all of them, Billy noticed. One of them did have a boyfriend in tow, and was rubbing at his chest, apparently thrilled that she could. “Where’d you get this?” Billy said, pulling out a Pink chocolate.

“Where did we...?” Roxie said, and shrugged. She was now arm and arm with her Manager, and they waited, patiently, for Billy to try one. She hesitated—what, exactly, was in these? what were they all dosing?—and then the smell hit her, and that was it. She popped one in her mouth.

It was the best idea she’d ever had, the candy told her. It was certainly Pink, but mellow Pink, gooey Pink, instead of the caffeine-bomb of elation she was used to. Pink that told her everything would be fine. Her vision swam, and Billy barely noticed that she was drooling, all over the glass countertop. A pitter-patter of drops.

“It’s okay. We all drool,” Rachel said, nearly cooing. She had a paper towel all ready to go. Billy made an enormous effort to slurp up the rest of the sweet concoction. The Pink buzzed between her lips, teasing away the concerns, filling up that sense of concern with happy tingles. Her nipples buzzed with it.

“I should’ve—I should’ve paid you. No. I should’ve.. thanked you for.. not needing payment... I guess?” This was far stronger than her caffeine microdoses. Perhaps something in the coffee evened it out. She was buzzed beyond belief, so much so that she was sure she saw Roxie draw Rachel in for an excited, warm kiss.

No. That was really happening.

Billy was unsure what time she stumbled back out, into the mall. Some time later. She had a vague recollection of a conversation about marketing with the other chocolate connoisseurs.

Billy was pretty sure she hadn’t been an impressive conversationalist. She was pretty sure she’d done a lot of drooling.

It was far from her first time walking stoned through a mall. It wasn’t even Billy’s first time walking around, stoned, in that mall. And taking drugs from strangers was, again, not new. What was new was the vibe of it—even the strongest of illegal medicines had left her unimpressed by her surroundings, albeit strongly affected by their sounds and colors. Now there was a vibe to it. Billy took a renewed interest in the people around her. Were there more calm boys in tank tops, more girls in low-cut blouses? Was that a tell-tale dribble on the front of their shirts?

The Pink was everywhere, especially now that she had re-sensitized to it. Slobbering on candy, Billy traced scent trails, bloodhound-like, to the storefront of the surviving hair salon, where the combs rested in a Pink version of barbicide. The girl selling anime figurines was absolutely steeped in it, and gave her a slurp and a wink when she saw Billy examining her. Someone had found a way to smoke the stuff. The girl wore white shorts with a new pink patina.

It even billowed out of the stationary store, where a brunette with big spectacles was casually rubbing the forearm of the only customer. Admiring his arms. It had to be her lipstick, which was glow-level pink.

Billy, spacey, ambled around. She stuck another candy in her mouth. The dead mall, the graveyard of capitalism, was suddenly cast in a new, fuschia light. Everyone was sharing, communing, exchanging, all covertly. Underneath the dead bulk of stiff profit-making, sure. But there it was, in the girl that just passed her, her hand in her boyfriend’s back pocket. She smelled good. So did he.

It was all very exciting. Very, very, exciting—Billy had to duck into the side alcove, near the bathrooms, to calm down. There was a line of girls waiting for the restroom, and most of them had fun new socks. Knee-highs at the very least, on coltish legs. The girls were all in a good mood, and free with their hands, admiring new fabrics and hugging whatever boyfriends were around. There was a lot of giggling, and no one seemed to mind the occasional spit trail from wet, happy mouths. Billy wanted to join in, put her hands on some other hot, moist skin...

But she wasn’t that kind of girl, she reminded herself. She just admired it in others, that kind of freedom.

Instead she traced backwards for the source of the socks. Belatedly she recalled this had been her destination all along—Nadir, the tentpole tenant of the zombie mall, a vast black hole of abandoned clothing from the 80s, 90s, and today. It had its own entrance at the mall, and from it wafted a powerful, lavender scent. Half the co-eds in town had figured this as well, a mixed-gender party headed down to basement level.

Their clothes had been apparently drenched in Pink. Anointed, Billy figured. They had droplet marks on them, almost invisible to the casual viewer, very glaring to the dedicated Pink-head. Billy sucked on her third and final candy, to aid in her detection, and also because it was tasty.

Lingerie was particularly crowded.

“STILL not big enough,” a girl groused, tossing a discarded bra to the ground. A and B cups littered the old carpeting. That was an immediate concern for a girl with plenty big cups already. Billy sidled in. Some enterprising girls had made a wall out of their own boyfriends, so that no one needed to go to the changing rooms. There was a shield of four bulky men. And behind them, lots of tits were out, just out.

“This is silly,” another one volunteered, plastering cups on a set of perky boobs. “This is two sizes up. Are we all getting fat?”

“That’s it,” a slender girl with hoop earrings said, eagerly. “Donuts. I ate like ten donuts today. You know... pink frosted. I was talking to some friends about it. It just makes you hungry.”

“Does it?” a dark-haired girl mumbled, cupping herself, frowning. “JUST in your tits?”

“Ass as well!” a rare local sister volunteered, and smacked hers. Everyone laughed.

“The burger place at Grand and 7th has it in milkshakes!” a Mom said. She wore black tights and was completely topless. She had her back to one of the stolid boyfriends who formed the fence. “It’s SO good. And there’s a pizza place, you won’t believe—”

“Everything okay over here?” a voice interrupted. All the girls fell silent. A woman in a red polo with a dried-up face eyed them all. “You know we do have changing rooms? We’re supposed to keep our tatas laced up, aren’t we?”

Her nametag read, below some unimportant name, “REGIONAL MANAGER”. Billy zipped her lips shut, not hard when delicious gooey Pink candy was still oozing around her gums. The clutch of girls with new bra needs gave management a cool, go-away glare, until she did.

“Um, but, it IS a little strange, right?” a very short girl with her shirt still on broke in. “Um, we’re all talking about that pink gooey stuff, right? Isn’t it—isn’t it kinda weird that- it’s everywhere? And—is anyone else DROOLING all the dang time?”

There was an uneasy silence, so much so that the boyfriend barrier glanced backwards. They took in the barechested gaggle of wet-mouthed girls, and nodded, approving.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Billy broke in. That broke the ice. There was a cluster of relieved agreement. Of course it was fine, it was definitely fine. They felt good and were having fun, and everything would work out, and could be explained in a non-scary way. Billy felt momentary guilt, and tried to latch on to the feeling. At least she needed to find out what was in this stuff, if it was making her retain water.

“Can’t we just TRADE?” MILF said, and everyone loved that suggestion. Billy passed her own bra down to the short-stack girl, and accepted the much-loved and still-warm bra from a woman with multiple kids. It fit her perfectly, although the cup size was a little disconcerting. Had she really... gotten bigger? Up top? And that much? She’d been chesty, but this was downright large. She looked down at a big and heavy pair. Putting hands on them, they were very warm, and she could only grip the underside. These were—large. She had large tits?

She slurped back another gob of spit and concern.

“Its her!” one of the girls hissed, and they all stood up. Confused, but now well-supported, Billy joined them. Passing through the aisles was a mere sales associate, but one with the familiar dreamy smile, and pink-spotted droplets on her own polo shirt. She held a full bottle of Pink, albeit a diluted one, and dipped a rattle-like scoop in.

She smiled, pleased, at the assembled girls, and then flicked a lavender-scented spray of water towards them. Billy was in the middle, and felt the cool splash against her skin, her hair, and a patina against her brand-new bra.

“Were we just BAPTIZED?” Billy said. But of course it was fine. The others had stuck their tongues out, and were enjoying themselves, leaning against mall structural pillars, or their own patient boyfriends. Billy regretted not doing the same. She was dotted with Pink, filled with Pink, suffused with it. And when she got home, tits already filling the new bra, it wasn’t lost at all on her that she’d gone to the mall, and had the best time, and hadn’t spent a single dollar.

“Mmmm,” Darcie said, nodding around a mouthful of iced tea. She drank to cover that she, lately, was having a little trouble with drool. She occasionally had to spit into her glass, just to keep her mouth clear. Her date had to think she was parched. The truth was, it was the other way around.

She was so... juicy. Lately.

Darcie went on exactly one date, per month, to make her Dad happy.

He was very definite about the next three or four or five decades of her life. She would manage a small but real portion of his business empire. A reflection on him, he’d all but said—a small echo of his profitability, even in his uncertain and anxiety-ridden daughter. Just as importantly, if not more so, she’d spurt out three or four grandkids, just to emphasize what an empire he’d created.

“Uh-huh,” Darcie mumbled. Her date was ten years older then her. She habitually dated older. Not particularly out of sexual preference. They were smoother, they paid for dinner, and they were less likely to treat her as Asian Waifu Dolly.

Less LIKELY.

“I think its exciting, the growth in anime stickers on cars,” Chester said. “It shows the growth from subculture to culture, you know? You can walk through any parking lot outside any Macys and its Demon Hunter, certainly many Gokus, even Jujutsu Kaisen! This means something!”

“It does mean something,” Darcie said, nodding her head. “It means a lot.”

She pretended to take another drink. His eyes wandered across the pulse of her throat, and down to the slight swell at chest level. Darcie couldn’t blame him. She’d surprised herself with the outfit, with the makeup, with everything.

Ordinarily she had a Date Outfit, a dark black dress that showed nothing off, with a denim jacket. It was cute without showing any of her figure. Instead she’d worn a daringly short red skirt she didn’t know she had, and a diaphanous silk blouse that showed off the figure she knew she didn’t have. And she’d glopped on the makeup. That was normal. The wine-red lipstick was not. She wore it on the rare occasions she wanted to be kissed.

Darcie was unclear why she was trying. Chester worked at a bank. His mouth was encrusted with beard. He had a lot of opinions about the Netflix One Piece. And yet...

And yet... Darcie was feeling optimistic about this date.

Optimism was the right word for it. She kept having flashes of it, of wild surmises totally removed from obvious reality. For a girl devoted to a religion of risk-avoidance, it felt wild, even frightening. But... sometimes a girl got thirsty, right? Very thirsty. It didn’t all have to be a hesitant dance of pregnancy risk, STD risk, gross stinky man risk. She didn’t HAVE to have her legs squeezed together, tightly, in a guard position.

In fact, it felt good to have them ease apart..

Maybe Chester WAS the one, underneath a hard exterior of beard. He was a manager at his bank. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, with a collar, and it had no visible stains. His New Balances were tidy. Maybe he was dashing, and comforting, and caring, and maybe he had a big fat dick.

Darcie startled. What?

“You—alright?” Chester said. He frowned, and Darcie’s libido told her—he’d cared. He’d noticed her confusion. Maybe he was the one. “You—you look great, by the way. I should’ve mentioned that within the first half-hour. Dumb, Chester. Dumb! Also I’m paying unless you want me not to!”

“Well, two points to Chester!” Darcie said, and favored him with an impish smile. He beamed back at her, and that was all it took for a fresh torrent of exciting futures. Darcie, in a low-cut white wedding dress,—no, better make it a kimono, for Chester. Darcie, getting the boys in their matching Dragonball Z costumes for Halloween.

Darcie, on her knees, draining Chester’s cock in the restaurant bathroom.

“So, what’s it like being an asian?” Chester said. “TOUGH, I imagine. Real tough.”

“Sorry?” Darcie said. She covered some confusion by spitting into her drink. It didn’t help. It was a strange new thing, this wetness. And it wasn’t just in her mouth—she felt MOIST, greased and wet from head to toe. She wasn’t stupid about the cause—the warm sugar rush of caffeinated Pink was the best way to briefly clear her mouth and head out. And then it got worse again. It was like getting used to chapstick.

Another dose sounded mighty good. It was so easy to hold on to the warm good cheer, with Pink coating her mouth. “You mean... growing up with demanding parents, right?”

“Right!” Chester said, bobbing his head. “Yes! Not... any other implications...of what I said”

“Hard,” Darcie said. “It’s hard.”

Usually she scared off dates at this point, launching into a litany of failing to meet expectations. Men, she found, had a preset Daddy Issues limit, and a five minute harangue would get her there.

But that was no fun, was it.

And her throat was just too muzzy and damp to form the words. Plus it was not a step on the journey to matching gravesides, fifty years hence. The next step on that road was to let him admire her tits.

“Sooooo hard,” Darcie said. She took another long sip, and arched her back. What little she had to display was displayed. The blouse had two buttons, and neither was done up. She let a droplet of cool water runoff trickle down her chin. It wasn’t helping with her near-constant flop-sweat that she felt such a high level of warmth. And this despite a skimpy outfit, and the restaurant A/C whirring. Something about Chester’s needy, hungry gaze. “You know I’m a small business owner, Chester? An entire coffee shop.”

She omitted the long discussion of the poison pills and veto points her Dad had embedded in the governing LLC. Instead she gave Chester a hopeful smile. Just in case he wanted to marry her, or at least throw her onto some flat surface, and ravage her.

“You?!” Chester said, startled. It should have immediately burst the always fragile balloon of her self-esteem. But something about the amount of makeup she was wearing bounced it off. “I mean—yes! I am not shocked by this.” With that much beard it was hard to judge his emotions, but his ears did turn a singed pink. It was a very attractive color, to Darcie. Very, very attractive.

She licked her lips with a drippy tongue.

The blush reached the tips of his cheeks, the outlying regions of beard borderland. “I guess—I didn’t think my three thousand four-hundred sixty-fifth right-swipe would be an entrepreneuse. From the Orient.”

Her body was sure that was a compliment, her thighs were confident that his tremor was poorly-restrained lust, and her lips were dewy for whatever he could give her. “Do you want to see it?” Darcie said. “We’re closed, but its just down the street.”

Alone with the man? Darcie felt a surge of unease through her unexpected hope. She had enough problems at the coffee shop without dragging in bank managers. Acerbic employees, lackluster sales, abnormal breakage. And even the tinge of lavender-linen that now dominated the store couldn’t quite cover her usual nerves. Even if she drank five or six or ten shots a day.

The safe thing to do was to exit the date, retreat to her apartment, and activate her brand new Womanizer vibrator, which did not have opinions about Chainsaw Man.

And yet... Darcie found herself touching up her lipstick, while Chester paid the bill. Positive reinforcement kept flooding through her, devastating her usual reserve. What if Chester would take her skiing, at Aspen, or Vail? What if he would always remember her birthday? What if his big fat prick could drain her mouth? It’d feel pretty good in there, swishing around, she was sure of it. She shook her head—why was she so RANDY? She was downright squirming. Was she ovulating?

“Shall we—my... uh... miss... you... woman...madame-lady?” Chester said. He wore an old black suede jacket with worn elbows. Even that couldn’t quite get spun into a red flag. If he wore attire meant for Warhammer gaming, but had ascended to the lofty levels of bank manager, he had to be talented.

Maybe his fingers knew exactly how to please anxious young coffee shop partial-owners.

Stop it, Darcie told her body. This man was not about to fulfill her body and ease her mind, even if he did have an eight-inch prick to jam down her throat. She tugged down her skirt, and tried not to think filthy thoughts. Surely this was rational behavior. She was a lonely young woman looking for someone. She was dating. A few filthy, overoptimistic thoughts were normal, especially about the girth of this man’s cock. And he was big, although, to Darcie, nearly everyone was big. Chester was probably six foot two. That was nice of him. Very nice.

They walked down the sidewalk, Chester’s arm cocked at an uncomfortable angle, in an indeterminate position between being around her and not. Its respectful on a first date, Darcie thought. Her lips were tingling, like they’d been swept with a hot rain. At least between her legs was just a reasonable, normal level of slick wetness. Understandable. It was possible this man was the future father of her children. And he definitely had a eight, maybe even a nine inch dick.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” Darcie said. She had to at least test her sudden conviction of mate suitability. But she also was walking faster, eager to get to the coffee shop.

Chester made a deep sucking sound in his cheeks. He was silent for a long time. “I think... continuing... to manage the bank... and... ten years... so I’ll be forty-two. So yeah, I’ll be managing the bank and then I’ll be forty-two.”

Continuity. Stability. Darcie’s nipples liked the sound of that. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing thoughts past the muggy burn in each and every erogenous zone.

Why was she so HORNY?

Chester’s arm thunked into her back. “Sorry!” he said, quickly. His glasses reflected a number of different street lights. “And, uh, you’ll be twenty-eight? If I’m doing the math correctly? Maybe popped out one or two or three kids?”

She was twenty-three “What?” Darcie’s mind blanked the last part out. They were there, anyway.

Titan Coffee. HER coffee shop.

A large glass front. Furniture was all walnut, all purchased at rock-bottom remainders from other, failed coffee shops. The interior was the landlord’s choice of tile, and a forlorn community bulletin board with aging guitar lesson flyers. Their main asset was a top of the line La Marzocco espresso machine that her Dad had gotten from mysterious, illegal sourcing. Billy joked that every fiftieth shot should be Yakuza blood.

“Very nice,” Chester said. “No overhead and just labor expenses. I’d extend a loan to it. To, uh, to you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Darcie said. She blushed, and it didn’t stop there. A full warmth suffused her, adding to the overriding feeling that she was a wet and needy water bottle. She needed to get inside, maybe stick her head under the overhead fan. All of her was red-hot, bubbling liquid lava, her tits in particular were burning in the cool outdoor air. “I’ll just—take out the key. Which I....”

She didn’t have her key.

She was on a date that was supposed to be over by 7:30, and then she was going to go home. Why would she have her key?

Darcie panicked. She was going to neck with Chester in there. She’d already foreseen it. The Pink was in there, probably fully solidified in its small container. She, therefore, needed to be in there. She turned to the male next to her, her protector, the probable source of her one or two or three kids. Darcie tugged down her blouse, to show off her chest, for the first time in her life.

“Chester, you’re STRONG, right?” she said, with complete confidence.

“In—in what stat?” Chester said, blinking back at her.

Darcie took his hand, and ran her fingers lightly against his palm. He had soft, doughy—no. smooth and uncallused hands, important hands that made others do the labor. Bank manager hands. “Can you maybe kick in the door out back?” she said, and realized she had cooed it. Actually cooed, with a soft feminine timbre she didn’t recall having.

He broke the back door lock in three kicks.

Darcie left him at the wreckage of her service door, her heart beating too fast, depleting the last moisture in her bloodstream. The Pink was in her tiny office, and she rubbed it with both hands. Luckily she was hot, so hot, that it started to liquify right away. With one hand on it, willing her body heat forwards, she poured herself a completely full glass of water, and then added the first dose of melted Pink. She was drooling, uncontrollably. What was wrong with her? Why did she NEED this? Even her eyes were tearing up, leaking. All of her was leaking.

The water turned entirely pink, immediately.

Chester, sweating, came inside just as she finished drinking, in one long go. The Pink didn’t all make it down her throat—it coated her mouth, reassuring her, filling her with a lavender confidence. The heat hadn’t gone away, but the strange leaking sensation, at least, dissipated.

And now Chester was also drenched in sweat. He’d given the door his all, battering it down with slow and meaty kicks. His New Balances had shattered the admittedly old and rotten wood.

“HERO,” Darcie said. And now, Pinked, she was willing to gush. Now gushing felt right. She watched a bead of sweat trickle into his thicket of beard, and tasted the Pink still sloshing around her teeth, and thought, with heated clarity—she’d made good decisions. Going on a date with Chester was a good decision, showing skin was a good decision, breaking down the door was a particularly good one. It was all laid out on a shining and pink path, in front of her, starting with her sucking Chester’s cock.

Little bits of Darcie fought this conclusion. She’d busted her own security door and busted her lease. There was no reason, no reason at all, to think this man had a big hefty dick. But the sweat and the scent and the Pink coating her gums made it so logical, so right. And Chester didn’t resist at all when she knelt, and unzipped his fly.

It was more like five, five and a half inches, when she gently pulled it out. But that was just fine as well.

“Okay—” he said, still wheezing. “I think I might collapse on you. Fair warning. Don’t stop—just—I might be dying. Just dodge. If I start to fall. Darcie-san.”

There was already a trickle of precum, and it quieted Darcie’s concerns. This, this was more fluid, and she needed it. How had she stigmatized it as unwanted spunk? Mixed with Pink and spit it was unquestionably delicious, and perfectly quenching. Darcie took the full length of Chester’s dick in her mouth, trying to tease more jizz from the tip. She’d been right to try and sell salt to her customers. Salty cum and Pink together were a taste sensation, and very refreshing.

“Yes. I know this isn’t real. I am probably dying,” Chester babbled. “Probably died in the restaurant. You probably never showed up, asian babe sucking me off.”

He put a hand on top of her head, which Darcie took in the best possible light. It was affectionate and possessive. And perhaps his hand was tired. She, personally, wasn’t tired at all. This was the best date she’d ever been on, full of excitement, and dinner, and making personal connections, and drinking a brand new drink. Cum. Pink Cum.

Her new lover, confidente, and companion put his hand on behind her head, and urged it forward onto his dick. Darcie obediently locked her lips, and let him slide her back and forth, using her mouth as he pleased. Since she didn’t have to think about pleasing him it was easier to tamp down on worries—for example, that she was giving a rough blowjob to a man whose last name she didn’t know. And that pretty much anyone could peer into the coffee shop and see them going at it by the counter.

Darcie felt herself getting into it. She was enjoying this, needing this. Something in her mouth was so essential to her mental and physical health. Something heavy and thick and with the possibility of spurting cream. As much as she had told herself it was about marriage and family and future, at the moment what she wanted was as much goo, in her mouth, as possible. She’d do anything to make it happen. Although Chester was doing the work Darcie used what few tools she had—she flexed her lips, wrapped her tongue around the coke bottle in her mouth. As her future husband he could cum in her mouth three or four times a day.

“It’s—I’m coming, asian slut!” Chester said. His grip tightened, and Darcie found herself with her nose right up against his pubic hairs. An undignified spot for a small business owner, and it was hard to keep her optimism, since she could barely breathe. But then a trickle, then a flood, of cum spurted into her mouth. With the remaining Pink it was nectar, it was perfect. Her tits, so tight and hot, felt a sudden menthol-mint coolness, like they’d been pinched with spearmint. Sperm slid down her throat. It had no trouble at all. She was greased.

The lighting was strange, under a very heavy moon. In the reflected street lights, Chester’s cock looked completely covered in Pink.

“Wha- what?” he said, confused. “What the fuck is going on?” He gave his dick a waggle, and more droplets of cum sprayed out of it. He stumbled backwards, and was suddenly, abruptly, a bearded bank manager with his pants around his ankles. And she was Darcie, anxious mess, who had just inexplicably sucked off the man.

In retrospect she’d felt the weight of his gut against the top of her head.

It was all very confusing, especially why Darcie could feel not just a trickle, but an outright deluge of wetness between her own legs. But they didn’t have to talk about it, as breaking down the back door had triggered the silent alarm, and the cops just then showed up.

Jiya was sure she wasn’t a fraud.

She had been ready to uphold her side of the deal. Her parents had left Jaipur with several dollars and the explicit goal of developing their kids into rocket scientists. She’d been dressed as an infant in Harvard sweaters and Princeton shirts. Her Dad had acquired flashcards well in advance. They had strategically moved into an apartment which, through mistakes by the zoning board, was accidentally in the better school district.

And Jiya had bought in fully. By age seven she’d watched The Man Who Knew Infinity four times. She was going to be the dutiful daughter who catapulted into Dartmouth—at least—on the back of their 14-hour working days. She’d return with the Fields Medal or not at all.

By age eight her Dad had died.

And that was it for science. They’d fallen off the narrow path. Her Mom had transitioned to Widower Making Ends Meet and Jiya had gone from promising scion to Another Pair Of Hands. There had been no more talk of fancy colleges. She hadn’t even gone. JIya handled the American side of a cousin’s import business.

“What’re you working on?” Tommy said. “Science or math?”

“Oh, you know,” Jiya said. “A little of both. But no. Chemistry today. Something a little lighter.”

He handed her a cup of coffee, with some of that oddball additive in it. Some sweet syrup they were importing. Jiya had been trying to figure out what additive was in it, to explain the side effects. Taurine or Vitamin B12 or Turmeric. Her working theory was that it was a full-on multivitamin, a broad-based spectrum, that generally promoted cellular health.

And why was it bright Pink? Were they wringing out flamingos?

Jiya closed the laptop and picked up the cup. The thing that Pink did best, besides making her mouth feel like a car wash, was promote a sense of wellbeing and optimism. And what kind of supplement could do that? She’d delved into wikipedia, and it had turned out that the Supplements category was a total morass of inadequate sourcing and poorly supported facts.

“Chemistry! I nearly failed chemistry. Just because of, you know, breakage. I had to get special permission from the Principal to not have to touch any beakers.” Tommy was still hovering around. Jiya was not stupid. The man clearly had an interest in her subcontinent, so to speak. But he was younger. She had mixed emotions about him being a white guy—a dull, guilty feeling that Mom would not approve. And most of all, not that it was true, she was an absolute fraud, a high school graduate making grammatical changes and writing ‘SOURCE NEEDED’ on wikipedia articles she could not fully parse.

It was time to go for a walk, Jiya thought.

The college campus was nearby. First she would get more money. Then she’d enroll. Then she’d transfer to a state school’s extension program, then she’d transfer to an Ivy League extension program, and then she’d get her PhD, again, extension. Mom had her own set of health issues. So it was nice to pretend to be a co-ed, from time to time. She looked back, as she left the coffee shop.

Tommy was busy at the register. Fine. Not that she expected him to be staring, openly, at her butt. It was odd that he had such an obvious puppy-dog interest in her, and not to be encouraged. She had no business getting stared at, much less dicked down, by a tall redhead.

Dicked down? Jiya shook her head, and drank some coffee. What was that? Sex and men had never been a part of her personal goals. Sex wasn’t exactly science. Maybe some physics. And yes, some chemistry. And definitely a lot of biology, come to think of it.

She passed college students definitely thinking about biology. Trends had abruptly turned, according to their clothes. Just recently the vogue had been sweatshirts and pajama pants, like a permanent college sleepover. And before that, high-waisted pants and loose tops.

And now—had these girls always owned these minis and these shorts? Had they been underneath the pajamas? Everyone was shapely. Everyone seemed full to bursting in little clothes. Maybe these were high school outfits, shoved on to college-aged bodies. A little mystery.

Jiya sniffed. Lavender. And a lot of the girls weren’t coffee shop patrons. It had to be Pink—she trusted her senses, even though her mouth, lately, was always watering. But smell seemed—heightened. The girl in the knee-length tights, for instance, laughing at everything a sloe-eyed boy said, she was lavender-lilac with notes of cinnamon.

It was sexy, at the University. Jiya wrinkled her nose at it, at the amount of tits and ass on sudden display. The coffee shop, too, had a new feminine vibe. Was Pink some sort of... hormone-generator? Was it maybe causing estrogen release, producing an ovulation-like effect?

She knew all about that. Jiya had read about it that morning, after Tommy’s enthusiastic questioning had made her feel—less than fully objective. Warm in the secondary sex characteristics. Female sexual response was broad-based and confusing, but less so when treated methodically. She’d exhibited flushed cheeks—she’d checked in a mirror—as well as tender breasts, a sense of wetness, and a general sense of safety and wellbeing. Because a nineteen year old was asking her about her “science endeavors”.

The Physics lecture hall would calm her down, she knew. The teacher actually used the whiteboard, and the school was too cheap to erase the equations. She liked going Good Will Hunting, working out the subjects of lecture. Soon she’d be in the classroom. Then she’d be teaching it.

Except, as soon as she opened the door, it was clear there was biology being taught. A couple was on the desk in the very middle of the hall, being stared at by hundreds of empty chairs. A girl had her butt on it, and her legs wrapped around a boy in dark clothing. They were necking, frantically, hungry for each other.

Jiya—stayed.

She knew these people, she realized. Hannah, another coffee regular, and Hannah’s boyfriend, who had some sort of emo look going on, despite what year it was. She wore knee-high socks and a hip-riding blue mini, and she had her hair in pigtails. Jiya could only figure it for some sort of costume, a sexy coed look. Except Hannah was already a sexy co-ed. She proved it when her boyfriend started to maul her tits. They were cherry-red, and big.

“Hurry, professor!” she panted. “The next class is almost here!”

Whose fantasy even was this? The boy seemed into it, nearly growling, pulling her closer. Behind them the usual equations were on the board. Jiya couldn’t find it in herself to stare at them. Math and science seemed—secondary. Here was another path.

The couple separated. They laughed, nervous, and looked around. Jiya pushed herself into the shadows. No doubt they’d leave, having enjoyed their makeout session. Except—Hannah was cantilevering, removing, with fanfare, what was obviously a very tiny pair of panties.

“Don’t finish in me,” she said, and giggled. “Risky business this week.”

They were going to fuck in the classroom? Jiya felt outraged on behalf of higher education. Emo boy pulled his cock out, his pants barely down, and she briefly stopped breathing. It was long and hard, and made it hard to concentrate on mathematics. In fact her own body was responding, warm, wet, and nearly drooling. She slurped, suddenly, and worried that they’d hear her.

Jiya didn’t need to be concerned. The boy was lining up, Hannah’s legs cocked out, and they had no interest in anything but each other. When he pushed in, she made a noise like a wet whimper, and then pulled her legs around him. Jiya’s tits were well beyond warm. They were burning, her nipples taut. Fucking in class. Some sort of strange fantasy. Her own heated mind couldn’t help but imagine—after student, after professor, maybe she’d find time to be on that desk, her own ass scooting on the cheap plastic. Her own pussy getting used. Maybe by a student, a younger man, an eager lover with red hair...

“Oh my GAWWWWD,” Hannah said, clutching her lover. The angle was difficult, Jiya figured. But if she was wet enough... and she obviously was. Heck, Jiya was. She could feel a trickle down the inside of her thigh, something that had never happened before.

Exploring was part of science, wasn’t it? Jiya let her hand drift down. On top of her jeans. She wasn’t a slut. She just needed—relief.

Hannah’s pigtails were flying back and forth. They were both searching for any additional friction, any way to touch each other. Even from that far away Jiya could hear a shlick-shlick of skin on skin, generously lubricated. The boy shuddered, and made a low grunting noise. He was cumming in her, Jiya recognized. That’s what it looked like when a man orgasmed. Hannah didn’t seem to care about her earlier admonition. She even pulled him closer, so he was buried, up to the hilt. He was painting her pussy, Jiya figured.

She shivered, herself.

And behind them, earlier unnoticed, were two coffee cups. Both empty. Jiya still had one in her free hand, the one that wasn’t desperately frigging herself. She reflexively drank from it, and felt something release, a block she hadn’t known she had.

Jiya came. A little cum, but a real one. It took all she had not to scream. Coffee, pink coffee, sloshed across her hand.

Dazed, on weak legs, she made her way out. Even now the couple didn’t turn, when the door closed. He was still inside of her, emptying out. The entire experience was shocking, and strange, but at least, Jiya thought, she had a legitimate research subject at hand. She was going to research Pink.

She went back to the coffee shop for another cup.

Billy closed up two hours late. She’d been closing two hours late, on Fridays, since starting at Titan Coffee. Sent Tommy home, and let the low ebb of customers in chairs stay and nurse whatever they had. Darcie had yet to realize that her associate staffer had unilaterally changed the closing time—unsurprising, first, because it was Darcie, and she had trouble seeing objects to her left and right. And unsurprising, second, because Billy quietly never charged her for it.

Friday nights were tough ones, and closing at eight made them pass that much faster.

“Alright. Shoo,” she said, to Jiya, the other last person in the building. Their best customer had Pinked her Drink, but then left it untouched, cooling and swirling by her laptop. Staring at it, stirring it.

“You know this solidifies?” Jiya said, holding it up. She tapped the surface. The pink-brown froth jiggled. “It’s like... gelatin. Or agar powder. Or I don’t know. Give it long enough, it makes coffee jello. Pink coffee jello.” Jiya’s own cheeks were unusually pink.

“Shooooooooo,” Billy said. She considered the untouched drink. Part of her, much of her, really wanted to drink it. But it was Friday night, and the goal of Friday night was to get herself to bed without incident. That meant no more caffeine.

“It’s been popping up, this stuff,” Jiya said. “I’ve been seeing lots of references to it online. All around the country. Viral marketing stunt? It—I mean, it tastes good. Like.. bliss. That’s what they said about it. Online.” She seemed uncertain. “It tastes like a good time.”

“Jiya. Leave the building,” Billy said. She changed her tone. Jiya looked up, surprised, and realized it wasn’t banter. Billy was very serious.

It was Friday night. She didn’t joke around.

Billy locked up the shoddy, pasted-together, back door. Something had happened to it, and the Landlord had slapped a few planks over the cracked wood. immediately felt—she’d made a mistake. Jiya had left with her sludgy glass.

Billy had told herself—no more Pink, that day. Not after noon. It left her tingling and disconcertingly breezy, rose-colored glasses as a drink. That euphoria had no place alongside Friday night rituals.

They were very firm rituals.

Walk home, unlock apartment, take two anti-depressants, spend an hour of Distraction Time, then a benzo and then bed. And then, an hour or two or three later, sleep.

Usually the minutes could be predicted. It was Eight Oh Two, so she’d get the metallic taste of fear in her mouth. A predictable tautness in her shoulders, a breathless sense that the world had curved. It was always worse when it got dark early, too. Trauma re-enactment, she’d been told.

She’d read an article about how Tetris, right after bad things, helped chase away traumatic events. Block stacking wouldn’t let the ugliness settle in. Unfortunately, she had not been near a game boy when it had happened.

This time there was no sour copper tang. Instead Billy was—wet. All over.

Really wet. Even her eyes were wet, and she kept sniffling, trying to keep her nose decent. She felt like she was floating in her own skin.

She considered just spitting, like an old cowboy. Instead she surprised herself, even more, forcing her legs away from her Usual Walk Home and into a 7-11. Where Billy bought a pint of ice cream and, on impulse, a small packet of bubble gum. She was almost breathless, and not just from the spit, filling her mouth. She’d deviated from her routines.

The gum was pink colored and pink flavored.

She caught sight of herself in the shoplifter awareness mirror. Earlier in life she had disliked her hair. It was a harsh dark mass that made her feel like the background black girl in an insurance commercial. But she had come around to it. It fit her face, which had a natural glare to it, and a harsh, beaky nose. Her only unconcealable soft part was from behind, a fairly bulbous butt, which she usually kept contained in jeans. Her front, at least, was concealable, although she’d inherited the family tits. They were genetically blessed.

Billy watched herself blow a big silly bubble. She went nearly cross-eyed, watching it expand. It was so Pink. Pink was calming...

Then it popped, and she remembered to be on edge. That feeling like her muscles were bathed in acid.

Still, the gum helped, not just with the persistent, nagging drooling issue, but with distraction. It felt good to have something in her mouth. Perhaps, she considered, her like of Pink was more generally a need for distraction. It was definitely distracting—a sip gave her a full-body flush, an internal campfire. And after she came down, from the initial high, Billy was aware she had a brainless, stupid smile on her face. It was a common side effect—she saw it on the faces of all the co-eds, as well. And possibly Tommy, although it was hard to tell apart from his usual hopeful, innocent expression.

And Darcie. On Darcie it was shy and earnest and... winsome.

At her apartment Billy slid the bolt in and then locked her two backup locks, the ones she had installed. Then she went and stuck her head under the tap, and drank and drank. It didn’t make a lot of sense—she was feeling so float-y, so filled-up, why was she drinking gallons of water? A hot, heady feeling was normal for her, on Friday nights. But not like this, not really. This wasn’t a burning unease, it was a full-body jungle, warming her from the inside. She drank around the gum.

Billy took her bra off, and then slouched in her chair, tits half-out underneath her unbuttoned shirt. She licked her already-wet lips. The gum detour had put her ten minutes behind schedule, but that much closer to going to bed. Her nipples radiated a warm heat, and it felt nice to have them out in the air.

She was feeling, overall, very nice. For a Friday night.

Billy fired up youtube and, without really thinking about it, stuck a finger in her mouth.

It wasn’t that she a lot liked watching Hasan videos. But they were good for sinking into a morose but time-consuming stew. It was better to contemplate the world than herself. She usually let the video algorithm wash over her, Friday nights, until it was time for mood-altering medication.

This was the first time she’d sucked on her fingertips while watching.

Billy noticed once her ring finger made it in there. That was four fingers, and her thumb was stroking the outside of her lips. The gum was still in her mouth. Billy couldn’t quite recall why she’d started sucking on her own fingers. But it was calming, and it felt good, to wrap her lips around her fingers and nuzzle.

She closed the video, so she wouldn’t develop a new and unwanted kink.

But that meant the routine was again disrupted, and it was not even nine. She had an hour to go before meds. Billy stood up, licking her lips. At some point she’d drooled. There was a puddle underneath her chin, which was bathed in her own warm spit. It was all puzzling, although it wasn’t like her normal Friday Nights were very rational. But this was a different kind of irrational.

Billy again stuck her head under the tap. Lapping up water felt right, but why? Billy was half-convinced she was getting sick—her body ached with excessive heat, and she was sweating, sweating heavily in the cool of her apartment. Her eyes had teared up, watching videos, and she could even hear the distant roar of the ocean in her ears.

Droplets were sliding down her forehead, down the top of her chest. Her tits were still out, and she felt a cool wash over them with each individual droplet. It felt good.

“Shower,” Billy told herself. It was impossible to drool in the shower. She kicked off her jeans. Her panties were also wet with sweat. What was wrong with her, getting hot and bothered during leftist youtube time? Deeply unserious behavior.

Billy let her pinkie slide into her mouth again. This time she let it stay there, sucking on it. She could still taste the wash of lavender Pink, with each suck. There was nothing wrong with self-soothing, especially on Fridays. When she was probably coming down with a fever. That was why she was so hot, so aching, so wet. Why her bush was just as damp as her panties.

She stumbled into the shower.

She opened her mouth to the roar of the water, letting it pound on her. She still had the gum in there, and two fingers. Still it wasn’t nearly enough. Her mouth needed things in it. Fingers and gum and water and Pink and cock and more fingers.

No... what was that? And how long had she been in the shower? The walls were dripping with moisture, and so was she. Billy realized she was chewing on a fresh stick of gum. A full wad of it. When had she stuck in another one? On the way to the bathroom? And what time was it? 10:04 loomed, and everything had to be perfect when it arrived.

“Mmmphh. Mmmmmmmph,” Billy said, three fingers in her mouth. The water was cold, and still not enough. With her free hand she pulled the showerhead free and aimed it between her legs. The water now could get in her in other ways, since her mouth was full. The weight of it crashed into her thighs, and sent her staggering into the wall.

Eyes shut, overwhelmed, Billy gave up on time management and comforting routines. Sucking on her fingers and massaging her pussy were strange new coping strategies, and they were absolutely working.

More. She needed more in her mouth. It was practically empty, with just all her fingers and a big wad of gum in there.

She nearly slipped, stark full naked and dripping wet. Her body didn’t care at all about absorbing a week’s worth of water—it wanted more, more, to be clammy and dense with fluid. She needed relief. Billy turned her head away just in time from the wall clock in her little kitchen. Still soggy, she made it to the bedroom, and jammed her wet fingers into the bedside table, pulled open a drawer, and removed a dildo.

It was probably a little dusty. She’d gotten it as a gag gift during her brief stint in college. It was seven inches long and not really meant for her mouth.

Billy stuck the dildo into her mouth, and jammed it in.

It was dry silicone, and satisfied like water could not. All the water she’d swallowed, the fountain against her skin, suddenly mattered. Billy could distantly recall having a gag reflex. It didn’t stop her from swallowing the first six inches, and then making a taut seal around the rubber. It was a purple dildo, and she still had the gum in her mouth. She was so lubricated, so perfectly lubed. All of her was sliding around, pleased.

“Mmmph. Mmmmppphhh,” Billy said, needy, desperate. She laid back on her bed, drenching the sheets. It was impossible to consider just what she was doing. Some sort of manic sexual episode. But it was working, it was so good, it was so much better than the grim countdown that ended every week. Instead of that she was sucking with abandon and thrusting her hips into the base of her palm.

Unbelievably, on the Worst Night, an orgasm of all things was riding up to meet her, starting with her tongue. She had it wrapped around the dildo, as if it would shoot forth a wonderful and gummy goo into her mouth, down her throat. The perfect fluid.

Her grip loosened, just for a second, as she reached a slack-jawed, eyes-lidded state of total bliss. The dildo inched its way down her throat, cutting off all breathing, just as she started to shake and hump around the slick pressure of her own fingers.

For a moment, lacking oxygen, brain overwhelmed, thirsty and overtaxed, all Billy could see was a single sheet of pink.

Calming, nourishing pink...

Billy’s gag reflex returned, plus her need to breathe, all mixed with a crashing, amazing orgasm at code lavender intensity. Billy flpped over, still rubbing, popping the dildo free of her throat and onto the wet sheets. And then continued orgasming, creaming herself onto the sodden cotton. It all crescendoed into a piercing, throaty shriek. She collapsed. Fluid trickled out of her, out of most holes.

Weak, confused, Billy checked her phone.

It was 11:12 p.m.

She was past it. And she hadn’t even taken her pills.

Darcie was starting to see an empire, around Chester’s cock.

Her boyfriend—and the word was now thrilling, boyfriend, she had a boyfriend—was starting to last longer in her mouth. All part of the growth in their relationship, Darcie figured. They were getting used to each other. Instead of the fevered use of her mouth as a receptacle, Chester was content to let her slide her lips up and down, while he stroked her hair or occasionally idled on his phone.

She’d introduced him to Pink, at a 10% discount. He had a tall glass of it in one hand, and pet her with the other. The scent of it was nice, during blowjobs. Darcie could even swear she tasted a tint of it, the slightest hint, when he flooded her mouth.

They were in an empty storefront just two doors down from the coffee shop. It had been a jiu-jitsu place, then karate, then krav maga, then UFC, and was now just a liminal space with some padding lying around. This was great news for Darcie’s knees. Chester, lord of the bank, had the keys to the place. It looked like he had keys to many places, not to mention a dick that tasted increasingly good between her lips.

“Nice lipstick today, babe,” Chester said. “Like, bark-colored, huh?”

“Mmmmm-hmmmmmm,” Darcie said, letting a trill vibrate her throat. Chester liked that a lot. He was strongly incentivized to keep her talking.

“You know what we can do,” he said. “In the rebrand. Cats. Cat and coffee. Or, and I know we haven’t talked about this before, maids. Maids and cats and coffee and maybe also massages. Is this going too fast? We can go back to the outfits.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Darcie closed her eyes. Obviously her picture of empire had a different look than Chester’s, which was mostly about turning her coffee shop into a kind of harem. She pictured expansion. Pink flowing from coast to coast, dispensed from warmed carafes to eager boys and eager girls, their lips coated with just-melted goo. At $2 a pump.

“I don’t know about the outfits...” she demurred, again. Chester was being very insistent about them. He had sketches, he had fabric swatches. He had big plans. He wanted to clothe Darcie in a luxurious but slutty outfit. It combined stereotyping with crude sexuality with a lot of leg. It looked, Darcie deemed it, oriental. And yet...

If Chester liked it...

Pump... pump... pump...

Darcie opened her eyes. The future was right in front of her. She wasn’t going to say no to this. Why say no to anything, if Mr. Bank Director wanted it?

“Want me to cum on your face?” Chester said, secure in the knowledge she would say no, mouth was just fine. Darcie was starting to experiment with makeup again. It had been her first love, a great way to be a shy adolescent. Concealers and mascara and lipsticks—she had dozens of lipsticks especially. Over time she’d brought it down to just a signature eyeliner. Now it was all back. All of it. Even the serums that didn’t do anything.

“Mmmmnoooooooo,” Darcie said, interrupted halfway by a load of cum. Yes, there it was, underneath a saline base. Just a bit of lavender. If she urged his dick down her throat, a little more, maybe she’d get another taste...

“Your Dad can guarantee all this, right?” Chester said, sipping his Pink. “The Cat Maid Massage Cafe. We’ll work on the name. And I want you to think about the uniforms.”

Later, back at work, she had to loosen her apron. The company uniform of straight green aprons was in peril. Chester’s ideas for new uniforms were looking more and more attractive.

Darcie had been too busy to give much thought to her own expanding assets. And even with some sudden growth she was far, far below the average in her own cafe, not to mention her own workforce.

But it was undeniable that she had boobs. Not tits, and barely even boobs, but actual and well-rounded mammaries. A reward for good business, when she briefly thought of it, nervously. She kept touching at the underside of them, to make sure they were real. She repeated ‘calories, extra calories’ as a mantra, to keep it from seeming bizarre. She’d just gained weight. In her chest.

It was more disconcerting, actually, to see the sudden change in tits around her. Billy, especially, was hefty. She had already been reasonably boobish, and was now already tit-forward. The apron was looking maternal—it had nowhere to give, and just hung from the front of her chest.

Chester’s plans for a world of lace and more lace was unrealistic, but Darcie WAS ready for a new look. Something more curvy just made sense. Or at least, something that would hide the drool stains.

“Darcie, if we go on break, a riot is going to break out,” Billy said. “And we ARE going to go on break.”

The line now reached the door, nearly always. Their customer base was growing in more ways than one. Lots of new customers, especially in the more quiet and shy version of the college student. Word had gotten out. There were pudgy girls with downcast eyes and long straight hair, and single boys looking around, their eyes wide, and even a few of the lecturers, licking their lips. They wanted Pink. They drank it as soon as they got it. They got back in line.

The regulars were now popular regulars. The various Emmas and Olivias and so forth stood in groups, in line, of boys and girls. There’d been a lot of growth in boyfriends. As long as the line was moving they seemed in particular to be enjoying themselves—the regulars were very touchy-feely, and didn’t seem to mind being stroked in return. Despite the trend being baggy jeans and pajama pants her regulars had a lot of bare legs. And hands stroking up and down those legs. Everything was growing. Her business, her sales, her body...

Chester would love it if she wore a skirt like the one Isabelle was sporting. A pink skirt, maybe... with an asian flair...

“Darcie! Pay attention to the information I am giving you!” Billy said. She snapped her fingers, even. “We are short-handed. Pink output is dropping.

“Oh—uhh—yes. Labor laws,” Darcie said, blinking. “Okay. Yes. I’ll run register. Billy, take five. Go ahead and jerk off, Tommy.”

Tommy gave her a look.

“What?” he said.

“What?” Billy said.

“Smoke a cigarette. I don’t know. What did I say? Go on break.” Had she really said that? But, among the many other distracting things, Tommy was very prominent. He bulged. Everyone could see his cock. Had he grown, in the past week? He seemed more imposing, but men could seem imposing in many wonderful ways. Of course—she did have a boyfriend. “Drink some Pink. Yeah.”

They were all definitely doing that. It was a bit of a vicious cycle. No. The other thing. Virtuous cycle. They needed energy so they drank Pink which led to more energy which kept the coffee shop busy which required more energy. It was rare that Darcie’s mouth wasn’t swimming with goo. Or a different kind of goo.

“Darcie,” Billy took her by the head and locked eyes with her. “We have exactly two employees, of which I am one. I want to sell Pink too. Really. But we need to do something. The line is officially out the door. You need to hire.”

A couple of what looked like college maintenance workers were propping it open. Tommy wasn’t even asking if people wanted Pink. He was just dosing everyone. It was strange, actually, that her jar hadn’t run dry. It was just a pint glass. She tried not to think about that, either.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Darcie said. She uncapped a marker, reached over to the construction paper sign that read “PINK: $1” and crossed out the 1. She wrote in a 2. “There. Supply and demand.”

Billy was furious. She actually hopped up and down. “We’re supposed to be spreading this stuff!” she said, hot. That made her mouth leak. Wasn’t it weird, that her employee was drooling on duty? Darcie tried not to think about it.

“Sell. We’re supposed to be selling,” Darcie said, placating. Although—spreading—it seemed...

“So we should—right—sell—but sell to EVERYONE,” Billy said. “None of this—jack up the prices. The only thing to jack is—” she looked at Tommy, at Tommy’s bulge. “Umm.”

“This is profits, Billy,” Darcie said. “We sell goods, we make money. Look, I’m thrilled to get Pink out there—”

“Yeah? Then lets make it happen. We gotta—we gotta spread.”

Billy was right. No. Darcie was confused, almost dizzy. Spread? They were just selling drinks, with sweet supplements. But Billy was right—they did need to spread, and spread... she leaned against the counter, and watched herself drool all the way to the ground.

“New price,” Billy said. She took the permanent market, and a new sheet of paper. Billy wrote in a 0. After considering it, she added a second 0, and a pair of dots in each one. “Free Pink if you show your tits!” she announced, to the crowd.

Girls immediately started unbuttoning buttons, and pulling already-short tops from the tops of skirts. The girl in the front of the line, Mia, was particularly top-heavy, and had her hair gathered up in short pigtails. “I’m gonna save TWO DOLLARS!” she announced.

There was a cheer.

Darcie swallowed, and swallowed again, and a third time. Still her mouth was—full. It was too much spit to talk around, too much slippery fluid in her mouth to say anything. Billy was right, wasn’t she? She felt it pounding in her head, pulsing in her mouth—the Pink needed to spread, broadly, widely, constantly. Her own tits were sympathetic—it’d be nice if they were out, it’d feel good if they were bulging in someone’s direction. There were so many men in the coffee shop, now. They were having a hard time believing their luck.

“N-no,” Darcie said, and then grabbed a cup, to spit into. There, she could talk. The dream was an empire, not a brothel. Right? “Girls, we are a for-profit entity! And its—Billy its not fair to the men, if boobs get free. Men—”

“This woman does not speak for us!” one of the boyfriends said, urgently waving his hands. “We agree with the proposed pricing!”

“One dollar,” Tommy said, glancing at both of them. “It’ll be one dollar. Same as before. But girls can still flash us if they want to. Okay?”

His voice was very deep today.

He spoke with authority, and Darcie wanted to melt into it. This was unexpectedly hard, building an empire. It’d be so nice to fall into his chest, and feel his heart, as it made all the decisions. Billy, unexpectedly, also accepted a man’s judgment with no comment, except crossing her arms. That lifted her chest even higher. Tommy’s eyes examined the long line of cleavage. That was his right, of course, Darcie recognized. His own apron strained over the acreage of his chest. Why had they argued, in front of a man.

“Well. Fine. But Tommy and I want raises, if its always going to be like this,” Billy said. That, at least, sounded more normal. “And more staffing, and we’ve formed a labor council.”

“We have?” Tommy said.

“That’s right,” Billy said.

“I’ll hire Jiya,” Darcie said. A burst of brilliance, and it got Tommy’s attention back on her. What could she do, to keep it? Primp, and smile? She couldn’t put on more makeup right then, could she? Darcie settled for twirling her hair and cocking her back leg. “Yes. That’s it. She’ll be our marketing and R&D and human resources person. Tommy, what kind of uniform should we put her in? Imagine her in a bikini and then put clothes on her until you like it, how about that? Or don’t put on clothes. And—I’ll recognize your union, provided you don’t make any demands. And you can have more Pink. Here, drink some right now.”

She put the full pint glass to Tommy’s lips.

Belatedly she remembered—no one had ever drunk it straight before. Diluted. Always diluted. Why had that been so important? Startled, Tommy took a big swig of straight Pink.

His lips were coated with pepto-bismol thickness.

He put one hand on the wall. Tommy blinked at them, and then took a deep breath. Lavender floated in both of their directions. It made Darcie want to fix her posture. Pink mixed with testosterone-laded breath. It was wonderful.

“We’re—a team,” Tommy said. His nostrils flared. Both girls nodded. If he’d said they were frogs, Darcie felt, she’d probably agree. “We’re going to work all this out. We’re going to sell Pink, and then we’ll talk. Okay, girls? Hmm?”

Whatever was coursing through him, it was made out of command. Darcie’s body loved it. His lips were still coated Pink. They looked so kissable.

“Yes,” Billy said, jiggling.

“Of course,” Darcie said.

“Good. Now, kiss and make up,” Tommy said.

Kiss and—kiss Billy?

It would give her spit somewhere to go. She had so much of it. And her lipstick would look perfect on Billy’s lips. They’d rub tits together, not very equal, but if she craned her neck forwards it would work just fine. They were nearly the same height. Billy’s eyes were half-lidded, dull. Darcie could tell her tongue was in there, ready to touch. How would that feel? Pretty good, she was sure of it...

This was all crazy. Her growing boobs. The girls flashing each other, even with the sale canceled. Her sudden simpering to Tommy’s growling voice. It was a dream, and not even her dream. Her dream was—business. Empire. Not making out with Billy, the head of the union.

She leaned forwards... they were a team, it thudded into her. A little kiss would be good teamwork. It’d spread—it’d spread something.

“METAPHORICALLY,” Tommy interrupted.

Both girls stared at each other, shocked. They were a foot apart, and lips puckered.

“Of- of course,” Darcie stuttered. She looked up, unsure. What had just happened? What had she agreed to? She was—an owner. Yes. An owner and future corporate overlord. She was NOT going to kiss the staff on the lips, and explore their mouth, and maybe grope their boobs. Billy looked also confused, that she’d been about to suck face with management.

The line was being so patient. All the girls had their shirts in their hands, ready to flash.