The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive



It was very startled when the first few hosts said—no.

They didn’t want it.

They didn’t feel right, leaking from all their holes. The muzzy, pleasant feeling of increased endorphin flow was not for them, and they did not like the alarming growth in their secondary sex characteristics. Most of all, the urge to spray, drool, jizz, slurp, and otherwise swap fluids.

It was shocked. Dismayed.

In vain it tried to break through the resistance. Did it not feel good ENOUGH? With a little conniving, and some brilliant work on certain nerve clusters, the way was open for incredible euphoria. Wracking pleasure beyond the ordinary limit of the species. And not just from the usual rubbing along sex organs—from taking a shower, or eating breakfast.

It was a good houseguest. It was sure of it. Perhaps if her tits were even bigger, she’d come around.

There had to be something else it could do. It could try harder.

* * *

Jiya checked her spreadsheet, and made another local copy.

The internet was ablaze about Pink. The New York Times had put out their first article, featuring a Pinkfluencer suddenly prominent on all types of social media. Jazlyn, whose Pink intake of choice was vaping, inhaling a cloud of lavender vapor directly into her lungs. She was open with the reporter about her tits growing “like, a bunch of sizes. Yeah! I know its super-crazy!”

The article used the word “promiscuity” a dozen times. As part of her research Jiya had downloaded a half-dozen dating apps. They practically made her phone warm. Pink mainlined the libido, everyone knew that. No need for research. The coffee shop had an entire few hours where new partners met up, drank coffee-flavored drugs together, and went off, arm in arm at least, and often hand on ass.

Important celebrities were walking around with bigger tits.

And she was at the forefront of it. Literally so. Jiya had not been spared the top-heavy effects of a Pink diet. She’d been careful to measure and record each addition to her bustline. Sometimes she had to measure twice a day, and palpitate the region. There was an important discovery in there—her tits were much more sensitive, and becoming more sensitive, over time. It was all on one of her graphs, along with orgasms per day. That, too, was on the rise.

She had written down the main effects of the stuff. Number one, randiness. She was her own experimental subject on that, as well. Two, growth. Check, and not just her boobs. Jiya was part of a nationwide wave of bigger butts. She was struggling to measure that part of herself, settling for a qualitative assessment of how bouncy she felt on a particular chair. Jiggling was increasing.

Third, the—drool.

So much drool. The coffee shop resounded with slurps. The cooler girls had given up, and wore the wash on their chin as a badge of the culture. Jazlyn, Pinkfluencer, just let it dribble onto the floor, a snail trail of her exalted social media status. Follow it to viral greatness, Jiya supposed. She herself wasn’t as bad—an occasional drizzle on the ground, mostly when she was horny. Jiya was collecting it in small cups, to try and assess differences, day by day. It was getting thicker. Just like her.

And that wasn’t all. They were all of them—wet. All over, wet. Jiya and all the other girls were sneezing, teary-eyed, sweating, and especially were excessively lubricated for sexual activity. Like her pussy was a faucet. She’d taken to wearing a pad. It came away smelling like lavender and unmet desire. She was soggy.

But these were all very well documented effects. There was also pleasure and well-being and blah blah blah, but Jiya wanted to get to her last one. Her own special research project. Intelligence.

She just wasn’t feeling very super-smart, on the stuff.

As far as she knew, this concern was still hers alone. The world was too worried about the social effects of drooling everywhere. There’d been a CNBC article about a run on mops. Dry cleaners were pulling double shifts, and clothes were worn with prominent stains. Pink patterns, concentrated on the cleavage area. Some girls kept their t-shirts perpetually wet.

“Alright, and, done,” she said. Tommy, her number one test subject, put down his pencil. “How do you feel?”

Jiya tried to stop herself from sticking her pencil eraser in her mouth. Mainstream media was waking up to the truth of Pink too slowly. The urges were very powerful and, what was worse, felt extremely natural. It was the most normal thing, now, for her to roll her hips when she walked, or run her tongue all along her lips when talking to a boy. She could barely remember a time when she had a dry cunt.

“Nervous,” Tommy said. He glanced towards the backroom. Everyone could hear muffled yelling between Darcie and Billy. “Mom and... Mom are fighting.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Jiya said. She swallowed, and then undid the top button on her blouse. It was under increasing strain. The second button was under no less stress. She’d developed a reasonably sized chest in just the past several days. Not just that—her rib cage had disappeared under a layer of soft girlish padding, and she looked so much more well-rested. She was well-rested. Jiya had never slept better. And such nice dreams. “Okay. And, look, I’m sorry that this is so. You know. Sexual. If Pink made us more, I don’t know, gassy I’d be studying that instead.”

“Uh. Sure,” Tommy said. HIs gaze lingered on her cleavage, and then bent down to the workbook. Seventh grade algebra. Jiya checked the page Tommy had just done. He’d left one drool mark, and it was damp from his forearm sweat. She felt an urge to sniff it, and tamped it down with difficulty. Of course it would smell like lavender. Why did she need to smell it even more?

Billy briefly emerged from the back room, to take some deep breaths. She wore a striped scoop top that, like Jiya’s, was secured by three buttons. But her own straining buttons were practically at the navel. The only thing holding back her chest was the cotton, and the straps. It was practical, sort of—her own saliva fell down into her cleavage, and apparently disappeared.

She shook her head at her fellow mutineers. Negotiations over access to the Pink were going poorly.

“Tommy,” Jiya said, gently, “eyes ahead. We have a methodology.” This was messing up her scientific protocol. He was supposed to be distracted by her OWN chest. True, she didn’t have the bounty that Billy was increasingly sporting. That was a scientific conundrum. She was monitoring her own Pink intake very closely, and there was no way it was any less than Billy’s. Her blood had to be lavender scented. And yet she hadn’t achieved the fat sacks with impressive musculature that Billy had. And why did it bother her?

She decided to make a note of it. “MAKE GIRLS WANT BIG TITS?” went into the spreadsheet.

“Urghhh, okay,” Tommy said. He bent down to the task of math problems.

“It’s for your own good. Well. No. Actually its for the good of the entire world!” Jiya said. “But you’ll benefit, as part of the world? Its weird how few men are tracking all this! They’re just writing—stories—about—ummm—female sexual willingness.”

Long stories. Jiya had copied a few into her spreadsheet, for later reading. The spelling and grammar in them seemed—poor. True, the men were distracted. Some of them had just “nutted”, as they so charmingly put it, “all over her fucking face, like, its dripping down the back of her hair, lmao.”

She’d read that part over and over. It was a very vivid image. She was imagining it all the time.

“Alright, done,” Tommy said. His slobbering was worse. It put Jiya in mind of a big, hairy wolf. A predator. A red-haired canine with intent eyes, who only needed a certain level of cunning, to take what he wanted and feast...

“Oh. Yes! Very well done, research subject Tommy,” Jiya said. She undid another button, this time as a reward. Although she wasn’t as top-heavy as Billy, or many of the prow-forward girls drinking Pink these days, she was happy with her new additions. But why? Jiya distinctly remembered skepticism of big heavy boobs. They didn’t make nursing an infant any easier. They were hell on running. They were mostly to attract men, which had not been something she cared about.

Until very recently. Now she liked it. She liked having big fat tits.

“Now what?” Tommy seemed weary. Was doing math problems very tiring? JIya tried to hold on to her sense of alarm. Pink was scary stuff. Not just a drug of fleeting euphoria. It was a compound that stuck around. They were all stuffed with it, and as much as they leaked and dripped and squirted it back out, it wasn’t going away. That was worrying, wasn’t it? That her tits were stuffed with Pink, that she was sloshing around?

That her very dreams were changing?

“Um. Looking at my twenty-five part protocol, I now undo an additional button, and then you attempt to concentrate. You’re doing VERY well,” Jiya said. Her body was having such a hard time with his—nearness. She wrote down all her symptoms, self-conscious. Undue vaginal lubrication. Nipple tenderness. General tenderness. Excess drooling on top of the excess drooling.

“Twenty-FIVE? When do I get to—” Tommy tried to count down backwards, from ten, to calm himself down, and failed at it. He swiveled her laptop around. Jiya took a breath, and felt an immediate need to catalog her mental and physical response. Immediate sense of boys-will-be-boys. Desire to placate. What was going on with her? This was her big experiment!

“Um. This is bad for the control, if you read the protocol,” Jiya mumbled. She watched his eyes read the list. A lot of it was—theoretical. She’d written it a little heated.

“Part six. Do math problems while researcher rubs subject’s penis under table with foot. Part seven, researcher uses fingers instead of foot.”

“Tommmmy, this is bad for the Nobel Committee,” Jiya whined. She was squirming. It was hot to have him read this, and unscientific. She was juicing, and that was not part of the test at all.

“Part twelve, researcher dances around for subject, assuming breast size is at desired level.”

This was too much. JIya clutched her hand around her glass of Pink. She really should and could not drink it. She had an ongoing testing protocol where she was monitoring her own consumption. This one was not alone—there were many other girls, across the country, who had come together to try and slow their own concerning addiction.

Jiya considered herself to have it easy. Some of them were eating a half-dozen donuts a day. There was even a girl in New York trying to resist Pink-flavored cream cheese. She’d gained some substantial weight. But even the ones just sniffing Pink perfume, or touched with Pink-dyed clothes, were seeing their bustlines explode, their bodies juice, their minds turn to spreading their drenched thighs...

What the hell WAS Pink? A drug? A hormone? A supplement?

Something else?

“Part twenty, researcher commences fellatio of subject while researcher’s vulva is positioned over subject’s mouth. Subject is urged to resist urge to lick, even if researcher’s lubrication drips in subject’s mouth.”

“These are experimental! I haven’t run them by the committee yet!” Jiya protested. “I haven’t worked out how you do math during them. Like—you at least need a hand free.”

“Part twenty-six,” Tommy read. He was silent.

Jiya flushed. This was humiliating, even if Tommy could be assured that it was just—science. Part twenty-six was where researcher and subject traveled the world together collecting awards and fucking in foreign countries. Her pussy was steaming. Why was getting talked down to making her so wet? Was this, too, Pink? Did Pink create fetishes?

Was it Pink’s fault she wanted Tommy to fuck her in public, in front of the entire coffee shop?

“Jiya...” Tommy said. He was breathing hard. Oh, she did want to do Part Eight while he did Part FIfteen on her.

“Researcher,” Jiya said. She had to reassert control. Pink was making her—ditzy. She had to write this down, how dumb and hot she was feeling. “You’re subject, I’m researcher. This is just—science. Its really science, Tommy. I could do this with anyone with a big hot dick.” They were both drooling, and it felt almost like communication.

“Tommy,” Billy said, returning.

Her tits interrupted the conversation.

“Darcie and I want to talk to you. Can you come with us?”

“Uh. Yes.” He spun the laptop back around. Research subject stood up, and up. Jiya had neglected to measure him, that day. It was just too much. She had to spend a half-hour in the bathroom after, calming herself down.

She needed to stop, Jiya told herself. She forced herself back to PinkSupport, the main subreddit for those who had yet to experience the intense flavor of Pink. The board was very active. The newest story was from a high school girl on the volleyball team. Her pink-addled Mom was busy fucking her way through every Dad associated with the squad. And four of her teammates were exhibiting alarming chest growth. She, too, had given in. She wanted the nice butt.

“Throw it away,” Jiya told herself. Do it. She picked up the glass, gritted her teeth, and walked over to the trash can. There was an entire two gulps left. Her hand wavered over the bin. Every single plastic cup in there had been drained to the dregs. She could do this. She could—

Jiya slumped back into her chair.

She had to—hang on. Her dreams were still her own, at least. Sort of. Herself, accepting a prestigious award for achievement in the sciences, to the thunderous applause of distinguished colleagues. Pink had even made the trophy bigger, the applause louder, and, irony of ironies, had given her the drive and focus to do things like write and execute twenty-six part scientific protocols.

The only problem was, the auditorium kept getting smaller. The audience was getting more and more male. And when the applause stopped, they were walking up the dais, pointed at her, and she was starting to kneel, mouth open.

* * *

“So, Tommy, we are at a crossroads in our negotiations,” Billy said.

Darcie looked unhappy. She was half-crouched in her manager chair, practically wrapped around her flask of Pink. She wore a sort of executive outfit, although it was more administrative assistant than high-powered businesswoman. It had a frilly half-tie and a fairly brief pencil skirt.

Despite her disgruntlement Tommy couldn’t help but trace her figure with his eyes. Billy had started with curves, and had added more, but was still—Billy. Darcie was now a different person, a highway turned into a mountain road, and her new dips and crevasses and other terrain had changed her entirely. Especially because she was still very short, and was nonetheless finding ways to add contours and arcs to a little frame. The main point of reference was her makeup. She had added curlicues and whorls to her eyes.

“Uhh—” Tommy tried to talk intelligently. HIs mind spun around, mostly about squirting in a direction. Jiya’s, but also Darcie’s, or even Billy’s. Squirt, he had to squirt. No, he had to get a grip. These were women, not surfaces. Surfaces it would be interesting to trickle onto. “Uhh. Yes. Billy, didn’t we quit?”

“Yes, yes we did,” Billy said. “And you are a part owner in All Juice, name tentative, grand opening set for later this week. Although once we get a lawyer and some free time we’ll make it into a fully socialistic worker’s commune.”

“Right, right,” Tommy said. He struggled to get his head in the game. It didn’t help that both girls kept glancing over at his package, and that his package kept noticing their glances. He couldn’t help but feel like his interests, hobbies, and other personality traits were all drifting south, swinging between his legs. Currently rigid, between his legs. “So... Darcie? What do you need?”

“I mean, first of all, I just want to say that I feel personally betrayed and hurt,” Darcie said. She looked very hurt, and he did feel bad. But nothing some cock couldn’t cure, he thought. “I was this close, this close, to forming a minority-owned nationwide-chain of delicious coffee and Pink drinks. I had venture funding. And I would’ve happily given all of you the titles of vice-president. Plus you’d be at the ground floor of a new empire. That means something.”

“What about health care?” Billy said.

“You don’t NEED health care,” Darcie insisted. “You are all GLOWING. I mean—Tommy—you look so—you look so—” she closed her eyes. Some version of Tommy was behind her lids, Tommy could tell. Sweating and at least half-naked, and maybe splitting logs in the backwoods. Not even with an axe.

Keeping his head in the game was getting to be a real challenge. The girls seemed to be doing a better job of having goals. Tommy’s dreams and shower interests and other stray thoughts kept turning to his own service as a nozzle. He had so much cum, so much. It was really alarming how much he could produce in a given day. And as much as he sprayed in available toilets there was more, so much more. His balls were never sore. They seemed to enjoy the challenge. His poor toilet had taken repeated lashings.

It was making it very hard to be an exception to the rule of brutish, thoughtless men. Girls were looking, increasingly, like skee-ball. With holes to target.

“Well, Darcie, labor, which is us, realized that value stems from labor, which is also us,” Billy said. She had a new habit of crossing and uncrossing her arms underneath her boobs repeatedly. It left her very bouncy.

“No, it doesn’t, it comes from THIS,” Darcie said. She held on hard to her little jar. The contents swirled around, although Tommy didn’t recall her shaking it. “This is the value. This is why you’re here, because you realized you need it. No one wants juice, they want this—stuff!”

The stuff was shiny pink.

“Jiya thinks we’re all really addicted to it,” Tommy said. “And its making us—she had a whole list of stuff. Maybe we do need to go to the doctor. I mean, girls, remember when you were—and I was—and...”

He trailed off. Had he gotten through? Or at least said a coherent sentence? He really needed to cum. Where was his toilet? Darcie was trying to unwrap her hand from the glass, and even Billy looked downcast. “I mean... yeah....” Billy said. A different Billy, a softer side, one he rarely saw. “...But... it’s been good for me. Darcie, I even think its good for you. You’re doing... great. You look good.”

“Really?” It was the first compliment that Billy had given Darcie, ever. All three of them were stunned.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought you were gonna fold the moment I came in here. You’ve got a backbone. I mean, I guess you need one, since you also have tits now. Gotta put them on something. Although... we... should...” Billy gritted her teeth. She had to force it out. “...see a doctor. Yes. We should. We’re... addicts, aren’t we? Although... although...”

Was there a pink sheen, deep in the whites of her eyes, when she forced that out? It faded away, drawn back into her...

“You look good too,” Darcie said, quietly.

“I mean, that’s great for you girls, but my testicles have doubled in size, and I REALLY should see a specialist about it,” Tommy said.

Both girls just stared now, openly, at his crotch. The stares felt good. Anything in connection with his junk felt good. Tommy had to cum soon. That was new as well, getting blue balls, not after prolonged sexual inactivity, but several times a day. Pink balls, really—not a feeling of uncomfortable, denied release but just... he needed to cum again. He was full, and it was time to cum. He was such a slobbering, sweating, chunk of fluid.

They were all drooling. Whatever. Tommy barely noticed anymore.

“If you want a little of THIS,” Darcie said to Billy, holding up the jar, “Then I want YOU. To. Train your replacements. Two weeks of training, two hours a day. Teaching them coffee-related skills. How to work the espresso machine, grinding. Lots of grinding.”

Tommy stared at her, confused. Pressing for a doctor visit, coupled with Jiya’s exam, and how long it had been since he’d last cum, had zoned him out. He could feel himself dripping, in his pants. He was a passthrough for sperm, these days. He was a conduit. He’d start with a healthy load on Darcie’s face, and see if her makeup rubbed off, with enough muck all over. Then he’d skeet his way down, not neglecting her feet.

“Uhhhh,” he said, muzzy. And Billy, how would he jizz all over Billy? One idea was to just bathe her tits, and see how much of a pool could accumulate. Birds could probably swim in it.

“It’ll be worth your while,” Darcie said, quickly. “I’ve got lots of great ideas. I’ve got new outfits for the staff, SO hot. When they bend over you’ll be able to see their panties. If a customer can list all the colors they get a free drink. And they’ll all have little hand blenders, so you can mix your coffee, or touch a vibe to them. And I’ll—I’ll wear whatever you want, Tommy, I will. I’ll find a new Jiya for you, I know you like her, one you can spunk up whenever—”

“Darcie!” Billy said. She leaned in towards Darcie. A lake of cleavage wavered underneath him. “Tommy. Its your call. I’m not your boss. Neither is she. What is it that YOU want? You’ve gotta have a dream. That’s the number one thing about all of this, besides the tits.”

What DID he want?

His interests were changing. Already Jiya had gone from adorable crush to just one of many possible receptacles, albeit a very special one. He hadn’t watched a politically-themed youtube in awhile. And while he had gone online, his usual follows and accounts were all detailing new urges, new growth, new needs, just the same as him. Even the most irony-poisoned and politically-minded girls were showing off skin, and responding warmly to “I want to fuck your tits” responses.

Some were expressing concern about all the drool puddles. Some.

What did he want? Was he really just becoming another guy, looking to spread his seed as widely as possible. He ached to spread it, he yearned to cum. Sometimes it was all he could think about, how everything would look with a warm bath of his semen. Or with a load up inside of them, dripping out over the course of the day, leaving bits of Tommy wherever they went. Every girl he met would look so much better even more drenched then they always were. The sweating, oozing girls he met needed it. He needed it. He needed to...

“Paint.” He said.

He grabbed onto it. Right, paint. He had a brush, and it ached between his legs. He wasn’t a hose, he was an artist. He worked in a medium of semen. It was a thin gloss of something high-minded, but it was all he could manage.

He wanted to paint the entire world with his cum. It sounded good, like a real goal. Maybe it was one. He stuck with it.

“You want to—paint?” Darcie said. While Billy was crossing and uncrossing her arms, Darcie was crossing and uncrossing her legs. “I mean—yeah. Okay. Sure. Alright. Here.”

Billy had brought a nalgene. They watched Darcie open the bottle and slide a dollop of Pink goo down the sides. It clung to the lip, for a half-second, and then gently lowered itself into the new bottle. Darcie twitched, after the first dose, but then allowed it to flow, a little while longer.

“I, um, appreciate what you said, about me being—assertive,” she said, to Billy. The generous dose of Pink flowed around in its new home. Tommy scrunched his eyebrows. Was Darcie’s jar just as full as before? He really needed to see a fuckin doctor.

“Yeah, well, its true, and its a pain,” Billy said. “Thanks for the goo. And... since I’m being nice.. you have also have a good ass now. Congrats.”

* * *

Billy went out, to battle capitalism.

The juice bar had become near reality so quickly. She’d thrown herself into it, encouraged by the Girls Outside, who had chimed in with a set of drinks they’d like, so long as they had Pink in them. She’d found the space, come up with a name, told off her ex-boss, secured a Pink supply, and done so in—how long had it been? A short amount of time.

It was really happening. And what was even better, it left her 0 time to think about past problems, or current strangeness. She was simply too busy to consider her bigger body, and if she was masturbating a lot more, it was because she had a lot more stress to relieve. Business stress. It could be agonizing, and orgasms helped a lot.

It had been a long time since she’d agonized over an outfit. But important business meetings did call for important business clothes. And besides, she’d had to do a complete refresh of her wardrobe, since she was experiencing some mild growth in her chest, rear, hips, and a few other areas, such as her lips, her thighs, and even more in her chest. She managed to struggle into a jean jacket. It was a little worrying, that the idea of buttoning it up was a total joke, and it could barely be tugged, even as a stunt, over three quarters of her boobs.

Billy shrugged it off. That made her tits bounce even more.

Eventually she settled on jean jacket, khakis, and a red loose top. She had on her lucky gold necklace, a family heirloom, but even that was distressingly sexy. It was now totally beached on the very tops of her tits, and would only swing free if she bent all the way over. And that would put her in full cow mode, which she didn’t want to think about. She had an important set of business meetings to attend, and she had to feel edgy and tough, not like some overstuffed tart wobbling around both breastily and boobily.

Her tits were so damn big. She tried not to think about it.

The furniture store had a set of mirrors at the entrance. Billy looked, only reluctantly. There was so much of her, especially dancing in a field of reflections. But she really did have to think, more seriously, about what was happening with her tits. It was too much to pass off as too much retained water, coupled with caloric intake. They just looked too healthy, too fantastic. And that couldn’t be it. The way the world worked was that being a piggy for drinks and sweets had negative consequences, not... these consequences. It just couldn’t lead to high-riding luscious orbs that were very squeezable.

She really needed to go to the doctor, see if they had a pill for great tits.

Billy squeezed her eyes shut. It flickered across her consciousness, chased by hormones and endorphins.

Everything felt TOO good. Pleasant buzzing accompanied the thought, to make it go away...

“Can I help you?”

“I really doubt it,” Billy said. She opened her eyes. The warehouse was massive, a bonfire waiting to happen, endless chairs and endless desks lodged here and there. The trick was not walking into furniture. “I don’t have any money and you have nothing to gain from me.”

“Hmmm,” the salesgirl said. She was perhaps forty, with a pudgy face, but lovingly rolled blonde curls that showered her shoulders. She wore a red polo and a blue gauzy skirt, a combination that didn’t work at all, and made no fashion sense, and made Billy feel a little dumb to be in semi-formal. At least the mirrors confirmed what she had suspected—khaki pants made Billy’s butt look amusingly enormous. “That’s not promising. But you DO need furniture?”

“I need ten indoor tables, seven outside. I need really sturdy chairs. Really sturdy,” Billy said. She wasn’t sure why, except her persistent fantasies. As much as she tried to shake it, and concentrate on juice bar sales, she couldn’t help but picture people fucking on the wood. “And a long table for the center.” People could daisy-chain, ass to mouth, all along it. “And two long counters. Any kind of wood. I want to stress that I can’t pay, so this would be credit.”

“Mmmmm,” the salesgirl said. She motioned, and Billy followed. Despite having a heft and volume better even than Billy’s own proud rear, salesgirl was adept at avoiding the many sharp corners. Billy’s butt impacted a few walnut edges. They reached a small room, set among the hunks of wood. “I’m Penny.”

The store was Frank and Penny’s, and Billy had figured it for an obscure pun. “Where’s Frank?”

“Oh. He’s around. Have a seat.”

Penny hadn’t stinted on her own office furniture. It was a magnificent mahogany desk, as heavy as the news, with a high-backed matching chair lined with velvet and leather. Penny settled herself into it, and made a noise so deep in her throat, Billy couldn’t make it out.

It was possibly a purr. Penny sank into the chair like she was falling into a deep sleep. It was fit for a queen to get fucked in.

“It’s a juice bar,” Billy said. “I’m selling—you’ve heard of Pink? Sweeping the nation? Promotes natural and healthy, uh, everything? That mixed with, like, I don’t know. Bananas. Apples. Again, I want to stress I have no money at all. Uh. Penny?”

“Hmmmmmm?” Penny wore the deepest, broadest smile Billy had lately seen. And she had seen many very pleased grins, on many happy girls, in the recent past. “Mmmmmmmmmm. Yes. Oh, yes. Pink. Frank and I got our hands on a bottle as well. You won’t... ummmm... bel-IEVE what it does to polish furniture.”

“Uh,” Billy wasn’t sure how to respond to this. Among other things, she was drinking the hell out of the stuff. “Great?”

“It IS great, isn’t it? Do you like furniture, Billy?” Penny very gently opened her eyes.

“I love it,” Billy said. “Love... uhh... furniture.”

“Mmm-hmm!” Penny said. She was a fellow drooler, Billy noticed. The red of her polo was good at hiding pink spit stain. But the same irregular pattern was all over. And she seemed to be getting worse at keeping her mouth closed as the conversation went on. “Oh, I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s what makes us—ummmmm—human, you know? Animals have.... ahhhh... dens. We fill them with desks and chairs and cabinets. And beds. Ummmmmmm... We do lots of things on nice beds.”

Her eyes had closed again. She slurped, ineffectually. An enormous glob of spit escaped her. It landed on a patch of her polo that, Billy noticed, was already wet.

Her very desk smelled good. A scent she was familiar with. She drank it. A lot.

Lavender-scented mahogany was divine.

“Well, take what you need, pay us back whenever,” Penny said, waving her hand. “Aisle 4... 4... Frank, what aisle is that nice birch set in?”

She pushed back, slightly, in her chair.

From underneath the desk a male voice said:


“4... Beeeeeeeee,” Penny said. Now she was slouching down, inching her lower half towards the male voice, and her grin had reached fully silly status. “Yeahhhhhhhhhhh.”

Billy wasn’t sure what to address first.

She decided to start with business, although her body was having a strong reaction to the sound, scent, and image of a woman getting her pussy licked. Her ravenous libido was right behind her breast growth on the concerns list. At this point, marriage and children was the only way to erase her repeated sins with her own shower nozzle. It understood her, and shot warm liquid up against her bulging clit. She was practically Mrs. High Sierra Brand All-Metal Showerheads.

“Really? Whatever we need?” Billy said. “I looked at the prices and that’s like... ten thousand dollars or so.”

“Isn’t that what you... oh god, Frank, don’t move. Right there. Lick right there. Isn’t that what you were hoping for? You walked in with no money, right?” Penny said.

“I guess...” Billy didn’t know what to say. She was feeling a lot more fondly towards her furniture sales rep. Her own clit was starting to throb to the same rhythm of Penny, who was gently rocking in her chair. And then from there, she figured, to Frank’s apparently wonderful tongue. They were all in tune. There was a pulse, in the room, that they were all drooling to.

“Follow your dream, baby,” Penny cooed. “Oh, just a second.”

It was not the screeching, shivering orgasm Billy half-expected. It was a very lazy, and slow, and comfy cum. Which was good, as Billy wasn’t sure her own pussy could handle a big noisy girl, right in front of her, scented lavender and female. This particular lavender had a citrus overtone. The furniture in the room was nicely shiny. She watched Penny dribble and drool, probably onto Frank’s head.

“Oh my—oh my god,” Penny said, eventually. “I’m’—” she looked Billy in the eyes, and some mute concern passed between them. This was off, wasn’t it? This was—wrong. Or right, it had to be one of those two. “Oh my god. Okay. I’m—sorry.”

“For free furniture, I’ll see if there’s more room under the desk,” Billy said. Did she mean it as a joke? They looked at each other, uncertain. But it was easier to smile and giggle, to put away the strangeness of it. Naughty, it was naughty. And... HAD that been her plan, arriving for business with no checkbook but big boobs? Penny stood up, and had to catch herself. She had no strength at all in her legs. There was still no sign of Frank. The skirt was drenched.

“I’ll—walk you—once I can walk—to the birch,” Penny said. The dreamy look returned, the flutter of a pleased smile. She was getting off with a loving partner, and joking around with a customer. Everything was fine, wasn’t it? Billy’s mind kept insisting that it was. This was fine. Billy tried to seal her lips, at least, to stop her ceaseless spit. She was dripping everywhere, although she had nothing on Penny, whose thighs were soaked.

The chair was vacated. Billy felt, strongly, that she could just sit in it, and enjoy a tongue-lashing. It sang in her blood. It didn’t matter who she was, did it? She had a pussy, and they’d connect, nameless, driving each other to a splashy blitz...

The mirrors caught her eye. She looked so—dumb. Her eyes were too horny to be intelligent. She was a wet animal.

One that was even moving stiffly, because her pussy was so wet, and her clit so needy, that uncautious steps would make her spasm. No, she wasn’t doing this. She was there for furniture. Unsexy business furniture.

Her khakis were completely damp with her own pussy juice.

“Why are you doing this?” she said, to Penny’s butt. The girl was getting her walking legs back. “You and... Frank.”

“Oh, same as you, living the dream,” Penny said. “Although I don’t think YOUR dream is about providing the best possible furniture to every person in at least the metropolitan area.

* * *

“Of course we’ll help,” the Fruit Lady said. She had a name, but seemed to respond to Fruit Lady just as well. “You need fruit, we want people out there eating lots of fruit, we have fruit. Its that simple.”

“And... the concept of money?” Billy hazarded. She’d stumbled out from the furniture meeting with a more hazy sense of her own personal reality. In a way it was good. It was definitely fun. All the horny highlights that were dancing around in her own head seemed very plausible. Maybe someone would just start sucking on her tits, as she walked down the street. Maybe a gentle man with a big pussy-stretching cock would strike up a conversation. Maybe other wet girls would just hand her fruit. “Like, I’m pretty sure there’s still the... the... idea of exchange? Like nothing is free?”

Fruit Lady thought about this. “Y-yeah,” she conceded, brow furrowed. “I do... although we... we have a lot of fruit. And you don’t have any money. So really... if you think about it... the value of fruit must be very low.....?”

Billy tried to stay still. She’d tied a sweater around her damp midsection. As much as her body was moist and happy, and things were going great, she was pretty sure that this just wasn’t how the world worked.

This wasn’t how people worked. Happy buzzes in her head. Right, she didn’t need to think that. It was zapped, gone...

Fruit Lady was disheveled. She was an outpost in a larger restaurant supply, in a chilly room that was giving them both tingly goosebumps. It was not the tropical emporium Billy had half-expected, staffed by a lady in a fruit-laden hat, crowned by a papaya. There was barely any fruit to be seen outside of a small, tasteful bowl of apples, on a much-smaller and much less ornate desk. Billy could see there were no pussy-prodding men hidden underneath it, and felt disappointed.

But it was still not—normal. Or, what was normal? The pink spatter was normal, wasn’t it? She herself had left a clear paint trail, dragging herself from the furniture warehouse a whole set of birchwood richer. Of course Fruit Lady had those telltale signs, those plush lips, of course her grey flannel was much too tight. Of course she was very kind, and smelled very good.

But—no. This was not—Billy tried to clear her head. That meant another gob of drool escaped her, damn it. And why didn’t Fruit Lady CARE that she was dribbling all over the floor? Why didn’t SHE care?

“No—I’m—I’ll pay,” Billy said. “I’ll definitely pay. In a month. I don’t want—I mean, I know sharing is better...”

“Much better...” Fruit Lady said. Her eyes weren’t very well focused either. And this despite the chill. Billy tried to pinch herself, but even her skin was too plush, lately. The pain echoed very distantly. Sharing was the best thing ever, wasn’t it?

It was.

“BUT,” Billy slurped. “Lets do a full invoice. Yeah. Write down what I’m taking. Do you have any ideas what kind of fruits are good in smoothies? Because I super forgot to look before I came here. Like, bananas?”

“Yes. An invoice,” Fruit Lady seemed to wake up, a little. “An invoice! Right, right! Oh, and I have one, right here!” It was on her desk, a big pad of paper, and unusual in that it didn’t have pink stains. Her boobs wobbled as she bent over. “Okay. Bananas. Classic. They cost... I forget. I’ll just write down, lots of bananas. Apples? I don’t know? Doesn’t feel very smoothie-ish?”

“Right, no apples,” Billy said. She took a deep breath. At least that cloying scent was less, in the cool air. Some thoughts were moving through her head again. “Strawberries!”

“That’s a really good one!” Fruit Lady exclaimed. “They’re—uhhhh—row three. Oh, and you know blueberries, right?”

“Yes, right!” Billy started moving. She needed to hang on to normalcy. She’d get her business started, and then do the long-awaited PINK WHAT IS IT REDDIT google search she’d been promising herself, after each showerhead orgasm. Even though she was now starting a business, even though her last Friday night had been almost fun, her toes pointed at the air as she—

She smelled—lavender.

From one of the boxes.

It wasn’t hard to find. Nothing lavender was hidden from her. It wanted to be found, tasted, enjoyed. Aisle six, and the small box on top of a bunch of guavas was half-open.

“Oh!” Fruit Lady said, behind her. “I’m—that’s—I’m really trying to—c-cut down on those!”

Billy opened the box. Inside were—kumquats, weren’t they? Small, orange little fruits.

These were pink.

Bright pink. Not a fruit color, pink.

“Those, um, aren’t for... I mean they’re for—“ Fruit Lady was unsure what to do. “I don’t know where they came from. You can... um...”

The scent of them wafted up. Billy’s body, prompted, restarted the process of soaking herself with pussy juice. She sighed, slumping. Why was everything so.. juicy?

She was eating something, Billy realized. It burst against her teeth, a splash of familiar flavor, coated with tropical sweetness. A wonderful citrus. It coated her mouth right away, and got on her chin.

“They’re sooooo good,” Fruit Lady moaned. “Aren’t they? I’ve been a really bad girl about them. They’re my Dumb Kumquats. Because I feel kinda... anyway. Can I... have one?”

“Um,” Billy said. “Sure.” She picked one out, still mashing what was left of the fruit in her own mouth. It felt much warmer in the room, suddenly. And it made more sense why Fruit Lady wore just her undersized grey jacket and a brief grey skirt. She had to be sweltering.

Fruit Lady opened her mouth. So she didn’t want to—but that was fine. Anything sharing was—fine, good. Up close, her lips were an unusual shade. They were extremely plump, but what was more, the thin layer of dull red over them was actually a facade. Underneath, Billy could see, cracking through, a bright shade of pink.

She plopped the pink kumquat in Fruit Lady’s mouth. Fruit Lady crunched down so hard her fingers were at risk. They both looked at each other with dull, vapid eyes, juice dribbling down mutual chins. Normal, Billy thought, very slowly. She had to be.......... nor........... mal.

“Ohhhhh,” Fruit Lady said, brightening. “I know! You can—you can pay me. You can—f-feed me. I have this—this dream...”

“I know,” Billy sighed. Another wet dream. Of course. But it made her feel better. This wasn’t some—strange hallucination, leaking in the fruit department. Now it was a mutual exchange. Giving and receiving. That was—good. Socialist. Yes. Spreading. Spreading was good.

She located a banana, unpeeled it, and approached Fruit Lady. Fruit Lady had braced herself for it, which was wise. She had put her elbows on the table, and cinched her ass up into the air. Her skirt rode very high over her ass. “In it goes,” Billy said, sing-song. She slid it into Fruit Lady’s mouth. The lipstick was wearing off, under the fruit assault. It was alarmingly pink. It tried to get Billy’s attention, scream at her that this was false, and wrong. The world was not a joke, where girls teased each other with erotic fruits. She had to incur debt.

But... did it have to be that way? This was... better, right? Although her khakis were a loss. She’d have to get changed. Change...

Fruit juice spackled onto the top of her cleavage. Fruit Lady collapsed, insensate, after the guavas. And Billy felt disappointed. She’d got an entire cantaloupe ready to go.

* * *

“So we’re looking at six blenders. Fridge and freezer. Dishwasher,” he was another sales person with his own office, and Billy was feeling very relaxed. And very full—there had been a lot of fruit to go around. The latter parts of the Fruit Session were hazy, but Billy remembered taking turns, at some point. Getting fed prized fruits by a specialist.

“Yuuuuuuuuuup,” Billy said, smiling. This sales person was a man, which was a welcome change of pace. Very welcome. He was about her age, and had a thin, narrow face, with a just as narrow shock of beard on his chin. His office was tiny, and filled with paperwork, and Billy couldn’t smell anything lavender, but she was sure it was somewhere. “Gotta start the juice business!”

“Uh... huh,” his name was Nicholas. He kept glancing at her. Billy was aware she was no longer as business-y. She’d been smeared with oranges. And she’d traded bottoms with Fruit Lady at some point, and wore her grey flannel skirt. It had made sense at the time.

“Al... right. So, that’ll come out to eight thousand six hundred dollars.”

He looked at her, expectant.

Billy frantically tried to turn her brain back on.

But it wasn’t getting into gear. In fact she was confused, surprised. Wasn’t he about to—about to say ‘just kidding,’ and reveal he was getting Pink from his computer components? Or dispensed from some refrigerator water? She looked into his eyes, seeking some mutual wetness, some kinship of drool, and found—nothing. Why wasn’t this man giving her free blenders?

His polo was bone dry.

“Like—dollars? Like the money?” Billy babbled. She looked around, waiting to be saved. Some mature lady with huge wobbly tits would swoop in, and give her expensive electronics for nothing.

“Like the money, yes,” Nicholas said. He nodded. “The money.”

The money. Right. This was not a room of—sharing. There was no hidden lavender this time, no source of Pink. She was fucked, and feeling very dumb. The Dumb Kumquats had taken their toll. She was a wet mess, she told herself, a smug silly girl who had gotten two nice things and assumed the entire world had changed. Had automatically given herself airs, and a sense of privilege. That she could just take and take.

Nicholas’ eyes strayed from her face, where they’d been heroically stuck, down to the enormous spread of her cleavage...

Billy licked her lips, and saw his eyes jump back up. She adjusted her shirt, and watched his gaze flicker around. The warmth spread again.

The calm, the... no. This wasn’t her. She needed to hit him or something, and run away with the blenders. She needed to do a google search for “TITS GROW THREE CUPS TWO WEEKS WHY”.

Or she could—it whispered around her libido, inside of her, undeniable—she could share. She SHOULD share. Everyone had something to share. And sharing was really nice.

“Isn’t there some sort of... ummmmmm....” Billy pushed her lips apart, with a finger, and then back together. She had to admit that Darcie had the better lips. Darcie had industrial cocksucking lips. “Isn’t there a thing where you take the stuff.... ummmmm... sorry, feeling REALLY silly today.... and you pay later? Or even, like, never?”

“Credit,” Nicholas said. “You’re describing credit. And, yes, if you have...” he watched her lips gum together. “Um. An application.”

“Hmmm... I definitely don’t have an application,” Billy said. She was fighting a losing battle. How could she tell herself to not share, to walk away? Her body needed this. And blenders, it needed those blenders. “I’m super against capitalism? And besides it’s just, you know, me!”

She gestured at herself. She was, she knew, a little bit of a mess. The business-like aspects had been sluiced away, especially after a companionable two hour fruit session with Fruit Lady, whose name she had never bothered to learn. She was not just juicy, which was normal, but also sticky, and there were probably some seeds in her cleavage.

Billy sniffed. The calming, wonderful, lavender scent was—in the room, now. It was, it was! The Pink was there, with her. She smiled, relieved. It was in his staplers, or something like that. They were Pink buddies after all.

“You’re... one of those Pinkos,” Nicholas said, leaning across the desk. His eyes were—curious. How could he not be? He’d probably watched her on the news. Wondered about the libido increase. That was fine. “Is it.. how is it going? My friend said his girlfriend—anyway. Did you.. always look like this?”

“Covered in tangerines and mangos? No, that’s new,” Billy said. She tried to sniff out the source of the Pink. Maybe just a hidden donut, in a drawer? No, it had to do with machinery, she was sure of it. Some sort of oil, lubricating not just gears and blades, but people.

“Uh-huh,” Nicholas said. “Do you—look, my sister is getting into this stuff, and—I just have to ask. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Billy said, distracted. She wanted to creep around Nicholas’ office. Put her nose in all this things. Where was the scent coming from?

“Are you....” Nicholas struggled, and shrugged. “Do you really drool when you’re horny?”

“I’m pretty much always drooling, honestly,” Billy said. She blinked. “Oh. Um. I... guess the answer is... yes.”

Drool. Right. It occurred to her, very slowly. She’d made a mess, just in the few minutes she’d been in this man’s little office. She’d dripped onto his chair and floor. Billy shivered, embarrassed. The smell was her. And not just a casual little plop. She’d walked in, a big squelching girl, and she’d dripped onto his floor, and left a puddle on his chair, and was in the process of adding more wet, hot parts of herself onto his desk. She could feel it bubbling in her, out of her, mixed with the fruits of a hundred trees and bushes.

What was WRONG with her? What kind of dribble slut was she? He wasn’t wrong, after all. She did drool when she was hot. And when was that? All the time...

But Nicholas didn’t seem—unhappy. She looked at him, his heavy male gaze, his eyes following the trickle into her cleavage. Billy uncrossed her legs, and let the very wet deluge she’d been ineffectually holding back gush forth. DId it make a noise? Even her eyes were streaming. “Do you have a towel?” she said, conversationally. “Sorry We pinkos are very fluid-y.”

His lips looked very, very dry to her. She could help with that. He needed to understand that his economic system was bad. She could do it, with her lips.

“Uh—I have two napkins. Look, I’m just asking because my sister is texting the family chat these—pictures—”

“Can I have the two napkins?” Billy purred. He was dry and she was—wet. So wet. Of course, she’d been so selfish, waiting passively for more people to give her things. She had a lot to give too. That was the entire dream, to get juice in the entire world, or at least close neighborhoods. And she had an entire smoothie all over herself. It was just a matter of considering herself a cup.

A vessel.

The thought sent a sudden, unexpected spike of endorphins through her, and it nearly propelled her out of her chair, body desperate for stimulation to match her hormonal-chemical flood. Nicholas had to stay seated, or the lavender-scented big-boobed girl would knock him onto the floor. At the last second she turned, neatly, and ended up in his lap.

“Oopsie,” Billy said. Yes, he was unaccountably dry, this man. His lips looked outright cracked. He seemed unsure what to do with a very squirmy, very squishy girl in his lap, and Billy had to take the initiative. She pecked him on the cheek. Even that left a lip-shaped residue.

It was very slowly absorbed into his parched, bristle-y skin.

“I don’t—you’re Pink, they say online that Pink girls—” Nicholas said, as she toyed with his shirt collar. She could feel herself sinking into him, getting clean, or at least somewhat less fluid-y, on all of his clothes. They’d both need warm showers.

“What? What DO they say about us?” Billy said, curious. She hadn’t been online much, or read much of anything. Curious, now that she considered it. Usually she read a million doomer posts a day.

“That you’re—addictive,” Nicholas whispered. He was bathed in Pink, lost in her lavender. It felt so good to share. His body needed what she had, didn’t it? It wasn’t being lost on the floor, it was going where it needed to go. Into him. She had so much for him. And then he would give her the refrigerator for free.

“Maybe a little?” Billy said. She kissed him on the mouth, and Nicholas didn’t seem to mind at all the swap of fluids, even if it was one-sided. He was so bone-dry, so parched, and she was his oasis. His hands came up to squeeze at her tits. It should’ve been too much, but they were different now, fun-filled waterbags that didn’t mind some rough handling. He could squeeze them all he liked.

She really DID need to look up all—THIS, Billy thought, her tongue lost in his mouth. The dripping, the drooling. There had to be a WebMD article about it. But the brief fear and concern kept drooling out of her, so hard to hold on to. And then Nicholas put his tits in his mouth, and started to suck. Billy was about to make some comment about, this will cost you an extra blender, but all she could do was whimper and moan.

It was hard to notice, in the general handplay and exchange. Billy was too busy dealing with a brand new light that had turned on in her head, a new response to getting her tits sucked, that was intensely pleasurable. Although uncomfortably close to the reasoning centers of the brain. But a thin, gooey pink pap flowed from her nipple, into Nicholas’ mouth, and was gone. Off to play.

* * *

Darcie was dimly aware that she was—changing. Her Dad had sent her an article on Pink, in the Washington Post, asking if she’d heard anything about it. He was on a business trip in China, and reported on girls with lavender perfume, acting wanton and carefree on the streets.

The article mentioned the usual stuff about spit and weight gain and weight redistribution, and the only difference was a much more frank discussion of the effects on the libido than previous media mentions. “Determined to couple,” was how the article put it. Very newspaper-y

Although it was all true it felt, mostly, like—little stuff. First because she hadn’t determinedly coupled with her boyfriend in days. Chester was incredibly busy at the bank, which had been flooded by individuals with new business ideas. They came in reeking of lavender and driven by dreams, and wearing, as Chester put it, “not the most bank-appropriate attire”. He’d approved them all, he said, and was up until midnight working on paperwork.

Second, Darcie just didn’t feel tremendously... different. Although she had been experiencing some localized boob swelling it was from a low base. There were girls that could already outshine some of the smaller cows. Her tits felt good, and everything, and she could definitely feel them sway when humping her soggy pillow, but that was all.

Third, and most, and really everything, she was still... herself.

She’d gone from an insecure trust fund girl with a small business to an insecure trust fund girl with a small business with no employees. What did it matter, that she had somewhat bigger boobs, that her underpants were digging into her thighs, that she had sucked a man’s dick a few times? So what, that she was drooling so much that it dripped onto the floor?

It was the same Darcie in the mirror, the one with the worried eyes that didn’t have any good ideas in them.

Meanwhile, Billy probably had her own business cards printed. She’d started an entire business in—however long it had been. A week or something? Who knew. Fast.

“Um, one last little thing,” Riley said. Darcie corrected herself—she had one employee. Sydney, who was working the espresso machine. And she was about to have two, take that Ms. Billy and her business cards and her big luscious jugs and her own small business.

“Is the one last thing your social security number?” Darcie said. “I need it for... uh...” didn’t she need it? There was such a disconnect lately between her dreams, where she bought spare yachts, and real life, where she lately needed a calculator for addition and subtraction. Her Dad had mentioned that. “They’re DUMB,” he’d reported, from Beijing.

“No, it’s... I’m No-Pink,” Riley said. “Not that there’s—like, I’m okay with Pink. Like I get it, wanting to be all... big. And all my friends on it say they’re having a lot of fun and the stuff they’re doing with their boyfriends sounds... fulfilling... and they smell... you smell... good... b-b-but its not for me. I’m No-Pink.”

She had a badge for it, Darcie noticed. Prospective Employee Riley was some variety of half-asian, half-something, with a flushed face and a shock of hair brushed from left to right. She wore a lot of black, and on her black backpack was a handmade pin. It was a red warning sign with the red diagonal line over a pink background.

“Oh,” Darcie said. She was hiring a No-Pink to sell Pink? Why had she even imagined herself, queen of business? She was a cocksucker who got up to pee three times a night, because she was drinking so much Pink. And then she masturbated on the potty.

“Yeah!” Riley said. She drank from her water bottle. Ostentatiously, Dacie thought. It was clear water. “Like, I’m sex positive and all but... its a little bit much? Like, um, did you know that girl over there is t-touching herself?”

Darcie glanced over. They were a popular first date location, and a lot of the new couples were really hitting it off. The one in the corner had her eyes opened, leaning forward, breathing hard, and, if the man wasn’t getting enough of a hint, she was rubbing at the wet center of her jeans. They’d bought just one glass of Pink Coffee, to share.

The line went to the door as usual.

“Can you start today? Like, right now?” Darcie said. Very few of the girls on Pink had dreams involving low-paid labor. Darcie made a face. Problem was, Riley wasn’t going to fill out the new uniform. With a little Pink, however... or a lot of Pink, drizzled on her face, down her throat... she shook her head.

Darcie needed the staff. Lots of staff, with Chester out of reach. Darcie was having trouble dealing with her own unique mixture of desperation and horniness. She’d taken to inserting things. Whatever was handy. A hairbrush was the latest, late at night, feeling a low low over recent events in her career. It went in smooth, especially once she swirled a little Pink around the handle.

Sydney, her other new employee, was no problem at all. She had Pink bubble gum, which was a brilliant business idea, and Darcie chided herself for missing on it. The wad occupied half her cheek, and Darcie was pretty sure Sydney just added to it as she went. It took a drool problem that was already pretty bad and made it a ridiculous fountain. Sydney had played into it, putting a little silver funnel on a necklace, and wearing a neoprene-type top that was more suited to scuba diving. Her tits gave a strong impression of being blown up, gum-bubble-style, as well. Darcie had asked her what her goal in life was.

“Late—ummm—ly?” she had said, thoughtful. Talking to Sydney meant waiting while gum was rearranged, to make room for the consonants. “I wa—nt to bl—ow—”

“Bubbles?” Darcie had prompted. Sydney had smiled, and winked.

“We do have a uniform,” Darcie told Riley. She held it out.

Sydney fit beautifully into the new uniform. Chester had found time for this. Standing next to him, feeling his hand rubbing just above, just-just above, the tingling depression of her asshole, was a reassuring moment. The outfits were “asian-inspired”, as Chester put it. The world’s first cheongsam with a scoop-neck top. It was brown velvet with a pink lace tie at the top, and a full keyhole cutout for growing bosoms. On Sydney the keyhole was stuffed with boob, almost disorienting in effect, two sets of undertit on display. She popped a bubble, and struck a saucy pose. The skirt was a ballerina-esque pink confection.

“It’s a really absorbent fabric,” Chester had said. His rubbing frequency sped up. Darcie had leaned into it, eyes fluttering. “Since—hold on. Shoot, I’ve got wet mouth too, lately.” Boys dealt with the drooling issue with short, sharp slurps. It was a weirdly manly noise, and every girl in the coffee shop shivered when a man did it.

The drool got the best of him. He’d fought it back for so long. Darcie’s pussy tingled.

“Oh, don’t you want to...?” Darcie had trailed off. She couldn’t even sell herself, to her supposed boyfriend? She grabbed his hand, held it tight, so he wouldn’t go. Chester had lost weight. There was a real man underneath the flab. “Five minutes? In my office? I’m sooooooo thirsty, Chestie.”

“Soon,” Chester had promised, and looked at his watch. Looked at his watch, after just fingering her asshole. “Alright, I have to run. We’re doing a Pink Pretzel place in the mall. Have you tried salted Pink?”

He’d left, and the uniforms were all that remained of him.

“U-umm,” Riley said. She somehow stuttered over an “um”. Darcie tried to fight down her irritation.

On Darcie the outfit was stupid. The keyhole was limp and lifeless with not enough boobs to fill it. The skirt, which had looked so stupid hot pop-punk on Sydney, looked like a wan halloween parody on her.

Riley had put herself in black tights so thick and so heavy they could double on snow slopes, and wore trashed white sneakers. And she was blushing, at the uniform.

“I’ll... ummm... have t-to keep my hands up or you’ll see my bellybutton?” Riley said. “C-can I put on, I don’t know, like a tanktop? Underneath? I have a brown one.”

“We’re selling Pink, and this is Pink personified,” Darcie said. She tried to will herself into looking commanding.

“But its so—no? Look, I need the m-money but.. no? Okay?” Riley siad. The woman even smelled wrong, scrubbed with harsh soaps, a glycerin-white smell without even a hint of lavender to it. “I’m not gonna wear it.”

Darcie needed her. She didn’t need Darcie.

“Alright, that’s fine,” Darcie said.

Darcie made her way to the employee bathroom. She’d been planning on getting her cheeks painted in there, by Chester. Instead she let frustration and resentment unscrew the top of the hand soap, and then pour in a generous dollop of Pink. She imagined Riley diligently scrubbing her hands, building up a Pink lather, and failed to feel a sense of wrongness.

The girl would at least smell good, and that would mean something.

* * *

“C-can I be off register duty?” Riley said, a few days later. “I think its—the t-thing is, um, Darcie, is that they keep... breathing on me.”

She was wearing the uniform. She’d just put it on, mid-day, on shift three. Darcie hadn’t said anything about it, although her pussy got a little more damp.

Riley was diligent about washing her hands.

“Yeah, they’ll do that,” Darcie said. She toyed with her hair. It had been growing at an accelerated clip.

She eyed Riley’s frame. Was there more jiggle in her movements, a little more plushness in her lips? Was she struggling with words not because of nerves, but thanks to a healthy volume of spit? Was the girl at the register building a bigger tushie?

Darcie had felt terrible about filling the handsoap with whatever lavender-scented sex drug Pink was, the night after doing it. She’d run it through her head, Riley sniffing her fingers, perhaps licking them. Her confusion and addled delight as the world seemed like a better, sexier place. Amping up both sexual activity and Pink purchases, drinking one, or two, or six cups a day. And then Darcie had gotten on top of her poor abused pillow, jamming her clit into it until she was surprised it didn’t squeal. She’d cum like the first time Chester had unloaded in her mouth.

Spreading was just... right. It had to be right.

The next morning she’d made sure the “EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS” sign was centered and free of dust.

Everyone WAS breathing on their cashier. She stuck out now, as an abstainer, with so many men and women at register clearly pumped up on Pink. The boys seemed to be generally taller, which couldn’t be right, but there it was. The girls were swinging their moist chests over the top of the formica. And when they talked, to order, it was with a hint of fluid-filled spray.

“Ummmmmmmmmmmmm,” Shauna said, one of the new regulars. They were increasingly getting a middle-aged crowd, and that crowd was increasingly hard to separate from the nubile co-eds. Shauna’s crow’s feet were fading away, and she had the same nasal silly voice as the younger ladies. “I’ll taaaaaaaaaaaake.... a mocha latte. Four Pink pumps. Five.”

Riley flinched backwards with each word. No wonder, Shauna was a real sprinkler. Droplets of Pink sprayed across the zone. Riley was doing her best, wearing nitrile gloves and a mask, to keep to her No-Pink pledge. She wiped down the counter every third customer.

She washed her hands a lot.

“Fi—ve in—Choc!” Sydney rang out, loud despite her everpresent gum. She was a fantastic employee, and Darcie’s main concern with her was—why was she there? She seemed too good for a coffee shop job. Perhaps her dream was to chew bubble gum and kick ass, and she was all out of ass. She filled out the uniform very nicely.

“PLEASE can I be off register duty?” Riley whispered, a few hours later. Despite her best efforts her mask was dotted with droplets of Pink, and the top of her shirt was just as pitted. Was she sweating, underneath all that? On one level Darcie was capable of reading her irritation with Riley as psychological manifestations. This girl was so diffident, so indecisive, she was an irritating mirror.

And unlike Riley, she had no excuse. Darcie was swilling confidence juice every day, and it barely seemed to help. Everyone else at the counter was brimming with energy and plans, carrying roller skates or a new bag of art supplies, or just getting quietly fingered by a new beau. No wonder she wanted Riley plump, wet, guiltily reducing her own pillow to a feathered sog.

And then on another level, she just wanted to see the girl with fat tits and fat lips. Leaking like the rest of them. She wanted to share. Her pussy leaked at the idea of it.

Sharing was good.

“Alright, just one more minute,” Darcie said. She HAD to stop this. Pink was an unregulated and mysterious substance, and she herself really needed to fight her own addiction to the stuff. Go running or something. The jar sloshed in her hand. It was so warm. Riley had a naturally bony butt, and it would look so much better heavy and gravid, swinging behind her...

Kaye was up next. She’d gone piggish, under Pink. Darcie recalled her as a gaunt type with bags under her eyes, carrying around advanced math books with no numbers in them. Now she was wrapped in a sweater two sizes too small, and the bags were gone, and the books were burgers. Some new pop-up. Judging from her mouth, it came with Pink Sauce. No one giggled more, or had ditzier eyes.

“Hey, Kaye, I’ve got a joke!” Darcy called out. The girl looked over with soft, dull eyes.

“Penis!” Darcie said.

Kaye snorted her giggle, and the results were explosive. A spray of Pink spit, a full rainstorm of it, escaped all parts of her, and landed directly in Riley. An enormous dose, soaking her, penetrating all sides, already disappearing into her skin.

Riley stumbled back, appalled. She tried to wipe herself off, but Darcie had removed all easy-to-find wipes awhile ago, to encourage more handwashing. She stood in the middle of the cashier area, breathing hard, and Darcie was sure she saw sweat breaking out on her upper brow.

* * *

It was awful, what she was doing to Riley. Darcie took it out on herself, edging on increasingly dangerous edges, rubbing herself on less savory items. Her parent’s huge, empty kitchen was an endless source of handles and metals to touch herself with, and she was leaving trails of herself all around the kitchen island. She took off everything but her skirt and tried out the cool quartz of the countertop, pushing it into her increasingly sticky self.

Night-time recriminations didn’t seem to help, or all the firm notes she wrote over and over again: DO NOT PINK YOUR EMPLOYEE. She even considered turning herself into OSHA, whistle-blowing on herself for trying to goo up a subordinate.

It wasn’t doing the trick. When she got to the coffee shop, and put on her apron, and felt it settle in over the slosh of her own tits, and looked over at Riley, on-time and nervous, she just—had to do it. Had to spread, spray, whatever it took.

And it was taking.

Pink had decided to start with Riley’s lips. It was an inspired decision, although messing with Darcie’s territory. But that was fine. Riley already had a soft, dazed, naturally-confused expression, like she was making her way through traffic. Plush bulging lips made her look not just timid but wholly hapless. A different look from Darcie’s, which were more a kind of stretchy plastic.

She was still trying to fight it off. “Um, Darcie, I think—I think—can I take tonight off? I’m experiencing...” Riley blinked at Darcie, who had a sudden urge to spit in the girl’s mouth. “Um. I think I might’ve gotten... some Pink in me? Because my p-pubes fell out?”

“Oh?” Darcie said. Sydney chuckled. “What, just like, fell out?”

“I was—um—exercising, because the internet says you can sweat any a-accidental Pink exposure with heat and...” Riley blushed. Her cheeks swelled a crimson-pink. “Anyway, they all fell out and... yeah. All of them. The internet says that’s a... really bad sign.”

“I mean, you’re working really well,” Darcie said. That much was true. Riley had resigned herself to the ceaseless spray from the customers, although she’d stuck to the pointless face mask. At this point the mask itself was crusty and thick with Pink. It made Darcie’s tits feel hot and wet, just to look at it. What was WRONG with her? “Look, I have a better idea. Stay at work, free desserts. And all the non-Pink drinks you can drink.”

“D-dessert,” Riley said. She gave a slow, resigned whimper. Darcie had heard her stomach rumbling all day long. That was why she had run over to the donut shop, stood in the hour-long line, and emerged with a fresh batch of apple fritters. They weren’t the pink-glazed ones, but they did smell very strongly of lavender. They were actually selling fairly well. She vaguely wondered, eyes locked on Riley, if there was some sort of business thingie to be learned from that.

It was washed away when Riley had sat herself down and ate five fritters in a row. By the third one she was moaning to herself, loud enough for the whole coffee shop to hear. No one seemed to mind, although Darcie had to go out to her car, and stroke herself to a recrimination-filled orgasm.

After that Riley was a lost cause, not that it slowed Darcie’s burn to make her lavender perfumed.

The very next day after the Fritter Incident she came in much more boobed up, finally filling her uniform to a reasonable amount.

“What’s up with these TITS?” Darcie said, pretending surprise. The humiliated noise from deep in Riley’s throat was delightful. “I thought you were No-Pink?”

“I d-didn’t drink any, I didn’t,” Riley said. She burped, through her overstuffed lips. A sludge of drool escaped her. She looked at it, horrified. It splattered on the floor.

“Mop it up,” Darcie said, sternly. She considered the situation. Riley’s lips looked even pinker than before. Was her hair even lighter? “And then make sure to wash your hands.”

It was all wrong, wrong, wrong, and she took herself for a walk, hating herself. Chester was going longer and longer between answering her texts. Was this all she was, a petty little Pink tyrant, enjoying a girl’s bad mistakes? Was this because it made HER feel bad, for downing her endless Pink drinks, and enjoying her own fritters? Darcie had farted the previous night, after wrecking the kitchen spoons, and been horrified to recognize the familiar lavender flush. Her tits were awfully heavy, and starting to get real heft. She needed detox. Real help.

Darcie stopped.

She’d ended up where she’d tried so hard to avoid. The storefront of Billy’s juicery.

It was closed, still, but barely. Billy, scourge of capitalism, who wore the same pants three days out of five, had sourced enough birch furniture to fill interior and exterior. Good stuff, with a good exterior stain, and a coating for the inevitable rain. One with a slightly pink sheen. Inside the lights were up, there was a row of blenders, and the scent of tropical fruits wafted even through the closed door. Plus the usual lavender.

And Billy was there too. She’d been behind the counter, probably finishing up the wiring. She wore a t-shirt, and she was through plate glass, and still Darcie could see how it pulled away from her boobs.

Darcie turned, abruptly, and marched herself back to the coffee shop. HER coffee shop.

It was a rare quiet moment, excepting the low-level hum of busy, horny girls that typified the coffee shop, lately. Sydney was consoling Riley, who sat on the floor, examining the spread of her own cleavage. She was acquiring the cleavage line between two dusky-tanned tits that was de rigueur with enough Pink consumption. Although Darcie still had to cross her arms, and stand very straight, to get it right. Riley was obviously gonna have nice fat tits, AND the nice fat lips.

“It’s—itshhhhhh—fi-ne,” Sydney said, rubbing the girl’s hair. “You tr-ied.”

“I h-had one of those DREAMS everyone talks about,” RIley said. She sniffled. “And yeah it was n-nice, I woke up so w-wet but the d-dream was I was, um, a public utility. Like all my p-parts were for municipal use? What kind of dream is THAT? I thought it’s s-supposed to be like, I’m a famous ballerina! I’m a w-wife and mother! Not a p-pump.”

“Riley, can I get a drink?” Darcie said. Was this self-improvement, of a kind? She was definitely being more assertive. And to be big in business, one had to be a big bitch. She unscrewed the Nalgene top of Riley’s water bottle.

Water tasted very strange. It didn’t mix well with the sludge always filling her mouth.

She was generous with the backwash. The Nalgene bottle turned a generous Pink. Darcie was too hot, too upset, to think—this was what was floating around, in her mouth? She hadn’t drunk any Pink in a few hours. It was just... her. And now it was in the Nalgene, which had a delicate perfume. She handed it back to Riley.

“I’m giving you both a raise,” she said. “Good work.” She looked at Riley, and smiled. “Cheers.”

Riley held the bottle. Her own drool fell into it, mixing. She was sweating and fidgeting. Sydney watched, calm, chewing the gum in her mouth. Abruptly Riley raised it to her lips, and chugged. Her throat bobbed up and down. A lot of it sluiced down her shirt, catching on her quickly-inflating chest, and even more went into her mouth.

“I h-hope they put me on a nice street corner,” she said. Darcie crossed her legs, and hated herself, and nearly came, just from watching RIley’s legs ease open.

* * *

Just like that, Darcie lost her purpose, yet again.

She tried to get the same thrill. She coated her hand with Pink, and let it rest, just for a second, on Riley’s ass. It was getting fat, but not as fat as her lips, or her boobs. It left a big pink impression that stayed there for the entire workday. But RIley no longer seemed to care—the only thing No Pink about her was the button that remained, defiant, on her backpack. She had the same half-lidded look, the same scent, the same absent-minded horniness as everyone who came up to the register. She no longer reacted when they speckled pink flecks on her uniform.

The only thing still Riley was her occasional complaints about the Free Use Future she kept envisioning. And even then, Riley was getting more proactive about it. “I c-can set up an umbrella, and I’m sure the m-mayor will cover me in sunscreen,” she said, brightening. “And I’ll be like, a m-monument! I’ll be w-what people use to give directions! Turn r-right at Horton and 8th, where you see the g-girl getting p-pumped.”

“I li-ve near th-ere,” Sydney said, dreamy. She kept putting hands on Riley, examining her new padding, complimenting every facet of her body. Making it a positive.


A male voice. Darcie looked up. She’d come in early, for no real reason. Mostly to keep herself from abusing the kitchenware even more. She’d moved on to the powered tools. The stand mixer especially.

“Tommy?” she said. Her voice quivered.

“Uh, Darcie?” He was bigger, and he had already been big. He had to be circumspect about door frames, now. His hair was red and shaggy, and his jawline had direction and purpose.

“Why are you here?”

“You... made me promise? I had to train your new staff, remember? You had this tense confrontation with Billy?”

DId she? It was all confusing. She watched Tommy look around. The back of house was a complete mess. Bags of beans were scattered around, there was unwashed dishware and glasses everywhere. Discarded clothes were common in the main area, now, and Darcie had just tossed them wherever. Now they were a magpie’s nest of unwanted jean jackets, and shirts, and even some pants. She herself was a Pink mess. Darcie hadn’t taken a shower in some time.

“You okay?” Tommy said, gently.

“Um. Yes. I’m living the dream,” Darcie said. “I’m gonna be a big businesswoman with one thousand two hundred five locations. Obviously. You and Billy are missing out.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said. He regarded her, which just made it worse.

“Tommy, was I a bad boss?” Darcie said. A box of pink donuts toppled off the top of a way too full trash can. She’d watched Riley house an entire six-pack of Pink donuts, and felt nothing. Even when she’d bent over to inhale them faster.

Tommy thought about this question. He smelled—male. Like a cologne version of the endless lavender. It was calming. “Average.” he concluded.

Average. Could she maybe switch dreams? Embrace her own obvious mediocrity? Or at least, make up for everything bad she had done? She could hold the umbrella over Riley’s head, at her street corner, as random men unburdened themselves in her ass, or mouth...

“Do you want to maybe choke me?” Darcie offered. “Or—sorry, yeah, haha, just kidding? But yeah I’ll suck your dick if you like? I—I want to be a good boss. I want people to want to work for me and I’m really good at sucking dick. It’s like what I’m best at?”

It appeared that Tommy now required a lot of time to consider any question. But he was really thinking hard about this one. Darcie dipped her eyes down. She’d been through two, three dreams since she’d started the whole road of Pink. The right answer was probably to stop drinking the stuff, and enter a nunnery, for her sins. But, just maybe, there was a fourth dream, somewhere out there...?

They both heard a very loud moan. From the office.

Where she kept the bottle of Pink.

Darcie recognized the moan. Riley had been increasingly vocal, all the previous workday. Rubbing herself, the naughty staffer, against the edge of the counter. And that was her bit, getting off on countertops. She walked over to the office door, and flung it open.

Riley was there, somewhat.

She was topless, and one hand was squeezing a heavy, lazy tit. Some sort of fluid was leaking from her nipple, trailing down her pudgy stomach and all the way down to the floor. Her lips were likewise wet and leaking. She was sprawled in Darcie’s chair, the other hand up between her legs. She wore her company skirt, at least, now filling it with overly large thighs. Her black backpack with the NO PINK pin was flung into a corner, joining the general confusion of undone paperwork.

She was—gooey. Very gooey.

Pink-rimmed crusted eyes and wet leaking tits and the drool was everywhere, all over her. Her skin had a glossy sheen, like she couldn’t dry off a day of sweat. The office was already deeply lavender, but now it had a new urgency, an animal sweat that made it into something less floral and more—alive.

The bottle of Pink was on the floor. It was emptied out.

“S-sorry!” Riley said. She managed a smile, despite her lips. “I-I’m a bad girl.”

Tommy, behind her, sharply inhaled. Darcie could feel his erection behind her, pricking at her back. She stared at the empty bottle. That was her business. There it went.

“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s your first week. We all make mistakes. I’m sorry too.”

“Oooooooo—oooooh,” Sydney said, floating in. The girl made her way past Tommy, past Darcie, to look at the leaking wet mess that was employee #2. Riley’s hand was still friggin herself, ceaseless. Droplets of goo from her tit kept spattering on the floor. She really needed to mop, Darcie thought. Her clit burned, and she rubbed herself backwards against Tommy’s cock. He barely seemed to notice, intent on breathing.

“Lo-ok at YOU,” Sydney said. She reached a decision, opened her mouth, and pulled out a chunk of gum large enough to plug water main leaks. It was unclear how Sydney had been breathing past that, much less talking. She ripped it in half. “I’ve been dreaming of someone to share with,” she said.

Her voice was completely different without the gum in.

Sydney put it in Riley’s mouth. After just a second the glassy-eyed girl started to chew. Sydney bent down, to kiss her. Darcie realized she was going to have to hire again.