DROOL
CHAPTER SIX
The waiting room had excellent vibes. It was one of the most relaxed waiting rooms Tommy had ever been in.
Despite being a random urgent care, that took his parents’ insurance, there was plenty of room to sprawl out in. And Tommy was feeling very sprawled, very large. He’d put on twenty pounds over the past—week?—, and it had all been used judiciously. His chest had turned from an incipient budge, a proto-beer belly, like his Dad had always featured, to a steel cage. True, he’d been lifting fruits and fridges for Billy all week, but he was pretty sure abs didn’t form with such quickness. And so many.
The waiting room just wasn’t—sick. There was a white-haired guy who had his arm wrapped up, like it had half fallen off, but was scrolling on his phone. A college-aged girl who was bundled up in heavy blankets, who, again, seemed wholly unconcerned, that’s girl’s Mom, and him. And that was it.
And then there was the clerk.
She was wearing clothes for the very large. Floral-print stuff that must’ve been meant for the obese. She still swam in them. But the weight was absent, gone, leaving her lost in in Five X-L. The clerk had come over to them, trailing her big robes. Despite the recent weight loss she was drinking a milkshake. It left her lips Pink-coated.
“I don’t know, I thought I broke my arm. The paramedics said I broke my arm. I don’t FEEL like I broke my arm,” the older man said. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Mmmmmmmmmhhhhmmm,” the clerk said. She sat next to the patient, and ran a hand along the makeshift cast. Tommy swallowed. One of the main things he was going to ask the doctor about was his persistent erections. It was more notable, lately, when he didn’t have a boner. “Let me hazard a guess. You’ve heard of Pink? I know I surrrrrreeeeeee have.”
“Uh,” the man’s eyes darted over. The side effect of wearing too-big clothes was that the clerk could easily let anyone see right down her shirt. She smiled, smug, as the man enjoyed the view. This was already his best doctor trip ever. “Yeah. Yeah, my wife and I got this bottle of... uh... jesus... pink wine. And it ain’t that moscato stuff. We’ve been... enjoying it. A lot.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, yes,” the clerk said. “Helps you heal, did you know? I bet that nasty fracture is all gone already.”
“That’s INSANE,” the Mom snapped. “What is this? Brittany is here because she can’t stop—”
“MOM, you are being VERY MOM right now,” Brittany said. She flipped the top of her blanket down. It was there as a sponge, Tommy realized. He got a good look at a girl with a severe and more long-term use of Pink. Brittany had bright-blonde hair, and her eyes were very soft and wet, and, even under the blanket, he could see a juicy-wet set of breasts that were—wonderful.
A beautiful, suckable scent wafted towards him.
“You’ve stopped reading books, all you care about is boys, you dress like a combination slut and mop...” Mom shook her head.
“I know you’re using my shampoo, MOM,” Brittany said. That shut Mom up. Brittany went in for the kill. “And I saw you drool in the car.”
“That’s not—” her mouth betrayed her. Mom nearly choked on her spit. Tommy sympathized. He also felt a powerful and intense urge to plug Brittany’s mouth with his dick. She smiled, smug, and let an answering bubble of pink goo fall from her own lips. Sympathy drool.
That, ultimately, was why he had come in. Most of the changes wrought by Pink were, men agreed, loudly, and repeatedly, all to the good. Muscle mass increased, energy levels spiked, and there was a persistent increase in overall wellbeing that only spiked when the penis released a big batch of cum. And that was all the time. No one was sick. It destroyed viruses. It healed ligaments. Even bruises faded.
The issue was his—thoughts. Tommy had always prided himself on having them. He was not a natural font of witticisms, or deep and considered ideas, but he was trying, and he knew, had always been told, that he was where men as a whole had put all their empathy points. He talked to girls, and actually cared. He was a rarity.
And now his main interest with girls was now shooting skeet at them. He really wanted to cover them in ropes. Down their throat for preference, but face was also good. And not in a nice way, necessarily, because his interest was volume and speed. If there were three girls, all in a row, that he could spray over, it was better than just one. And even if girls, lately, were all about big ropes in their face, it just wasn’t—him.
So who was it?
He’d gone to the doctor.
“Uh, I’m also here because I’ve been using Pink,” Tommy said, raising his hand. The clerk sat right next to him, as fast as she could. She sniffed him, very openly. But why not? He could smell her, too. Smell her arousal. Another weird thing, that lavender-moist scent. It was getting so hard—his dick twitched—to care about things like the names of women. Clerk was good enough.
“I can sooooooo see that,” the clerk said. She did her clothes-open routine. Her tits went all the way down to her waist. They were outrageous, and all Tommy could think about was how they’d take a fresh batch. Spherical surfaces were fun to slather. The goo he made would slide around in such interesting ways.
“One thing,” the clerk said. She put her lips to Tommy’s ears.
“Don’t. Listen. To. The Doctor.”
“You’re right to come in, and the only thing I can say is, you have to stop,” the Doctor said.
It was obvious the doctor was No-Pink from the moment he walked in. She didn’t smell like—anything. She had grey-pepper hair, arranged in waves in a professional manner, and instead of enormous tits she wore a stethoscope and an N95.
Tommy craned his neck to see outside the exam room. He’d only gotten a glance, but there was obviously a bevy of nurses out there, and they were very nubile in their scrubs. He’d only gotten a teaser look. His body ached for more.
One had mouthed at him, as he’d walked by, “Don’t Listen.”
“It’s unprecedented, its—“flooding” is an alarmingly accurate word—flooding our—our entire world,” the Doctor shook her head. “In many ways I am not even who you should talk to. Chemists, biologists, cellular specialists, they’re racing to work this one out. Except they keep getting...” the doctor grimaced. “contaminated.”
“Uh. So. Doctors think... its bad?” Tommy said, slowly.
The Doctor sighed. “Mental acuity loss is just one of many alarming symptoms. I’m surprised to see you come in, Tommy, since you’re clearly a heavy user. I can tell just from looking at you. Did you know that you’re taller? You’ve grown over an inch. Maybe two. Frankly, most people at your point are busy indulging their libidos. The spread and spray phase, we call it.”
“I mean, I don’t—” Tommy hung his head. Right. This was why he was here, a stern talking to from the doctor that he was drinking lots of some scary stuff. He needed this. “Can you...uh... write this down? I might need a... like a note?”
“A note. Tommy,” the Doctor relented, swinging herself on to a stool.
She looked him in the eyes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the enlargement in your penile size. You’ve probably figured out that your testicles are much, much heavier. What you may NOT know is that your prostate has doubled in size and is running at incredible efficiency. There are things happening in your endocrine system you would not believe. The MRI results...” she shook her head. Tommy guiltily wiped at his own chiseled chin.
“So... what the heck do I do?” he said. For once, his endocrine system poured concern into him. He was officially alarmed. He’d made the appointment shortly after seeing Darcie’s new employee, her inability to do more than drench any nearby floor. Plus how badly he’d wanted to test those lips. Those suckable... fuckable lips...
The last thing he’d wanted to learn about was her name. Who cared?
He realized the doctor was talking to him.
“...mitochrondria. But in the meantime, dry out. Dry yourself out. Stop the Pink, keep fluids to a minimum, and when you drink water, salt it. Jog and sweat. Dessicate, Tommy. Be silica.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Tommy said, miserable. The doctor reached out and hunted for a dry part of him to pat. She settled on his knee. Even that was uncomfortably close to the new heft of his dick.
“Try. Best of luck. I’ll have my...” the doctor made a face “...nurse give you discharge papers. My prescription is, no discharges.”
“Has anyone... dried out?” Tommy said. “Is there like, a... a....”
Jiya hadn’t told him the results of the mental acuity testing, but Tommy had a bad feeling.
The doctor shook her head. “Someday, someone might.”
She left. Tommy stared at himself, what parts he could see. She was right. After all, she was a doctor. He had to somehow... dry out. Take it like he was an alcoholic, or something. Pink-anon. Drive into the desert, perhaps.
“Knock-knock,” after the Doctor’s clipped tones it sounded even more like vocal syrup.
The nurse poured herself through the door.
She wore blue scrubs. She had dark auburn hair and friendly, motherly cheeks. And she smelled good.
“I’m Nurse Padilla,” she said, taking the Doctor’s vacated seat. “I just want to make sure you didn’t listen to anything the grumpy ’ol doctor said, okay? Is that okay....” she looked at the screen on the portable computer. “...Tommy?”
“Uh,” Tommy said. Padilla’s warm hand fell onto his knee, and not just for a friendly pat. Immediately she started to rub. “She told me... a lot of really scary and accurate stuff about Pink?”
“Oh, is it scary, really?” the nurse said. She frowned, and shook a cute, upturned nose. “Is your cock getting big and thick... scary, do you think?”
“I mean...” Tommy tried to remember all the important facts the Doctor had told him. A lot of the words had gone by really fast, like dessicate. Did he know that word? Had he ever? “My. Uh. Prostate. Its like, bigger. Way big. And that’s... inside of me.”
“Mmm. You know it makes cum? You’ve just been exercising it, haven’t you, Tommy?”
Nurse Padilla removed her hand from his knee, from where it was creeping towards the head of his dick. Or was his dick growing to meet her? Tommy was having a tough time handling the current situation, while also holding on to his sense of worried concern, and trying to remember medical terms, like “phase”.. The Nurse didn’t help things by stripping her top off. Underneath the scrubs was a cropped white top, a fetish version of a nurse’s outfit, laden with the outsized female chest he’d gotten used to.
“MUCH better,” Nurse Padilla breathed. She opened a drawer and pulled out a tiny white hat, with a small white cross on it. “Oh, honey? Your prostate? It’s making SO much nice cum for everyone. I bet you can hit the ceiling, can’t you? Is that BAD?”
“It’s—it’s bad,” Tommy said, as best he could.
She whipped off her pants with a lot of zest. As expected, Nurse Padilla wore a red bikini brief. From behind the exam table she retrieved two very tall high heels, and kicked off her New Balances. They were a glossy red, and at least four inches tall. She examined herself in the mirror, critically. Big pouches of grippable ass fell out each side of the bikini brief.
“Now, lets see that cock,” Nurse Padilla said. She grinned, delighted. “We can milk your prostate the other way if you like, but I think my method is plenty fun.”
“Did the doctor—order—” Tommy gasped.
“Sure,” Nurse Padilla said. “Whatever.”
He was—big prostate, MRI-results, mitochondria—Tommy was dizzy with it. The Nurse, full of bedside manner, decided to give him a nice, long, kiss. She was expert at it, and efficient, as her hands were busy unzipping his fly. Their spit mixed together.
“I have a son about your age, you know,” Nurse Padilla said, breaking first. Tommy was still unsure of how to react to the kiss. He’d been saving that kiss for—someone. Indian girl. What was her name? Did it matter?
“It cures cancer. The government is keeping that under wraps, because then we’d all drink lots of Pink, wouldn’t we? Hmmm?” With little gestures she motioned for Tommy to pull his underpants down. He struggled with the decision, feeling like they represented some remaining sanity. With his dick under wraps, this wouldn’t all be a visit to the porn doctor. “And don’t I look so much younger? Like, twenty years or more? See these big melons? I was hesitant too, of course, but I had that pounded out of me. Off go your undies. Nurse’s order.”
“I... need them?” Tommy hazarded. “For support? I’m supposed to be drying out?” But she was so very certain. Nurse Padilla gripped his straining waist band, and slid them down to his knees. His dick sprang into the cool, air-conditioned air. “Won’t the doctor, uh, hear?”
“Oh, that woman,” Nurse Padilla waved a dismissive hand. “After examining a stud like you? She goes to her office and rubs her clit to calm down. Drinks some of our special tea. I bet she starts blowing patients tomorrow. I started last week. Mmmm, but I don’t know if even I have the mouth for this one!”
It hovered between them, enormous and certain. His much-discussed prostate was already spewing copious precum from the tip. Tommy was pretty sure he’d nearly doubled in size over the past—however long it had been. When had he started drinking Pink, anyway? Nurse Padilla grabbed his shaft. She was reverent about it, slotting each finger into place. He was much bigger, but not quite big enough for both hands. One had to end up underneath, fondling his balls.
“Pink is GOOD for you,” she said, earnestly. “You can run a faster mile. You can squirt across a room. It feels good, doesn’t it? When I rub your cock? Mmmm, you might be the biggest one I’ve seen, and I’m a medical professional, you know.” Her hands were already coated in a hefty batch. Tommy braced himself backwards, his balls dangling right off the side of the exam table. She was pointing him at the wall, he noticed. There were unobtrusive lines of blue tape at intervals on the floor, along the line of fire, including one low on the wall itself.
“I can feel it building,” Nurse Padilla said, softly. “It’s fun, isn’t it? I know you boys want to shoot so badly, and you’re so good at it now, and we appreciate it so much, in the medical field. You’re.... so... healthy.”
“Aren’t I—dumber?” Tommy said, still trying to grasp resistance, even as his dick was shivering.
“Who gives a fuck?” The Nurse said.
The Doctor was right, Tommy saw, while his shaft was worked, up and down, by a competent medical professional. He was at serious risk of becoming nothing more than a delivery device for spooge. It dominated his thoughts and aspirations. He just want to shoot. Paint. Score. Even his vision was dimming, reduced to the target. It would be the best thing in the world, to shoot higher and better than previous men. Girls weren’t people. Girls were targets.
“I’m a—goo gun,” Tommy said, staring at his dick.
“That’s a beautiful image. You boys are all the same,” Nurse Padilla said, steadily rocking her hand up and down. “I’ll tell you what my dream is, baby. I have a master’s in nursing. I’ve seen patients for over twenty years. And yet I’m a nobody in scrubs compared to any Dr. White Lab Coat with their stethoscope they never used. So you know what? Who needs her. I can feel how how healthy you are. You’re a big producer, aren’t you? You have big quarts of cum for me, I can feel it.”
She leaned down, and puffed a clinical amount of hot breath onto the fevered, trembling head of his cock. Tommy felt a sprinkle of her spit land on the cockhead.
The goo gun went off. It was expertly directed towards the wall, and the arc was thick and long. It easily beat all previous records, high up on the sheetrock, spattering the bottom half of a calendar sent by a pharmaceutical company. The second spurt matched it. The third went in Nurse Padilla’s mouth, still enough to knock her head back, and the jet hit her chin down to the tops of her tits. Goo gun grunted, feeling every ounce pulse, every bit land. And as soon as he sagged, spent, he could feel a new sensation. Not the languid peace of post-cum reflection.
The feeling of reloading.
“Ooh, you’re THICK,” Nurse Padilla said, her voice slurred. “And—gooooood. And.....” she took some time to come around, nursing license lost in the post-cum bliss. They were both, for a bit, complex delivery and receptacle vessels, breathing on automatic.
Goo gun recalled that his name was Tommy.
Additional euphoria made even that uncertain—rewards, for being a good aim, and painting a girl, and for producing so heavily. He was being really good. The pink-streaked cum dripped down the wall.
Pink.
His cum was pink.
“Pink,” Tommy said, pointing to it. He tried to resummon concern, but those were complex emotions, and there was little room for them in an occupied head of serotonin and—other. “It’s Pink.”
“Oooh, so it is,” Nurse Padilla said. She scraped a bit off the paint with a red-lined nail, walking over in her fuck-me heels. It was a glistening pink-white shade. “You’re really far gone, aren’t you? I probably shouldn’t’ve let you cum in my mouth. Have you thought about cutting down a little bit?”
The International Pink Research Committee, or IPRC, released the report with no fanfare. It popped up in pdf format on a dedicated website, between refreshing. Jiya hit download, and made a discouraged, unhappy noise. Prolonged Pink use, among its many effects, promoted that kind of expanded vocal range. With how much sloshing-slush she had in her mouth, at all times, she could trill and ululate and do all sorts of tricks with her throat. The PDF was 150 mbs, over the Juicery’s stolen wifi, which was actually the Titan Coffee wifi.
“Mmmmhmmmm,” Jiya said, through her heavy, gooey mouth.
She really needed to read this, and fast. She was rattled. Her own Pink use was getting a little out of hand. She was constantly leaking pussy juice, among other things.
“Jiya, reminder, its Opening Night,” Billy said, passing by. She was not the boss, of course. They had instituted an equal-shares co-op. But she gave her strong suggestions in a commanding and firm tone, and also had the biggest boobs, and Jiya found both hard to resist. Her eyes tracked the download bar.
Half-hour.
She really needed to at least read it, before she drank even one more gulp of Pink. The staff of the Juicery, tentatively named Pink Banana, had been doing a lot of taste-testing, often past two in the morning, stopping only to blearily pee and maybe rub one out. Jiya couldn’t recall eating solid food, just fruit mixed with Pink. Presumably she’d had cheerios or something at some point. She was dodging her Mom’s calls.
“Okay, okay!” Jiya said. She was still a little unclear why she was working with, or for, Billy, at all. Access to Pink or something, to be at the forefront of Pink research. Perhaps too much access. She kept soaking her panties. It was hard to update her many spreadsheets and google documents, feeling an omnipresent warm trickle between her legs. She was going to have to accept her scientific awards with double pads on, wearing wipe-clean shorts. She had some cute spandex ones in mind.
Pink Banana Juicery was ready. They had tall mounds of free fruit in wire hoppers. The blenders had been oiled and cleaned. Billy had gone out and gotten lots of sherbert. It wasn’t clear what she’d done for it, but she’d walked funny, and wore a different shirt, a man’s polo that read HANK on the breast pocket.
The chairs had been arranged just so, the banner raised. SOFT OPENING, it declared, and Jiya wasn’t sure if it meant the launch or the staff. Like the rest of them she’d gotten plenty soft. Her spreadsheets tracked a new layer of girlish fat, distributed especially to her hips. She kept knocking them into chairs.
“BREEDING HIPS” went into the spreadsheet. A common side effect. It still didn’t feel quite real to her. She had breeding hips, big heavy wobble hips that made her walk into a daily dance. She had a come-hither stride, and a bendable waist, and breeding hips.
The download popped over DONE just as she finished stocking the napkins. Jiya wasn’t sure why they were bothering. Sawdust on the floor would’ve been a better idea. Nearly everyone had soaked tops, these days. It was a bigger problem in cold areas, where frozen goo was sticking to chins and shirts. Not that it stopped the spread. The whole world was sucking, inhaling, eating, painting, wearing, Pink. It was in everything but sound. And she’d seen a clip, from a few days ago, of a popular singer spraying down her entire shrieking, moaning crowd with a gentle pink mist.
A zoom window opened just before she could open the PDF. Jiya made another throaty noise. Her check-in research buddy. Hunter.
“Looking hot, Jiya,” he said, eager. At the outset he’d been too shy to turn his camera on, and referred to her by her last name. Now his grinning, wolfish face filled the camera. “Lower your camera, lets see how the girls are popping.”
“Two centimeters growth, and I’m having the—the—the nipple sensitivity, which I guess is no surprise,” Jiya said. This was an important protocol, given Pink’s propensity to... sidetrack. Self-awareness of one’s own body was completely crucial. She gave her boobs a squeeze. Around someone like Billy it was easy to forget that she herself had doubled cup sizes.
“Well. I’ve done a little over two centimeters myself,” Hunter said, pleased with himself. When they’d first met, he’d worn a mask, in his own room, worried about his sister’s noisy love of pink cookies. “You wanna see?”
DId she want to see Hunter’s cock? It was nice, she figured, that he asked. It had “accidentally” made it on camera last session, when they’d both gotten... a little off-topic, discussing genital sensitivity. A plop of drool nearly hit her keyboard, and she mentally reproved herself. She’d already fried one laptop from horny spit.
“Yes, if you make it quick. The IPRC report is out. Or... IRPC... or IPPY, or whatever it is... ohhhhhhhh.”
It was a magnificent dick. Hunter was proud of it, stroking it to peak strength. He shoved the tip right up against the camera lens. Jiya made a note of the new veins on it, feeding it with terrific strength. Was one of them pink? “It’s... certainly... bigger...” Jiya said. She husked, fogging her own camera. Since there were so few female researchers she’d been tasked with monitoring five male scientists at once. She’d been seeing so much cock on her screen. Yummy, yummy cock....
“What about you?” Hunter said, still rubbing himself on screen. “How’s that pussy?”
“VAGINA,” Jiya corrected him, half-hearted. Protocol compliance was lapsing. It was apparently a miracle the IPPP or whatever had finished their report. All but the lead author had... gone off. Hunter was still jacking his cock. That was fine. She was in a hurry. “It’s all gooey and sticky, like, all the time.”
“Lets see,” Hunter said, inevitably. She huffed. Of course. Men. And what was the scientific value of waving her pussy around, on camera? His hand sped up.
It was an easy problem for a scientific mind to solve. Jiya reached into her skirt, and dipped her fingers into her honeypot. “It’s a very different kind of lubricant,” she said, trying to keep things professional, even if Hunter was about to spooge at her screen. She was half-minded to report him, if he wasn’t such a sweetie, with such a nice big dick. “Very gummy and tacky. Gooey. That’s the only word for it.”
She showed him her sticky hand. One little scoop, plus a few discrete fun-rubs, had soaked her hand. She was such a juicy girl. Jiya sort of hoped Hunter would say that. Instead he grunted, and a disconcerting rope of off-white covered her zoom screen. Jiya wrinkled her nose, and cut the feed. After taking a few screenshots, for later.
Did she have time for a bathroom trip? No. The PDF. Right. It opened slowly. And what did pop up was amateurish, a barely-formatted Word document pushed to print, with none of the bells and whistles of regular academic publishing. There were even track changes along the right-hand side. Jiya pushed her sluggish head, full of Hunter cock, to concentrate. This was SO important.
There was a knock on the glass. Another man. No—she knew this one—one of her many test subjects. He wiggled a small tupperware up, to catch her attention.
Science never slept, although it was increasingly sleeping around.
Bryan, subject 00005. Jiya pushed the front door open, and tried to appear hassled and hurried. “Yes, test subject Bryan?” she said.
“Reporting in!” Bryan was her most cheerful test subject, with a can-do attitude. So far he had can-did a third of the coffee shop patrons in the rear, wreaking a swath of anal destruction. His secret, Jiya had uncovered, was keeping a calendar and writing down tryst scheduling.
“Just—hand it over,”
Bryan dutifully did so. He’d filled about a half-pint with his own goo. “I just asked for a SAMPLE, Bryan,” Jiya said. This study was not about volume. Although it was an impressive batch, and still tantalizingly warm. “This is more of—you could probably gas a car up with this.”
“You really think so?” Bryan said, pleased. “It’s just one day’s work. You know Roberta? At the College?”
“No,” Jiya said. Roberta. Roberta. Wait—there was one—“do you mean DEAN OF STUDENTS Roberta Juarez?”
“Ah, yeah, that Dean,” Bryan said. “She wanted to ask about Pink and all the, you know, stuff she’s noticed with the student body. And then we got to talking about my body and her body. Anyway, she didn’t want me to muck up her back, so you benefited. I’m still gonna charge you, though.”
“Alright, FINE,” Jiya said. They weren’t much good to her, anyway, completely sodden and dripping. Jiya reached under her skirt and pulled down her panties. The Researchers were torn on this behavior, with some considering it necessary to appeal to sex-crazed Pink addicts, and others going on, in a tiresome manner, about paying with underpants. Jiya had decided she might as well. She’d gone on a bit of a shopping spree, recently, and found herself with panties both striped and polka-dotted. Lots of them. Someone should enjoy them. She put the wet bundle in Bryan’s hand and turned, to get back to her PDF.
“You have a nice asshole,” he said. “And I would know. I really know.”
Jiya flushed. Had she—she had. Oh, right. She had bent at the waist, getting out of her damp knickers. Giving Bryan a great view of her starfish. And why? She could’ve stepped out of them, or simply removed them in a different room. Come to think of it, she was practically on the street, and now without any panties on at all. The realization didn’t make her always-wet cunny feel any less wet.
The PDF. The PDF would have answers.
Except her phone was buzzing.
Tommy.
Jiya was having a lot of confused feelings about Tommy. The correct ones, she felt, were those of researcher-research subject. And of course coworker-coworker. But although she was not great at personal relationships, even a little, it was impossible not to realize that (1) Tommy had a real yen for her, and wanted to be there for her, and had always listened to her, and (2) Tommy had a body made of steel and bricks and a cock that was a joy to research. Still, he was a younger man, and she had to remain objective. He was giving her incredible data.
“Hiiii Tommy!” she cooed, into the phone. Jiya scooched back in her chair. It was not her first time going panty-less. The key was to neatly dribble onto the chair, so she could mop herself up, later.
“Jiya, I just left the doctor,” he sounded confused, upset.
“Oh! Great!” She’d completely agreed with the idea. Prolonged use of Pink was very worrying, and advice of a medical professional was absolutely warranted. Her eyes lingered on the PDF, unread on her screen. It was just much harder than it used to be to talk and read, or, honestly, read and read. “Oh, so you must be feeling the urge, huh? Do you have a cup or baggie for collection? Gosh, I bet you haven’t expressed yourself in hours!”
“No—actually—” Tommy was breathless.
Their testing was getting pretty intense. Jiya had an entire row of Tommy Batches at home, with neat labels on all of them. There was a marked increase in quantity even in the past week. And from his description, he needed more and more frequent satisfaction, sometimes masturbating even while his dick was slippery from the previous session.
“Do you need a little audio assistance?” Jiya said. She flipped away from the PDF, over to Scenarios.xls. She’d been writing them down as they occurred to her. “Probably not a naughty nurse, right? I’m sure you’re tired of nurses.”
“A little. Yes,” Tommy said, after a long pause.
“Mmmm okay. Oh, I know. This is perfect. How about you’re the student I’m trying to discipline? Ooooh Tommy, I know its hard to keep your grades up when that big... long.... thing.... keeps needing to be drained. I bet all you want to do is plug some naughty slut’s drippy stupid slit.”
“Jiya...” Tommy said.
“Get the jar ready. You’re lasting shorter and shorter. Oohhhhh, Tommy, I can’t send you back to class like that, all hard. You’re just gonna have to bend me over, hmmmm? Okay, squirt away.”
“JIYA!” the sound of a booming male voice brought Jiya back to reality. She was—sitting in full view of the street, behind plate glass, and feeling herself soil a nice birch chair with a flood of pussy juice. Tommy was worried. “Listen. I came, and it was—Pink.”
“Pink....?”
“Pink cum. It’s Pink cum, Jiya. I—I’m heading over now.”
The call dropped.
Pink. That was—it was bad. And groundbreaking research. She had to... do something.. something related to science...
The PDF. She really needed to read the PDF.
Tommy’s revelation was not an enormous surprise. After all, she’d been collecting cum from all sorts of men, and the hues were changing. But she’d figured it was—contamination, or drool, or spilled coffee into the collection jar. The dear men could not be trusted with clean specimen collection, especially at the moment of climax.
In fact, her brand-new pint, now that she stared at it, was distinctly off-white. Jiya opened the lid.
It wafted friendly lavender, back at her.
She had to—read. Why was this so hard? Jiya wrenched her thighs closed, feeling her own lubricant squelch, and focused her eyes. There, she had read the abstract. She had gotten into the methods section. She was sitting on her left hand, feeling it against the tender and inviting warm of her asshole, and reading into the discussion section.
Jiya read the section on ‘SEPARATE MITOCHONDRIAL PROFILE.’
She read it again. The words kept wavering in front of her. They were very boring, her body told her. Her pussy was very wet. But she persevered.
It penetrated, and not in the way her body craved. A deep and—more importantly—abiding chill shivered her, breaking through the pervasive heat, the endless wetness. This—stuff—it was in her, she was full of it, she was researching it.
And apparently it was researching her.
Jiya stood herself up. She went into the back, where Billy was humming to herself, peeling bananas for the night ahead. Next to her was the flask of Pink. Warm, inviting Pink. Jiya picked it up. Did it even matter, what she had planned? The section on worldwide spread in the PDF was ten pages long. It was hopeless...
Billy wasn’t protective like Darcie was. She barely noticed Jiya walking over to the bathroom. Her thighs were very slippery. Did the Pink realize what she had planned? She just had to—trust—that it didn’t. Prove that it didn’t.
She had to keep feeling like herself, even if she was drenching her thighs with each step. Even if her ankles were slippery.
Jiya opened the bathroom door. She poured the Pink down the drain, every drop. There. Would someone invaded by a horny goo be able to do THAT?
“Billy! I’m quitting!” she yelled, at the door. And then, not trusting anyone, including herself, she pulled out her phone and googled ‘TANNING SALON’.
It was time to dry out.
“Pt-oo. Pt-oo.”
Billy spit into the cup. Another pink gob slowly slid down the plastic side.
It was about halfway full, and the effort had taken an hour. It was hard to believe, given how wet she was, how her tongue sloshed around in a full container of spit, that it would be a challenge to fill up a single cup. But all she had for her work was a disappointing pink-tinted, frothy liquid, and now Opening was an hour closer.
An Opening that she had planned for Friday night. A testament to how far she’d come, and how many times she’d come. And now... they had a big clock on the wall. Billy had gotten her tits sucked to acquire it. The ticking was worrying.
Customers were already lined up. And understandably—Billy had promised a lot. This was going to be the town’s premier juicery, featuring hothouse plants from every reach of the globe, sustainably sourced and blended with the finest of blenders. They had some really nice chairs. Every single drink would be pay-as-you-like, a testament to humanity’s willingness to share and cooperate.
And spread, and spread.
She had ceremoniously tossed in a single dollar to their big glass tip jar. And of course, every one of their sweet concoctions would be full to the absolute brim with lavender-scented supplement.
“Pt-oooooo.” Billy took another drink of water. She’d had the strangest feeling—dry mouth. She’d spit out so much that she was feeling... odd. More than a little panicked. A little bit withdrawal-y.
Outside the girls and boys were in line, despite a pouring rain. Waiting in line was no longer a bad thing, after all. What lines meant in the Pink era was something different. It was a time to share. A line meant a fun collection of genders to touch and feel. Bodies to rub against, the ground underneath becoming spotted with different juices. Even now a blonde with glassy eyes was up against her door, tits pressed up against the entrance, her boyfriend—or, at least, a male—rubbing her ass from behind. There there wet smears on the window, where her tits formed fine globes.
The thought made her mouth juice up. Billy diligently spit that up, too.
Tits. Billy was having a—change of relationship with her own. She’d always been top-heavy, and proud of not being proud of them. Big boobs were just a facet of being a woman, with few benefits and numerous drawbacks. She’d always kept them bra’d up, allowing herself only a hint of cleavage on special occasions, and strictly in the bounds of personal self-esteem.
Then they’d grown out to give her the best tits in town. Now they were big mounds of wet sex, usually with her own drool rolling down them. And they’d become, she realized, a sort of public property. She’d socialized her own delicious mammaries. It was unthinkable to fully cover them up. Among other things, she didn’t have enough fabric. They didn’t need a bra. They felt thick... full... almost straining off her chest. But also because people brightened up when they were around. People smiled. Of course they didn’t look her in the eyes, but so what? She couldn’t look herself in the feet.
“Pt-oooooooooooooo,” Billy said, and sighed. With her mouth dry she felt... normal? Or what was normal? At the very least, she looked down at her big tits and was able to think—what was going on with these? Why did she have fat, oversized boobs with nipples that stuck out like nerf darts? Why had Pink given her these true globes? And why did they feel so damn good?
Sloshing, full, Billy looked at them for the first time in awhile as... not really hers. They were the community’s tits.
Lord knows she’d put them in enough of the community’s mouths, while stocking her kitchen. Men and a few girls sucking on her tits had built her juicery. The blenders, the paper towels, the wall decor, had been paid for by lifting up her shirt, and putting a needy mouth on a teat. And that had felt very well and good, and she’d cum just from breast play. But now... what was she doing? Whose tits WERE these?
Hers?
Billy tried to spit again, and failed. Dry mouth. She put the cup down, walked into the juicery bathroom, where Jiya had dumped her Pink stock down the drain. She couldn’t go back to Darcie for more. She shouldn’t go back. What was she doing, even, opening a brand-new business on the recurring worst night of her life? She had been thinking of getting her tits sucked, again, hadn’t she? Sitting next to the blender with a silly smile, shirt flapped up, her orbs getting tugged. This was not a dream of social equality, or personal career paths. It was just a silly sex fantasy. A ridiculous porno dream. Not her dream, right?.
The girl in the mirror, looking back at her, had such luscious, ridiculous, dreamy tits.
Suddenly there were two girls in the reflection. Darcie was standing behind her, extra-wet in that new uniform. The geisha-inspired frilly femme one that Billy had scoffed at, a lot. She was at least starting to fill it out, although there was plenty of room to grow. Whatever sex appeal Pink had added to her former boss was canceled out because she looked like a bedraggled cat, miserable and dripping.
“We’re not open yet,” Billy said, through a sandpaper mouth. She should never open. She should—Jiya had said something, hadn’t she? She needed to—her tits were so heavy—they weren’t hers, were they?
Were they someone else’s?
“There’s a line outside, if you want juice.”
“Yeah, our keys open every lock in the shopping complex, don’t they?” Darcie said. “I was wondering how you got this place. We should probably say something to the landlord.”
They were both unhappy. Which meant that they had more in common than ever before. Billy examined Darcie. Her makeup was smeared by the rain. She did like Darcie’s boots, which were glossy and black, and matched her skirt perfectly. “You want a smoothie?” she said. “Free. I mean. you’re supposed to pay what it’s worth. That’s the, um. What’s the word. Ethos. But I’ll make a bad one so you don’t have to pay anything.”
“I’m actually here because... um. Since we’re... both business owners... and I gave you my Pink...” Darcie had her jar behind her back. She held it up, guilty. Empty.
“A new co-worker was a little, uh, free with her employee benefits. Could I borrow a little of yours?”
“Fresh out myself,” Billy announced. “Didn’t even make it to the opening. Jiya used it in one of her dumb experiments or something.”
“So we’re both failures,” Darcie concluded. She seemed almost relieved by it. Someone else was bad at this.
“No, because I’m refilling mine,” Billy said. She used competitive drive to find a little more warm goo in her mouth. She spit it in a very showy way. “Online it says you just swirl it around, the Pink separates from the—uhh—human—”
Human? Why did she... Darcie needed to leave, so she could hold on to this caution. Why did she have volleyball tits?
“You’re going to serve all these people your SPIT?” Darcie said. Her face was way better, now, at a wide-eyed shock. Despite all her many changes, especially her oval of a fucktoy mouth, she’d still been diligent with her makeup. Her very eyes had more of a dewy, enlarged innocence, and her lips were fat tires, designed to hang open. “You’re going to—Billy—that’s gross. That’s...how much do you have?”
It was too much, Darcie looking down at her. Billy brought her own cup to her nose, for reassurance. There it was, weakly lavender. “THIS is why I could start a business with what I had in my pockets. YOU needed TWO different daddies, Bank and Regular. Yeah I’ll serve them spit. They’ll love it. What do you think regular Pink is?”
“Had in your POCKETS?” Darcie said. She folded her arms, then looked down at them. “Don’t you mean your chest? Can you even do this, anymore? Fold your arms? Just a nice lil’ arm fold? Is there too much tit in the way? Did you just show tit or did you let them yank a nipple? No. They sucked on them, didn’t they?”
Billy wasn’t actually sure she could fold her arms, anymore. Probably she could, over her mammaries, but the sensation would be overwhelming. “This is what it looks like when you don’t automatically QUIT the first time a problem arises,” Billy said. “You improvise.”
“Yeah, you’re arising, alright,” Darcie said. “I don’t know why you still bother with having eyes. No one is ever gonna look at them again.”
“Look, you have big tits now too, okay!” Billy said. “Leave the tits out of this.”
There was a pause in the discussion.
Both of their nervous systems were horrified at the argument.
Inside of them, and outside of them, and all throughout, their Pink became alarmed.
Billy’s especially. It had worked so hard to tamp all this down, the anti-social behavior. Pink was all social. It felt keenly that Billy was a very special girl who got in her own way, who had demons dogging her. It had seen the demons. But that was all in the past, and now Billy was a girl of the people, her nipples stuck in many mouths, about to welcome a flood of friends into the juicery they had built together.
And, instead, she was drying out, and angry. Every spit diminished it.
The fighting was alien and toxic. It raised body temperature far too much, too fast. And there was no spreading, no spray, when two plumped-up girls used their mouths to yell invectives from a distance. They needed to be making out. Billy, especially, was drained out, and really needed to explore the spit-rich tongue of the girl opposite to her.
Upset, alarmed, it released as many endorphins and as much dopamine as it could.. Whatever was to hand.
But it was weakened. Diminished.
“You really think I have big tits too?” Darcie said, looking down.
Billy blinked as an unexpected chemical load of happy hit her between the eyes. She opened her mouth, to say something like “yeah, they’re great.”
At that moment Tommy, wild-eyed, threw open the double-doors, and a surge of customers seeking Pink flooded in, still rubbing at one another.
The three of them met in the back.
Outside the rain had redoubled its efforts. Billy shivered with each lash of the storm. Friday night, approaching an important hour. She felt—lots of things, especially a weak but warm glow that suffused her skin. Well-being. But also a sense of—waking up. But why did she want to emerge from a dream? All that waited for her was old engrained trauma and life as as a surly coffee barista. She placed herself in a corner, even if it meant Darcie would lead the conversation. She shivered, half in pleasure.
Outside the crowd, naturally good-willed, was currently willing to wait. It helped that Billy had thrown two enormous bunches of bananas into the assembled hopefuls, and they were finding lots of things to do with them. She was pretty sure a few pineapples would’ve gone down well. People were very inventive lately.
“Dreams,” she muttered, trying to reassemble scattered thoughts. She needed to... kiss Darcie. Yes. Angled so that she, Billy, was naturally beneath her, and would get a delightful infusion of lavender spit. No, she needed to bury her face in Darcie’s pussy, a rich and untapped mine of juice, and lick for the rest of the night. No, she had to follow Jiya’s example, and run out into the rain. The clock ticked, not far away. Bad memories weren’t that well-buried. She was feeling... dry.
“We’re spitting into this jar,” Darcie said. She’d lost her revulsion after getting a good whiff of the vat. Plus her own Pink was much better equipped to mainline hormonal encouragement. And also she—she forced herself to complete the thought—she needed to learn from Billy’s determination. No more being a tremulous sad sack. Billy was right. She did have good tits. She had to believe in them. “We’re out of Pink and... we’re... improvising.”
“I have lots of Pink,” Tommy said, mournful.
Both girls stood up straighter.
“So get spitting, Tommy,” Darcie said, like she imagined Billy would’ve.
“I went to the doctor. And the, uh, nurse,” Tommy said. He was looming. He was trying to keep his voice level, but his eyes were skittering from Billy to Darcie’s chests, and back again. “She said I’ve... overdosed. I’m producing loads of Pink in my testicles. Like, literal Pink. She said I’m a really big producer. She said I’m a gusher.”
Tommy was suddenly a business opportunity.
Darcie tried to force the thought away, but it was there, perfectly formed. This was the dream, well-implanted and strong despite recent setbacks, and herself being herself.
With Tommy she once again had fresh batches of warm drizzled Pink. Straight from the tap, not bottled. Never frozen. Not spit. Even better than spit.
Cum. Delicious hot cum.
“I mean, could I please have some?” Darcie said. “In my mouth or elsewhere?” She swallowed, mouth suddenly full again of spit, despite starting work on the joint jar. “I mean—that’s—is that a medical problem? That we can help with?” What was the caring thing to do, with an employee? Maybe suck him off? “Uh. Are your balls like really heavy bowling balls now?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy said. He rubbed at his hair. “I should—I gotta stop—pumping and pumping—I really need to—” he balled his big mitts.
“I could pay per spray,” Darcie said, warming to the idea. Very much warming. Bits of her were still against it. She’d just acted grossed out at the spit-take idea. Now she was going to, what, squirt Tommy cum in coffee drinks? But the idea was wildly exciting, body flooding with positive emotions. Every girl in town would have Tommy jizz on their gums, and the idea made her pussy gush. His semen was a renewable resource, easily extracted. She had these lips for a reason.
“No!” Tommy said. “I need to—not—spray—” his chest heaved. He’d left the doctor in a daze. Since then he’d gone about six hours without launching his seed anywhere, and was paying for it. His balls felt hot and uncomfortably full. His penis had armed itself. And he was his own safety catch, trying to figure out why not to shoot. Girls he passed appeared with targets scrawled on themselves. Their tits, their faces, their butts...
Darcie took the initiative, and applauded herself for doing so. She WAS going to learn from Billy. She reached for Tommy’s fly, which was already undone. His jeans didn’t have the room, buttoned up. So it was easy to slide down his pants, and let his cock rise to full-mast. It filled the entire room, heady with pheromones, soaked in its own precum. A delicious lavender.
Billy stared at it.
The cockhead was pointed towards her.
She’d just put together a memory herself from before, one that didn’t include the over-oversized tits and pink drool. The Billy that had gotten through Friday nights on grit and pills. Not a great life, but it was hers—alone. Alone? A strange way to put it, but true. She’d been alone, very alone. Now there was Darcie and Jiya and Tommy and hundreds of others and... something else, something anxiously and nervously rubbing on her libido, her amygdala, to excite her tits... what was it...
Tommy’s cock. Tommy’s cock was right there.
The scent was so good.
And, ultimately, even the old Billy liked to share, and appreciated big dicks...
“You’ll feel better when you let it out,” Billy said, standing up.
“I don’t—I’m not gonna touch—” Tommy said. Veins on his neck seemed to bulge. He appeared to be mostly wild ox.
“Darcie can touch it for you,” Billy said, coaxing. Yes. Sharing was always good. It pushed down her concerns, the ticking of the clock. She had customers who needed their Pink, after all. Her body glowed with delight. And how would she make sure to capture all his jizz? “Just aim at me. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a natural sluice. Darcie, can you assist?”
“Cer—cer—” Darcie tried to sound businesslike, although the cock was making her drool, extra hard. She fought it back. “Absolutely.”
Billy stripped her shirt off. With one hand she pushed her tits together, and with the other she placed the jar right where a load of cum would drip off her skin. She placed herself at a strategic distance from the tip of his dick.
“I get half,” Darcie said, already starting to stroke. She was inexpert at it, and Billy could see her lips work, vainly trying to suck a dick that wasn’t there.
In vain, also, the previous parts of BIlly tried to push back. She was setting herself up to be cummed on, all over, by a coworker, so that she could scrape the jizz into fruit juices. And she was opening her mouth, in hopes some would shoot into there. Perhaps she would’ve had more fight, but it was nearly 9 on a Friday, and—what was she trying to be? Some problem-having nobody? Or a perfect target, capping off her triumphant new business opening with a wonderful and delicious load?
What was wrong with following her dreams?
Her Pink collapsed inside of her, exhausted. It had nothing left to give. It could only hope for the best.
Tommy was primed, and already a pink thread was stretching out of his cockhole. Darcie needed both hands to reach up and down the length of his dick. She was drooling again, pleased with herself, pleased to be working a cock. The first load caught Billy by surprise. It was a beautiful pink rainbow, starting in her hair and splashing down her face. The gummy lavender goo was an enormous relief in her parched throat. Pesky, pointless thoughts about “why was a boy nutting on her face?” drained away. Spit flooded her mouth. And another rope of cum, from shot number two.
Tommy was a good shot, and Darcie was diligent in her aim. They all worked together as a team. Sheets of jizz rolled down Billy’s thick tits and into the jar. Her spit, and Darcie’s spit, and a lot of rich, bright Pink cum mixed together.
“I’m done,” Tommy sighed, eventually. He rubbed at his eyes. “For now.”
He’d filled the jar. It was the brightest Pink Billy had yet seen, and the smell had a note of Tommy with the usual floral highlights. She dipped her tongue into it, and was rewarded, chemically. Her body shook, all remaining anxiety pulsing away.
“Letss—letsss—” she slurred, confused. Was she dreaming? But it was a wonderful one... “Letssss go sell some juuuuuuice.”
Topless, carrying a carafe of cum, she stumbled into the front, where the customers cheered for her.