THE HAREM
CH3
On Saturday Julia watched television.
It was one of her favorite things to do, because she could do it one handed. One hand held a cigarette, the other one held the remote. She considered herself a harsh and unsparing judge of program content, and was quick with the clicker. In deference to her security deposit she smoked near the window.
The TV was acting—oddly.
She was a true connoisseur of changing channels, and knew exactly how long every click took. Today however it was—slow. And the picture was—she struggled for the word—goopy. Smeared, the skin tones especially particularly garish. The sound was just a touch off, enough to make her ears prickle.
All of which should have been very irritating, but Julia found herself having a relaxed and enjoyable day watching the Boob Tube. She felt relaxed and at peace. Perhaps because she’d found some engaging new content. A cooking show, a hysterically funny one.
It had to be piped in from some remote town in Middle America. Julia was herself from the middle of a very large country—a town named Perm. She told Americans that it was east of Moscow, which was accurate, if not helpful. But she felt some kinship with areas known mostly for their grains. Kira, the TV chef, was particularly corn-fed.
“Alright, so the key ingredient here is your cream,” she told the camera. “A lot of chefs use just one type of cream, but, girls, is that us? Are we single-cream gals?”
“No!” Julia chortled. She was enjoying this immensely, to her own surprise. It had to be ironic enjoyment. Julia did not cook, ever, EVER, unless lighting cigarettes counted.
“Now AT LEAST you want your whipping cream and your heavy whipping cream in this!” Kira said. She had russet-blonde locks, and wore a lot of makeup. It was a tiktok-friendly look, and came across as funny-looking, as she had otherwise a full to bursting corn-fed body paired to a sleek Hollywood face. Things often landed on her boobs. “But if you have clotted cream, or even, I don’t know, light cream, I hear there’s light cream, throw it in! Cream it up!”
“Okay!” Julia said. She mimed tossing things towards the kitchen, and then stubbed out her cigarette. The dark blonde on screen stirred together a full vat of dairy products. She stuck her finger in. Julia leaned forwards. Kira’s expressions, on tasting anything, were the best part of the show. Truly orgasmic, like she was getting fucked raw.
“MmmmmmmHHHHHHHHmmmmmmm,” Kira said, licking her finger clean. “Shoooooooooooo good!”
Julia cackled. Why was she enjoying this so much?
“We’ll start piping these into the cream puffs just as soon as they’re out of the oven,” Kira said. “Now. This is for about forty, fifty people. You can double the recipe if you have about a hundred people over. I think. That sounds like—that’s probably math. That’s probably what math is. More than that, I think you need a calculator. But remember, your men are going to put their feet down and eat, so make sure you have lots and lots of cream for them!”
Yeah.
Her men.
Julia looked around her apartment. She’d been the only one inside of it, ever. And no surprise—it smelled like smoke and old tea bags. And all she had to offer guests was a light.
And herself. No wonder it was empty.
“And make sure the boys do the cleanup! The good news is, they’re gonna want to lick the whole kitchen clean!” Kira said. She smeared a bit of cream on the top of her expansive chest, and winked at the camera.
“Ha ha,” Julia said.
She tried to hit the remote, but it just wasn’t responding, for some reason. Oh well.
She decided to watch some more.
On Sunday, Julia was still watching television. On the same channel.
She realized it very slowly, and first concluded that she’d fallen asleep, with the TV on. But that explanation immediately didn’t hold water—her eyes felt parched, with not enough blinks. She was sitting not just upright but hunched forwards, so she’d be slightly closer to the television. And when she did blink, hesitantly, an entire night of watching Kira’s Cooking started to unspool behind her eyes. An entire evening and night of friendly household tips for cooking for your man.
Your man. Julia felt her tongue try to say the words, and failed. Had she been sitting, also, with her mouth hanging open, her tongue drooling? And why was the volume up so high?
“Yuh—youhhhhh—” she gave up.
“He’s going to LOVE these!” Kira enthused, on screen. Unlike Julia she looked effortless and rosy-cheeked. Her outfits had also made a subtle shift. Before, Kira had favored a low-cut peasant blouse with an entertaining amount of cleavage. Now her cook was risking nip slips, having changed into a polka-dotted tanktop with an imprint of a cow’s udders on it. “My man knows exactly what happens when he walks in that door! He walks to the dinner table, then he walks me to the bedroom!”
“Behd—rooooom,” Julia managed, finding some spit. Her own bedroom was—smoky. She hadn’t opened a window in some time, and felt like, if she did, a heavy black cloud of accumulated ash would pour into the sky. Her man, frog-walking her to the bed, holding her hair. It didn’t feel very real. Why was she trying to imagine it, at all?
“And if these eclairs come together, he’ll carry me, you know,” Kira giggled, and winked. Julia tried out her own wink, with dry eyes. It wasn’t right.
She needed to—needed to—
She needed to cook.
No. She needed to turn off the TV and smoke a cigarette. This was all—strange.
Among other things, her body, which should’ve been exhausted and haggard, was brimming with—something. Not quite energy. Anticipation, maybe, the way she felt flushed, and warm, and fidgety. Her skin felt prickly, and Julia could feel her own breasts, heavy in her old clothes. They made clear that they needed to breathe, just like Kira’s. It wasn’t clear how the chef could see over her mammaries to her own culinary concoctions. They shook when she used the mixer. Kira had a way of glancing at the camera, sultry, like it was her much-discussed Man, Her Man, who was always about to sweep her off her feet and balance her on his full belly.
He sounded nice.
“I always try and have a cake in the fridge,” Kira said, creaming sugars yet again. Everything she made was enough fat and sugar for a week. “That way I’ll get a bun in the oven, you know? Oh my gosh, one time my man was so done in by my cheesecake he couldn’t move, which meant I just got on top of him and churned my own butter, you know what I mean, girls? Girls? You know what I mean?”
“Yuh—yes,” Julia said. She nodded. Right.
Julia’s thighs throbbed. She did know what Kira meant. And although she’d picked a life of internet posts, late-night smoking, and disdain for dating apps, she could picture it so very strongly. A girl that was everything she was not, a girl who gave and gave, until she bent over, and it was at last—oh yes!—time to receive...
She needed a—cigarette. Yes. Julia stood up. Her knees creaked, and she was conscious of moisture between her legs. Julia risked a cautious laugh. What was going on with her? She found the pack of smokes, drew one out. One puff in the outdoor breeze and it would all go away, this strange fever, and she’d laugh it off as a bingewatching excursion...
“Put those cigs down, ladies,” Kira said, severely. “NOW.”
Julia froze.
“Or that glass of wine or that book or whatever it is! I know a lot of you are just watching, and I am not that kind of cook! I want you in the kitchen, nice and barefoot! I know you can cook and listen if I can cook and talk!”
Right. She needed to cook. For her man. She wasn’t barefoot, but that was easy to fix. Julia put down the unlit cigarette and pulled her socks off. Her toenails needed painting. Men liked that. No—she—
“I’ll just be right here mixing while you whip something up!” Kira said, and for the first time she came around the bench, still stirring a pot. Julia nearly gasped. She’d been expecting—pants? Some sedate bottom. Kira wore a pair of matching white-and-black spotted booty shorts, and also had thick, heavy thighs. They rubbed together so hard it was strange the boom mic didn’t pick it up.
She really did have to cook. She had to cook. She HAD to.
But what, with what? The kitchen held plastic cutlery, lots of it. A set of plates from her grandmother that had been made in St. Petersburg, carefully brought to America, and then left to gather dust. The pantry held discarded spices and a box of rice-a-roni from the previous occupant. And cornflakes. She’d bought them when she moved in. Julia pulled them out. For a brief moment she contemplated pairing them with a bottle of vodka, which was the main occupant of the freezer.
In the fridge itself there was a gallon of milk.
Julia had no recollection of buying it. The expiration date said—two years hence. It had to be a misprint. Julia pulled it out—the brand read STORK DAIRY—and sniffed at it.
It smelled very creamy.
“Hurry hurry!” Kira enthused. “He’s on his way home! He texted you how hungry and hard he is! Your man has a big appetite!”
Yes, a big appetite. Kira had talked so much about Her Man that he was very easy to picture. Above all he was hungry—hungry for food, hungry for her. Devouring her with his eyes. A big man, who filled the empty room. A man that didn’t demand, he was just large and very, very active. It was a joy to serve him. A joy. He’d fill the room, and she’d fill him, and he’d fill her. That was how it worked, wasn’t it?
Julia carefully, very carefully, filled a wiped-down bowl with cornflakes and mystery milk. When it was full she realized—she had cooked.
She was a cook.
The surge of endorphins caught her by surprise, and she dropped the proposed spoon. Julia had to catch herself on the counter, her hands clenched. But even that was a turn-on. Kira had talked so much about bracing herself on the stove, or the sink, as her man roughly or gently plowed her from behind. And why not her? Instead of this sour, spinster life, lived on the sense it was vaguely european, why not a rosy-cheeked household cook? Her big American butt getting happily handled?
She looked up, at the screen. There was so much going on there. The colors were off, the screen was blurred, and, deep inside the image...
Was that a spiral?
“All done, girls? Great!” Kira said. “The door is opening!”
Yes. It was opening. He was sweaty and tired, until he saw her. She’d take away his hunger, his tension, his fatigue. Six or so strokes would do it. Julia’s shaky hand reached between her legs. She had to push down her pants. Yes, she had dinner on the table. Or breakfast or whatever.
“Remember,” Kira said, and Julia only vaguely heard it. She had her eyes closed. “A girl who serves, who gives, a good girl like that, that’s a girl who deserves her man. Are you that girl?”
Kira’s tone lost, for the first time, its bubbly tone.
“You’re not,” Kira said. She shook her head, disappointed. “Not yet.”
Julia groaned.
It was—true. The orgasm that had been building so effortlessly, so quickly, was shunted away. She wasn’t—she wasn’t good. She’d just poured cornflakes in a bowl, what was she even thinking? Her slick fingers didn’t deserve to rub at her aching clit.
She came around the kitchen island, and collapsed onto the couch. Her pussy dripped onto the fabric.
“But don’t worry, ladies, we’ll get you there!” Kira said. But Julia was already half-asleep, or had been asleep the entire time, or something along those lines. It wasn’t very clear, but it didn’t a lot matter, as far as her mind was concerned. It was still listening, either way.
“Knock knock! Gosh, so many closed doors!”
Julia woke to find a strange, sexy-fat pregnant lady in her apartment.
The only modest thing about her was her hat. She wore a baseball cap with CALVING SOFTBALLS LEAGUE written on it. It was pink with pink lettering, and hard to read. She technically wore a tanktop, but it was deeply faded, the remnant dye just visible around the hem. Mostly it served as a body sock for some very big boobs and for the early stages of maternity. She wore denim shorts surprisingly well made for her heavy thighs. They looked custom-tailored. And she was in Julia’s apartment.
She felt an immediate impulse to offer the girl—something. Kira’s recipe book flipped inside of her head, displacing other books, most other books. Cream puffs? Kira-style baked doughnuts? Down-country home-churned ice cream?
And then of course—well, she didn’t have anything, anyway. She could maybe offer the girl a spoon. If she washed it.
“I’m Terri!” the big girl said. She held out a flyer. “Just inviting you to the big BBQ today! Go look at the neighbors!”
The flyer read “BQB. ROOF.”
“I’m—Julia,” Julia said. The weirdness of the past day diminished, briefly. It helped that, next to Terri, anyone felt comparatively less sexy and comparatively less horny.
“The smoker! You’re one of the neighbors I actually see!” Terri said. She looked around the apartment with interest. “Mmm, I smell cornflakes!”
“Cornflakes. Yes. What?” That had to be—politeness? Her apartment smelled like old tobacco and very black tea. And just her. And now Terri. Why was she in there? Had she opened the door? Picked the lock? It made no sense, but what did?
“It’s B... Y... O...” Terri squinted from the effort of spelling. Julia waited, breathless, for the girl to work her way through a thought. “B. Whew-eee! Potluck, that’s the word! But don’t worry, I’m bringing the meat!” Terri gave her rump a slap. It jiggled. Julia wasn’t sure how to interpret that.
Potluck. Julia’s programming was raw and fresh, and its hold on upper-level thought processes was not very strong. Almost enough to allow the girl to say a flat “no”. She’d been saying no to social events for so many years, it could bypass the strange desires and warm implanted fuzzies the TV was pouring into her. No, she didn’t have anything she could bring.
Except—she did.
And not a Kira one, which were increasingly squeezed into her memory, shunting out memories of her 8th grade dance, when she still barely spoke English. This was an authentic grandma one, and still strong, for now. She could make Grandma’s deviled eggs. Her grandma had been proud of it—a blend of old country and new.
“Do you have any eggs?” Julia said.
“All but twelve!” Terri said, proudly. This time she rubbed her tummy. “Still have hundreds left! Not gonna waste a single one!”
“No—I—what? I mean... eggs. Do you have, uhh.” Terri was still rubbing her belly. Julia rubbed at her bleary eyes. She’d slept half the day away? Her cooking show still spooled on and on, on TV. Looking at it was strangely comforting. “Eggs from a chicken.”
“Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Terri said. She tapped her head, to indicate how stupid she was. Julia didn’t notice it, but her increasing level of Calving-induced mannerisms and thought processes took it and stored it away, for later. For when she needed it, for when the inevitable cognitive effects of too much boob tube had their way on her IQ. It was particularly hard on the intellect, getting retrained by a low-budget cooking show. “Yes! Of course I do, a good girl always has a full fridge to feed her man. Although to be honest I’ve been doing a lot of doordash lately, It’s just so convenient, and it means men come right up to your doorway! Are you watching Kira Cooks? I love Kira Cooks!”
Julia barely made it through the door before collapsing on jelly legs. The empty pan clanged off the ground. If anything had been left in it it would’ve splattered, but it was all gone. Every bit.
Her fingers were wet. She was wet. She was so wet.
The deviled eggs had been a success at the BQB.
She’d spent all afternoon making them. Most of that time had been spent—begging. Meeting the neighbors, belatedly. While Terri had the eggs, properly made they still required a long ingredient list, including seven different spices and freshly picked dill. Of those ingredients, Julia had—none.
She didn’t even have salt.
So she’d begged them. Her legs were now water and jelly because she was indescribably horny, the horniest she’d ever been in her life. But earlier they’d been rubber because of the sheer nerve of knocking on a door and asking for fresh dill, please. And also some turmeric and paprika and pepper. White pepper, not black pepper, for preference.
At least she’d met the neighbors. Terri lived in A-1. She’d given up three dozen eggs, which she’d apparently just had lying around. They were all kind of colors, and thus presumably heirloom organic, but Terri had just looked confused when she’d asked. No one answered the door at A-2. She was in A-3. A-4 was Elena, who was very helpful, and had both paprika and turmeric, but also got around in obvious discomfort on her cane, which made Julia feel terrible. A-5 was Bailey, who had proudly announced she didn’t cook either, but did have salt, at least. B-3 and B-5 didn’t answer the door. B-4 was Kylie, who had snapped every word, but had nonetheless had sprigs of dill. Jelena in B-2 had answered her knock with suspicion, peering around a door chain, but had given up the garlic powder.
And then B-1 had been a man. A man she’d asked for mayonnaise. Julia had a policy of not asking men for anything, and asking one for mayo broke all her personal rules.
“Oh, you’re the—uhhh—the—yeah!” he’d said, and handed it over.
“The smoker,” Julia had said. “Right. Thank you.”
That’s how they’d all known her. No one had said it in a mean way. She was the smoker, that girl who smoked cigarettes by the mailboxes. She was a building celebrity. It got more depressing every time. Her goodreads account was a testament to considerable personal sophistication. She had a fairly important job at the hospital. And to them she was the dark-haired girl with dark circled eyes who smoked all the time.
Before she’d started she’d smoked a cigarette. It had tasted—bland, unrewarding. “Why am I doing this?” she’d asked it, and then felt confused. Did she mean smoking, or did she mean running around on her day off, humiliating herself for ingredients? Why had she let that man see her in her dull grey sweats, wearing a college t-shirt that rarely saw the laundry? She could’ve at least put on some lipstick. But—she’d have to go and borrow some lipstick. Julia didn’t own any.
“They’ll LOVE this, they’ll be CREAMING their pants,” Kira had urged her on. Of course, Kira was making spare ribs, and not an eastern europe appetizer. “And girlies, I see a lot of you thinking, I can skimp on the makeup, the hair, because I’m in the kitchen all day. You know that’s not true! Cook yourself, that’s what I’m always saying! Come out of the oven red-hot! Mascara and blush and a little concealer are such good ingredients, ladies!”
“It’s a BUILDING BARBEQUE,” Julia had told the TV, helpless. Why was she doing—any of this? She made a note to tell her therapist, forgot about it, and then made another note to tell her therapist. Obviously she was lonely. But so what? She’d been lonely for years. Julia had told herself that she had made a virtue of it. She was independent, and career-focused, and safe. Her far-flung college friends relayed over text their deeply unsatisfying dating app encounters. Margaret had gotten choked at her last one. Far better to lock the door. And maybe put on a cute outfit—— a baby pink ruffled one with a belted tunic.
The brainwashing procedure, meanwhile, was having an exceptionally easy time with her.
Very straightforward and easy. It played on insecurities, and “lonely” was the simplest one—it was trivial to turn her into a babymaking skirt-lifting slut. Julia was already watching the altered TV with its hidden spirals and indoctrinating audio, constantly, and it was turning her brains into needy, horny scrambled eggs with efficiency. She and the rest of the world had already been gulping down transformative chemicals in the water supply, priming her for latent triggers. Next time she slept, her brain chemistry would even change.
While this went on, Julia finished her deviled eggs. And went upstairs to the roof, where she felt an immediate wave of total inadequacy.
This was also the influence of her ongoing rewiring. It was standard procedure to induce a personal crisis, one that could be resolved by being a dumb cheap knocked-up slut. But it was also fairly real—there was her mayonnaise man, grilling hunks of tasty meat. Surrounded by hungry girls gravitating closer and closer to him, fighting through the smoke to get a chance to smell his sweat.
And she had some eggs. Grandma eggs.
“Can I try one?” a new girl was right behind her. She had light brown skin and wore a red headwrap. This had to be A-2, who hadn’t answered the door.
“Oh! Yes!” Julia said, relieved. “I’m Julia!”
“Ateera,” the girl said. She didn’t even look Julia in the eyes. She was staring, glaring, at the deviled eggs, with something close to lust. “Ooh. Can I?”
“Please. Please do. I was about to throw them over the side of the building.”
The joke didn’t get a laugh. In fact Julia thought—she looked a little strange. The neighbor had her hand wrapped in a pink shirt, and was oddly intent on Julia’s batch of appetizers. Her dark eyes bore a hole into them, and Julia was just about to label her strange when Ateera reached out, with her good hand, and ate one.
And that ignited a thrill. It had been prepared for her, blazed by the unsubtle chemistry of Calving, reinforced and inset by hypnotic programming. A direct and fiery line from her brain to her clit. A clit that had new energy and newly-made nerve endings, ready to thrill her with what had been prepared. Just as soon as she hit the trigger, which was giving something, to anyone. Anyone would do.
Starbursts behind Julia’s eyes. Sudden warmth all through her body, and an electric shock of practiced pleasure that ran up and down her spine, and between her legs.
“They’re gooooooood,” she dimly heard. Ateera was slurring her words, gobbling in front of her. Julia just nodded and nodded. The pleasure was very intense, and deliberately impossible to think around. The idea was to give her something to do, while her body thickened and her mind slowed. A goal to chase with a fattening ass.
“Its—n-nice to see everyone,” Julia managed, on auto-pilot. Her mind putting up a front, unsure what to do with how her clit was throbbing. Her thighs clenching together. None of it made any sense—best to just ignore it, act like she was just enjoying the barbeque, instead of creaming her panties. Her mouth babbled on. Something about Terri’s titanic tits.
No. She needed to—struggle—Julia squeezed her eyes shut, confused. It was impossible to think coherently around the white-hot nub of pleasure. Two of them, one in her mind, the other between her legs. But with considerable effort and self-control, she could just about slip some thoughts past the radiant wave of heat. She was going to... delicately... stand up... and walk... to the hospital. Something was—wrong. Yes.
And then she realized, slowly, that her finger was in Ateera’s mouth.
The girl was licking it. Licking her fingertip. She had to have handed her a deviled egg, only for the ravenous Syrian to engulf it all.
Julia tugged, and Ateera was slow to let it pop out. She’d licked it—so clean. Ateera mumbled something apologetic and ran off. Julia followed her, slowly, mechanically, back into her room. Her body was still heated like she’d just been fucked. She could feel her thighs dripping. Rational thought was—but—if she tried—
“You were such a good girl today,” Kira said.
“Good girl,” Julia echoed. No. She wasn’t—
“GOOD girl,” Kira said, and pink pop bubbles fizzled in Julia’s mind. The TV was still on, of course. Why ever turn it off, why ever turn the channel? Kira was close to the camera, smiling softly. “I know it’s hard to cook, and always be there for your man, suck him before he leaves and fuck him when he comes back, but you did it, and that’s such a good girl. Good girl!”
“I’m not—I’m—” Julia tried to shake her head, and it didn’t work. She was inching her thighs apart, and pointing them towards the TV.
“Lets reward ourselves, right, girls?” The camera zoomed out. Kira was naked from the waist down, and sitting on a bar stool. She had a dark brown pussy. It was wet and juicy, and completely shaved down. That made sense, Julia thought. Chefs couldn’t risk hairs. “Mmm. It’s not a dick but lets face it, we build up a lot of steam in a hot kitchen!”
She—had been a good girl. She’d cooked for others. Good girl behavior. She’d EARNED a nice cum.
Julia stuck her finger between her legs.
She was getting good at following Kira’s instructions. The girl had great advice about how to rub, and where to rub, and how fast to rub. Julia diligently listened, even when the blood surged in her ears, even when the hot nub in her head made it hard to hear words, or do anything besides rub and rub. She had her eyes fixed on the show, and even when Julia came, her entire body spasming with the effort, she made sure to keep watching.
On Monday, Julia went shopping, hating herself.
Kira had spent an entire morning on her show talking up the grocery store experience, which she treated as a type of visit to a religious shrine. “Never. Skip. An. Aisle,” she instructed, to Julia’s slack-jawed TV-watching face. “I get something in EVERY aisle, even if it’s the dog food aisle. I’ll cook for dogs! And if it’s the greeting card aisle you know what? Someone’s birthday is always coming up!”
Julia had tried and failed to sleep in her own bed. After the most shocking and rewarding masturbation session of her entire life she’d taken a very long, wet shower, which had led to more masturbation. After that, feeling a little creeped out, she’d tried, really tried, to have normal sleep in her normal bed. Only to come out, face burning, for a Kira Cooks nightcap.
Just a quick half-hour, to help her fall asleep.
Kira had strong opinions, also, about dressing for success at the grocery store. Heels especially were a must. “You’re a GIRL, you’re probably SHORT,” she’d instructed. “Three inch heels at least, four if you have them! Get to that top shelf! And if you’re falling over, that’s what the cart is there for!”
At least she was right about the cart, although it meant Julia walked bent over, her butt very much on display to every shopper at Milkmore Grocery. She’d also spent a half-hour or so shaving her legs. Every step threatened to reveal her chartreuse-colored panties underneath her periwinkle skirt. The skirt was a high-waisted thing from the back of the closet.
At the time she had considered the girly-girl coloring a disaster against her dark-eyed features. She was gaunt from every angle. But.. despite sleeping upright, if she had slept at all, and despite spending long stretches in a hot shower, scraping at her skin, her skin practically glowed. It was hard to put her finger on what looked different—the shadows under her eyes? were her—lips plumper? How was that possible? And why was her bra so taut? She wasn’t eating a lot. She was trying to be the cause of eating in others. Water retention...?
Distracted, she nearly walked right by the bread crumbs. Julia scolded herself. She needed her head in the game. She got three boxes. Kira was big on bread crumbs. They stretched the meat, and her Man was all about big meat dinners.
Part of her, still resisting the effects of endless, brain-sizzling spirals, not to mention doctored water, and various other pathways, was hopeful that getting out of the house would help her think. But the supermarket was—there was just so much to buy. She was actually on her second cart. The cute guy at checkstand was watching the first one for her. Her grocery list ran through her head, ceaseless, taking up all the room normally used for regular thinking. Not just any products, either. Kira had brand recommendations—CALVING’S OWN milk, all sorts of special frostings recent to the market, and something labeled FLYNN’S FLAVOR CRYSTALS that came in hot pink. It didn’t even have a nutrition panel. She got the ten pound bag. It was two hundred and ten dollars.
The price of it broke through the feedback loop, and let her break through the increasing amount of mental tourniquets and outright erasures that were making her stupid and slutty. Julia’s upbringing had definitely been cheap. Achingly cheap, defined by polyester clothes and inexpensive re-used tea bags and especially the cheapest starches money could buy. Her grandma had drawn the line at the fancier potatoes. Honest russet would do. So why was she dropping two hundred ten large on mystery—flavor crystals?
Her grandma glowered at her. But her face was... not as distinct as Julia would’ve liked. It was soon to be overwritten with a thirsty love for fat cocks.
Panicked, suddenly, she ripped open the bag. What the fuck was it, what was she buying? Bending at the knees, her pretty undies visible to whoever walked by. The cheap plastic bag gave away easily. But the scent inside was—sugary, and warm, and good. She’d been primed to love it, the taste and smell of sugar laced with boob-growing drugs. All the energy she’d spent in a brief rebellion had to be repurposed, just to keep her from sticking her head in the bag, and licking.
Grandma’s scowling visage faded away. Instead Julia found herself thinking—this will be very tasty, on ice cream, or poured directly into her mouth. The panic faded away. It smelled too good to worry about. Why worry about anything, besides getting dinner on the table?
It was all disconcerting, and her amped-up arousal wasn’t helping matters. Each tippy-tap of her heels on the supermarket tile sent a pleasant tingle through her. The glances of the supermarket checkers made her fizzle, too. It was a new and pleasant feeling, and Kira had taught her what she was feeling. The feeling like she had something to give. Something people wanted. Men wanted. Men wanted her, needed her, to come home to her pies on the windowsill, an expertly mixed manhattan, and of course whatever hole they wanted.
“I need a smoke,” Julia told herself, shaking her head, to clear it. “Gotta—smoke a smoke. Yeah.”
She was right. A pack of cigarettes would’ve gone a long way towards helping her fight a raft of new addictions and whore programming. There was only so much room for pleasantly addictive behaviors inside of her. Julia got in line, again. The first cart had cost her six hundred and fifty-six dollars, but it was loaded with alcohol and spices, all high-value items. She was hoping this one would cost less, although she’d gone heavy on the steaks, because men loved steaks. And—right—the crystals. Those were a little pricey, weren’t they?
Ultimately, whatever got her in her car, so she could masturbate, would be fine.
Smoke. She needed a nice, relaxing smoke. She’d even managed to bring her lighter from home, despite the powerful urge to just shave her pussy and go. She’d barely fought off that urge, and only scoured her legs. Her bush could at least wait for later.
“And one pack of New—” Julia trailed off.
No. Oh, no.
Kira was there.
Her voice played on a cheap TV not far away, in the produce department. Julia let go of the cart, eyes glassy. The checkout man watched her ass bounce underneath the skirt.
“Now, if you’re me, and I guess you’re not,” Kira said, “You’re a little nervous about vegetables.” She was dressed in a sexy farmer outfit, with bib overalls and a bright yellow halter cut at mid-boob. And a big straw hat.
“Kira,” Julia said. Why was she here? No—she needed to—to at least not to drool, at least to not let her pussy juice up. She was in a public place. “No. No-no.”
“Men are just never excited about them, right, girls?” Kira said. “So I went to the chemistry men and said, guys, can’t we do SOMETHING? And they invented Man Greens! Corn, peas, and broccoli with a meaty flavor for your meaty man!”
There was a display of them, right there. Vegetables, yes, but they looked—off. The coloration was too bright, and they looked very shiny, for plants. Julia picked up a head of broccoli. It had a strange blue mist all over it.
“And with a blast of flavor crystals, even the manliest man will be saying, I’m willing to eat these!” Kira said. She stuck a full ear of corn in her mouth. The camera watched her nuzzle it, affectionately, sliding it in and out of her mouth. Julia’s mouth watered. Yes. Corn. She needed corn, for men.
“Hey! In the back!”
The manager was big, and bald, and scowling. He wore a heavy silver watch with an oversized face on his meaty arm, and had, clamped in his mitts, one of Julia’s neighbors. Or—was she? Julia had learned most of her neighbors the way they had learned her—from observing them during smoke breaks. One was the most professional out of a group of professional women. Kylie, that was it.
This was Kylie, but not in a well-tailored suit jacket in a mannered Navy. This Kylie wore a jean skirt, and a ratty t-shirt with a hole right over her belly button. Despite having her hand locked up in the manager’s mighty hand she was smirking.
“What’re you gonna do back there?” she said, and even her voice had a younger lilt than seemed right. She’d found a way to have an edgy voice. “You’re gonna put a finger up my butt, right? Or shirt? Butt AND shirt? Oh, hello there, smoker neighbor. Thank you for being a witness to my criminal and civil case.” This last was to Julia. She was suddenly aware that she’d been sliding corn in and out of her mouth, very fast. She stuck it behind her back.
“Umm,” she said. “Hi, uh, Kylie. Everything alright?”
“Shoplifting,” the manager growled. “A bunch of donuts.”
“It wasn’t even my first trip,” Kylie said. Even her face was hard to reconcile with the steel-eyed professional Julia recalled. She had rosier cheeks, and wore pink bubblegum lipstick. “I’ve been robbing you blind. Oops, did I admit that?”
The obvious move was to shrug and move aside. Julia had long had a policy of keeping other people’s problems where they belonged—with other people. But—Kira was watching her, wasn’t she? The recording on the display was paused, somehow, her busty TV chef watching her. She couldn’t cook her way out of this, but there had to be—she had to give. Give something.
“I can... umm.. pay for the donuts?” Julia offered. The Manager noticed her for the first time. The attention was immediately rewarding, and validated her decision to stay and talk. A man was looking at her. Why was that REWARDING, her fading resistance tried to shout. It was just a gaze.
“Yeah, let her pay for the donuts,” Kylie said. She twisted her wrist, lost in his hands. The manager was a very big man. “And also the bottle of lube I’ve got tucked behind my back, she can pay for that?”
“Brat,” the Manager hissed.
The word had an immediate effect on Kylie. Her sneering smile turned wide and indistinct, and something was happening to her body. They watched her go through a full body shiver, eyes opening and closing, nearly losing her balance even on the standard supermarket tile. The Manager had to hold her up.
“Oooooooh,” Kylie said.
Behind her, a bottle of personal lubricant, silicone-based, fell out of her rolled-up shirt, and landed on the floor.
“Store policy is prosecution to the full extent of the law, ma’am,” the Manager said, to Julia, since Kylie was abruptly out of it. He was confused himself. First of all, why he had blurted out ‘brat’ to a woman who might’ve been dressed age 17, but was certainly aged at least 27. Second, why he felt such a flush of aggression, and heat, and had such a mighty big erection, for a routine shoplifting incident. He was a levelheaded veteran of the supermarket industry for twenty years.
In truth, the store had been purchased many months ago by a distant conglomerate, and the staff had all watched a lot of training videos, and eaten a lot of store snacks, and were well on their way to performing the necessary roles of a more fuckable society.
What would Kira say, or do? Julia pushed for answers, inside of her own head, hyper-cognizant of the male eyes on her. It was all jumbled and messy inside of her own mind. There was still plenty of Julia, darkly cynical career girl, certified smoker and lone girl wolf. That part of her, however, was confused and horny and unsure. It was so easy and physically rewarded to repeat the words fed to her by new programming, especially when Kira was right there, on the screen, waiting expectantly. And it would be so good, so giving. She’d be so nice to suggest it.
“Maybe let her off with a spanking? Because she was a bad girl?” Julia suggested.
“A—spanking?” the Manager said. Kylie, just rejoining the world, said it too, strangled. “Like, smack her ass? Miss, this is a—”
The TV display, the one showing Kira’s veggies, released a feedback loop of a screech.
It was loud and piercing, and they all winced. But after it was over, Julia felt much better. She hadn’t told a store employee to hit a neighbor. She’d suggested a way for a bad girl to become a good girl, because she was a good girl. Even without food to give, she’d found a solution that was nice for everyone.
“Umm, a spanking?” Kylie said. She did look 17, now. And breathing fast and hard. “What? I’m—um, I can actually pay, I was just fooling around, I don’t know why—I was just—” she looked puzzled, even a little frightened. “I’m a bad girl. I mean, good girl. I am, sir. Please?”
“Right, back room, over my knee,” the Manager said. “You earned your stripes. Miss, thank you very much. At least someone here is a good girl.”
“Good girl,” Kira echoed, from the TV.
Good girl.
“You’re WELCOME!” Julia gushed, in a voice she didn’t totally recognize. It was a breathy housewife of a voice, totally unlike her sarcastic tones. She watched the Manager march Kylie away. She had her hands protectively over her rear, but was bouncing her butt as she walked. It was a cute walk, but Julia barely noticed—Good Girl was bouncing in her head, accompanying her through another expensive checkout line, and then driving her to stroke between her legs, in her fully-packed car. “Good girl, good girl,” she squeaked, strumming on her clit, her hand underneath her skirt.
It was only after she’d cum, shrieking, and regained a little self-awareness, that Julia realized that she’d completely forgotten to pick up her pack of cigarettes. And although she did want a smoke, it would be embarrassing to walk back into the store, with that much pussy juice streaming down her legs.
On Tuesday, Julia cooked and cooked and cooked.
And ate, as well. Hunger was a new thing for her, as she was addicted to an appetite suppressant, and was sort of proud of being habitually gaunt. She’d liked her melancholy look. Julia remembered—or did she? It was all unraveling, repurposed, now being used for soup recipes—her 9th grade basketball group photo. She’d been right in the middle of the smiling team with their ponytails held high, with her loose dark hair, her toothy smile, her famous dark eyes, and generally looking like she’d escaped a famine.
But chefs liked to eat, and she was—she was becoming proud of it, horny about it, consumed by it—a cook. She was cooking. Which meant sticking her fingers into whatever she was whipping up. Licking her fingers was her second favorite thing to do, behind the sticking them part. And it all tasted—very good. Especially when dashed with the many special spices she’d acquired, with a glug of milk, and washed down with vodka. That made even her subpar spaghetti taste incredible.
At some level Julia was aware that her body was changing. It was getting more challenging to move around in the kitchen. Her butt was starting to bonk into the oven, for example. And she was partially conscious of her boobs shaking as she blended and stirred.
But the only thing she was actually conscious of was her eyes. They had always been her signature. She was genetically mysterious. They gave her an aura of danger, like she was passing secrets to—someone. Julia had been told by an early boyfriend that, when smoking, she was definitely a secret agent, if currently unemployed.
Her eyes were—changing. Calving didn’t do secretive dark eyes. It did dumbfounded dull eyes, cow eyes, eyes with all the deeply held secrets of a heifer. Julia checked the mirror, ignoring that her boobs had doubled in size, and looked... soft.
Stupid.
And that was wrong... wasn’t it? Didn’t she have some—relative? Wasn’t she from some place? But Kira’s voice called to her. Reassuringly American.
“Hey!” she reprimanded Julia. “Eyes on the pies, girls! You are on this Earth to get buns in the oven and pies out of the oven! Hands out of your snatches and lets go!”
Her pie was in the oven, her very first pie. It was blueberry. Julia pulled it out the moment the timer blared. Which led to her other new favorite activity: giving. Giving to the neighbors.
It was quiet out, as usual. She’d bought a ton of paper plates. Julia put slices or dollops or whatever was appropriate on them, added a plastic fork, and then left them on all her neighbor’s doorsteps. With a finishing flourish of Flavor Crystals, which were well worth the cost. They tasted and acted like pop rocks, except she could feel them in her brain. They were hard on thoughts, though. Pop pop!
Generally she knocked and ran. No one appeared to be in B-3 and B-5, but the others were very hungry. Especially Ateera, next door, who Julia observed from afar with increasing awe. The girl was BIG. The lightly swollen egg-loving girl from just—two days ago? Really?—that girl was lost somewhere in a fountain of tits and ass. She didn’t even bring the food inside. Ateera just opened the door and ate. After a bit Julia started cooking primarily for her best customer—big batches of Rice a la Flavor Crystal and different meats. It was rewarding, if a little odd, to see Ateera get down on her hands and knees so she could eat a little faster.
In the back of her mind Julia knew—she really needed a smoke break. It would be good to take a smoke break. That’s what Julia did—Julia, her, that Julia. She was the girl who was by herself in the moonlight, puffing contemplative clouds of rich tobacco.
But—how did she have time? She was making her first meringue. It was pink colored and pink flavored. She had a roast in the oven, and it needed to be basted. She barely had time for a quick handplay session, to pinch her aching nipples. She barely could dash into the shower, to rub one out while her pastries puffed. She had to give and give.
And give and give and give—everything. It felt good. Kira kept saying that, over and over. “Feels good, doesn’t it, girls?” she said, slurring her words. They seemed to be on a somewhat later season of Kira Cooks, lately. Kira was doing more motivational speaking then cooking. Her tits had somehow gotten even bigger. “Feels good to—give. Good... good girl.”
So motivated, Julia finished up her raisin roundees, just in time for Yoga.
It was Bailey’s idea, just after the fitness session.
It was obvious to both of them that they had a lot in common. Single ladies from overseas. Bailey was Brazilian, much more so than Julia’s vague memories of the old country. She had a trill on her voice. And they were both breathing hard, after serving Seth, in their own way. Julia had made him lemonade from scratch, using some lemonade mix that Elena had on hand. Bailey had wiped up his sweat. She’d kept the rag. She kept sniffing it.
“You’re the Food Fairy, right?” she said.
Julia wasn’t sure how to respond to that. They were just outside of Elena’s room. The others had left. Elena could be heard even through her post-workout shower, alternately squeaking and moaning.
“Sure. Yes,” Julia said.
“Your meatballs were—” Bailey kissed her lips with her fingers. “What was sprinkled on top? It was like—salt, but also the best thing I’ve ever tasted? You know—pop?”
So she was no longer Smoking Lady in the Night. She was the Food Fairy. It wasn’t ‘Chef’ or ‘Cook’ but Julia was prepared to accept it.
“Flavor Crystals,” Julia said. A vague memory of Kira Cooks floated through her. “It’s a fast-acting hormone and enzyme release supplement that hyperstimulates the female endocrine system.”
“Mmmm it was saborosa. Anyway. You must have....... dishes? Dirty dishes?”
She did indeed have dirty dishes. They locked eyes. Julia was generating many dirty dishes. Bailey had dark brown ringlet hair and a very wide grin. She had comfortably large breasts, soft mounds that looked very friendly and big. Despite just working out she wore a pair of three inch heels. Black heels.
“I was—thinking...” Bailey said, and frowned. They were both feeling it, the relentless conditioning that girls weren’t supposed to think at all. It was just about okay to have a burst of motives, if it was about men’s pleasure, or getting pregnant in some way. In the near future they both just wouldn’t use the word. She pressed forwards. “Seth. The man. You can—cook. For him. And I can—clean. For him. As a neighborly thing. Together. You know?”
For a man.
Julia hadn’t dared to dream of it, outside of the shower stall or when fingering herself on the toilet. Then she’d thought of nothing but. The issue was—Seth was apparently the only male in an apartment complex of ladies, all of whom were attractive and smelled like they were ovulating. She was an unfinished product at best, either the stale-smoke cigarette girl or a mediocre cook, inferior to takeout.
“I don’t—” Julia demurred, nervous. She didn’t even have the tits of the other girls. She could just about make cookies. But... for him. And they’d go in together.
For him. It pounded in her head. Her man...
“You know how men are,” Bailey insisted. She had wide, placid eyes. A set of calm cow eyes looked very natural on her. “They can’t look after themselves. They need us. To handle them.”
She wanted to handle a man so badly.
The shower fantasy made it outside the shower. Seth getting home from work. Sweaty and hungry and with so any needs, so many desires, all of them accounted for by her. Dinner was in the oven, a vodka martini was in her hand, she was fertile and had just taken a shower...
“Pierogis,” she said, firmly. Yes. It wasn’t the meat and potatoes of Kira Cooks, but it WAS meat and potatoes. “Yes. And we should wear matching outfits, with heels.”
He answered the door without a shirt.
“Girls?” He said.
“Julia and Bailey!” Julia said, in case he had understandably forgotten. It was the most important moment of her life, she realized.
She’d never—Julia frowned, at the doorstep. No. Wait. This was just like—
No, she couldn’t compare it to what had come before. That part of her personal memories was overwritten with recipes for making pudding. Calving was always quick to jump on past romantic experiences, and turn them into the sweatiest of fuck fantasies. It was a kindness—it was too jarring to compare fumbling high school encounters, and shy romantic trips, with being a fuck slut. There was too much emotion tied up in losing virginity to compare to six to fifteen average sexual encounters per day, where bouncing on a cock was about as special as brushing teeth. Less so. Every Calving girl had a dick in their mouth more often than a toothbrush.
All those memories were just gone.
“Oh, whoa,” Seth was still shirtless, still sweating. “Hey. I was just.. working out even more, I guess. Why was I doing that?”
Because he was a man. He stood aside to let them in without really considering it. They were girls, of course he wanted them in his area.
Inside, Bailey came.
The apartment was gross, in the way only a male living space could be. Both half-empty and filthy. Seth did have a bed, but his decorating went no farther than that. No posters on the walls. Everything was on ground level, mostly wadded up clothes and the detritus of packages and wrappers. There were trails blazed through the muck. It smelled like Man in a primal and unapologetic way and Julia felt it in her toenails, throughout her tits, as a warm sense of instant belonging. Her body was even confused—she’d been programmed to welcome him into HER place, her body wanted to go through the motions of handing him a drink, presenting her tits for display.
She settled for handing him the plate of perfect pierogies, while Bailey nearly had a nice cum. Her thighs couldn’t support her weight, and she nearly lunged for the one clean spot on the couch. She was muttering what seemed to be Portuguese curses. Seth watched her, bemused. Julia checked her outfit—she’d tried to look chef-y, and just didn’t have the clothes. She had white collared shirts, which sort of fit, but they were too tight over her bust. She’d found a white polo that was half-translucent, from a college boyfr—college—from something in her past? It did a good job displaying her boobs, worn without a bra.
“Wow, these are—umffff—great,” Seth said.
She turned, from her survey of the apartment, and of Bailey, who was examining her cleaning duties with wide but vacant eyes. Her Man—no, A Man, not hers, she wasn’t worthy—had eaten her entire plate in one go. And she’d piled them very high. She’d spent two hours making them. And, like that, they were gone.
Which of course was his right as a Man.
“Oh,” Julia said. It was too bad Bailey had taken the couch. She was also feeling kind of ready to cum.
“Dumplings. I love dumplings,” Seth said. He belched, unapologetic. It was very manly. She hadn’t even gotten the anticipated chemical reward, from watching him eat, but that was fine. His happiness more than made up for it.
“Right, they’re dumplings,” Julia said. Mentally she erased the word pierogi from her entire vocabulary, forever. A man had renamed them. “You liked them?”
“I loved them. I wish I had something to give back. Do you like anime figurines?”
Julia’s programming had no way of answering that question. She waited for the man to say something that made more sense. She couldn’t say no, and had no ability to say yes.
Seth waved it off. “No, no. Yeah. Hey... are you girls doing alright?”
Another question she wasn’t sure how to answer. But that was okay—neither of them really expected to listen to what a girl had to say. Seth stumbled on. “Because it was so quiet around here and suddenly everyone is walking around at all hours, I hear you girls through the walls, I can—I can smell—” he paused. Why could he smell them? “—Something is going on, I think, and I want to—this is weird but I want to—make sure you sluts—sorry—sorry—you GIRLS—are alright. Like... if there’s a problem? Maybe we can do something about it?”
It smelled powerful and male in the room. The scent of concentrated masculinity did a number of things to girls regularly exposed to priming pheromones. Mostly it narrowed available options, and made the remaining ones seem inevitable, powerfully attractive, automatically used.
Drugged to the gills, Julia had all the free will of a silicone fleshlight.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” Julia said.
The word activated powerful dopamine transmitters and receptors for the both of them. Mostly for Seth, who grew red in the face, and had to balance himself on the kitchen counter. A saline scent added itself to the general funk. Julia felt her own powerful flush. Daddy? But the serotonin boost was so powerful and so sustained she was immediately thrust into a prolonged high. From then on it would be hard to use Daddy—no, Seth’s—no, DADDY’S actual name.
They marinated in the feel-good chemicals, bodies spritzing pheromones and generally getting wet. Seth recovered first, as was proper for a man. “Right. R-right. You sluts—I mean, you females—you WOMEN—girls. You hot girls need any help, anything hammered in or any bags carried, you find me, okay? Daddy helps his girls.”
She was being—dismissed. Daddy no longer needed her, right then. Bailey was getting to her shaky legs, and starting to nudge some of the crap on the floor around. Right. She’d already done her duty by feeding him. It was right and proper she leave.
“Smoke one for me tonight,” Seth added. “I used to smoke. I used to—” he furrowed his brow. All of them had memories like photo albums had memories. The past wasn’t as hot as the future.
“Okay, Daddy,” Julia said, barely hearing herself.
Her submerged, original self, buried under an avalanche of cooking show orders, briefly reasserted itself.
An opportunity had just arisen for rebellion. She’d been ordered to smoke a cigarette, by a man. Julia didn’t waste time on it. She discarded her empty pierogi tray back at her apartment and picked up her last pack of cigarettes from the couch. It had fallen there during her last Kira binge. The chef herself was wagging her ass for the camera, luckily not giving any orders, at that moment. Just letting the video admire her fat ass.
Julia squeezed her eyes shut, grabbed a lighter from the drawer, and made it outside. To her usual spot.
She lit the cigarette, and filled her lungs with it.
The nicotine did its work.
For the first time in days Julia felt—calm. Cynical. Herself. Although still a ragingly horny version of herself, dripping on both sides of her thighs. She took another urgent pull. Calving was weak against other drugs, used to being the only intoxicant around. A heady burst of old-fashioned smoke smothered her need to take a long shower. For a little bit.
For a little bit she was Julia, cigarette girl.
She touched at her expanded assets, unbelieving. She was much bigger. Both wider and heavier, a very maternal kind of growth, a MILF-y expansion with wide hips and pendulous, wobbling tits. A neat fit to her profession—home chefs were not hard-bodied exemplars, they were soft, very soft. Stuffed with their own cream and wobbling from stove to oven.
She’d been drugged. The memory of the past few days were very hazy, especially the cooking show binges. Most of what had survived was the gasping, screeching masturbation sessions, when she was, ironically, most self-aware. The hard-core reprogramming sessions went directly to her subconscious, to play.
She needed to go cold turkey, ironically through blasting cigs. This soft-eyed, gentle, giving, nurturing softie of a slut was not her. She was—
She was alone, by herself, every night.
Julia shook her head, fiercely. The action sent her new assets rippling from side to side. Any lapse in concentration sent recipes cascading through her, interrupting her thoughts. She lit another cigarette with the first one. She’d been contaminated with cooking. She needed to go back to the girl who tipped 12%, and drank vodka in a big cup, and whose friends were all on text threads.
She needed to go back to cigarette smoking girl, alone on the balcony.
Yes. Right. No more lemon squares for the neighbors, tits jiggling as she went up and down stairs, pussy throbbing at the hope that her Man would like her roast. Getting spitroasted herself, giggling at the joke, at the neighborhood BBQ. Letting everyone in the area admire the lazy voluptuous line of her cleavage. She wasn’t that fun, likable slut! She was lonely! Very lonely!
Julia flicked her half-smoked cigarette out into the moonlight. It landed in the courtyard, still smoldering. She needed a plan. First, go inside her apartment and bash the TV with a metal spoon. Then, grab her keys and purse and book. Back to... back to... the old lady.. who... raised her?
That memory—her Grandma—was gone. All that was still there was a killer recipe for salmon croquettes.
Head up, hands over her ears, Julia marched back to her apartment, where Bailey was inside, washing her dishes.
“You—you—” she said, confused. The Brazilian bombshell was dressed in an apron and a thong, and was humming to herself. “You were—with Daddy Seth—”
“Oh, he said to come back later,” Bailey said, turning. Her apron was wet, and her tits pressed against it, clearly visible. Her smile was very, very deep. “You’ve got SO many dirty dishes,” she purred. “I couldn’t help myself!”
She had people in her apartment, which had to be wrong. It wasn’t her. She was—by herself—baking cakes for friends and her own growing, growing family. No...
“Bailey, get—” Julia said, on the verge of ordering her out. Out! And then a brick through the TV. The TV. She whirled—
“Be a good girl,” Kira reminded her. She was topless, but that wasn’t the important part. They weren’t even bothering to hide the spiral, the endless, lazy spiral. .
Julia had fucked up, and taken her hands off her ears, and forgotten to closer her eyes. “That’s the most important thing of all, be a good girl. Good girls are giving. Giving girls are good. Isn’t that right?” Kira said.
“That’s right!” Julia echoed. She could still taste ash in her mouth, but it was fading. She had a whole batch of chocolate chip cookie dough in the fridge, in case of sudden visitors. And two bottles of vodka in the freezer. She could be such a good host. No. She was—running—
“Mmm, your dishes are FILTHY,” Bailey said, arching her back. “I had to set a bunch to scour. There’s burnt cheese on some of them, you disgusting whore. And the forks are all—unhhhhhhhhhhh.”
“Give her a kiss. Let her taste you. A good girl is delicious!” Kira said. “Be tasty!” Her body rippled underneath the weight of the spiral. The spiral. It rippled underneath the weight of the spiral.
“So tasty,” Julia agreed. Bailey deserved a little taste. She was a good girl too. They moved in together. Julia tasted Bailey’s lips, her lipstick, her tongue. As a chef, she appreciated the flavor pairing. Bailey had the most amazing lips, the most plush pillows. Her wet apron rubbed against Julia’s aching tits. The nicotine was fading out of her system.
“Good!” Kira said, encouraging. “Now, what else can you lick and suck?”
Bailey broke the kiss first. She gave Julia a disarming smile. “You taste like an ashtray,” she said, apologetic. Julia flinched. She’d been a bad host. She could never smoke again. “But it’s okay! You go brush your teeth, mm-hmm, and then jump in the shower.”
“Oh-kay,” Julia said. Of course. How could she not? She couldn’t run for the hills, to some forgotten grandma, with that on her conscience. In fact, she could forget about smoking entirely, forget they even existed. A better world was in front of her. No one could be a good girl, by themselves.
If she just waited, and waited, he’d come.
Her Man.
The show had promised her. She was... she was... a...
“Good girl,” Bailey and Kira said.
Good girls wouldn’t be alone if they waited for their man.
“I’ll be in the shower to scrub you in just a minute,” Bailey added. “Just as soon as I get this sugar glaze off your stockpot.”
On Wednesday, Julia waited for her man.
She woke up to smoke, to the smoke of others, but the worst was already over. The firemen were outside, spraying it all down with hoses. She’d slept through most of the excitement. Mostly because her body was busy thickening her up, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Unlike the other girls she hadn’t really acquired the big bimbo padding, the chunky thighs, and the belling, oversized breasts. She’d been too busy stirring pots and having her mind rewired. But the time for that had come, and now she had great tits too.
It was also the first time she’d properly slept in some time—Julia had spent consecutive nights in front of the TV, Kira melting unnecessary parts of her head and remolding bits of her personality. The hard work of that was done, now. She awoke a perfect house pet, with just a slight accent left in, for flavor. Her ass was nicely rounded with a particularly pink pussy.
Despite the smoke and the pounding on her door she took the time to put on an apron. It was 2:30 in the morning, but she had a few ideas about late night entertaining, for whoever it was. A quick thrown-together flatbread with a spritzer, and she had creampuffs in the freezer that would be easy to thaw.
The apron turned out to be a good idea. On the other side of the door, again shirtless, abs red from heat, beard dripping with sweat, was a Man. Seth, specifically.
Julia obediently dropped to her knees.
It had happened.
A man was at her doorstop, after a hard day—apparently doing construction work with fire. The scent of smoke reminded her of—nothing. She felt not the slightest urge for a—a—thing. One of the things she used to suck, that wasn’t a penis.
The word was blanked out, along with the rest of her freshman year of college.
It had been replaced with a lot of knowledge about how to suck a penis. Reams of knowledge about how to suck a penis.
Back in Calving, and the many Calving-likes around the country, Julia was a type. Not in her devotion to male service, and good housewifing. That was standard issue. In her breadth of knowledge, about a small amount of topics. It was a good way to keep the smarter girls dumb, just filling their minds up with recipe books and kama sutra outtakes and all sorts of things that used up the room. There just wasn’t any space left over for thinking about things like driving a car without a man, or how to vote.
“I think she’s okay, just overwhelmed,” Seth said, barging in. He had around his shoulders a swooning collection of tits and ass that Julia gradually recognized as Ateera. “I’m putting her in your bed. I’ll check in on her later. How the hell did this fire start?”
He expertly placed the wobbly thighs of Ateera in Julia’s still warm bed, and wiped his manly brow. Then he faced outside, where smoke billowed through the central courtyard. Readying himself, clearly, to go back out there.
Julia simply knelt, useless, unable to help a man in need, since he didn’t need a roast, or a martini, or anything in her limited palette. That was the main issue with her type—not particularly flexible, even prone to locking up in unusual situations, until coaxed out of it with application of cock to mouth.
But she was—had been—still was—resourceful. Once. Single girls had to be resourceful. And why not still?
“Wait!” Julia said. She stood up, and opened the freezer. The bottle was achingly cold in her grip. She poured a frosty shot of vodka, and handed it to him.
Seth took it, nodded, and downed it in a single motion.
And then left.
Julia was—alone again, sort of.
Ateera didn’t really count as she was barely a person, mostly a wad of boobs and butt for enjoyment, like a bean bag chair. And even when she woke up, and they had fun feeding playtime, complete with pussy-licking and fisting, it wasn’t quite enough.
Feeding the firemen was—close. The problem THERE was, there were too many girls with the same notion of service. Julia was not the only one to tie off a shirt beneath her sizable tits and thank them for their service. Elena was admiring their big, manly biceps. Even quiet Jelena was there, rubbing her tummy and chatting up the largest of all the firemen. Not really chatting up—girls were supposed to listen and nod, so they did. The firemen took her homemade blueberry muffins with handmade streusel topping with friendly nods and a few pats on the butt.
Still, Julia went back, alone. Even Ateera had left, waddling out, somehow not getting stuck on the doorframe.
The TV was still on. But Kira Cooks was on a later season, one of the ones where she was too stupid and cumdrunk to really do any cooking. The vivacious chef was very pregnant, and spent most of the show rubbing herself in front of the camera. Occasionally she’d manage some sort of motivational statement, but it seemed to be random neurons firing, making her mouth work.
“What should I do?” Julia asked the screen, the spiral, the show. Kira was grunting like a pig, working a twelve-incher between her legs. She was drenched with sweat, and, from the noise, had something vibrating stuffed up her butt as well. Her kitchen equipment was behind her on the countertop. “Kira, please, I’ve been waiting and waiting. I’ve been a good girl. I want to be a good girl. I’m a good girl.”
“Good... good...” Kira chanted, as she somehow found more room for the dildo.
Miserable, horny, alone, Julia reached bimbo bliss by herself.
It was a close call—usually such dedicated sluts as her simply found a man to slavishly serve, devoting all her time to his care and worship. That was how it was supposed to work. Lacking a man, she was at severe risk of burning out, becoming a particularly stupid slut, even by Calving standards. New bimbos, their bodies burning with need, that couldn’t find some larger purpose, tended to just simplify into a set of needy holes.
But it worked out perfectly—her last bit of college learning, all her russian novels and philosophical texts, burned themselves up in a last surge of dumb girl insight.
The ultimate giving was to not want.
She was going to give and give, and that meant never asking, never taking. She’d wait in front of the door, mouth open, mind empty, as long as it took, until someone needed her, and her hot dog croissants, and her oreo milkshakes.
And someone did knock on the door. He even opened it without asking, like a real man. An older man, with a grey-speckled mustache, wearing a windbreaker with the fire department’s logo on it. His name was embroidered on the jacket, and Julia was too far gone to care that she had to stare at it, and move her lips, and blink several times to read it. RICK.
“Uh. You had the muffins,” Rick said. “You were the muffin girl.”
Muffin girl. Yes, yes she was.
“Can I get you something to drink, officer?” Julia cooed. “I know you get all warm all day, inspecting fires!” She’d learned so many tricks, now that her head was nice and emptied out, a receptacle for techniques to please men. Just by straightening a leg she could make her boobs wobble. Julia looked down—apron on, a frilly pink-and-white polka-dotted one she had no memory of purchasing. Frilly white skirt.
“Yeah, we’re almost certainly gonna have to red tag this whole building,” the Inspector said, looking around. There was still a haze of smoke by the ceiling. “I guess you don’t have alarms. Can’t you smell that? You’re breathing a lot of carbon monoxide, not good for your brains.”
“Oh, that’s no problem at all!” Julia said. She opened the freezer and retrieved the vodka bottle. Her cultural background was reduced to a sense of vague vibes, now, a trace of an accent for foreign sexy flavor, some added recipes that used sour cream. But vodka stuck. “I like a good smoke!”
“Uh... huh,” Fire Inspector Rick said. He wandered in. He and the others were feeling the effects of—everything. Every room he’d been in had its own particular scent, wood smoke but also something primal, needy, and feminine. He’d also eaten a half-dozen muffins, each of them liberally topped with Calving’s finest in rapidly transformative chemicals, and there were additives in the yeast. He was feeling very fireman on a calendar.
He accepted the drink. It had watermelon and pomegranates in it.
“You go ahead and look at all the smoke and the fire, I won’t be a bother,” Julia said. “Sir. And then I know you’re hungry. I probably have a roast in the oven.”
She checked. Sure enough, there it was, perfectly cooked. Julia smiled at it, happy, and then put on her pink oven mitts, to pull it out. “It’ll just need to rest for a bit. In the meantime, cookies?”
“Cookies,” Rick repeated. He felt very warm, despite the cool burn in his throat. Why was he drinking on the job? But all the other guys were having fun, having stumbled on a house of sluts. His own apartment had been damn dark since the divorce. “You know you got some, uh, some porno playing right there?”
“Oh, she’s not having sex though?” Julia said, frowning. Kira was getting to be a bit much. The camera rarely even showed her face anymore. It was just close-up shots of her pussy, getting mauled by whatever the show host had to hand. Currently a wooden spoon. “That’s Kira Cooks, it’s my favorite show! Do you like it?”
“Uh... sure,” Rick turned around. He decided to take his jacket off, and the bombshell with the unplaceable, but pleasant, accent took it neatly from him. Her eyes drank him in, and it felt good. Really good.
“I bet you had a really hard day,” Julia said, sympathetic. She pulled out a chair at her small wooden table. She’d only gotten it for one. But that was okay, she could eat off the floor. “Go ahead and take a seat, okay? They make you men stand too much.”
“They do,” Rick agreed. He sat down heavily. Julia dropped the jacket, turned away from Rick, and bent to pick it up. She took her time about it. Rick didn’t seem to mind. His breathing had changed. She felt a warm, happy glow. This was better than any cigarette ever was. People could only be so happy by themselves. Real happiness took at least two. “Lots of shifts. You have any idea how that fire got started, by the way?”
“Probably a smaller fire turned into a big one,” Julia said. She licked her lips. It was finally time. Her roast was cooling. She’d cut two slices of thick, crusty bread, with butter. On the side were mashed potatoes, with lots of special seasoning, that would quickly make Rick’s cock twice as big. She just needed to stall for ten minutes while the meat sat.
She dropped to her knees.
“Uh... miss,” Rick said. But he spread his legs apart. The boys at the firehouse had mentioned this. A lot more calls from girls in negligees, claiming they’d smelled something burnt. And why not for him? The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in his head, and the roast smelled superb. He shifted his hips as the slut pulled down his jeans. “Miss, you alright?”
“Are YOU alright?” Julia asked, sincerely. That was the only thing that mattered. His cock was rock hard and pointing straight up. She gave it a long lick on the underside, and then put her lips over the head. In her head the time beat like a metronome—five minutes of head, then slicing the roast, then feeding him, then licking his cum off the floor, then sitting in his lap. She bobbed up and down on his dick, carefully gauging how fast she was making him cum. She’d forgotten the umbrella in his cocktail, and should’ve offered him a beer. And he needed an appetizer.
But it was all going so well, that Julia couldn’t be too mad at herself. And she’d kicked the smoking habit, to boot. What she had in her mouth was so much better. As a reward, she let herself cum. After Rick had shot off in her mouth, and she had a free minute and a half, before it was time to make dessert.
On Thursday Julia catered.
Terri had reappeared, with gifts. She said she felt bad about the fire. It had been very hard for Julia to accept anything—she was very deeply programmed, throughout her reduced intellect, to be a considerate giver. But Terri had insisted and, also, asked her to cater their BBQ in honor of everyone in the building getting shipped upstate to some sort of fuck farm. Julia stopped listening at the word “cater”, and was happy to do whatever Terri wanted, from that point on.
The gifts included a sexy chef outfit. Not the white skirts and either black or white tanktops she’d pressed into service but a real one, a super-hot one that made her knees weak. It was a single sheath with big black buttons up and down the front. It came with a boob window, which was good, because they’d gotten awfully big. The hem went about halfway down her butt and they’d all agreed there was really no point in wearing underpants. All the ones she owned were far too small, now that she had a butt fit for a food preparation specialist. And more generally, Julia liked to have her hands free to rub herself.
Everyone agreed that her pussy added a lot of flavor to whatever she was making. Not just her fingers went in there, although they were in there a lot—spoons and whisks, and whatever she happened to be cooking, all of it got a zesty coating of her own personal lubricant. It was extraordinarily satisfying, to be a condiment. Which made her wet and juicy, which helped her with her seasoning. It was one of those shapes she could no longer remem—no. She could. A circle. It was a kind of circle.
As the harem girls went, Julia was about the third smartest.
Everyone received their own plates, in honor of the occasion. Ateera got a big bowl of oatmeal, studded with flavor crystals but also a mixture of blueberries, pumpkin seeds, and a few new fruits that Calving had just recently invented. Boobberries, something like that. Elena got an egg white scramble, Bailey a feijao tropeiro, Jelena a lot of whole grains, since she was pretty sure she was eating for two or three or four. Kylie got polenta in a bowl. And of course for Seth she had cooked a ten-course tasting menu, along with several mixed drinks and a flight of desserts.
Everything was generously mixed with another of Terri’s gifts, which was bulk bimbo chemicals in a big burlap bag. Along with five other bottles that looked like pool cleaners. They were guaranteed to make dicks very girthy and long, enhance fertility to a scary degree, and to make sure girls didn’t think any deeper than the second letter of the alphabet. One of the bottles contained a promise to actually shrink the cerebellum. Not that Julia read it.
“Uhhh.... uhhhhh,” Kira panted, on TV.
Julia rolled her eyes. This seemed to be the final season, and frankly it had gone in a disappointing direction. Perhaps her fav chef had just run out of recipes. Kira’s tits and ass had gotten very large, and she rarely talked at all. She ate out of a bowl on the floor, and wore a lead. The rest of her time on camera was spent fingering herself, and panting, and screaming, and moaning. She was really pregnant, which was an interesting plot development, but the show didn’t do much with it.
Julia was really only watching out of loyalty.
“Okay! We’re plating!” she called out. She’d pulled Kylie and Jelena into dish service, since they were all working together. Kylie walked with small mincing steps, like her rear was sore, and wore her big black collar. Jelena had tied off her shirt beneath two fat tits. She was second only to Ateera in the boobs department, but retained more mobility.
“Lets go! Everyone’s waiting!” Julia called out. When she didn’t think about it, which was all the time, her voice tended to waver into some sort of oddball accent. From some other country. It was too hard to remember which one. Julia was pretty sure she was American, best country in the entire world. “Go go go! Don’t let it get cold!” She added another dash of one of the more mind-melty drugs to Kylie’s plate. The girl still looked a bit too alert, although she did have the dumbest set of cocksucker lips in the crew.
“UNHHHHHHH!” Kira brayed, squirting at the camera lens.
Enough was enough.
Julia picked up the remote. She paused—something was—bothering her? But that wasn’t possible. She didn’t have bothers, not anymore. She didn’t crave anything. If she wanted something, she wouldn’t be happy. And she was very happy. She was giving pretty much all the time. It made her cum a lot.
She turned the TV off, just as Kira’s juice spritzed the camera lens.
There was one last gift from Terri—a forest of lollipops, in a number of colors, although mostly a variety of pinks. They were supposed to make her nice and wet, especially so. It was a thoughtful gift.
Julia did like having something in her mouth, although she wasn’t quite sure why.
She picked a coconut flavored one that was supposed to help her butt feel like her pussy, stuck it in her mouth, and went outside.