THE HAREM
CH4
* * *On Saturday, Bailey, which was not her real name, read the news.
She had a number of reasons for changing names, many of them family related. But she had wanted to leave Brazil behind, too. Both her suburbs of Sao Paulo and the expectations that came with it. And, she was well aware, the American reaction to it. Brazilian girls were known for their waxed-off pussies, their infamous butt lifts, and for bikinis made out of string. She was 0/3 and happy about it.
So she’d picked Bailey, which sounded like a Wisconsin girl who’d gone to Northwestern, who wore glasses, and was in more than one book club. It was an unsexy name. And like her new imagined namesake she also wore glasses, she also was pursuing a career in journalism, and she also was a virgin. She was cosplaying as a virginal Minnesotan getting her MFA, and that was fine by her.
Bailey was going to be a dirt-digger and a shit-stirrer.
She’d been following Joy Journal for a long time, as had everyone in the business. They were journalist’s journalists. Undercover work, long-form pieces, beholden to no editor and no bottom line. Until they’d disappeared, months ago now. Such was the reputation of Joy and Joyce that only two options were possible—either they were still in the very middle of a tremendous scoop, a world-altering brief, or they had been brutally murdered and dumped into the bay. Some bay, somewhere.
And now—an article. A brief one, and strange.
“MY SUMMER IN STORK”, it read.
It was a very puzzling and very short article. It clocked in at a spare 735 words. It read like a 8th grader.. no.. 7th grader... no... 5th grader’s post-summer essay. It used very small words. Sometimes sentences trailed off in the middle of the page. Punctuation was—unnecessary.
“I’m having the best time girls!!!” it started. “I’ve been in Stork and everyone is so nice!! Today I was on teh floor and i produced so much, even tho i got real dirty every1 was so proud of me, my double daddy gave me extra ice cream for dinner!”
Bailey had read the piece a few times. No—more than a few? Seven or eight or perhaps a few more than that. Her eyes were red and dry. It was difficult to read, for a few reasons. First, the terrible writing style. But also the website itself was—fighting her? Scrolling produced a pink flashing effect, and not-scrolling seemed to ripple the very letters.
Nonetheless she and the rest of the journalistic community were sure that there was hidden meaning behind the teenaged girl writing style. Joy was trying to communicate something. She’d hidden the meaning in there, for them to dig out. And it was going to take work. Stork, for example, was a town that didn’t appear on any maps.
Dirt. Was there a mention of—dirt? Somewhere in the essay? She looked for it, confused. Yes, there it was, but it didn’t seem to want to stick in her head.
Bailey had to read it several more times to make it—stick. Stick? Sticky? Individual words slid into her head, but sentences were much harder. Sticky. Ice cream. Dirty.
Dirty...
She cast her irritated eyes around her own apartment. It was... dirty. Which had fit her perception of herself just fine. She was a woman of letters, who was above housework and drudgery, who didn’t even notice or care about discarded underpants on the ground. She certainly didn’t care about that.
Bailey swallowed.
She picked up the undies and walked them over to the hamper. In they went.
She felt much better.
It was time to take another crack at the article. Even if it was giving her an ice cream kind of headache.
On Sunday, Bailey cleaned her apartment, sighing as she went.
It was not something she was any good at. Of course she was hyper-aware that Americans expected anyone with skin color her shade to be naturally skilled with disinfectant. She’d written her J-school essay about her feelings on this—when she’d been mistaken for a hotel maid by a classic U.S. Karen-type, who had a bottle blonde bob and was permanently encased in Lulu tights. Just because she’d been wearing a white shirt, and, at that moment, had her hair up, and most of all had the correct skin color.
“Could you do my hotel room real quick? Por favor?” the woman had asked her. And Bailey had taken it in, had cloaked her accent with all of her being, and responded, with the right amount of quizzical bemusement,
“Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish?”
She’d never touched housework growing up. Her family had maids, plenty of them. She had no experience scrubbing toilets, or cleaning stainless steel ranges, or dusting, or whatever. She had no windex, or 409, or barkeeper’s friend, she barely had any dish detergent. The plates and spoons were in a big pile in the sink, and the sink itself was scummy and brown.
Still, Bailey needed a break. After spending... minutes? Hours? Many hours? on the mysteries of MY SUMMER IN STORK a new article had gone up. This one was called FASHION QUEST!! and was about how much Joy, renowned journalist, liked finding new sexy clothes to wear.
“I dont know if i should wear clothes sometimes??” was the very first sentence. “like when u think about it, if its warm out and its always warm out why wear them, they get dirty and milky and you have to take them off for fucks. no one likes being dirty. also theyre cute??? its a porblem!”
“Its a porblem” kept ringing in her head. A porblem.
Bailey had read the porblematic article dozens of times. The conclusion was, clothes were fun. This, from a woman who had won two Pulitzer prizes.
“no one likes being dirty” had also stuck with her. Had there been—something about dirt, the previous day? Bailey chewed on her lip, aggravated. There had to be something there, something journalist-y. About being a journalist. Journalists dug up dirt, uncovered dirt...
And she herself was dirty, Bailey thought, agitated. Very dirty. Filthy. Her headache poured through her.
The thought confused her, and Bailey pulled away from her computer screen. But it was true—her apartment was littered with litter. There were bags and cartons, and of her four chairs, three were in use as a hamper for dirty clothes. She kept glancing at the mess, then at the essay, then back again.
Dirty.
At last she stood up, banging her final, unused chair back. Fine. It was a Sunday afternoon and a good time for cleaning. She did happen to have a lot of trash bags. Bailey filled three of them with ease, without even putting a dent in the overall aura. Single female, no visitors. But that didn’t mean she had to be so—gross. Living with dust bunnies and types of mold.
Picking up trash and putting it away left her with curiously mixed emotions. Yes, it was an accomplishment. It also left her skin prickling, like she was doused in an unpleasant oil.
The answer was obvious. She needed a shower.
Because she was dirty. Very dirty.
The shower relaxed her, and made her feel energized for the next round of cleaning. This time, sorting and scrubbing in the kitchen. She had forks in the basin with all the tines crusted together, and cereal bowls that she didn’t recall owning. Bailey was unsure why she had let it get so bad. She was supposed to be, with her colleagues, starting a new adventure in co-op journalism, a bold reinvention of the local alt-weekly, only international. So why did her knives have a rust patina on them?
She took a break to check back on Joy Journal. There were pictures there, which must’ve been there already—right? They didn’t help solve any mysteries—they were brown on brown, both glossy and indistinct, with the occasional nose or mouth or cleavage line in the photographic muddle. Perhaps one that could be a factory floor, one that might’ve been an upside-down butt, or armpit, or who knew what. They were dirty too, like the lens was coated with muck. She shivered. It wasn’t completely unpleasant...
Bailey decided to take a second shower, after viewing them.
This time she added extra oomph to her normal shower routine. And sudded up her hair. It piled on her head in big glossy curls, which she’d always sort of liked. Now the inherent oiliness brought out new emotions. Still, the warmth and the happy glow of cleaning and cleaning and the pour of the shower made her feel—nice. Wet.
Clean.
Horny.
Bailey stifled the feeling. She had a sense that she didn’t—deserve it. Didn’t deserve to do anything between her legs. Among other things her hands had been rubbing filth all day. There was still so much to do, and it was crowding out all other plans. Wasn’t she going to see a movie? Write a personal essay?
But the bathroom had spots of mysterious stickiness all over, and she had to deal with it.
In spare moments, between scrubbing, she turned back to the computer screen. The problem was, that was where the real dirt was, wasn’t it? A font of dirt, inside her apartment. Pouring into her, confusing and messy. But perhaps if she cleaned everything else it would be—manageable?
Her headache was still making it very hard to think.
After the second shower Bailey decided to switch outfits. She’d been cleaning in loose jogger sweats and an equally loose tanktop. Clothes to sweat in. She wasn’t sure when she’d last washed them, which was number four on her growing list of things-to-clean.
Instead she dug deep in her drawer, and found a pair of tights she’d bought and never worn, that were still sealed in a closed package. Ideal. They were blue and didn’t fit her, and she had to huff and puff them up the solid expanse of her thighs, and dance them over the skim of her ass. But the tautness was—reassuring. These were clean clothes, for certain, and the way they squeaked as she walked felt unsoiled. Shiny. She paired it with a sports bra, and examined herself in the mirror. Rinsed, but not washed. And her pussy was oddly moist, although two showers had something to do with that, perhaps.
By the time she finished with the bathroom—no, not finished, there was still lots to clean—it was dark outside.
Bailey looked around, confused. Where had the day gone? Her fingers were prune-y and she’d run out of garbage bags. She could feel the sweat pouring out of her, again, running down her chest, attracting dust.
What had started this? She sat at the computer once again. Joy Journal was—playing music? Some silly tune, like it was a 2009 livejournal page. Pop music. Some throwback 00s era pop confection, too, with lyrics hard to make out over some twanging beat. But—was one of the lyrics—“Clean Me, Sponge Me, Scrub Me, Rub Me”?
No. She was—hearing things. Her skin felt dirty, dusty, muddy. All of her felt that way. She needed to be cleaned and scrubbed and sponged. And rubbed.
A third shower. A third and final shower, Bailey decided. The last one. To put a cap on a—strange day, an odd day of scrubbing me, rubbing me, hose me down and...
She blinked. What was that?
The final shower felt—different. The hot water dribbled on her, sluicing through her cleavage, and running over her overeager pussy. She’d hoped to clear her head, in the water, and it was outright impossible. The steam filled her, cleaning her very thoughts, whiting out and painting over her mind. It was the best feeling. However briefly, she was CLEAN.
Clean and horny.
Bailey’s clit was screaming for attention, and she nearly gave in. But—right—how could she, with her dirty hands? Severe risk of UTI. And she was filthy generically, unworthy of it. The idea latched in—right, of course she was too dirty to touch herself. There were still dozens of items on her to-do list, before she could to-do herself. How could she jill herself when there was a floor to mop, and windows to windex?
But—it occurred to her—there WAS another option.
It was always a little dirty, just like her. And it was throbbing just as hard as her clit. She’d felt it stretching against her too-tight tights.
Bailey snaked a hand to tentatively touch at her butthole.
She had a pretty big butt, but had hesitated to flaunt it. It was an ass, after all. It wasn’t made for sex. It had other goals. And a big butt Brazilian girl was just playing to type. She was Bailey, now. Not—her previous name. But—but—but...
Her finger rimmed her ass crack.
The pressure spread jolts along her well-sized rear. Bailey whimpered. It made sense. A dirty girl like her, a muckraker, deserved ass play. She leaned against the shower wall and let her finger press in. Was it supposed to be difficult, to fit? She slid it in. It was naughty and wonderful. Her other hand cupped a tit. The shower beat pleasantly all along her body.
Sure, she’d have sex, someday. When she was clean. And pure. Until then—she liked this, deserved this, needed this...
Bailey opened her mouth when she came, and filled her dirty slut mouth with nice clean water. Laced with a few choice chemicals. Her headache had gone away. Perhaps the cleaning fumes had cleared it out.
On Monday, Bailey dug for dirt.
Joy Journal had updated, overnight, and included what was perhaps a clue.
Joy—or whoever was running the blog—had apparently gotten it confused with her phone, and was using it as a texting app. She seemed to think she was texting someone named Hitomi about their previously made plans to go out and ‘Fuk the penis off some boys!!!’ The fact that the conversation was one-sided hadn’t mattered.
“Ooh I like sticky ass crack!! Best ass crack!!” Bailey read, to her editor, Cass. He had tousled black hair and was always in need of a shave. He snorted, disgusted.
“I’ve MET Joy,” he said. “After she spoke at my J-school, she answered all my questions. She should always wear one of those cool 20s journalist hats, that’s the impression I got of her. Every question, she’d stop, think, and answer. Sticky ass crack. Man.”
“Any thoughts?” Bailey said.
Cass paused, too long. HIs jaw was well-chiseled. He had a profile from a distant age, when men rode chariots and committed epic poems to memory. She suspected he, also, used a fake name. His real name was probably Cyrus, or Darius, and she hadn’t ruled out Xerxes. That was a name a girl could melt for.
Stop it, Bailey told herself. She’d woken up in a highly cleaned apartment, with the sure knowledge that nine of her ten fingers had just been up her own butt. A butt that should’ve been very sore, and was not—was actually still warmed up from the night before, unphased by her sudden prodding of her own rear end. Even her cheeks felt thicker, revved up. She’d stayed away from the shower, hadn’t even entered the bathroom at all. She’d washed her hands a few times. The very spotless kitchen had both calmed and disconcerted her. Why had she scrubbed and scrubbed...?
Because she’d been dirty, of course. And—she fought to keep it out of her thoughts—still was.
“Hmm? What?”
“I said, nothing I’d print,” Cass repeated, raising one sculpted eyebrow. “Just... rumors. Lets talk about it later. After we check things out here.”
“Here” was the mall. Because Joy, in her ramblings, had texted ‘U think Diamond mall is open yet???’ followed by ‘Joy is open for bizness!’
“We’re just going to walk around?” Bailey said. She’d dressed for the mall. A high-waisted pair of jean shorts, which didn’t do much about her butt consciousness. They made her ass look huge. And her last white tee, the one with blue ribbing down the sides, and an unnecessary blue bow.
“We’re going to pry,” Cass said, firmly. “If you see a door, go in it. If you see something... off, walk after it. Look for... country. Big country. Look for cowgirls.”
“LIke, carrying lassos? Ten gallon hats? WHY am I looking for cowgirls?”
“Ten gallon all over,” Cass said. “Trust me on the cowgirls.” He gave her a last look. “Everything okay?” he added.
Bailey flushed. What had she done? Was it obvious that she’d directed the spray of the hose directly up her own ass crack, last night? That she’d woken up at the bottom of the shower, thumb planted in her crack?
No. No, that was just odd Sunday strangeness.
“Because you’ve been cleaning out my cup holder and reorganized the glove box,” Cass added.
Calving had bought the mall and was using it as part of its scheme of worldwide bimbofication.
Nothing very complicated, as the overall scheme went. It was an enclosed space that housed a lot of people, and that was enough to make it attractive. Malls were cheap purchases, especially when money was nothing to you, to your global enterprise. Until bigger plans could be laid, Calving had just piped big vats of chemicals into the air circulation system. Standard slutty stuff, a blend of hormones and pheromones that coated the entire vast interior. Just walking in and huffing the air was bad for intellectual firepower, and it also settled on skin, was absorbed through all mucus membranes.
At first Bailey walked around, uncertain, and also breathing in gallons of dissipated fuck drugs. A pink mist that was designed to increase fertility, reduce autonomy, and definitely boost breast size. It was still early morning, and the mall was quiet. Shoppers walked around with and without bags, unknowing just how much they were being drugged, unaware their clits and dicks were responding to massive amounts of compounds.
It was subtle stuff, still. Shoppers spending extra-long periods in the massage chairs, feeling a pleasant buzz in their swelling genitals. Men and women would get lost in the fun narcotic fog, emerging hours beyond what they had intended, panting with lust. People working there were starting to masturbate during lunch breaks, squeezing their growing tits, rubbing their bigger cocks. But it seemed normal. Normal-ish.
Bailey made three full circuits of the mall. She was wheezing and tired. This was because her lungs were heaving to process the juice suspended in the air. This would be efficiently processed once it was in her bloodstream, increasing ass growth and reducing brain use. But it was wet work, and she was tired.
Bailey had an idea.
She had no idea that it was nearly the last one she would ever have. She had three more to go. After that the brainpower would be stuffed in her rump, part of the baggage gyrating as she walked. Breed meat, even a very clean version, didn’t need to have brilliant ideas, especially about digging up skulduggery.
There were going to be seven silly, stupid girls to start out Seth’s harem, and Bailey was destined to be the dumbest one of them all.
But that was in the future. Right then, despite basking in the glances towards her denim-covered butt, and completely losing track of the time, and processing a quart of bimbo drugs in her lungs, Bailey still was able to notice a door casually guarded by two muscle-heavy mall cops. It read “AUTHORIZED MEN AND GIRLS ONLY”, which struck her as suspicious.
She blew another one of her dwindling stock of great ideas on a plan to get inside. Or perhaps not—perhaps it was just an excuse, fulfilling a new image swirling around in her gassed-up head. She found a black negligee at a very busy lingerie shop, paired it with a $200 apron from Williams-Sonoma, and added a feather-duster she found at the dollar store. And some super cute shoes it would be a shame not to buy. It felt great to buy them, and, what’s more, everyone she bought from was in an incredibly good mood. They smiled at her, eyes half-lidded, and one of them drooled on the bag as she handed it over.
Bailey examined herself in the mirror at Macy’s. It was—she admitted to herself—more than a little degrading. She was reducing herself, posing as a girl who dealt with dirt, and filth, and everything unsavory. Who practically rolled in it. Her asshole glowed at the thought.
A maid.
“I’m, um, um, cleaning in here?” Bailey told the security boys. She let the accent hang in the air, and was pleased when their eyes roamed over her. Taken in entirely, seeing nothing more than service worker brown. And even better, she could hear them shift, and turn, to watch her ass sway as she made her way through the door. Into the bowels of the mall.
Even a few days ago, she would’ve been smart enough to be tickled by the joke.
There was an enormous amount of activity in the liminal spaces. Lots of men were there, men with big biceps in ill-fitting polo shirts. They held clipboards and were generally in a hurry. Bailey held her feather-duster up, to show her intent. Smarter men would’ve thought—why is she wearing a nightie? And who is she? But these were the bulk troops of Calving’s workforce, men with big cocks, brains just about able to handle one tasks at a time. They saw her as tits and ass. So unnoticed, Bailey turned a corner, and ran into it.
An entire warehouse of junk. Dirty and dusty junk.
‘Unh,” Bailey said. “Unh. Unhhhhhhhhh.”
She had a fitful burst of mental activity—this was odd, wasn’t it? Why was she.. had she just moaned? Moaned, because of the image of dirt?
Bailey furrowed her brow, and sneezed. A watery, pinkish spray. A blend of unused bimbo juice and dust, which she would breathe back in. It hung as droplets in the air. The concern sprayed out with it.
She put her back against the cinderblock wall and considered her findings. It was a mountain of disorder. All the failed mall ventures of the past five years had left inventory there. Salt canisters from dead pretzel shoppes. Aging bonbons from long-gone chocolatiers. There were clothes of all kinds tossed in big piles, and pots and pans from some kitchen supply store, and an entire lake made out of deflated basketballs. All of it was dusty at the least.
Bailey was not so far gone to not question her immediate tingle throughout her entire body, radiating especially from her butt. It was a strange feeling. But it was so easy to rationalize, especially when she was breathing so much induced vapor, full of dopamine-like substances. There were clues in the mud. No muck-raking was more literal. Somewhere in the dust was vital paperwork, or perhaps some of the clothes had labeling that would lead her to a proper corporate entity. Some of the clothes were very cute.
She reached out, gingerly, with her feather-duster. Just touching it against the first stack, of abandoned blenders, made her pussy tingle.
“Unnnhhhh,” Bailey said, quietly as she could.
She felt another nice sneeze coming on. The first one had been fun. The juice itself had quickly removed any desire to cover her nose or mouth.
“Achoo!” she huffed. Gosh, she was such a dirty girl!
Bailey swiped at the dust again, and shook her head. No—no. She was being ridiculous. And wearing a sexy pair of lingerie, for god’s sake. She needed to back up, see where the men were emanating from, and clean their office. And bodies. No, she needed to call Cass, tell him she was a dirty, filthy girl, who didn’t deserve to work for him. No...
The dust hung in the air. Bailey was too lost in her own mind to avoid it. She didn’t want to avoid it.
“AC-HOO!”
This one shook a number of brain cells loose, and revealed that she had new jiggles, all over herself.
And now she’d made a mess, herself. Typical. She’d sneezed all over these people’s mall inventory. She owed it at the very least to clean off. Yes.
Luckily it wasn’t all gross. Over in one corner the big vats of liquid, the ones with the hoses connecting to the HVAC system, were all nice and clean. And so full of chemicals in pretty bright colors.
Eventually the substances ebbed. There was a normal push and pull, in their biochemical rewiring, their redoing of nearly every synapse and hormone receptor. Even properly primed, bodies needed time to absorb all the new instructions, the hot new needs. Bailey came back to consciousness in a warehouse that was, if not sparkling, at least sorted and organized and decently dusted.
She could feel the accumulated mall filth of a decade all over her. This wasn’t just the prickle of her programming, although it didn’t hurt. She really was covered in dust and microplastics and other fine particles. Bailey was being taught to treat her own grime as a type of edging, in a state of erotic horror that made her body blare for the orgasmic release of a shower. But for the moment it was more gross than hot. Her fingernails were blackened. Her outfit was stuck to her with a blend of her own sweat and wet dirt from unsold Toys-R-Us toys.
She was a journalist, Bailey belatedly recalled. She was... digging. She took out her phone from her purse—hung neatly on a hook—and took a couple desultory pictures. A good one of the strange air conditioning chemicals in the corner. They blooped and blorped, pink and yellow fluids running up their lines. Something about them was...
Her phone rang—on video.
“Who are you? Why do you have Bailey’s phone?” Cass said, straightaway. He sounded angry.
“Because—I’m—Bailey?” Bailey said, confused. She was getting her phone dirty by holding it. She struggled to get a grip, but Maid programming was particularly strong about never really letting up. Girls went from distractedly dirty to cumming and clean. And working in the same room as the latest synthetic compounds from Calving was not good for a girl’s intellect. Even Calving men wore a half-mask respirator in the warehouse.
“You’re—alright.” Cass shook his head. The girl in the camera DID look... Bailey-ish, right? Her hair had fallen into her eyes, yes, and she was wearing makeup she didn’t recall putting on, and she had soot on her cheeks, and that vacant look in her eyes was new.
“It IS me, right?” Bailey said, nervous. Wasn’t it? She stuck her tongue out. The girl in the camera did the same. The girl in the camera looked like she had a stuffed up nose, and Bailey had that too. She shook her head, confused.
Cass made an angry noise. “Right. Okay. Sorry. I guess. I’ve been—calling—look, tell me you found something. I know this place got bought by... well, better you don’t know. Although maybe you already know.”
“I took a bunch of pictures of my back,” Bailey said, proud of herself. “I mean—the back. I’ve been dirtying! I mean, cleaning!”
“You’ve been—Bailey, are you okay?” Cass said.
WAS she okay? Bailey paused. She was a cool-headed girl who prided herself on her own self-awareness. She’d been through too much not to. In group chats she was the analytical engine, who asked the incisive questions about friends’ failing relationships. Heck, she even frequented reddit and gave witty and accurate relationship advice. She knew a half-dozen meditation and relaxation techniques. She was the queen of okay.
But Calving knew how dangerous the question was. Self-reflection was the first danger. A dozen types of molecules made her flush, and shiver, and jolt with pleasure and general arousal.
“I’m all dirty and there’s two of me!” she said, and broke into tears. Bailey pushed her back end against the wall and rubbed at it, soothing herself. It was nice and rough. The girl in the camera seemed so DUMB and DIRTY. Was that really HER?
“Get outside,” Cass ordered. “Bring the pictures.”
“I’m getting your car all mucked up,” Bailey said, unhappy.
“Bailey, it’s a 2007 Honda. Take some deep breaths.” Cass said.
He kept glancing at her, and was driving very fast. Bailey had also been surprised to learn she could smell him, especially in the confines of his car. Had this always been the case? There was a muskiness in the car that could only be male, that screamed to her senses as male. It added to her body’s rough time, coming across as an odor to be cleaned and a pheromone to be serviced.
“I feel a little—ummm—strange,” Bailey admitted. She tried a few deep breaths. Outside air did help, if only because it wasn’t laced with narcotics. “Cass, do you know something? You must know something. You keep hinting at it. I’m a—umm—journa—journa—” she took another breath and powered through. “JOURNALIST too.”
She couldn’t stop herself. She sneezed.
A purple-pink spray filled the car. They hotboxed each other.
“Sowwy,” Bailey mumbled.
“It’s—fine. Lets... stay focused,” Cass said.
“Did you, um...” Bailey haplessly rubbed the nasal junk on the dashboard. It just spreadit around. “Did you find anything?”
“Wild rumors, nonprintable,” Cass said, shifting. “Nothing that makes sense. Look, just keep an eye out for... a certain kind of people.”
“Criminals?” Bailey said, putting her hand to her mouth.
“Big people. We already talked about this you du—you stu—you. Bailey. Watch for the curviest girls and the muscliest men you ever saw, in down-home country clothes. Lots of denim. And here’s a word to watch for—Calving. Look for the word Calving.”
“Cass, come on, tell meeeee,” Bailey said, mewing. “What did you learn?”
There was no real reason not to tell her, but Cass had also spent the day under the influence. He’d gone from mall restaurant to mall restaurant, watching the bartenders and the waitresses, wondering why all of them wore too-tight shirts and kept fidgeting with their cleavage. And, although he kept to nonalcoholic drinks, he’d downed two dozen of them, and they were all heavily doctored and flooding his system with a type of testosterone. It felt good and right to withhold information from Bailey. To condescend to her. He was her superior. She certainly looked inferior, in a dirty negligee, her butt bulging on his seats, her nose running.
“You’re filthy, Bailey,” he said, affectionately negging her.
“Oh, I KNOW!” Bailey said, giggling. She theatrically rubbed at the grime on her skin. “I’m so dirty!”
His cock pulsed and pounded. It was so hot that she was obviously affected in some way. It was giving him a raging erection. She looked so dumb and fuckable, it was incredible.
Cass stuck his own head out the window and tried a few deep breaths.
“Alright, we’re here,” he said, pulling up. Brood Lane. “We’ll talk early tomorrow. Go take a shower, you’re filthy. Filthy reporter girl.”
“Unnnnnnnnh, yeah, yeah.....” Bailey said, shivering. She gritted her teeth. No, she had something to say, besides “yes, sir.”
“Photos?” she managed, through the pleasurable shiver. “See if there’s anything? You’d know better, sir.”
He held his hand out, rolling his eyes. Bailey mustered a tiny amount of defiance—why was he treating her like this? She’d written some solid exposes of—of—was it the city council? But of what city?
“These are—” Cass took a deep breath. “Uhh.”
Bailey looked over.
At some point in her cleaning haze she’d taken a number of photos of her own half-naked body. Mostly of her butt. It looked round and squeezable even in the poorly-lit backroom of a mall. The lingerie hardly covered all of it. Two mounds poked out underneath the hem, looking particularly fat. Bailey had no recollection at all of taking the pics, or even learning how to use the delayed shutter feature on her phone.
“Sorry!” she squeaked. Part of her thought—not bad. Maid with a fat ass was just hot, and she was lucky to spend the rest of her life as that sexy stereotype. “I don’t—I don’t even think those are my butt! Mine is not that big and round! Remember that other girl in the camera? That was probably her!”
Cass was trying to control his own breathing. Fun new masculine thoughts kept occurring to him—casual derogatory stuff that came with a savage flush of control, of dominance. Dumb dirty girl didn’t even know how to use a camera. No—this was Bailey—she’d gotten the mayor to scream on the phone on her very first story. But she had such a silly, unserious ass... and she was FILTHY...
“Wait,” his remaining journalist senses tingled, as he sorted through pictures of her butt. “The vats. What’s with the vats? Why are they so—pastel?”
“DId I... do good?” Bailey said, nervous. She twiddled her fingers together. There was no wrong answer on Cass’ part. If he said ‘no’, and gave her a severe look, she’d already been conditioned to take male critiques as a crushing blow to her fading ego. The only solution was to immediately make it up to him, at least by slobbering over his cock. So that would be fine. And while she was going the route of an ass queen, preoccupied with grime, her mouth also made a handy vacuum, and that wasn’t lost on Calving. “Yes” would just pair-bond them, breathing in each other’s pheromones, bodies prepped for an exchange of fluids. It was overwhelmingly likely she’d suck on Cass’ dick. Get it nice and clean.
“I need to—find out,” Cass said. His dick was furious with him. He took a huge draught of clean outside air. “I need to—lets call it here, good work. Good girl. Go—go hit the showers. Dirty good girl.”
Bailey giggled. “Right. Thanks, sir. Boss. Boss.... sir.” She took her phone back. They stared at each other with mutually glazed eyes. She could clean him. Give him a spit polish and then pump his cum into her. Safely into her ass.
She slowly got out of the car.
Cass watched her bubble butt recede. A vein stuck out on his forehead. He’d airdropped every one of her naughty butt pics to himself, and had to pull the car over on the way home, to jerk off to them.
On Tuesday, Bailey searched for clues.
Cass had given her orders—single men and women, alarmingly big and sexy. The issue was, everyone at the apartment complex seemed to fit the bill.
But that was fine. She could dig for dirt, and dig, and dig, and dig. She could roll in the muck, slather herself in it, like she deserved.
Even Bailey could tell that she, herself, was getting a little large. Her body had rebelled against her own past rebellion, her attempt to leave behind the beaches of Rio. She’d added a BBL in spite of herself. Bailey stared at the mirror, pre-shower, with increasing confusion. Her tits, her lips, and especially her butt seemed to have gotten silicone injections without her consent, and during the night. She was so round and exaggerated, so much like the girls with the floss-style bikinis she’d grown up around.
Back home she’d laughed at those girls. They were an important export, she’d told her friends. That and superior football helped local GDP. Tourists from LA—Los Angeles!—flew in and stayed at expensive hotels and got our butt lifts. And then paid for lengthy recuperations. The currency exchange rate needed these Americans with their flat, disappointing asses. Now she herself was—what? Why was she so puffed up?
But it did help her act, Bailey realized. Her concerns about it couldn’t hold up against the shower, yet again. No one would question yet another curvy housework-dedicated South American girl, scrubbing away. And being plastic didn’t feel... so bad, with water running down the tips of her breasts, turning her butt into a waterfall. Clean, uniform silicone. Being clean was the important thing, and there was no way dirt could cling to curves that tenacious. It’d be flung off.
It was really stupid, but she’d latched on to the vague plan of getting access to restricted areas as a fake maid. And to be fair to her, it had worked, once. Although no one would’ve stopped her if she’d simply walked into the back. Calving didn’t depend on secrecy. It liked being found out. It had been discovered by outraged journalists dozens if not hundreds of times. All of them soon reduced to kneeling and sucking instead of writing and investigating. They were fun.
She’d go on a diet once the new story was done, the important journalamism she was doing. Cass had liked her photos of her butt, she recalled.
Joy Journal didn’t help with her fading concerns, her ability to investigate her own new padding. Joy had figured out how to add video. It was grainy and nearly all dark. The camera was parked somewhere, with a good view of what seemed to be tits, only much too large. There did seem to be something, possibly a nozzle, over the teats. And there was a lot of noise that sounded like industrial machinery. The video was four hours long. Bailey watched it twice, from midnight until eight. The help got up early, she figured, and was proud of herself. She was running out of brains to refresh with a good night’s sleeping.
“Housekeeping!” she said, on her first room.
This was Jelena, in B-2. Bailey vaguely recalled her as petite, some type of southeast Asian, and very likely to frown. The girl that answered the door was—there was no other word for it—fertile. Her hips caressed both sides of the door frame, and she wore a bathrobe tied casually over her tits.
Bailey had gone for modern maid. Nothing else she owned fit. But with some coaxing she’d managed to stuff herself into black tights and a black top, both of them at their utmost limits. It wasn’t very white frilly lace, but it was practical, and Bailey felt better and better about how she’d wipe clean.
“Oh. Right. Yes. We need housekeeping,” Jelena said, rubbing her eyes. “Come on in.”
In the middle of the room was a pack-and-play crib.
“It’s not for me,” Jelena explained, staring at it. “It’s for society.”
“Society,” Bailey deadpanned.
“Right, because the birth rate is... the birth rate is... ummm...” Jelena rubbed at her forehead. “SUPER low, when you think about it. We can solve so many of society’s problems by making lots of babies. Um. Future leaders of society, I mean.”
“Uh-huhhhh,” Bailey theatrically slipped on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. The moment was a little ruined because Jelena, staring at the crib, and rubbing at her tummy, didn’t care.
“Yeah, I mean... did you know that as women in our early twenties we can easily birth upwards of twenty kids? Some... some scientists think that spending your life on your back, fertile, is the best thing you can do for the planet. Some scientists think that.”
“Should I put the rubber duckies in the crib?” Bailey said, picking up a six-pack.
“Those are NOT for me,” Jelena said, firmly. She rubbed her thighs together, and softened. “But they’re sooooo cute, don’t you think? How many babies do you think you’re going to have? Seven? Eight?”
They weren’t really talking to each other.
This was a known issue, when two different blossoming bimbos ran along very separate tracks. Bailey had no way to work fertility into her own narrowing world of ass-play and picking up after other people. She made a valiant effort. “Kids seem like a lot of messes,” she offered.
“You could get them done like, three at a time, with this caboose,” Jelena mused. She reached out and took hold of Bailey’s ass. “Look at these hips. You could squirt them out and keep working. I don’t know if you’d notice. Lucky.” She rubbed at her own stomach, envious. Jelena’s own hips had nearly doubled in width over the past several days, and she could and did fit her own fist up her vagina. “Anyway, didn’t you have a pretty small butt like, three days ago?”
Jelena put her elbows up on the counter. All the girls were clumsy, midway through their transformation into big-boobed sluts. Their center of gravity was always shifting, and while the potent cocktail of chemicals they were all soaked in generally avoided basic elements like walking, some occasional dizziness did occur. Jelena accidentally knocked several day’s worth of uncleaned dishes onto the floor, where they shattered in a burst of porcelain.
It was a huge mess.
It was enough to send Bailey into a very pleasurable Bimbo Haze State, or BHS.
The haze was a known issue, and very beneficial.
It came about because pumping a girl that weighed between 120 and 160 pounds with gallons of highly engineered fuck chemicals, and bombarding her with subliminals, and making everything she smelled and tasted and heard a form of brainwashing, was a lot. Early on, the manly chemical engineers at Calving had found that girl brains under this sort of sustained assault tended to “brown-out”. They were just having so much fun, exulting in the constant spray of modified endorphins, that maintaining consciousness was just toooooo boring.
Nothing daunted, Calving had decided that it was actually a very good idea for a girl to have an occasional fun, sexy disassociative event. A waking dream, half-conscious, and just along for whatever enjoyable ride her pussy decided on. Girls actually benefited from having firm distinctions between before-times, when they rode exercise bikes and talked about books, and what came after, when they bounced up and down on cocks all day. It was also a good preview of what was to come—a lazy life of scattered thoughts and constant, bubbling endorphins, punctuated by a lot of ditzy orgasms.
BHS Bailey floated into it, cleaning, scrubbing, humming pop tunes to herself. She was generally—no—VAGUELY aware of her body going from room to room, hands encased in yellow rubber gloves, butt propped up in the air as she filled trash bag after trash bag. Kylie’s room was a teenage wasteland of discarded clothes, all of which needed patient laundering, and her bathroom mirror was shattered for some reason. Ateera wouldn’t answer the door. She had some awareness, in an offhand way, of going to Elena’s gym practice, luckily already dressed to sweat in her workout gear. Her body worked, and talked, and was juicy and sexy without much involvement on her part.
She used all the mental wattage of a 1960s calculator. And that was another benefit, in Calving terms. All that energy could be converted into a big fuckable butt, instead of used to power a resource-hungry brain. It turned out that all the essential functions of a Calving girl, including sucking, and fucking, and chitter-chatter, could be performed with a completely empty tank of gas, intellectually-speaking.
Bailey floated, and floated, in a pool of warm sensations. She was dirt-digging, and it felt so good, thoughts caught under mattresses and as slow as honey. She was going to break a huge story, and she didn’t even need to think. Her butt added weight as the day went on. It was already a rounded rump, and was becoming a head-turning wagon.
Seth brought her back, somewhat, to a semi-conscious state.
She’d already cleaned a lot of his apartment by that point. He owned a lot of funko pops, and she’d ordered them, somehow, despite being sleepwalker-smart. She’d straightened his anime posters, on the wall, and sorted all his clean underpants. She’d even made fashion decisions, tossing out all the undies with actual holes in them, and the extra-embarrassing t-shirts with half-naked manga ladies on them. Pastor Flynn had firm feelings on this—the only naked ladies on a man’s shirt should be a real one.
Her apartment neighbor was stroking his dick as she worked. It was not yet a foot long, which was standard Calving cock-girth, but it was getting close. It stuck straight out with no bend to it at all. Seth was still getting used to the powerful sensations of the fully-engineered dick he was growing, and his knees were bent.
“Sorry, you’re working so hard and here I am just—yanking on my dick,” he growled. “Sorry. You need some water? Anything I can get you?”
“Oh, no!” Bailey said, serene. One of the best delights of the bimbo haze was a total acceptance of unreality. The world operated on dream logic, so it was totally normal to have a man she barely knew stroking his dick in front of her face. “Don’t worry about a thing!”
“I know you girls are working really hard, cleaning and cooking and growing really big boobs and asses,” Seth said. He pumped and pumped. “And I really—I really appreciate it. Is that how you say that, you think? Being thankful? I’m still—I really appreciate you ladies showing your pussies off for me, you’re doing a swell job at swelling.”
Her pussy? Bailey belatedly felt a chill on her backside. Her shorts had ripped a long time ago, and she’d never worn panties. They’d split clean apart across her rear end, exposing her asshole, and incidentally, almost, her slit.
“It’s really nice, miss,” Seth said, encouraging. “Great ass. And I love your cunt. Really got something special going on there.”
“Can you—” Bailey stopped talking for a moment. This required more than the slight flicker of IQ she was using. There was a conflict between being a dumb slutty maid and being a standard blowjob slut. Her remaining brain cells bashed against each other.
Another positive side effect of the bimbo haze, from Calving’s perspective, was that it had the same effect on IQ as prolonged glue fume exposure, but much faster. Her motor failed to turn over. She reverted to type, giggling.
“Uh. Ummmmmmmhhhh. Can you maybe not cum on the floor? My nice clean floor?”
“Because you cleaned it. Right. Of course. Of course!” Seth said, understanding. Very understanding. He hesitated—a bit of his former self creeping in—the one that hadn’t been drinking in her curves and scent for an hour. His stomach even pooched out, like he used to look, a few days prior. “I’ll—I’m just... I’m just rubbing my dick? Why am—”
Bailey solved the issue without thinking about it. That was how she would solve most issues, going forwards. She was already on all fours. She lowered herself to the ground, excepting the increasingly-big target of her butt. It was an absolute can’t miss. She gave it a slight wiggle. She didn’t need to say anything. She was a receptacle. That was all she was.
“That’s perfect, miss,” Seth said. “Just perfect.”
She felt the first rope of hot cum arc across her shapely rear, almost all the way up her back. True to his promise, Seth didn’t blast anything onto her cleaned floor. Not that she would’ve really minded. Actually, licking the floor sounded kind of fun.
Bailey snapped out of it eventually. Her mouth tasted like assholes.
Lots of them. Not at all in a bad way—her tongue had clearly had a good time, exploring the sweatier and muskier crevices on at least two or three girls. Obviously it had gotten really deep inside some deep folds. The aftertaste was an earthy tang, not sour, but not not sour.
The issue with Bimbo Haze was that eventually all the drugs ran out of things to do. A girl could only be reprogrammed and dumbed down so much in a 24-hour period. So when the girl snapped out of it, returned to consciousness, she got a brief period of pre-slut clarity. Woke up in a bigger, heavier, sexier body, with a dumber brain, but with some self-awareness. Especially so after getting a noseful of buttholes during the fugue period.
Bailey was in—someone else’s shower, and, it just had to be, someone else’s body. She ran her hands down the curves in increasing disbelief. She was staggeringly thick, with luscious rounded tits. Her hair was much longer, a dark black set that went down to the top of her new boobs. Even in the shower she could tell it was shinier, thicker, fuller. She tried to turn around, and found out about the new shelf that was her ass. The oversized, comically large rear end was a traffic hazard, and needed cones and warning lights, whenever she intended to back up.
Soon, but not yet, she’d find out that Calving’s finest medicines had put the essentials of a clitoris back there. The whole area glittered with nerve endings.
“isto e mau,” she muttered, and winced. Calving was not big on girls talking in general, and especially not in foreign languages. English was good enough for everyone. Her head warned her off any further Portuguese.
She stepped out. There were clothes in the bathroom—a tennis skirt and a man’s t-shirt. She had no clue where they came from. No panties. The skirt covered a third of her ass, and her pussy was exposed. At some point she’d shaved herself down, or perhaps it had just fallen out. Either way, her slit was hairless.
And clean.
Clean was good. She’d always be a little dirty, but a good girl strove to be clean.
No. Bailey squeezed her eyes shut. This was NOT happening. She was NOT becoming some SLUT, much less one embarrassingly fixated on anal sex.
Her purse was hanging on the door, and her phone was in there, with 12% charge. There were urgent texts from Cass in it—“Bailey. Text me. I think we’re in deep.” followed by “too deep”.
Too deep indeed. Her tongue prickled. She had hazy, pleasant memories of asshole licking. One of those butts was just outside the door, watching some sort of cooking show. So she was in Julia’s apartment. Bailey stared at the Russian girl. She’d sucked on this girl’s asshole, hadn’t she. She’d really enjoyed it.
“Half cup butter. One cup sugar. Mix until creamy,” Julia slurred. She was groping her tits, pulling on her nipples. “Add, uh, tea... tea... teaspoon vanilla, one and a half cups flour, one teaspoon salt and baking soda. Then bananas. Three.... unhhhhh...unhhhhh... banaaaaaaaanas. The secret ingredient is half-cup sour cream. Oh. Ohhhhh. Bake at 350 for 65 min—ohh—ohhhhhhhh—minutes oh gawddddddd I’m comingggggg.”
She had to—run. Find her editor. It was temporarily clear to Bailey that she had gotten in to the real mud. The filth. She was a dirty, filthy girl who deserved nothing but buttfucking and tongue cleaning. No, she was a journalist, who definitely didn’t have a ridiculous horse-tier ass, who didn’t want to clean the world with her own mouth. She wasn’t a maid. She employed maids. Hadn’t she? Her own memories were indistinct. Maybe she was just a girl from Rio, carrying her biggest asset behind her, cleaning America one lick at a time...
Maybe that wasn’t so bad. Maybe cleaning up dirt was fine both actually and metaphorically. Or maybe real dirt was better, because it meant humming stupid tunes, head pleasantly empty, ass cantilevered up as she scrubbed and scrubbed.
“No, no no no,” Bailey whimpered, to herself. She walked out into a noisy night. Everyone’s door was wide open, and the sounds of girls pleasuring themselves came out of all the rooms. She’d helped with all of them, sorted their wet panties, cleaned out the shaved-off pubes from bathroom trash, and been a convenient jizz target. All except for four rooms—B-3, B-5, A-2...
And A-1. A-1, which was wide open. Even under the weak night lighting it was an obvious pig sty inside. A nasty, torn apart scene of disorder.
With a wonderful scent wafting out of it...
Bailey took an unsteady step towards it. And a second one. No—she had to—bolt. Find an all night gym and work off her butt, reduce it from a set of volleyballs to a mere eye-popping toned and fuckable rear end.
There was a trash bag on the ground, not far away. She could use it to clean. Bailey picked it up.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” Bailey said, fighting her own legs. The muscles now liked to bend over and scrub. She was most comfortable on all fours now. And it was just so filthy in there. She belonged in it. In the dirt, on her knees...
No. No! She was—the filth thing was clearly how it had gotten to her—she was a prim and proper child of journalism. She was not a magnet for dust, exulting and horrified both at grubbiness.
Bailey stepped inside.
With jerky movements, and saying slurred and confused words. It was a valiant resistance, especially after a good full day of soaking in transformative juices, including the powerful cum of a half-himboized male. Under different circumstances, she would’ve been able to run out, for a few hours of freedom, before fingering her own ass to orgasm, two or three blocks away.
The interior of Terri’s apartment had been completely trashed. Aggressively. Even to Bailey’s reduced cognition there had obviously been a fight in there, a big one. The table was split in two, and bits of chair were lodged into the drywall. The only light was a fallen over lamp. Bailey righted the fire hazard. The floor was sticky and soaked, with blue and pink patches stained on the hardwood. In the bedroom the mattress was a pile of springs and foam. There were fist-sized holes in the wall.
It would take her all night to clean. Her asshole glowed in anticipation. The new nerve endings looked forward to rough penetration by her rubbed-gloved hand.
But—butt—no. Bailey shook her head, and tried not to breathe through her nose, or at all. It smelled like sweet cleaning fluid, and maybe... milk? Chemicals and dairy products, and either were making her powerfully horny. Like her butthole, her journalistic senses were tingling. Something Cass had said, about big-boobed cowgirls. She’d only seen Terri a few times, but.. she’d just moved in, and suddenly every girl in the building had huge hooters.
Did that mean something?
It was in vain.
The part of her mind that could connect cause and effect was already frazzled and riddled, and turning into yet another pleasure sensor, whenever splattered with semen. But she did stay upright long enough to spot, on the counter, a pamphlet entitled “PASTOR FLYNN’S GUIDE TO PHASE SIX—FOR GIRLS!”
She paged through it. It didn’t have any words. Calving girls losing vocabulary was way back in Phase 4. Instead there were pictures, mostly clip art arrows, illustrating the gradual change of normal-looking girls to uniformly pregnant huge-titted sluts. Through ideograms, and because Bailey was already well on her own way, the meaning was quite clear. Most public facilities, and substantial parts of the air she breathed and the water she drank, not to mention the food she ate, were designed to make her docile and pregnant.
The last picture showed a happy, stupid girl, surrounded by upwards of a dozen babies, underneath a clip art rainbow and a clip art smiling sun.
This was—it. Journalismsm. The dirtiest of dirt. Bailey fumbled her phone out. The battery read 6%, and there were new apps on it—SLUTTUBE, and GIRLDASH, and one that was just a spinning spiral. But she managed to turn on the camera.
“Hey,” a very guttural voice said.
She turned to see the filthiest man she had ever seen in her entire life.
He stank like an animal. He was an animal. He had rolled in his own, glorious stink. Most alarming from a cleanliness perspective was the thick meat between his legs, semi-erect and dripping. Unshowered, for days, he was covered in sex and had multiple layers of Terri’s juices crackling and staining his upper and lower half. His chest hair glimmered with human oils. He had an all-over sheen, which just emphasized his Calving-built muscles, all of them gleaming in the single light of the lamp. On top of all that he had rolled around in dirt, and was even hurt, with bruising on his chest, his shoulder, his thigh.
He smelled like a male that had won a war.
He dripped precum onto the floor.
“Ohhhh no no no,” Bailey said. Her returned faculties were exposed to a sudden, blazing heat. Her new priorities asserted themselves. First, obviously, fuck him. Get as much of his grease on herself as possible. Second, lick him clean. Third, mutual shower, while fucking him. The weak and useless desire to commit journalism, and break stories, was next to nothing against his actual muddy self. “Oh no no no,” Bailey tried to tell herself, the world. She was not attracted to filthy men. She was not going to clean his cock with her butt. That was gross. She was—
What was her name?
She had two, didn’t she? And that didn’t help her confusion, her need to clean.
Because she would’ve been a pulitzer-level journalist, a top-tier reporter, absent her quick transformation into a human vacuum, the new cleaning pump had the presence of mind to take five pictures of the pamphlet. Then she felt very wet hands on her ass.
“I—I—” Hassan was all need and muscle, now. But he did want to be able to talk, as difficult as it was. “I forgot my pants.”
“I’ll clean some for you,” Bailey cooed. She assumed her favorite new position. Legs tucked underneath her, face touching the floor, impossibly rotund and plush ass high up in the air. The tennis skirt covered nothing. Her cleaning priorities slid in, removing all remaining resistance and higher-level thoughts. After the shower, clean the shower. Suck the man’s cock again. Clean the sheets. Do the dishes. Dust the man. Wax his car. It beat along the inside of her head. In pictures, not words. Bailey reached back, took the heavy weight of the man’s dick, and guided it towards her butt.
On Wednesday, Bailey met with her editor.
Cass arrived just as the firefighters left. They’d lingered for a very long time. He paused, watching the burly men depart. Was there a story there? What WAS a story, in light of—everything?
Cass had had a busy forty-eight hours.
He’d heard of Calving through the whisper network. It had to be a whisper network—any actual talking meant swift disappearance. No, not disappearance. They were still there, those writers and editors and photojournalists. They had just quit the field, and were pregnant, or were impregnating, and were far sexier than anyone remembered, their glasses looking silly on chiseled faces.
And now he was on the way to joining them. There was no sugarcoating it—his cock was double what he remembered seeing and triple what he remembered feeling. He felt fucking incredible. Every bitch in the world was his slut to fuck.
He’d returned to the mall, and spent most of the day drinking and delving. In a sense it had felt like he was getting close—why else were the waitressess so eager to get underneath the table, and suck at his cock? Why else were the glassy-eyed retail girls so okay with his hand on their butts, so comfortable showing him the back rooms?
But he hadn’t found the warehouse with Bailey’s pictures, and he’d woken up the next day—big. With brawny muscles and defined cheekbones. He’d had an erection all morning. It was time to talk to his star reporter and spray—cum inside of—no, talk to her.
His star reporter was diligently reading the Joy Journal, and stroking herself.
“Bailey! Come here!” he said, sharply, feeling an immediate surge of—control. It was so much fun to tell girls what to do. He’d told one waitress, yesterday, to stay completely motionless while he unloaded down her throat. And she’d done it. “Don’t read that! It’s some sort of—weird trap.”
Reading wasn’t exactly what Bailey was doing, or could do.
The Joy Journal had made a swift pivot to video. Typically hours-long fuck sessions, always indistinct, and hazy, but still hot just from the noises alone. Fellow journalists watching and watching had reported extraordinary levels of arousal after viewing.
“Oh, but there’s so much to find in these!” Bailey said. She pointed. At some point she’d done her nails. They were a sensible neon bright pink. “Look, you can see spilled milk over here, and here, and here, and over here this vat needs an antibacterial rubdown, and you can see a patch of dried cum on her back at the forty-five seventeen mark!”
Bailey was—unrecognizable.
First of all, she was wearing heels. Dark black ones, four inches tall. There was absolutely no need at all to lift her butt, which, even temporarily seated, was cushy and plump and designed to take serious punishment. It was her own personal sponge. Cass felt blood pulse in his ears, a journalistic desire to find out just how much abuse it could take. He struggled with his urges—this was not his personal fuck puppet, this was his best writer. Or was. She had perfectly applied makeup and looked like she took a lot of showers. She looked glossy.
She finally turned to him, eyes wide. The Joy Journal’s endless slut videos played on behind her. There was a visible spiral on screen, lately. “Look at you,” Cass said. He shook his head. “Shelf ass. Fat tits. Dumb expression. They got to you. You’re just a butt slut now.” Degrading her felt so right. No. He had to—encourage her writing. He gave his cock a squeeze.
Bailey nodded. She wasn’t totally sure what he was talking about, but if a man wanted to call her a butt slut, he wasn’t wrong. The weak remnants of a personal ego asserted themselves, and failed. “I’m sowwy, sir,” she said, and knelt. She stuck out her tongue and her ass. Either was fine. Her eyes were so vacant, and it was getting him powerfully erect.
“No, no, get up,” Cass said, irritable. “We’re going to beat this. I couldn’t find the vats at the mall, the ones you found. So good work, you ridiculous fuck doll. Christ, look at that ASS. Turn around and jiggle for me.”
Bailey was happy to do so. She was feeling—really good. She’d woken up in her own bed, somehow. To the tune of the fire alarm and the firefighters.
Then she’d cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned....
She’d resolved all remaining personal confusion, and felt comfortable with her remaining self. She was Bailey, digger of dirt, wherever she found it. Dirty was hot, and so was clean, and she was both. She picked up the heft of her ass and jiggled it for her editor.
Bailey had found a full maid outfit at her doorstep, in the early afternoon. A special one designed for Calving girls who got those particular instructions. The most important thing about it was that it could be worn for days, even weeks, possibly years, without needing laundering. It was a special blend of rubber and lycra, really a black and white belt with shoulder straps, that didn’t cover any important holes.
“You look so fucking STUPID, Bailey,” Cass said. “Did you accomplish ANYTHING?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to correct this girl. Spank her on the most spankable butt he’d ever seen. No... but also, yes.
“Umm, lets see,” Bailey said. She cocked her head. “I cleaned every apartment I could plus Ateera’s which was SUPER smoky, she is so cute, she’s like a big bean bag now, I love her. Umm I think I cleaned that dirty man three or four times with what my mouth tastes like. I should probably brush my teeth! I took a bunch of pictures of that top-secret Calving document. Oh, and I found a new spot to clean on myself, in the shower! It’s my taint!”
“Top-secret Calving document,” Cass said. He stood up from the couch. Their pheromones were starting to mix. He felt a need to hurry, before he inevitably put this girl over his knee. “Show me. Now, slut!”
Bailey sat on his lap and whipped out her phone. His cock ground against her butt. They breathed in each other, and tried to concentrate on journalism. Cass took a full fifteen minutes to read the few pictures, growling and thrusting his dick towards her. It needed cleaning, she could tell.
“Good—good work,” Cass said, briefly recalling himself. “Whore. I mean, reporter. These will—ughh—god—your ass is so THICK.”
“Thanks!” Bailey said.
“We should—go,” Cass said. “Go—post these. On the internet.” He added them to an e-mail, and then hesitated. He had to type in an e-mail address, as well as a subject line. This was taking brainpower he didn’t much have, and concentration that barely existed.
“Yeahhhh,” Bailey husked. She had an entire arsenal of moves to use on a man, once she had her butt on him. Humping and grinding. She didn’t even know she was doing it. “The internet is super filthy.”
How were pictures supposed to be attached? Cass managed it despite the rump massaging his dick. He gritted his teeth. “I’m BUSY, slut,” he tried, but that slowed her down not at all. She could smell his desire. Bailey was very good at scent. She shoved her tits in his face. It was hard to see the address he was typing. HIs friend at the Times, he had to get this out.
“I’m a good journagirl?” Bailey prompted.
“You’re a fat-assed stupid slut!” Cass snapped. He recalled the e-mail address with momentary clarity, and typed it in. Now to attach the photos...
Bailey ran her hand down his chest. “You’re hairier,” she noted. Brilliant reporter deduction, he tried to think. But couldn’t. There was a chunky butt whore in his lap.
Cass put the phone down. Just for a moment.
“It... yeah... god, that feels good. I can’t believe your.. your... you have such a fuckin’ fat butt,” Cass said. He was starting to lose it. Calving didn’t need him with any sort of intellectual capacity. In a few more days he was bound to be part of the mall work crew, performing light construction and huffing dumb-down chemicals all day. His vision narrowed to the big rear pounding on top of his cock. “You’re so fuckin’ dumb, god damn it.”
He made one last effort to reach the girl milking him with her ass cheeks. Her actual name, from when she was a reedy, serious girl out of Brazil, looking to make a clean break. If she would just get the fuck up, he could send the e-mail. What was her name? Did it matter?
“FRANCESCA,” he bellowed.
Bailey looked at him, confused. That name had been dumped from her memory days ago. Girls barely needed one name, much less two. She reached for his waistband. “Lets get you all cleaned up,” she said. Her standard intro, and she said it whenever she was about to fuck, even when it didn’t make sense.
Afterwards, when she’d drained him, Bailey sat on the potty.
He’d deposited a gallon of cum up her backside, and on her backside, and around her backside. It was good hygiene to let it sluice out. A shower would’ve been nice, but she was kinda sure that it was making her a little ditzy, and had something to do with the bubbling breadth of her butt. It could barely fit on a standard-sized toilet seat.
Her editor was exhausted. She’d put a towel underneath him. He’d had a lot of raw aggression to work out, but that was fine.
Bailey scrolled idly through her phone, momentarily bored. It was unusual, having her hands free. Of course after she was done with sex cleanup, and then more sex, and then cleanup from that sex, she had a long list of cleaning to do. The entire building had nearly burned down. There was lots to tidy up. But for the moment she was idled, waiting for all the yummy jizz to make its way out of her asshole. It was going to take a bit.
It occurred to her she could also clean out her phone. She started with deleting all the pictures. Well, the ones without her juicy asshole in them.
On Thursday, Bailey finished cleaning.
Sort of. She was aware that cleaning was never really done. There was always more to clean. Something was always dirty. Her.
But the apartment complex was—clean. It was thoroughly spic and span. She’d gone through every one of the open apartments, and every floor had a cheery shine. All the clothes were clean—although that meant little, since she’d thrown away anything boring. Which was nearly everyone’s gear. Terri had promised them fun new clothes, to fit their fun new bodies. She’d licked all the plates and forks and spoons. There wasn’t a hint of mold or mildew. And while there was substantial scorching in some of the rooms—Terri’s was a total loss, and Ateera’s was pretty burnt—the char was as clean as she could get it.
Until things got dirty again, she kneeled by Seth’s door. Just in case he dropped a kleenex.
“Oh, uhh—Bailey,” Seth said. He was walking around in a bathrobe. “You’ve stopped doing all the things you’re doing.”
Bailey wasn’t really one of those girls who had conversations with men, or anyone. She was a cleaning slut. There were other girls who could hold the facade of a talk. She was there to work, and cum. She settled on a cheery grin.
“You should come back up to the pool,” Seth said. That was another reason the cleaning was temporarily done. There’d been a lengthy poolside fuck session taking up most of the afternoon. Despite all the fluids and unbridled lust it didn’t really create anything to clean up. Even Ateera’s fun new milky boobs went right down the drain, or into someone’s mouth.
“It’s fine!” Bailey assured him. He stood next to her and stroked her hair. He smelled perfectly clean—unsurprising, given what they’d all done to him, in the hot tub. Not a single crevice had gone unlicked. “I like cleaning, you don’t even have to think about me. I’m just here in case a leaf drops!”
“Oh, I’ll definitely think of you,” Seth said. He stood her up and put a companionable hand on her rear, and pushed his fingers into it. They sank deep in. He smelled fantastic. “I appreciate how much work you’re putting in. You’re a good girl.”
Good girl. Dirty, but good, was that it? She’d just have to live with it, move past it, that knowledge that she was never going to be completely clean.
Did she tense up, or was Seth now just very good at reading moods? “Hey, you know what, bend over, okay?” he said, kindly. “I don’t think we’ve done this yet. Since I guess you’re all my personal sluts now. I think you might be last? Who knows. But that just makes you special, right?”
“I’m not special,” she demurred, even though it was contradicting a man, and philosophically complicated, to boot. But she obeyed, of course. Spread her ass cheeks and bent at the waist.
She felt him settle behind her, rub her butt affectionately, and then abruptly push her back down. Before she could say anything she felt the lump of his cockhead settling in on her—pussy.
Her virginal, dirty, never touched, filthy whore slut pussy.
“Uhh—” Bailey said. No, this wasn’t right. She was dirty. She didn’t deserve to be—she could never be—
Seth pushed inside of her.
She creamed over it, spasming, and nearly fell off. He had to grab her hips, and pull her back up. Her pussy was full—not just full, stuffed. She was getting fucked, her virginity plowed through and gone with one rough stroke. As nice as Seth was, he still used pussies like they were supposed to be used, as tools for his own pleasure.
“Jelena said I’m way behind on impregnating all you girls,” he said, as explanation.
“Yes, yes SIR!” Bailey squeaked. An orgasm started to build up. Abruptly she understood—she WAS clean. She had to be, if Seth was willing to put his cock inside of her. He’d judged her worthy. By virtue of the showers, the scrubbing, the journalamism, or whatever the fuck it was, he’d done it.
She’d earned this.
She was immaculate. She was perfect. She was clean. For now. And then they’d make a nice new mess. Bailey squeezed his cock. After this it was time to mop.