Help! My Bimbo Erotica is Coming to Life!
Lacey Liu
Chapter 4
They ran together like something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the LEDs and backlit signs sliding over their bodies like lovers’ hands. In between pathetic pants, Lucy put a bookmark in that one, use it in a story later.
They stopped dead when they got to the Strip.
The coeds were definitely more than just coeds. Black, brown, white, Asian tits spilling out of shrink-wrapped sailor fuku. Schoolgirl outfits from a half-dozen “colleges” that didn’t exist except between the sticky pages and on the sticky Kindle screens of Jerome’s and Lucy’s stories, barely concealing dozens of “eighteen-year-olds” milling the streets in search of cock.
Some were lucky.
Two girls, twins, from Lucy’s own Fook(ubinbu) U, were stacked like cordwood on the hood of a sexy fucking Caddy that she was sure hadn’t existed before, getting fucked in alternation by a buzzcut the size of a linebacker who no doubt was named Chris. Another knot of girls, three or four to judge by the stray limbs, were sliding lips and tongues to cunts in the middle of the street, willing the scanty traffic to swerve around them by sheer sexiness. One of the bars had devolved into a pure orgy, the identical drone girls servicing and converting everything within sight into more of themselves like the world’s hottest Cybermen.
They saw a doddering grandpa who’d just emerged from what he must call “the pub” look aghast at the sexual and sexy carnage that ruled the night streets. As he turned to dive back into his local as bulwark against the insanity, three separate white bimbos with intent looks, jiggling assets, and far too little cloth stretched tight around those assets jumped him, pulling him down with long clawing motions. It was like something out of a zombie movie.
It WAS something out of a zombie movie! Lucy gasped.
What were bimbos, in the end, if not pretty zombies? And a hoard of them constituted a whole zombie apocalypse, one that most of the US Army would throw themselves into.
This was so much bigger than a breach in reality and some serious questionable consent cases.
“Strip might not be the best plan.” Jerome wheezed.
“Good point.” Lucy agreed.
“Oak?” Scarlett suggested.
“Oak!” The writers exclaimed.
They beat feet down Oak Street, up maybe a block or two, before Jerome doubled over against a bank front that should have been guarded, if the guard hadn’t morphed into a sexy policeman and sought out boypussy to teach the meaning of the long stick of the law.
Jerome looked in a bad way.
“God...” He gritted his teeth, fumbling with the buttons of his ruined peacoat. The werewolf had sliced three jagged rents in the front. Lucy slid her hand down his shoulder.
“Here...” she said, popping the buttons with steady fingers.
It fell to the ground in dark tatters. There was a lot more darkness on his shirt front. Three thin lines.
“What’s happening?” Lucy demanded, fearing the answer.
“My chest is burning...” Jerome gritted, binding his chest together with one hand. “I think that shifter might have scratched me...”
Scarlett pointed.
“Look!”
A thin red line oozed diagonal onto Jerome’s shirt.
Lucy met his eyes. His big, frightened, angry, dark eyes.
“Oh no...” They breathed together.
“What?” Scarlett asked.
“Ever seen a werewolf movie?” Jerome asked.
“Yeah?” Scarlett scrunched up her face in the streetlight. Then it cleared. “Oh...”
“Yeah.” Jerome nodded.
“He’s gonna start ...changing.” Lucy said. “Not the gross way, at least, not, like, Ginger Snaps or something.”
“Yeah, cuz heaven forbid.” Scarlett snarled.
“He’s gonna get bigger, more muscular.” She turned to the wheezing man by her side. “More alpha. More annoying than he already is. Sexier. Blacker.”
“What do you mean, Blacker?” Scarlett asked, sticking to her newfound role of the clueless blonde who just asks the stupid questions and fucks.
“More a stereotype.” Jerome stated, straightening up. “Ebonics. Gold chains. Thug life. Bigger, Blacker, badder.”
He sounded like he was trying to regret such a fate. His skin had healed—the shifter accelerated healing were already kicking in. Lucy and Scarlett felt their eyes drawn magnetically to the contents of those boot-cut jeans, wondering if that was just a night shadow, or something more...something they could ride all night long...
“Uh, ladies?” Jerome cleared his throat. “This shit is problematic as fuck. I’d rather not be a walking white bitch’s racist fantasy. Y’know. I worked a bottling job with this Chinese slut here. I...I’m trying to expand into romance, y’know? Not erotic, either. Sweet. Lesbian. Just two girls who love each other kissin’ a lot.”
Lucy was taken aback. Not even she knew about that!
“Really?” She asked. “That’s very sweet.”
“Yeah, send it over to me.” Scarlett smiled. “Assuming you haven’t drunk the indie Kool-Aid.”
Jerome just smiled. There was something predatory...wolf-like...in it.
Something crashed down the end of the street. They all looked down toward the Strip.
A bimbo cried out. They could make out platinum blonde hair. Nothing else about the slut really mattered.
“OMIGAW!” She cried. “HOTTIES!”
Nobody bothered to say ‘run’ this time, they just took off, away from the strip, away from the bimbocalypse.
They crossed up Oak, down Washington, almost doubling back behind the Starbucks where it had all started for Lacey. Even through the burning lungs and acid-laced legs, the images burst in her brain. The sounds. The smells.
Lips and tongues and jiggling titties and PAWG asses quivering with pleasure, everything drenched with bodily fluids, cum and sweat and saliva, that were somehow sexy and clean and not, like, totally gross. Cocks, pussies, mouths, asses. Perfect skin like Lucy had never known. Long, perfect, strokable hair of every color, perfect for burying your face in as some other cock or tongue made you scream in pleasure. Sighs, whimpers, giggles, husky grunts as boys cum from their pussies or their cocks. The dank of human flesh, somehow clean, clean sweat, musky cum shooting ropes across the flesh, marking you, taking you, making you his, forever...
Marking you in your skin and your cunt and the smell of you as his bimbo, forever.
Lucy kept running, mainly out of mechanical will, keeping up with her friends. With their cocks.
“Okay,” Scarlett panted, “hold up.”
They’d made it out of downtown, at least—a few historical old Victorians marked the transition from downtown to the official ’burbs, spreading out in flat, eerie regularity ahead of them.
“What?” Lucy panted. Jerome just breathed slowly, languidly. God, he was so strong. He could probably go all night.
“It’s...” Scarlett gestured. “Hard!”
Lucy couldn’t help it. She looked down.
“What?” She demanded. “You need someone to suck it off, make it better?”
Lucy couldn’t tell if she was joking. She couldn’t tell if the feeling in her belly was a clenched belly or a slick pussy either.
“No, but...!” Scarlett bit her lip. “It’s like...BOUNCING! Against me! It’s distracting! Won’t I get a rash?”
“No.” Jerome snickered.
“Fuck you, Jerome, I didn’t have one until Lucy here fed me some of her fuchsia feta lipstick!” Scarlett gestured helplessly at the Chinese girl. Lucy let it slide, they had bigger cocks to—bigger fish to fry.
“You guys.” Lucy took a deep breath. “We have to face facts. We have to find the cause.”
“What?” Demanded Scarlett.
“There’s always a cause,” Lucy explained, “something the changes all come from. Chemicals in the food, magic in the mirror, super-tech in the lipstick.”
“Yeah, thanks for the warning,” Scarlett warned.
“First rule of writing bimbo porn.” Jerome nodded solemnly.
“And we’re operating on bimbo porn rules now,” Lucy gulped, “but that means if we can find the source of the changes, and cut it off or reverse it...we can fix everything! ...or at least stop any more from happening.”
“Hey there.” A voice, low, sultry.
She slipped out of the darkness of her front porch. How long had she been waiting there?
“You poor kids look lost.” She continued.
Lucy’s brain tried to process what her eyes were seeing. Dyed blonde hair, dark roots showing. Skin both supple and fresh as only a barely-legal could manage and also stretched to just-inhuman by twenty years of expensive, husband-paid plastic surgery. A cheerleader outfit swishing around her thighs that was also an expensive cocktail dress. Lucy couldn’t tell if she was holding a martini or not, even under the streetlight.
She turned away. Her poor little bimbo brain just could not hold all those contradictions in mind at one time.
“Why don’t y’all come inside and let Mommy show you a good time?”
“...no thanks.” Scarlett squeaked.
That seemed to break a spell. Out of the other houses—from porches, doors, even open windows!—similar figures of suburban lust emerged like spiders. MILFs, virgins, teenagers, farmer’s daughters, college widows, drunken coeds who were also somehow size -1 and size 15 (for the feeder and BBW crowds).
The slow roll of their collective moan rose like floodwaters.
“The cougars are out!” Jerome shouted.