The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Abby had gone an entire year without getting The Hornies, and was starting to think she never would.

Of course, they said that catching H0N1 didn’t really change a girl. Teachers called it Second Puberty, even as they were fondling and being fondled, or revealing that they had forgotten to wear panties again, bending to use the chalkboard. Doctors called it “Sexual/Expansion Syndrome” and claimed to be working on a cure, even if that would deprive them of endless nurse-provided blowjobs. Parents minimized it as “like chicken pox” before excusing themselves to romp in the bedroom.

They were all lying, Abby knew. It was easy to compare her own female classmates to before and after the Virus. Before, they were a comfy-jean-wearing sisterhood of career-driven achievers, who would self-consciously read and discuss Jane Austen. They giggled a little bit, on occasion. They were vaguely interested in boys, and, after finishing Senior Year, after earning at least Salutatorian, maybe they would do something about guys.

And now?

Abby looked around the the classroom.

Terri, the self-conscious Christian with the blonde hair, now had her cross dangling in the center of an exposed pair of lily-white breasts. Nothing in the Good News kept her out of bright white short shorts with dazzling ivory thigh-highs. Susan had caught H0N1-Tits, the boobs variant, and couldn’t keep her hands off a rack that shadowed the desk beneath her. She liked to snooze in class with her head resting comfortably on the plush shelf of her breasts. Rebecca, the sulky goth, now dressed only in the brightest possible pinks with the sunniest possible smiles, and lived to agree with boys. The only dark colors left on her was a dark thong. Pauline, the other sulky goth, had stayed in black, but added four-inch heels, leather, and gauzy, strategic patches over her breasts and down the sides of her legs. Even Tamara, the fat girl, had dropped seventy pounds and become a hyperactive, giggling blonde bombshell with dangling perfect locks down to her ass.

They didn’t care about Jane Austen. They barely showed any interest in books, unless those included large illustrated pictures of couples fucking in new, acrobatic positions. Every one of them, goths included, giggled constantly, a soft feminine titter that was all about calling attention to jiggling boobs. They chit-chatted about the new sex-friendly sitcoms on cable networks, shows like “Satisfied Housewives” and “Rabbits” that veered between softcore and hardcore porn.

They DRIPPED. The pamphlets dressed it up as “undue vaginal secretions,” which was just science for a constant, purring sex engine. Every single one of the Hornies girls was a well-oiled machine, able to sink onto a ready cock with a half-second notice, bathing it in a warm ooze that welcomed every dick in town. Abby was constantly slipping on oil patches, which was one reason she wore sensible sneakers with good traction.

Worst of all? They just didn’t CARE that they were drippy little sexpots. They cared about getting laid. They cared about makeup. They cared about clothes and looking good. And that was pretty much it.

Abby glared around the room. Debate Club had previously sat riveted by engaging conversations on trade policy, rogue states, and environmental impact. Now the female contingent was just going through the motions, spacing out. Or not spacing out—primping and preening for the boys in the room. Paul, the prize member of the Debate Team, had to wade through an open sea of ripe, inviting cleavage, bare midriffs, saucy looks, and licked lips just to make it to the podium.

“So today we’ll be debating...” Abby sighed. Concessions had been made just to keep the girls around. “...Prostitution. Pro and Against.”

The few girls paying attention furrowed their delicate eyebrows in a vain attempt to understand the subject. Why would a guy have to pay a girl for sex? The only charge THEY extracted was a grunting spurt of white cum in the backseat of the car. Or behind a wall. Or wherever there was a hard surface to fuck against.

Paul took the podium. Off the stand he was a shy boy that kept shaping and reshaping a patchy beard. On it, he riveted every girl to their chair with piercing grey eyes and a perfect low voice.

“Sex for money is obsolete,” he announced, banging the table with his fist. A dozen female thighs twitched. Two dozen nipples ached with anticipation. Three vibrators buzzed on low between legs, and two more on a clearly audible medium setting.

Abby’s thighs twitched a little, too. Paul was a mystery no one had solved. The entire school wondered about him. Every other nerd had dived right in between thighs and never climbed out. And H0N1-m, the male version, made guys even hornier, not that THAT was a big change.

But Paul never slept around. He had gently told any number of girls that they “weren’t his type.” It was hard to imagine what sexual goddess he was holding out for, when there were girls—in that room —that could fuck a man dry with their toes.

Abby’s nose twitched. The room was a dripping cauldron of sexual fluids and free-floating hormones. Keeping the door open didn’t help. Every girl that went through the Hornies lubricated like a piston, scenting the room with a personal perfume of honey and strawberries. And no one bothered to shower after sex, so there was always a musk from early morning fucking. Plus the buzz of pheromones intoxicating both the men and women.

Abby rubbed her nose. It was itching something fierce.

“...So I say, legalize prostitution. There is no justice in a law without a purpose,” Paul thundered. His voice was a piercing, manly baritone. Abby’s lip quivered. She was the second-least attractive girl in the room, automatically, but she WAS still a girl.

“Oh, thash great!” said Sarah, clapping her hands together. Sarah, the fiery women’s rights advocate. She had caught H0N1-L, and had beestung lips that gave her a permanent and sexy lisp. She went through three containers of chapstick a day. Not to mention a dozen popsicles, and at least three or four shafts. Sarah only wore fire engine red, in vinyl, if possible. It was, she had explained, a “sh-heme sh-ing.”

“Julie? I guess you’re up.” Abby called out, wriggling her nose. There was a trace of malice in her voice that she couldn’t quite hide. The Hornies hadn’t been ALL bad. All the other competitors for Valedictorian (female division) had been eliminated by their own insatiable sexual appetites.

There was really just one rival left.

Julie.

She was as thin as a shadow, and wore the exact same five outfits in rota during the school week. Even her hair was thin, cropped precisely at shoulder length and tucked behind her ears. She had worn the same glasses since 6th grade, and had the sexual allure of a twig. She had been trading class ranks back and forth with Abby for years and years.

Abby’s nemesis marched up to the podium. It was strange to see a girl NOT sway a bulging ass when she walked, teetering precisely on heels. Most of them practically invited bending over onto a desk.

People these days usually assumed Julie was a guy. Abby would’ve chuckled, but she got the same reaction.

“Sex is more then just a commodity, H0N1 or not,” Julie insisted. She had an entire speech written out, too, and read from it.

Abby seethed in her chair. To her right, Pamela had her butt rubbed by the foot of the boy behind her, and was already blissfully purring towards an orgasm. To her left, Isabelle had creamed right through her jeans, and was dripping onto the desk.

Abby felt the sneeze build.

She steeled herself against it, commanding her willpower to stifle it in the nasal cavities.

No good—the blowout overwhelmed her nose, gathered steam, and exploded in a gooey starburst.

Everyone turned to look. Everyone knew what THAT meant. Even Julie stopped talking.

“It’s nothing,” Abby insisted, waving her hands. A cold spur worked its way along her spine. EVERYONE knew what sneezing meant. And another one was working its way up her nose, too. “I’m fine.”

“Uhhhhhh-ohhhhhh,” Terri said, and tittered. Her cross swung between her boobs.

Abby sneezed again. More fluid spattered her desk. And another one. She put her hands in front of her nose, at last, but nothing would stop the rapid fire explosions working their way out her nose. Her hands and desk were spotted clear with fluid.

“Someone’s sneezing her brains out!” Pamela sang. Every girl giggled. “Welcome to Bimboville!” another called.

Everyone knew that sneezing hard was the first sign of the Hornies. Sneezing your brains out.

Abby wiped her hands on her thighs. There was a lot of gooey stuff on them. A lot.

Was her high school education now wiped onto her pants?

Of course not, she told herself. She felt perfectly fine. She had absolutely no urge to suck on a cock at all, no matter how veiny and long and delicious and red.

Abby paused. That was a very un-Abby-like thought.

“I’m—uh—going to the bathroom,” Abby said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with me. Um. Keep debating about penises.”

Abby felt Julie’s eyes burning into her back every step of the way.

The bathroom situation had gotten out of control shortly after the Hornies first struck. Every stall had been occupied—often for up to an hour—by panting, writhing girls and the boys bending them over or on top of the commode. Or there had been some girl working herself over with her fingers, or with one of the mass-produced vibrators that was becoming as ordinary as a tube of lipstick. Abby hadn’t taken a seat until she wiped down every bit of porcelain with rubbing alcohol.

School Administration had stepped in. Even girls with the Hornies needed to pee, eventually. A few bathrooms and the entirety of the library were designated “Relief Stations.” Abby slipped into one of the normal bathrooms.

There was only one girl there, Brittany, a cheerleader type even before the Hornies hit. She didn’t even look tremendously different, just with larger, balloon-style tits and sculpted dancer legs. She even wore the same cheerleader outfit, which was cartoonishly stretched and whorish wrapped around an expanded figure. Also the cat ears were new. She was primping in a mirror. H0N1-Kitty girls tended to spend all day on makeup.

Abby ignored her, found an empty stall. She let loose two more mind-tearing sneezes, and cursed under her breath. Brittany giggled, out in front of the mirrors.

“You’ve been through this before,” Abby reminded herself. Sneezing was.. common. Especially with all the exotics perfumes and sweat and pheromones in the air. Abby had had a few scares, which had turned out to be simple colds.

Like Julie, there wasn’t a whole lot underneath her clothes. An abbreviated pair of crescent-moon breasts, underneath a simple bra. Boyish hips. The difference, of course, was that asian girls looked good when slim and slender, whereas Julie looked like a surfboard with hair. Abby was probably the only girl left in the school wearing dark black glasses with thick rims, too.

Abby was quietly certain that once Paul—well, not Paul, of course, she meant, of course, boys in general—got tired of reaming the butts of drooling morons, they would appreciate a girl who knew how to use sines and cosines, and could also rock a pair of tight jeans. And then she would be there, clutching her Nobel Prize.

Assuming she didn’t have the Hornies right now. In which case she’d be clutching something else.

Abby pulled her pants down and spread her legs. Everything down there looked normal. No glistening sheen of wetness. No aching urge for penetration. That was another thing she couldn’t understand. Okay, so penises were sort of intriguing, and Abby generically understood that stimulation of the clitoris would produce orgasm. But all the time? For hours and hours? How much meat could a girl stand to have inside her? Wouldn’t all the goo just get gross and sticky?

She sneezed again.

Abby let her hand trail down her stomach, nervously cupping the outside of her sex. Still no wetness. Still no obvious arousal or engorgement, as the virus obsessively built and rebuilt her sex drive. Not even a trickle of wetness coming out of her slit. So she was okay. Not at risk of developing a massive urge for cute miniskirts, or abandoning her sensible shoes for platforms.

It had been particularly disturbing how the small non-white population of the High School had descended into ethnic self-parody. Maybe it was inevitable that Kimmy—already interested in anime— would become a full-time cos-playing bimboslut. She spent all her time now cutting up colored vinyl and wrapping it in tight sheaths around her body. But Meryl, who was adopted anyway, had gone with full-bore dragon girl, with pretend chopsticks in her hair and eyeshadow extending out in waves towards her forehead. She used a fake high-pitched Engrish accent around boys. Meryl Rosenbaum. Who had been a huge Red Sox fan.

Abby looked down. Her finger had, apparently on its own, worked itself a bit up the gap between her tight pink lips. It was needling at a very tender bud, and it was starting to feel kind of good. Already her fingernail had disappeared inside of her. She could feel it finding its way between moist folds of skin.

“This is okay,” Abby told herself. She was... testing for moisture. Her finger was like a dipstick, and her pussy was like an engine.

I mean, she technically understood the reasons why Meryl affected a lisp and why Kimmy often forgot to wipe the cum off her face. It was about sexual competition. It was hard to get enough fucking. A girl wearing a tight blouse and no bra and with stiff nipples wasn’t memorable, she was ordinary. To get a guy, you had to differentiate, and if that meant a homemade pair of Pikachu ears with a matching yellow bikini, well, a lot of guys played video games and had weird hangups. The trick was to find an unexploited niche. And that was tough. Exploiting niches was what H0N1 girls were all about.

Abby’s finger was up to the knuckle, now. And it seemed to be moving up and down, up and down, fighting its way inside a firmly closed body. Abby’s legs were spreading wider and wider, accommodating the invader. It was relaxing.

In fact, H0N1 was differentiating all on its own. Just outside the stall was a girl with feline ears. They were now perking up, listening closely to the little whimpering sounds Abby was unconsciously making. And that was almost normal. Abby had read about girls that produced an intoxicating honey from their dripping slits, girls that could retract their teeth at will for the most glorious blowjobs, girls with slippery palms for extra-smooth handjobs.

Abby supposed—as her free hand started rubbing at her breasts —that she should probably cut the girls some slack. It used to be that the girls had all the power, and if they did want a guy to get interested, it was as simple as a come-hither expression. But who knew, these days, what would get a cock revving in a world full of needy honeypots? If a guy wanted to grope a tit, he just needed to stretch until he heard a giggle. If he wanted to get fucked, he really just needed to lie on his back and pull his pants down.

Abby’s thumb rubbed up and down the top of her slit. Maybe the real losers were—ironically—the girls able to pop a guy’s nut in a mind-blowing orgasm, but without obvious external sexual features, uh, milky tits. Or some obvious drawback like with Goo or Collar.

Her finger withdrew, dripping, and Abby tested her violet-scented juices, bringing them up right underneath her nose and sniffing. She was an ordinary girl. There. No problem. She licked her finger clean to be sure.

She was a girl completely and totally unaffected by H0N1, and simply enjoying herself in the bathroom.

“Abby? Do you need this? I could hear you moaning and stuff!” Brittany whispered.

The cheerleader giggled, and slid a vibrator underneath the stall door. “This one is called Mr. Happy!” she said. It was pink.

Abby’s eyes popped open. She took in her spreadeagled leg, her dripping finger—inches from her mouth—her now thoroughly wet little landing strip.

“Maybe I will go to the nurse, just in case,” she thought, and wiped her finger dry as fast as she could.

Pre-Hornies, the nurse’s clinic was rancid with old cigarette smoke and there was dust in every corner. Mrs. Fleming, the nurse, mentally sorted ill kids into Drunk, High, and Whining, and nothing short of meningitis symptoms would elicit any sense of concern. She handed out expired aspirin grudgingly, and mostly lurked in her dimly lit corner, hoping to be forgotten in the rounds of budget cuts.

H0N1 had boosted her budget, and her own round with the Virus had improved her mood. Brightly colored signs now pointed to the Nurse’s Office, labeled “CHECK BEFORE YOU DRIP.” Out front was a large poster that read “FOR GOD’S SAKE PLEASE TAKE YOUR CONTRACEPTION” along with a barrel filled to the brim with candy-flavored condoms.

“H0N1 doesn’t really change girls,” Nurse Fleming said, briskly. The Nurse’s Office now was bright and cheerfully lit, with an entire cabinet marked “BIRTH CONTROL” and a brand-new computer humming away under the nurse’s desk.

Abby, on the examination table, gave the Nurse a withering look. H0N1 wasn’t as dramatic on older women, but Nurse Fleming had still lost ten years and sixty pounds, and was as voluptuous and stacked as most of the girls outside. She wore the same white thigh-highs and short PVC skirt every day, her obvious take on a nurse’s uniform. Pretty obvious really. Abby would’ve at least mixed in a maid-style lace outfit or a hot little all-white dress with thigh-high boots. But, if the rumors were true, she kept the entire Science department happy.

Another un-Abby-like thought. And the thought of a breath of wind underneath a super-short skirt kept cycling through her head.

“Yes, well, there are SOME changes, obviously,” Nurse Fleming conceded. “But, Abby-dear, we all grow and we change. Before puberty, you had zero interest in boys. Then you hit puberty—a totally natural thing—and your body changed, and you started to notice boys. And it looks like you’re a cute little number now, with an adorably cute butt. Now maybe your body is changing again, and you’re getting even MORE interested in boys, and in their penises! It’s kind of like a second puberty, only you get hotter instead of taller.”

Abby sneered. She kept squirming on the table. It was probably nothing, but her body DID feel a bit... sensitive. Parts of it were trying to monopolize her attention. She had a distinct feeling that rubbing certain areas—rubbing LOTS of areas—would be a lot of fun.

There was a poster of a penis on the wall.

It was right in front of her, a cartoonish prick marked in thick black outlines. It took Abby a moment to realize that the sensitive parts boys liked to get stroked were marked in red. The testicles were marked with “questionable/ask first” and there was a warning label inderneath it all that read “THIS IS NOT ALWAYS A TOY.”

Nurse Fleming felt at Abby’s forehead. She spilled out of the front of her bright white jacket, her nipples blunt and erect underneath the fabric. There wasn’t a bra or anything. “You are a bit warm,” she noted. “And you said you’ve been sneezing? You know what they say about sneezing.”

“Just a little,” Abby said. She tried to avert her eyes from the penis poster. It was... distracting. She had always thought of penises as totally ludicrous. And they were, they definitely were, but it was just so obvious how well it would fit inside of her. Even if she was on top, or from behind, or—

“Okay, we’ll just do a short examination, honey. I’m sure it’s nothing. Open wide.”

Abby spread her legs.

“Your mouth, dear.”

“Oh.” Abby reddened. It was just a simple mistake, and it had nothing to do with thinking about erections.

Nurse Fleming approached with a long, oddly shaped thermometer. It was off-white with a bulbous bit on the end, and unusually thick and long, probably meaning it was from 1953. The Nurse stuck it as far into Abby’s throat as she could, where it tickled her tonsils and bumped up against the back of her throat. Nurse Fleming’s nipples were still hard. Did they ever go down?

Abby rolled the thermometer around on her tongue. It wasn’t really so bad, once she got used to the sensation of having something in her mouth. And it was reasonably warm, and she wasn’t gagging or anything. She sucked on it, just a tiny bit. That probably wouldn’t change the temperature reading, and... she liked sucking on it, apparently. She did it again.

Nurse Fleming had apparently forgotten about her. The big bimbo was absorbed in her computer.

Abby rolled her eyes. Why was the temperature reading taking so long? She experimented, seeing how far down her throat she could get the invasive thing. She almost swallowed it, fitting almost the entirety of the white rod in, before pulling the thing out of her mouth herself, and glaring at the Nurse. “Oh! Sorry, honey! I was just playing minefinder.”

Abby’s mouth felt weird, and she licked her lips. She had gotten used to the thermometer. “You mean, minesweeper?”

“No, my way is a lot easier.” Nurse Fleming giggled, took the thermometer, glanced at it momentarily. Then she dropped it right onto the floor. Abby examined the Nurse’s nipples again, just to see what they were up to. Still hard. That must feel strange, hard nipples all the time. Must make sweaters an adventure.

“Whoops!” Nurse Fleming exclaimed. “Could you pick that up for me, darling? It’s just that I can’t really bend today, my knees got quite a workout when we had that budget meeting.

Abby heaved another great sigh, around the mouthful of warm spit she had accumulated somehow. She bent at the waist, but couldn’t quite reach the thermometer on the floor, as hard as she strained against the pull of her jeans. Her ass waved in the air, yearning to make those final few inches and reach the darn thing. Finally she just spread her legs out, knees locked, and managed to snag it with an outstretched hand.

“Just hold on to it for a moment,” Nurse Fleming instructed. “I need to take a few more notes. Go ahead and sit back down.”

And she went right back to her backwards game of minesweeper. Abby played idly with the rod, rubbing her hand up and down it, watching the temperature heat up when she ran her fingers over the tip of the bulbous end. If she squeezed just at the tip, and rubbed her thumb on the back side, she could get the gauge to jump way up.

The cartoon cock still bobbed in front of her, painted in friendly pinkish colors. Not that they were all pink. Cocks came in all flesh tones. Apparently they got reddish and veiny when the blood rushed in. That seemed kind of hot, all urgent and insistent. There was no question what a hard cock was about. It was about one thing only— sex. With girls, sexy girls with outstretched thighs. Abby squeezed harder at her thermometer, her hands hot and wet around it. Yeah, it was a sort of a responsibility, penises. What if one went down in front of her, without getting relief? That would be terrible, and such a waste, deflating so pathetically, like a popped balloon.

Her thighs were itchy. As was the button in the middle of her legs. Abby scratched at with the thermometer. That didn’t help. It just made the itching worse. She rubbed energetically at the prickling scratch.

Finally, Abby stuck the rod between her legs and heaved a heavy, pointed sigh at the absolutely useless Nurse completely failing to examine her for anything.

“Can we get this over with?” Abby finally asked.

“Hmm?” Nurse Fleming said. The Nurse’s hand had wandered between her thighs. “Oh! Yes, well, congratulations, honey. The exam is done. You have a case of the Hornies.”

Abby stared at her.

“What?” she croaked.

“The Hornies. Also known as Hots, Pussy Flu, and Tits. The virus will take a day or two to run its course, but you’ll start feeling it pretty bad pretty soon. You should drink plenty of fluids and eat lots of carbohydrates. Try not to wear restrictive clothing until your body settles out.”

“No.. that can’t be right,” Abby said. She looked around. Everywhere, there was sex. A canister of condoms. A bra sizing guide. A pamphlet entitled “Milking Yourself.” She couldn’t have the Hornies. She was going to be Valedictorian!

“You have the Hornies,” the Nurse instructed. “We’ll call your Mom and get you picked up. You should probably go on down to the Empornium on 5th and Main. I can give you a vibrator right now if you’re feeling antsy, but I’m not authorized to personally bring you to orgasm, although we can bring the principal in.”

The Nurse wasn’t making sense.

“What do you mean I have the Hornies? You didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!”

Nurse Fleming smiled cheerfully and ticked reasons off on her fingers. Her nipples were still so, so hard, straining against the jacket. “You spread your legs right away, you kept the Cockometer in your mouth for over four minutes and gave it a good sucking, then you bent at the waist to pick it up—nice ass, by the way—plus you gave the silly little thing a handjob before sticking it between your thighs. Darling, honey, dear, you’ve got the Hornies. Oh, and you’re still rubbing it between your legs, right this instant.”

Abby looked down, to where her right hand was grinding the white tip against the zipper of her jeans. Up and down, pushing the tip as far as it could go against the cotton.

“It’s not so bad,” Nurse Fleming told her. “Your friend Julie was in here earlier. She’s got it too. And she’s got Cottontail. That’s a tough one.”

“Julie has the Hornies? And Cottontail?” Abby said, momentarily distracted. Her left hand took the opportunity to pull down the zipper to her jeans, giving room for the cockometer to push at the outside of suddenly sodden underwear.

H0N1-C was a tough one. Bigger to biggest boobs in a room, pheromones like a chemical factory, and an insatiable need to rut. There was even a tiny puffball tail to cap the transformation. But worst of all was... the teeth. Only really rare strains like Oink and Bot were worse.

“Poor dear. She took it very well, though” Nurse Fleming said, shaking her head. “I offered to give her a little something in her butt, just to calm her down, but it didn’t seem to make her feel any better.”

“Wait, when was—uhhh—this,” Abby asked. It was getting hard to concentrate. There was the shock and the stress, plus the insistent rubbing of a plastic object over her slit. She should probably pull the little cock away, just to prove the nurse wrong, but her body was very insistent on getting something inside of it, and besides, it was medical.

“Oh, this morning.”

So Julie had—mmmm, that was nice—gone to Debate Club even after her diagnosis—ahhhhhhh. She was probably already wet as a sea, looking at boys as fountains of cum to feed a needy pussy. The Hornies. She had the Hornies. How long would she stay away from some amazing, oozing, sexy dick?

“I’m going to need that back, dear,” Nurse Fleming said, gently. “We don’t like to get it too juicy.”

“What?”

Abby pulled the white rod from between her legs, stared in dismay and shock at the well-greased tip. It was obvious now how much it looked like a nice little cock. Her body still glowed from the touch. She wanted more. She needed more. And to get her titties sucked and her ass touched and.. and...

“Oh, fuck,” she said. “I have the Hornies!”

Abby waited outside in a dull huddle of misery, crouched in a ball and itching terribly. Everything below the neck felt like she had been shaken in a bag full of poison ivy.

The Virus was starting to have its way with her. Twice she had forgotten to give back the plastic little dildo-meter to Nurse Fleming, holding it tightly in her hands. And she had forgotten to re-zip her jeans, flashing her cotton white underwear to the administration office. Somehow her hands had tied her shirt off at the small of her back, pulling it tightly against her skin and emphasizing the skim of her boobs, plus showing off her belly button.

She was also horny. And itchy. There was a bizaare mix of itch and wet down between her legs, and she was acutely aware of each strand of pubic hair gently rubbing on the outside of her pussy. It was like a thousand—a million—little caresses, and Abby couldn’t tell if she wanted to scratch it or plunge her entire hand straight up her slit. Maybe both.

Eventually her Mom’s van showed up, and the plaid-skirted sexpot that was her Mother popped open the passenger side door.

They looked nearly the same age. Flawless skin, a bit on the short side, almond-colored eyes with nicely rounded features. In fact, they could pass for sisters, after Mom had gone through a prolonged bout of Hornies-Schoolgirl. She sucked constantly on lollipops and chewed endlessly through rolls of bubblegum, and always smelled faintly of candy. She hadn’t exactly fought the urge to be an empty-headed teenybopper, and was dressed as usual in a checkered blue and pink plaid skirt with fake suspenders on the side. She had come straight from work, so she did have a button-down top on, albeit with tiny sleeves and a mock-school insignia on a useless pocket over her expanded tits. She HAD been a successful accountant. Now she was an ornament for the office.

“So you finally got the Hornies, Abby?” her Mom said, and giggled. She maneuvered the car expertly despite wearing matching polka dot platform heels.

“I don’t want to talk about,” Abby said. “Lets just go home. I have to go burn my report cards.”

“Awww, that’s a stinky attitude,” Mom said, in her high-pitched, singsong voice. “Do you know what type you got? Or is it too early? Are you all horny and stuff?”

Abby shrugged. She scratched at the top of her arms. They were itchy, too. She uncrossed her legs, hoping to relieve pressure on the outside of her slit. Her clothes were starting to feel like a wrapping made out of sandpaper. “Nothing. So far. I’m not giving out milk and I don’t need to suck on anything and I don’t think I’m a chemical dump full of pussy juice. And I don’t have a tail, so that’s good. I DO NOT want a tail.”

“It can take a bit to show up,” her Mom said, sympathetic. “I thought I had Generic until I walked by that candy display at the store. I went through an entire box of twizzlers, right there. And then I started doing cheerleader routines in the bedroom. It was a good thing our neighbor had some pom-poms or who knows what I would’ve done!”

Cheerleader routines were still a part of Mom’s bedroom antics. Abby spent a lot of nights with a pillow over her head. And family dinners inevitably included obscenely shaped lollipops for dessert.

“So I guess I’m going to be a dumb bimbo, woo hoo,” Abby said. She scratched at the inside of her thighs. They ITCHED. It was hard to both agonize over sexual transformation and be super itchy at the same time.

“Honey, puh-lease! The Hornies just doesn’t change you like that. I work at the same desk, at the same company, as I did before I had... a second puberty. True, I spend a lot more time on top of the desk, and underneath it, and sort of wrapped around it, but...”

“Mom, please,” Abby squeezed her eyes shut. The itching was getting worse. Her socks, especially, were like red-hot garters. Maybe she DIDN’T have the Hornies. Maybe she just had a weird rash.

“We’ll get you a new wardrobe, and maybe this summer you can intern at my company!” her Mom said, warming to the idea. “Oh, it’ll be fun! We’ll have matching crop tops, and we’ll both take care of Mr. Robertson, and you can get the coffee while I’m on my knees giving him a—”

“Mom! Please!” Abby gritted her teeth. She had to do something about this... itching! “Pull over!”

Her Mom swerved headlong to the side of the road, then pulling into a deserted parking lot that used to serve the now-shuttered and abandoned Ann Taylor’s.

Abby worked her jeans open with trembling fingers, shoving down the zipper before managing the button. She nearly moaned with relief as the unbearably scratchy cotton fell down her legs, leaving them bare and open to the air. But that didn’t stop the horrible itching, the prickling needles she could feel from each and every curl. Abby scrubbed frantically at the outside of her slit, feeling relief mixed with a sudden vague pleasure, as the prickling finally began to calm down beneath the assault by her fingernails.

“Umm... Abby, baby, your, uh, pubic hair is falling out.”

Abby looked down. She had sported a typically curly bush of pubic hair, trimmed just enough to look hygenic. But just a few swipes of her fingers had somehow pulled out locks of dark black hair, still wet and damp from the leak she had developed, and now nestled between her legs on the car’s bucket seat. Already her sex was half bare, and bright pink to boot. Not even a slight stubble was left.

Abby took hold of a tiny clump, and pulled gently.

It came free with no resistance whatsoever.

“Uh, Mom?”

“Let me check Wikipedia, dear. Is it all falling out?”

Abby could hardly stop now. She scrubbed between her thighs, not hard, and shivered as the rest of her triangle pulled itself free. Moments later, she sported a perfectly smooth snatch. It wasn’t even shaven—there was no stubble, none of the coarseness, just as absolutely hairless as could be. And the skin looked different, too, shiny and new, with a wet plastic look that was both erotic and disturbing.

Touching it felt extra nice. Abby had to force herself to stop.

Her Mom tapped at her bright pink smartphone. “The good news is that you don’t have Balloon or Amazon or anything like that,” she reported. “Is it falling out everywhere? Try rubbing at your arm.”

Abby complied. She barely had any hair on her forearm. But what there was fell free at the briefest touch. Once again she felt a brief shudder of pleasure, that funny feeling of happiness that came from merely touching her skin. She shook herself, and felt tufts falling free. Her armpit hair fell out of her sleeve.

“Well?” she said, nervously. As Virus-reactions went, this wasn’t so bad... so far. Although her body still itched wherever the hated touch of cotton fabric rubbed against it. Abby kicked off her shoes and socks. The cheap white socks felt alien and horrible, and she simply tossed them out the window, disgusted by the sensation.

“Looks like it’s either Rubber or Lovedoll. I hope it’s Rubber. Lovedoll is weird. Abby, can you move your lips okay? Are they sort of hardening into an O-shape?”

“I don’t think so?” Abby said. Lovedoll? That wasn’t a good one. It was little better then Bot, and just as submissive. Rubber she didn’t know much about.

“Rubber isn’t so bad. You get really really flexible, and that’s it. You don’t even grow huge whoppers like mine,” Abby’s Mom said. She waggled them for emphasis. They bounced.

Abby sneezed into her hand. She was half-naked, with her lewdly pink pussy dripping onto the car seat, but that was better then encasing her legs in jeans and underwear again. “What’s Lovedoll like?”

Abby’s Mom frowned and arched a sculpted eyebrow. “Well. they’re very smooth. And they never have trouble finding boyfriends. Or, um, owners.”

Her bra was starting to itch, too, and that was a synthetic fabric. Could she even wear clothes, anymore? They all seemed to bother her newly sensitive skin terribly.

“Lets just go to the stupid store,” Abby said. Maybe she could get something that wouldn’t look TOO bimbo-y.

The women’s apparel industry had been excited about H0N1 when it first showed up. It had looked like the disposable income of half of the world was about to be consolidated into toys, makeup, and lots and lots of super-sexy apparel. Stores had opened new branches, staffed by girly employees willing to use their mouth or their fingers to make a commission. A lot of debt had been assumed to open bouncy new locations with easy-to-use cash registers and thumping club music.

It hadn’t quite worked out that way.

Women who went through the Hornies liked clothes, true. Abby’s Mom had several closets bulging with enough different types of plaid to hold a Scottish wedding. But what Hornies girls liked was trashy and short and scanty and, above all, cheap. Why spend one thousand dollars on a dress when it was just going to get torn off in a fit of arousal? What point was a multi-layered sheath dress when it was all the way down to the KNEES, and hard to get off to boot? And why spend money on a name brand when it was places like Frederick’s of Hollywood that had the super-cute rubber or lycra-blend or costume wear that really got the boys weak at the knees and hard between them?

So there wasn’t any money to be made on margin, anymore. Everyone competed on volume. And that meant a converted warehouse on the edge of town, a kaleidoscope of racks in every bright color, in all curved shapes and small sizes, all flimsy and cheap but so cute and so fun.

Most of the sales staff were extremely well paid gay men. It was the only way.

It wasn’t the first time Abby had been there—she had gone with Mom, but stayed in the car. The transmission vector of H0N1 wasn’t well understood, but waltzing inside the Empornium was just asking for it. Not much point of that now. She opened the car door. At least the parking lot was mostly empty.

Julie’s little car was in the parking lot. Abby recognized it from the last Debate Mete. She had lost to the slim blonde in the final round, sputtering as the willowy girl gently led her into a rhetorical trap. Cottontail, huh? Served her right!

“Abby, you should probably put your underpants back on,” her Mom suggested.

Abby’s cheeks burned. Right. And she had been about to waltz outside, pussy exposed to the breeze. What if a guy walked by and wanted to stick a finger into her? All she could’ve done was sit there and enjoy it, getting bucked by some random...

Now she was dripping onto the chair, a perfumed clear fluid that was slightly sticky. Abby tugged up her pants—they felt tighter— and resolutely ignored the instant itching. And put on shoes, too— with no socks.

Abby’s Mom gently reminded her to zip up her zipper, but Abby forgot as soon as she walked in the front door.

The scent of the interior smacked her in the nose, and started to gently fry her brain. Abby inhaled involuntarily, and twitched as the marinade of endless numbers of girls and boys floated through her head, an entire sensory array she had never known existed. It was an overload of who was horny, who was ovulating, who was pregnant, along with signature scents of honeysuckle and lavender and a thousand other individualized thumbprints. No wonder the girls in Debate Club never talked much. Just by spreading their legs they were saying plenty.

Her mouth hung open, and she nearly drooled onto the floor. Brain cells struggled, popped, and sizzled.

“Whoops, look like we’ve got a new one!” a clerk said, trailing through the jungle of cheap and chintzy clothes. It was all one massive floor, loosely divided into handy categories like “shoes” and “lingerie,” but with signs like “maternity” and “double maternity” trailing in the gloom towards the end of the warehouse. Here and there, the heads of girls popped above the racks, glossy and perfect strands of hair searching for the perfect tiger-print bikini from the hundreds on offer. “Give it a minute, honey. You’ll get used to it. Just got diagnosed?”

Abby could barely nod. Even the stale pheromones from the infrequent male visitors were getting her tingly and warm. There simply wasn’t any ROOM left for rational and intellectual thought after coping with scent, and sensory input, and the insistent signals she was getting from her hornified skin.

“I’m Eric, I’ll walk you through everything,” the man said. He wore an expensive collared shirt and was covered in lightly tan muscle, but Abby could tell—was this pheromones?—that there was no real interest there. She liked his warm, sympathetic brown eyes, though. “Do we know if she’s got a variant?” he asked. “I don’t see the big eyes so it’s not Anime... and you aren’t gushing anywhere as far as I can tell... and I don’t see big puffy lips... hmmmm... think she might have Rubber? Or do we just not know yet? We could try milking her.”

“We’re thinking either Rubber or, uh, Lovedoll,” Abby’s Mom interrupted. She was sucking hard on a lollipop from her purse, just to keep herself focused.

Eric nodded, quick and fast. His expression changed to match every situation—from light and cheery to mock-concern in a blink. “So our new customer got an instant bikini wax, huh? Okay, easy way to check on that one. Abby? You with us, girl? Not too lost?”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess,” Abby mumbled. She was shocked at her own soft, dulcet tones. Her voice was like a pool of warm cream.

“Try and bend your index finger back. As far as it goes without hurting.”

“Sure,” Abby said, and felt so very happy—a rush of endorphins —that she had agreed to do what a guy wanted. “Stop this!” she told herself—but there was so little willpower to be found in the sensory stew.

Abby gingerly took hold of her finger, bent it backwards... and kept pulling. She barely felt anything, and blinked with shock as her fingernail rubbed at the back of her palm. It hadn’t hurt. If anything, it felt good, like she had finally gotten a decent stretch at the start of a beautiful sunny day. Her finger was bent at a grotesque angle, almost flat against the back of her hand.

“Ohhh, you’re a Rubber Girl!” Eric said, now excited. “Good for you! That’s soooo much easier then having one of those fluid variants where you go through a gallon of water an hour. And believe me, it’s a lot more fun then having to lug around a big pair of something or another around. Rubber is easy. And you’re so easy to clean!”

“Rubber,” Abby said, testing out the word. So that’s what she had. She vaguely remembered reading about it—all teenage girls spent a lot of time anxiously browsing the hundreds of subtypes.

“What else is there?” Abby’s Mom asked, anxiously. “Does she need special...?”

Eric put his hands on his hips and looked up at the distant ceiling. “Yeah, a few things. Let me see what I remember. Hmm. Cotton and wool are absolutely out. Just burn them or give anything she has away. Silks... maybe okay, for the bedsheets, but probably too coarse. Really you’re gonna want to start her on all synthetics, soft as possible. Vinyl, you know, PVC is fine, satin is okay, latex is absolutely perfect. Ooh, she must be dying in those clothes.”

“What about.. you know...” Abby’s Mom emphasized the curve of her tits. Eric scratched his head professionally.

“Maybe three cup sizes?”

“Three?” Abby thought. What was that, triple her current bust size?

“But no more. Nah. Not with Rubber. It’s not one of those, you know, wheelbarrow versions. Oh gosh, we just had a girl come in with Cottontail, poor dear, she had to get her bra cut off already with a pair of shears, it was digging into her so bad. She’ll be packing torpedos before she leaves the store, haha!”

That sounded like Julie, the infecting, horrible bitch.

“Hmm...” Eric mused. He started to lead them across the store, expertly taking shortcuts in the canopy of yellow baby-Ts and a large copse of black leather skirts. “I know I’m forgetting something about Rubber. Of course she’ll be more all-around curvy. Not PARTICULARLY horny girls, but, you know, not exactly a little nun either. Hair falls out... you knew that... very pliable in the rear end area, but I’m sure you already guessed, or tried it out....”

The rear end area? Abby had never even considered it. She had barely considered the front area. What was Eric even talking about? It was hard enough walking, with the awful burn of her ultra-coarse underwear rubbing off her skin.

“Oh! I remember!” Eric wheeled. “Abby, how do you feel about saying no to boys?”

“Uh, okay?” Abby said.

“Okay, well, so long to that. Rubber girls simply do NOT say ‘no.’”

He laughed.

Eric led her to what was apparently a specialized suite for “new girls” as he put it. It was a small hexagon of a room, with a trio of mirrors in the corner, for a full body view, plus endless racks of hangers on the brightly colored walls and a few benches. There was no carpet here—it was just tile—and that was sticky. Her nose told her that no guys ever came through the room. Abby needed the relief. Boys just filled a room with scents of sweat and muscle, tingling every nerve. She took a few deep breaths, willing her head to clear. She could get through this. It was all just a bit—overwhelming to start.

Already there was a new problem. Her feet ached. Something about the calves, not the itch from her cheap fabric tennis shoes. Abby mentioned it once her head had emerged from the sexual smog.

Eric considered the problem, ushering her onto a thin aluminum bench. Abby couldn’t help but notice that it was probably there because it would wipe clean. “Hmm. You probably just need heels. That’s pretty common, calves shortening. You weren’t planning on running track, I hope.”

“I didn’t do sports.”

“Oh, well, you will soon, sort of,” Eric said, and chuckled. “You get stripped. I’ll be right back with a starter kit, okay?”

Abby and her Mom watched him go.

“You need a vibrator, dear?” her Mom asked. Somehow she had picked up a pink pair of strappy heels on their way over, and was pulling them on. They didn’t match, but she didn’t seem to care. “I’ve got a spare in my purse. Never used! I swear. It’s for emergency situations, like if there’s a tornado or something.”

They finally had some privacy, so Abby yanked off her clothes. Outfits she had worn regularly for well over a year—they were hard to replace—she ripped off with passion, eager to get the awful scraps off her skin. Each thread was a taut source of discomfort, and visions of nice sleek latex bounced around her head, a smooth and silky fabric for her smooth and silky skin. Abby groaned as she released her bra, the last article to go, and threw it harshly down into a heap of discarded materials.

She was naked, and, looking down, she was different. The overhead fluorescent lighting caught her shiny, rubberized skin and reflected, like she was a smooth and polished surface. She could nearly see her own face in the light, and Abby stared, entranced, at the play of light and shadow on her own pore-free skin. It felt natural to be naked, not cold or hot or anything like that, just perfectly warm and comfortable. She felt like she could stare at her own body all day, lost in the depths of her own taut curves. It was hard even to detect veins underneath the amber-brown of her body.

“You look good, baby,” her Mom said, smiling and clapping. She started an involuntary cheer—A-B-B-Y!—and used her new shoes as pom-poms.

Abby walked on imaginary heels over to the mirror.

“I look like a cartoon,” she said, shocked at the girl looking back at her.

“Ohhhhh, you look great” her Mom said.

“I didn’t say I looked bad,” Abby said, casting a glance over her shoulder. She did look good. Or, more accurately, there was nothing bad left. Every imperfection she had previously noticed, every blemish, or hint of slight sag, or minor bit of acne, had completely and totally disappeared. It was like she was a walking photoshop, followed around by a team of touchup artists expertly taping up her ass, toning her waist, getting rid of unsightly marks, or any pores at all. Her boobs were certainly bigger, too, not the watermelon-swallowing ridiculousness so many girls were sporting, but high-standing tits that looked perky and fantastic from every angle she could try. She was the ultra-smooth product of hours of work, walking around with a come-hither look and a drool of lubrication starting to snake down her legs.

Abby couldn’t stop herself. Still staring at the mirror, at the pouty lips she had developed, she lowered herself into a perfect pair of splits. It was easy. Then she tried pulling her leg back over her head, still naked, watching her pussy lips pull open at the strain. Nothing hurt. Her pink slit pulled itself open, revealing a dark hint of mystery up the center of her thighs.

It was... intoxicating. She wasn’t some ridiculous-looking bimbo, toting huge knockers or mooing and addicted to pleasure like a crass drug. She was a work of digital art. Abby felt a sudden eagerness to get fucked, just to see how pretty she would look, her body getting manhandled in the mirror.

The girl bent at the waist, looked backwards into the mirror. Apparently she was a natural now for ass-play. What was that like? She was still a virgin, as much as the photogenic body she now had didn’t look it.

The stretching felt fantastic, too. Every ripple in her skin, or tension, just caused a wave of light tingling up her spine. A light workout would probably leave her gasping. Abby imagined herself sweating—did she still sweat?—on a kitchen counter, legs spread wide, her body wrapped around her man as only a Rubber girl could. Forget those horrible cows and their breasts—she was a perfect, flexible fuck for any time of day.

“It’s powerful, isn’t it?” her Mom murmured.

“Wha?”

“Your body. It just tells you what to do. You can’t really fight it. It feels just toooo good!”

Abby stopped herself. She stood perfectly straight, as much as she yearned to cartwheel and flip. “I’m in charge” she told herself.

She WAS.

Abby had always told herself that whatever else getting the Hornies might mean, she wouldn’t turn into a fucking moron when it came to clothes. And she reminded herself again when Eric came back into the room, bearing armloads of clothes in every color, bits of leather and lace falling onto the floor behind him. Her Mom’s warning had resonated, and she had forced herself back into underwear, and pulled on her shirt, bearing up as best she could the rasp of the cheap cotton. Eric seemed surprised to find her not naked, and Abby was proud of herself. Even if her underwear was translucent under a surge of lubrication.

Her clerk quickly layered stacks of clothes in some complicated pattern across a few more of the high aluminum benches. There was a rough progression from ugly and coarse to hot and sexy, left to right, and Abby’s eyes kept following the shiniest materials as they reflected under the lights. Just like her.

“Wool. Cotton. Polyester-blend. Spandex and Microfiber,” he recited. “Go ahead and try and touch wool.”

Abby approached the pile gingerly. The wool was a short but heavy grey skirt, with blue panels on the side. She had several like it— at three times the length—in her dresser. She tried to force her body to touch it, and stopped short. Her fingers wouldn’t do it. They twitched, fighting back.

“I can’t do it,” she reported. Abby looked at her fingers, and noticed something new. “Also, I don’t have any fingerprints anymore. Is that normal?”

Eric shrugged. “Were you using them for anything?”

“Uh...”

“Then whatever. Now touch the cotton and denim.”

This pile Abby could stroke, even though it felt like rubbing a cat the wrong way. There was a wrongness to it that repelled her nerves. She ran her fingers over the pile as quickly as possible. Even the jeans, her beloved jeans, which she had lived in and worked in and done everything in, felt like the wrong end of a lightning rod. She forced herself, gritting her teeth, to pick up a pair of light denim jeans, only to drop them, defeated. So much for those.

“Now,” Eric said. “Give the spandex a try, huh?”

These were... well, they reminded her... of her. Everything was frippy and short and shiny, and just seemed to fit underneath her fingers. Abby could just picture herself in them, sliding into a short pair of bright red capris, with a matching red halter top that nuzzled exactly and precisely against the side of her tits.

“I can wear these!” she exclaimed, excited. A lot of them looked like rejects from a skin-bearing exercise video, but at least they weren’t gaudy or ridiculous, with big zippers or leather pads emphasizing her ass. She would just look like a girl back from her workout, sweating but smooth, the perfect girl to admire walking down the street. Perfectly shaped in lycra and spandex, in bright primary colors, but without the lewdness or tawdry sexuality.

“Good, those will be a nice foundation,” Eric said, nodding. He pointed to the next pile. It was pure plastic. Vinyl and cheap bright PVC. The sex clothes pile, unrealistic and costume-y that crossed the line into whore clothes.

“Not necessary,” Abby said, firmly. This would be her new wardrobe. She grabbed blue boy shorts, paired it quickly with a pink tankini. Abby stripped off her clothes, uncaring—maybe even a little excited—to get naked in front of a guy. Her new clothes fit tightly, but perfectly. Like a second skin she could put off and on, emphasizing exactly what she needed to emphasize without letting everything just hang out. Perfect! She could be comfortable plus a looker without being a slut.

“I’m taking these out for a spin,” she announced. “We’ll get a load of Nike and Adidas stuff, and I’ll be good to go.” She could probably even manage long workout pants!

Abby walked with confidence out through the curtain. She was going to be the exception, the sensible one, with a real wardrobe instead of an everyday stripper routine. She—

She nearly walked right into Julie. Or what WAS Julie.

Cottontail didn’t mess around.

Her blonde rival already sported the characteristic white puffball. Abby stared at it. It looked like a Halloween costume, a white piece of fluff glued to the back of her tailbone, occasionally fluttering involuntarily. Julie had apparently been given the changing room next door, trying out her own new set of clothes, stretching and pulling at a new body and trying to make it fit. She was wearing a one-piece leotard, paired with a matching pair of pantyhose, a Playboy Bunny icon in every way, down to the arched heels she moved awkwardly in.

The rest of Julie looked like an adolescent boy’s doodling. The only thing still wasp-thin was her waist and a slender tummy. The rest was ballooned, most obviously in a whopping pair of teardrop-shaped tits that clung tenaciously to the top of her chest. Then there was the huge, fertile thighs, a promise of ovulation if there ever was one, probably capable of shooting babies across the room. Her figure made hourglasses look small and outdated, an exaggerate figure that took everything female and amped up the volume. Abby couldn’t imagine how the girl didn’t fall over. She looked like she was made to lay on her back and get penetrated.

Julie turned around. Their eyes met. Both crossed their arms, although Julie struggled to manage it, finally tucking them underneath her chest.

There were the teeth. The big Cottontail buckteeth that were outsized and ridiculous. It ruined the entire effect of femininity defined. Two large incisors that gave her an overbite.

“So,” Abby said. She was still taking in the changes. Julie’s upper lip twitched. “Cottontail, huh?”

“Yesh,” Julie said. They both had lost their gramatically-perfect diction. Abby’s voice was a silken hiss, and Julie had a newly lush and breathy voice, with a lisp from the teeth. “You too? Same day, huh?”

“Yeah, what are the odds?” Abby said. She managed to put hostility into a voice not made for it. “Thanks for infecting me. I was getting tired of jeans and my virginity anyway.”

“I didn’t infect you,” Julie said, frowning. “That’s not even how the virus works.”

She shifted. And THEN her scent reached Abby.

It was like a fountain of sex. Lots of girls had exaggerated bodies, or mountain-like chests. But Cottontail girls released an elixir. Abby’s body responded on a chemical level, and she felt herself getting wetter, hotter, falling down into an estrus-like rut. Her nipples pulled themselves up, rubbing across the new clothes.

“Keep your legs crossed, christ!” Abby managed. Julie startled, and her cheeks reddened.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m still getting used to this. It’s going to take some getting used to.”

Abby shook her head. She still wanted to get penetrated, bad. Julie was like a walking drug. “Guess you won’t have any trouble losing your virginity tonight, huh?” she said. “I hope the mailman isn’t doing anything else.”

“I didn’t get you infected,” Julie said. “Do you think I wanted this or something?”

“I know what you want. You can’t even keep your legs crossed.”

Julie squeezed her thighs shut, again. She glared back at Abby. “If you must know, I lost my virginity three months ago.”

Abby scoffed. “Sure you did. To who?”

“Paul.”

Abby’s world dropped away. She had never been both horny and nauseated. It was a disgusting feeling.

“No. Not possible.”

Julie nodded. “At the Debate Convention. You were off sulking because I beat you fair and square. We both got sort of drunk on the minibar.. and well, we figured, what the hell, and...”

Abby just stared at her in disbelief. Julie? Paul? HER Paul?

“W-why?”

“He said he didn’t want just any big-racked bimbo. I mean, not that it matters now, seeing as how I’m like a big dumb cartoon.” Julie looked sad, although it came off as an adorable pout.

“And then, what? That was it? A one night stand?”

“I broke it off.”

“You broke it off!”

“I was trying to get Valedictorian,” Julie explained. “Seems kind of stupid now. I had a good thing going and I let it get away. Now he’ll probably never talk to me again, unless he likes painful blowjobs.” She rubbed at her outsized teeth. They looked vicious.

She rubbed her eyes, and the vague, horny look returned. “God, I’m soooo horny,” Julie complained. Her legs swung open again, like a greased hinge. “All the clerks don’t want to work with me because Cottontail messes with their sexuality. I’m just sitting alone in there, all stupid and hot, and it sucks. Everything just sucks. Except for me, because I’ve got these huge teeth.”

Abby looked around. Someone needed to comfort Julie, but it wasn’t going to be her. “Uh, where’s your Mom?”

“She’s working. She’s got Goo, anyway. Stores hate cleaning up after her.”

Geez, Goo and Cottontail in one family? Julie’s family hit the wrong slots on Wheel of Sluts.

Julie’s hand was kneading over the long surface of her tits. “I just can’t stop touching myself, either. Uhhh. Shit. I got to find a guy. I need to get fucked so bad. Abby. I know we’re not friends or anything. But listen, you get some guy, never let him go.”

Julie was unabashed, rolling her nipple around her thumb and bringing her other hand down to mash through the fabric of her cheap leotard. She let her legs fall open, and the blast furnace of her pheromone factory wafted towards Abby once again. There wasn’t much left of the Debate Club Julie, the ice queen who had apparently fucked Abby’s dream boyfriend even as a twig. This was a girl made out of sex, burning with it, ravenous for stimulation and designed to get penetrated.

And yet totally crippled by a basic inability to give a hummer. It was like one of those Greek tragedies Abby sort of recalled. Abby’s mouth watered, watching her rival pull aside her fabric to get a better shot at her own slit.

She almost started a mutual masturbation sesson, two sluts on the warehouse floor, jacking off with abandon in a hormonal daze of rutting chemicals. But Abby tore herself away, stumbled back through the curtain, took deep breaths to get the scent of Julie out of her nose.

“Mom, can I have that vibrator?” she asked.

“Sure, honey,” her Mom said, tossing it to her. Abby grabbed the stubby piece of plastic, then dashed outside the curtain, holding her nose. She deposited it on Julie’s shivering, slumped body, with a curt “here, you’ll need this.”

“Okay,” she said, returning. “Eric? I’m gonna try on some of that vinyl stuff. Pink, if you have it. As tight as can be. Then we’ll tighten it. And if you have any body oil, I’ll buy it. Whatever boys like, I’ll wear it.”

“Sure,” Eric said, commission dollar signs flashing briefly in his eyes. “What changed your mind, honey?”

Abby glanced backwards. “This may seem hard to believe, but I just got a little smarter.”

In the end they had two piles. One pile of cute microfibers and figure-hugging synthetics, and one pile of what Abby mentally termed “fuck clothes.” She wore her fuck clothes to the register, because, as much as she hated to admit it, they made her glow and she liked feeling like the hottest thing in the room.

What choice did she have? The boy-craze was starting to creep up on her, she could feel it. All of a sudden the over-the-top sexuality of her classmates made a lot more sense. It didn’t matter what SHE liked. It mattered what boys liked. And she liked what boys liked, because what she liked was boys. Maybe on a desert island she would lounge around in mere tankinis and hip-skimming shorts. Otherwise, she needed to advertise.

And the truth was, she was creaming herself like crazy just touching the ultra-plastic slutwear. The more plastic and artificial and rubber the better. She couldn’t seem to stay away from bright metallic sheens, or things with glitter on them, or anything that was glossy and cheap. Every time Abby had tried to veer away from things with studs in them, or rhinestone black bikinis, or cherry pink metallic, her hand kept slipping back.

It had taken her some time to notice, but her expression was changing, too .Each time she made the trip back to the mirrors in a brightly colored tube dress, stumbling in clear plastic heels, it was a little different. Her lips had developed a cute little pout, a light pink and innocent half-open look. Her eyes were still at least partially hidden behind her glasses, but now they were wide-eyed and startled. The entire look was of pleasant, naive surprise. Abby had tried to look stern and serious, but the effort had set her off on a round of giggles.

She was starting to giggle, too.

Now she was dolled up and fidgeting in a dark purple halter top, one shoulder bare. Everything was wrong with it. It had metallic glitter, it had rhinestones studding the strap, and it pushed her tits into a perfect ridge of cleavage. For a skirt Abby wore a simple black tube, a hands-breadth down her legs, and black bikini bottoms were just going to have to do for underwear. Anything else either felt scratchy or coarse, or made her unbearably horny.

She tried not to look in the huge bags of clothes she was carrying. All the fabrics and colors just made her wetter.

Julie was gone. Abby had vaguely heard her packing up and heading to the register.

Eric rang them up, boxing the six pairs of shoes Abby had swooned over. All heels. Anything else made her topple over.

The clerk looked around. Abby’s Mom was several aisles away, making a few last minute additions to her own new polka-dotted additions.

He pulled a business card out of his pocket. It read “First Times” in black script with a phone number underneath, and nothing else.

“So. Abby. I think we’ve learned a lot about each other, and I think you know how to take care of yourself,” he said smoothly, keeping one eye on Abby’s Mom.

“So...?” Abby said. She tried to look apprehensive, but her mouth just wouldn’t cooperate. It looked kissable.

“So I’m guessing you’re hot, wet, and bothered.”

Abby just looked at him. Of course she was hot, wet, and bothered. She had juices running down her legs.

“Okay?” she said.

“So I’m... associated... with a group that, uh, tapes girls in their first... sexual experience... after catching the Hornies. It’s a fetish for a lot of guys, you know? Losing that last shred of innocence, et cetera, et cetera, that kind of thing.”

Abby arched an eyebrow. At least she could still do THAT.

Eric had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Soooo, I know you’ll be bored tonight, and probably looking for someone to do, and if so, call this number. We’ll send the car, we’ll pay all the expenses,” he winked at her. “And we’ll bring the guys.”

Guys. Abby shivered. “Ummm... how many?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

Eric laughed. “I like your attitude. As many as you want, honey! As many as you can possibly want. AND you can pick your own name! Although I think someone is already using Elastigirl.”

He pinched the business card together, and slipped it between her tits. Abby tried really hard to get mad. But it was so hard to feel mad at a boy. And, besides, the thought of getting shafted was just too, too pleasant.

Several hours later, Abby was back in her room and masturbating idly.

It seemed anticlimactic to finally slip a few fingers up her snatch, after everything she had gone through. She had masturbated pre-Hornies, after all. It wasn’t very dramatic. Especially compared to the new fantasies running through her mind. Abby, twisted like a rubber band between six guys, completely plugged and finding it hard to breathe. Abby spreadeagled on a hotel balcony, ten stories up, clutching a guy as he expertly brought her to dangerous, screaming orgasm. Trusting him to keep her from falling over.

Compared to that, a few fingers up her pussy stroking away wasn’t so big. And it was a relief to be home.

Of course, usually she jacked off in bed, underneath the covers, or in the bathroom, nervously sitting on the toilet. Now Abby had her legs up on her desk, looking into a mirror, watching herself glisten and drip onto old classwork while frigging herself with both hands. It felt almost as good to simply run her hands over her rubberized skin, feeling each muscle and nerve ripple underneath her touch. That was different, too. Skin used to just be skin. Now it was a big nerve ending, and when she broke out in sweat, an erotic sheen covered her entire body, head to toe, in an extra gloss of lightly-perfumed scent.

It was weird, being back in her room. She stared nervously at her bookcase. There was poetry books there, not, like, the easy rhyme-y stuff but SUPER HARD stuff like Yeats and Chaucer. And her complete Jane Austen collection. And, worst of all, the menace that was War and Peace. How had she read stuff like that, pre-Hornies?

As an experiment, Abby had dug out an old Babysitter’s Club. It hadn’t gone well. Babysitting was just too much for her imagination. She kept thinking of herself, laced into a vinyl dress, fucking the husband in the kitchen. It was more like ten seconds of plot setup and an hour of sharply imaged fucking, fantasizing about his shaft rubbing circles on the bright pink nub of her clit.

She could really use a good fuck. Abby didn’t feel like a virgin. She felt like an easy lay.

The First Times business card sat on her desk.

She had checked the organization out online. It was a very popular website. And, just as advertised, there was lots of girls just like her, sorted by Hornies category, getting their first REAL fuck on film. Abby recognized a few classmates. Their eager, desperate expressions and screams were both arousing and a little scary. If they had any remaining brains, those were clearly getting rattled onto the floor by the jackhammering they were getting.

Abby had checked out a few videos specializing in Rubber girls, just like her. They looked even better then she did, more experienced at stuff like makeup and finding the right outfit to perfectly emphasize their perfect blend of vulnerability and flexibility. And Rubber girls seemed to be popular, too. It was a nice changeup from the bouncing, torpedo-sized tits that dominated the Hornies spectrum. Girls like Julie.

Julie. She probably had gotten a card, too. Cottontail was not a popular category. With the teeth it was kind of a joke, although they brought a few in for orgy scenes. No one could resist those pheromones, including the cameraman, who eventually put the set down and joined in.

Abby closed her eyes, picked up the phone, summoned some desperate courage, and dialed.

Luckily, she still remembered Paul’s number.

He answered in his raw, manly baritone. Even over a tinny cell phone, it rubbed a nerve up and down Abby’s body. It was hard to grasp the phone with a wet and sweat-soaked hand. “Hello?”

Abby couldn’t help herself. “Hiiiii Paullll,” she mewed, into the phone.

There was a pained silence on the other end. “I mean, ahem. Paul. Hey. This is Abby, yeah, just called to say hi,” she managed.

This was going to be weird.

Her body wanted to coo and mew over the male, but she wanted at least to TALK to Paul. And Paul wanted to talk to her normally. And she wanted to do whatever the boy wanted. It was a weird and incredibly erotic paradox.

Paul sounded relieved that she could be at least a little normal. “Hi Abby. I heard you caught you-know-what. You and Julie.”

“Yeah. Same day. What are the odds. She got Cottontail.”

“Cottontail?” he said. “Geez. Is she doing okay? Whew. She’s got the, uh, teeth? And everything?”

“And everything,” Abby confirmed. “Everything but the carrot.”

“What’s she look like?”

Abby examined her nails. Her Mom only had nail polish in pink and lighter pink. She looked best in a darker, burgundy red. And the sharp acid of the polish was a nice contrast to her scent. “Julie is... you know. she’s a big bunny girl with huge boobs. That’s how Cottontail works.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah”

“I, uh, I feel pretty bad for her,” Paul said.

You mean you fucked her, Abby thought. Well, Julie could enjoy her first on-screen role at First Timers, tonight. Maybe she would get an IMDB credit.

“Hey, I think I know how you two caught it,” Paul said, offhand. “You know. H0N1. Apparently Cristine Marciano and Thomas Pawolski have been milking in Mr. Roberds’ room, after school. And into the night. Right where you two sit. Looks like you both got hit by the backwash. Yeah. One of the other girls, Paula Reynolds? She got it yesterday, and she sits right behind you guys.”

Abby furrowed her eyebrows.

So. It wasn’t Julie. They were both just random victims of a large and forgotten pool of milk and cum, dried on their desks until both of them sat down. And Julie had gotten Cottontail, while Abby could at least go to the grocery store without causing an orgy and buying up the carrots.

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Yeah. That’s really tough for Julie.”

“What did you get?” Paul asked. Was he just asking, or...?

“Ummm. Rubber. I know, so stereotypical for the asian girl, right? I almost wish it was Moo or Cream, just to strike a blow for, um, stereotypes, I guess.”

“Rubber. Rubber,” Paul mused. “What’s that do?”

Abby realized she had been rubbing her slit throughout the entire conversation. Should she tell Paul that? Was it impolite or normal to fuck herself while she talked? “All my body hair fell out, and I’m super shiny and smooth and reflective now, like my body is a big sex toy or something. I can totally bend anywhere a guy wants me to, no matter what, and I’ve got this perfectly fuckable ass with the best set of tits you can imagine.”

“Oh,” Paul said. “That’s, uh, quite a description.”

Abby berated herself. She had veered into fuckdoll talk sometime during that description. But she wanted to convince Paul that she was the same Abby he knew, and also that she was a pliable and horny piece of meat he should plow for the rest of his life. It was a lot of strain. Thank god she could rub her clit at the same time.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m rubbing myself off right now. Uh, can I just say that? I’m not sure what I should tell people. The etiquette is all weird and stuff.”

Paul was starting to breath heavily. Abby took that as encouragement. “Ummm. And I can only wear, like, vinyl and rubber and stuff, and right now it’s pink heels with a red dress with the zipper down the front. But other then that I’m pretty much the same Abby!”

“Whew,” Paul said, shaken. “So I guess you’ll... uh... have to give up being President of the Debate Club, and Valedictorian, and all that, huh? And college.”

“Noooo!” Abby insisted. It came out as a petulant whine. “I can still do all that stuff. That was ALWAYS the plan. It’s still the plan. This is just, like, Plan B.”

“It’s okay if you can’t,” Paul said, patronizing. “That’s just how it is.”

“That’s not true.” She was losing him again. But why? What was she doing wrong? She couldn’t be any more of a bimbo.

“Abby, it’s okay. Come on. You don’t even want to anymore, am I right?”

“Do you have a thing for smart girls, Paul?” Abby said. It was a shot in the dark. But it made a lot of sense. That would be the biggest fetish of all, wouldn’t it? The unobtainable. “Is that what you like? Girls that can derive and discuss literature and debate? Is that your secret turn-on?”

Paul’s breathing changed again, became very slow and dangerous.

“I can still, uh, do smart stuff,” Abby said. This was impossible. The only reason she wasn’t just cooing and dripping on the phone was that Paul WANTED her to have a normal conversation...

“Name something smart,” he said, hoarsely.

“Being smart doesn’t work like that! Uhhh. Okay, Buenos Aires is a capital of... a country!” This wasn’t going to work. Paul’s breathing kept cutting the cord of her thoughts, filling them with luscious pink sex scenes.

Abby had another flash of insight.

“Paul, will you feel my titties if I answer a question for you?” she said, speeding up her rhythm between her legs. This had to work.

“What?” Paul said.

“C’mon. You can do it at school tomorrow. If I answer your question, you’ll let me get my boobies felt up, by you,” Abby said. “Pleeeease? Now, ask me something really smart and hard.”

Paul sounded confused. “Uh. Fine. What’s the square root of six hundred and twenty-five?”

And suddenly, the sharp shock of motivation jolted Abby’s sex-scented head into action. If she came up with an answer, she could get her nipples rubbed, which meant...

“Twenty-five!” she shouted, into the receiver.

“Holy shit. That’s right.” Paul said, enthusiastic. “How about nine hundred?”

But all those thoughts were gone again, replaced by the idea of Paul’s hands over the top of her tits, rubbing in a circular pattern. “Ummm... will you cum over my tits if I tell you?”

“Oh, yeah. Fuck yeah,” Paul said. His breathing was getting hotter and shorter. Maybe his shaft was already pointing straight up, entranced by the idea of a hot and wet girl able to answer his every command. It was certainly getting Abby wet.

“Thirty,” Abby panted, properly motivated. “Uh. Uh. Ask me a hard one. And you have to fuck me doggy style if you do.”

“Fine. What’s.. fuck, this is crazy... what are the three parts of the atom?”

“Electrons and protons and...”

“Abby.” Paul interrupted. “Do you think your parents will mind if I come and pick you up like right-fucking-now?”

Abby had gone with “fuckable librarian” as a theme for Paul’s arrival. A short white vinyl shirt, with pink piping on the sides, with a clip-on tie she borrowed from her oblivious and giggling mother. Then a tiny and shiny black skirt, coupled with dark black heels with big pink buckles. And her thick glasses. She had some synthetic-blend thigh-highs that would’ve matched perfectly, but didn’t want to risk itchiness until she had a chance to try it.

It hadn’t really mattered. Paul had gone wild at the sight of her. She had brought along a copy of the dictionary, as a prop, and read bits of it while pawing at Paul’s fly. It was all stupid and had turned him into a raving sexual madman.

The first look at his cock was a shining, happy revelation. They pulled over on some unused road. It was cold out, and the hood of a car wasn’t really comfortable to fuck on. But Abby didn’t really care.

“C’mon. Say something smart,” Paul whispered, fevered. “Every time you say something smart I’ll push a little harder.”

“Uhhh...” Abby gurgled. She was extremely focused on the insistent prong forcing its way between her legs. But Eric was right. She couldn’t say no to a guy. She rummaged around in the tattered wreckage of her head for some random facts.

“The first... prime number... is one,” she said.

“Yes!” Paul said, and pushed into her. There wasn’t any resistance, just a silken release as he pushed a sizable shaft into the very back of her body. Abby was pinned between cold hood and her grunting lover. She couldn’t’ve been any happier.

The inches of Paul’s shaft flipped switches in her brain, and she rippled, stretching her legs to the utmost. Her backside pounded against the plastic of the cheap car hood, the motor still idling underneath. First Abby pointed her stretchable legs at the moon, then wrapped them around her boy’s chest, urging him closer.

Not that she really needed to test her flexibility. Paul was insatiable. He insisted she leave the glasses on, even as they got smeared with streaks of hot sweat and bits of flying fluid. She couldn’t imagine the tension he must’ve stored up, waiting for the perfect blend of sex and smarts.

Even if she did have to basically fake it. Oh well. If she pretended to have brains, wasn’t that the same thing as having them?

That sounded philosophical, she would have to try it on Paul, see if that got him even harder.

When he erupted inside her, it was a white flood, and her orgasm sent Abby sprawling up the car hood, her hair flipping back and forth.

There was really only one thing left to do. Although Abby waited until Paul had violated her virgin ass. It had been even easier then her first fuck, and just as enjoyable. Then, when he was off taking a leak and recovering, she pulled out the phone from her purse, and dialed.

“Julie?” she said. “Are you there?”

Julie sounded depressed. “Huh? Abby? Why are you calling?”

“Listen, Julie. Are you already at the First Timers thing?”

“They’re, umm, sending a car over,” Julie said, embarrassed.

“Don’t bother. Look, I want you to call Paul. Yeah. And here’s EXACTLY what I want you to say.”

Three months passed...

Abby always made sure to keep three things on camera at all times. First, the spectacle of her naked, charged body, plus a close-up of either her oil-smeared tits or her pussy. Or, if she was getting fucked by Paul, the smack of flesh on flesh. Second, the makeshift “library” they used as a set, with the backdrop of books that got her sizable clientele so hot and bothered. And finally, the book she was reading from while masturbating. This time, it was Voltaire’s Candide. It was a little soggy from sex juices, and the pages would be hard to turn from now on, but it had done the job. She had been a little extra-motivated, now that they had reached ten thousand subscribers.

She looked at the camera. “Hey everyone, thanks for watching Abby’s Smart Shack. If you’re keeping track, that was fifty pages of high-class literature, and four orgasms for this high-class lady. I’m going to take a short break, but we’ll have Amy and Kimmy and Sarah in here for our all-girl, all-pregnant Shakespeare production of Romeo and Juliet.”

Paul, behind the camera, panned it over her ass, then over the diplomas they kept hung in the back of the room, for masturbation material. Sure, three were made-up online degrees, but one WAS her high school diploma.

“And after that, I’ll be back with Julie for our race-to-orgasm discussion of libertarianism,” Abby purred. “Who will make the most points before cumming from the eight-inch vibrators we’ve crammed up each other? We’ll find out!”

She squirmed in front of the camera, and giggled.