Seven Day Boy
by Limerick
THURSDAY
Sarah wasn’t super sure what she was supposed to be doing with her life. Nowadays, stuffing her face with popcorn while touching herself seemed to make sense as a career move. There was a pretty good argument that lazing around, blowing boys and cumming, was what girls should and would aspire to. Definitely it seemed unlikely that any of the fat-titty cock-wanting horny-butt creatures that ladies had morphed into would be, for example, the President of the United States.
There, she had argued herself in to a night of television.
“...and I’m going to be honest, Megan, I am not bothering with bras. I’m just not!” Megan, a brunette, nodded vigorously on-screen The networks had hustled a lot of post-nano stuff onto the airwaves. Pre-nano stuff was either depressing or simply strange. Those people were aliens now.
“So what’re we thinking here?” Megan said, picking through a huge wad of fabric. “No bra. I’ve got maybe an hour before my boyfriend gets home and then I’m useless all night. I don’t really sew. Put an outfit together for me, Anna.”
Anna was dressed in a lumpy but sparkly top that seemed to be draped and folded around her tits, with a lot of underboob visible. Sarah paused on the remote. Like everyone, she had drawer after drawer of clothes that didn’t fit at all.
“So toss out your pants,” Anna declared. “It’s not happening. I mean, like, they can be mopup rags, if you’re getting spunk on the furniture.”
“Never!” Megan said. The audience cheered. She mugged for the camera. “If you ladies are spilling drops, PLEASE call me over!” Laughs. Sarah giggled.
“Yeah, so, if you’ve got maybe ten minutes, start to cut. Everything is a mermaid skirt. Everything has a thigh slit. All you need is scissors,” Anna wielded a pair. “This skirt cost me $200. It probably can’t fit any ass in America anymore. So here we go.” She cut a vengeful swath.
That seemed easy enough. Sarah had been living in tights, telling herself that they were skintight on her butt and ergo sexy. But she’d have to stop lying to herself.
She had no idea what to do with her life. There. A little honesty. She had a retail job she was on “leave” from. No men in her life. One man. A work buddy from the job. He was nineteen and still had pimples.
That was enough honesty. She zapped the TV. “...and the CDC has updated its recommendations for adult women with nano infections.” Sarah made a face. The fucking news. She had just stopped watching. Yes, everyone was sexy now, it wasn’t really news. It was society. Although CNN had started to experiment with letting the camera linger on really hot scenes out in public. Central Park was a vast land of girls on their knees, a rainbow of all creeds and colors sucking in unison. Sort if inspiring. It all came out white, after all. Although that didn’t sound great either. It all spurted the same. There.
The newscaster was a graven male with slicked back hair. His chin jutted at the camera. Sarah let out a lengthy sigh. Maybe she could find an untapped reservoir of men of a certain age who would be happy to let her fill up. Like a golf course, she could be a golf slut. 19th hole Sarah.
“...warned to avoid contact with unfiltered semen, as the prolonged exposures are increasingly…” Sarah zapped it. She didn’t need this.
The ads were also kinda sad. Sarah could just imagine some focus group of top-heavy girls, with the attention span of spaniels, talking about how their new interests were men and attracting men. Someone had even rushed a car ad out, of all things, with a male voiceover touting “seats to fit the most ample backside.”
A ditz looked confused. “You mean it can fit my big fat butt?” she said.
And there were all sorts of hard-to-miss metaphors for dicksucking. Cocks were in. Girls were so excited about shampoo in their shiny hair they started sucking on shower wands. They were fellating all kinds of things—bananas, plungers, car keys, any number of fingers, whenever they saw some impressive product. Hey, just like a penis! Insulting. Hot but insulting. They should just have a hot guy look at the camera and tell women to buy Oreo’s, Sarah thought. She’d probably do it.
Sarah took a break from her exploration of post-nano television programming to jill off to Patrick Swayze, and to drink a government jizz pack. She kept telling herself that she’d read Bridget Jones’ Diary—it seemed like the perfect novel to get her exhausted bimboized brain back into reading. Instead, she clicked again. She hadn’t bothered to put clothes back on. If a man broke in and found her naked, well and good.
“What we’re seeing is a new equilibrium between our primal selves, illustrated by our… by the DEMANDS of our body, and our intellectual selves,” Sarah stopped just on the image of the person talking. Another blonde, who had dealt with her added titflesh and wide hips by going full 1980s. Big, towering hair, body wrapped in a semi-formal outfit that seemed to be possibly velvet and was definitely pink neon. And big glasses.
“Our primal selves,” said the host, who had her legs not crossed very well. Sarah could see her pussy in HD clarity. So that was a thing now. She had a nice pussy.
“Kristen, I feel them as much as anyone—as anyone!” the woman said, to the host. “But I know—I believe—that these—these urges, these desires, they’re just us refusing to be our best selves—”
“Our best selves, Monica?” Kristen said, shaking her head. They shot to the audience. It was a little sparse—who wanted to spend half a day listening to boring-ass talk—but there were a crowd of big-butt bimbos all rolling their eyes. “So when we get on our knees, that’s not our best selves?”
“Kristen, please,” Monica said. She sat forward in her chair. She didn’t have the filled-out figure of girls who had diligently sucked up nanos with every gulp. Just mildly pretty, her skin dry and cracked. Sarah felt vaguely sad for her. Not that her own skin was any better. “We’re becoming toys! Pumps! Drains! We’re rational, we have to be! I’m proof that with self-control…”
“Ohhhh speaking of self-control,” Kristen said, and the audience cheered. Sarah’s tired brain finally got around to reading the chyron. “SEVEN DAY BOY MEETS NO-SUCK GIRL,” she eventually worked out. Ah-ha. That explained the crowd’s willingness to listen to no-suck propaganda.
“Lets bring him out!” Kristen cried, and the audience cheered wildly. Of course from behind a screen Sarah didn’t get to smell him, but she watched, rapt, as a real seven-day boy walked in. He wore loose mesh shorts and a somewhat pained grin. She could only imagine the scent. It must be like a nasal hummer, she figured.
The effect on the girls was startling. Like they had all been drugged. “Whew!” Kristen managed, already drooling. “That’s… okay. Wow. That is intense as fuck. Oh my gawd. This is Bobby. Bobby… uhhh… can I.. can I suck…”
“No,” Bobby said, mildly. Kristen flinched. Sarah felt for her. Seven day boys, seven days abstaining, building up a charge of cum so potent it was practically mystical. It was dangerous for the guy. Eight days could mean a heart attack. They apparently smelled like god in man.
“Hi Monica,” Bobby said, giving her just a glance. He looked right at the camera, then favored the crowd with a wave. The crowd was eerily quiet. A bunch of girls, all wondering if, just maybe, they could get a lick.
“Oh.. oh… this is… this is… coerc—this is SUPER not fair you guys,” Monica said. She kept opening and closing her mouth, her hips moving on their own accord. “Oh my god. Oh god it’s… you’re a MAN. A MAN!”
“Everyone ready for a look?” Bobby said. He dropped his shorts. It was truly wonderful looking. Hard and red. A glisten of precum on the tip. Seven days! Sarah would’ve given up a lot for a taste. Maybe everything.
“Oh.. oh this is you wanting me to suck that, and drink it, and i’ll look like a silly fucky-wucky barbie girl and shit,” Monica mumbled. She kept trying to keep her knees from buckling. She removed her big glasses with a shaky hand. “I’ll be cumdumb and pumped all wet and hot and this isn’t fair you guys. It’s so good. It’s a drug. Big droplets of drugs.”
“Michael,” Kristen said, standing up wildly. “Michael! This segment is off, okay? I want it. I don’t want her to have it, I want to suck it. Okay? Michael! Is that okay?” she stumbled off camera, skirt hiked up, fluid dribbling down both thighs. No one in the room seemed to notice. Sarah was rapt. This was amazing television.
“I’m not gonna suck this.. I’m… okay I’m gonna just look at it, and sniff it,” Monica was waddling over on both knees. “Okay this is… oh god, it’s so beautiful. It’s so good. It’s…” and then she had her mouth around it. Sarah had put her own fingers up her slit at some point. Seven days worth of spunk. What a lucky slut that girl was. Maybe she could pretend to be no-cum, get some guys to have a thrill teaching her a lesson. That was a great idea, now that she had her fingers up her pussy.
Bobby, for all his confident smile, dumped his load in Monica immediately. He looked relieved. Monica had an immediate, screaming, full-motor orgasm, shaking and trembling. The audience looked stunned, regretful. Monica, despite her eyes rolling back in her head, hadn’t spilled a drop. Seven days she had in her tummy, starting their inevitable push to make her a bit more bosomy, a bit more sensitive.
Sarah couldn’t help but compare her little orgasm to it and sigh. She turned the TV off. She was going to get up, staple together an outfit, get back to work and find that cock. And if not, there was always more television.