I didn’t write this. Limerick from Mcstories did

“You’re having a tea party?” Terri said, sitting at the kitchen table. She itched awkwardly at an exposed leg. Her grey sweats had been nearly destroyed by the work. At her Mom’s suggestion, she was trying out a baggy pair of shorts. After a week it felt a little strange to show any skin, but it did help with the low-level heat that filled the house.
“Book club,” Anne said. She was making canapés. And she had another one of her titillating dresses on, a green one with a white sash. It had a v-neck that plunged to the center of her chest. Two breasts poked out on either side. Terri had hesitated to ask, but they WERE bigger, weren’t they?
“Then what’s the book?”
“We didn’t actually get around to picking one,” Anne admitted. “But that’s why we’re meeting. To pick a book for next week.”
Terri rolled her eyes.
“Your eyes are going to stick like that if you’re not careful,” Anne said.
She rolled a piece of bacon around a fig. Terri nearly drooled. Why was she so hungry, all the time? Did it have anything to do with her newly irrepressible sex drive?
“Good! Then I’ll go around freaking people out with my all-white eyes. It’ll be great,” Terri said. “Who are these women?”
“Oh, you know. Ladies from the neighborhood. Mrs. Pritcher. Mrs. Scoaler. Mrs. Taylor…”
It was a nearly complete list of the prudish, busy-body women that staffed the Calving PTA and spent most of their time disapproving of things.
Terri opened her mouth to say as much, and Anne stuffed a fig in it. It was delicious. Her train of thought plunged off the rails.
“Go take a shower,” Anne directed. “I’ll give you one of my dresses to wear. You, dear daughter, will be serving the tea.”
Terri tried to fight back.
But the fig was stuffed with ricotta. And all she could do was nod.
* * *
Terri closed the bathroom door and examined herself in the mirror.
“Oh geez,” she murmured, to herself.
She was busting out in curves all over. That damn ice cream!
Already her rail-thin body was a memory. No longer could she see three bony ribs floating just underneath her boobs. Now her body was increasingly sleek and well-fed, almost glossy, rippling with a new bounty of curves.
What hadn’t gone to her hips had gone to her boobs. They had inflated like party balloons over the past week, swelling from mere bumps to the honest-to-goodness breasts she had had before college. Her hips were embarrassingly wide, back to the child-bearing country curves she had been so mortified by.
Not that she looked BAD…
“No more ice cream,” she told herself. That had to be it. That stuff was 90% fat. Whatever Reverend Flynn put in it, it was overencouraging the part of her genetic makeup that wanted to be described as “buxom.”
She eased her growing form into the shower. For the first five minutes she dully scrubbed herself.
“Okay, Terri, be honest with yourself,” she said, watching the hot water dribble down a small expanse of honest-to-goodness cleavage.
She was starting to get turned on… by pretty much anything. It wasn’t just at the end of the day, anymore. All morning Terri had caught herself day-dreaming about boys… sex… slutty little outfits she remembered from college…
A few minutes of the torrent of steaming water, and she started feeling red hot. Already her re-inflated nipples were perking up.
Terri eased a finger down to her snatch. She was starting to seriously considering shaving. Considering how much time she was spending down there, her pubic hair was just an irritation.
“No!” her mind told her, dragging her libido to the back of her head. Not now! Tonight. The tea party women would be there any minute!
Terri flipped the dial to ‘freezing’ and waited for the wet tingles to fall away.
It took a very long time.
* * *
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said. She was in her mid-40s, with carefully crafted Mom hair that hadn’t been restyled since 1986. Terri refilled her mug to the brim. She made a face when the older woman couldn’t see.
The whole experience was mortifying. Serving tea. Acting like a… waitress… while the ‘ladies’ gabbed at each other. They all wore tasteful and boring dark-colored dresses, and had their legs crossed.
But what was most embarrassing of all was that she was wearing her Mom’s dress, and that it didn’t fit well. Too loose in the chest. Pinched horribly at the waist. Her two knobby knees stuck out of the bottom.
She had fought back against the heels. Anne had just shrugged and agreed.
Now she felt dumpy and short without them.
“How about The Road?” Anne suggested. “Cormac McCarthy. Oprah recommended it.”
“Oprah recommends lots of things,” Mrs. Pritchard said. She was a woman just starting to sag into old-lady. “It’s all depressing, I hear. End of the world, right?”
Anne looked cheerful. She wore a pattern skirt with a cinched black belt. The flower-covered tanktop was supposed to look demure.
“How about the Time Traveler’s Wife?” Anne tried. “Very romantic.”
“I don’t know. Time travel?” Mrs. Collie said. “It seems very risqué.”
Suddenly Reverend Flynn was there, in his black outfit. He moved quietly, and when he arrived, it was like he carried the church around with him.
All the ladies were very happy to see him.
“Reverend Flynn!” Mrs. Pritchard cooed. “Maybe you could help us pick a book. We’ve been agonizing over it.”
Flynn smiled. At all of them. His gaze lingered on Anne. “I hope you ladies had a chance to try my latest ice cream. With the pralines? You’d be surprised how hard it is to work with nuts.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” Mrs. Collie said, then looked around, suddenly mortified. Everyone else was still looking at Reverend Flynn.
He bit his lip. “I suppose the Bible would be a little clichéd,” he conceded. “How about the Invisible Man? Ellison? Lovely, thought-provoking book. I kept a copy with me in Korea.”
Terri nearly dropped the tea kettle. Flynn’s eyes glanced over at her. Then they noticed the poorly-fitted dress, and took a quick survey of the dark-blonde girl. Terri blushed.
There was a very awkward silence. There was no way Flynn could know that at least half the attendees had tried to remove the book from AP English. Right?
“Yeesssssss,” Mrs. Pritchard said, carefully. “I think we can do that. A change of pace. And I know we all have copies.”
Flynn beamed. “You can borrow mine if you’re missing out. I’ll see you ladies some other time.”
They all watched him go. Eyes, Terri noticed, locked on his rear end.
Mrs. Taylor snapped her fingers. “Oh! Anne. Dear. I quite forgot. You know I live next door to the Parrish family? Mr. Parrish has been having such a rough time with his son ever since Linda passed away. I heard that your daughter was back in town, and I thought she could get him out of the house.”
Terri had missed most of that, watching Flynn leap up the stairs. Had he really been… checking her out?
Anne considered this. “I think I could spare her, for a night,” she conceded. “It’ll be good to get her out, too.”
Wait, what?
They were setting her up on a… date? While she was right here? Had she just stumbled into a 19th century novel? Terri spun around.
Eight eyes looked at her. Terri opened her mouth, and shut it again, as they looked over her body and checked it for suitability. She clutched the tea kettle to her chest, and nearly burned her boobs.
“I’ll tell him Friday at 8? It’ll be a huge help. The man needs some time to himself,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“And you’ll help him have some time to himself?” Mrs. Collie said. Her eyes went wide. She snapped her fingers to her mouth. But the others just giggled. Including her own Mother.
And Mrs. Taylor.
“Terri?” Anne said, and Terri got ready to turn her down. A blind date, set up by a.. coven of meddling old women? No!
“Can you refill the tea pot, please?”
* * *
The fight hadn’t gone like Terri had expected.
She had told her Mom, flat-out, that there was no way in Hell, Heaven, and Earth that she was going on a date with some boy she didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Terri had let herself start slow, with a list of reasons why female slavery was illegal, then built up to a hissing denunciation of chores, dishes, and in general being treated like the maid.
Usually Anne gave as good as she got, until both girls were red-faced, shrieking, and panting for breath. Then Terri would run upstairs, slam the door five or six times, and sulk.
Instead, Anne had just sat at the kitchen table, radiant behind her sharp-rimmed reading glasses, and calmly tapped the surface with a pen.
All she had said was “But you look so much better, Terri.”
Terri had deflated like a popped bag of air. Even the run downstairs had felt forced and unnecessary. She hadn’t even bothered to slam the door.
Instead, she ran right to the bathroom mirror.
She DID look better. Her figure had swelled in all the right places, accentuating hips and thighs Terri hadn’t known she had. Not to mention a steadily increasing bustline, even now outlining her old High School t-shirt. But more importantly, her face was bright and healthy, and her hair had grown lustrous and bouncy once again.
Anne knocked on the door. “We’re going shopping,” she said. “Into town.”
Terri took a deep breath for the next salvo.
Instead, unbidden and unasked for, an image of a bright red dress faded through her head. It was strapless, and cut low enough to show off her new assets. She shook her head to clear it out. That just changed the color to green and cut three inches off the hemline.
“Alright,” she said, meekly. and turned back to the mirror.
For a trip to town, a t-shirt and jeans just wasn’t going to do it.
Terri licked her lips and felt them tingle.
* * *
On Monday, Colleen slammed the front door shut when she arrived home.
Neal was in the living room, sitting cross-legged and playing some video game.
“Hey,” he said, eyes locked on the screen. “Welcome home. How was your day?”
“Terrible. Very bad. We’re getting regulatory pushback from the State, and the entire factory needs… can you look at me when I’m talking?”
The petite girl wore dun-colored slacks and a sheath-like white blouse. “Did you do anything today? Besides video games?”
“Dinner’s ready,” Neal said, meekly.
He waved at the table. A chunk of white chicken and boil-in-bag rice. “I made some phone calls, but nobody needs a web designer in this town,” her husband said.
Dinner was rubbery. Afterwards, Colleen stripped off her work clothes and slid into a grey pair of pants and a tanktop.
“Dishes first,” Neal reminded her, as she picked up the remote.
“Dishes.. you’ve been home all day! I’ve been out there…”
Colleen took a deep breath.
That pastor had recommended it, Reverend something or another.
“Dishes first,” she allowed. That HAD been the deal.
Behind her, while she was up to her elbows in pans, the sounds of video games tinkled.
Colleen was ready to turn around and spit fire when the music stopped, she heard feet padding over….
And then Neal’s warm, strong hands were caressing her backside.
Colleen nearly bit her tongue.
“Thanks for all your hard work, honey,” he said, and then returned to the game.
The manager just stood there.
What had just happened?
Something about her husband’s grip had sent sparks shimmering through her rear end. Her whole body tingled with droplets of pleasure. She could still feel the heat of him, fading away.
Her snatch suddenly glowed cherry red.
* * *
On Tuesday, she did the dishes without a single word. Neal seemed pleasantly surprised.
That strange pleasure had been in the back of her mind all day long.
Twice she had lost her train of thought during a meeting. The first time, she had caught her staff—all men—watching one of the pneumatic secretaries walking out of the room. The girl had impractical heels on, and a skirt that rode up with each swaying step. Just watching the shimmering rear had caused her to simply… trail off.
The second time, she had shifted in her chair, and felt an echo of that odd, fun feeling when she put pressure on her ass.
Colleen realized, with sharp surprise, that she had been looking forward to doing the dishes all day long.
When Neal sat back on the floor she craned her head back and watched him from over the sink.
“Hey, Neal?” She called over, softly. He paused.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for everything,” she cooed.
Neal smiled and got up. Colleen stuck her butt out in eager anticipation. And—yes!—when he approached, he put those same sexy hands back on her sensitive ass.
This time they stroked up and down. Blasts of sexy fun shot through her mind. Rippling through her head, getting her hot. What was going on? Her butt had never been a big deal. But now all she could think about was getting it touched… fondled… showing it off…
Colleen moaned in the back of her throat. “Don’t stop that,” she pleaded.
“Stop what?”
“Your… butt massage. It’s… relaxing.”
“Is it?” Neal sounded surprised. But it kept those heavy hands locked on her rear end. This time they softly climbed up and down. Colleen closed her eyes.
“Yeah… I mean.. I’m under a lot of stress,” she said. God, the feelings were starting to climb up her pussy. How long had it been for them? Three weeks? Longer?
“Always happy to massage your rear end,” Neal said.
“It makes dishes a lot more fun,” Colleen said, and sighed, happily.
* * *
On Wednesday, Colleen crept off during lunch and bought a brand new skirt. It was floral yellow, and tight, with a feminine little zipper up the side. And a new bra, since the existing one was getting tight.
This time, when her colleagues watched the bouncing asses of the new secretaries, she just smiled. It was hard to blame them, after all. The girls had round, padded rear ends, pertly displayed in tight jeans or tiny skirts. Any man would admire them. And would want to come up behind, put their hands around, and rub a hard, insistent cock up against the back entrance.
It was only natural.
Colleen felt like an old woman in her usual black pants. All she could think about was the slippery new thing in her bag. She had spent over twenty minutes just looking at herself in the mirror.
This time her husband met her at the door. She gave him a burning, needy kiss and immediately disappeared into the bathroom.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” he called out, sometime later.
Colleen emerged.
She felt hot, coursing with jets of heat, barely constrained underneath a good-to-go skirt and a rippling white blouse. Neal blinked, uncertain.
“I, ah, cooked ribs,” he said.
During dinner Colleen just sat and tried to listen to her man. What he had done. How the futile job hunt was going. Anything on his mind. Underneath the table her left hand circled on the outside of a wet pair of panties.
Just sitting down was starting to get her hot, putting pressure on the warm button that had climbed into her underwear.
“Is everything okay?” Neal said, finally.
“Oh, yeah!” she said, bobbing her head. Her fingers were starting to dance, now.
“What do you want to do after dinner?” he said. “I was thinking I could maybe light some candles… or…”
“Dishes,” Colleen said, firmly. “I want to do dishes.”
Her knees felt weak even before she stood in front of the sink. Neal waited behind her, scratching his head.
“Are you sure you want to do dishes in that skirt?” he asked. “It’s brand new, right?”
“Don’t you like it?” Colleen said. Her voice dripped sweet sugar. She stuck her rear out, towards him. It outlined every crease and curve in the fabric.
“Well, yeah,” Neal said. “I thought maybe later..”
“Do you want to.. touch it?” Colleen said. “You can stroke it and touch it and have… fun with it. If you want.”
Neal shook his head. “Colleen, what…”
“Come on, Neal,” Colleen said. She couldn’t keep the whine out of her voice. She could feel herself dribbling onto her panties. “Isn’t it a nice ass? Don’t you like your wifie’s tender little butt?”
“Yeah, but..”
“So come on and touch me!”
Her guy put his warm hand on her rear. This time Colleen moaned, thickly, and leaned forwards against the sink. The new fabric caressed and kneaded her tightly toned butt, and her body shook with the sensation. She tried to work on the dish in her hand, but the way she was trembling, it would probably shatter in half.
“Come on, get the skirt out of the way,” she said, casting a hot look backwards.
Soon it was just a belt of fabric around her waist. Colleen shivered when the open air hit her ass, and again when it climbed inside her wet panties. Neal was breathing fast now, getting into the unabashed groping. His hands started to get rough, running over her soft skin.
There was someone moaning, and Colleen realized it was her.
Soon Colleen’s panties were bunched around her ankles, and she was bent over the sink. Her tits nearly hit the water, and everything smelled like soap. Her husband rubbed with one hand just outside her dripping slit, the other hand still running up and down her butt.
Then it disappeared. Colleen looked back just in time to see her man reappear with one of the kitchen chairs.
“What..?” she said, muzzily. Thinking wasn’t easy. Most of her thoughts concentrated on the needy emptiness just inside of her pussy.
“I need a better angle,” Neal explained.
Then his fingers disappeared up her cunt. They searched, found her clit, and plunged in and out.
Colleen’s feet left the floor. She balanced like a top on the side of the counter, screeching as orgasm after orgasm swept through her brain. When it was all over with she oozed down the side of the sink, ass still glowing cherry red, a dripping pile of sensitive girl parts. Her frontside was all wet and soapy.
When she came to the manager realized she was on her knees, her pussy splayed open for her husband to see, on the kitchen floor. He still sat on his chair, eyeing her with concern.
His cock was easy to reach, so Colleen swallowed it and sucked him dry.
* * *
Colleen didn’t make it to work until Thursday afternoon.
She had gone shopping again. She had blown a month’s pay on tight shorts, hip-high miniskirts, and a new array of stockings.
When Colleen could think clearly—which was increasingly rare—she thought of her bubbling ass like it was its own person. It simmered constantly, now. Too-hot breezes would set her off, and the mere thought of her husband’s experienced hands made her shiver.
Sitting down meant that a euphoric buzz of simmering heat emanated from her happy, healthy rear end. Even the slightest pressure would set her off.
Colleen spent most of the staff meeting shifting from one cheek to the next, dribbling into her chair, while around her the boys compared notes as to which secretary was the hottest. The admiring glances they slipped her didn’t hurt, either.
Afterwards the petite brunette had sashayed around the office, in her new, towering heels, and dropped her pen seven or eight times. For practice.
“What’s wrong with me?” she thought later, behind a locked door. Two fingers pumped out a needy, juicy snatch. She couldn’t sit down without igniting an eventual orgasm. Work was a joke. She spent most of her time thinking about Neal’s oozing cock.
One of the secretaries floated past, just outside. Colleen could tell because of the giggling.
Then she glanced at the clock. 3:30. Colleen bolted upright.
“I’ve got to get home!” she thought, suddenly frantic. She had to cook dinner, vacuum, dust, and… she shivered to think… do the dishes.
But she still took the way out of the office that led her past a long row of slavering men.
* * *
A few hours later, Colleen’s boobs were covered in hot, soapy water, barely suspended over the sink. She had braced herself on the side of the counter, and waited happily for Neal to finally push his glistening cockhead inside of her.
“Faster,” she urged, spreading her legs just a little bit wider. She hadn’t known she could stretch that far. Her rear gleamed in the overhead light, a bubble of fun and happiness.
Dinner had been a success. Neal had loved her pot roast. Then she had sat in his lap and cooed as he ate, feeling his rock-hard erection bump into her butt. He had liked the hot pink dress, too, especially the sheer stockings and the easy-access panties.
Neal finally got his cock between her legs. The first uncertain stroke nearly toppled Colleen into the water. Her husband had to grab her tits from behind to keep her steady.
Her husband. Just the thought sent ripples of fun hurdling through her already-fried brain. Maybe that’s why she had such a tender, inviting ass. To make her husband happy. He deserved it, after all. Some of those video games looked pretty hard.
Not only did her pussy glow with the delicious sensation, but the feel of his rough, hairy body slamming into her sensitive ass…
Colleen came. She shrieked to the world, luxuriating in the heat of her own body. She was just a quivering, shivering ass with a girl attached, trying to make her husband happy. Her heels hung off her spasming feet.
* * *
On Friday Colleen tried to stay on her feet.
She stood by the side of her desk and tapped on her laptop. Work had been piling up while she had been lost in a happy haze. E-mails were becoming increasingly urgent.
Her boss had corralled her in the hallway and demanded a little order. Colleen had just stared at him. Her ass had been pushed up against the wall, and it was all she could do not to grind it into the plaster. She wore a slinky yellow dress, beaded with turquoise, that wrapped around her hips. Plus two sexy stockings. She looked like a lost call girl, wandering around an office building.
Her tits were starting to feel heavy and hot, same as her pulsating rear. She had cupped them in the bathroom, and that warm glow had pricked through her head.
“What’s wrong with me?” she sighed, trying to make sense of the past week. So many orgasms, so much time spent dripping onto changing room carpets.
To type standing up she had to bend over. A man could come in, any man, see her wanton, shaking ass, and…
Colleen had tried google, but “sexy ass hot feels good feels fun orgasms” had not produced anything useful.
Colleen checked her watch. It was 1:36 in the afternoon. How could she have left her husband alone for so long? She ambled to the parking lot, climbed into the car.
The seat beneath her grew wet and sticky.
* * *
“More… more…” Colleen screamed.
That was another nice thing about doggy-style. She didn’t yell in her man’s ear. He had both hands braced against her beautiful, shimmering ass, and that long, thrusting dick was somewhere inside of her. He had come after about two dozen condom-less strokes, and she had squeezed everything into her snatch.
Then she had coaxed out another round.
Colleen wondered, between flashes of pleasure, how she could’ve been so blind. Her body was telling her: stay at home, get fucked, please your man. And what better way then presenting him with a baby boy or girl?
She was stuffed so full, bits of juices kept dripping onto the carpet. Her knees burned with friction burns. Colleen scarcely cared.
On the way home she had called and quit her job. Maybe she could call back and get Jennifer’s. If that’s what Neal wanted.
In her head she wondered just what she could make her husband for dinner.
And how many dishes she could use.

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Terri took the farthest possible seat from her Mother during dinner. The dining room had been decked out with checkered curtains, and adorned with fresh flowers cut out of the garden. There was a new centerpiece.
“And then he turned to us and said “Private Flynn, I know you’re hiding a litter of puppies in this camp, and if I find it, you’re eating them.””
The other boarders burst into laughter. Flynn laughed alongside them.
The big man had a clerical collar on, and slicked back dark hair, but nothing else about him seemed at all like a churchman. So far he had dominated the conversation with stories of his pre-God days in Korea.
The big room was nearly full with tenants. Of the other four, two were solidly-built construction men working on the factory. Two more were young female lawyers or accountants working as support staff. They wore nice ironed blouses and had pulled their hair into business-like buns.
“I felt bad about breaking regs, but the poor thing had just pushed out octuplets when I found her. Found good homes for all of them!”
He gnawed on a leg of fried chicken.
So did Terri.
She was ravenous. The emaciated blonde hadn’t eaten anything after one last morning bowl of cereal in the dorms.
Her Mom’s cooking had dramatically improved.
Previously the microwave had been the centerpiece of her skills. Now she had churned out an entire fried chicken, mountains of dripping mashed potatoes, and a second plate of scalloped spuds “because I had extras.”
Terri inhaled three drumsticks and examined the man who had taken her room. Mom barely sat down, flitting back and forth with dishes. The entire time she had a dumb smile on her face.
“How long ago did you join the Ministry, Reverend Flynn?” One of the lawyers asked. She was a early-30s brunette with calculating eyes.
“Spiritually? Eight years, two-hundred-sixty days. Physically? Got ordained, oh, three years ago. And I got to say, this is an easy town. Lots of people who love the lord. Beautiful church, too. Big thing.”
Reverend Flynn stood up, put his hands on the table, and asked, cheerfully, “Who wants some of my homemade ice cream?”
Five hands went up. Including, Terri was surprised to notice, her own.
* * *
The ice cream had been soft, creamy, and rich. Flynn apparently churned it himself, and had served all of them large mounds. All of them had dug in, including the two svelte female professionals and the young redhead.
It had nuts in it.
Terri slumped in her chair, too full to move, surrounded by greasy plates and a mountain of pots.
Her Mom took the chair next to her. She even wore an apron, a Donna Reed white linen that was nonetheless immaculate.
Terri watched her, suspicious. Her Mom looked… softer… now. The hard lines that had started to crease her face had smoothed themselves out. And she looked, not plump, but definitely filled out in a way difficult to put her finger on.
…Curvier.
“So. Rent,” Terri said, weakly. She couldn’t recall ever eating that much before. What had gotten into her? “I thought we’d start at nothing a month, because I’m your daughter, and because I have no money.”
Anne’s lips assumed the fatigued curl Terri was so used to seeing.
“I’ve thought it through,” she said “and talked it over with Reverend Flynn. He and I think…”
“You talked it over with the Priest? What, is he my Dad?” An awful suspicion grew. “Hey, isn’t he supposed to be celibate, or…”
Anne jerked backwards. Surprise flitted across her face, between the blonde curls. She had even worn a touch of lipstick to dinner. “No! Not at all! Reverend Flynn is… he’s good at listening. That’s his job, Terri.” She settled herself, and recrossed her legs underneath the apron. “He and I think you should be working for your room and board.”
“Working?”
“Chores. He’s been very graciously helping me get the house up to code, but he’s an increasingly busy man.”
“Chores?” Terri felt too full to adequately argue back. She hadn’t eaten a serious dinner in… at least over a month. By the end of her college experience she was living on cheerios and chocolate milk.
“Dishes. Vacuuming. Dusting. To start. That’ll free me up for maintenance and working on the exterior.”
“Dusting?” Terri shifted in her seat. Her ass had sunken into the paisley cushion. “I don’t have to wear an apron, do I?”
“What, this?” Anne looked down. “This is practical. I’ll get one for you, if you want one.”
“No!” Terri opened her mouth to argue. Long, practiced words about the duty of a mother, and that she needed some time to get settled.
All that came out was a mortifying, ice cream-laced burp.
“Good!” Anne said. She stood up and offered an arm to her daughter. Terri took it, hauled herself to her feat. Her legs felt like clumps of rope. “In that case, welcome home!”
* * *
An hour and a half later, Terri stumbled out of the kitchen. Her hands burned from near-scalding water. If she hadn’t already bitten her fingernails to nubs while at college, they would’ve been crushed and torn from scrubbing grease-covered pans.
In a way, it had been nice to try and burn some of the calories. That last bowl of ice cream felt like it had suffused her entire body, padding it with weight.
Her basement—or new bedroom—was the former rec room. The pool table had been stacked against the wall, and the do-it-yourself minibar someone had built was now piled with her old books.
Bed was a mattress on the floor.
Terri shut the door, stripped out of her soap-spattered clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. There was a big mirror on one wall, and she examined herself in it.
Two months avoiding the dining hall, eating only in spare moments, hadn’t been good for her figure. She didn’t need to stretch to see a few ribs poking out, and her hips had turned downright boyish.
“Terri, I got you a new—Terri!”
Her Mom stood behind her, carrying a basket of linens. She stared in shock at her daughter’s skinny body. “What happened to you? You’re.. tiny.”
Terri snatched a towel off the rack and wrapped herself in it. “Thin, Mom. I’m thin. Or slender.”
“Yeah, but not…” she trailed off. Anne had slipped into an old t-shirt, and her own breasts swelled against the fabric. Terri didn’t remember her Mom being so… large.
“Well. Anyway,” Anne said, recovering her newfound poise “You start with the sweeping tomorrow morning. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“And… Terri?”
“What?”
“Good to see you.”
Terri didn’t respond.
* * *
For her first day home, Terri slept, cleaned, and ate. That was very nearly it.
At 6:30 am she woke up to the wafting scent of pancakes and bacon, mixed with an undertone of syrup. Back at college she had rarely risen before 10.
There was no getting away from her body’s hungry, insistent demands for carbohydrates. Apparently she had deprived and starved it for long enough.
At 7:00 am Terri stood in the shower, letting the hot water rinse her sticky self off. She must’ve looked like a cow, scarfing pancake after pancake. The others had shared a single newspaper or listened to more of Reverend Flynn’s endless supply of homespun anecdotes. She had looked for the redhead—someone her age might have something to say—but that girl had apparently left for work early.
Terri looked down. Two smallish breasts, a body with slight curves, and a few ribs. If she wasn’t careful with her Mom’s enthusiastic cooking, she would swell up like one of the Bessies on the side of the road.
At 7:43 am Terri dusted her face white and scraped on black eyeliner. Then her workout sweats, no bra. When she emerged from the bathroom her bed had been made and her clothes tossed into a brand new wooden hamper.
“It’s like I’m living in a hotel,” she thought.
Terri went upstairs at 8:02 a.m. Her Mom was clipping coupons in a very pretty white dress. It showed off a lot of leg.
“Since when do you clip coupons?” Terri asked.
“Oh, longer then you know,” Anne said. She wore wine-red lipstick. “I’m going to want you to do the dishes, and then you’re on dusting duty.” She kept her eyes on the growing pile of clippings.
So much for small talk, Terri thought.
From 8:03 to 9:11 Terri scrubbed viciously at pots and pans and thought nasty thoughts about home. And how come cooking meant cleaning? Why did bacon grease get so solid so quickly?
It didn’t help that her stomach was still growling for more.
The rest of the day, Terri dusted.
Her Mom handed her an ancient feather duster, salvaged from the attic, and told her to get at every space at least an inch above the ground.
“Then all the dust is just on the ground,” Terri objected.
“That’s why you’re vacuuming tomorrow.”
It wasn’t easy to dust. The oversized house was a warren of side tables, mantles, unused chairs, and hard-to-reach spots. Her Mom had already hit the more visible areas, but plenty of hidden ones remained.
It was tedious.
But there was a certain mindlessness that was… nice, after months of hell. Stand there in the quiet cool of the house, flop away with your duster, clean clean clean, and look forward to dinner. Don’t think about anything. Concentrate on the job.
Let your mind go empty…
At 11:10 her Mom came back inside. Her hands were covered to the wrist in mud, but the rest of her had somehow avoided the dirt.
“Oh, Terri,” she said, examining her filthy, dust-covered daughter. “Here, wear this apron. They’re practical.”
“I’m not wearing an apron until I’m on my fifth kid in the trailer park,” Terri groused. “And even then, it’s going to say “Anarchy Forever,” on it.”
Anne shrugged. Later she made sandwiches. Terri devoured two and licked her fingers clean.
Just past noon she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her ash-blond hair was tied back with an old scrunchie. Dust covered her cotton sweats, and made a grey mess on her crumbling t-shirt.
Her Mom was right. She did need an apron.
She kept dusting anyway.
Promptly at 5:30 Reverend Flynn returned. He was already laughing when the door shut, talking to one of the two solid construction men that occupied the third floor.
“Ah, glad to see you pitching in to help!” he said, catching sight of Terri’s dust-shrouded body. He looked immaculate, his hair slicked back and wearing that oily smile. “She doesn’t let on, but I know she needs the support.”
Terri just stared at him. It felt very strange to have him call her Mom “Anne.”
Dinner was pork tenderloin with brussel sprouts. Terri put huge spoonfuls of it away, even with the certain and unhappy knowledge that she was going to have to clean the big, steaming pan in the sink.
And then another big bowl of Reverend Flynn’s specially-made ice cream. The two young professionals lit up when the plastic tub arrived. They didn’t say much, and tended to just giggle and listen to the men chat. When one of them leaned forwards a short black thong peeked out underneath a business-like blouse.
At 9:00 pm Terri staggered away from the finished, gleaming metal bowls. Her Mom was knitting in the parlor.
“Since when do you knit?” Terri said, slumping into a leather chair.
“Oh, I used to… when you were a baby. I should’ve taught you. It keeps your hands busy. Tired?”
“Yeah,” Terri admitted. Between the big country meals and the endless cleaning, she was exhausted.
But…
It was a good kind of tired. A sort of all-encompassing fatigue that left her too vague to worry, fret, or think about the recent past.
In fact… she felt kind of… hot. Now that she had a chance to finally sit down and think.
“My face gets itchy,” Terri mentioned. Very hot, now that she thought of it.
And it was coming from right between her legs.
“It’s probably that makeup you put on,” Anne said, her needles flashing. “That white stuff. It makes you look like a ghost, you know. This old mansion is spooky enough.”
“I like it. I just don’t like the itching.”
Terri shifted her legs and fought the urge to swivel them. Whether it was a day of work or the finishing touches of ice cream, she was getting definite signals from in between her legs that it was time to play.
“Umm… I have to go,” she said, and stumbled downstairs. Embarrassed again. Where had that sudden, insistent need come from? A pleasurable throb had taken up residence between her legs, and demanded attention.
Terri turned on the shower faucet with shaking fingers, waited impatiently for the downpour to become merely warm. Unleashed from her dust-shrouded clothes, her naked body thrummed with energy. Particularly the increasingly moist slit glowing red between her legs.
She started touching herself even before stepping in, running a finger on the outsides of her lips. Nor did she stop when she was fumbling into the shower, adjusting the temperature with her free hand.
The water just added waves of heat to her glowing body, pattering harshly on her boobs and stomach. Her nipples especially. When it became too much to bear, Terri turned around and let the water drum on her ass, too.
By the time she came, the ash-blonde girl was slumped on the back of the shower, letting the water assault her as she helplessly rubbed up and down on a needy clit. Her orgasm was long and low, and she hissed it out, eyes closed, nearly choking on the shower water.
A few minutes later, Terri managed to turn the water off with a shaking hand. She wrapped a towel around herself, mechanically dried her still-overheated self, and then, exhausted, fell into bed.
That was how the rest of the week went, too.
Wake up, eat, clean, lunch, clean, dinner, ice cream.
Then, still highly agitated, masturbate to a screaming climax in the safety and security of her room. On the second day it was dusting, then sweeping, followed by a pleasant cum on the bathroom toilet. The next was vacuuming, and she fingered herself to orgasm with her face pressed against the shower glass.
On the third day her Mom appeared with a rag and a bottle of wood polish and told her to “make everything shine.” That night she howled with the feeling of three fingers pushed up her snatch.
“It’s just my body readjusting,” Terri told herself, after the second time she withdrew a few guilty, sweet-smelling fingers from inside herself. She hadn’t masturbated in months, in college. Now she was just making up for lost time.
Certainly a combination of hard work and highly relaxing ice cream was enough to make any girl get in the mood.
Between the stellar orgasms and the grub, Terri found it surprisingly hard to complain about working as a menial in her own home. And she was learning things, too. Interesting things.
First, that the two other girls in residence lived in the other half of the second floor, near Reverend Flynn’s room. That both had neat, tidy rooms, with sleek grey laptops primed on the desk. That Candice had lacey black underwear spilling out of her drawer, and that Patricia had at least four pairs of high-heeled shoes underneath the bed.
Reverend Flynn’s room, on the other hand, was strictly off limits. Not that he appeared to spend much time there. Their in-residence Shepard of the flock appeared to be personally visiting every business, residence, and other site in Calving.
She wondered when he had the time to make that delicious, all-filling ice cream. After a bowl Terri felt like sliding to the floor and just lying there, with a happy grin. It was no wonder her new libido kicked in soon afterwards.
On Thursday Terri gave up on the makeup.
The girl underneath had pink, cheerful cheeks and an overall friendly complexion. She stuck her tongue out at it. That night she masturbated while watching herself in the bathroom mirror.
The white stuff had looked pasty and gross at the end of the day, anyway.
* * *
It was amazing how many of the newcomers had big boobs.
Brianna couldn’t help staring from behind the reception desk. Four of the wives or girlfriends of the Calving construction force sat in Dr. Reynolds’ waiting room. That meant eight titanic tits, all of them struggling in tight shirts, except for one girl wearing a very flattering yellow sundress.
All but one browsed through old Cosmopolitans, their legs demurely crossed. The last, a dark haired girl with a worried frown, had burst in without an appointment and asked to be seen “immediately.” She had been waiting for Dr. Reynolds all morning.
Another one of the big-boobed cows floated out of the back room, a serene smile on her face. Dr. Reynolds trailed behind. He was a small man with a big, black beard, marked with pepper, and always clutched a clipboard to his side. The doctor studied his latest patient’s swiveling backside. It was pertly encased in tight jeans.
“Sarah? You’re up,” Brianna said. The dark-haired girl stood up and tugged her shirt down. It kept showing off a great deal of midriff.
Brianna coughed, meaningfully. When that failed to get the Doctor’s attention, she balled up a piece of paper and tossed it at him.
Those calm brown eyes finally settled on her. Her heart skipped a beat. They were very intense eyes. “Nurse Brianna, why don’t you assist me with this one?” Dr. Reynolds said.
Finally!
When the Doctor had hired her as “nurse and receptionist,” she hadn’t been expecting 10% nurse and 90% secretary. She was a certified nurse, after all. And she KNEW Dr. Reynolds needed the help. They were booked for the next three months.
The three of them headed to the back of the small, converted office space. The dark-haired girl—Sarah—hopped onto the exam room table. Their only one.
“Go ahead. Whatever you want to tell me,” Dr. Reynolds encouraged, crossing his arms. Brianna stood quietly in the corner. It wouldn’t do to upset the Doctor, she thought, and then wondered where that had come from.
Sarah blushed. She was really very pretty, Brianna judged. Most of the overstuffed girls were blondes, and there was a certain sameness about them. Sarah had dark eyes and a touch of something foreign about her. A kind of dusky heat.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she confessed.
“Breast growth. Sudden and unanticipated,” Dr. Reynolds said.
Sarah gaped at him. As did Brianna. How in the world—
“Yes! I mean, that’s part of it,” Sarah said. “My boobs… sorry, breasts, right… they’ve just been getting bigger and bigger. Practically by the day. And they feel…”
“Good, right?” Dr. Reynolds said, sympathetically. He looked at Brianna, and caught her staring down the top of her own loose-hanging lab coat. Her own puppies had been… swollen… lately, but they were nothing against the bouncing boobies the new Factory had brought to town. “Sarah, I’ll need you to take your blouse off.”
“Oh,” Sarah said. She had on a tightly-buttoned blouse. Brianna caught her breath as her twosome were unleashed. Sarah had on a brand-new bra, and already her tits were spilling out of the sides. They were just as tanned. A bit of nipple was clearly visible.
She looked down at the clipboard. Brianna had written “big tits” in the medical history. She erased it hurriedly.
Dr. Reynolds pursed his lips, reached behind the girl, and unsnapped her bra with one hand. Before it fell free he was already cupping the undersides of her boobs, nodding to himself.
“These are rather big. You can see how the engorgement has taken place,” he said, detached. “At least it’s been consistent. How does this feel?” His practiced hands kneaded and tugged.
“Ummm…” Sarah said. She seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.
Brianna was feeling a certain… warmth herself. All these contented, chesty girls had left something sensual in the air. She had gotten used to a screaming session in the bathroom before bed.
“On a scale of 1-10, how good does this feel?” Dr. Reynolds repeated. He massaged gently.
In response, Sarah put her head back, and moaned lewdly.
“Write that down as a 10,” Dr. Reynolds said.
“Um, of course… Doctor…” Brianna said. Sarah was panting, leaning back on her slender arms.
“Any other symptoms?”
“My…” Sarah kept blinking. “What do you call it… when you get really horny?”
“Libido,” Brianna prompted, and felt proud of herself.
“Yeah. That. It’s been… what was the scale again? 1 to 100? It’s been a 100.”
Dr. Reynolds kept up the nodding. He reached out and tweaked Sarah’s nipple. The black-haired girl stifled a scream, and nearly fell backwards.
Brianna wiped her forehead. It was suddenly drenched with sweat.
“What’s wrong with me, Doctor?” Sarah asked, earnestly. “I thought it was just moving to a new town, but my boobs are so big… and it’s all I can do not to jump my boyfriend when he gets home… he’s got this thing between his legs…”
Dr. Reynolds snapped his fingers. His eyes brightened. “Ah, you just moved in with a new boyfriend?”
“Y…yes?” Sarah said. She chewed on her lip, and her left hand not-so-surreptitiously stroked the underside of her tits. Brianna sympathized. They looked… yummy.
Were medical examinations supposed to be so heated? Dr. Reynolds didn’t seem to be affected. He paced back and forth in front of Sarah. Brianna cast a yearning glance towards the clinic bathroom. She had left a toy in there, yesterday. So long as her own body was so insistent.
“I shouldn’t be that concerned,” Dr. Reynolds said, kindly. “Have you heard of Nesting Syndrome? It’s very normal when young ladies your age move into a place where they feel stable and comfortable. Their hormones unleash their… potential, shall we say?”
What?
Brianna had never heard of this. Neither had Sarah. But the Doctor HAD to be right, didn’t he? He was a Doctor, after all.
And he had such calm, sure eyes…
“Symptoms include a marked increase in libido, breast growth, sensitivity, a certain… shall we see… maternal and caring attitude? All very natural and wonderful, my dear.”
“But… what are you talking about?” Sarah said. She was openly stroking her exposed nipples, now, and her legs were circling underneath a short denim skirt. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down at her bucking body. “Once it gets going, I.. I just need to keep touching…”
“Not at all, dear. Please touch yourself as you need. Your body is signaling that you are fertile, that you have found a stable relationship, and that it’s time to settle down. Very natural.”
“That’s… crazy,” Brianna thought. But Dr. Reynolds looked so very certain. And he was such a strong, capable man…
“I can confirm the diagnosis with a simple test,” Dr. Reynolds offered, noticing Sarah’s reluctance. He took his hands out of his lab coat and walked over to the sink. “It should just take a moment.
Sarah just moaned. Her hands had found her nipples, again. They poked into the air. Had the air conditioning failed? It was so hot in the close little examination room, and Brianna felt soaked everywhere. Her forehead. Between her legs. In her head.
Dr. Reynolds gently lowered the gasping girl to the table and spread her thighs open.
The young girl wore strappy sandles with a high heel, and Brianna found herself watching them. They were cute shoes.
“This is to test your receptivity to impregnation,” Dr. Reynolds explained, guiding his hand between her quivering legs.
“Oh… kay…” Sarah sighed, and gasped as he pulled her panties aside.
“I should say something,” Brianna thought, her legs locked together. She felt the first drop of moisture hit her panties. She had been wearing black, lacey ones lately. For no obvious reason. “This is insane. This is…”
She slumped against the back of the wall and rubbed on the outside of her pants.
Dr. Reynolds hunched over the side of his patient, his right hand pumping steadily between her thighs. Sarah pushed back, thrusting her hips to the tune of his pumping fingers.
He leaned close to her ear. “I’m afraid this confirms my diagnosis,” he explained. “You’re a young, healthy girl, and your body is telling you to fuck and get knocked up.” He looked back. “Brianna, do you want to get a better look, over here?”
If the doctor said so…
Brianna carefully knelt between her thighs. Sarah was already clean-shaven. With her skirt hiked around her waist she could clearly see Dr. Reynolds’ dripping fingers. “I’m using a classic come-hither motion,” he said. “I’ll want you to aid me in this, next time. I’m expecting a lot of Nesting girls to come to the clinic, in the near future.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Brianna heard herself say. She tried to get a better look. The scent of hot, juiced-up girl filled the entire room. Her other hand was so busy, pushing hard against the zipper of her ridiculously dowdy khakis.
Sarah came in a series of short, hot gasps. Fluid squirted onto the clipboard, and Brianna wiped it off. Then licked it clean.
“I’ll make a call to your boyfriend,” Dr. Reynolds said. “Good day, Sarah. Please think of me if you get any joyful news in the future and need a doctor.”
And then he was gone. Brianna waited for the dripping, exhausted girl to pull herself together, put her tattered clothes back on.
“Listen,” Sarah said, once she had hauled her boobs back into their inadequate confinement. “Is that for real? You’re a Nurse, right? Do I really have…. Nesting Syndrome, or whatever?”
All Brianna could think about was Dr. Reynolds’ calm eyes. She nodded, quickly. “Oh yes. He’s a very good Doctor. Although…”
“Yes?”
Sarah leaned in. She still smelled like sex.
“…Before you go… could you tell me where you got those cute shoes?”

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