This Dream 4: A World Made Of Whores

WARNING: This story is intended for mature audiences over the age of 18 (or whatever age is legal for viewing adult material where you live). This story is entirely fictional in every conceivable way, including within the bounds of our reality, so don’t believe that a word of it is true, ever.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is Part Four of a continuing series. The last edition was very plot heavy and explains a lot of what’s going on here. Also, it probably prepared you for some of the hardcore squick that may be to come. So, you know, read that. And the ones before it. Enjoy.

CELEBS: Zooey Deshanel, Emily Deschanel, Jennifer Garner, Ben Affleck, Charlize Theron, Kristen Stewart, Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, Hilary Clinton, Bill Clinton, Chelsea Clinton, George W. Bush, Lynn Cheney, Joe Biden, Aishwarya Rai, Billie Piper, Louise Redknapp, Karen Gillan, Cheryl Cole, Cat Deely, Girls Aloud, Zhang Ziyi, Allison Brie, Kristen Bell


This Dream 4: A World Made Of Whores (MC, breast expansion, feet, nc>cons, MF, FF, lact, M+F+, F+F+, orgy, F-dom, slave, preg)

By: SpaceSamurai

The only television news that could broadcast in the states without fading into a sea of fucks and giggles was from the BBC. And the news was definitely shocking the world over.

“Good morning, this is Cat Deeley, filling in for Sophie Raworth, who has fallen ill.”

The blonde starlet flipped her hair as she set about reading the news, knowing fully well that she had no business sitting in that studio, knowing that the number of BBC reporters who’d ‘fallen ill’ was becoming mysteriously high, and knowing the need for constant coverage of these events had forced the producers to reach out to their fringes just to put a face on the screen. She’d always secretly desired being a news anchor, being taken seriously, and the executives knew it. But she wished she got her big shot under…better circumstances.

“Worldwide panic has set in,” she continued, “scored by the unending reports of supernatural terror befalling the United States.

“As you may have heard, word surfaced that a strange substance in the water supply of Los Angeles had caused men and women, including famous stars, to fall victim to a bizarre physical and mental transformation. Soon after, incidents began popping up in major cities including New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Dallas, and, finally, the nation’s capital.

“From the elite to the common man, it seems that each and every citizen of the U.S. has, in some way or another, come under the effect of this unknown liquid, as though it has risen from the very Earth to poison their water, their air, and their food.

“Then, last night, this video was leaked from within the compromised U.S. government. I warn you, if you haven’t already seen the footage, this video is incredibly graphic and, for the sake of public safety, we have left it uncensored.”

The screen showed a grainy video, the same one the channel had been airing for nearly twelve hours straight. And what was there was impossible: A woman, whom they identified as actress Zooey Deschanel, floating, glowing, calling herself the “true Goddess,” then, after the camera had been tossed to one side, producing long, hideous tentacles from her body which ravaged another young woman, making her beg for her treatment and then impregnating her. At last, the girl gave birth. To an egg. Next to hers was another, darker and slightly smaller, and one which had clearly already hatched.

When the broadcast switched back to Cat, her skin was flushed, her breathing ragged. No matter how many times she watched that clip, it always affected her, frightened her yes, even took the hope from her soul, but more than that, what she hated to admit, she knew deep down that it…excited her.

Thankfully she’d thought to wear a light pink suit jacket over her low-cut black top, as otherwise her nipples would have been able to read the rest of the news for her, and be just as credible. She chided herself. Why should this turn her on so much? What was it about this evil creature that made her want to see more?

She realized she was back on air and shook her head.

“Apologies, sorry, it’s just so…shocking.” She shuffled some papers in front of herself ineffectually. “Scientists and theologians alike are scrambling to come up with some explanation for the creature seen in the video, with theories varying from some sort of parasite to an alien invasion on the one side, and the end of the world on the other. Some biblical scholars even suggest that Zooey might be the Beast prophesized in the Book of Revelations to signal the end times, though others have discounted that interpretation.

“In short, we simply don’t know what’s really happening to our American allies. For now, we can only pray that it doesn’t-“

The camera shook wildly and a loud rumbling sounded. When it settled, smoke was rising from off screen and Cat looked around haphazardly.

“Oh my god,” she said. “Is everyone alright? Was that an earthquake?”

Suddenly, the smoke triggered the sprinklers.

A thick white substance poured out.

“Wait!” Cat screamed. “Is that, oh god no, it is, it’s- …oh it smells amazing!”

She wasted no more breath on screaming, instead using it to inhale as much of the goodness of the Goo as she could manage, letting some drain into her mouth and reveling in its magical, intoxicating flavor.

Every exposed inch of her skin sang with joy. She simply had to feel more. Peeling off her once-protective, now-restrictive suit jacket, she noted that her nipples could cut glass. And as the Goo began to soak through her top, she knew why. Without a care, she peeled the garment off, her bra immediately following.

‘Everybody wants to see my tits,’ she thought. ‘Fuck it. Everybody wins.’

She slipped off her knee-length skirt, practically tearing her panties away with her own hands before she plunged her searching fingers into her sopping mound, nearly fitting an entire fist into her hot hole as she plunged her depths to fit in more of the extraordinary Goo.

Those nipples she’d so feared that everyone would see now danced excitedly as she reached her other hand to her chest and gave each breast a firm squeeze and tweak, switching back and forth, not sure which felt better, realizing they both felt like heaven in her grip.

She fingered and fisted and played with her body until, gradually, her movements slowed, and she put her arms to her sides and stared, smiling serenely, into the stillness of the camera, broadcasting her newfound bliss to the world.


“Hahaaaa, look at that honey!” Jennifer Garner cried excitedly, pointing her baby’s uncaring face at the television. “That lady got Goo’d just like mommy!”

The baby was totally disinterested in the woman on the screen, her body’s stillness lasting only moments as they watched her hips widen, her ass gain inches, her lips reach outwards, and her modest bust grow, deepen, settling into hugeness with a mild bounce.

The sight of tits only reminded the child of what he was missing, and he turned back to his mother’s jiggling mounds to suckle for his milk once more. It was no easy feat, latching on the woman’s teats, bouncing as they were with each thrust as she rode her husband’s fat dick. But the baby latched, his glowing eyes seeming to pulse with each swallow.

“Oh fuck!” Jennifer cried, the joy in her child’s love only compounding the joy being thrust in and out of her pussy, her ass bouncing off Ben’s new rock-hard abs with each downward movement.

“Ooh, god I love babies! Fuck another one into me! FUCK ANOTHER BABY INTO ME!”

Across town, Charlize Theron was watching the same broadcast. Well, not so much watching, busy as she was enjoying the eager thrusting tongue of a dark haired girl into her honeypot.

She curled the girl’s hair around her fist and moaned. “Oh jesus, Krissy, you’re, like, soooo good at that.”

Kristen Stewart looked up at her ‘Snow White’ co-star and smiled at the compliment.

“You’re not the first girl I’ve, you know, ate out before,” she giggled.

She couldn’t hold out long, and dove back in, the incessant pressure of Charlize’s hand on her head only giving her encouragement to go after what she already knew she wanted. On her impossibly long tongue, the juices of the older woman were like ambrosia, a treat for the gods. Or should she say, Goddess.

The excited way that Kristen was worshipping her clit was driving Charlize to the edge yet again, and she reached up with her free hand to squeeze the nipples on her massive new G-cup tits. She felt her big O coming, and wrapped her legs around Kristen’s head, pulling her tighter, cutting off her breath with her cunt.

“Oh fucking yes, fucking slut, fucking do it, do it, YES!”

And Charlize sprayed a sticky, Goo flavored mess from her sex, nearly drowning the girl she was already choking, neither woman caring all that much as Kristen started turning blue.

‘Every woman’s dream,’ Kristen thought as her mind started going dark. ‘Dying doing what she loves.’

But just as she was about to pass out, Charlize’s spasms stopped and she relaxed the grip of her legs.

Kristen took in a great, sputtering breath as she fell backwards, gasping for every precious gulp of warm air, which, incidentally, now smelled and tasted of Charlize’s exploded juices.

She felt a tickle at her lips and opened her eyes to see Charlize’s foot in her face, her toes pointed expectantly. Kristen didn’t need to be told what to do, opening her mouth to kiss and suck on her lover’s sexy, smooth, perfect feet.

Charlize had always had a dominant streak, which the Goo helped bring to the surface. That was perfectly fine with Kristen, a born submissive. The young girl looked up at her Mistress with adoring eyes as she bathed her soles with her tongue.

“Mmm, that’s good, slut,” Charlize complimented her. “Worship my feet like the whore you are. Mmmm you know what I think we need?”

Kristen shook her head playfully with Charlize’s big toe in her thick lips, knowing better than to stop her ministrations for something as silly as speaking.

“We need some cock,” Charlize concluded. “A boatload of cock. I need to be pumped full of man cum, like, now.”

Kristen moaned as she tried to fit a full five toes in her gaping maw. Charlize had a point. Being filled with cum sounded so right.

Almost like it was her duty to get squirted full of baby batter.


Barack and Michelle Obama’s tongues danced together as they felt the pleasured groans of the Clintons ringing through their bodies.

The older couples each looked decades younger, healthier than they’d been in…well, ever. As Bill had Michelle on her back, lain across the same desk in the same office he’d presided over more than a decade prior, he marveled at the prowess of his thick member, his hardened torso, his seemingly boundless stamina. He also couldn’t help but marvel at his conquest’s shapely figure, the way her breasts seemed to bound across her chest with each measured thrust.

Michelle, for her part, took Bill’s dick in stride, certainly enraptured by the joy of being fucked, by anyone, but unfailingly noting that Barack’s prick was just that much bigger, just that much more perfect. She leaned her head back off the desk and kissed her husband again, seated as he was in his presidential chair, naked, with a kneeling Hilary on her knees under the desk expertly handling his cock with her mouth.

The older woman couldn’t consider the irony of her current situation, under the president’s desk giving him a blowjob, her subservient stature compared to her former political rival almost more ironic than the presidential adultery she was helping him to commit. She couldn’t even begin to wrap her brain around that, couldn’t think about anything but the cock in her throat and the fingers in her slit.

Across the room, a proudly transformed Chelsea Clinton was giving a demonstration on the joys and intricacies of fucking as she took George W. Bush’s throbbing hardness deep into her womb doggy-style, leaving her free to devour the clit of the sumptuous Lynn Cheney, who was gleefully titty-fucking Vice President Joe Biden, the grizzled political veteran now as virile and hard as a man in his prime, and just as horny.

In the shadows outside the chambers of the Oval Office, the thuds of footsteps from a great hulking beast shook the portraits on the walls. In time, Commander Philips would do his duty. But for now he shuffled and searched for another hole to batter with his seed.

If anyone in the room could have been brought to care, they would have laughed at the fact that, after all these years of bickering, the thing that finally brought the divided Washington power structure together was a good, hard orgy.

And from the West Wing to Congress to the offices of power brokers to the streets flooded with the ejaculate of the electorate, there was, for the first time, no political bickering in Washington.


Aishwarya Rai peeled the clinging white tanktop from her sweating golden breasts. The recent heat wave had threatened to shatter temperature records in the notoriously hot city for days, and had finally cracked through the top of the thermometer, so to speak. Even in her lavish, air-conditioned mansion, the “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” was sweating just from standing still.

Her stomach grumbled. It had been eight hours since she’d eaten breakfast, loathe as she was to even move. Standing naked before a full-length mirror in her bedroom, her fingers roamed over her taught abs, finally back to normal after months of struggling with her pregnant belly. Her child was her greatest joy in life and, though she left him for most of the day with her various servants, she treasured the time she was able to spend with him.

Casually as she could, she pulled on a silken purple robe that carefully hid the simple sins of her curves and sidled downstairs. Seeing her husband on the couch in the living room, sweating as he watched the television news, she smiled.

“Abhishek,” she said, and he turned, his eyes immediately catching the light off her shimmering day-gown and widening with desire. “My love, are you hungry?”

He smiled mischievously. “That depends. Are you food?”

She shook her head. “No, dear, I’m not to be eaten. Especially not in this heat.”

He shrugged. “Well, then the take-out I ordered will have to suffice.”

She playfully swatted him on the shoulder. “You got food and didn’t tell me?”

“It was going to be a surprise!”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Abhishek clapped his hands. “That must be it!”

He made a bee-line for the door, and Aishwarya heard a servant answer and the delivery boy’s youthful voice.

Then, for a time, she heard nothing. It seemed to be taking a while.

‘Is there something wrong with the food?’ Aishwarya wondered, and rounded the corner to investigate.

She gasped.

Squatting on the floor like animals, her husband, their elderly manservant, and a teenage delivery boy were all greedily digging through boxes of food, curry dripping from the corners of their mouths, sometimes stopping only to pour lentil soup down their throats.

She stomped her foot, mouth agape. “Abhishek, what in the world-“

A playful wisp of scent snaked its way into her nostrils, the charming aroma making her sway on her feet. Myriad waves of pleasant smells danced on in her nose like so many notes of music, each harmonizing and building to a crescendo before one piercing note sang high above the rest.

“Roses,” she whispered, padding forward and joining in the primitive exercise.

Aishwarya moaned with each lick and gobble of the delicious feast, naan and chickpeas rolling down the sides of her mouth as sauces and juices made an incredible and rich gravy pouring down her gullet. She noted with passing interest that her dark brown nipples were threatening to pierce through the light fabric of her robe, and so she tore it in two, throwing it on the ground so she could sit, bare-assed, on the marble floors of her mansion’s landing.

She splashed a glob of masala on her left breast and groaned through the heat. No matter the temperature, or the building sweat on her brow, she wanted to be hotter, to feel sweatier, to build a fever in her body so immense she would burn from the inside out.

At some point, she couldn’t be sure or care when, Aishwarya blacked out.

When she came to, she practically screamed.

Her husband, all propriety lost, was thrusting a spire-hard cock into her needy cunt, while their manservant, years seemingly melted from his face and skin, was underneath, bouncing a similarly erect member into her plush caramel ass.

The electric shocks of hot lust shot through her holes all the way to the top of her head. Never had she felt so divine, and quickly Aishwarya was reaching up and squeezing her milk-laden tits, now fattened like a sacred cow’s. Her hand slid down her tummy, felt fresh rolls of happy fat bouncing, all her hard work at the gym now gone.

‘Perfect,’ she thought. ‘I can fit more babies in there now.’

Her fingers met her aching clit and she shrieked as she came for the first time since waking, surely not the last.

A stiff poking at her cheek took her out of her climax. She looked up to find the delivery boy, his eyes crazed with wanting, holding a massive cock out for her approval. With her award-winning smile, she gracefully stroked his dick with her hand, her tongue stretching beyond where she previously believed it could reach in order to wrap around his throbbing head.

Her husband gave an arrhythmic thrust and she gasped, leaving her mouth open to the delivery boy, who quickly forced himself into her moist suckhole. Tasting his musty young hardness, Aishwarya wasted no time in bobbing her head along his manhood. Trails of spit glistened, mixing with her dripping sweat and making his meat taste salty and inviting as she sucked him further and harder.

The four-way fuckfest was building to its first end, and Aishwarya lost herself in the bliss of the feeling. Every hole she had was stuffed with cock, her tits were shuddering with each timed burst of their energy, and, as she widened her magnificent eyes, she caught sight of a woman, a servant, who had stumbled onto their lovemaking. Swaddled in the woman’s arms was Aishwarya’s joy, her child.

All at once, the three men burst, their cum painting Aishwarya’s insides white and glorious, filling her to her brim in every orifice, and she cried out around the oversized member in her mouth as she came again.

The delivery boy pulled out of her mouth with a pop, leaving some cum to drip down her cheek and onto her chest. But she didn’t think at all about that. Instead she threw her arms open, beckoning the woman to bring her baby over.

At first, the frightened woman clutched the child closer, as though she were going to run and keep the child away. But she didn’t notice the delivery boy, his dick now slathered in curry, walking towards her with a warm and knowing grin. By the time she caught the smell of it, it was too late. Bending down, she eagerly lapped at his knob, leaving Aishwarya free to walk up and take her child in her loving embrace.

Aishwarya held her lovely son to her breast, and he didn’t wait to suckle at her dark, puffy nipples. The actress moaned as her child drank his fill, not noticing that his eyes were beginning to glow with a faint light, his drinking growing more fervent as his mind was transformed.


The silent kill. The creeping of an agent of death, so slow, so quiet. Feet glided as though never touching the ground.

In the cool, settled air, through the bamboo trees, the moonlight did not betray her approach, but aided it, giving her shadows in which to live and breathe, shadows that would hold her like a welcoming friend, allowing her to sneak upon the guard outside the darkened hut.

Blade drawn, the ninja deftly raised her hands to strike.

And hit a boom mic off camera.

“CUT!” the director yelled.

Zhang Ziyi peeled off her mask and growled in frustration. She looked menacingly at the nearby sound operator.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” she yelled.

The director, a squat old American with a penchant for being an asshole, got between them.

“Hey, don’t yell at my crew, okay?” he said.

“I’m not yelling at your crew, I’m yelling at the idiot who fucked up a perfect take!”

“Listen little girl,” the director said with his arms folded. “You worry about your job, I’ll worry about his.”

Ziyi’s jaw dropped. “What did you call me, you pig?”

“Don’t say something you’re gonna regret,” he warned her.

“Regret?! You know what I regret? Signing on to this ridiculous movie! It doesn’t even make sense: There were no ninjas in China!”

“This movie is set in Japan!” he argued.

She shook her head furiously. “But anyone with a brain can see I’m not Japanese, and anyone with a Japanese or Chinese brain can see that this set looks nothing like Japan!”

He stormed towards her, finger waving. “Don’t fuck with me, you little shit, I’ve been in this business too long, and I’ll see to it you don’t get another job until you’re old enough that no one remembers your name. I’ll have you working in Chinese T-girl porn in a month!”

Ziyi was appalled. “You know what? Fuck you, and fuck your stupid movie. I’m going to my trailer.”

In a huff, Ziyi was marching to her assigned trailer. The director followed, but with her strong and youthful legs, she easily outpaced him, managing to open, shut, and lock her door before he could make it to the steps, pounding his fists on the linoleum.

Drawing the shades on her windows, Ziyi quickly stripped out of her silly black costume, untying her black sash, pulling off her black shirt to reveal her flat but toned torso, and rolling off her tight black pants and letting free her smooth and athletic legs.

She caught her reflection in the mirror next to her bed. She’d always been accused of being too skinny to be sexy by Western gossip rags, but here, in her home, she was an idol, an object of many men’s affections, and she prided herself on making good choices, both in her career and in her health.

Which is why, despite her already inflamed temper, she grew even angrier when she saw a cellophane-wrapped gift basket on a table in the living room of her trailer, replete with chocolates and cookies and unhealthy options.

She lunged for it, all set to throw it out the window, when she noticed a large bag of wasabi peas inside the basket. Her favorite snack.

With an exasperated sigh, she tore off the wrapping and grabbed for the bag, determined to sit back, eat a treat, and forget the awful circumstances of the film in which she now found herself trapped.

As she pulled the bag away, she noticed it was sitting on top of a plate of hand-made fudge, the little chocolate cubes staring back at her from their place, perfectly formed and dainty and surely delicious and rich and the smell of them…

Ziyi shook her head. ‘Fudge is so fattening,’ she thought. But she couldn’t escape the smell. It enticed her like no chocolate ever had. Her mouth watered despite her resistance.

Her fingers uncurled, sneaking down towards the thick desserts. ‘Maybe,’ she thought. ‘Maybe just one.’

She plucked a piece delicately between her thumb and forefinger, the lithe actress weighing her options in her head, and deciding gradually that yes, she deserved this, this little treat, just for herself. The smell was more overpowering than before, and the closer the fudge got to her face, the more she realized it didn’t even smell like chocolate. It smelled like everything, anything sweet and warm and happy she’d ever smelled.

She opened her now-wet mouth and let her teeth dig into the corner of the little block. The second the decadent chocolate reached her tongue, she lost her balance, needing a hand to steady herself on the table.

“Mmmmm,” she moaned, swirling the taste around her mouth and shoving the rest of the piece into her chewing maw.

She’d never tasted anything like this before. She wondered, at the back of her mind, if this is what she’d been missing out on all these years while she was trying to stay trim and fit. Now, as she chewed on this mysterious and explosively rich fudge, she felt her resolve to maintain her figure failing completely.

Her hands moved on their own, plucking up fudge by the fistful and shoving it into her mouth. The taste was so magical, she couldn’t think of doing anything else. Her brain couldn’t focus on anything but eating, the urge to swallow the sweet and savory delicacies tying directly into her need to be happy, her need to survive, her love, her lust, everything good she could think of.

Suddenly, Ziyi realized the main problem with shoveling massive amounts of fudge into her mouth at once: She couldn’t breathe. She scrambled to her fridge to find something with which to wash it down.

She found an unopened jug of milk. Had she been thinking clearly, she might have wondered why it felt heavier than her milk usually did, would have questioned why, as she cracked it open, it didn’t slosh around in quite the same way as her last gallon of milk, could have marveled as she tipped her head back and the thicker, heavier white substance glopped out of the opening and into her open mouth, quickly flushing out the glorious fudge, but also replacing her need for this new, amazing liquid.

Ziyi’s eyes rolled back in her head as she gluttonously guzzled at the jug, a brilliant white Goo spilling out the corners of her mouth, soaking through her simple black bra and panties until, uncomfortable in her wet clothes, she used a spare hand to tear them off her body, leaving her privates exposed for the infiltration of the Goo.

Soon, she let the jug drop to the floor, the half-empty gallon landing miraculously upright.

Outside Zhang Ziyi’s trailer, the director was fuming. First a prima donna actress spoils his damn scene, and now she’s locked herself in her trailer? It was like a ridiculous Hollywood cliché.

“Who do you think you are?” he shouted through the door. “I’m Ben Brackets, I’ve been in this business since you were a glint in your mother’s cunt! Now get the fuck out here and do your job!”

He put his ear to the door. He didn’t hear a sound. Had she slipped out the window? Was she sleeping?

Ben pounded on the door for all he could. “I swear to god, this is the last job you ever get if you don’t come out here! Now open this door right the fuck NOW!”

Suddenly, he heard footsteps from inside. Getting nearer and nearer. Then he heard a ‘click,’ and the door swung open.

The next thing Ben heard was the ringing in his ears from the shock of what he was seeing. And what he felt? The straining in his pants as all the blood from his head rushed to his swollen dick.

Before him, wearing only a smile, the formerly childish figure of Zhang Ziyi swayed into his view, and from her shapely legs to her thick hips to her wide ass to her soft belly to her prodigious, gravity-defying tits and up to her fattened lips, she was all sex, a Chinese goddess of fertility and heat.

Ben sputtered but couldn’t form a full sentence. “But, but, you, ha, what-“

She silenced him with a tug of his grey t-shirt, pulling him up the steps and into her trailer before slamming the door behind him.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “Just fuck me.”

Ben’s brain worked overtime, examining the scene around him. A puddle of milk sat next to an open jug on the floor. Mangled fudge was spilled in chunks around a hastily torn gift basket. Wet underwear soaked into the floor. The logical part of his brain told him that he should be concerned, that seeing his waif-thin star turned into a plump sex doll in minutes wasn’t normal.

But then, that same sex doll started stroking the crotch of his pants, and the pervy old man in him won out over the logic and he was quickly stripping out of his clothes.

Ziyi hopped up on the table, pushing the gift basket to the side and splaying her legs to display her dripping pink pussy, the neatly trimmed black hair above it acting as a signpost screaming “fuck me.”

Ben stroked his little four-inch prick and eyed the needy creature before him suspiciously.

“Should we, uh, use a condom or something?”

She responded by showing him two fingers, shoving them deep into herself with a moan, then bringing them to her lips and sucking the juices.

He didn’t need a better hint than that, and quickly plunged himself into her.

The sensation was incredible. He’d violated plenty of young actresses in his time, tricked hapless girls into taking part in his casting couch, but none of them had ever felt like this. As plush as her body was (and he noted as he squeezed her rolling mounds that she had become very plush indeed), her hole was tighter than a virgin, almost as though it was conforming to his minimal rod and enveloping it, swallowing it.

Through her moans and cries, Ziyi sniffed the air. “Oooohh, fuck, I love that SMELL!”

Ben sniffed around, but all he could smell was her pussy, admittedly a warm and welcoming whiff, but hardly orgasmic. But then she grabbed his head and suctioned her mouth to his, her tongue plumbing his throat as they each groaned deeply, and he stopped thinking about any sense but touch.

His pace built and built, the sound of slapping thighs and her girlish gasps spurring him on. Slowly, her fingers traced patterns down his hairy back, reaching down. Suddenly she slapped his ass, digging her fingernails into his cheeks, and he grunted, thrusting even harder than he thought he could, wheezing and out of breath but trying to viciously fuck the cunt in front of him and put the girl in her place.

He was so lost in the feeling he didn’t notice as one of her fingers escaped into his asshole, digging up into his prostate as her pussy walls seemed to pulsate. The shock of the invasion was enough to make him cum, and hard; he was thrusting uncontrollably, then shaking like he was having a seizure.

In seconds, he blacked out and fell to the floor.

When Ben finally awoke, he caught no sight of the walking wet dream he was beginning to think that he’d imagined into fucking him. He saw the rest of it, though; the basket, the milk. Maybe it was real, after all. But how?

“That was fun,” a voice said behind him, and from his back he looked up to see Zhang Ziyi, all plumped up and new the way he remembered, relaxing in a recliner, her feet surrounding his head.

“H-how?” he managed to say. “How did this happen?”

She giggled. “Well, first there was the fudge, and then the milk. OMG, you’ve GOT to try the fudge!”

She moved to stand but he threw up his hands. “No don’t!” he barked.

She sat back and pouted. “Aw. I really wanted to share some with you. I know! How about you eat my pussy instead?”

He was going to ask a whole series of new questions, like ‘How does fudge turn a stick into a pillow?’ and ‘What kind of milk gives women super tits?’ He also would have probably told her that he doesn’t eat pussy, especially after he’s fucked it.

But before he could say anything more, she slid down from the chair and dropped her moist sex onto his mouth. Her round ass was so big it nearly suffocated him, the only air he could find was filtered through the musky scent of her rosebud.

At first he struggled and flailed. He tried to yell at her to get off of him, but his open mouth let her juices drip freely onto his tongue. At first he caught the bitter sliminess of his own cum and he gagged; it tasted like over-salted bleach. He was about to throw all his weight into lifting the girl off his face when he got his first taste of her womanhood on its own.

He immediately stopped fighting.

‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘it tastes like s’mores made of pure heaven!’

His tongue unfurled and attacked her slit, digging and plunging for more and more of that sweet flavor. Even the taste of his spunk couldn’t deter him. In fact, he seemed to instinctually know where to put his tongue to avoid the bitterness, the sweetness practically calling him and guiding him where to lick.

“Wow,” she giggled, “you really like my cunny. You’re gonna love the fudge for sure!”

Right now, Ben couldn’t care about what he put in his mouth, as long as it tasted as good as the girl on top of him.


Paul couldn’t believe his luck.

The lonely, newly-21 bike messenger was having the best birthday of his life. He hadn’t expected this to be the case. After all, he was working on his birthday. But somehow, the stars had aligned, and the jobs on his slate today were extraordinarily cool.

He rolled up to the bustling convention center, flashing his credentials at a security guard waiting, arms crossed, in front of a line full of aliens, robots, monsters, space cowboys, even a few mermaids.

Striding through the double doors, package under his arm, he shook out his sandy blonde hair. Above him a banner waved: “LONDON SCI-FI CON 2013.”

He stopped at a sign-in table and noted the fat, middle-aged black woman and the scrawny pale nerd who would be handing out the drink wristbands. Paul couldn’t be deterred in his excitement by the blasé looks on their faces. He held forth the parcel he was carrying.

“I need to deliver this to, well, it says right there on the label,” he said proudly.

The woman glanced at the item in question, uncaring.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll bring it in for you.”

He pulled it back under his care. “Whoa, I’ve got orders. I’ve gotta deliver this direct,” he lied.

The woman rolled her eyes and shot a look at the teen. The kid was spaced out and looked like he was going to fall asleep. She snapped her fingers in his face.

“Oy, braniac, show him the floor map!”

The kid scrambled in his seat, digging through a pile of papers in a folder in front of him. Finally, he pulled out a sketch of the convention inside the main floor.

“Uh,” the kid said shakily, “which table are you looking for again?”

Paul showed him the label again. The kid’s eyes grew briefly wide, then went back to scanning the document.

“Okay,” he said, pointing to a grey splotch on the far side of the room from where they were currently talking. “You’ve gotta go all the way down. It’ll be on the right. You can’t miss it. Big blue signs.”

Paul nodded and walked past to the big red doors into the center.

The main floor was a streamlined yet oddly chaotic mix of bright lights, huge banners, and endless rows of tables and booths of varying degrees of quality. Paul grinned. Under normal circumstances, he couldn’t afford his way into something like this. Now? He felt like a VIP.

It took him almost ten minutes to get to the row he needed to walk through, and another five to get to the booth he was looking for. But as he stepped up to the booth, he knew it was worth the effort.

The first thing he noticed was the full-sized blue “POLICE BOX” behind the folding table. A life-sized TARDIS, framed by lights and pictures from years of television adventures and huge banners that practically screamed “DOCTOR WHO” from every side, sat in all its glory.

And at its flank, applying some last-minute makeup, were two of the show’s best female stars, including the intended recipient of the package he was carrying: Karen Gillan and Billie Piper.

The breath caught in Paul’s throat. They were even more beautiful in person, skin smooth, hair lustrous, eyes big and shining. Their physical features were very different, Karen more petite, and Billie more sensual. But as far as Paul was concerned, they were each as close to perfect as a human being could get.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, miss-“

Karen noticed him and immediately jumped out of her seat towards him. “Perfect!” she said. “Just in time.”

She smiled warmly and Paul nearly melted into the floor. He almost forgot to give her the package, instead standing with a stupid grin on his face as she held out her hands. He shook himself out of it and thrust the box into her arms.

She stepped behind the table again, cracking open the box and examining the contents.

“Oh, excellent,” she said, holding up a glossy, beautiful picture of herself. “I was all out of headshots! Just in time for a signing, right?”

She realized he was still standing there and looked at him quizzically. Suddenly, she realized.

“Oh shit!” she gasped. “A tip! Oh, I don’t have any cash!”

Paul wasn’t waiting for a tip. He just wanted to stand in the presence of these two bombshells for a little bit longer.

Karen scrambled through her purse. “Billie, you have any cash?”

Billie shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t.”

Paul was quick to stop them. “Actually, I don’t need a tip, that’s fine.”

Karen looked so apologetic it looked like she might tear up. “Are you sure? You really deserve one.”

He chuckled. “Aw, well, thank you. Maybe instead of a tip, I could, you know, get an autograph?”

Her eyes brightened. “You’re a fan?”

Paul smiled at her enthusiastic kindness. “Yeah. Big fan.”

She grinned broadly and pulled out a Sharpie, scribbling a name and a short message on a photo of herself. Finished, she practically threw it into his hands with pride.

Paul examined the photo with a sense of glee that he was wise and cool enough to conceal. He read the message: “To the best delivery boy a girl could need! – Karen Gillan.”

It was Billie’s turn to clear her throat. “Excuse me, but I can sign an autograph too.”

Paul silently thanked his god. “I’d love that! I’m a fan of both of you.”

Billie smirked as she signed a personal photo of her own. “You’d better be.”

Paul, now holding the signed pictures of two gorgeous women in his quivering fingers, couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. “Thank you both so much. You know, this may be the best birthday of my life.”

Karen clapped her hands. “Oh my goodness, it’s your birthday?”

He blushed and nodded.

“We should get a picture together! What’s your name?”

Paul was speechless as he croaked out, “Paul.”

“Paul, do you have a camera?”

He cursed internally. “No, I don’t. Uh, I do have my phone.”

Billie shrugged. “That works.”

A nearby security guard was elected as the photographer, and as he posed with the girls, Karen flashing a peace sign and Billie smiling her toothy smile, Paul felt as though he was dreaming he was so happy.

When all was done, Paul shook the girls’ hands and took his leave.

“Oh, before you go,” Karen said, catching up to him and handing him a note. “This is for your eyes only.”

He opened the note. It was a phone number. He looked back at her and she smiled. He couldn’t even say anything and, not wanting to look over-eager, turned and walked away before smiling the biggest smile of his life.

“If you can, you should come by the booth again later!” Karen called after him. “We can help you celebrate your birthday!”

Paul nodded and waved, the only thing he could think to do that didn’t involve fainting. Today was a good day.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Paul hopped back on his bike. His next delivery was just a few blocks away, and while he was sure it couldn’t top the experience he’d just had, he was excited nonetheless.

Trillion Studios was tucked in a nice but non-descript office building. Paul had to ride up the elevator ten floors to get to their address, and even then, he had to walk through several hallways to find what he was looking for.

A secretary was polishing her nails at a desk. Dark hair, frumpled black blouse barely hiding her surprisingly sizable cleavage, her chocolate skin spotty and wrinkled but somehow dignified. Her name plate read “Simone Shariday.”

“Hi, Simone,” Paul read carefully. “I’ve got a delivery for a Mr. Bernie McAvee. Is he around?”

Simone barely looked up from her nails. “He’s recording right now. I can hold it for him.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Company policy. I need to put it in his hands myself or take it back to the sorting office.”

Simone just sighed deeply and hit a button on her intercom. “Bernie, we’ve got a delivery boy here, says he needs to give you the package himself.”

A buzz responded. “Yeah, alright, just send him in, I’m in the middle of something.”

Simone rolled her eyes and pointed to her left. “Down the hall, third door on your right. Not the second or first doors. You do not want to go anywhere near those doors, understand?”

Paul thought that sounded ominous but fair. He started down the hall. It was dimly lit, painted a creamy yellow. The first door and second door were easy to avoid; a bright red light was on above each one, signifying what Paul couldn’t say for sure.

Finally he reached the third door, painted grey, seemingly hermetically sealed. He pushed it open with a great strain and stepped inside.

His heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t what was in the room in question that did it. Certainly that was interesting; he was clearly in the production room, surrounded by high-end recording equipment so elaborate he figured he could never learn how it possibly worked. And it wasn’t the fat bearded man lounging in the office chair in front of the mixing board, who Paul presumed was Bernie McAvee.

No, it was the glass wall on the other side of the room that revealed the contents of the red-lit doors he’d passed. And the women waiting anxiously in front of microphones, all in a row, each gorgeous. And famous.

He recognized them all: Kimberly Walsh, Nicola Roberts, Sarah Harding, Nadine Coyle, Cheryl Cole. It was Girls Aloud, the inane but infinitely sexy pop group he’d had more than a few wet dreams about. And there was one more. He gasped as he recognized Louise Redknapp, aka Louise.

‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘it’s like being thirteen all over again.’

The women hadn’t lost a touch of their special looks. If anything, the maturity of age had given them a power over Paul’s eyes they hadn’t even had in his early days, when he was just “discovering himself” to pictures of them in magazines.

His reverie was short-lived, however. Bernie turned around in his chair.

“Hey there,” Bernie said. “Got something for me?”

Quickly, Paul held out a flat box for Bernie’s approval.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Thank you.”

As Bernie began to dig in his pockets for a tip, Paul couldn’t help but ask.

“Is that-“

“Yeah,” Bernie cut him off. “The Girls Aloud girls and Louise. Recording a benefit song for all that business in the states, trying to help the victims or some nonsense. As if anything can save those people now. There were supposed to be more, we had a whole lineup of women, but these were the only ones who showed up. Still, charity and all that.”

Bernie chucked. “Besides,” he whispered. “I get paid the same no matter what.”

From the booth, Nadine groaned into the microphone. “Bernie, what are we waiting for?”

Bernie looked at Paul. “You want to hear a take?”

Paul couldn’t believe his luck. He didn’t care for these women musically, but any opportunity to see stars behind the scene like this, especially sexy stars like these, was worth the chance. “Sure, why not?”

Bernie held a button and leaned over a small microphone. “Alright, ladies. Let’s do another take. This time, really listen to the click. We got a bit off time on the last go.”

Music wafted in from the speakers, stirring strings that legitimately tugged at Paul’s heart. That is, until the bass kicked in. ‘Fuck,’ he thought, ‘even sad songs sound like stripper jams these days.’

The pumping beat cued the women and, as though each was trying to out-sing the other, they all broke out into “improvised” runs, lilting and off-key “oohs” and “aahs” and “yeah-yeahs.”

Bernie turned to Paul and gave a chuckle and a grimace. “Awful,” he mouthed.

They each took a short verse. The lyrics were nonsense, generic tragedy-baiting that could have been written about a house fire instead of an international crisis. Had he heard it on the radio, Paul would have felt embarrassed to be human. But seeing the girls singing it, seeing their chests rise and fall with their supple breasts shaking with each breath, their mouths forming perfect ‘O’s with their eyes closed, he had to admit, he could watch them with the sound off.

Singing was much sexier than Paul had ever realized before.

Suddenly, Louise and Cheryl tried to start the same verse and the whole production ground to a halt.

“What the fuck?!” Cheryl shouted.

Louise threw her a disgusted look. “What do you mean? That’s my verse!”

“No!” Cheryl insisted. “I did it last time, it’s mine!”

“That’s the next verse, you twat!” Louise snapped.

Bernie sighed and hit the button over the microphone. “Girls, please, we just need to get through this and we can make money for all those poor people and what not.”

Cheryl threw up her hands. “Whatever! Just bring me water. I need water, now.”

Bernie buzzed Simone.

Simone entered the studio with the girls, hauling a small crate of canned water.

Sarah held up a can, her bright blonde hair reflected in its silver surface. The label read “H2Go.”

She scrunched her face in confusion. “Is this water?”

Bernie cleared his throat. “Yeah. Imported. Just got it in this morning. Look, it was the cheapest stuff we could find on short notice in large quantities. They were out of bottles. All this ‘Goo’ madness has people going crazy.”

Sarah shrugged, and pulled the tab. Instead of the hiss of a soda can, it merely popped open.

Releasing a potent aroma into the air.

Sarah reeled, losing her balance briefly. All at once, her senses were violated, her nose invaded by invisible bubbles rising and popping in her mind, letting off a new emotion with each little ‘pop.’

“Lavender,” she whispered, and began to chug the contents of the can.

At first, the other girls looked on with concern. Had Bernie gotten some kind of flavored water for them, Nadine wondered. Since when did Sarah chug anything, Nicola thought. Then a little liquid dribble ran out the corner of Sarah’s mouth, and everyone noticed it wasn’t clear water, but white like milk.

Louise was the first to put the pieces together, close as she was to Sarah. “Oh god,” she said, “it’s the-“

Unfortunately for her, she was also the first to pick up the magnificent smell that had drifted over from Sarah’s open can. Quickly she dove to the floor to the open crate, grabbed her own can, and cracked it open…right next to Kimberly’s face, which in seconds flashed from horror to anger to shock to absolute need as she followed suit.

Nadine, Nicola, and Cheryl were soon in the same boat. From downing all they could of their cans and trying to lick out the insides, they moved to pouring the white beverage all over themselves, and when it soaked through their loose but fashionable attire, they tore it off, bit by bit, rubbing more of the Goo into their skins, and onto each other.

Simone tried to run, tried to back out of the room as quickly as her legs would take her. But she was in shock. She could only move so fast. She cracked open the tightly sealed door, and air rushed to get out into the hallway, carrying with it the enticing and ensnaring bliss of the Goo. She joined with the famous women, emptying the last few cans remaining in the crate down her throat, over her head, down her cleavage, in her private areas, until it was all gone and she just stood still, spaced out like her sisters in nude, white-drenched glory.

Paul and Bernie could only watch the scene with a mix of terror and fascination. They watched as, one by one, six pop stars and a secretary became crazed with need, like drug users trapped in need of a fix. Or starving men at last given food when they’re inches from dying. The mania and need in their eyes as they devoured, absorbed the liquid before them was beyond human, Paul thought.

Then, when they were all still, Paul and Bernie saw the white sink into the women’s skin. Saw their bodies soften, their breasts grow like magic. Cheryl looked like she might tip over from the weight of her enhanced bosom. Louise and Sarah’s already supple chests became lush, unnaturally grand. The most dramatic change was in Nicola, her meager bust now screaming to be squeezed, each breast nearly the size of her head and just as round. Her sweet red hair brushed the sides of them as it grew longer from her scalp. Paul had seen these women a million times in his dreams, but never had he dreamt them this way, plush and pristine. It was surreal, it was insane, but it was happening, and, ashamed as he was to admit it, Paul found the site…erotic.

Simone seemed to lose years in her flesh, years of spots and wrinkles and stretch marks erased. Her breasts had already been quite impressive, DDs at least. But now they pushed out, past the point of logic. When it was all over, she actually would fall over, the weight and size of her breasts so outside of her normal balance that she would spend the rest of her life lying down, crawling, being lifted by men and women to have her prodigious nipples suckled and licked. The brushing of the ground would bring her pain and bliss in equal measure in her tits for the rest of her life.

When they came to, every girl had a wolfish grin as they surveyed the sticky sweet substance they’d practically inhaled glazing every surface of the recording studio. Cheryl hefted her new chest as best she could and giggled, letting Louise snake her extraordinary tongue over them and hardly stifling her moans.

Sure enough, Simone was on the floor, and while Nicola and Kimberly rolled her onto her back to get their lips on her massive mammaries, Simone’s fingers dug deep into her pussy, squeezing her jutting clit and gushing her fluids onto the carpet. Sarah, the bubbling bleached blonde, was all too happy to get on her knees and lap up those fluids for all her worth, her own fingers joining Simone’s in scooping out her hot girl cum and shoving it into her mouth.

The lighted bars on the mixing board began to rise and rise as the moans and screams and giggles grew louder and louder, each lick and kiss and caress that the women doled out to one another quickly sending the recording into the red.

Bernie couldn’t take it, and switched the sound off in the booth. Through the glass, they could still hear them, though they sounded much further away, separated from the men by what felt like miles.

Paul suddenly became afraid. “We’re…we’re safe in here. Right?”

Bernie was about to say yes. But then he remembered.

His eyes traveled to the ceiling to the air vent that connected each room through the ducts.

Paul followed his eyes, and swallowed with a gulp. “What do we do?” he asked.

Bernie stood. “We need to get out.”

But before he could run for his life, something tickled his nostrils.

“Do you smell that?” Bernie asked.

Paul, despite himself, sniffed, then cursed his stupidity. But he didn’t smell anything.

“What do you smell?” Paul asked.

Bernie seemed to not be paying attention, lost in his inhalations. His face bore a look of purpose, like a mystery needed to be solved, as though his life depended on it. Suddenly, he opened his eyes.

“Grape,” Bernie whispered.

Now he ran, and Paul started to follow. But quickly Paul realized that Bernie wasn’t running for the exit. He was running to the sound booth. Paul stopped and watched, too curious to follow his better judgment.

Bernie burst into the sound studio and practically tackled Louise, standing as she was over a kneeling Cheryl, who was busily licking at the blonde’s open snatch. Bernie looked at the music stands in front of him, covered in dripping Goo. He began to lick away at each surface, trying to consume as much as possible. He took no notice of the women, as the pop stars crept upon him and began to tear away his clothes, first his Hawaiian shirt, then his khakis, until they could peel away his underway and pop his cock free. Immediately, Nicola bent forward, and the other girls helped her shove Bernie’s prick into her waiting cunt. She bucked against him ecstatically, the others now helping Bernie in his quest to devour the Goo, scooping it from everywhere they could and bringing it to his lips.

Simone scooted herself on the floor until she was directly under Nicola’s pounded twat, her mouth open in the hopes that very soon her juices might drip, and her former supervisor might let some of his cum slip out and onto her face so she could drink it all up. One hand was buried in her snatch, another reaching as best she could to fondle each enormous mound on her chest. The black beauty lay back in joy and waited for her reward.

Paul could watch no more, terrified of what might happen if he stayed. He ran back to the front desk, where his bike was leaning, and bolted through the hallways. He rode the elevator down the ten floors and pedaled through the lobby and into the streets.

As he turned onto the main road, the ground beneath him began to shake and he almost fell off. Cracks began to form in the pavement and the traffic lights flickered.

“Earthquake!” he shouted.

Then he noticed something in the cracks. Out from the ground oozed a pure white liquid.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

The earthquake was short, but the damage was done. As Paul rode faster than ever, he saw men and women on the sidewalks lapping at the ground like thirsty dogs, saw people get out of their cars in the middles of intersections just to gather some of the substance. People crashed, many likely died. Paul had never seen such profound chaos.

‘Why am I not affected?’ he thought. Then he remembered something.

He pulled out his cell phone, where he had saved the number he’d gotten that morning.

It rang and rang. Suddenly, a weak answer. “He-hello?”

“Karen?” he said, pedaling slower so he wouldn’t crash but never stopping, always moving. “Are you alright?”

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Paul, the delivery guy, from earlier?”

She sounded distant, like she couldn’t think straight. “Oh, right, Paul. Sorry. We’re fine. Security moved as many of us as they could into a storm shelter they have in the convention center. It’s pretty sparse, but we should be okay until this thing passes.”

Paul breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay,” he said. “Things have gotten crazy out here. I think it’s the Goo, like what they had in America.”

He heard a gasp on the other end of the line. “You’re kidding!”

“No. It’s happening. Look, I’ll be right there. We’ll figure a way out.”

Suddenly, the ground shook again, lighter this time, but just as long. The call was dropped as the cell towers were disabled.

“Shit!” he cursed, and pedaled twice as fast to get to the convention center.

As he approached the building, Paul could tell something was wrong. Where before throngs of costumed people were filing in and out, now the street in front of the center was empty.

As he walked through the first set of doors, he saw clothes and costumes, capes and helmets littering the floor. A cacophonous noise was echoing from inside. At first he thought he was the only person in the lobby, but he caught sight under the table of the fat black woman and the pimple-faced boy security guards he’d met earlier. Well, that’s what they had looked like before. What he saw now was a thick but fit black goddess riding a studly young man with a broken pair of glasses, his fat cock thrusting in and out of her asshole under their security table as he bit at her nipples and she groaned like a bitch in heat.

Paul’s hands shook as he reached the door to the main floor. He could hear it, the sounds of something evil and spreading, a sexual flood. How many had been infected? How many would he find? And what could he do to save them?

Mustering all his courage, Paul pushed open the door. Insanity greeted him.

Long rows of booths, stretching as far as the eye can see, were strained with the crush of bodies fucking, sucking, breeding with a single-minded lust that made the very ripples of air look alive. It would be hard to believe even if it was normal naked people having sex. But this was a sci-fi convention. And it seemed the cosplay didn’t end even when propriety did.

A few paces ahead, Paul saw a heavy-busted Wonder Woman bending over and taking cock from a muscular Malcolm Reynolds, his long coat swaying with each thrust, her lasso around his neck pulling him deeper. Across the aisle from them, an Asian girl in a furry outfit was on her knees, tail in the air, licking and servicing the split slit of Power Girl, her tits so large they’d torn through the already cleavage-happy white spandex, who was busy being bounced up and down from Neo’s thick rod in her bulbous ass, her lipstick smearing around the prick of a Ghostbuster and her eyes rolled in her skull from bliss.

A Catwoman, naked but for her ears and knee-high leather boots, lay back on a table, using every orifice and digit to service a cavalcade of Batman, The Joker, The Riddler, Mr. Freeze, a very busty green Poison Ivy, and Bane, all of whom seemed to have come together, which is ironic because in moments they were all cumming together. And around them, thousands more people were doing just the same.

Paul noted that the floors and walls were flooded with Goo. He looked up. Goo was dripping from the fire sprinklers, and cracks in the walls left it leaking from all sides. He wouldn’t dare risk touching this stuff. Not after what he’d seen. He hopped up onto his bike and, after a difficult start, slippery as the ground was, he managed to slide through the undulating crowd towards the back.

As he sped past, Paul splashed Goo onto all sorts of people: Superman and Captain Picard sharing the spoils of an elaborately-costumed Queen Amidala, three grey-painted zombies angrily fisting and choking the holes of a happy, plump Jill Valentine, Black Panther going down on the hot cunt of Seven of Nine. The kinds of scenes that horny fan boys had dreamt up on the internet, that pervy illustrators would draw for the wanking material of young boys, all of it unfolded around him. And it was real. As real as it could get.

Paul pedaled as quickly as he could under the circumstances. He made it to the Doctor Who booth, but found only crowds of eagerly fucking nerds. No sign of Karen or Billie. He looked about the walls for some sign. Then he saw it, a big read marker that read “STORM SHELTER” with an arrow pointing to a hallway off the main area. He made it there in short order. The hall was narrow, but he was able to pedal through. At the end of the concrete way there was a large, blue metal door with a huge lock.

Paul stepped off his bike; the floor here was clean. ‘Maybe they’re alright,’ he thought.

It suddenly occurred to him that even if they were alright, what then? The slightest whiff of the Goo would set them off. How would he get them out?

A noise from inside made the door hum slightly and snapped Paul out of his thoughts.

‘First thing’s first,’ he thought.

He banged on the door. “Hello?!” he yelled. “Karen, it’s Paul. It’s okay, I’m normal, you can let me in!”

For a moment there was no answer. He banged again. “Let me in, we need to figure out how to get out of all this!”

He was starting to think that they couldn’t hear him. He reared back to start slamming his not-considerable weight against the door when he heard a bolt slide back in the lock.

“Thank god,” he whispered. The door swung open. And there was Karen Gillan.

Completely nude. Her lips thicker. Her hips blown out. Her ass visible from the front. Her tits hanging like heavy sacs of milk strung around her neck.

She giggled. “OMG, PAUL!” she squealed, running to throw her arms around him.

Paul backed away, but found only concrete wall behind him. Karen latched her arms around his neck and drew him in for a sloppy, tongue-laden kiss. Her mounds pressed against his chest with a serene femininity, and he felt his cock stirring. He pushed her off.

“Awesome,” she sighed. “I’m, like, so glad I met you this morning!”

Under normal circumstances, nothing would have made Paul happier than to hear those words from her mouth. But now he couldn’t wrap his mind around the gravity of what had happened.

“H-how?” he choked.

Smiling, she pulled him into the storm shelter. It was a squat concrete cube, with shelves on the wall containing essentials, food, water, batteries, flashlights, a radio. He checked the ceiling. No sprinklers. The water in the clear jugs looked clean.

He looked at the floor.

At first, his addled brain thought that the floor was moving. Then he realized it was just lined with naked people, people with painted faces or masks or ripped costumes, some perfectly normal other than their clearly transformed, unnatural body shapes, too perfect, too round or hard. In the center of the fray, a tall blonde was on her hands and knees getting plowed from behind by a familiar-looking bloke wearing only a bow tie.

“Billie?” Paul heard himself say.

It was definitely Billie Piper, he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. The rest of her, though…Her breasts flew back and forth with each wildly-timed piston of cock into her wanton womb. Her ass rippled like waves through water. The man giving her the business had his fingers hooked in the corners of her mouth, pulling her back like a horse’s bridle as her snake-like tongue flung about licking his digits. Every move she made slathered or slapped or splashed with hot wetness.

Paul realized the splashing wasn’t all her. Looking under the girl, he realized she was fucking in an open puddle of goo, which was rising from tiny, geyser-like splits in the floor.

Suddenly, a heavy clicking sound snapped Paul back, and he looked to see Karen, her hands on the door’s latch, grinning like she’d just played a big joke as she sealed Paul in with a room full of Goo-drunk sex fiends.

“No-“ he started.

“What?” she said seductively, stepping towards him, fingers running along the outline of her now crevasse-deep cleavage. “You don’t want me?”

“Not like this,” he breathed.

She pouted and stepped closer. He stumbled back, but his foot caught a woman’s leg and he fell, down to the cracked floor, and right into an open pool of Goo.

Paul’s first thought was sorrow. ‘No, not this,’ he thought. ‘I mean, seriously, it’s my birthday!’

But all at once, Karen pounced on him, kissing him, her hands reaching under him and bringing palms full of Goo to his face, slipping them between their writhing lips, forcing it into his mouth with her tongue. After that, there was no more sadness.

Karen got up and let Paul turn over so he could drink from the bubbling fountain of sweet liquid. From behind, she pulled off his shirt, unbuckled his belt, tore away his pants and undergarments. Karen rested her jiggling flesh on his back as her delicate fingers snaked beneath him to find his rigid tool. She played with him slowly, a reach-around of tender love as he guzzled away.

Finally she could take no more. She pulled Paul away from his needy drinking and turned him on his back, sinking low and taking his manhood into her pussy. In seconds she was bouncing on his cock, her howls of bliss echoing off the walls, the tossing play of her breasts entrancing him almost more than the Goo, which he continued to scoop into his mouth with his hands.

Karen bent low and stuck her tongue deep down Paul’s throat, the lust and love of her every move sending shockwaves through his body as she pumped his cock dry with her spasming cunt. So enraptured were they in their love-making and Goo-drinking that they scarcely noticed as the Earth shook again, the walls quaking, and the fountain beneath Paul came to life, spraying Goo everywhere and covering them both in its rain.

The shaking of the ground rippled through Paul’s prick and into Karen’s pussy, and she came, loudly and profoundly, practically passing out. But she didn’t stop. She needed him to finish, needed to feel his cum flood her.

‘I need to be planted like a field, need to grow his babies inside my belly,’ she thought, though she had no idea why she thought this.

Karen waited for Paul to go still like the others had when they first encountered the Goo, but he didn’t. No, Paul’s transformation was much different than the men and women she’d seen changed around her.

The immunity Paul had to the scent of the Goo did not save him from its effects. On the contrary, it was a biological sign of his potency, and the Goo, mixing with his DNA as it did everyone who touched it, became exponentially more powerful.

Paul’s arms and legs began to balloon with muscle, with strength. He was vaguely aware of this as he reached up with a mighty fist to grip Karen’s right tit and found he could fit it all in one hand, his brute strength making her yelp in pain, though she didn’t stop her loving fucking.

Every part of Paul stretched, grew longer, taller, thicker. His chest inflated and hardened, toned, defined, armor-like muscle growing under his skin and making him stronger than a tank. He breathed in the air and felt as though he were filling up endlessly, and when he exhaled he practically blew Karen’s now comparatively puny frame off of him.

His average cock was the last to grow, not by centimeters, but by inches, and fast. Karen, her cunt latched tight from her orgasm, felt it immediately, as more and more of her was filled with meat. As it pressed against her cervix, her eyes practically bugged out her skull, then rolled back in their sockets. Her voice squeaked as though his cock had sprouted into her throat and cut off her vocal chords. She thought she might be ripped in half, but couldn’t dare stop, not now, not this close. The feel of it brought her to orgasm after orgasm. Nothing else could ever feel this good, ever would.

As his mind became overrun at last, Paul had one last cogent, non-sexual thought: “What a strange birthday.”

And with that, he came. He exploded with seed, flooding Karen’s insides as she cried out in sounds previously unknown to humankind. She thought cum might start flowing from her eyes, there was so much. Then she didn’t think anything. Her belly full of a beast’s cum, Karen’s eyes went as blank as her mind, and she slumped to the side.

Paul studied the girl the only way his brain could manage.

‘Fuck shell got big cum belly,’ he thought. ‘Planted seed. Must fuck another.’

The empty girl was left, legs splayed, pure white cum running from her cunt, as Paul went on the hunt for another body to implant. Billie Piper, on her knees in front of two young men, looked perfect.

On the floor, the husk that had been Karen Gillan shook, and a large, off-white egg slid out of her pussy, rolled down the uneven floor, and landed in a puddle of Goo with a soft “splash.”



Emily Deschanel came with a happy shriek, a squeeze of her pert nipples adding to the effulgent bliss of sex as she bounced on an anonymous cock, the latter at last shooting its load into her womb to complete her pleasant nighttime snack.

But even fucking couldn’t take her mind off her sister, now her Goddess.

Obviously, things had been strange since The Zooey came and took over the Cult. True, she was the True Goddess, Emily couldn’t deny that; her power had proven itself that first night.

But Emily still felt a little sad, and a little lonely. After all, she’d gained a Goddess, but really, she’d lost her sister, and it didn’t look like she’d ever be the same.

The Zooey set about moving the Cult out of the basement of the abandoned warehouse and into the city proper. Of course, it would be impossible to contain the whole of the Cult now; as The Zooey was wont to exclaim, the world was now theirs, resistance was failing, and soon all would be like them.

Most of the time, The Zooey just sat (well, kind of hovered) in her throne, never inviting Emily to sit with her. The Goddess would sit alone and watch them get fucked, watch them get plump and fat and pregnant. When a woman gave birth, she’d be brought to The Zooey for Anointing. The bodies lined around the stage now.

Emily slid off the cock beneath her without so much as a thank you, formalities, and most forms of speech, now mostly gone. Her bare feet traipsed through the aisles of the theater they’d overtaken, a gilded old movie house with murals on the walls and a stage fit for The Zooey’s daily sermons reminding them that they were all whores, slaves to Her will, that all would fall before Her.

Emily glanced back. The Zooey was on the stage now, in her throne, her white eyes making it impossible to tell if she was watching her sister walk away, or whether she was watching any of the hundreds of fellow slaves fucking in front of her. Blank faces lined the stage, women of fame and fortune now plump shells whose huge teats were for feeding their recently-born young. Kristen Bell had a chubby blonde-haired boy latched to a nipple as her dead eyes stared into nothingness. Allison Brie’s happy smile was gone, replaced by an empty unfeeling gaze as she held a dark-haired baby girl to her breasts. Jennifer Garner, who’d made her way to their new home along with her husband, who still fucked her stretched-out body from time to time for memory’s sake, fed two fattening infants from her chest at once.

All the children’s eyes glowed as they drank their fill.

What was worse was what lay behind them, in a growing pile next to The Zooey’s throne: Eggs. A whole collection of un-hatched white eggs, flanked by the mysterious crimson egg and green egg from that night months before when The Zooey brought about her new world.

Emily had no idea why the eggs were piled up there, unopened. She didn’t know what they were waiting for. But soon, something would have to come out of them. And then…what?

Emily stepped out into the night air. The city lights still shone like they had before; The Zooey had ordered the men to live their lives only for planting their seed and laboring at their maintaining the world for their Goddess. That meant the world’s work still carried on, more or less. But the only jobs left were maintenance, physical labor; food service wasn’t an issue (that’s what the Goo was for), nor was money. No one made movies. No one held board meetings. They simply built and fixed and maintained. With so many men, the work was usually done quickly, which left them plenty of time to fuck and lick the women.

Emily watched the streets, the gutters flush with Goo, which had burbled up from the Earth until it became part of the natural cycle of the world. It now rained from the sky when there were storms, made happy, impossibly white clouds.

Suddenly, Emily caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A shadow passing under a streetlight down an alley. She strained her eyes through the barely lit dark but couldn’t see what had caused it. She walked cautiously out from the theater, down to the alleyway.

She rounded the corner and saw…well, very little. If the night sky had made the streets darker than usual, the pitch black of the alley was unimpeachable.

“Hello?” she said nervously.

Several yards away, through the dark, a match flared to life, and Emily saw a face. A girl’s face. But she was different, somehow, something about her was off. Emily tried hard to think of what it could-

Then it hit her. ‘She…she hasn’t touched the Goo!’

Emily thought about running, sprinting back to the theater, to The Zooey, to tell Her that there was a girl who hadn’t known the glory of the Goo, that they had to find her and make her better.

But for some reason she couldn’t explain, Emily didn’t run and tell. Instead, she began to walk towards this girl, a moth drawn to her flame. In the light of the quickly fading match, Emily saw sparkling green eyes and fiery red hair, saw sweet but thin lips and a simple nose. Everything about her reminded Emily of what was, what had been.

Emily drew closer and closer, and the girl seemed further and further away with each step. Finally, the flame began to sputter and flicker in and out.

“Who are you?” Emily asked at last.

The flame went dark.

“Human,” she heard the woman say.

Then Emily felt a bag slip over her head, and she was dragged by strong hands down the alley and out of sight.


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