Chapter 9: Puke Princess Showdown
The sticky cherry residue vanished, replaced by a blinding, strobing assault of pink and electric blue. The chemical smell was gone, swapped for an overwhelming cocktail of sweat, coconut oil, and something artificially sweet, like candy-scented disinfectant.
Bob wasn’t in a bed. He was sitting upright, cold leather straps biting into his wrists and ankles. He was shirtless, shivering under the studio’s aggressive air conditioning. Before he could process the bindings, a thick, cloying straw was shoved between his lips.
“Drink, dummy! It’s for energy!” a shrill voice commanded.
His mouth obeyed, sucking automatically. A frozen, sludgy mixture of banana and something chemically bitter filled his mouth. He swallowed, a chill shooting down his throat to his gut.
Two faces hovered in his blurry vision. They were mirror images of aggression and tiny, curated chaos. Girls, maybe five feet tall, with neon pink and blue pigtails respectively. Their faces were heavily made up with glitter and oversized lip gloss. Their matching tiny torsos were bare save for pasties shaped like cartoon grenades, and their stomachs were tattooed with elaborate, swirling script that read ‘GAG FOR IT’ and ‘SWALLOW PRIDE’.
“He’s, like, totally awake now, Blitz!” said the one with blue pigtails, her voice a nasal whine.
“Told you the banana blast would work, Glitz!” screeched the pink one.
They each held giant, sweating plastic cups filled with the thick blue smoothie. They guzzled them with alarming speed, their throats working, their tiny adam’s apples bobbing violently. They finished with synchronized gasps, slamming the cups down on a nearby chrome table.
Bob looked down. He was naked from the waist down, his erection standing at attention with a painful, unfamiliar urgency. It wasn’t his arousal. It was like a lever on a machine had been thrown.
“Okay, scene start!” Glitz yelled, as if calling a sports play. “Deep throat derby! Winner gets his, like, super-secret special sauce!”
“You’re on!”
They didn’t kneel. They dove. Bob’s world became a tunnel of pink and blue hair, framed by the pulsing studio lights. Two sets of small, cold hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in. Two hot, wet mouths engulfed him from both sides at once.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. A dual pressure, a competition of suction. He could feel the individual ridges of their palates, the frantic flutter of two tiny tongues battling for dominance. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a choked grunt came out. His body was a rigid prop.
Slurp. Gag. Schlorp.
“Mmmf! I’m deeper!” Glitz screamed, pulling off with a loud pop, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his tip.
“Are not!” Blitz retorted, not releasing him, her words vibrating against his shaft. “My nose is, like, totally touching his gross pubes!”
“Measure, then, bitch!”
They pulled back, panting. Their eyes were wide, manic. Without a word, they both began frantically squeezing their own stomachs with their hands, pressing hard just below their ribcages.
A gurgling, liquid rumble filled the air, louder than the studio’s hum.
Glitch’s face contorted. Her jaw unhinged. A torrent of chunky, rainbow-hued sludge—banana, blue dye, undisgested god-knows-what—erupted from her mouth. It wasn’t a gentle vomit. It was a projectile stream, aimed with precision at Blitz’s smug face.
SPLOOSH.
It hit with the sound of a wet sack. Blue and pink glop covered Blitz’s eyes, dripped from her nose, matted her pigtails.
“HA! More puke equals more love, skank!” Glitz shrieked, triumphant.
Blitz, sputtering, wiped a hand across her eyes. “Oh, you did NOT just first strike me!” She doubled over, hands pressing into her own taut, tattooed belly. She tensed, let out a roar that was half-scream, half-belch, and returned fire.
A second volcanic stream of multicolored vomit, slightly greener, launched across the minimal space. It coated Glitz’s chest and face, filling her open, screaming mouth.
They turned back to Bob, their faces now abstract masks of dripping, rainbow sickness. “The audience loves it!” they chirped in horrid unison, before descending on him again.
This time, their mouths were slick with vomit. The smell was acidic, sweet, stomach-turning. The sloppy, wet noises were amplified, grotesque. Bob could feel the cool slurry coating him, mixing with their spit. He could feel their throats spasming around him, milking him with a brutal, gagging rhythm they controlled by squeezing their own necks.
His body betrayed him. Pleasure, raw and electrical, built at the base of his spine—a direct response to the violent, obscene stimulation. He didn’t want it. It was a physiological hijacking.
“I’m gonna make him pop!” Blitz gurgled, vomit dribbling from her chin onto his balls.
“No, I am!” Glitz insisted, her throat constricting like a wet fist.
Their competition reached a fever pitch. They sucked and slurped, their heads bobbing with frantic, piston-like speed. The camera lights burned. The air was thick with the scent of bile and fake banana.
Bob’s climax was ripped from him. It was less an orgasm and more a system purge. His back arched against the leather straps as he emptied himself in harsh, pulsing jets down two competing, vomit-slicked throats.
They pulled off, gasping, their mouths full. They looked at each other, cheeks bulging, and then with a synchronized nod, leaned in and kissed over Bob’s wilting dick, swapping the load between them in a messy, open-mouthed exchange before finally swallowing with exaggerated, happy sighs.
“Tie score!” Glitz announced, wiping her mouth.
“Total tie!” Blitz agreed. They high-fived, the smack echoing in the suddenly quiet studio.
They unbuckled the straps with practiced efficiency. Bob slumped forward, hollowed out, dripping with their filth. As they skipped away, arguing about who would get the ‘after-sex smoothie,’ the pink neon lights began to smear and bleed together. The studio set dissolved into streaks of color.
Bob’s last conscious thought was a desperate, fleeting grasp for something dry. Something silent. Something like chalk dust.
Then the rainbow sludge dripped from his chin, and the world swirled down the drain with it, towards a new, thunderous sound: the roar of an engine and the shriek of tearing metal.
(EVERYONE HERE IS ADULTS)