Chapter 1: The Oven Bending Revelation
The kitchen smelled like seared pork and peach body spray. Clover stood frozen in the doorway, her backpack strap cutting into her shoulder, her thick glasses sliding down her nose. She didn’t adjust them. She couldn’t move.
Bambi was bent at the waist, her head inside the oven, humming along to some pop song on the radio. The tight, floral-print sundress she wore had ridden up. Way up. It was a spectacle of physics-defying flesh, two immense, jiggling orbs barely contained by shimmering polyester. They quivered with her slightest movement, a hypnotic tide of ripe, round flesh.
A low, wet gurgle echoed from the canyon between them, a deep intestinal grumble. Clover’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting skin.
Bambi straightened up with a cheerful sigh, wiping her hands on a towel. She turned, her doll-like face breaking into a blinding smile. “Clover-bear! You’re home! I’m attempting my famous honey-glazed ribs. Your dad’s gonna swoon.”
“Hi, Bambi,” Clover squeaked, her voice cracking. She couldn’t look away from the back of the dress, now strained to its absolute limit.
“Oh, shoot, forgot the brown sugar!” Bambi chirped, spinning back around. She bent over again, this time reaching for a low cabinet beside the oven. The fabric pulled taut, the hem inching higher. The sheer, staggering mass of her stepmother’s ass was fully unveiled, two pale, moon-sized cheeks bisected by a deep, shadowed valley. And there, at the epicenter, was the hole itself—a startlingly large, dark pink pucker, visibly relaxed and glistening with a faint, sweaty sheen.
Clover’s brain short-circuited. All the blood in her body seemed to rush south, a hot, throbbing pulse between her own legs. Her mouth went dry.
A low, building rumble began, a deep volcanic tremor from within Bambi’s core. It crescendoed into a long, wet, resonant BRRRAAAAAPPPP that vibrated in the tiled kitchen air. The sound was impossibly loud, a ten-second trumpet of pure, pungent gas. The air around Clover immediately thickened, warmth washing over her face, carrying a complex, musky scent of digestive pork and something uniquely, profoundly Bambi.
Bambi giggled, not even standing up. Her voice was muffled from inside the cabinet. “Oopsie! My tummy’s talking to the ribs! They’re having a little conversation.”
Something in Clover snapped. A wire of pure, frantic need. All pretense of social awkwardness, all hesitation, vaporized in the face of that scent, that sound, that utterly obscene, beautiful sight.
She didn’t think. She moved.
Her backpack hit the floor with a thud. Her pastel skirt swished as she crossed the linoleum in three shaky strides. She dropped to her knees behind Bambi, the impact jarring her bones.
“Clover? What’re you—OH!” Bambi’s sentence ended in a sharp gasp as she felt the hot, desperate press of a face against her bare flesh.
Clover dove in, burying her nose and mouth into the hot, damp crevice. The smell was overwhelming, a narcotic wave of intimate body odor and the lingering, sour tang of the gas. She groaned, a raw, animal sound, and licked a broad, sloppy stripe from taint to tailbone.
Bambi jolted. “Sweetie! That’s—oh, my goodness—that’s dirty!” But she didn’t move away. A tremor ran through the giant cheeks.
Clover was beyond words, beyond thought. She was all hunger. She nuzzled deeper, her braces clicking against the sensitive skin. She focused on the hole itself, that giant, fascinating pucker. She kissed it, open-mouthed and wet. She licked around its wrinkled edges, tasting salt and skin and something deeply, essentially private.
She inhaled deeply, huffing the concentrated atmosphere right from the source, lightheadedness washing over her. Her hands came up, gripping the monumental cheeks, squeezing the soft, giving flesh, spreading them wider to get closer, to devour.
“Clover, I… I don’t think…” Bambi’s protest was weak, breathy. She braced her hands on the open oven door, her knuckles white. A low moan escaped her. “Your dad… he never… he says it’s gross…”
That was all the encouragement Clover needed. Her tongue stiffened, pressing insistently against the tightly-clenched ring. It resisted for a second, then, with a soft, yielding pop, it gave way. The sensation of the hot, muscular inner sheath enveloping the tip of her tongue made Clover see stars. She probed deeper, fucking the hole with her tongue, slurping noisily.
Bambi cried out, a high, surprised sound. Her whole body tensed, then shuddered violently. The giant ass cheeks clenched around Clover’s face, a pulsing, rhythmic squeeze. A fresh, hotter gust of gas leaked out, directly into Clover’s panting mouth. She swallowed it, drunk on the violation.
“Oh… oh, wow… little bestie…” Bambi babbled, her hips making tiny, unconscious circles. “That’s… that’s a new feeling…”
Clover withdrew her tongue, panting. She stared, mesmerized, as the hole gaped slightly, winking at her, flushed and wet from her attention. She dove back in, not with her tongue, but sealing her entire mouth over it, sucking fiercely, wanting to draw everything out, to consume this woman completely.
Bambi’s legs began to shake. Another, deeper orgasm ripped through her, this one silent but for the wet, squeezing sounds from her rear and a choked sob of pleasure. She slumped forward, her upper body resting on the oven rack, the ribs forgotten. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, her voice slurred with stunned bliss. “Please, don’t stop.”
Clover had no intention of stopping. She’d found her religion. The world outside this kitchen, outside the heated, pungent universe between Bambi’s jiggling cheeks, had simply ceased to exist. There was only the gasp, the taste, the all-consuming, panting hunger, and the trembling, giggling form of her stepmother above her, finally, finally being worshiped the way she was meant to be.