Chapter 5: More Asses
The title of “toilet” settled over Clover like a second skin, warm and defining. She wore it secretly under her pastel cardigans, a filthy truth that made her bite her lip during sociology lectures. The taste from that last, relentless purge had finally faded, but the memory of Bambi’s strained voice—“Just eat it all”—played on a loop in her head.
A few days later, Bambi was using her again. It was a lazy Wednesday afternoon. Clover was on her back, pinned beneath the warm, jiggling weight, her tongue working automatically in a rhythm that was now muscle memory. Bambi was on her phone, scrolling with one hand, the other idly playing with Clover’s hair.
“Mmm, good puppy,” Bambi murmured, her voice slurry with contentment. She shifted, and a deep, resonant gurgle traveled through her belly, down into Clover’s mouth. “Ooh, that’s a big one. Saving it for you.”
Clover moaned in anticipation, the vibration making Bambi giggle.
“You’re, like, way better at this than your dad,” Bambi said casually, as if discussing the weather. “He gets all fussy. My friends think it’s hilarious.”
Clover’s entire body went still, her tongue freezing against Bambi’s rim. Friends.
Bambi didn’t notice the pause. She kept talking, her voice bright and airy. “Yeah, like my besties, Kiki and Lulu. You’d love them. They’re the best. We all have the same problem, you know?” She pushed down lightly, releasing a hot, sustained puff of gas directly into Clover’s still mouth. “Tummy troubles. But they don’t have a cute little pet to help out.”
The words detonated in Clover’s brain. Kiki and Lulu. Same problem. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a pastel cage. Images flashed, unbidden: other massive, round shapes, other sounds, other smells. A whole galaxy of asses. She whimpered, a high-pitched, desperate sound, and resumed her licking with frantic enthusiasm.
“See? You are eager,” Bambi cooed. “Maybe… maybe you could meet them sometime. Be a good hostess-pet.” She bore down then, not with the desperate urgency of before, but with a steady, filling pressure that had Clover swallowing over and over, tears of joy streaking from the corners of her eyes into her hair. The idea wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise, layered within the very substance she was being fed.
The following Tuesday, Bambi fluttered into Clover’s room while she was pretending to study. “Book club tonight!” she announced, her eyes sparkling. She was wearing a barely-there pink mini dress that clung to every outrageous curve. “The girls are coming over. I told them about my little helper.”
Clover’s throat went dry. “You… you did?”
“Duh! They think it’s so funny and cute.” Bambi leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Here’s what you do. Just come into the living room like, an hour in. Casual. Sit on the floor by me. Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking, ‘kay?” She patted Clover’s cheek, her perfume a sweet fog. “My special little secret.”
The wait was agony. Clover could hear them arrive—shrill, melodic laughs, the rustle of tight clothing, the heavy, distinctive thump of large bodies settling onto the sofa. Peeking from the hall, she saw them. Bambi hadn’t exaggerated.
Kiki was a redhead with a cascade of curls, poured into leopard print leggings that screamed under the strain of hips that seemed as wide as the couch cushion. Lulu was a bleached blonde with a vacant, pretty smile, her enormous backside spilling over the sides of an armchair like rising dough. The air in the living room already smelled different—thicker, with top notes of competing perfumes and an underlying, fertile musk.
Clover’s hands were shaking. She counted down the minutes, her breathing shallow.
When she finally walked in, her legs felt like rubber. The conversation—a loud, chaotic stream of gossip about someone named “Tiffany” and a new nail salon—didn’t stop. Three pairs of beautifully empty eyes turned to her. Kiki and Lulu looked curious, slightly amused.
“Oh, here’s my Clover-puppy!” Bambi chirped, patting the floor directly between her own spread knees. “C’mere, bestie.”
Clover obeyed, sinking to the carpet. She kept her eyes down, the swirling pattern of the rug blurring. She was intensely aware of the three monumental asses surrounding her, each a universe of soft, heavy flesh.
“So this is the ass pet?” Kiki asked, her voice a smoky drawl.
“Mhmm!” Bambi said. She reached for her wine glass, took a sip, and then her expression shifted to one of familiar, gentle concentration. Her stomach growled audibly. “Oop, speak of the devil. Clover, open up.”
It was so casual. So domestic. Clover tilted her head back, mouth opening obediently.
Bambi didn’t even lift her skirt. She just leaned forward slightly, a queen granting a favor, and let go. A long, wet, trumpeting brap echoed in the room, pouring its pungent, wine-and-chip flavored heat directly into Clover’s waiting mouth. Clover closed her lips around it, swallowing the scent, the taste, the essence.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Lulu snorted. “Oh my god, Bambs. You actually did it.”
Kiki leaned forward, her eyes wide with delight. “And she just… takes it?”
“She loves it,” Bambi corrected, beaming with pride. “Don’t you, puppy? She’s my little stress reliever. Way better than yoga.”
Clover, emboldened by the dump still warm inside her from days prior and the fresh gas on her tongue, nodded fiercely, a string of saliva on her chin.
Lulu giggled, a high, bubbling sound. “Shut up. I wanna try.” She wiggled in her chair, a seismic event. “My stomach’s been a mess since those tacos.”
“Go for it!” Bambi encouraged, sipping her wine. “She doesn’t mind. Do you, Clover?”
Clover shook her head, scooting on her knees to turn toward Lulu. The blonde grinned, stood up from the armchair with a grunt, and positioned herself in front of Clover. She was wearing tiny denim shorts that had long ago lost any battle for modesty. She didn’t bend over. She just arched her back, pushed her colossal rear out, and aimed.
It was different from Bambi’s. Lulu’s gas was sharper, hotter, a series of rapid, sputtering pops that smelled distinctly of onions and cheap beef. Clover inhaled it like a lifeline, her glasses fogging.
“Wow,” Kiki breathed, watching Clover’s eager face disappear into the denim valley. “Okay, my turn. I’ve been holding one in since I got here.”
What followed was a collapse of all pretense. The forgotten books sat in a neat stack on the coffee table. The wine was abandoned.
It became a rotation. A rough, giggly, profoundly obscene rotation. Kiki pushed Clover’s face into the couch cushions with her leopard-print ass, unleashing a deep, thunderous blast that shook the furniture. Lulu would then pull Clover over by her hair to receive another hot, spicy stream. Bambi would direct traffic, smiling serenely. “Don’t be greedy, Kiki! Let Lulu have a turn.”
Clover was in a state of sensory overload. The world narrowed to the press of denim, the squeak of latex, the overwhelming, varied stench of three different digestive systems, the sound of laughter mixing with the sound of braps. She was dripping, panting, a used tissue passed between them.
Then Bambi had an idea. “Circle!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
They understood instantly. With more grunts and laughs, they rearranged themselves around Clover on the floor, forming a rough triangle of asses. Bambi to her front, Kiki to her left, Lulu to her right.
“Now, puppy,” Bambi instructed, her voice sweet as syrup. “Just stay right there.”
They all bent over.
It was total immersion. A temple of ass flesh. Clover was surrounded, smothered on three sides by the vast, creamy, sweating curves of their rear ends. The air vanished, replaced by a stifling, humid atmosphere of pure body odor, perfume, and the sour promise of gas. Light was blotted out. Sound was muffled, replaced by the intimate gurgles and creaks of their stomachs, their heavy breathing.
Then the symphony began.
It wasn’t coordinated, but it was constant. A brap from the left, spraying her ear. A long, hissing sigh from the right, heating her neck. Bambi, in front, delivered a solid, juicy release directly into Clover’s gaping, gasping mouth. They fed her, painted her, anointed her with their noise and their smell. Clover couldn’t move. She could only breathe it in, her eyes rolling back in her head, her hands clutching uselessly at the carpet.
The book club was forgotten. The only text being studied was the intricate, glistening geography of three gigantic, dominant assholes, and Clover was their fervent, desperate scholar. She was no longer just Bambi’s pet. She was communal property. And as the circle closed tighter, the braps growing louder and more frequent in the competitive, giggling atmosphere, Clover Whitman knew, with absolute certainty, that she had found her heaven. It was hot, it was loud, and it stank beyond comprehension. She never wanted to leave.