Chapter 2: Packing and Arrival
A month of relentless worship had done nothing to dull Bambi-Lynn’s fervor. If anything, it had intensified, her every waking thought a fuzzy, pink-tinted loop of Cleo’s meat-scepter and the gallons of salty paste it produced.
The morning of the drive to her parents’ house, Cleo stood by his dingy dresser, trying to fold a shirt. It was impossible. Bambi-Lynn was on her knees behind him, her face wedged firmly between his pale buttocks, her obscenely inflated lips smearing spit and desperate, hungry kisses against his pucker.
“Mmmm… just one more taste, daddy. Gotta stock up for the road,” her voice was muffled, distorted by his flesh.
“Bambi, we’re gonna be late,” Cleo murmured, his protest weak. A shiver ran up his spine as her tongue-tip pressed insistently.
“Please? One quick load? Just a little one? Down my throat-pussy? I’ll be so good. I’ll swallow every drop this time, promise!” She pulled back, looking up at him with wide, vacuous eyes, a string of her spit connecting her bottom lip to his ass cheek.
He sighed, a soft exhale. He never really said no. How could he, when her entire universe seemed to orbit his crotch? He turned. Her giant, glossy lips parted in anticipation, a wet, pink cave. She didn’t wait for him to be fully hard—he was always half-hard now, a constant state of semi-readiness from her endless attention. She took the thick, heavy length of his floppy cock into her mouth, gagging instantly but pushing through, her throat distending around the mushroomed head.
It was over quickly. A few pumps of his hips, her nails digging into his thighs, and then the familiar, deep-throated pulsing began. The first spurt hit the back of her throat like a warm, goopy paintball. The second filled her mouth. The third, as she tried to swallow, erupted with such force it shot up her sinuses and out her nostrils in twin, sticky rivulets. She coughed, spluttering, thick ropes of pearlescent jism dribbling from her nose and lips onto the stained carpet.
“Ohmygod, yes,” she slurred, gulping air and cum. “Stuffed my dumb face. So nasty. So good.” She licked her lips clean, then scooped a fallen glob from her cleavage with two fingers, sucking them with a pop.
The car was a rolling monument to her addiction. Cleo drove his rust-speckled sedan, one hand on the wheel. Bambi-Lynn sat coiled in the passenger seat, her seatbelt straining against the shelf of her ass. She’d already unzipped his jeans, her head bobbing in his lap for the first twenty miles until he gently pushed her away, worried about cops.
“But my mouth is so bored, daddy,” she pouted, her hand snaking over to palm the substantial bulge in his jeans.
“Just… just hold on,” he said softly.
Her solution was to hike her tiny skirt up around her waist, no panties underneath, and guide his hand between her thighs. The air in the car grew humid with the scent of her arousal. Cleo drove, his index and middle finger sliding mindlessly in and out of her sopping slit, the vulgar, wet sounds barely audible over the radio. Every few minutes, she’d pull his fingers free, shiny and dripping, and suck them clean with loud, greedy slurps, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Mmm. Pre-cum and pussy-juice. Breakfast of champions.”
When the sprawling, tacky McMansion came into view—a monument in pink stucco with columns that looked like giant birthday cakes—Bambi-Lynn squealed. “We’re here! Home!”
Before Cleo could even shift the car into park, the front door flew open. A woman spilled out, a taller, more mature avalanche of flesh. Muffy-Lynn. Her hair was a towering bouffant of champagne blonde. Her breasts were truly staggering, two enormous, pendulous sacks of fat that strained against a leopard-print wrap dress, their weight seeming to pull her entire torso forward. Her lips were even puffier than her daughter’s, a permanent, glossed ‘O’ of surprise.
“Bambi-Boo!” Muffy-Lynn shrieked, her voice a nasal, high-pitched trill.
She thundered down the driveway, her massive, cellulite-dimpled ass cheeks quaking with each step. She engulfed her daughter in a hug, their four colossal mammoons mashing together in a fleshy collision. Then she turned her vacant, sparkling eyes on Cleo, who had just hesitantly stepped out of the car.
“And you must be the famous Cleo!” she chimed, pulling him into a suffocating embrace. He was buried in a canyon of perfumed, overheated cleavage, the scent of vanilla and sweat overpowering. Muffy-Lynn planted a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek, leaving a glistening lip-print. “My baby-girl hasn’t shut up about your big… personality.”
Bambi-Lynn giggled, wrapping herself around Cleo’s other arm, sandwiching him between their impossible bodies. “Mom, wait’ll you see it. It’s, like, a monster. It wrecked me. I’m a permanent jizz-balloon.”
Before Cleo could process any of this, two more figures appeared in the doorway, moving as one. Candy-Lynn and Sapphire-Lynn. They were entwined, one’s arm around the other’s waist, their identical, cannon-like tits—unnaturally firm and pointing outward—pressed together. Their platinum pixie cuts gleamed. Their matching, swollen lips curved into identical, vacant smiles.
“Mom said to stop touching,” the one on the left said, her voice a airy monotone.
“But we’re not touching,” the one on the right replied, nuzzling her sister’s neck. “We’re… merged.”
Muffy-Lynn rolled her eyes, a gesture that sent ripples through her bust. “Girls, for heaven’s sake, meet your sister’s beau. Cleo, these are the twins. Don’t ask which is which, even I can’t tell unless I’m checking for birthmarks.”
The twins’ four eyes locked onto Cleo with unnerving, synchronized focus. Their nostrils flared slightly, as if catching a scent.
“He smells like Bambi’s pussy,” one said.
“And cum,” the other finished, a bead of drool glistening at the corner of her mouth.
“Inside, inside!” Muffy-Lynn announced, herding them all toward the house. “Everyone’s just dying to meet you, Cleo! Auntie Taffy’s here, and Cousin Lacy, and Gam-Gam just got her new tits pumped up last week, you won’t believe the volume!”
As Cleo was swept across the threshold, the wall of sound and smell hit him. Pop music blared. The air was a foggy mix of competing perfumes, baking turkey, and the underlying, musky scent of potent, female arousal. The living room was a sea of absurd, exaggerated female forms on every sofa and chair—women with laughably tiny waists and explosively large breasts and hips, all talking over each other in high, chirping voices. They all turned as one when he entered.
A collective, eager smile spread across a dozen faces with puffy, glossy lips.
“Oh, he’s precious!” cooed a woman with neon-orange hair and breasts that defied physics.
“Bambi, you didn’t tell us he was so pretty!” trilled another.
An ancient woman in a sequined tube top—Gam-Gam, presumably—winked at him, her face a wrinkled mask of powder, her own chest a staggering, veiny shelf of saline and time.
Cleo felt a gentle, insistent pressure on his lower back. It was Muffy-Lynn’s hand, guiding him forward into the glittering, hungry gauntlet. Bambi-Lynn clung to his arm, beaming with pride.
“See?” she whispered, her hot breath in his ear. “I told you they’d love you. They’re all so nice.”
The word ‘nice’ hung in the cloying air, heavy with a meaning Cleo was just beginning, with a sinking, thrilling feeling in his gut, to understand.