Chapter 7: the horde
The garden hose water was indeed cold, a shocking torrent that stripped the layers of grime and spunk from Tiffany’s skin, leaving her shivering and bright pink on the patio stones. Beatrice had handled the spraying with the detached efficiency of someone washing a car, while Agnes dabbed at the wicker chair with a damp cloth. Margaret, a spry woman with tightly permed blue hair and keen eyes, had watched from the doorway, sipping the tea Carol offered.
“She’s lively,” Margaret had remarked, her voice like rustling cellophane.
“She has her uses,” Carol replied, handing Tiffany a rough towel.
Now, dressed in the outfit Carol had laid out for her, Tiffany stood in the foyer. It was a parody of her usual style: a microscopic pleated plaid skirt that barely covered her rear, a white crop top that exposed her midriff and strained over her breasts, and knee-high socks that only emphasized the naked expanse of her thighs. The clothes smelled faintly of mothballs and gardenia perfume.
“The bridge club has evolved, dear,” Carol said, adjusting the ribbon in Tiffany’s hair. “Less about cards, more about… community engagement. You’ll be our special guest of honor.”
Agnes snapped a leash onto a leather collar around Tiffany’s neck. It was not a harsh gesture, but a firm one, final. “No need to pull. Just follow.”
The walk to the community center was a surreal procession under the fading evening sun. They moved through quiet, manicured suburbs, a cluster of elderly women in sensible shoes shepherding a nearly-naked young girl on a leash. Curtains twitched in windows. No one came out to question it.
The community center was a low, brick building lit by warm, golden light from its wide windows. The smell hit them at the door—not just baked cookies, but a potent undercurrent of talcum powder, hairspray, and something else, something animal and musky.
Agnes unclipped the leash. “Mingle,” she commanded, giving Tiffany a light swat on the behind.
Pushing the door open, the wave of sound and scent engulfed her. The large main hall was packed. Dozens of women, all over sixty, filled the space. They stood in clusters around folding tables laden with tea cakes and punch bowls. They perched on chairs lining the walls. Their conversations were a loud, cackling buzz.
Every head turned as Tiffany entered.
The buzz didn’t die; it shifted, taking on a new, hungry frequency. Eyes, magnified by bifocals and lined with decades of laughter, raked over her.
A stout woman with a helmet of grey hair and arms like smoked hams waddled over first. Her name tag read ‘Doris’. “Well, look what Carol dragged in!” she boomed, her hand landing on Tiffany’s hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive familiarity. “Aren’t you a ripe little peach?”
Before Tiffany could answer, Doris pulled her close and mashed their mouths together. Doris’s tongue was thick, probing, tasting of sherry and peppermint. Tiffany melted into it, her own tongue meeting the invasive thrust. A smattering of applause and cheers rose from the nearest cluster of grannies.
This broke the dam.
They swarmed her.
Hands were everywhere. Gnarled fingers pinched her nipples through the thin top. Palms swatted her ass, the sharp cracks echoing, the sting flowering into warmth. Rough palms cupped her between her legs, rubbing and groping. Another woman, tall and skeletal with a shock of white hair, kissed her, her dentures clicking against Tiffany’s teeth.
“Such soft skin,” the skeletal woman hissed, her breath smelling of onions and ginger.
“Bet she’s juicy,” cackled another, squeezing Tiffany’s breast.
Tiffany floated through it, a vessel for their attention. She swapped spit with Ethel, whose tongue was surprisingly agile. She let Bertha knead her backside like dough. She arched into the pinches and slaps, each touch a confirmation of her purpose. The air grew thicker, warmer. The polite scents of the community center were being overwhelmed by the sour-sweet odor of old woman arousal, of bodies heating under polyester prints.
“Alright, enough pre-gaming,” Carol’s voice cut through the noise, authoritative and calm. “Let’s have a proper look.”
The sea of floral prints and pastel pantsuits parted. Tiffany, her lips swollen from kisses, her skin glowing from slaps, was guided to the center of the room. A small space had been cleared.
“Show them what you came for, Tiffany,” Agnes said from the sidelines, her arms crossed.
A hush fell, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the wet, anticipatory smacking of lips.
Tiffany turned her back to the crowd. She planted her feet, bent her knees, and began to sway her hips. The tiny skirt did nothing. She rolled her ass in a slow, exaggerated circle, then sped up, making the pleats flutter. She dropped lower, jutting her rear out, shaking it with a vulgar, pumping rhythm.
Moans slipped from her throat, practiced and lewd. She glanced over her shoulder, making her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth a slack ‘O’ of faux ecstasy. She ran her hands over her body, pinching her own nipples, sliding a hand between her legs to rub herself through the damp fabric of her underwear.
The grannies watched, riveted. Eyes glazed. Breathing grew ragged.
“Get it off her,” someone barked.
“Let’s see the goods!”
Carol stepped forward. With a sharp tug, she ripped the crop top down the middle, buttons flying. Tiffany’s breasts spilled out. Another granny—Doris—yanked the skirt, the flimsy material tearing at the waistband and falling away. She was left in just her socks and a pair of sodden, sheer panties.
A collective, wheezing sigh of appreciation filled the room.
Then, the rustling began.
Zippers lowered. Buttons were unfastened. Dresses were shrugged from shoulders. Slacks were stepped out of. With a series of thumps and whispers of fabric, the congregation of grandmothers shed their clothing.
The transformation was grotesque and magnificent. Withered limbs, sagging breasts, rolls of pale, blue-veined flesh were revealed. And rising from nearly every thatch of grey or white pubic hair were the signs of their true nature: cocks of every imaginable size and shape. Thin ropes, fat pillars, curved sabers, all in varying states of tumescence, began to fill the space, bobbing gently in the warm air.
The room’s smell shifted instantly, profoundly. Talcum powder and perfume were annihilated by the ripe, penetrating stench of aged, unwashed genitalia, of potent musk and ammonia and earthy decay. It was a physical wall of odor, thick enough to taste on the tongue. It was the smell of decades of hidden lust, now unleashed.
Tiffany breathed it in, her head swimming, her knees going weak. She was surrounded. A forest of hardened, granny flesh, a gallery of grotesque beauty. Her mouth watered. A thread of droote connect her lower lip to her chin.
She turned slowly, taking them all in, her slutty pose forgotten, replaced by a dumbstruck, worshipful awe. The cliché, the absurdity, the sheer volume of it was perfect. It was everything she wanted.
Carol, standing naked at the front, her own monstrous member jutting forth like a pale, fat scepter, spread her arms wide.
“Welcome,” she said to Tiffany, her voice echoing in the pungent hall, “to the neighborhood.”