As Molly walked into work on Monday morning, she was amazed at how quickly she’d adjusted to her butt-plug’s constant presence.
As she’d predicted, it had been no challenge to find someone who could help her—she’d actually found a pair of young men, keen to assist—and had thanked them simultaneously for inserting her new toy for her.
The sensation of all three of her holes being filled simultaneously, one by her new, black butt-plug, the other two by her enthusiastic teenaged assistants had been overwhelming. Molly had never come so close to blacking out from pure pleasure, and when she tasted one of the boy’s cum at the same time as she felt the other coming in her wet pussy, she experienced her strongest orgasm to date.
She’d forgotten why she was even at the cinema and gone home, leaving John alone and confused when he came looking for her half an hour later.
Driving to work on Monday, she’d almost gotten lost—Sunday had been spent cleaning: cleaning her apartment, cleaning her butt-plug, cleaning herself of the last of her body hair (for years, she’d refused to shave her pubic area, preferring to keep it neatly trimmed, but now even the idea of hair down there just seemed…wrong)—and when she wasn’t cleaning, she was cumming.
The butt-plug seemed to amplify her sex-drive tenfold; she’d been easily worked-up lately, but with the butt-plug in, everything, everything reminded her of sex. Her TV remote immediately got her thinking about the cocks she’d sucked; the “submit” button on her email log-in made her wonder what it would be like to submit to a big, hulking man; even the act of plugging her iPhone in to charge reminded her how much she wanted to be plugged, how charged up she was feeling.
What Molly hadn’t noticed was that each orgasm was knocking a few points off her IQ. After her fourteenth orgasm of the day, her to-do list has simply read “Cleen, jim, cum”, and by Sunday evening, she couldn’t even read that.
Panic had momentarily seized her when she couldn’t work out how to turn the TV on, but after a few minutes of the rain, the quiet, peaceful, gentle rain, she realised that it wasn’t worth worrying about—worry was for smart people. She didn’t need TV, not when her pussy and her hands provided her more than enough entertainment to get her through the night.
Molly’s dreams on Sunday night revolved around something other than sex, for the first time since she got her tattoo. She dreamt about how beautiful it was to be stupid, how her new, vacuous outlook on life was perfect; if she was dumb, she didn’t have to think about nearly as much. All she had to do was focus on what she was good at—looking good, making men happy, and bringing herself off.
And cleening, of course.
So when she’d arrived at work on Monday, she was a few hours late. She’d forgotten to set an alarm, she’d gotten lost a few times on the way there, and when she’d eventually remembered the name of her work, she’d spent some time finding a helpful stranger who could push her in the right direction.
If she hadn’t insisted on thanking him, she probably would have been in before ten.
Work passed in a daze—her boss had called her into his office for a meeting. He was clearly determined to make some kind of point, but Molly kept drifting off when he spoke, and that just made him madder and madder. She was so wet by the time he was done yelling at her that as she stumbled out of his office, she grabbed Luke and headed straight for the washroom.
The noises that followed made it pretty clear what they were doing in there.
After her orgasm, Molly had a brief moment of clarity. Looking at herself in the mirror above the sink, she felt like her old self was looking back, disappointed. Before she could really take that in, she noticed her tattoo—even though Molly could no longer read what it said, it comforted her—it told her who and what she was. She was a slut. A slut. A big butt slut.
Molly spent the rest of the day in the washroom, alternately playing with herself and pleasuring any man who came in. She found herself staring at her butt whenever she was getting off, or whenever she faced the mirror while fucking someone. It was so big and bouncy, such a perfect ass…she could see that it was driving the men who came to visit her crazy as well, and that just made her love it all the more.
At the end of the day, Molly’s boss came in to escort her off the premises—she would have been annoyed, but he let her give him a quick blow-job before he officially fired her.
On Tuesday night, Molly sat in her lounge-room, looking at all the new clothes she’d bought, wondering if she should be worried about her job. A day of shopping had pretty effectively managed to take her mind off it—shopping was so much easier when you can’t read the numbers, she’d discovered—you just grab anything that looks pretty (or slinky, or short, or slutty…) and hand over your cards. Towards the end of the day, her cards had stopped working, but that had somehow made it even easier—after a quick, wild fuck, the store clerks would often let her take the clothes for free.
Joke was on them, Molly had thought—she’d wanted to fuck them anyway!
By Wednesday, the rain had become a constant presence. Most of the time it was a gentle shower, caressing her face and telling her that everything was going to be okay, but during sex it was a storm, causing lightning to course through her body and rewire her brain. Molly had returned to the gym, but even after two whole hours on the treadmill, she was still buzzing with energy. She joined an aerobics class, and found something that finally took the edge off; standing in the front line of the class, and bending over, bending over, bending over…
The rest of the day was a wash, as Molly wandered the streets near her gym, bending over at every opportunity that she got. She was wearing nothing but her new work-out clothes; a sports bra and a pair of tights, but even if she’d been dressed like a nun her ass would have stopped traffic.
She quickly made a game of it, seeing how many men she could get hard, seeing how many people she could stop in their tracks by bending over in front of them. One look at her bountiful, gorgeous ass, and no man could continue thinking—all they could focus on were her enormous buns, her gluteus maximus maximus…Initially, she tried to look like she was stretching, but soon she was bending over without even an attempt at an excuse.
No one complained.
Every time Molly bent over in front of a man with a visual erection, images flashed through her mind of them fucking her, fucking her in the ass. She still hadn’t been fucked in the ass, though she couldn’t work out why—Molly knew that she’d been a slut for as long as she could remember. She’d always used her body to get what she wanted, and (conveniently) what she’d always wanted was to be fucked, as often and as hard as possible.
So why had no one ever fucked her where she wanted it most, in her greatest asset? Molly’s brow furrowed, but she quickly shook it off. It wasn’t worth worrying about; nothing was, for a hot piece of ass like her. Seeing a man crossing the street up ahead, Molly ran to get into position.
When Molly returned home that evening, a man with a familiar face was standing outside her door, looking worried. His face lit up when he saw her.
“Molly!” he exclaimed, “I was so worried!”
Molly stared at him, trying to place him, trying to remember his name. She was pretty sure that she hadn’t fucked him, and he wasn’t a member of her family or anyone from her work, but he was strangely familiar to her, and he definitely seemed to know her. Jake…Jim…John! That was it!
“John!” she said, hitting him with a smile. “What are you doing here?”
As John started to drone on about missing her, and being worried, and wondering if she was mad, Molly looked through her bag for her key. She just wanted to get inside and get off—and clean up a bit. When five o’clock had hit, the streets had gotten much busier, and her game had escalated, and grown more intense. Molly had quickly changed the game to be “how quickly can I get strangers to fuck me”, and it had turned out to be a game that she was really good at.
She still hadn’t given anyone her ass though. She’d decided to save that for something special. (although she still didn’t know what, or why.)
“So I want to make it up to you,” John concluded. Molly blinked twice—she’d forgotten he was even here. “Let me take you out to dinner?”
It didn’t take long for Molly to make up her mind—she had no food in the apartment, and she didn’t really want to let this strange man, whoever he was, into her house. It could be dangerous, or something.
Besides, if she went out, she’d get to show herself off to more men.
John wasn’t sure how to feel. Molly seemed to have undergone a drastic transformation—she’d gone from a sensible graphic designer to a complete sex-bomb in just over a week. On the bright side, his girlfriend was now a complete sex-bomb; he’d thought she’d been dressed for sex in the restaurant the other night, but it seemed that had been her “classy” outfit.
Before they’d left, she’d excused herself to get changed, and what she was wearing absolutely screamed sex at the top of its lungs. And just in case you didn’t hear it, it also seemed to scrawl it in mile-high letters made of fire. It was impossible to look at Molly without immediately thinking about fucking her, hard. She seemed to be dressed for sex.
Her black heels were gone, replaced with pink platform heels. She wore a tight denim skirt, which looked like it had been ripped to be as short as humanly possible; on a standard figure, it might have been passable, but Molly’s enormous ass meant that her thong was constantly on display—and the front looked like it was soaked through. Her ass would have been impossible to ignore even if she was sitting down in a thick pair of pants; in a denim dress, her ass was practically slapping you in the face to get your attention.
As long as John had known her, Molly had been slightly guarded about her tits—they were large, and she was sensitive about them—she wanted to make sure that she was recognised for her personality and skills, and never just known as “the girl with the tits”.
If it wasn’t for her ass, it would be impossible to classify the new Molly that stood in front of him as anything but “the girl with the tits”. At first, John had assumed that she was wearing some kind of push-up, but he quickly realised that her new breasts must have grown at the same time as her ass, because it quickly became clear that Molly wasn’t wearing a bra.
Her black top started well above her belly-button, and itself resembled a half-cut bra, stopping just above her nipples. The only thing separating it from a bra were the two lines of black cloth that travelled around to the back to connect it up. Short of a bikini, it would have been almost impossible to show more skin. The result was a sort of black “X” across her front, perfectly presenting her tits and ensuring that whether you were looking at her from the front or the back, you would think you were looking at her best side.
John was conflicted. He wanted to support his girlfriend, or find out what had happened to her and help her through it. But more than that, more than he’d ever wanted to in his entire life, he wanted to fuck her.
He just had to get through dinner, he decided. He’d get through dinner, and then he’d work out what exactly was the best thing to do.