She didn't understand how she had gotten like this. She had been a normal teenager before hitting it big, masturbating now and then but certainly not compulsively. But soon after her first album, when "Baby One More Time" was all over the airwaves, her sex drive began taking over her life.

The harder she worked, the worse it got, and lately she was on the verge of losing her mind. No matter how much she jerked off, it provided no relief. No one suspected that her cover of the Rolling Stones' "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" had really been meant as a private lament over her incandescent sex drive.

She was finishing up her latest video tonight, demanding take after take until the crew was about to collapse. Finally, Max Martin, her producer, pulled her aside.

"Britney, that's enough for tonight. The guys are dead. We can finish it up tomorrow."

"No way, we can do this. Just one more take."

"They've got nothing left. Girl, come on. Not everybody can work like you."

She wanted to protest, but she could see it was futile. Her shoulders sagged. That bed back at her hotel was waiting for her, and she knew what would happen when she got there.

She followed her entourage out to her limo. When she was alone in the back, she felt her pussy starting to throb. Now and then, she became so overheated that she had to get off in the limousine, but tonight she was able to restrain herself until she reached her hotel room.

As soon as she was through the door, she tore off her clothes and threw herself on the bed. Both hands went to her pussy, which was already dripping wet. Her fingers attacked her clitoris, rubbing it mercilessly. She had, somehow, managed to keep her hymen intact through all of this, but she suspected it couldn't survive too much longer.

She was on the brink, both with this jerk-off and her life. If she didn't get laid soon, they would be checking her into the nuthouse. And since she had made such a big deal about waiting until marriage, by God, she was going to get married--ASAP. Justin had been momentarily shocked at her proposal, but quickly agreed. After all, he had been trying to get into her pants ever since their days together on "The New Mickey Mouse Club." Britney didn't give a shit. He had a dick, and he was the only person she could plausibly marry right now.

The first orgasm rolled over her within a minute, the waves of pleasure crashing through her body, but she didn't slow down. She would be frigging herself to exhausted sleep tonight, just as she had every night for the last year.

*

Down the hall, in a room in the same hotel, a man named Herman DeWitt lay on a hotel bed much like Britney's, also naked, also masturbating. Over his ears was a headset, and through it came the wet, squishy, and unmistakable sounds of a woman masturbating. Not just any woman, either--Britney Spears, the woman who had ruled his life for the past two years.

Herman was one of Britney's many personal assistants. He handled her errands, got her coffee, fetched her food, handled her mail. He was meek and unobtrusive, which had kept him under the radar screen when so many other assistants had come and gone. No one suspected what he was really up to.

For almost two years, Herman had been spiking Britney's food with a concoction of powerful fertility drugs. These drugs had been the cause of her much-debated breast growth, and the reason her image had gradually morphed from Girl Next Door to Hyperactive Sex Bomb. Britney was so fertile now that sex was all she could think about. One day soon, she would snap, and Herman would be there to reap the rewards. Her engagement to Justin Timberlake was the last sign he needed. The time had come to push her over the edge.

Herman listened to Britney grunting, then crying out as she came a third or fourth time. He gripped his minuscule dick and squirted all over himself at the thought of it. He couldn't make her love him, but he could at least make her fuck his brains out.

*

Britney was back at work the next day, driving her crew to the limit. But the downside of this pace was that they actually finished the video ahead of schedule. It was only 6:00 p.m., and she had nothing to do the rest of the day! Disaster!

She grabbed Max as they were wrapping up.

"Max, we must have something else that needs doing. What about that MTV thing?" Martin groaned.

"They're not ready. Earliest we can get going is tomorrow afternoon. Their people just aren't in place yet."

"Well, what else? I can't spend the rest of the day doing nothing!"

"Jesus, Britney! Have you heard of relaxing? Normal people do it from time to time."

"I need to work! I have to work! There must be something I can do!"

"No! I want you to go back to the hotel and rest. That's an order."

Britney whimpered in defeat, collapsing into a director's chair behind her. What was she supposed to do? This pace was killing her, too, but better that than being left alone with her urge to jerk off. Her whole body hurt, from her head to the bottom of her brused pussy.

She saw Herman, one of her assistants, lurking in the shadows nearby. She waved him over.

"Hermie, could you get me some Tylenol or something? Maybe something stronger if you can find it?"

Herman nodded obsequiously and scurried off. He returned a few minutes later and stuck out his hand. In his palm were two little elliptical blue pills. Britney saw the word "pfizer" etched into them.

"What is that?"

"It's like Tylenol," Herman said, "only prescription strength. Max gave them to me."

Britney shrugged. If he got them from Max, it should be okay. Besides, Herman would be the last person to try to poison her. She gulped them down and chased them with a swig of water.

"Thanks, Hermie."

Herman struggled to restrain the thrill coursing through his body. What he had just given her was not acetaminophen. No, what Britney had just swallowed was 200mg of sildenafil citrate, better known as Viagra. The dose she had taken was twice the recommended amount for an 80-year-old man who hadn't had an erection in twenty years. Within an hour, she would be ready to fuck anything that moved.

*

Glumly resigned to her fate, Britney returned to her hotel room. She began feeling more and more aroused on the way there. This night was shaping up to be the worst yet. Not only was she as horny as ever, but her pussy was throbbing in need like it never had before. By the time she got to her room, she was fire, every molecule of flesh between her legs swollen to the limit and demanding attention.

She couldn't even wait to get undressed this time. She jammed her hands into her stretch pants and attacked herself. Even both hands weren't enough. She rubbed her clit furiously, drawing an orgasm out of her body within moments, but it only made things worse.

She threw herself back on the bed, groaning in agony.

"Oh, God! Argh!"

*

Down the hall, Herman listened eagerly to the sounds of Britney's torment through the eavesdropping apparatus he had been using. He had popped a couple of Viagra himself, so he would be ready for anything. Just a few minutes to let her appreciate the predicament she was in.

He waited as long as he could make himself and then went. He didn't bother knocking on her door and went right in.

He had listened to her frenetic masturbation now for months, but the sound was nothing to sight of it. Britney convulsed on her bed like an epileptic, both hands jammed between her legs, insensible to everything around her. She groaned, back arched, as she climaxed again.

The vision of his dream froze him in place, unable to move toward her. Luckily Britney spied him out of the corner of her eye as her latest orgasm subsided.

Under normal circumstances, she would have screamed at him to get out, but this was anything but normal. Lost in a fog of sexual abandon, only two things registered in her mind: Herman was male, therefore Herman had a dick.

She leapt from the bed and threw herself at him. Still paralyzed in anticipation, and unprepared for this reaction, Herman was knocked to the floor. Britney wriggled out of her stretch pants and jerked down his jeans. He was already erect, his disappointedly modest member red and throbbing under her.

In a single motion, Britney impaled herself on the stiff dick. The pain of her sundered hymen was lost in a whirlwind of fulfillment. She pounded her hard young body down on him again and again, screeching at the wonderfful sensations it gave her.

Herman was in heaven. At last he had her, and she was doing all the work. Her Viagra-swollen pussy was incredibly tight, almost painfully so. He groped at her breasts, but she paid no attention to him. All her energy was focused further south.

It was too much for poor Herman. He ejaculated less than a minute into this assault, but thanks to the Viagra he had taken, he remained erect. Britney rode him like a mechanical bull, hips almost a blur, the sounds of their frenzied copulation filling the air. Herman had little to do, and frankly he could hardly move under her onslot. Britney had him pinned, hands on his shoulders, her legs over his. He tried to thrust up at her, but could not match her hyperactive rhythm.

Then, twisting around to get some leverage, he happened to look behind him. Oh no! The door to her room was standing wide open--he hadn't had a chance to close it before she attacked him. Someone was going to catch them!

He tried to free himself, but it was futile. He discovered, to his dismay, that between her sexual frenzy and her physical conditioning from months of touring, that Britney was stronger than he was. She wanted him where he was, and she would not let him go.

Britney drew another ejaculation out of him, briefly distracting him from thoughts of discovery. When he recovered his senses, he tried again to free himself. It was no good. Britney still held him fast, her pussy trapping his cock and refusing to let go.

He had no choice. He had to ride this out, no matter the consequences. He tried to cooperate now, but his own body began protesting. He felt a pain in his chest. Had he taken too much Viagra? Or was Britney driving him beyond his limits? The answer eluded him as his vision began to narrow.

Britney briefly came back to earth as she realized Herman had lost consciousness. And his erection was fading! No! She wasn't finished with him!

Suddenly she looked up. A hotel busboy was standing in the open doorway, jaw agape in shock. Britney leapt from Herman's limp carcass and tackled him. Before the poor kid could appreciate what was happening, Britney had torn his pants off him.

He wasn't erect yet, but the sight of Britney naked body took care of that in a hurry, and she quickly impaled herself on him. He was thankfully much better endowed than Herman, and the penetration alone was enough to set off another orgasm.

Unfortunately for her, this busboy was not fortified by Viagra, and furthermore, he was a big fan of hers, big enough that she occupied most of his masturbation fantasies these days. It took him only long enough to appreciate that he was being ravished by his idol before he was spurting off inside her.

A few doors down, Max Martin had been trying to get some rest, but the commotion in the hallway drew him out of his room. To his utter shock, he discovered his meal ticket raping a hotel busboy. Her clothes were in disarray and her face was contorted in lust. The busboy appeared to have just climaxed, because she howled in frustration at his deflating erection.

He gaped at her in disbelief, the scene before him short- circuiting his entire brain. Now Britney finally appeared to notice him, and the look in her eyes filled him with horror. He turned to run, but it was no good. He was too out-of-shape to escape her. She caught him from behind, jerking his pants down as she dragged him to the hallway floor.

He cried out for help, lapsing into Swedish in his confusion and horror. "Ingen, Britney, ingen! Hjelper meg!"

He had often dreamed of screwing his charge, but not like this. Britney seemed possessed, and the sight and smell of her overheated pussy drew a rapid erection from him despite his resistance. A moment later, it had disappeared into Britney's snatch.

As she had with Herman and the busboy, Britney took control of the act immediately, her only concern to keep Max's stiff dick pounding in and out of her swollen twat. She managed to come twice this time before she felt the Max's jism erupting inside her. Argh! Couldn't any of these dicks last more than a minute or two?

Other people had emerged from their rooms at the sound of this spectacle. The potential damage to her career was a far distant consideration as Britney spotted a man in his mid-30s about ten feet away. She threw herself at him, and at least this guy did not resist her.

Most of the hotel guests were horrified at what they saw, but a few of the men saw an opportunity not to be missed, whatever the explanation was. One after another joined the orgy in the hallway, and soon Britney had all the dick she needed. She took two and three at a time, ejecting each man as soon as he ejaculated and lost his erection. Word rapidly spread throughout the hotel: Britney is giving it up and giving it away!

By the time Max had recovered, it was too big for him to stop alone. There were too many men servicing Britney or waiting in line. He called hotel security, begging for help. Five of them came running, but when they saw what was going on, they just joined in.

Britney was insatiable. Nothing was enough, no cock too big to satisfy her. Faced with this hurricane of sexual energy, some of the men waiting lost their nerve and fled. More than one of her partners lost consciousness. A forty-six-year-old computer salesman from St. Louis, who had had only a vague idea of who Britney was before tonight, succumbed to a heart attack in the midst of Britney's ravishment. Another man suffered a ruptured penile artery and ran howling down the hallway, gripping his crotch in agony.

There was nothing Max could do or say to stop this. Britney would stop when she had enough, baby. As far as he was concerned, she was on her own, and whether she made it was her business. Whatever had happened here, it was clear he was the last to know about it.

Although Britney was unable to sate herself that night, she was only human. Eventually she collapsed in exhaustion. By then though, she had finished off the last of the men who dared approach her.

Max had fled the hotel, but a few of her assistants dragged her limp body back to her room. Someone called Jive Records, and the company sent over a team to begin damage control.

*

There was enough money at stake here to keep things quiet. No one would believe it anyway, though rumors raced across the Internet. The story, though true, was soon hounded out of existence by Britney loyalists. Jive waved more money at Max Martin and convinced him to come back to work.

Thorough medical exams discovered the fertility drugs and Viagra in Britney's system. But Herman DeWitt never regained consciousness, and the culprit for Britney's sexual paroxysm was never uncovered.

What _was_ uncovered were the unintended side effects of what Herman had been doing. Unintended from Herman's perspective, that is--he was just trying to make her horny. From the perspective of the companies he had gotten the drugs from, the effects were precisely what was supposed to happen.

Two years of fertility drugs had all but sent Britney's ovaries into orbit. After that six-hour orgy in the hotel, she was now pregnant as all hell.

Max begged her to get an abortion before anyone found out, but Britney refused to consider it. Inside she tracked down Justin Timberlake and dragged him straight to Las Vegas to get married. Of course, already pregnant and still sore, she was in no mood for sex. He got one kiss from her and nothing else.

After bugging her for an hour, he went into the bathroom and jerked off.

Seeing the writing on the wall, Max decided to cash in on Britney's pregnancy. He scrapped the plans for what would have been her next album and rushed her into the studio to record something entirely different.

"Knock Me Up One More Time" debuted at number one and shattered the record for first week album sales despite howls of outrage from parents and conservative groups across the country. Martin insisted to the press that "knock me up" was teen slang that didn't mean what everyone thought it did. He was unable to explain what exactly it _did_ mean, however.

Neither the criticism nor Britney's pregnancy had any effect on her popularity. The album went on to sell 15 million copies and swept the Grammy awards six months later. It was also blamed for a major spike in the teen pregnancy rate the following year.

Britney performed at the MTV Music Awards while eight months pregnant, and the highlight of the evening came when her water broke during a particularly spirited rendition of the title track from "Knock Me Up . . ." She went into labor on stage and gave birth to quadruplets at a nearby hospital several hours later.

The babies, all boys, resembled Justin not in the slightest, although to Britney's profound relief, they were at least all white. Justin grumbled in private but Britney had him so whipped that he kept his mouth shut, even though they still hadn't had sex and probably never would. Britney didn't believe in birth control, and she figured four kids were plenty.

Several weeks later, Britney announced that her sons would be forming a band under her own label in a few years. "It's high time we had a boy band that was actually made up of boys," she told MTV. Max Martin agreed to produce for the group and promised that they would be bigger than 'NSync and the Backstreet Boys put together. That possibility appeared more likely after Justin announced his withdrawal from 'NSync to start teaching his sons to perform. He insisted it was his idea, but no one believed him.

Herman DeWitt finally died a year after the orgy, never emerging from the coma Britney had put him in. The morticians his family hired were able to disguise the unending erection he'd had ever since that night, but they were unable to wipe the satisfied grin off his face.

The End