Part III

a short story by Dan Standing

My mind was far too lost in carnal pleasure for me to really take in what the reaction was when the elevator doors opened. I vaguely remember there being a small group of people whose gasps I was more aware of than anything else. I don’t even know if I sprayed any of them. What I do know is no one did anything but stare, because shortly after the doors opened they closed again.

I mean, if you were presented with a woman moaning and thrashing about in a pool of sticky pink with whipped cream rocketing out of her tits, would you know what to do in a moment’s time?

The elevator must have briefly sat waiting for someone to call it before moving again, because by the time I once more felt an upwards motion the song was coming to its conclusion. As the final chords faded out the intense vibrations against my clit, tits, and skin faded with them. I pulled my hands away from my nipples and slapped them against the walls. As the elevator traveled I simply sat and breathed deep. Looking down I could see that I had released an unnatural amount of liquid. The cotton candy was only starting to grow back and recover from all I’d done to it, and the enormous pool of pink spread across the floor was evidence of how much I’d dissolved away.

Finally catching my breath I reached up my arms towards the hand-bar that ran across the elevator’s back wall. Everything was saturated with slippery melting whipped cream, and it took a moment for my hands to get a grip. My muscles were like jelly, but I needed to get myself off the floor. I had just started to curl my legs under me when I heard the bell ding again. I looked up at the doors. There was a patch of brushed metal that was still uncovered. The woman staring back at me from the dull reflection was a wreck; blue hair matted with cream, blouse ripped open, bulbous breasts exposed and slightly bruised, skirt and panties pushed down just enough to see some pink candy bush, and clothes and skin generally soaked and dripping in pink or white.

Then the doors started to open. Looking up at the floor indicator my eyes went wide.

Waiting on the other side of the door – on hold from the Tokyo call and desperate for a smoke break – were seven of my coworkers, including Agatha Crowley and a few VPs. They had started to move into the elevator as the doors open, but the scene within stopped them. It was clear that, as they absorbed what they were seeing, none of them immediately recognized me. But, after a moment of silent staring, Agatha finally muttered my name, as if it was a reluctant question. Everyone else’s eyes went double-wide.

My arms pulled me up, raising myself to a standing position as my heels found some grip on the slick tile. I pulled the blouse forward just enough to drap over my nipples, lifted my skirt to cover my cotton candy crotch, and pushed my long neon hair out of my face.

“I resign,” I said, looking as poised as possible while I leaned over and hit the first floor’s button. As the doors closed and the lift started moving down I leaned back against the wall and sighed, tying my shirt closed as I let what I’d just done sink in.

That job was much too high stress anyway. Something a little more chill would better suit me. Besides, if I couldn’t get this reversed, there was no way I was going to be able to work there without distracting, well, everyone. It was no longer the place for me.

I was thankful that CaliGurl wasn’t on some sort of cruel marathon, and I reached the ground floor as clothed as, well, not any less clothed. A fresh batch of people were waiting for me this time – none of them security, who had probably disregarded any reports of my first public show – and while I was standing and bare-minimum-legally attired I was still covered in my own productions and dressed with less clothing than most strippers. Every head turned and followed me for so long as I walked by the elevator had closed again before anyone got on.

There wasn’t one point between the elevator and my car where I wasn’t a spectacle. Everyone watched me. Thanks to my breasts I couldn’t even move that quickly, and every step turned into some sort of catwalk strut as I maintained my balance.

But why should I run and hide? I asked myself. I mean, yes, there was a cartoonish absurdity to my body, but technically I was a perfect example of female sexuality. My tits were huge. My hair was long and shimmered. I still had my hard-earned courage and strength of personality. Plus, I lactate whipped cream, for God’s sake, how was that not awesome? And who wouldn’t want to go down on someone whose crotch was literally thatched with sugary sweetness? The way my new body kept things wet down there I didn’t even care what gender wanted to offer themselves to my candied delight.

Maybe, if I couldn’t track down that woman, I could learn to like this.

By this point I’d ridden the elevator to the 8th floor of the parking garage and reached my car. As I got in, smearing dried pink and cream across the driver’s seat, I was struck with a chill. Not like the cold emanating from my breasts, but a deep shiver from outside of me that sunk to my bones. Starting the engine I turned the heater to full blast and began to make my way out of the building.

As I pulled out onto the street I continued to shiver, despite the roasting heat coming from the air vents. Slowly I began to realize the region was just too cold for me. We’d reached over a foot of snow last year. Why on Earth would anyone want to live in a place where you had to deal with snow, when the country had so many warmer states? States with bright sun all year. States with sand, and oceans, and…

I had driven to the cross roads. Turning right would take me into downtown to the karaoke bar. Left would put me on I-90 West. The car idled for a moment as my mind ran circles around itself. This place was a drag. But I had to be fixed. Just to find another grinding job. But my body wasn’t right. It could be right if I wanted it to be. My fingers fidgeted on the steering wheel as I closed my eyes tight and tried to figure out what I wanted.

A car behind me honked its horn. I was so startled I turned on instinct.

Five days later I was lying on a topless beach outside of San Diego. A large towel lay across the sand beneath me. My body, save for my feet, reclined across the fabric and welcomed the California sun. My feet rested just past the hem so I could feel the sand between my naked toes. A small bag and another towel – this one rolled up – supported my shoulders and kept me upright just enough to read a saucy novel I’d grabbed at the nearest pharmacy. A bikini bottom nearly as pink as my candied canyon hid the poof of sugar between my legs. My big, bouncy, boobs were of course bared to the beach. They hung just slightly to either side of my chest, mostly ignorant of gravity’s machinations against them. Even with my book in my face I could see them rising over the pages, especially my deliciously aching nipples that seemed to be unaffected by the sun’s tanning rays.

I’d only really been on the beach for two days, but I knew this was the life for me. My chest was still deliciously chilled, but the rest of me just felt right here. A large chunk of my savings had been spent on the gas driving out. After arriving I sold the car and used the cash to buy myself a few bikinis and other sundries. Then it was straight to the first topless beach I could find so that I didn’t have to hide these balls of tasty fun.

At first I was worried I wouldn’t find a place to stay the night, but let me tell you something; when you sunbathe topless with tits bigger than your head that squirt whipped cream, everyone wants you to come hang with them. My first night I partied myself nearly empty at a large modern chalet overlooking the ocean. And there was no shortage of sexy Californians – of both genders – who wanted to sample my sweet slit. I think I passed out cumming while a sandy-haired woman with breasts nearly as big as mine lapped between my legs.

I’ve never been left for wanting a place to spend the night since.

Last night I was at a private pool playing chicken fight – only the big strapping man whose shoulders I was perched on had me facing behind him. We kept losing the game – as “spraying whipped cream in my opponent’s face” was quickly outlawed – but thanks to his tongue both of us won big in other ways. I think I fell asleep atop him, still filled with his own male chicken.

Each morning I extract myself from whatever position I’ve fucked myself to sleep in and make my way back to the beach. Nothing is more satisfying than lying here all day, enjoying both the sun’s attention and that which I get from the other beach-goers.

CaliGurl still causes me to cum uncontrollably. It’s quite popular out here, as you might imagine, and at my first few parties I would just drop to the floor orgasming wildly. Everyone seemed to enjoy those shows. Now, when it plays, I’ve learned how to focus that response. At parties I’ll find some eager man or woman to experience it with me, and it feels so good to have those extra hands on me as my body hums to the beat. On the beach, every now and then, I can hear CaliGurl played somewhere distant, and I just grin and squirm quietly and love how my body feels writhing on my towel, the sand shifting beneath me. Even then I’ll still soak through my bikini bottom and towel, staining pink the sand underneath. These quiet cums are sometimes the most intense, especially when I know no one around me has any idea as to what is happening to me.

I never imagined the life of a busty Cali girl would be so satisfying. Even now, as I sit here reading my tenth or eleventh novel since arriving, skin a wonderful uninterrupted deep copper save for my nipples, I can’t image living my past life.

Now and then do I still think about finding that woman at the karaoke bar. Of course I do. I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about tracking her down.

But then I realize that now it’d be to thank her.