Terri took the farthest possible seat from her Mother during dinner. The dining room had been decked out with checkered curtains, and adorned with fresh flowers cut out of the garden. There was a new centerpiece.
“And then he turned to us and said “Private Flynn, I know you’re hiding a litter of puppies in this camp, and if I find it, you’re eating them.””
The other boarders burst into laughter. Flynn laughed alongside them.
The big man had a clerical collar on, and slicked back dark hair, but nothing else about him seemed at all like a churchman. So far he had dominated the conversation with stories of his pre-God days in Korea.
The big room was nearly full with tenants. Of the other four, two were solidly-built construction men working on the factory. Two more were young female lawyers or accountants working as support staff. They wore nice ironed blouses and had pulled their hair into business-like buns.
“I felt bad about breaking regs, but the poor thing had just pushed out octuplets when I found her. Found good homes for all of them!”
He gnawed on a leg of fried chicken.
So did Terri.
She was ravenous. The emaciated blonde hadn’t eaten anything after one last morning bowl of cereal in the dorms.
Her Mom’s cooking had dramatically improved.
Previously the microwave had been the centerpiece of her skills. Now she had churned out an entire fried chicken, mountains of dripping mashed potatoes, and a second plate of scalloped spuds “because I had extras.”
Terri inhaled three drumsticks and examined the man who had taken her room. Mom barely sat down, flitting back and forth with dishes. The entire time she had a dumb smile on her face.
“How long ago did you join the Ministry, Reverend Flynn?” One of the lawyers asked. She was a early-30s brunette with calculating eyes.
“Spiritually? Eight years, two-hundred-sixty days. Physically? Got ordained, oh, three years ago. And I got to say, this is an easy town. Lots of people who love the lord. Beautiful church, too. Big thing.”
Reverend Flynn stood up, put his hands on the table, and asked, cheerfully, “Who wants some of my homemade ice cream?”
Five hands went up. Including, Terri was surprised to notice, her own.
* * *
The ice cream had been soft, creamy, and rich. Flynn apparently churned it himself, and had served all of them large mounds. All of them had dug in, including the two svelte female professionals and the young redhead.
It had nuts in it.
Terri slumped in her chair, too full to move, surrounded by greasy plates and a mountain of pots.
Her Mom took the chair next to her. She even wore an apron, a Donna Reed white linen that was nonetheless immaculate.
Terri watched her, suspicious. Her Mom looked… softer… now. The hard lines that had started to crease her face had smoothed themselves out. And she looked, not plump, but definitely filled out in a way difficult to put her finger on.
“So. Rent,” Terri said, weakly. She couldn’t recall ever eating that much before. What had gotten into her? “I thought we’d start at nothing a month, because I’m your daughter, and because I have no money.”
Anne’s lips assumed the fatigued curl Terri was so used to seeing.
“I’ve thought it through,” she said “and talked it over with Reverend Flynn. He and I think…”
“You talked it over with the Priest? What, is he my Dad?” An awful suspicion grew. “Hey, isn’t he supposed to be celibate, or…”
Anne jerked backwards. Surprise flitted across her face, between the blonde curls. She had even worn a touch of lipstick to dinner. “No! Not at all! Reverend Flynn is… he’s good at listening. That’s his job, Terri.” She settled herself, and recrossed her legs underneath the apron. “He and I think you should be working for your room and board.”
“Chores. He’s been very graciously helping me get the house up to code, but he’s an increasingly busy man.”
“Chores?” Terri felt too full to adequately argue back. She hadn’t eaten a serious dinner in… at least over a month. By the end of her college experience she was living on cheerios and chocolate milk.
“Dishes. Vacuuming. Dusting. To start. That’ll free me up for maintenance and working on the exterior.”
“Dusting?” Terri shifted in her seat. Her ass had sunken into the paisley cushion. “I don’t have to wear an apron, do I?”
“What, this?” Anne looked down. “This is practical. I’ll get one for you, if you want one.”
“No!” Terri opened her mouth to argue. Long, practiced words about the duty of a mother, and that she needed some time to get settled.
All that came out was a mortifying, ice cream-laced burp.
“Good!” Anne said. She stood up and offered an arm to her daughter. Terri took it, hauled herself to her feat. Her legs felt like clumps of rope. “In that case, welcome home!”
* * *
An hour and a half later, Terri stumbled out of the kitchen. Her hands burned from near-scalding water. If she hadn’t already bitten her fingernails to nubs while at college, they would’ve been crushed and torn from scrubbing grease-covered pans.
In a way, it had been nice to try and burn some of the calories. That last bowl of ice cream felt like it had suffused her entire body, padding it with weight.
Her basement—or new bedroom—was the former rec room. The pool table had been stacked against the wall, and the do-it-yourself minibar someone had built was now piled with her old books.
Bed was a mattress on the floor.
Terri shut the door, stripped out of her soap-spattered clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. There was a big mirror on one wall, and she examined herself in it.
Two months avoiding the dining hall, eating only in spare moments, hadn’t been good for her figure. She didn’t need to stretch to see a few ribs poking out, and her hips had turned downright boyish.
“Terri, I got you a new—Terri!”
Her Mom stood behind her, carrying a basket of linens. She stared in shock at her daughter’s skinny body. “What happened to you? You’re.. tiny.”
Terri snatched a towel off the rack and wrapped herself in it. “Thin, Mom. I’m thin. Or slender.”
“Yeah, but not…” she trailed off. Anne had slipped into an old t-shirt, and her own breasts swelled against the fabric. Terri didn’t remember her Mom being so… large.
“Well. Anyway,” Anne said, recovering her newfound poise “You start with the sweeping tomorrow morning. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“Good to see you.”
Terri didn’t respond.
* * *
For her first day home, Terri slept, cleaned, and ate. That was very nearly it.
At 6:30 am she woke up to the wafting scent of pancakes and bacon, mixed with an undertone of syrup. Back at college she had rarely risen before 10.
There was no getting away from her body’s hungry, insistent demands for carbohydrates. Apparently she had deprived and starved it for long enough.
At 7:00 am Terri stood in the shower, letting the hot water rinse her sticky self off. She must’ve looked like a cow, scarfing pancake after pancake. The others had shared a single newspaper or listened to more of Reverend Flynn’s endless supply of homespun anecdotes. She had looked for the redhead—someone her age might have something to say—but that girl had apparently left for work early.
Terri looked down. Two smallish breasts, a body with slight curves, and a few ribs. If she wasn’t careful with her Mom’s enthusiastic cooking, she would swell up like one of the Bessies on the side of the road.
At 7:43 am Terri dusted her face white and scraped on black eyeliner. Then her workout sweats, no bra. When she emerged from the bathroom her bed had been made and her clothes tossed into a brand new wooden hamper.
“It’s like I’m living in a hotel,” she thought.
Terri went upstairs at 8:02 a.m. Her Mom was clipping coupons in a very pretty white dress. It showed off a lot of leg.
“Since when do you clip coupons?” Terri asked.
“Oh, longer then you know,” Anne said. She wore wine-red lipstick. “I’m going to want you to do the dishes, and then you’re on dusting duty.” She kept her eyes on the growing pile of clippings.
So much for small talk, Terri thought.
From 8:03 to 9:11 Terri scrubbed viciously at pots and pans and thought nasty thoughts about home. And how come cooking meant cleaning? Why did bacon grease get so solid so quickly?
It didn’t help that her stomach was still growling for more.
The rest of the day, Terri dusted.
Her Mom handed her an ancient feather duster, salvaged from the attic, and told her to get at every space at least an inch above the ground.
“Then all the dust is just on the ground,” Terri objected.
“That’s why you’re vacuuming tomorrow.”
It wasn’t easy to dust. The oversized house was a warren of side tables, mantles, unused chairs, and hard-to-reach spots. Her Mom had already hit the more visible areas, but plenty of hidden ones remained.
It was tedious.
But there was a certain mindlessness that was… nice, after months of hell. Stand there in the quiet cool of the house, flop away with your duster, clean clean clean, and look forward to dinner. Don’t think about anything. Concentrate on the job.
Let your mind go empty…
At 11:10 her Mom came back inside. Her hands were covered to the wrist in mud, but the rest of her had somehow avoided the dirt.
“Oh, Terri,” she said, examining her filthy, dust-covered daughter. “Here, wear this apron. They’re practical.”
“I’m not wearing an apron until I’m on my fifth kid in the trailer park,” Terri groused. “And even then, it’s going to say “Anarchy Forever,” on it.”
Anne shrugged. Later she made sandwiches. Terri devoured two and licked her fingers clean.
Just past noon she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her ash-blond hair was tied back with an old scrunchie. Dust covered her cotton sweats, and made a grey mess on her crumbling t-shirt.
Her Mom was right. She did need an apron.
She kept dusting anyway.
Promptly at 5:30 Reverend Flynn returned. He was already laughing when the door shut, talking to one of the two solid construction men that occupied the third floor.
“Ah, glad to see you pitching in to help!” he said, catching sight of Terri’s dust-shrouded body. He looked immaculate, his hair slicked back and wearing that oily smile. “She doesn’t let on, but I know she needs the support.”
Terri just stared at him. It felt very strange to have him call her Mom “Anne.”
Dinner was pork tenderloin with brussel sprouts. Terri put huge spoonfuls of it away, even with the certain and unhappy knowledge that she was going to have to clean the big, steaming pan in the sink.
And then another big bowl of Reverend Flynn’s specially-made ice cream. The two young professionals lit up when the plastic tub arrived. They didn’t say much, and tended to just giggle and listen to the men chat. When one of them leaned forwards a short black thong peeked out underneath a business-like blouse.
At 9:00 pm Terri staggered away from the finished, gleaming metal bowls. Her Mom was knitting in the parlor.
“Since when do you knit?” Terri said, slumping into a leather chair.
“Oh, I used to… when you were a baby. I should’ve taught you. It keeps your hands busy. Tired?”
“Yeah,” Terri admitted. Between the big country meals and the endless cleaning, she was exhausted.
It was a good kind of tired. A sort of all-encompassing fatigue that left her too vague to worry, fret, or think about the recent past.
In fact… she felt kind of… hot. Now that she had a chance to finally sit down and think.
“My face gets itchy,” Terri mentioned. Very hot, now that she thought of it.
And it was coming from right between her legs.
“It’s probably that makeup you put on,” Anne said, her needles flashing. “That white stuff. It makes you look like a ghost, you know. This old mansion is spooky enough.”
“I like it. I just don’t like the itching.”
Terri shifted her legs and fought the urge to swivel them. Whether it was a day of work or the finishing touches of ice cream, she was getting definite signals from in between her legs that it was time to play.
“Umm… I have to go,” she said, and stumbled downstairs. Embarrassed again. Where had that sudden, insistent need come from? A pleasurable throb had taken up residence between her legs, and demanded attention.
Terri turned on the shower faucet with shaking fingers, waited impatiently for the downpour to become merely warm. Unleashed from her dust-shrouded clothes, her naked body thrummed with energy. Particularly the increasingly moist slit glowing red between her legs.
She started touching herself even before stepping in, running a finger on the outsides of her lips. Nor did she stop when she was fumbling into the shower, adjusting the temperature with her free hand.
The water just added waves of heat to her glowing body, pattering harshly on her boobs and stomach. Her nipples especially. When it became too much to bear, Terri turned around and let the water drum on her ass, too.
By the time she came, the ash-blonde girl was slumped on the back of the shower, letting the water assault her as she helplessly rubbed up and down on a needy clit. Her orgasm was long and low, and she hissed it out, eyes closed, nearly choking on the shower water.
A few minutes later, Terri managed to turn the water off with a shaking hand. She wrapped a towel around herself, mechanically dried her still-overheated self, and then, exhausted, fell into bed.
That was how the rest of the week went, too.
Wake up, eat, clean, lunch, clean, dinner, ice cream.
Then, still highly agitated, masturbate to a screaming climax in the safety and security of her room. On the second day it was dusting, then sweeping, followed by a pleasant cum on the bathroom toilet. The next was vacuuming, and she fingered herself to orgasm with her face pressed against the shower glass.
On the third day her Mom appeared with a rag and a bottle of wood polish and told her to “make everything shine.” That night she howled with the feeling of three fingers pushed up her snatch.
“It’s just my body readjusting,” Terri told herself, after the second time she withdrew a few guilty, sweet-smelling fingers from inside herself. She hadn’t masturbated in months, in college. Now she was just making up for lost time.
Certainly a combination of hard work and highly relaxing ice cream was enough to make any girl get in the mood.
Between the stellar orgasms and the grub, Terri found it surprisingly hard to complain about working as a menial in her own home. And she was learning things, too. Interesting things.
First, that the two other girls in residence lived in the other half of the second floor, near Reverend Flynn’s room. That both had neat, tidy rooms, with sleek grey laptops primed on the desk. That Candice had lacey black underwear spilling out of her drawer, and that Patricia had at least four pairs of high-heeled shoes underneath the bed.
Reverend Flynn’s room, on the other hand, was strictly off limits. Not that he appeared to spend much time there. Their in-residence Shepard of the flock appeared to be personally visiting every business, residence, and other site in Calving.
She wondered when he had the time to make that delicious, all-filling ice cream. After a bowl Terri felt like sliding to the floor and just lying there, with a happy grin. It was no wonder her new libido kicked in soon afterwards.
On Thursday Terri gave up on the makeup.
The girl underneath had pink, cheerful cheeks and an overall friendly complexion. She stuck her tongue out at it. That night she masturbated while watching herself in the bathroom mirror.
The white stuff had looked pasty and gross at the end of the day, anyway.
* * *
It was amazing how many of the newcomers had big boobs.
Brianna couldn’t help staring from behind the reception desk. Four of the wives or girlfriends of the Calving construction force sat in Dr. Reynolds’ waiting room. That meant eight titanic tits, all of them struggling in tight shirts, except for one girl wearing a very flattering yellow sundress.
All but one browsed through old Cosmopolitans, their legs demurely crossed. The last, a dark haired girl with a worried frown, had burst in without an appointment and asked to be seen “immediately.” She had been waiting for Dr. Reynolds all morning.
Another one of the big-boobed cows floated out of the back room, a serene smile on her face. Dr. Reynolds trailed behind. He was a small man with a big, black beard, marked with pepper, and always clutched a clipboard to his side. The doctor studied his latest patient’s swiveling backside. It was pertly encased in tight jeans.
“Sarah? You’re up,” Brianna said. The dark-haired girl stood up and tugged her shirt down. It kept showing off a great deal of midriff.
Brianna coughed, meaningfully. When that failed to get the Doctor’s attention, she balled up a piece of paper and tossed it at him.
Those calm brown eyes finally settled on her. Her heart skipped a beat. They were very intense eyes. “Nurse Brianna, why don’t you assist me with this one?” Dr. Reynolds said.
When the Doctor had hired her as “nurse and receptionist,” she hadn’t been expecting 10% nurse and 90% secretary. She was a certified nurse, after all. And she KNEW Dr. Reynolds needed the help. They were booked for the next three months.
The three of them headed to the back of the small, converted office space. The dark-haired girl—Sarah—hopped onto the exam room table. Their only one.
“Go ahead. Whatever you want to tell me,” Dr. Reynolds encouraged, crossing his arms. Brianna stood quietly in the corner. It wouldn’t do to upset the Doctor, she thought, and then wondered where that had come from.
Sarah blushed. She was really very pretty, Brianna judged. Most of the overstuffed girls were blondes, and there was a certain sameness about them. Sarah had dark eyes and a touch of something foreign about her. A kind of dusky heat.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she confessed.
“Breast growth. Sudden and unanticipated,” Dr. Reynolds said.
Sarah gaped at him. As did Brianna. How in the world—
“Yes! I mean, that’s part of it,” Sarah said. “My boobs… sorry, breasts, right… they’ve just been getting bigger and bigger. Practically by the day. And they feel…”
“Good, right?” Dr. Reynolds said, sympathetically. He looked at Brianna, and caught her staring down the top of her own loose-hanging lab coat. Her own puppies had been… swollen… lately, but they were nothing against the bouncing boobies the new Factory had brought to town. “Sarah, I’ll need you to take your blouse off.”
“Oh,” Sarah said. She had on a tightly-buttoned blouse. Brianna caught her breath as her twosome were unleashed. Sarah had on a brand-new bra, and already her tits were spilling out of the sides. They were just as tanned. A bit of nipple was clearly visible.
She looked down at the clipboard. Brianna had written “big tits” in the medical history. She erased it hurriedly.
Dr. Reynolds pursed his lips, reached behind the girl, and unsnapped her bra with one hand. Before it fell free he was already cupping the undersides of her boobs, nodding to himself.
“These are rather big. You can see how the engorgement has taken place,” he said, detached. “At least it’s been consistent. How does this feel?” His practiced hands kneaded and tugged.
“Ummm…” Sarah said. She seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.
Brianna was feeling a certain… warmth herself. All these contented, chesty girls had left something sensual in the air. She had gotten used to a screaming session in the bathroom before bed.
“On a scale of 1-10, how good does this feel?” Dr. Reynolds repeated. He massaged gently.
In response, Sarah put her head back, and moaned lewdly.
“Write that down as a 10,” Dr. Reynolds said.
“Um, of course… Doctor…” Brianna said. Sarah was panting, leaning back on her slender arms.
“Any other symptoms?”
“My…” Sarah kept blinking. “What do you call it… when you get really horny?”
“Libido,” Brianna prompted, and felt proud of herself.
“Yeah. That. It’s been… what was the scale again? 1 to 100? It’s been a 100.”
Dr. Reynolds kept up the nodding. He reached out and tweaked Sarah’s nipple. The black-haired girl stifled a scream, and nearly fell backwards.
Brianna wiped her forehead. It was suddenly drenched with sweat.
“What’s wrong with me, Doctor?” Sarah asked, earnestly. “I thought it was just moving to a new town, but my boobs are so big… and it’s all I can do not to jump my boyfriend when he gets home… he’s got this thing between his legs…”
Dr. Reynolds snapped his fingers. His eyes brightened. “Ah, you just moved in with a new boyfriend?”
“Y…yes?” Sarah said. She chewed on her lip, and her left hand not-so-surreptitiously stroked the underside of her tits. Brianna sympathized. They looked… yummy.
Were medical examinations supposed to be so heated? Dr. Reynolds didn’t seem to be affected. He paced back and forth in front of Sarah. Brianna cast a yearning glance towards the clinic bathroom. She had left a toy in there, yesterday. So long as her own body was so insistent.
“I shouldn’t be that concerned,” Dr. Reynolds said, kindly. “Have you heard of Nesting Syndrome? It’s very normal when young ladies your age move into a place where they feel stable and comfortable. Their hormones unleash their… potential, shall we say?”
Brianna had never heard of this. Neither had Sarah. But the Doctor HAD to be right, didn’t he? He was a Doctor, after all.
And he had such calm, sure eyes…
“Symptoms include a marked increase in libido, breast growth, sensitivity, a certain… shall we see… maternal and caring attitude? All very natural and wonderful, my dear.”
“But… what are you talking about?” Sarah said. She was openly stroking her exposed nipples, now, and her legs were circling underneath a short denim skirt. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down at her bucking body. “Once it gets going, I.. I just need to keep touching…”
“Not at all, dear. Please touch yourself as you need. Your body is signaling that you are fertile, that you have found a stable relationship, and that it’s time to settle down. Very natural.”
“That’s… crazy,” Brianna thought. But Dr. Reynolds looked so very certain. And he was such a strong, capable man…
“I can confirm the diagnosis with a simple test,” Dr. Reynolds offered, noticing Sarah’s reluctance. He took his hands out of his lab coat and walked over to the sink. “It should just take a moment.
Sarah just moaned. Her hands had found her nipples, again. They poked into the air. Had the air conditioning failed? It was so hot in the close little examination room, and Brianna felt soaked everywhere. Her forehead. Between her legs. In her head.
Dr. Reynolds gently lowered the gasping girl to the table and spread her thighs open.
The young girl wore strappy sandles with a high heel, and Brianna found herself watching them. They were cute shoes.
“This is to test your receptivity to impregnation,” Dr. Reynolds explained, guiding his hand between her quivering legs.
“Oh… kay…” Sarah sighed, and gasped as he pulled her panties aside.
“I should say something,” Brianna thought, her legs locked together. She felt the first drop of moisture hit her panties. She had been wearing black, lacey ones lately. For no obvious reason. “This is insane. This is…”
She slumped against the back of the wall and rubbed on the outside of her pants.
Dr. Reynolds hunched over the side of his patient, his right hand pumping steadily between her thighs. Sarah pushed back, thrusting her hips to the tune of his pumping fingers.
He leaned close to her ear. “I’m afraid this confirms my diagnosis,” he explained. “You’re a young, healthy girl, and your body is telling you to fuck and get knocked up.” He looked back. “Brianna, do you want to get a better look, over here?”
If the doctor said so…
Brianna carefully knelt between her thighs. Sarah was already clean-shaven. With her skirt hiked around her waist she could clearly see Dr. Reynolds’ dripping fingers. “I’m using a classic come-hither motion,” he said. “I’ll want you to aid me in this, next time. I’m expecting a lot of Nesting girls to come to the clinic, in the near future.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Brianna heard herself say. She tried to get a better look. The scent of hot, juiced-up girl filled the entire room. Her other hand was so busy, pushing hard against the zipper of her ridiculously dowdy khakis.
Sarah came in a series of short, hot gasps. Fluid squirted onto the clipboard, and Brianna wiped it off. Then licked it clean.
“I’ll make a call to your boyfriend,” Dr. Reynolds said. “Good day, Sarah. Please think of me if you get any joyful news in the future and need a doctor.”
And then he was gone. Brianna waited for the dripping, exhausted girl to pull herself together, put her tattered clothes back on.
“Listen,” Sarah said, once she had hauled her boobs back into their inadequate confinement. “Is that for real? You’re a Nurse, right? Do I really have…. Nesting Syndrome, or whatever?”
All Brianna could think about was Dr. Reynolds’ calm eyes. She nodded, quickly. “Oh yes. He’s a very good Doctor. Although…”
Sarah leaned in. She still smelled like sex.
“…Before you go… could you tell me where you got those cute shoes?”