Apophenia is the tendency to form patterns where there are none. I suspect that without this well-documented weakness in our reasoning, we may have never developed language as we have. Words are not discrete tokens. They are individual components of a collage, torn from one context and reassembled into another. The latest usage contains information about previous usages in non-obvious ways. Thus, language evolves, gaining weight and ambiguity, like scabby flakes of flyer cut-outs forming a crust on bathroom walls.

                ‘Bimbofication’ is a word that fascinates me because it sounds so ridiculous and yet holds so much power over me. It sounds almost technical or medical, at odds with the immaturity of the subject matter. It has the air of very silly people being very pretentious. It tries to create a phylogeny of the messy, low, and embarrassing.

                ‘Bimbo’ itself is not a straight-forward word, because like all insults, it requires a viewer and a subject, between who they may be a combination of value judgments. The subject and viewer may even be the same person, judging themselves by internal contradictions! Widely believed to be derived from the Italian ‘bambino’, ‘bimbo’ broadly refers to be a person who offers nothing but their pretty face. Or sexy body, depending how crude you want to be. Define the offer of nothing. Define a pretty face. Like pornography, everybody knows it when they see it, yet when pressed to codify it, you get a litany of edge cases, informed by media consumption. It’s only grown harder after the internet exploded the monoculture and media consumption became highly individualized and esoteric.

                ‘Bimbofication’, the process of become a bimbo, seems to have been coined by the moral panic over rock & roll in the eighties. Music videos appeared a promotional tool in the end of the 70s, MTV started broadcasting in 1981, and by the mid-eighties there was a market of parental resources warning that children would be corrupted by images of violence, materialism, and the sexual exploitation of women. The most widely cited usage of the term ‘bimbofication’ is an article by Jon Pareles called ‘Sex, Lies, and the trouble with video tape’, which was actually a defense of MTV against the claims of Dr. Sut Jhally about its portrayal of women. Pareles describes MTV having “two minutes of bimbofication per one hour” and this memorable phrase shows up over and over in discussions of censorship. Usage of ‘bimbofication’ drops off in magazine articles around 2000. Then, in 2009, there is a gigantic spike in usage as Amazon facilitates digital self-publishing and the web in inundated by ebooks with ‘bimbofication’ in the title and promotional material.

                Nine years of collage, being torn apart and reassembled in the whisper-networks of the pre-facebook internet. A neologism goes from describing a moral panic to embodying multiple genres of erotic art and writing. Perhaps that describes the origin of many parasexualities. In a society slow to discuss the complexity of sex, how do we learn except by imitating moral panics? Isn’t that what sadism and masochism were in the first place? People imitating the reviled authors de Sade and von Sacher-Masoch? Now we embrace all those supposedly corrupting us – pink pop music and vapid gossip rags and bleached blonde porn stars and famous sex tapes and trashy anime – using the language of those worried we would be corrupted.

                I think part of ‘bimbofication’ is that it describes sexuality as a process, a becoming. A perpetual panic. A perpetual crisis. That can be a crisis of many things – religion, ethics, gender, social standing. Thus the narrative of transformation. There are as many ‘-fications’ as there are crises – whorification, slutification, stepfordization, nerdification, gothification, sissyfication, princessfication, etc. Overcoming an internalized panic is always a crisis and how many of us are overcoming, even? The appeal of transformation, much like suicide, is to cut the Gordian knot within our soul.

                Will ‘bimbofication’ persist? I don’t see why not. We still call people ‘luddites.’ We still call people ‘tankies.’ God only knows what it will mean in twenty years. Language churns fast and releases slowly. Pieces of the collage get everywhere. The kids will have their own weird shit to feel embarrassed about, after all.

Patriot City sat proudly on the shores of the Pesciplily River, silverly skyscrapers lit by lively thoroughfares, a glowing beacon of prosperity in the holy American night. But whither prosperity, so also the criminal parasite. In the shadows of the Pesciplily Docks, theft was afoot! Toughs cast their gaze about in fear and pulled their collars close as they loaded boxes from the Patriot Gold Company’s warehouse. For the prosperity of Patriot City had defenders who dared to cast light into its dark corners.

              A stage light.

              “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s show time!” A blinding flash crowned the thieves’ truck, followed by an explosion of smoke in red, white, and blue. Three lithe female forms emerged from the colored clouds.

              “I’m Stars!” Said the tall woman in the navy blue skirt and vest. An embroidered star field ran up the side of her outfit, and silver glitter ran down her long ponytail. She radiated confidence.

              “I’m Stripes!” Said the babyfaced woman in the red-and-white striped one-piece dress. Her short, curly hair framed her bright smile.

              “And for your entertainment, I’m Freedom!” The central woman stood defiantly in a bright white parody of an Air Force dress uniform. Two long twintales swung behind her. “We’re the Star Spangled Sirens, and we’re here to let freedom ring!”

              The cohort of criminals yelled in panic. Some ran, and some pulled out guns. The Sirens grabbed microphones from holsters on their hips and in unison, sang a crystal-clear F sharp. The truck shook. The windows and doors of the warehouses’ rattled. Everyone dropped to their knees in pain, clutching their ears in pair as psychosonic energy closed on their brains like a vice. Soon, they dropped in unconscious.

              “Good work, girls! Looks like gold is still a solid investment.” Freedom put her fists on her hips and beamed at the other two.

              Stripes groaned in annoyance. “That’s not a good quip. That’s not even like, a joke.”

              “It’s no joke, girlfriend. Americans need to know that gold always pays out in the long run.” Freedom kept up her strained smile and checked to see if anyone was filming her.

              “Eyes up, everybody. We’ve still got unfriendlies.” Stars cut in. One of the mooks stumbled out of the warehouses. His knees shook as he held up a ray gun that flared with barely contained energy.

              “Hands in the air, cuties.”

              Stripes scoffed. “The only ‘cutie’ here is your cute toy, bucko.”

              “Your bravery would be put to better use serving your country.” Freedom raised her mic again. The two other girls followed suit. They unleased another wave of sound that nearly swept the man off his feet. But his weapon shielded him, glowing brighter and brighter as it absorbed the energy of the Siren’s attack, until it was a mote of light that was impossible to look directly at. Freedom’s expression wavered at the sight.

              “Uh, guys-?”

              There was a blast of light. It hit like a truck, and the last thought Freedom had was that her agent was gonna give her an earful.

---

              When Freedom came to, the first thing that greeted her was Stripes complaining.

              “-the one who takes all this superhero crap seriously, get us out of this!”

              “I’m telling you, calm down.” Stars hissed. “When we don’t check in with HQ, they’ll alert the Law League. The best thing we can do is buy time.”

              “W-what’s happening?” Freedom felt groggy. She found herself tied up on a chair, next to the other two in similar restraints. The three of them were alone in a dark room, with only the dark lumps of nearby machinery.

              “It looks like we’ve made it to the big leagues.” Stars said stoically.

              “’Big leagues’? Listen to yourself,” Stripes sputtered. “Some psycho mad scientist set up an ambush for us! We’re lucky that freak hasn’t gone as ‘Hostel’ on us, instead-“

              “-instead, you enjoy the hospitality of Dr. Dementarian!” The lights snapped on. The three of them were in a high-ceiling lab. The main feature of the room was a conveyer belt with a huge roller at the end, that fed into a poster printer. Into the lab strode a tiny man in a lab coat and goggles, flanked by two faceless robots.

              “I’m sorry for the rough ambush, my sonic songbeards, but when I heard that the Rayburn-Omni Production Enterprises had put together a team of musical superheroes, I simply had to meet you for myself. And I wasn’t sure how, since you notoriously avoid super villains.”

              “Damn straight! Corporate promised me we’d only deal with regular criminals.” Stripes kicked her legs in indignation. “I didn’t sign up to deal with super psychos!”

              “Listen, Mister… I mean, Doctor… Dementarian?” Freedom tried to smile diplomatically. “I’m sure that if you contact Rayburn-Omni, they’ll make a generous offer for our safe return. As long as we’re unharmed.”

              “Unharmed?” Dr. Dementarian chortled. “I assure you, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a fan of your audacious little group. In fact, I brought you here today to help you with your merchandise.”

              Dr. Dementarian snapped his fingers. The two robots stomped forward and grabbed Stars. They carried Stars over the conveyer belt, as Dr. Dementarian powered on the machine. The roller began to spin, swirling lights haloing it. Stars fought her restraints as she inched towards the mysterious lights. Freedom begged him to stop. Stripes squeezed her eyes shut and looked away. Stars feet slipped below the roller, and suddenly she moaned with pleasure.

              “Ooooh gaawd~~” Stars gasped. Her feet vanished in the light, as she slipped further and further under the roller. The rainbow aura climbed up her legs. Stars writhed in pleasure. She blushed deep red. The roller reached her crotched, and she shrieked with a force orgasm. Freedom cried out for Stars. But the woman didn’t respond, insensible with pleasure. Tongue lolling and eyes rolled back, she disappeared in the swirling lights.

              The printer started up. Dr. Dementarian grinned and collected a poster as it came out. He held up proudly for Stripes and Freedom to see. It was a pin-up of Stars, lying naked on a beach towel, with a milky way pattern painted over one side of her body. The poster smiled at her former compatriots alluringly.

              “Tah-dah!”

              “You monster!” Freedom strained against her bonds. Without her atomic microphone, she was helpless. She watched in horror as Dr. Dementarian rolled up Stars and gestured towards Stripes. Stripes shrieked in terror.

              “No no no no! You can’t- Do her! Do that bitch!” The robots lugged the crying Stripes over to the conveyer belt. It began to creep towards the roller. “You don’t want me! I’m not even a real superhero! They recruited me because I won a fucking talent show! Oh god, oh god, it’s not fair, we were gonna cut an album next month!”

              The roller began to swallow Stripes up. Tears flew off her face as she thrashed around. Her voice quavered with unwilling pleasure. “Freedom, you bitch! This should be you! I hope – I hope he turns you into a… a… a fucking… oh god, oooh my gaaaawwwww~”

              Stripes disappeared into the machine’s light. Dr. Dementarian proudly held up the resulting poster for Freedom to see. It showed Stripes wearing nothing but a cut-off hoodie. She was masturbating with an empty liquor bottle while she flipped off the viewer, a look of disdain on her face.

              “Please…” Freedom’s voice was weak. “Please tell me you can turn them back. Tell me they aren’t-“

              “Dead? Oh, no, no, no.” Dr. Dementarian grinned broadly. “They are locked in a pocket dimension of frozen time. An eternal moment of… lust.”

              He pressed his finger against Stripes’ crotch until the paper warped. Freedom shivered. The robots carried her over to the machine. Freedom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She told herself that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a lewd display. She felt warm, constricting sensations start at her feet and travel up her legs. Her nerves tingled in unison while her limbs felt locked in place by the tightest, snuggest plastic possible. The sensations reached her crotch and Freedom winced, from the deepest, most powerful vibrations she ever felt reached deep inside her sex. It traveled up her stomach and to her breasts. Freedom finally gave in and yowled, from an assault on her nipples joining the assault. Her gaping, overwhelmed face disappeared under the roller and into the machine.

              A poster rolled out of the printer. It showed Freedom of the Star Spangled Sirens, with a lot of pure joy, kneeling naked on the floor of a bathroom stall and holding a load of cum between her tits. A tattoo over her manicured bush said, “Buy Gold.”

“Hi, I’m Fannie Friday, with the City Record?”

“Hello! Welcome!” The woman running the candy stall gently took Fannie’s hand and gave it a half-shake, half-pat. The intimacy of the gesture immediately made Fannie jerk back her hand in embarrassment. If the elegant proprietress was offended, she didn’t let it show. She was a little tall, but otherwise the prototype of Mediterranean aristocracy: flowing dark hair, tanned complexion, long features, and an unwavering gaze. It made Fannie hyper-aware of being a sentient bit of corn silk that stumbled out of a Kansas City thrift store. The candy seller brazenly sized Fannie up, with satisfaction. Fannie looked over the table of bagged chocolates and mints so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact.

“Did your shop just open? I haven’t seen you at the farmer’s market before. I do a feature for the Sunday magazine on new boutiques.”

“My name is Lily.”

Fannie went red. “Oh my god, I forgot to ask, I’m so sorry.”

“It is quite fine. I have been told I’m intimidating.” Lily smiled indulgently. She knelt down to get something from her supplies under the table and produced a chocolate truffle cradled in wax paper. “Lily’s Temptations just opened up at Albus Place, on Montrose. Here, a critic’s sample.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, really, that’s not necessary,” Fannie eagerly snatched up the treat. She bit the truffle in half and immediately sighed with pleasure. The chocolate shell was creamy and sweet but buckled under a wave of darker ganache with a hint of unplaceable citrus that left a tart after-taste, which in turn demanded another bite of sweetness. Fannie stomped her foot in childish joy. “This is good! This is so good! You said your place was on Montrose?”

Lily recited all the details for Fannie, adding little romantic twists about family tradition and her love of making people smile. But her eyes focused on Fannie’s chocolate=stained lips, as Fannie scarfed down the rest of the truffle. Happily, Fannie didn’t feel embarrassed under Lily’s examination, anymore.

Fannie was not enjoying herself. The weather for the farmer’s market was simultaneously too hot and too cold. Her frizzy hair was even more unmanageable than usual today. An itch ran from her scalp to her neck to her shoulders. Fannie’s tail bone felt like it would jump out of her pants at any moment. Even her fingernails ached. Fannie wondered if this was PMS, like her mother always warned her about.

Fannie checked her notes. She had been at the farmer’s market for an hour and hadn’t even talked to half the new stalls. This was ridiculous. Fannie figured she needed a pick-me-up and scanned the crowd for anyone selling coffee. Instead, her eyes settled on the stand for Lily’s Temptations. Lily seemed to pointedly not look at Fannie, instead humming to herself as she set out bags of candy. Fannie’s mouth watered. Well, she figured, chocolate was a stimulant.

“Hi, again. I wanted to get a bag of the fudge.”

“No.”

Fannie blinked. Lily hadn’t even looked at her face.

“Huh? But I-“

“You can have this.” Lily held up another truffle, like before. Fannie’s craving intensified. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was horny. She took the truffle from Lily with a shaking hand. Lily looked up and winked at her. Red-faced, Fannie popped the truffle in her mouth whole. She shuddered with delight, even as she tried to savor the mysterious note of citrus for as long as possible.

Fannie wanted to leave. She was miserable. Headaches drilled into her skull just below her hairline. Thick hair flared up over her collar. Her spanx pressed down painfully on the thick, bony nub just above her ass. The edges of her mouth and the inside of her cheeks itched awfully, and Fannie’s only relief was to gnaw on them. She should’ve been frightened, of course. But all Fannie could focus on was the idea that this whole awful day would somehow be worth it if that bitch Lily would sell her a proper bag of chocolate. Any other problem paled in comparison. Fannie just need to get of–… she just needed to get that candy.

After half an hour of mentally preparing, Fannie marched up to the Lily’s stall and thrust out a handful of cash. Her hands had started to warp. Thick, dark nails (nearly claw-like) protruded from her thumb, index finger, and ring finger, while her middle finger and pinky had started to shrink away. Fannie glared when Lily raised an eyebrow in mock curiosity.

“Give… me… a… bag…” Fannie spoke slowly. She was aware of how she whistled through her pointed teeth. She kept pausing to suck back her spit.

“Oh?” Lily produced another individual chocolate truffle and smiled knowingly. “Is this what you want?”

“No! Give… me… whole…”

Lily gently pushed Fannie’s hand closed over her money. As Lily leaned in, she seemed taller than Fannie’s first impression. She held the truffle up to Fannie’s mouth. “Open.”

Despite the confusion in her eyes, Fannie opened her mouth. Lily rolled the truffle over Fannie’s teeth with two fingers, letting them rest on Fannie’s teeth for a moment before dragging her fingers out over Fannie’s lips. Fannie stood there with the truffle in her open mouth, until Lily nodded in approval. Fannie chomped down on the candy with relish, squeezing her thighs together as the citrus notes emerged from the swirl of dark chocolate.

“Now, that’s all you get. You’ve had more than enough sweets, pet.”

“But-!” Chocolate-infused drool spilled down Fannie’s chin.

“No. Shoo.”

Fannie felt lead in her stomach as Lily waved her off. She couldn’t say no.

Fannie finally came back just as Lily packed up her stand. She stood over Lily and waited to be acknowledged. Lily looked up from Fannie’s shadow and grinned.

“Look at you. Aren’t you a mess?”

Fannie fidgeted. Even with how her clothes had begun to gradually loosen, it seemed impossible to be comfortable with a wiggling tail in the seat of her pants. Messy blonde hair covered her shoulders and the patches growing under her clothes made her look broad-shouldered and hunched over. Lily stood up to get a look at Fannie. Fannie had shrunk by half a head. She had to tilt her head back meet Lily’s eyes. Her own were a mix of sea blue and rusty orange that swirled around elongated pupils.

“You could’ve run away. You’re either very strong or very weak.” Lily caressed one of the two blisters that protruded from Fannie’s scalp right at the hair line. Fannie flinched, but didn’t make a sound. She pressed her unnatural long mouth shut; the splits running along her cheeks were raw and irritated. Fannie only offered Lily her expression of confusion and fear. Lily’s hand drifted back through Fannie’s mass of hair and began to scratch Fannie under her ear. Fannie whined with pleasure and melted against Lily’s shoulder. Lily slid her arm around Fannie and guided her towards the parking lot.

She led Fannie to a hatchback and opened the backseat for her. Fannie got in and found her seat next to a box of Lily’s remaining chocolates. She turned back to Lily and whimpered.

“No, no, that’s not for you. But I’ve got something better.” Lily cooed. She reached into her bag upfront and took out a pair of panties. A wonderful citrus scent filled Fannie’s nostrils. She eager took the panties in her sloth-like hands and pressed them to her face. Then, she ripped the panties in half with her mouth. The sound of tearing fabric mixed with Lily’s laugh.

Lily drove Fannie to a cute brownstone on Montrose, with a chocolate shop in the front, a lavish apartment above, and a garden with an apple tree in the back. It was there that Fannie learned that gluttony wasn’t Lily’s only sin.

Fannie felt comfortable again, in the embrace of Mommy/Mistress’ legs. She lapped at Lily’s exquisite cunt, each stroke making her tongue longer and more reptilian. Fannie’s canine mouth split wider and wider to accommodate the growing organ, giving her a permanent grin that reflect Fannie’s own primal contentment. Mommy/Mistress promised that soon Fannie would learn to talk properly with her beautiful new mouth, but for now, she was happy for her little monster to drink from the font of all demons. The little tastes of inhumanity had become a torrent of new anatomy. Fannie drank eagerly.

Lily ran her hands over the fresh velvet of Fannie’s antlers, and the little monster looked up adoringly at mommy/mistress with hircine eyes. The great mane of corn-colored hair that grew all the way down to the small of Fannie’s back looked gorgeous, now that it wasn’t confined to sweaty clothes, now that it had been brushed and washed with care. Fannie’s feline tall, so strong and graceful now, twitched with joy and caressed Lily’s feet. Powerful claws griped carefully to Lily’s back. Mommy/Mistress kissed two fingers and pressed them to her little monster’s adorable nose, before tilting Fannie’s face back down to her lap.

“This is only the beginning, tiny thing. I have such temptations to share.”

Karla and Lucia are the creations of Devi LaCroix, who kindly let me play with them. You can find Devi’s work here.

Karla smiled when sparks from the flint caught the tinder. She looked up from the fire with satisfaction. Lucia sat against the saddle bag, hugging her knees and pulling at a strip of jerky. Karla blew on the fire.

“There were go. We’ll be toasty in a minute.”

“We’d be toasty already at the inn.”

“Aw, but it’s such a clear sky tonight.” Karla crept around the fire and sat next to Lucia on the ground. Karla wore well-aged leathers, in contrasts to Lucia’s fashionable riding dress. Karla hugged Lucia around the shoulders. This elicited a half-hearted growl. Thrilled by the response, Karla reached around to the bags and took out a flask. She swallowed a mouthful and passed it to Lucia. “Thanks for indulging me. I love the stars.”

Lucia sniffed the flask and took a pull. “You’re lucky that you’re cute when you’re happy. I swear, ‘looking at the stars.’ Humans can be so provincial sometimes.”

“Provincial?” Karla chuckled. “Are we foolish mortals too easily impressed by stars, now?”

“No… well, I mean, yes.” Lucia rested her head on Karla’s shoulder. “I feel like, there’s so many more skies and so many more stars and things between the stars… I don’t know, I’m being a brat. You’re not wrong. Stars can be lovely.”

Karla slid her hand down to Lucia’s. “Are you missing… home?”

“I’m not planning on going back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You miss something.”

“It’s strange to think about the future, is all. Not with you, I mean.” Lucia gave Karla’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “But here, in the mortal world. Your world’s big, but everywhere you go has more in common than different. In every corner of Hell, you can find something so completely unique and itself.”

“I’m not sure Hell is where I’d look for surprises.”

“It’s different when you live there. You can stumble across lifetimes’ worth of strange sights, sounds, tastes, sex…”

“Oh, that’s also provincial now? I didn’t realize that I need more fangs downstairs.”

“I don’t mean it like that.” Lucia smacked Karla on the arm. “It’s not about comparison. Let me show you.”

Lucia lifted Karla’s arm to her lap. She rolled up the sleeve with one hand while deftly massage the palm with her other. Karla felt tendrils of numbness curl over her skin as Lucia’s illusions took hold.

“What are you doing?”

“Ssh. Close your eyes for me. I wonder if you know… Hm. Are you familiar with the mamunon?”

“Hoarding demons. Chaos spirits of greed. The mamunon roam the cosmos in search of lost treasures. They build their bodies out of precious materials.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Firstly, sometimes they just steal things to be little shits. But more importantly, they don’t build their own bodies. The Hoard Mother does that. The mamunon bring their favorite treasures to the Hoard Mother and she uses the raw materials to give birth.”

“This is what they do instead of sex?”

“No, this is what sex is to them.” Phantom sensations flowed through Karla’s nerves. She felt herself holding a heavy jewel. Silky tendrils caressed her skin. They were beckoning her. The tendrils guided her hand up to a beaked maw. Karla hesitated, prepared for the beak to snap down on her wrist. But gradually, Karla realized it was waiting for her to pushing it on her own.

 She met resistance. The passage was clogged with boney scales. She’d have to work the prize in there. As Karla wedged the gem in, the scales opened with resistance and closed again with elastic force. But slowly, the resistance faded, until Karla slid her entire arm in and pushed the treasure through. Karla withdrew. The tendrils caressed her arm. The beak gently teased her knuckles. It was an intimate gesture, Karla realized, of gratitude.

Karla blinked. She held her arm straight up in the arm. Lucia giggled and pulled Karla’s arm back down.

“Was that better or worse?”

“That was… different.”

“How about something really impressive.” Lucia weaved her magic again. “Like an archon.”

“The Unwounded?” Karla’s voice had a twinge of concern.

“I take it you’ve heard of them.”

“Only in the most guarded accounts of the First Apocalypse. They’re the unyielding doom. Those who will never know pain. The eaters of halos. Did you fuck one of the halo eaters?!”

“Of course not. I’m in one piece, aren’t I? But I got to watch.”

The illusion formed in Karla’s hand.

“Holy Ones, forgive my sins…”

It was massive. It weighed more than a longsword. A carapace of rough metal covered the shaft, tapering along the bottom into an edge like polished obsidian. There was no glans, only a knife tip so sharp that Karla shuddered as she imagined the illusion parting the flesh of her palm. And it throbbed. It felt hot as a stove and it throbbed with a seismic pulse, whose blood could split continental plates.

“Is it… is it anything like humans…?”

“No. It’s not really a cock, despite its positioning. It’s a horn. Archons aren’t born. They’re forged. But they find pleasure inflicting wounds on each other.”

“They fight each other with these?”

“It’s willing. It is the only time an archon will feel pain. They’re all curious. One on one. Many on one. Some refuse to do it more than once. Some become addicted to it.”

Karla barely breathed. “What is it like to watch?”

“Imagine the strongest person you know. Someone who never flinches or doubts themselves.” Lucia threaded her fingers through Karla’s. “Now imagine them shuddering. Imagine they’re trying and failing not to cry. Imagine that no matter how many times they agreed to it, they’re being violated. Indelibly.”

“Is that your favorite?”

“My favorite?” Lucia thought for a moment. “It’s up there. But my favorite is the kafkee.”

“The kafkee?” Karla blinked. “Aren’t those monks?”

“They’re historians. They live in cloisters on the frozen edge of space, where they record all the blasphemies in the universe.”

“And have amazing sex, I guess.”

Lucia laughed. “They’re too stuck up to put it that way. But once in a while, one of them sees too much and it swells up inside of them.”

Lucia’s magic came over Karla yet again. Karla’s hand was guided down a boney torso with skin like paper, to the junction between spindly legs. There, she found a smooth blister.

“The visions stick in them and take root in them. It’s like a splinter. They need to get it out. They need it to be squeezed from them. They beg to be milked.”

The blister swelled under Karla’s palm. It was hot, fat, and round. Karla realized it was a teat, trembling with built-up pressure. Karla ran her hand around the curve of it. The skin felt feverish. Karla squeezed the flesh and warm milk trickled over her fingers.

“I wish I could give you some, for real. It makes you have dreams with your whole body. It shows you things that no language will ever have words for. It’s so vast and numbing, yet so physical and personal.”

“Like this sudden sense of distance even though you can feel yourself standing still?”

“Yes.”

“Like seeing thousands of patterns even though it’s pure chaos?”

“Yes, it’s like that.”

“Sounds a lot like looking at the stars.”

The illusion winked out. Lucia huffed and blew out her cheeks. Karla snuggled up closer. “If you’re taking requests, there’s another type of demon sex I’d like to learn about.”

“Very well.” Lucia didn’t look at Karla. “If you’re such a diligent pupil.”

Flipping over onto her partner, Karla kissed Lucia’s frown and moved south from there.

“I’ll admit, Dr. Messuro, this isn’t where I expected to meet you.”

Jo Barbarosa, ace reporter, scanned the comedy club with an amused smirk. The poorly-lit club, with brick walls sunk below street level, was a hobby business of Antoine Messuro. When he wasn’t tinkering with sound systems in his sweats and old college shirt, Dr. Messuro ran one of the richest rehab clinics in the state.

“To be honest, I’ve been sunsetting for a while. The director’s office at the clinic mostly runs itself.” Messuro got off the stepladder with a grunt. He was a tall, authoritative man, with a square jaw and broad shoulders, with a little gut on his thick torso. He grinned like every boss Jo had ever caught staring at her ass. “I keep my hand in, of course, and still do rounds. But I think I’m close to retiring and running this place full-time.”

“Does that mean you’ve kept your distance from the Kowalski case?” Jo turned on her phone to record. “You don’t mind, do you? Dr. Messuro?”

Messuro smiled. His eyes didn’t. “I guess you did say ‘on the record.’ Look, I have met the young Ms. Kowalski. I admire her for taking her problems in her own hands. I did what I could, personally, to make her first week with us comfortable. But her case is being handled by a talented young fellow, a Dr.-“

“I spoke with Dr. Faugliacci, yes.” Jo cut Messuro off. “He had no statement. But I also looked into your clinic’s usual client list. You mainly treat the family and friends of lawyers, executives, bankers… It’s a bit pricey for someone of Sara Kowalski’s background.”

Messuro tried to laugh it off. “Well, as long her checks clear, it’s not my business how she makes her money.”

“Sara Kowalski is a material witness in a major environmental lawsuit. She’s also a single mother who lives in a trailer park. And now she’s isolated from her family, from the prosecutors, from the press… in a clinic that someone else must be paying for.”

Dr. Messuro stood in silence, staring at Jo like he expected her to apologize for what she just said. Jo fixed her icy stare against his. Finally, Messuro sighed, stuck his hands in his pocket, and walked off the stage, towards the bar.

“You know, it’s silly, but I had hoped you would’ve let me hype the club a little bit. My little bit of vanity.”

“Dr. Messuro, I’m sorry if you don’t appreciate the implications, but I’m not accusing you. I asking if something might be going on at your clinic-“

“Do you know why I really wanted to start a nightclub? Because I do a cheesy little hypnosis act. Make people act little chickens, think they’re models, that sort of thing. Behold, the mind-bending powers of Dr. Mesmer!”

Dr. Messuro posed dramatically, his back still to Jo.

“Dr. Messuro, if you don’t have something to give me, I’ll have to assume that whatever’s happening, you’re in on it, too.”

“Can’t you call me Dr. Mesmer?”

“Dr. Messuro, stop dodging the question!”

“’Dr. Mesmer, can’t I see your shiny pendant?’” Messuro picked something up from the bar and held it up to the light from the street-level window. Jo’s eyes followed it. It was a green glass bauble on the end of a gold chain. It caught the light and then a blinding rainbow flash filled Jo’s sight.

Blinking, Jo stumbled back, a wave of dizziness passing over her. A hand caught her shoulder.

“Woah, there.” It was Messuro. When did he get behind her? Jo’s head felt heavy and numb. She looked at her hands. Her phone was missing. Had she dropped it?

“It packs a punch, doesn’t it?”

“Wha-?”

“This.”

Messuro reached around and held up his pendant. It caught the light. Jo blinked. She was sitting in a chair. Everything felt unsteady, unbalanced, confusing… and Jo felt weak and drunk. What was she doing here? Jo couldn’t think. Trying to think felt heavy.

“Ssh, that’s good, you’re good, just relax… lie back and relax.” A strong hand rested on her shoulder. It traveled up her neck and gently cupped Jo’s chin. “You’re safe. You’re fine. Just relax.”

“I’m… safe?”

“You’re safe. You’re fine. Just listen to me and look at this.” The hand pivoted her head up to look at a glittering green pendant between her and light. Her brains sloshed around like water. A thumb gently slid along Jo’s lower lip. “Listen and look. Listen and look. Listen and look…”

Again, it caught the light.

---

“And let’s hear it for my lovely assistant, folks!”

The club cheered. Giggling, Jo held up her arms and bounced in place. Her boobs jiggled in the bright red leotard. She quickly grabbed the plush rabbit ears to keep them from falling off, setting off a fresh wave of laughter and jeers. Oh gawd, Jo felt so horny!

“Billy Bashly’s set is up next. Have a great night, folks. Remember to tip your bartenders.” Dr. Mesmer took Jo by the ass and guided her off-stage. Jo leaned happily against Doc’s tuxedo. She still wobbled on her spiked stilettos. Her breath deepened, with only the fishnets between her ass and his hand. Dr. Mesmer lead Jo through the crowd and the kitchen, past a grinning busboy, and finally to the back office.

“Having fun?” Dr. Mesmer asked.

“Lotsa fun.” Jo rubbed her face against his lapel and trailed a hand down his cumberbund. “Lotsa, lotsa fun.”

“That’s good. So good. Down you go now.” Dr. Mesmer untangled himself from Jo and helped her to her knees.

“I get to see yer cock now?” Jo stared stupidly up at Mesmer. “You said that if I was your ass’tent, I get ta’ see yer cock.”

Dr. Mesmer patted Jo on the head. “You get to see my cock, yes.”

“Yay.” Jo clapped happily.

The good doctor pulled up his cumberbund and undid his belt. “We’ll have to figure out what to do with you, afterwards. It’s not as simple as making you forget. We’ll have to unravel the last couple of weeks of your life very carefully. Perhaps, at least, it will give us the chance to become friends.”

Dr. Messuro looked down at Jo. She wasn’t listening. So he pulled pants down and let his cock fall free.

“What did we practice?”

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board.” Jo took up Messuro’s cock and began to massage it. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board… Light as a feather, stiff as a board…”

Natasha Romanov, the secretive Black Widow, peeked around the corner. Her expert eyes quickly assessed all the possible threats in the old mental asylum’s hallway, and found them lacking. That didn’t fill her with confidence. A trap she couldn’t see wasn’t necessarily a trap lacking. She jogged down the hall, senses deployed in every direction, gun at the ready.

The sounds of battle echoed from in outside. The Avengers tried valiantly to contain Gretta Rabin’s army of followers. But each of those foot soldiers were civilians, whose minds had been overcome by Rabin’s mutant abilities. They were innocent people who would fight to the last breath, unless Rabin herself was taken out. That’s where the Black Widow came in.

Natasha wished that she could wear one of the psionic scrambles that Tony designed, but unfortunately-

“-it throws off such unpleasant static.”

Natasha froze. That was Rabin’s voice, broadcasting at a distance, seemingly coming out of nowhere. Natasha reached to turn on the scrambler attached to the back of her neck. But her fingers refused to touch the controls.

“Please, Natasha, think of me as Gretta. I want us to be friends.”

Natasha grunted in frustration. “Lady, you got some sick ideas about friendship.”

Despite fighting the commands, Natasha reached up – arm jerking mechanically – and pulled the scrambler off her neck and tossed it to the ground. She grimaced at the effort. Her arm with the gun swung around and blasted the scrambler to bits. Her arm snapped out and threw the gun down the hall.

“Rabin, listen-“

“I told you to call me Gretta.”

“R-R-Raaaaahhh…” Natasha’s eyes fluttered. “Gretta, please, listen to me. You can’t win this. Your powers won’t save you. You can’t beat the Avengers. Give yourself up before anyone needs to die.”

“Ah, well, you probably are right. I can’t beat your little toys… right now. But lucky for me, I get to make my escape with a nice consolation prize.”

“Let me go!” Natasha tried to move. Her legs froze in place.

“Does the prospect horrify you? I’m hurt. Don’t you know that I can make this fun?”

A warm buzz traveled up through Natasha’s crotch to her belly. She gasped, knees shaking but feet still, as heat rocked her insides. She huffed and puffed. Everything inside her leather suit felt tight and tender.

“Then why not take it off? Enjoy yourself?”

Natasha groaned. Her hands, distant from her mind, undid the front of her jumpsuit. Her nipples responded eagerly to the cold air. She began to tease herself roughly. One hand clenched a nipple to the point of the pain, while the other tried to stimulate her groin through the leather. She began to slap at it when rubbing did nothing.

“Greta, oh god, please, no, stop this-!”

“Say that again.”

“Greta, oh god, please,” Natasha squeaked in a vapid, girlish voice. “No, stop this-!”

“That’s better. You sound so much cuter now. Don’t you want to be cute for me, Nattie?”

Nattie – Natasha? No – Natasha who was Nattie who was still pretending her name was Natasha, she felt so confused, so kept think in circles… It was so much easier to think wear adorable petticoats for Miss Gretta, glittery collars and sultry make-up and all those magic touches that little girls wore to make themselves into fuckable women… Nattie bit her lip until it drew blood. Maybe she could use this. She could use her horny, slutty body to keep the big, bad, sex supervillain distracted until the Avengers found them. Even a soft-brained lovepuppet like Nattie could let Mistress Gretta taste her naughty honeypot, kiss Mistress Gretta’s toes with her pillow lips, bury her pretty idiot face in Mistress Gretta’s perfect ass-

The elevator at the end of the hall opened. Gretta Rabin stepped out. Black Widow snapped to attention. Her mind went still and silent.

Rabin was a slip of a girl, barely into her twenties. The fashionable suit hung just a little loose on her waifish frame. She strolled over to wear Natasha had thrown the gun and picked it. Then, Rabin sauntered over to the blank-headed Widow. She examined Natasha’s exposed breasts with amusement. She kiss her finger and pressed it into the redden nipple Natasha had been manhandling, before zipping up the front of Natasha’s jumpsuit. She gave Natasha a smack on the rear with her gun.

“I trust you know a safe way out, Ms. Romanov.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right this way, ma’am.”

Spinning on her heels, Natasha led the young Ms. Rabin back the way she came. She in the back of Natasha’s head told her that Rabin was watching her ass and she put a little more roll into her hips. For some reason, her cunt screamed for attention.

The hood jerked off of Eliza’s head. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Eliza saw Hyena standing over her.

“Just so you know, you’re under arrest.”

“Oh no.” Hyena raised her hands dramatically. “You got me.”

“As indomitable as ever, Officer Mazda. I commend you.” Jackal stepped into the light next to his sister. The twin cyborgs had tied Eliza down to a chair, in addition to the zip ties around her wrists and ankles. Eliza struggled, tested the ropes.

“I don’t know what your two nutjobs are planning, but you want some advice? It’s already shaping up to be a bad idea?”

“Nutjobs? Us?” Jackal held his hand to his cheek in mock surprise. “Isn’t that a nasty thing to say, sister?”

Hyena cackled. “Especially coming from someone who hangs out with those… freaks.”

Eliza narrowed her eyes, but didn’t respond.

Hyena continued. “But don’t be too quick to judge our plans, officer. Once we bring you up to speed, I think you’ll really come around.”

“Yeah. In fact,” Jackal held up a glass tube for Eliza to see. It held an insect-like microchip. “I think that from now one, you’ll agree that all of our ideas are great ideas!”

“Wha-“ Eliza opened her mouth, when Hyena knocked the breath out of her with a punch to the stomach. Hyena grabbed Eliza’s hair and yanked to her head down. Jackal grabbed her neck with one hand and pressed what felt like a gun-barrel to the base of Eliza’s skull. There was a hiss of air and a burst of pressure, then an array of tiny needles bit into Eliza’s neck. She gasped in pain. But it didn’t stop. The pressure increased and the needle, torturously slow, slid deeper and deeper. They bit through skin and through into muscle. An incoherent whine escaped Eliza’s open mouth as rivets of blood trickled down the sides of her neck. Her body shook. Tendrils of fire crawled up through her brain.

There was an electric beep, and the tendrils pulled it tight.

Hyena yanked Eliza’s head back up to look at her face. Eliza’s pupils had shrunk down to unfocused pinpricks. “Now, that wasn’t such a fuss, was it?”

“…fuss…fuss…” Eliza muttered softly. “…wasn’t such a fuss…”

Hyena and Jackal looked at each other and cackled. Jackal cut away the ropes with a knife-like finger and pulled Eliza to her feet. “At attention, Officer Mazda!”

Eliza, despite the ties around her wrists and ankles, stood as straight as she could. “…sir.”

“Good, doggie.” Hyena picked at Eliza’s head with her fingers. She spoke to Jackal. “I’ll go get our pet’s new clothes. Get her out of these… rags, brother.”

“Gladly.” Jackal grinned from ear to ear. He grabbed Eliza by the neck and with the other hand, he sliced a width swath through her shirt. Then he did the same to her bra. Eliza stared through him, unresponsive. Jackal slid a finger under the waist of her jeans and brought her empty eyes around to met his.

“Say, ‘please sir’.”

“…please, sir.”

Jackal shredded the denim. Mazda’s panties were annihilated as an afterthought. When he was done, the blank-faced Officer Mazda stood there with the remains of her pants piled up around her ankles, scraps of her t-shirt framing her breasts, and her snatch on display. Jackal sighed contentedly and walked around her to slice the zipties on her wrists. He roughly pulled the shredded fabric off the unresisting woman, using some of it to wipe the blood from her neck.

“Okay, let’s get our girl pretty!” Hyena came back with a bag. She tossed a tube of lube and a buttplug-with-tail to Jackal, then produced a high-necked black latex leotard. With the help of a few commands, she pulled it over Eliza’s torso. It had obviously not been sized for Eliza. The crotch pulled up obscenely and the chest mashed even her modest breasts. Hyena added a dark red studded collar to the ensemble. Coming from behind, Jackal wrapped his arm around Eliza’s neck and slid the buttplug in through a slit in the seat of the leotard. Eliza produced only a soft exhale.

Giggling, Hyena brought out the coup de grace – a leather hood in the shape of a dog’s head. She rammed it down over Eliza’s face.

“There. Now you can be our good puppy and lead us to where your Gargoyle friends spend the day.”

“…woof…”

Harley Quinn hummed a merry melody. A retinue of armed guards escorted her, jacketed and strapped down to a wheelchair, through the halls of Arkham Asylum. Ever her jaw was restrained by a tight leather muzzle. It didn’t disturb her cheerful mood. She could still hum. She could still anticipate.

The guards wheeled Harley into a fluorescently lit observation room, with a one-way mirror dominating one wall and a second-hand captain’s desk placed off-center. They placed Harley in the center of the room and hooked the wheelchair to pinons sunk into the concrete. Harley grinned. A sternly dressed woman, in horn-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit, sat the desk. Without looking up from her paperwork, she addressed the guards.

“Unmuzzle her and leave us.”

“Ma’am-“

“Now. This is a red-cleared interview.”

Harley giggled through her teeth. One guard looked at the others, then freed Harley’s face. The petite blonde winked to the guards as they filed out of the room. Harley looked at her new head-shrinker. The woman still focused on her paperwork.

“Wow, they don’t usually give the new meat red-clearance. I’m impressed, Dollface.”

The woman smiled slightly. “I’m glad to hear it, Ms. Quinzel.”

“Hey, that’s Doctor Quinzel, ya’ doofus! Who do ya’ think ya’ are?”

“Dr. Miranda Crane.” The woman put her pen down and looked Harley in the eye. “I’m the new Thomas Wayne Fellow for Psychiatric Research here at Arkham.”

“Wait, the Thomas Wayne Fellow?” Harley cackled. “Ya’ dirty scab! That’s my job!”

“Yes. You made a fine of mess, Ms. Quinzel. I’m the first appointee since your infamous tenure.” Miranda stood up from the desk. She paced around to the front of it and sat against the edge.

“Again with the disrespect. What happened to broads supporting broads? Are ya’ trying to make me cry?”

“Cry? No. But I did especially want to meet you. The director hated the idea. He says you like the play games.”

“Aw, I’m just putting the new kids through their paces…”

“Psychiatrists do make the worst patients.” Miranda pulled what looked like an aluminum pen from her coat pocket. She examined it idly. “Do you know why I was so keen to meet you, Ms. Quinzel?”

Harley shrugged the best she could. “Some weird power trip?”

“Because I believe that those who abuse their brilliant minds don’t deserve to have them.” Miranda held out the pen and with a click, sprayed out pink gas that filled Harley’s vision. She instinctly held her breath, but as the gas enveloped her, her eyes watered, her nose ached and flexed, and her lungs burned from the shallow gulp Harley had managed with so little warning. Miranda hadn’t released just a short burst. The whole room filled up. Harley could only see pink fog. Soon, the involuntary sniffs began, the reflexive exchange of air through her open nose, the tiny little ins and outs as a tickle spread down Harley’s windpipe.

Tears rolled down Harley’s cheeks. She wondered why she was holding her breath and reminded herself, told herself it was that Crane bitch, but why ‘bitch?’ Such a nasty, angry word. Was she angry? Harley was sure she liked the lady who didn’t call her doctor… she liked the pink gas… she liked the sealed room, the straight jacket, the restraints, the men who put her hair… Harley Quinn liked everything…

Harley relaxed and shallow breath by shallow breath, the pink filled her and she had never felt better. She felt safe. She felt open. She felt grateful. Soft, delicate fingers cupped Harley’s chin and swiveled her head back and forth with ease. Harley giggled with childish glee.

“Now, Ms. Quinzel.” A pair of scarlet lips – the most kissable lips Harley had ever seen – emerged from the pink fog. “Listen.”

“B’wha?” Words were hard. Drool slid down Harley’s chin and stained the cuffs around a beautiful wrist.

“We’re going to talk about pretty dresses.”

Harley blinked. Dresses. Pretty dresses. Harley didn’t have a lot of thoughts about them, but those wonderful lips made pretty dresses sound like the most important thing in the world.

---

Harley folded the glossy paper over and over, dozens a times. Then she very carefully tore it along the crease. They didn’t trust her with scissors yet. It frustrated Harley, but it was all the more reason to be on her best behavior. In a month, maybe she could get scissors. And pushpins. And a corkboard. She believed it was possible. After all, Dr. Crane already gotten Harley a quiet new room with a window and (g-d bless Dr. Crane) the magazines.

Someone knocked on Harley’s door. Harley leapt from her bed and checked her appearance. She smoothed out her orange jumpsuit, wiped her nose on the back of her wrist, and carefully arranged her ponytail over her shoulder. “Come in, please!”

Miranda opened the door and smiled. Harley beamed with joy at the sight of her. She felt so grateful to Dr. Crane. And maybe she had a little crush.

“How are you doing today?”

“Just wonderful, Dr. Crane!”

“Good, good… We’ll have our session later this afternoon, but I wanted to stop by and give you this.”

Harley tingled all over. Dr. Crane offered her a pink little make-up bag. Harley eagerly took it and looked inside. Harley gasped in surprise.

“A mirror?” She opened the compact and immediately started primping.

“You’ve been making such good progress, I convinced the review board that grooming would be important.” Miranda Crane leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “I know that for a lady like you, Ms. Quinzel, being pretty is important.”

Harley, wide-eyed, felt her snatch moisten. She nodded dumbly in agreement.

Dr. Crane smiled, with hidden satisfaction that Harley was too guileless to catch, and left. Harley hugged the make-up case to her chest and jumped for joy. She inadvertently scattered the magazine pages arranged on the floor, where Harley could sit on the edge of her bed and admire all the pretty, pretty dresses.

Tina rushed through the aisle of the liquor store. She scanned over the prices as she went. Her oversized denim jacket whipped behind her like a cape. Tina was angry at herself. She was angry at the world. She had let that fuckface live at her place for a year, rent free – supported him when he swore over and over that he would go back to college – fed him, picked up after him – and he still had the balls to fool around behind her back.

She grabbed the cheapest bottle of rotgut her eyes fell on. ‘Axis Mundi’ blended whiskey – the label promised that each bottle had what you needed. Amen to that, Tina thought. She shelled out her ID and her scant dollars at the front and went back out to her car. Tina immediately took a chug.

“I’m going to party,” The thought came to here unbidden, “Tonight I’m going to absolutely party.”

Tina remembered a flier for a home show nearby. She wheeled over, stopping briefly to buy and pour out some gas station coffee. She filled her cup with whiskey before getting out of the door and walking into the house. The house was packed with all types from junior high kids to geezers. Tina fit in well with these hodgepodge crowds. Most people mistook her for a particularly scraggly teenaged boy. She was a short, scrawny beanpole with a chaotically buzzed hair.

She found a corner to lean against the wall and sip her booze as the first set ground away her eardrums. It felt so good to close her eyes and let the noise reverberate in her skull, she didn’t notice the growing tightness of her chest. It caught Tina off-guard, though, when a guy slid up next to her at the end of the set. A cute guy.

“Hey, I’m Roy. I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Well, I’m, uh, having a bit of night.”

“You here with anyone?”

“No-”

“Me and my friends where going over to the Summit after this, if you, you know, wanna ‘have a night’.”

Blushing, Tina took a long drink. “Sounds good, dude. Let me grab something from my car.”

Tina rushed back to her car to grab her backpack and the whiskey bottle. Her reflection in the rearview mirror stop her in her tracks. She had hair – jet black, conditioned, professionally cut – in an ear-length bob. She had a face full of make-up. She had (Tina would swear) a more delicate taper of her chin. And, Tina realized, her bra hurt. Unable to process, she took another gulp of whiskey.

“It’s fine,” she hazily told herself, “You’re having a good day. Focus on that.”

The bra had to go. Once Tina got that off, she marveled at how she sported two small handfuls. She wished she had brought a shirt that would show them off. Especially for Roy. She grabbed an exact-o knife from her backseat and cut a gash down the front of her shirt. It hung loosely, but now the hint of cleavage was there.

She left her own car behind and got in a car with Roy and his friends. They laughed all the way to a squat dive bar where more bands were setting up. They seemed like cool folks, but Tina enjoyed the personal attention from Roy especially. Even the ex never looked at her that way. Tina had suspected the most attractive thing about her was that she was willing. But now when she leaned over, feeling more and more weight rest on her folded arms, she could watch with delight as Roy’s gaze pulled down. Something in the back of her head kept trying to panic, but the constant swish of whiskey kept it muted.

“Hey, I didn’t notice you had highlights.”

Tina blinked, trying to understand what Roy meant. “Uh, hmm, gimme a… I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Her slacks creaked when she got up from the barstool. The bathroom mirror shocked her. Vibrant pink tips framed the face of a gorgeous stranger. Her boobs now completely filled her shirt, stretching out her makeshift cleavage. Her pants looked ready to burst.

“Right. Calm down. Don’t panic.” Despite her drink back at the bar, Tina took the bottle of Axis Mundi from her backpack and took a long pull to steady her nerves. The situation immediately looked better. “It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s actually kind of cool. Just… own it.”

The pants had to go. Tina wiggled out of them and considered what to do. Her jacket was long enough. Well, just long enough. Barely long enough, as long as she minced. She buttoned it down to the bottom and it looked like a very risque dressed. Her legs looked great. Tina considered it for a moment, then undid the top three buttons to let her newfound bust breath.

She abandoned her pants on the toilet and made her way back to the bar just as a pop punk number was starting. Roy stared at her in shock.

“Um… pants?!”

Tina straddled Roy’s knee with her bare thighs. “C’mon, let’s dance!”

They lasted all of two songs before the bartender began yelling about Tina’s exposed butt. Laughing, she raced out the door, trying to pull down the hem of her jacket with one hand and dragging Roy along with the other. They ran past the smokers and around to the corner of the bar, to the dumpsters.

“This is getting serious weird.” Roy smiled nervously. “What’s happening with you?”

Tina had taken out the whiskey for another swig. “Pffft. Nuthin’. It’s fiiiiiiine.”

She pressed Roy to the wall. Her chest squished nicely against his, as another button came undone. The cold breeze told her that covering her butt was a lost cause.

“Do you need to go home?” Roy asked.

Tina giggled. “My car iz bac’ at th’ show house-”

“Uh, you’re probably is no condition anyway, maybe I can drive you back-?”

Tina stretched up to whisper in Roy’s ear, pressing a well-sculpted leg against him. “Mebbe you can drive me bac’ to yur place.”

Roy swallowed and agreed to, on the condition that Tina drink some water and eat something when they got there. As Roy cooked a grilled cheese, Tina finished off the last of the Axis Mundi and dropped it on the floor. Strands of shiny candyfloss hair hung in front of her eyes. Pendulous tits stood out proudly. Her skin glowed with a tan finish. When Roy brought her the sandwich and some chips, his stunned expression made Tina ravenous.

“S’fine. Be coo’. We’ll worry ’bout it in the mornin’.”

The future Dr. Margerette P. Scabsly trudged unwillingly into her Monday TA section, exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds late. The overall image of her was a rabid blonde squirrel protectively clutching a venti triple-shot mocha to her stomach with claw-like hands. To some unimaginative fools, a waifish, over-worked grad student with long curly hair and big bifocles who always wore her favorite hoodie might sound endearing, but those idiots had never experienced the future Dr. Scabsly — overworked, sunken-eyed, and always on the verge of snarling. She planted herself at the front table and, without any niceties, laid out the homework assignment due Friday. The few times she looked up at the undergrad nobodies cluttering the room, she could’ve sworn she saw a tall man standing over one of her students. But when the future Dr. Scabsly blinked, he was gone.

            On Tuesday, Margerette fielded questions about the professor’s Monday lecture. The students always asked her to repeat a lot of the lecture word for word and it was hard without her grande mocha in hand. But it was a little easier today. Margerette didn’t feel so annoyed. Normally she spent these sessions always worrying about all of the work she had back at the lab. But for a little bit, Margerette managed to forget it all. She must have had a little smile on her face at the end. One of the students smiled at her on the way out. What was his name?

            Margerette brought a medium coffee with cream on Wednesday to help her field the first round of questions about the homework. She felt good that morning. She had actually run a brush through her hair and taken a sniff of her hoodie, opting instead for a nice collared flannel. The kids were always anxious about the homework. They were clearly intimidated by the material. Margerette worried she might’ve been part of that. She tried to be encouraging today. It felt a little awkward. At least that one guy near the front – Kevin? – appreciated it.

            Marge woke up early on Thursday. She gave her face a good scrub with that loofah she never used and shampooed her face. She actually had the free time to worry about how her ponytail looked. She got a small split from the coffee shop and showed up for the TA section early, enjoying it as a break from the lab. As the students filtered in, Marge tried to make small talk. She and Kevin had a nice chat. He seemed nice. It was a lot of fun explained the lecture to the students. Marge found being the center of attention while she enthused about her passion for chemistry was nice. She even cracked the odd joke.

            Marge relaxed on Friday morning with a cup of hot tea. She hadn’t gotten all of her projects done this week, but maybe she was pushing it to hard. Her adviser liked to say that tired people accomplished negative work. Maybe this was a good weekend to reset herself. Marge primped a little in the bathroom mirror before heading to campus. She showed up for her section in one of her nice blouses and a flattering pair of capris. As everyone handed in their assignments, Marge asked them about their plans for the weekend. They told her about concerts, shopping trips, drinks, and gym time. It sounded nice. Marge was jealous.

            Kevin didn’t have any plans except video games. Marge wondered if he didn’t have a girlfriend. That was a shame. The thought stuck with her through Friday night and into Saturday.

            On Monday, the future Dr. Maggie Scabsly skipped the lab and showed up at the Macy’s make-up counter the second the doors opened. Maggie showed for her TA section six minutes late with a big smile and a unicorn frappe. She explained with a giggle that she hadn’t gotten around to grading last week’s homework yet, but she super promised she’d get it done soon. Maggie failed to mention it was because she wasted too much time over the weekend shopping for designer frames, trying on cute new outfits, and rubbing her nips and clittie raw. Everyone was giving her the side eye anyway for her tiny pink skirt and the LOVE PINK shirt that framed her midriff and put her cute little tits on display. Hopefully they at least appreciated the highlights in her high ponytail. Hopefully Kevin appreciated it.

            The students resentfully shuffled out with half the period left. Kevin stayed behind in his seat, grinning like the cat at the canary. Maggie bounced on her kitten heels nervously. Kevin patted his lap for her to sit down.