A Day In The Life of Christina Hendricks

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

tags: bbw, big tits, MILF, mature, masturbation, m/F, f/F, blowjob, titfuck, anal, MILF, femdom, feet

Also known as "Christina Gives A Speech".

Not a sequel to "Christina Hendricks Needs An 18 Year Old Boy", but set in the same universe. It's less gratuitously mean, but darker in its implications. The Christina Hendricks of these stories is not a nice person.

All characters are over eighteen years old and all give consent to the story's sex acts. "Scared, confused, and uncomfortable" are not isomorphs of "raped".

A Day In The Life of Christina Hendricks



8:00am

Christina woke from a strange dream; one that soon vanished from her memory like water sucked through sand. A dream that left nothing behind save the nothing it left behind—an empty space, a dream-shaped grave, an astral-map charting a path not to light but to a starless gyre.

—A bloody-jawed lioness stands astride a shattered mountain, empress of a realm of glass and topaz. Her claws and fangs are bared, their shine twisting frozen fire into every mirrored surface. Her gore-dripping maw echoes blood across a vast and dark horizon.

A sea of the broken and the helpless gather, kneeling at the feet of their tyrant queen. Thousands of them. Millions. They bow, they submit, they become hers. Become her things. Become her toys. Become her objects. Become her nothing. They beg for their lives, but to the lioness they have no lives to spare even if she wished to do so. They do not even exist. Her bloodsoaked hell has swallowed the world to its very ends, a river of unslakable mad depravity bursting every bank and becoming a sea, becoming the sea, the slit jugular of a throat-cut world...but when the lioness looks up, she sees something in the air, something surprising—

—the dream broke, and Christina's eyelids quivered open.

Barely awake, she stared at the window on the far side of her bedroom. A knifeblade of sunlight cut between the curtains. It slashed sharply across both room and bed, carving out a radiant slice of her massive, obscenely-fleshed body.

What did the lioness see in the sky?

She sprawled in the glowing beam; decadent and beautiful, bathing in light as Cleopatra had with milk.

What surprised her? She watched a dust mote drift through the jasmine-scented air, weaving in and out of the light beam, catching fire like a meteorite.

It settled on the areola cap of her gigantic right breast. The tickle made her pink nipple harden, like a blind fleshy eye trying to see.

Stifling a groan, tracing a tongue over lips as cracked and dry as Salar de Uyuni saltpan, she fought for the dream's lost thread. It stayed lost.

The lioness looked up above her, and saw...what? It seemed important. But the memory wouldn't come. The dream had even more missing pieces than before. Soon it would all be gone.

So, fuck it.

Grunting, Christina kicked her feet against the bedsheets, freeing her ankles from a tangle of Egyptian cotton. She arched her back, breasts jolting and flopping against the sheets. She sat, and her mammoth jugs spilled down her chest in a sweaty landslide, the massive spheres plopping into her lap like weighty balloons of flesh.

Plop. Slap!

The macromastic actress scratched her pounding head, trying to remember last night. Like the dream, it wasn't there. It existed as an absence: a hole shaped like itself. Like probing a missing tooth with your tongue.

I'm alone now.

Last night, she hadn't been.

She couldn't remember her lover's name, couldn't remember when or how he'd left the mansion, couldn't even remember if he had been a he or if there had been only one*.*

Had last night's lover even existed, any more than the dream had?

Christina sometimes imagined—and when under the influence, believed—that she was the only actual person alive on Earth. That everyone else was a flickering shadow, existing for her entertainment.

Which was stupid. What fun would there be in such a world?

You can't fuck shadows.

* * *



8:30am

Rise and grind.

Christina draped a bathrobe over her shoulders, cinched it corset-tight around her hourglass figure, and headed for the shower.

Humming, she lightly skipped across the bathroom tiles. The Volakas marble sunk claws of coldness into her bare feet. To her left, a travertine bathtub hugged the wall. To her right, a glass-enclosed shower stood like a coffin.

Like the bedroom, the bathroom was empty. A vacuum. Her entire mansion was a series of vacant spaces waiting for her body to fill them, and if she wasn't there, they had no purpose. Sometimes the outside world just seemed like just one more room.

She folded out the shower doors, reached inside, and twisted both faucets wide-open. Rails of water curved down, crashing explosively, chanting thunderous tongues against the tiles and drain. Droplets sprayed up. Her legs glittered with beads of moisture like frost.

The air fogged with hot steam. Christina swung her long legs over the rim, stepping from cold marble to hot. As she stood under the pouring water, the near-scalding temperature made her clench her teeth.

So hot, it made her want to weep.

She washed herself in the shower. Soaping under her armpits, her heavy tits, her pudgy belly, in the concavities of her hips and back and shoulders. She raked stark lines of white suds across her thighs and ass, like a butcher marking cut-lines on a carcass. She pushed out her magnificent buttocks, prised them apart, and began cleaning the inside of her fat arse-crack. There was a hint of soreness around her anus. Was that what had happened last night? Another lost fact, fallen into nothing.

Drink less, she told herself. You're not twenty anymore.

Her spells of not-remembering were becoming increasingly frequent. This wasn't the first time she'd woken up, with the night before just not there.

Usually, that was fine. But sometimes—for legal or medical reasons—it was important to remember what you'd done, and with whom.

She shampooed and conditioned her hair—Water pulled and twisted her explosion-red mane across her shoulders, making it billow like a flame fed by wind. She glanced down, saw feet as pale and pretty as the Volakas marble, and toes that were expensively pedicured. A woman's feet. Only the slight varicose veins around the ankles revealed that the woman had been alive for half a century.

She saw her naked, dripping body reflected twice in the shower walls. Her image inspired enthrallment.

Obsession.

Through rushing walls of steam, two perfect Christina Hendrickses copied her every movement. Reflections; prisoners of glass and metal; no less real than her.

She loved washing herself. Particularly when she had...company.

She began to perform for—and with—her twins. Vamping. Swaying. Gyrating lewdly. She dragged a loofah across her shining skin, torturing the movement with slowness, like she was a burlesque dancer unzipping a strapless dress. She gripped handfuls of bulging ass cheeks, exploring labyrinthine depths of wobbling meat. She smiled coquettishly from her refined and kaolin-pale face, a face so different from the awesomely buxom body beneath it...and what she did, they both did. Her twins. Her slaves. Id and superego, razored from her brain and displayed on the glass for her.

She was clean but continued soaping her stacked body, enjoying the sight of her reflections wobbling and jiggling.

The Hendricks clones seemed to float like ghosts upon the shower enclosure. Smiling, veiled in steam, they resembled drowning victims, bobbing in water. A shudder rippled through her deep nether flesh. It was like she'd been murdered, and was seeing her own corpse. A worthy thing to look at, however dead.

She let the loofah drop.

Now she wasn't lathering her flesh.

She was groping it.

The sight and smell and touch of her raw meat excited her. Aroused her. She wanted to fuck her own corpse until it screamed.

Weighty, visceral animal-lust bloomed in her gut, flowing outward then downward. She shivered, feeling the urge take hold.

Excitement. Heat. Need. It thrummed under her skin, pulsed between her legs, roared through her mind like a zephyr wind circling a jagged face of rock. Sexual desire pulled tight her muscles and tendons. Wound her up like a spring. She had to release it or go crazy.

Or, you know, go crazier.

The actress was used to denying herself nothing. And she was rich enough—depraved enough—to be extremely crazy.

Her hand brushed a nipple. It was swollen and hot and tight.

The other hand found her turgid, aroused clit. She stroked the hard knob of flesh, feeling her heartbeat pounding like a drum.

She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and began thumbing her throbbing snatch. Each stroke triggered a sharp knife-thrust of pleasure, blooming like death through her guts. She masturbated greedily, stifling little gasps and whimpers as they crawled up her throat. A moist, rhythmic squelch began to insist itself under the roar of the shower.

Soon, she was burrowing her digit into her warm, slick cunt, feeling it drool and convulse, frigging herself until her head jerked back and each pump dragged a reflexive gasp from her lungs. She couldn't stop herself from making sounds She was too far gone. Falling off a waterfall of chemicals.

"Uh. Uh...Uhh..."

Faster and faster, she bucked her slurping hips against her hand, humping herself, defiling herself. Her huge ass and thighs and breasts jiggled like oversized hamhocks as she ground out pleasure between the mortar of her hand and the pestle of her clit.

Her free hand split apart her massive buttocks, and wormed a finger into her asshole. It slid as deep into her shitter as her enormous ass would allow, and began wriggling inside her rectum, applying pressure to the yielding tissue of her anterior fornix.

"Oooh...ooooh....OOOOHHH..."

Christina brayed as she fingerfucked herself from both directions under the shower.

Close to orgasm, she yanked a wet and sticky hand from her pussy, unhooked the shower head, and pressed the hot gushing metal to her throbbing labial meat. Surges rolled through her like ocean waves. Holding her teeth tight, she worked her hips against the shower head, pumping water against her engorged cunt, trying to fold her pussy lips around it, like a glove. Her legs came unhinged as pleasure sharply spiked and crested.

"CUMMING! CUMMING! CUUMMMMINGGG!"

A body-wracking climax slammed into her like a summer storm. No warning before it hit, no escape possible afterward.

"UGHH! UGHHHH! FUCKING SHIT! FUUUCK!"

Swearing like a sailor, Christina fell forward against the shower wall, grunting out like a pig as she ejaculated. She bucked and tossed her hips, crying out with her face distorted in a hissing snarl.

"CUHHHH-MINNNGGGGGuhhhh!!!"

She let the shower head fall, and blasted copiously, spewing clear torrents of cunt nectar through her urethral duct. Rapid-fire bursts of cum impacted against the shower glass.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Now I am the shower head... she giggled and howled and laughed, her vision corroding like metal in the ocean. The last thing she saw before darkness clamped its teeth down on her was...herself.

A reflection.

A two-dimensional Christina clone, mindlessly cumming her brains out in the glass.

"Ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh-UGHHH-THAT-FEELS-SO-FUCKING-GOOOOOOOO!"

Her twin's face was knotted and tortured in pleasure, fine-boned features writhing like snakes beneath an eddying swirl of violence-red fire, lips curled over flawless dentition, colossal breasts jolting and slapping noisily, convulsing hips pumping like a jackhammer at full blast. And within those hips, a squirting cunt, discharging messy sprays. Shooting her own cum back at herself like a firing squad.

Her orgasm went on and on, as endless as the tolling of the Tsar Bell.

Then Christina's juice-splattered legs unhinged. Slowly. Then quickly.

She slid face-first down the glass. Slowly. Then quickly.

Then she collapsed in a rising puddle of shower water and her own squirt. Not slowly. Just quickly.

Splash!

* * *

9:00am

Christina staggered from the shower, knees wobbling from the vicious climax she'd just fingerblasted out of her twat.

(She'd have to remember the trick with the shower head. A money move, that.)

Sitting before the wall-length mirror, she began french-plaiting her hair, weaving a rope from flame. Careful, careful—that red hair was the first thing women noticed about her body, and the third thing men noticed. Any mistake would have countless eyes and cameras on it. She gnawed her lower lip in concentration. Over, under, inside...over, under, inside...

Under the bitten lip was a hugely-figured and bodacious figure, curvy as a halfpipe. From her delicate feet, up to her big, gymnast calves and thick thighs, flowing into a heavy ass the size of a truck's engine block, and then to a pale doughy belly, Christina was built for enjoyment—both her own, and to a lesser extent, that of others.

A body made for pleasure. Not using it would be spitting in the Goddess's eye.

Christina hefted her enormous tits, rolling and squeezing the basketball-sized masses of dough. The heavy flesh-balloons trembled inside her hands, spilling through the gaps in her fingers.

She let her breasts drop. They fell like wrecking balls, jolting painfully a stop, SMACKING together with a loud, explosive SLAP!

Her colossal tit-sacks swung pendulously from her chest, dangling at the level of her belly. The huge hooters slopped and wobbled as she stuffed them into a 34M. Her latest size. She had tits so big that they bent and distorted the wires of every bra she squeezed them into.

Christina hauled the straps over her shoulders, painfully hoisting twenty pounds of white breastflesh into position. The straps pulled deep trenches in her shoulders as they settled under their huge loads.

She posed in front of the mirror, shaking her head. Her boobs poured out from the sides, bottoms, and tops of the overloaded bra cups. She felt constricted. Strangled. Did bras shrink in the wash? Surely her tits weren't still growing...

Next, she pulled a pair of Yvette sheer black panties up over her legs and crotch. They were a touch too small, cutting into her pouching belly and hips. Her waistline was a sensitive point for her. Nearly four uninterrupted decades of partying, drinking, and debauchery had pouched it out somewhat. Ten years ago, she'd covertly liposuctioned ten pounds of fat from her belly. She was already packing the weight back on.

She applied a full face of makeup, pursing her lips in front of the mirror. The red was a bit lighter than her hair—lipstick darkens through the day as it touches the acidity of the lips—then she stood, and rolled stockings up her thighs. Abundant feminine flesh bulged out of the tops. She waddled down the stairs from her changing room, her chunky thighs rolling off of one another, breasts and ass jiggling inside her lingerie.

The pool outside her mansion was calling for her.

Staring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she saw the cars parked in the entryway. Her staff had arrived.

She had six people on her full-time payroll. She'd handpicked them all for silence and compliance.

They had different jobs yet the same job. Care for me. Obey my instructions. Protect my privacy. Keep my secrets.

And if you see something you weren't supposed to see...forget.

* * *



9:30am

The pool was cold and crystalline. The early morning sun electrified its waves to a neon blue—every ripple seeming to crackle as scintillant light flowed across it.

Christina lay tanning at the pool's edge, burnishing a glow on her dhampir-pale skin. Sunglasses resting on her nose, she toyed with an Elaine Ferrante, dipping in and out of the text. Reading was difficult. Light from her pastel-painted nails kept reflecting in her eyes.

That's my hand on the cover of the American Beauty poster, she thought, staring at her fingers. Everyone's surprised when I tell them that.

Kevin Spacey had been incautious.

Like he'd almost wanted to be caught.

There are worse people than him in Hollywood, she thought, turning the page. We just hide it better than he did.

She smiled, and gave herself a mental rap on the wrist.

Who's this "we"? Silly, silly. You mean to say "they". Other people, who aren't you. THEY hide it better than Kevin Spacey did.

Soon, Christina became bored.

And bored Christina always werewolfed into horny Christina within three and a quarter seconds.

She lowered the book with a sigh. Her engorged clitoris throbbed hungrily between her legs, nagging its mistress for another play session.

She was about to fingerfuck herself into oblivion a second time when she heard footsteps on the tiles. Her muscles tensed.

...Who?

"It's me, Mrs Hendricks. Paulo."

She relaxed at the sound, at the name.

Paulo.

The new poolboy, among other duties.

He stood over her her sprawled-out body. He was tall and arrogant and young; plastered in shitty juvie detention hall ink, hair ponytailed around deep brown shoulders.

Christina smiled as his gaze slid up her body. Thick calves, meaty ass, soccer-ball sized tits spilling in double avalanches off her chest. What's not to like?

Paulo stepped across her, positioning his skinny frame to emphasise the ominous bulge in his board shorts.

"Hello, Paulo," Christina said, putting down the novel and lifting up her sunglasses. "What good timing..."

She yawned, stretching languidly. Jiggles dispersed up and down her body.

"...Oil my back."

She rolled onto her stomach, tossing her long french braid forward so her back was bare and unobstructed.

Whistling jauntily, Paulo squirted lotion into his right palm, then clapped his palm to the base of Christina's spine. He smeared the lotion out in widening circles, caressing his mistress's heavily-fleshed body. Her enormously bulbous buttcheeks trembled, heavy with sweat, as a finger slid down her moistened crack. Blubber wobbled and deformed under his touch.

Christina rested her chin on her crossed arms as she was oiled and groped. Her randy cunt throbbed impatiently against the bricks.

She couldn't wait, but social decorum demanded she not pounce on every teenaged boy in the postal district.

"Now do the front," Christina flipped herself around. Her monstrous boobs poured off her chest, into her armpits. The heavy masses of spongy fat dominated her upper torso.

Paulo began oiling her shoulders and collarbones, rubbing lotioninto the vast hemispheres of white titflesh cascading from her torso. Her slippery breasts kept escaping his hands.

As he oiled her, she lost patience.

Fuck decorum straight to hell.

Her hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist.

"Get out of those shorts. I want your fat cock."

Paulo leered. "Do you?"

Her engorged cunt drooled, a hot feverish swamp of lust.

"No," she said, quieter still. "I need it."

"Like yesterday?" Paulo asked.

"Like yesterday..." Her teeth were bared now. Her face was a snarl. Hungry and horny, her hot breath washed over him. "Exactly like yesterday."

Grinning in crude joy, Paulo stripped off his shorts. His fat teenaged cock swung eight inches in the air, dripping pre-cum. She closed her eyes, and counted to three. On two, his arms encircled her, and on three he mounted her, swinging his hips onto hers like a breeding bull.

He gripped her shoulders, and she braced, ready to be split in half. She liked this boy, but he was rough.

"What are you waiting for?" her voice was hoarse with lust. "Put it in."

Paulo sunk his huge cock straight into her gash.

"OoooooOOOOOooooohhhHhHH!" Christina yowled, mouth falling open.

The tip of his prick burst into her, glutting wetly on her flesh. He drove it through to the back of her hot, slurpy pussy, where it snugged fatly against her cervix.

SQUELCH!

"Ughh," Christina snorted, tossing her head. Paulo's big smelly cock was buried to the hilt in her guts, like an infectious disease. She felt her shuddering vaginal walls implode around him, clenching and gripping. Fluid wept from her Bartholin's Gland.

"Uhh...that's it...that's it...."

His dick filled her like a flagpole. Eyelids fluttering, lips twitching, Christina folded his broad back into her arms, and wrapped her legs around him. Her lunatic eyes gazed at the sky past his neck, as her savagely hungry cunt fed on his maleness.

The lioness saw something in the sky...but what was it?

She resolved to remember while she pole-vaulted Paulo's cock to the moon.

"What are you waiting for?" she yelled, wriggling her hips impatiently. He wasn't moving. "Start fucking."

"I don't think you're ready for me," Paulo's cock twitched once. She felt that twitch, two thirds of a foot inside her core.

Paulo's cocksure teenage confidence turned her into a rage-filled beast. On other days, she might have preferred a slow burn, with teasing and game-playing and windup.

On this one, she was too horny to wait for the main event.

"Don't wait! Fuck me!" she screamed, her legs thrashing. "FUCK ME OR YOU'RE FIRED! BLOW MY FUCKING WALLS OUT!"

He began rowing his big prick into her steaming, creaming cunt.

PLAP! PLOPP! SCHLAPP!

Balls deep in Christina, the eighteen year old pool boy dragged her ass forward across the tiles, buried his slobbering face in her breasts, and fucked her with mean, vicious thrusts.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" Christina gasped.

He pounded and ram-fucked his boss, going deep, going hard. In seconds, the dry sound of his crude rutting was extinguished by her copious fluid.

shlaaaaaaarrrrpppp!

Each stroke caused her body to arch before him, jiggling wildly as he was socketed in her cunt. He was fucking her with brutal sledgehammer force, pummeling her deep and hard, just as she required.

Christina groaned, knotting her fat white thighs around his scrawny waist, humping back, swallowing the boy's plunging cock. Her tits rocked back and forth as she hugged him, taking his dick into her devouring core.

She felt pre-orgasmic shudders start. Her climax was playing her muscles like a harpist, causing them to twitch and sieze. She tensed her bulky legs around his pumping ass, pinning him inside her.

"Harder!" The busty 50-year-old slut said. "Fuck me harder!"

He drove his cock at a sharp angle into Christina's gushing pussy. She shivered each time he slammed his prodigious prickshaft through her. "Ugh," she grunted, her face flushed, a surge building, building, building...

Sensation sharpened and then broke.

"UMMMMMHHH!!!"

SPLUUUURCH! Her pussy spasmed whorishly as she orgasmed. Christina arched her spine against his hairy chest, wailing and sobbing, grinding her hips against his, the sudden convulsive rush spun away all her senses above the waist. White pulses strobed over her vision with each clench of her gripping twat.

Seconds later, Paulo was busting too. She felt his dick jumping in her pussy, vomiting out thick white sperm in endless womb-clogging gushes and sprays.

Six ropes...eight ropes...ten ropes...

Bellowing into each others' faces, they ground their gushing, spraying genitals together, releasing such volumes of ejaculate that a bubbly white-and-clear fluid ran down a crack between the pools, and began steadily dribbling into the pool.

Drip...drip...drip...

Half a minute later, his fat, sated penis came unplugged from her snatch, dangling between his legs and trailing spunk onto the poolside tiles.

As he fell face-first into her cleavage, Christina kissed him just once on the cheek.

A chaste kiss. Mother to son.

Horny Christina would return in an hour, in a minute, or perhaps in seconds. But for the moment, her nymphomaniac cunt was satisfied.

"Did I make you happy?" he whispered into her soft pale armpit.

"You were fine." She favored him with a hungry, kittenish smile. "Nothing to write home about, though."

Drip...drip...drip...

She slid the sunglasses back up her nose, and reached for the Elaine Ferrante novel.

"You focus too much on your own pleasure when you fuck me. I will require considerably less selfish lovemaking tomorrow."

Drip...drip...drip...

* * *

10:15am

She returned to the mansion.

A call from her manager was waiting on the voicemail.

"Uhm, Mrs Hendricks...just a reminder that your keynote speech for the Golden Heart Awards is tonight. The director needs to approve your speech before you give it.

Oh, that.

Christina had been booked to give a keynote address to several hundred aspiring creatives at this year's Golden Heart Awards in Los Angeles. She hadn't written one word of the speech, and nor would she.

Writing was for little people.

Freshly fucked, with Paulo's sperm drooling from her ploughed-raw cunt, Christina speed-dialed her new personal assistant, Chaya.

Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring... Christina's lips slid back, exposing predatory teeth. Did I not explain to her that all calls from me must be picked up on the second ring? This is grounds for punishment.

The thought of punishing the new girl delighted Christina. Her smile grew wider and wider as the phone continued to ring.

Christina was very good at taking people outside their comfort zone when they displeased her. That was how she thought of it. Helping weaker, lesser lifeforms grow in her shadow. Helping them become more than they were. Helping them escape their limits. They cried, they screamed, they threatened to call the police sometimes, but they emerged from it...well, better than before.

They never called the cops on her. Sometimes, they even thanked her in the aftermath.

Finally, Chaya picked up the phone.

"Christina! I'm so sorry! I was in the shower! Please don't be angry with me! Please...!"

Christina's lips curled. Always the begging. The groveling.

"Have you written my speech for tonight, or haven't you?"

The poor girl's voice broke, shattering around her terror of Christina like it was an iceberg. "Al-almost! I just have a little more to go!"

"Still not done?" Christina tilted her head. "Mmmm-hmmm. I see how it is. I will be around at...four this afternoon to review the speech you have written for me. I hope that it meets my high expectations. So should you. This is a black tie event. Pick up my outfit from Neiman Marcus. They know my sizes."

"Don't worry, Christina! You can count on me—"

Christina hung up on her mid-sentence, laughing nastily.

"Nervous girl," she said to the empty apartment. "What are you afraid of?"

Chaya Belkowicz was her new PA. A battlefield promotion after her last one, Zoe Danielopoulis, had been fired for stealing jewelery. A shame. She hadn't half minded Zoe.

Chaya was such a scared piddling little puppy of a woman that she almost wasn't fun to terrorize.

It was more entertaining when they got mad. When they fought back.

* * *

She bathed a second time, and then relaxed in her enormous oak-paneled drawing room.

Boredom. The rich person's disease. Hour upon hour, clogging your mind like poisoned golden honey. Tick, tock, tick, tock. There were days when she almost wanted to neck herself, just for something to do.

She decided to invite someone to the house. Who, though?

She opened a drawer, and slipped out her private notebook. It was full of names.

She dragged her gaze down the pages. The names summoning a wash of barely remembered faces, dates, and events.

A new name snagged her attention. Michael McCartney. She'd met the kid at a houseparty—he was the son of one of her neighbors, or something. He was a polite, dutiful boy of Irish extraction, eighteen years old, with an effete but compelling manner. His eyes looked like secret-keeping eyes. That was good. They had to know how to keep secrets. That was part of what separates celebrities like Spacey from celebrities you wouldn't think were like Spacey.

Those who went undetected in their wholehearted pursuit of pleasure.

She dialled. The call was picked up.

"Hello, this is Michael."

"It's me." Christina didn't give her name. They had shared just one interaction, but she had no doubt that he replayed her voice in her head every night with his hand on his prick.

"Oh, Christina. Wow. Didn't expect you to call. What's happening?"

"Lots of things, thank you, but I'm not here to talk about my day!" Christina giggled, the sound saccharine-sweet and plastic-bright. "Come over to my mansion. Right now. I'll tell security to allow you through the gate."

He hesitated. "Christina, thanks for the offer, but I've got finals to study for."

She scowled. Why was everyone so slow to learn basic facts about reality?

That they did not exist? That they did not matter? That she was the only real person alive in this theater of the absurd? That they were all part of her imagination? That she could fuck them if she wanted to fuck them? Kill them if she wanted to kill them?

"No, no, noooo," she said, in tones of patient correction. "You do not have ever, ever, ever have plans, Michael. Not when I call. Come over at eleven o'clock."

"But..."

"If you aren't at my front door when the clock strikes, we will never speak again."

Click. She hung up.

* * *

Five minutes before 11:00am, Christina swept a bathrobe around her figure, and stood behind the front door to her mansion.

As she waited, she visualized dick. Trying to manifest a big one for herself. Sometimes it seemed to work.

Teenaged boys should be forced to go naked. Her horny fifty-year-old pussy seemed to growl hungrily under the bathrobe. So one can see what they're working with.

She let her bathrobe fall to the floor, exposing her naked body. Her skin blazed before the Kymi wall lights. Ethereal violet flame seemed to wash across the chilled ice of her skin.

She counted down in her head. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

At twenty-two, knuckles rapped against the wood. Rat-a-tat-tat.

She let the remaining twenty-and-change elapse before she opened it.

* * *



11:00am

Michael gasped as the door swung open.

Christina Hendricks stood in front of him.

And she was completely naked, except for a black choker necklace and a maternal smile.

The commanding older woman was as tall as he, with wide hips, a huge ass, and heavy breasts that dangled nearly twenty inches from her chest, forming a huge horseshoe-shaped crevice that seemed big enough to engulf his entire head.

Michael gulped. Fresh sweat glistened over his cute, boyish face.

Christina didn't waste time.

Dropping with the agility of a trained Olympic floor gymnast, she fell into a split-squat before the stunned young man. She butterflied out her legs, and sat her oversized buttocks down upon her sturdy calves and ankles.

Crouched in a squat, she hauled his pants down to his ankles. Michael's dick popped out, swinging through the air like a crane.

Big!

She wanted to cheer.

The mature woman lunged for his teenage penis, swallowing his soft cock and balls with desperate, piggish hunger.

shlurp shplit shlacckkkkk!

"Uh, hello to you too!" Michael said, laughing nervously as he was blown.

Christina's flame-red head burrowed between his hairy thighs, her lips seeking cock, swallowing cock, her tongue wrapped around it like a parasitic worm, corkscrewing it deeper and deeper into her mouth.

Her tongue detected blood flooding into the corpus cavernosum, inflating his flaccid prick like a balloon.

"Th-thanks for inviting me over!" Michael said to the pretty ponytailed head blowing his hardening cock. "I'm kind of busy, but I guess I can take a quick break."

Throaty gurgling sounds bubbled into the air as she suckjobbed him. She rocked back and forth, her giant tits wobbling under her extended arms as they gripped his butt, brushing the sides of his splayed thighs.

"So...er...maybe we should do this inside?" he suggested, ankles sweating beneath her fellatio. "I'm kind of exposed out here, you know?"

His cock jabbed her esophagus as she wrenched him deeper. Shut up, brat.

Christina slurped loudly, hollowing out her cheeks, her mouth and lips and tongue speaking a grotesque demon's syllibary of plosives and pops. He felt her hands yank his shuddering buttcheeks closer to her face, reeling him in, a hooked fish disappearing down her throat.

Moaning, Michael felt his substantial cock bend and slide down her neck like a banana.

shlurp shplit shlacckkkkk!

A car drove past the driveway at his back. He tensed, whimpering.

"We can't do this!" he said. His face was white, except for sharp red spots of terrified desire on his cheekbones. "Anyone in the street can see my bare ass!"

Christina slowly pulled her mouth off his glistening cock, drawing back her head like his penis was a swordblade and she was the sheath. It popped out, shining in the sun, a strand of her saliva dangled from the tip.

"That," Christina suggested. "Would be unfortunate."

She plunged her head forward again, a hungry flame. Michael gasped. His world was melting, exploding, perspective vortexing forward into the unholy vacuum of Christina Hendricks' mind-swallowing throat.

She sucked like a porn star whose tonsils are a quantum singularity, plying her tongue up and down the shaft, twirling her tip around his tip, wrapping her lips around it and inching it down her throat - gluck gluck gluck - until it was engulfed once more in a trench of black swirling velvet. The cock twitched, released pre-cum. She thumbed his ass, feeling his prostate bulge and flex.

Michael's skinny thighs shuddered with pleasure. A bead of sweat rolled past her head. She gwakked and schlupped on his cock until he was almost screaming. And then...

With a throaty gurgle, Christina backed his dick out of her mouth, spun her tongue on the tip, then took him straight to the balls once again.

Her flashing nails pincered his thighs, flaying open bloody red scratches.

Crucified upon pleasure and pain, his balls rose, and a grunt became a scream.

"AHHH! CHRISTINA!" he yelled, his entire reproductive tract spasming. CHRISTINAAAAAAAAAA!"

His dick swelled and then erupted like a firehose.

High pressure jets exploded against the sides of her mouth. They bounced and skimmed and ricocheted off her teeth and tongue, solid ropes of liquid behaving like solid bullets, such was the volume and velocity of his cumshots.

Blurt! Blaaappp! Splooort!

Michael wailed, driving his hips forward, splooge chugging and flowing from his balls, piping into Christina's guts in gushing, throat-clogging torrents.

When he finished spurting, Christina pulled her lips off his prick. She gave a rude and unladylike burp into his face.

UrrrrpPP!

He smelled his sperm on her breath.

Michael came back to earth. "Thanks for the blowjob Mrs Hendricks—I appreciate it—but I really need to be getting home. Homework, you see."

But Christina stood, her eyes full of steel, and gripped his cock in his hand.

"Come inside..." she hissed.

He gasped as she yanked him indoors, using his penis as a handle.

"Christina...where are we going? What's going on? Ahhh! Ouch! Stop!"

He was dragged dick-first from room to room: first they were in an antique-lined hallway, then some kind of fancy tapestried antechamber, and then a bedroom the size of most people's whole house.

The bed was massive, sheeted in Egyptian cotton and shadowed by a canopy.

Christina let go of his cock and climbed onto the bed, slinking onto her hands and knees, and prowling its length. She stuck her cunt and ass into his face as he stood by the side.

"Do you have homework?," Christina said, wiggling her dump truck in front of his nose.

"Yes," Michael said.

"Are you sure?"

He stared in dazed awe at the gigantic moon-sized spheres jiggling in front of him. God, she was big! She was just too much woman to handle!

His limp penis twitched.

...and suddenly it wasn't quite as limp as before.

"No..." he whispered, eyes falling wide open. "I don't have homework."

"Of course not."

Michael began to climb into bed with her, but he was going far too slow for Christina's needs. She pinned him to the wall, ripped his shirt open, and then threw him down.

She immediately took control. She pounced on him, a predatory tigress, sucking him back to full erection. As soon as he could perform, he was yanked upright onto his knees, and she split her legs in front of him, presenting her huge ass. She flexed her glutes, making her ass cheeks bounce and dance.

"Put it in me!" her lewd gasped moans slid like worms into his ear, hot and wet.

Shivering and sweaty, Michael faced her wriggling ass, and aimed his cock at her gash.

"Hurry!" she sounded genuinely insane with lust. "God, I'm soooo horny!"

His penis missed the first three thrusts, skimming the outer edge of her fat labial lips. The fourth plunged his shaft into the fat, moist fissure of her cunt.

Gripping her overfleshed hips like a pair of handles, he shunted his hips forward, submerging his dick into a sheath of hot, shuddering muscle and skin. A loud savage grunt spiked the air as she writhed around his cock. It impaled her. Filled her. Made her more than she already was.

Their hips collided, slapping together moistly. Her fluid squirted and poured out around his crotch. As his hips socketed his cock inside her vagina, she rocked in reciprocating actin, a suspension bridge whipped to and fro by a wind, yet always returning back to the center. Her mighty breasts swung like church bells under her body.

Michael fucked Christina Hendricks doggy-style for a long time on the bed. It was sticky and sloppy and messy and depraved. A barely legal boy and a woman nearly old enough to be his grandmother, knotting their sweat-shining bodies together like worms rising through loamy soil after the rain. Two creatures regressing to such a primordial state that they'd even left even their vertebrae behind.

Mate fuck breed. Mate fuck breed.

The first and last thought ever thought. The first and last dream ever dreamed. The first and last sin ever sinned.

MATE! FUCK! BREED!

"I'm gonna cuuuhhhh..!"

Christina's head reared up, her mouth opening in a howl. Her snatch collapsed around him in a spray of pussy nectar. Her asshole winked and knotted as spasms contorted her reproductive tract.

SPLURT!

He humped his cock through her gooey, orgasming depths, squirt spraying around him, digging a tunnel right through her. Her pulsing, spraying cunt surged and squirmed around him, the moist ridges of her vaginal rugae fluttering. Her hair flew in a ripe red harvest of Galician wheat. Her mouth contorted in shouts, curses, cries, bellows. One hand vanished between her legs, attacking her clit as he gaped her gushing pussy from behind.

PLAP! SLOP! SCHLIRP!

"Huh...huh...huhhh!" Christina moaned into her own massive breasts, the fat fleshy pillows swinging forward, and slapping her in the face each time he fucked. She frigged herself, hand dancing over her clit as he thumped her ass.

Her pussy convulsed greedily on his throbbing erection, finally calming down.

When he slacked off his thrusts, panting and trying to catch his breath, she shrieked at him.

"Don't stop! Keep going!"

Her legs split wider still, guiding him further in, sucking him closer into her molten core, her cunt grinding around his balls and hips as he resumed his humping. She lifted up one knee from the bed, and looped her leg around the back of his ass. Her foot was like an electric cattle prod, goading him on. Forward. Faster. Harder. No rest for the wicked. Their groins slobbered and gushed. Two mouths, voicing pleasure. A troupe of wildly copulating monkeys wouldn't have been so loud, so depraved, so obscene.

"I'm gonna cum again," she gurgled as her face flushed.

Only five minutes had passed.

Michael spiked forward, and remained motionless against her cervix. She felt his erection throbbing inside her, and this set her off.

Christina let out a loud, rude bray as she orgasmed.

Her back arched, then a shiver surged down her spine. Cum sprayed out out her cunt, as his cock filled it. A drop got in his eye, triggering a flinch. Her girlcream flooded stickily down their thighs, soiling the already destroyed sheets.

Once she'd finished squirting, Michael resumed his thrusts. Her heavy hanging breasts swung and clapped under her.

The languid air seemed to bubble with their grunts, their panting, their moans. Her shoulders quaked. Her huge ass jiggled on each spike and slam of his hips. Her tits wildly swung back and forth under her torso, sometimes moving in sync, other times in opposite directions, oscillating until they were pink motion blurs.

"Fuck… Michael! Ohmygod, ohfuckingmygod…your dick! YOUR FUCKING DICK! UUUUUHHHHH!"

Their hips locked, their genitals thrashed. They entered a wild rut, propelled by slippery sex juices.

In a crescendo of slathering grinding flesh, Christina busted a third nut, her body going rigid as she sprayed back at Michael's face. Her ejaculating pussy gripped his cock rhythmically like a pumping glove, jerking him off. "UHHH! UHHHHHHH!" Her climax went on and on, her voice rising and falling as her lips—as both sets of lips—opened and closed in release.

Michael's humping accelerated. His mouth hung open, and his tongue flopped wetly past his gums, bedded in frothing saliva. He felt like he was falling, falling forward, disappearing into the Acheronian void of this dominant mature woman's abyss. A high speed max-G force plunge with no rope or safety net or ripcord.

His balls prickled into gooseflesh. His Raphe suture drew tight against his asshole, as his balls prepared to spurt their payload.

As an orgasm grew in him with the agonizing slowness of a sneeze, an old joke swam up through the catalyzing scream of chemicals.

It's not the fall that kills you. It's the stop at the end.

He stopped, and had the most powerful ejaculation of his life.

A maelstrom of cum swirled up like lightning, rocketing out of his cock, and flooded her pussy. A loop of sperm pulsed out, followed by a second, followed by a third.  It splattered like molten metal from an induction furnace against her walls.

He slumped against her huge ass, crying out and jerking as he shot off again and again and again and again.

As her quivering walls finally pushed out his flaccid penis, he pulled out. Their sweaty bodies separated like taffy. He fell backward. She fell forward.

As he collapsed, stars swarmed before his eyes. Overstrained muscles announced themselves in voices of ice and fire up and down his legs and back. He hadn't even noticed the strain when he was fucking her.

They were a mess. Drenched in perspiration and other fluids, Christina lay face down, a river of cum burbling out of her freshly-fucked slutbox.

Michael panted. He felt like she'd taken him, not just to the edge of his own grave, but to the very bottom of it.

Fuck, man...in a way, I'm glad it's over...

...because it is over, isn't it?

Christina had just bounced back, and swung her body around to face him as he lay on the bed.

"Did that feel good, Michael?'

He nodded, staring her the chasm of her sweaty cleavage as her boobs cascaded down in a fleshy waterfall.

"Ready to go again?"

She crawled forward. Her nipples left twin trails of sweat on the silk, then onto his body. They were extremely big and heavy.

"I want more like that," Christina said, sliding further up his torso until he was face to face with her. Her erect nipples felt like diamonds against his sensitive skin.

He'd never been so exhausted. His muscles burned. His cock was a buzzing tangle of nerves.

"I can't fuck you again, Christina."

"You can! I believe in you, Michael."

As she clambered greedily over onto him, he felt her breath spilling over his skin like uncoiling death-adders. Her eyes were wild. Insatiable.

He had a terrifying thought: he might actually die here, on this bed.

Michael looked for a way to escape his predicament, but couldn't see one. Her huge spongy breasts were flooding out over his chest. His arms were pinned down by hers.

"Screw me," Christina whined, her body soaked in sweat. "I want it."

But he simply couldn't get hard.

But then she turned around again. The double-moons of her huge ass filled his vision.

And she slammed her ass down on his head.

The busty actress rocked her hips back. Two enormous mountains of buttcheek—they felt as big as beach balls—pillowed out over his face.

He was in the dark. No vision.

He gagged as he tasted her cunt and asshole, and his own sperm. He could hardly breathe. A thin line of air whistled down from the top of her ass cleavage, but it kept vanishing as her gelatinous buttcheeks wobbled, denying him oxygen.

Imprisoned in the darkness of her body, Michael felt her lift up her huge breasts, and slap them around his cock.

Slap! Slap!

Buried under her butt, his nose made contact with her asshole, and his lips found her sucking pussy. Desperate to make her happy, he began to lick her twat and clit, while she jerked his prick back to hardness with her enormous tits.

They were locked in a sixty-nine, slobbering and pleasuring each other.

Maybe a seventy, he thought, feeling her cuntal flesh throbbing in the prelude to a climax. Her body counts as a bit extra.

"That's it...that's IT!" she roared, orgasming. Her unseen face no doubt a picture of fierce, divine ecstasy behind her slashing braid of red hair.

Her flexing thighs and gigantic jiggling dumper wobbled around his head as she humped him through her climax. He felt waves of dizziness spin out over him as he ate her asshole and cunt. He wasn't getting enough air. He was slowly suffocating.

Shit, she's gonna David Carradine my ass, isn't she?

They settled into a groove. Her tits pummeled his throbbing cock with lewd slaps, as she ground her ass back into the bridge of his nose. She grunted and moaned. Animal surges pulsed out through her flesh. The only other sounds that could be heard were the clapping of skin on skin and the bed creaking as its springs were tested.

He couldn't see. He didn't even know where his tongue was going anymore. Her flesh filled him like a wall, covering his face.

Air remained his biggest concern.

His second was his cock, which was pumping back and forth industriously between her breasts.

So long, little guy, he thought as his prick powered through her squelching, slippery jugs. I got us into this mess, but somehow you'll have to get us out.

Good luck.

Christina climaxed again. Her eyes rolled back, her legs kicked, her toes curled. He grabbed her hips tightly, bucked his own, and felt her squirt.

SKLLLRRRT! SKLLLRRRT!

"Mmmmaauugh! Hahhhh! UGHHHHH!" she squealed as her twat contracted around his face.

After thirty seconds, the contractions stopped...but she did not take her ass off his head.

"More!" she yelled, grinding her hips back. "MORE!"

The sixty-nining continued in this fashion for some time. Her monstrous breasts ballooned over his crotch, as her sweat-soaked body contracted in orgasm after orgasm. Her legs kicked and flailed.

Then, with her ass tightened in death-coils around his head, Michael felt his cock leap and jump.

It gave a series of rubbery spasms, ejaculating several strands over the huge waterbarrel-sized surfaces of her breasts.

Christina came down from her latest in a chorus line of long, loud orgasms. She pulled her slurping cunt off his face, and the wall of imprisoning darkness lifted from his head.

Suddenly, he could breathe.

He sucked in cool delicious air, delighted to be alive, and faintly proud.

I did it. I got hard, and fucked her again.

But of course.

The goddess had said he'd be able to do it, so naturally he had.

Michael panted happily as he returned, slowly returning to consciousness. Stars were born and died in front of his vision. He distantly saw her stand up from the bed, and begin walking for the door.

"So now you know, Michael," she murmured. "Show yourself out."

Now I know what? He didn't understand.

"Will we do this again soon?" he asked her back.

She turned her head. A huge dirigible-sized breast swung around in profile, dangling nearly to her waist. A big gelatinous strand of sperm was rolling down it.

"I don't know, Michael. I have a lot of boyfriends I like to fuck. You were good, but not great. I might call again or I might not. Hope for the best, eh?"

And Christina strutted out of the room, heading for the shower with his cum pouring down her breasts.

The whole room smelled like the inside of a dripping cunt. He was a wreck, physically and emotionally. He had nearly suffocated inside her huge asscrack. His cock would be lucky if he could do more than run piss through it, ever again. And she'd given him the brush-off. He might not see her even again.

But this was the proudest moment of his life by far.

I survived Christina Hendricks!

* * *



3:30pm

The clack of Christina's expensive Tory Burch slingbacks rang upon the steps of her assistant's apartment half an hour before the appointed time.

You had to keep the help on their toes.

Christina rang the doorbell. Newly showered and pampered, girlishly giddy and airheaded after her multi-hour fuckfest with Michael, she watched through the window as Chaya flew around her perfectly clean apartment in a panic, rearranging furniture.

Relax, babydoll. Relax. You're doing just fine.

The door swung open.

"Christina!" Chaya gasped out. "You're early...come in...!"

Christina was very pleased with Zoe Danieloupolis's replacement.

Chaya Belkowicz was an Jewish Orthodox deconvert with a long nose, a long face, and terminally anxious eyes. Raised in an ultra-conservative yeshiva in Brooklyn, she'd turned twenty without even knowing how to take birth control or apply makeup. She still discharged every duty with a fussy anxiety, as if a halakhal mitzvah lay on her head.

Physically, she was skinny but extremely big-breasted. A pair of tits on a stick. Chaya's jugs looked absurdly huge on her frame, nearly approaching her boss's in size.

She would probably be bigger than me if she fattened up to my level, Christina thought, not sure if this was envy she was feeling.

"How have you enjoyed your first week as my assistant?" Christina said, once Chaya had let her inside.

"Oh, I'm enjoying it so much! It's lovely!" Chaya nervously clapped her hands together, like some sort of performing seal. "I couldn't be happier! Thank you for this job! Thank you, thank you, thank—!"

"Thank me with a kiss," Christina said, approaching with a congenial smile.

Chaya clapped a hand over her mouth, blushing with shock. "Mrs Hendricks...? A kiss?"

"I will be insulted if I don't get a kiss," Christina smirked, batting her lashes.

Chaya lowered her hand from her lips, and stepped forward.

As their faces came together, Chaya attempted to place the kiss on her boss's cheek.

Christina's hand snapped out, caught the side of Chaya's head and redirected the kiss onto her lips.

As they mouth-kissed—Christina's tongue cleaving into Chaya's her mouth—the heavy-titted Jewish girl squirmed with a succession of hurt, unchecked emotions—first shock, then rage, then something else.

Christina withdrew her tongue from Chaya's cheek, ended the kiss, and patted her assistant on the shoulder, favoring her with an our-little-secret smile.

Then she allowed Chaya to breathe unmolested for a few seconds, to process that something else.

"Chaya," she said, adopting the instructive deportment of an elder sister, "in showbusiness, it's important that we strike the right note of friendship. The personal intrudes upon the professional. Let's review the speech you wrote for me tonight, shall we?"

They adjourned to Chaya's study, where Christina flopped into the larger of two chairs without waiting to be asked. She politely waved away an invitation for tea or coffee.

"These shoes hurt my feet," Christina sighed, leaning down and rubbing her arch fretfully. "Would it trouble you if I took them off?"

"No..." Chaya squeaked. "I...guess that's fine."

With cruel Morrigan's smile on her face—do you know what you've gotten yourself into here?—Christina tugged the sling down on the Tory Burches, then slid them off.

"Ah!" Christina drummed her long, fluent toes on the carpet.  "That's better!"

Chaya's nose twitched. She glanced down once at the bare feet on her carpet, but only once.

Too shy to protest.

Too scared.

"I want you to read tonight's speech for me," Christina folded her legs and steepled her hands, suddenly all business.

"I emailed it to you," Chaya said. "If you have any revisions to make, or corrections, or things to add, I find it easier to work by text..."

Christina yawned loudly.

"Be quiet and stop yammering. I hate yammerers. An email doesn't tell me how the words sound. Written graphology is death. The human voice is life. Read my speech, here and now. I'll revise as I listen to you talk."

"Well," Chaya rifled papers, looking as mortified as a newsreader on 9/11. "You said you wanted the speech to be about the need for modesty, and desexualization..."

Christina gave the shallowest nod.

Chaya cleared her throat, and began to speak. "Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone wonderfully in between, I come here to discuss an uncomfortable issue—one that I would never address, if it were not weighing heavily on my soul. You know my name. You know who and what I am. I am an actress. A trained liar, a thespian in a world ruled by men and by madness, and—"

Christina stopped her with a raised hand.

"Your opening is corny. A cliche. I don't talk like that. Also, I'm trying to avoid mentioning Mad Men. In this field, you are either on your way up, or on your way down. I don't want my audience's first thought to be 'wow, Mad Men, when was that show last on the air?' Axe that part."

Chaya was almost hyperventilating with fear. "Okay. I'll...think of something else."

"Yes, you will." Christina smile was as cold as a crack shivering through an Antarctic ice floe. "Keep going."

"We live as prisoners in a DeBordian straitjacket, our minds turning on industry's spindle. In this late-capitalist world, a healthy and ethnical diet is mental as well as physical—what images do we consume? What values do we reward with our eyes, our minds, our hearts, our dollars? What images do we impart to our sons, and especially to our daughters? As an actress, as a smith toiling at the forge of images, I feel a sense of grave responsibility—of guilt, I admit—for the values I've put out in the world. I'm talking about sex."

A foot snaked out, and playfully kicked Chaya's ankle. The girl ignored it and kept reading.

"I have always meant well—for the little that means—but now, I think my actions must align with my values. We simply think about sex too much. Yes, we are beings of bodies and nerve endings but this modern hyperfixation with sex, sex, sex is simply not healthy, for any of us. As I grow older, I feel a responsibility to the girls of the world, and a desire to protect their...oh—!"

Christina had just lifted up her leg, and placed her bare foot on Chaya's lap.

Five toes dug into Chaya's fear-tensed stomach like tentpegs.

"I didn't say to stop," Christina smiled pleasantly, her toes tapping out morse on her assistant's belly. "Keep going. I like what I'm hearing. But remove the bit about me growing older."

Chaya looked genuinely flustered. She looked down at the musky-smelling foot grinding into her midsection—the curve of its bridge, the tendons flexing and articulating, the pincerlike toes vanishing into the whiteness of her blouse—then back up to the script.

A drop of sweat slid down her temple, tracing a path from her fetishistically-tight hairline.

"—a desire to protect their innocence against a sick, sex-obsessed culture that regards them as wombs, as vaginas, as orifices. In my lifetime, I have watched the world become completely mad with desire. As I walked here, I saw moral depravity's leering from every billboard. Viagra ads. Lingerie. We're obsessed with carnality, with pleasure, with gratifying impulses below the waist. It's a sickness. I want young women to know there's more to life than sex. As a married woman— is it fine to mention your marriage, Mrs Hendricks?"

"It's more than fine," Christina said, tapping Chaya's nose with a finger. The marriage was fake, of course. A useful bit of theater to deflect attention from certain unsavory facts about her personal life.

Like how she fucked over four hundred teenaged boys a year. Or that she loved putting them through hell. The fact that most of them did not seem to mind at all, which might have been most disturbing of all.

Christina breezily swung her other foot onto Chaya's lap.

The younger girl shuddered, and continued to read.

"—I'm here to tell you that sex is only the smallest part of what makes a life worthy of living! Life is about watering a potted plant you're fairly sure is already dead. It's about using Google to cheat on a crossword and then telling yourself that you would have easly figured sixteen-down on your own if you'd wanted. It's about watching a cartoon, and hoping the coyote catches the roadrunner this time."

"Is it possible to substitute a more up to date cultural reference?" Christina yawned. "I'm going to sound like such an old bag."

Chaya blanched. "I"m sorry. That's the only cartoon I was allowed to watch at the yeshiva! My rabbi said that...!"

"Do shut up." Christina rolled her eyes. "This is all fine, I suppose. Skip ahead to the part about consent. I really liked what you did with that."

Chaya's trembling fingers dropped sheets of paper, and scrambled for it. It was difficult to pick them up off the floor, with all ten of Christina's toes pinning her against the back of the chair, but she managed.

"...and that brings me to the issue of sexual consent. I still remember being in college, and feeling pressure to put out, to be like the other girls, to laugh at dirty jokes, to do things that went against my values, and sickened me to my stomach. This is where a societal focus on sex leads us. To the disempowerment of women, once again. At least in Kabul the patriarchy doesn't claim to be setting women free. Don't give into lewd, pornographic mass culture, girls. These are the desires of men! The dreams of men! Your power lies in staying covered up! It's important to make boys wait. To hold them to higher standards. To insist on consent at every stage, for everything! You should not kiss someone without consent! You should not touch someone without their consent! You should not....AHHHH! CHRISTINA!"

Christina had just flung herself on top of the younger girl, pulling her into an embrace, forcing kisses onto her lips.

Chaya squealed in horror as her football-sized tits were groped, while her boss smothered her with lewd, openly sexual kisses. Her papers tumbled from her fingers yet again.

"I love how you taste!" Christina laughed wickedly, mercilessly, smothering the shocked assistant with her pillow-soft lips.

Then she pulled away, her tongue flashed out, and swiped a line of saliva on the shivering hemisphere of her cheek.

Chaya shuddered, and half-hearted tried to shrink away. But Christina's hand caressed her, and the tension evaporated like voltage hunting out ground.

"It's too hot to be in clothes like this," Christina whispered against Chaya's wide-eyed face.

Her hands were suddenly in motion, popping out buttons, undoing laces, clawing open every item of clothing she could find, regardless of who they belonged to.

Soon, flesh touched flesh like heated metal flowing together. They shared sweat. Shared saliva.

"Christina...but...are you sure..." Chaya stammered.

Her resistance was fading fast as her blouse was torn open.

Desires she had spent decades bottling up were surging to the surface like blood.

"...Why are you doing this to me?" the girl whimpered.

Christina sighed impatiently.

"If you wish to write in my voice..." Christina explained patiently, unhooking a bra from around Chaya's cannonball-sized jugs, "it's important that we share a certain level of intimacy. How can you write about a country you've never visited? Or talk in a language you do not speak? You can't write for me unless you truly, deeply know me."

"I, um, I guess...I can't..."

Chaya's confused stare was set in a flushed face. Her cheekbones glowed radioactively with emotions she did not understand, had never been taught at school, and could not process.

She made eye contact with Christina. Brief. Broken after barely a second.

But Christina did not fail to notice that eye contact, or the way sexual desire for the dominant older woman burned in her stare.

"Of course you can't. Unless I show you who I am."

Christina leaned forward. A smirk tightened and then released the rich burgundy of her lips.

"Trust me on this..." Christina's whisper dropped as her face slipped closer, as the intimacy increased. Chaya shuddered, feeling the pressure of the deep sea on her bones.

Fingers plied her skin, and her cunt started throbbing madly.

"...You want it."

Christina's breath touched Chaya's shivering skin, making it flush even deeper red.

Their lips touched, and again they kissed.

This time, Chaya pulled the trigger.

* * *

The women rutted on the floor.

Panting, lust mad, fingernails digging into flesh, breath colliding like storms of fire and ice. Christina used her age and experience to channel Chaya's raw desire like a viaduct.

Their clothes tumbled and flew around them as they hungrily stripped each other bare.

Christina's elegant hand snatched Chaya's bra. "36GGG? You're not a size thirty six around the ribs, honey. Try a 30KK. Trust me, your breasts will thank me when you're my age."

Then they swapped spit and sucked tongue, rolling around on the floor, fully naked. Their endless, warm soft oceans of boobflesh pooled and escaped through eagerly grasping fingers. Christina's tits rolled over Chaya's head, big and heavy enough to suffocate her. As the other woman struggled to breath, she clawed at her assistant's quaking ass cheeks. They were smaller than hers. Younger. Tighter.

"What are we doing?" whimpered Chaya, as her hanging nipples were sucked.

Christina laughed. "Fucking. Lots of people do it. Even your parents did it, at one stage"

Her cheeks hollowed around the spit-lubed mass of the girl's left breast. She spat it out, flicking the nipple with her red tongue as it swung free from the mouth.

Meanwhile, she thrust her fingers into the girl's foaming crotch.

Chaya felt the thrill of the unknown. Christina the thrill of a junkie who knew how to ride a high. "I want to show you what you've been missing," Christina said, jilling her off.

She pumped her finger in and out of Chaya's slot until the girl was thrashing like an alien facehugger. For several minutes, she cunnilinged Chaya's pussy, and then ate her asshole out while fingerfucking her silly.

Once Chaya began screaming the walls down, she stopped.

Pulling out of the woman's quaking cunt, she gently tugged a hair from her lips.

"Eating ass is better when it's shaven," she told the girl. "I can recommend several good surgeons if you want the follicles gone forever."

Chaya panted, saliva drooling from her mouth, barely inside her own body.

"Uhhhhhh...."

Christina rocked back into a sitting position on the cum-splattered carpet. She flung her legs out wide open, like a present opening, exposing her deep pink trench, and fixed Chaya with a queenlike stare.

"No. You don't rest. Fuck me and make me cum."

Unlike Michael, Chaya did not hold back from the call of duty.

Despite her exhaustion, she crawled forward, planting her porcelainlike dark-haired head between Christina's thighs. Ripples shook her mistress's flesh as she sucked, explored, and found the clit.

"I'm Exxon Valdez when I squirt," Christina said. "I can recommend an excellent cleaning service for your carpet."

She threw her head back and snarled, as the tonguefucking began.

* * *

They took turns blowing and frigging each other to gibbering, intense climaxes.

They sixty-nined on the ruined carpet. Slobbering each others' cunts, rimming out each other's assholes. They scissored frantically, performing repeated acts of tribadism that shook the walls with orgiastic screams.

After they'd had three or four loud climaxes apiece, Christina stopped teaching her young charge about pleasure.

One also needed to understand pain.

Ice cubes. Acupuncture needles, shoved into her huge spongy breasts. Paddles. Whips. Choking. Teeth.

She stopped counting Chaya's orgasms after four.

Christina was boundlessly sadistic, and incredibly creative. She had missed her true calling, as a confessor in 15th century Spain.

Torquemada had a thing for Jews, too, she recalled.

Finally, her brutal discipline dissolved into more witless fucking. Brutish. Mindless. Very fun. Very male.

Mouths together, huge tits grinding together like a quartet of huge balloons, mashing their slurping foaming pussies grinding together, they humped their oceans of creamy white flesh together until they orgasmed with loud, identical moans, spewing cum at the union of their grinding cunts.

Once they recovered from that, Christina humped her vulva up and down on Chaya's thigh, leaving crime-scene splatters of her essence on the woman's leg. Then she mounted the girl hip to hip, lip to lip, pussy to pussy, and began grinding their sexes together. Both women shuddered again, climaxing in unision.

Finally, after hours or minutes or years or moments had passed, Christina heavily rolled off Chaya's body. "Ooof."

Side by side, they nuzzled each other.

Kissing lewdly, wantonly, tasting each others' cunts and asses on their lips.

"Girls are wonderful, aren't they?" Christina sighed into Chaya's sweaty shoulder in blissed-out happiness. "I'm bisexual, but only because I need so much sex and cocks are so easy to get. If the skies and seas were made of cunt, I'd probably never fuck a boy again."

"I have never even been on a date with a man," Chaya admitted, blushing.

"You're not missing much." Christina said. "Especially after this. You're going to spend the rest of your life chasing the dragon of what you've just experienced here, and now. Some of my past girlfriends literally go insane, after they can't fuck me anymore. They end up in asylums. Maybe you're made of sterner stuff."

Christina suddenly smiled.

Amazing, what happened to your noggin after it was buried in your assistant's muff for two hours straight.

She finally remembered the dream she'd had that morning.

"I need to make an addition to the speech," Christina said, nudging her assistant into motion.

"But you deliver it in an hour! And I still haven't picked up your outfit at Neiman Marcus or written a new beginning or...!"

"The beginning's fine. I was teasing, silly. Get a pen, and take dictation."

Chaya, still naked and sweaty, hastened to comply.

"I had a dream this morning," Christina said.

Chaya's fountain pen went scritch-scratch, and her voice mumbled a fractured echo.

"I had... a dream... this morning."

Christina smirked. "A dream of a lioness, who ruled an entire world."

"A dream... of a lioness... who ruled an entire world."

"Or so she thought. When she looked up at the sky, she..."

"Or so she thought...when she looked...AHHH! CHRISTINA! NOT AGAIN!"

A shock of crimson hair had just swan-dived back between Chaya Belkowicz' legs, and a mouth was latched on to her cunt.

* * *



8:00pm

"I had a dream this morning..."

Christina stood on the podium, wearing a slinky but conservative burgundy dress necked with a V-slit, facing a sea of eight hundred faces, letting her words ring the rafters.

The Golden Heart Awards ceremony at Beacon Theater was packed.

Executives, moguls, movers-and-shakers were watching her.

Actors, actresses, and up-and-comers.

People with #MeToo and #TimesUp badges. Tabloids eager for Hollywood's next secular saint to burn at the stake.

But as Chaya had assiduously noticed, she was an actress. A good liar.

Someone might fall upon their sharpened pens this night or some other like it. It wouldn't be Christina Hendricks.

"A dream of a lion, who ruled an entire world."

And thus the lying started.

"Or so he thought. When he looked up at the sky, he saw something that shocked him."

Christina swept out an arm dramatically. Sixteen hundred eyeballs followed that sweep.

"He saw birds, flying above his kingdom. Birds who would not bow before his throne of blood. Birds who he could not catch or claim or kill. Birds who did not even know he was there. He thought he was a king...but he was simply blind to all that was not his."

She gripped the lectern, and stared them down.

It's not lying to present a fiction that people want or need to hear. It's diplomacy. The world could not handle five minutes of the honest truth. It needs the lies.

"And that's what I would tell young girls in today's sex-obsessed world. There are lions out there. Patriarchal sexists. Pornographers. Men who would take advantage of you, despoil you, strip you naked except for your chains. But against these lions, you can be birds, soaring free through a kingdom the lions will never know. Gentlemen and particularly ladies, thank you for coming out tonight."

The applause went on and on.

* * *

"What a speech!" someone gushed as she was trying to leave. "And timely, too!"

"Yes," Christina said. "I've worked hard on it for weeks."

She gently extricated her wrist from the film director's arm.

"You need to be brave to take a stand against sex," he babbled. "And to speak up for traditional morality."

"Well, it's worth taking a stand over. I believe every word of it what I just said. Believe me, the world has had enough filth, enough pornography. It's time for other more healthy narratives to take root."

The man—who'd been heavily feted at Cannes that year—watched her go.

He was genuinely and truly touched.

For years, he'd heard industry gossip about Mrs Hendricks' sexual antics. Stories got around Hollywood, particularly when they involved middle-aged women gallivanting with young boys.

And some of the things he'd heard about Christina were...genuinely disturbing. Michael Haneke levels of fucked up.

Like how she'd taken a boy back to her mansion, pulled his pants down, and found he'd had a small penis. She'd ordered him to take out his phone, dial every single person in his message history, and tell them that his cock was four inches long. His parents. His friends. His pastor. They'd all gotten a call.

For some reason, the kid had actually done this. Why? Who fucking knew.

And then there was the story about a kid who'd come to her mansion. She'd checked his ID, and found that he was seventeen years old. Still three days shy of his eighteenth birthday.

So she'd locked him in a cupboard for three days straight, feeding him sandwiches poked under the door. Presumably he'd also gotten a bathroom break or two.

On the third day, she'd counted down the hours with a stopwatch. The second he became legally eighteen, she flung open the cupboard door, and took his virginity.

Afterward, she'd set him free. He could have easily called the cops, but hadn't.

And then there was that other story about how she'd brought some kid to her mansion, and then forced him to watch her fuck his bully for several hours.

But as he watched Christina's vintage black DeSoto pull away, he was ashamed he'd ever half-believed these insane tales.

They were lies.

There was no way the woman who had given such a passionate and eloquent defense of modesty and puritanism could be involved in anything depraved and wicked.

No way at all.

* * *

10:00pm

"Thank God that's over," Christina muttered to herself as she strode from the DeSoto to her mansion.

She heard young male voices echoing from the drawing room, and smiled a little.

Her butler had invited members of the local skateboarding club there, just as she'd asked.

"Hello, boys," she told them, closing the door behind her.

Five eighteen and nineteen year olds stood in her mansion, watching her body. Tracking its every galuptuous swerve and curve under the burgundy silk.

She began undressing before their staring eyes.

"It has been a very busy day, and I'm exhausted. One of you will fuck me. Four of you will not."

She flung her enormous bra on the floor, and waved with a hand.

"Go! Fight for me!"

Without hesitation, the boys attacked each other. They punched and kicked wildly, grappling and choking each other, determined to be the last one standing.

As fists pounded flesh, as snarls and shouts scissored the air apart, Christina reached a hand into her panties, and began to masturbate.

Already, two boys were down and unconscious.

Soon, she'd take the winner upstairs to the bedroom.

And then her evening's entertainment would truly begin.

END

[wildspirit365]

Amazing,

Loved her femdom side. She's got the kick.