In Her Bag | bimbo + mind control stories

Abigail—drenched, tired, and holding the wrong luggage—was in a sour mood.

Apparently, it wasn't enough that she been forced to stand outside in the rain for twenty minutes before a taxi would pick her up from the airport, or that she had been forced to walk another ten minutes in the rain when that same taxi would only drop her off down two blocks from her crappy hotel in the middle of town.

It certainly also wasn't enough that she had been running on three hours of jet-lagged sleep for over a day and half, on a marathon circuit of business meetings all across the Midwest.

No, now she had the wrong luggage, too.

Abigail couldn't believe her rotten luck. The biggest meeting of her brief career was tomorrow, poised to propel her far beyond her relatively low place on the totem pole at her posh workplace, and all of her possible outfits were gone.

As she stood in the entry of the small express hotel she had reserved her room at, she recalled that she felt like her suitcase had been a little light when she picked it up. At the time, she had attributed the weight disparity to her own lightheadedness, crafted from hours of staying awake and poring over sales reports.

But, examining the large leather suitcase now, looking at the ID tag hanging off the top zipper, there could be no mistaking. The tag read:

Name: Cherry Banks!

Phone number: Just ask!!

Address: I have lots and lots in here, silly!!!

Either it was the joke of some highly ironic young woman, or the property of some psychopathically ignorant girl. In either case, Abigail resented her. She had no time for jokes, and less time for ignorance.

With so much of her life spent preparing for the big leaps in her career, like the one tomorrow, Abigail put herself on quite the pedestal, and she knew it. But after graduating from her Ivy League school in less than two years, taking over thirty credit hours each semester, and working at the highly prestigious and exclusive Monetat Corporation for over five years, she felt she had earned something of a big head, especially when it came to apparent bimbos that didn't know how to fill out a contact card so she could call them.

Of course, Abigail thought wryly, all her own education hadn't seemed to allow her to pick up the right damn suitcase.

Sighing, she examined the arrangement of her clothes, wondering if any of it could be salvaged.

She doubted it. Her elegant pantsuit was completely ruined. She had it tailored just for traveling—it was lightweight, breathed well, and presented a crisp, professional image just in case she happened to meet any business contacts on a plane or in an airport. Presentation was everything.

Her form—skinny, almost rail-like—lent itself to many outfits, and she did not have to ever worry about breasts getting in the way of a good fit because hers barely existed in the first place.

With the long elegant lines of her face and chin, dark green eyes, and short brown hair, she was the epitome of a modern city girl.

But now, the elegant silk blouse that had cost her a month's salary and the sleek gray pants and designer jacket that had cost her much more than that were totally ruined for anything except lament.

She walked over to the front desk, leaving soaking footprints in the entryway as she went.

It did not seem like a very busy hotel. The man at the front desk was laying back and watching some football game, not paying any attention to her approach.

“Excuse me,” she said.

The man did not move, entirely invested in the game.

Abigail rang the little bell on the counter three times in quick succession. The man nearly fell of his chair.

“Hi,” said Abigail, trying to smile. “I have a reservation. I would also like some towels.”

The man nodded, searching around for papers on the desk. “Okay, okay. Reservation, right.” He worked at the computer for a moment. “You're Abbie?”

“Abigail, please.”

Abbie was such a feminine, silly name. It didn't suit Abigail at all. Weeks ago, she had told the man on the phone that he wasn't to use that term to refer to her—she supposed somehow the lines got crossed, though she felt a bit suspicious. Men were always trying to tear women down somehow.

The man made a few more clicks with his computer.

“Okay. You're all set up,” he said. “As far as towels, though, we don't have any.”

Abigail had to take a moment with that.

“I'm sorry?”

“We don't have any towels. Our cleaning service busted up a couple days ago. They should all be fixed by morning.”

“Are you saying I cannot dry myself? Or take a shower? Or ... or anything?”

Abigail's voice was nearing hysterics.

“Oh, sure you can.”

He reached under the counter and handed her a few rolls of toilet paper. “I got the good stuff, don't worry. It won't scratch.”

* * * * *

Her luck did not change when she phoned the airport.

“We're sorry, ma'am, but no one else has called saying they've received the wrong luggage. As soon as they do, we have your number.”

“Please, give whoever it is, this Cherry, give her my hotel, and tell her that I would very much appreciate it if she came here directly. I need that bag as soon as possible.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Abigail hung up then, and examined the room.

Moments before the telephone call, she had left her suit with the bellhop, hiding her exposed body behind the door, telling him to take it to the nearby dry-cleaning service.

So now, she was shivering and half-naked, wearing only her large granny-pants underwear and her tiny bra for her nearly non-existent breasts.

She had gotten this hotel because it was cheap. Abigail spent all of her money on rent in her expensive city condo, and on her wardrobe for business reasons. When she traveled, she skimped. She rode coach, she only took one suitcase that she stuffed full of as much as possible, and she made sure she found the cheapest hotel available.

This place, however, was beginning to change her mind about her philosophy.

It was a thoroughly rotten little room. It had a small bed that seemed like it was crafted out of yellow taffy. The one chair was wobbly and bright lime green. The wallpaper sported paisley blue skies and airplanes dogfighting—like some child's room. There was a deep, almost unpleasant smell of flowers sprouting from every corner.

Nothing matched. Nothing felt homey. There was no place for her laptop—not that she had one, it had been in her suitcase—and nothing that seemed comfortable.

The suitcase that wasn't hers was on the bed, next to the roll of toilet paper. She eyed both venomously.

In an effort to dry as quickly as possible, she had turned up the heat all the way. Still, though, it seemed to only be blowing out cold air. The man downstairs had warned her that the thermostat might be a little wonky.

It was freezing, and she was not getting any warmer just standing there seething rage.

Feeling a brainstorm, she decided to open the woman's luggage. Perhaps there was a towel inside. She would explain it to the woman, whoever it was, and offer recompense of course.

With a loud, satisfying zipping sound, she threw open the top flap of the suitcase.

Inside, there was no towel. She searched through the clothes—through layers of tiny panties, lacy bras, piles of lingerie and tiny dresses, each softer than the last, and there was nothing. All Abigail got was the soft sensation of the clothes. That was nice, but certainly not what she was looking for.

Abigail cursed, kicking the bed. Her face was getting flushed, she thought with anger.

This was so unfair.

Another thought—mischievous, evil, and thoroughly unlike her—wafted through her brain.

She could use the clothes to dry off.

No. No, that would be wrong. Why ruin another woman's day?

But she could explain it away—saying the luggage busted open or something similar, and the water dripped in. That could work.

And then ... then she could feel the softness of the clothes again. They did feel nice. She could feel them all up and down her body. In every single little nook and cranny of her cold, lonely form.

Just ... just a top, then. Something small, easily replaceable.

She took a bright yellow one, probably the most offensive she could find, and slid it across her slender neck. It felt divine. Her body heated up right away. The soft material felt like the voices of angels singing across her skin.

Without noticing, she had picked up another piece—a hot pink skirt with big gold buckles hanging off the side. Continuing with the yellow top, she rubbed the skirt against the smooth line of her backside, adoring the feel of the sinfully soft cloth.

It was soft like silk, but shiny and attention-grabbing. If she wore it, it would be showing off her body like almost nothing ever had before.

Soon, the two pieces were soaked. She picked up more—a dress for one leg, another skirt for the other. Slender neon tights for her face and breasts, the feeling pure titillation. Thick, striped socks for her short hair.

It was working. She was getting dryer and much, much warmer.

Warm in every little place.

After some minutes, she realized she would have to take off her bra and panties. They were keeping her wet, after all, completely soaked themselves from the downpour. Little cold droplets ran down her legs and torso every few moments.

Eager now, she slipped her bra off, then her panties. Her mind was entirely preoccupied by the thought of replacing them with the new clothes.

She slid a hot pair of smoky hot stockings between her legs. The feeling made her gasp. It felt. so. Good!

Her knees went weak and she fell down on the bed, the other woman's suitcase spilling open beside her. Soon, she was practically swimming in the clothes, thrashing this way and that on the bed, overwhelmed with the hotness of each individual part coming together to flood her body with feel-good-and-warm-and-horny sensations.

Abigail couldn't contain herself.

She reached a hand down to her naked crotch and started rubbing. A pair of frilly silk panties slid underneath her fingers, like water, and suddenly she was moving the hot perfect material against her needy clit. Abigail opened her mouth and a stocking slid over her lips, and she could not help but lick it.

It tasted like candy!

She was going to cum using Cherry's panties against her pussy. She was practically a lesbian.

Wait. She was what?

The thought sent sobering chills through Abigail's body. Her arousal level sank down to almost nothing, and she stood up, horrified. Backing up against the wall, underneath the vent still blowing out cold air, she looked at the enormous pile of clothes in the bed, staring with her mouth open, her hands clinging to her face.

The clothes had ... done something. Maybe the bimbo had some aphrodisiac laced in them, or spilled a bottle of Spanish fly all over them, or something.

She could never touch those clothes again. She would just wait for hers to dry, that was all.

Now she was cold again, the heat of her arousal totally gone, just shivering in the room, alone and completely naked.

It would be a good idea, she thought, to know who made the clothes.

After all, maybe the reason for the effect they had was the manufacturer. She recalled the address tag that Cherry had apparently written.

Abigail had bought this type of suitcase primarily because it was completely for the business woman living out of luggage. It had an extra-safe pocket for laptops and tablets, and a hidden compartment for business shoes, workout shoes, and casual shoes. It even had a calendar and a notepad built into the top.

It wasn't a suitcase for some bimbo. What if ... what if Cherry had originally been Charlotte or Cherise or Cheryl? What if her mind had left her, somehow?

Feeling bold, Abigail picked up a pair of panties lined with happy little bows. The tag said “FD.”

Thinking hard, she put her hand to her face. The panties brushed against her neck. She had never heard of an FD clothing designer, but then, if they were nefarious somehow, she supposed she wouldn't have.

Gosh, she was cold. The soft frilly bows of the panties licked at her ear and chin. She probably could think better if she was warmer.

She supposed it couldn't hurt to just wear some of the clothes, for decency's sake. That bellhop could come back at any time with her pantsuit, after all.

Choosing carefully, and making sure only to touch one piece of clothing at a time, she put on a tiny jean skirt and a pink top. Each piece gave her hot little thrills as they slid over her skin.

There. That was still about as professional as she was going to get with this lot. She supposed she looked good enough.

She sat on the suitcase, determined not to let any more clothes out. They were ... doing something funny. All acting together like that, conniving to get her to wear them.

Which she was.

She was wearing them, and she felt stupendous. Like she was sitting on a cloud with birds serenading her every motion. Her head warm and happy, she did a little spin, swaying her hips to the hot music that the clothes pumped through her body.

If only it wasn't so cold in the room.

Where was the harm in wearing a little more? She was cold, after all.

Opening up the luggage again, she put on a long pair of pink, elbow-length gloves. They matched the top, after all. Then she slipped on a pair of bright pink tights—they looked the warmest—and some stretchy pink leather calf-high boots.

There. She was much better now. She looked at herself in the mirror, her outrageous multicolored ensemble.

Perfectly reasonable, she thought. She might even get away with wearing this very outfit to the meeting tomorrow.

But no matter what, she had to find out who made these clothes. What did “FD” stand for?

Her stomach rumbled. Suddenly, Abigail realized she was ravenous. She could figure out all that stuff—what these hot cool clothes were doing, who made them so she could buy some more—later on, after she ate.

Next to the phone on the night side table, there was a laminated menu of the restaurants nearby. Picking up the phone, she dialed the pizza place.

“Yes? Hello. I'd like to place an order for five meat lover's pizzas.”

* * * * *

Abigail wolfed down the final slice of the final meat lover's special. It was delicious. It was amazing.

And what was even more amazing was that, after eating five pizzas all by herself, she still wasn't full.

By the time the pizza guy arrived, she had decided she needed to put on a pair of bright pink lacy panties to match the rest of her outfit, and also decided that her denim skirt like, wasn't nearly professional enough.

Professional babes wore cool dresses. So she slid on a tiny sheer pink mini dress with a halter top that opened up on the bottom, showing off her excellent bright pink panties. Fun purple swoops decorated the dress. The material clung handily to her thin body, and made her almost feel ... well, womanly, for once.

The pizza guy's face, as she answered the door, hung almost all the way down to the ground.

Instead of paying, she kissed his neck, hurriedly squeezing and pumping his shaft through his jeans. He left with a big stain on his pants and a big smile on his face.

Abigail had never done anything like that in her life. But it was so, so fun.

She was a beautiful girl, after all. A really hot babe.

Men would fall all over themselves to make a sweet hot babe like her super happy. They would sacrifice money, jobs, other women, and all kinds of things just to see a smile on her face.

That was so hot. Abigail felt powerful, giving him a sneaky little handjob like that.

Sitting in the bed, reliving the hot experience, her fingers wandered down to her crotch once again. God, it was so fucking fun and hot down there!

She slid down the pillows, her hair flipping in her face.

Wait.

Her hair did what?

Abigail's hair was short. Terrifically styled, always gelled up to never let a single strand out of place. Her short hair was a point of pride with her when there were so many women who seemed to use hair as a kind of decoration. A talking point for the men in their lives, something to make them seem more like objects than people.

She slid her hand through her hair, grabbing it by the fistful, and was shocked to find that it stretched out over a foot.

What on earth was going on?

She slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom, examining herself under the dim light.

Yes, there could be no doubt about it. Her hair was longer. It was styled, even, growing out in long feathered waves, like she was some seventies' housewife.

It looked ... well, it looked good, she had to admit. If she were to have long hair, she would want it to look like this. It framed the high angles of her cheekbones perfectly, and the lightness of the color set off her blue eyes.

Hold on.

The lightness of the color?

The blueness of her eyes?

No ... no! Her hair was brown. It was dark, mousy brown. It was nearly chocolate levels of thick, lustrous brown.

Except it wasn't. It was dark blonde, and seemed like it was getting blonder at the roots, like God was giving her a dye job as she stood and watched. And her eyes—formerly dark and brown, cool and mysterious, echoing the pitiless state of mind she aspired to learn from her business colleagues, were turning a serene blue.

How had any of this happened?

She turned away from the mirror. A flash of movement made her turn back.

Oh no.

No, no. This was too much.

Were her tits ... growing?

She hopped up once, then again.

Yes, there was no denying it. There was a definite jiggle there. Noticeable tit slapping. Substantial, even.

“Existing” would perhaps be a better term than “growing.” Abigail had been flat-chested her entire life. She felt like her trim physique more than made up for it. Even so, she had to admit that her tiny frame was only improved by having big, hot breasts ready to knock men off their feet.

Hurriedly, if a bit regretfully, she slid off the hot little halter top to get a better look.

Yes, there was no denying it. They were easily B cups now, approaching C cup territory.

But even though her tits were growing outward almost before her very eyes, her body only seemed to be getting into even better shape. Her slender torso seemed to be developing a hot, noticeable washboard whenever she flexed her midsection.

Her waist, already slender, seemed only to be getting narrower as her hips seemed to get only wider. All of her body tingled and flushed with hot, easy sensual energy.

Abigail put a hand to one tit, testing the weight.

Immediately she had to bend over. Overwhelming electric heat rushed through her body.

“Oh god!” she moaned, grasping her tit even tighter.

It felt so incredibly good! Just the sensation of holding her newly engorged tit felt better than any orgasm she had ever experienced.

She could not help but slide down to the bathroom floor, holding both newly-perfected tits in either hand, hotly massaging the nipples as she moaned and cooed, happy little trills emanating from her throat.

She was decisively wet, and it wasn't because of the weather.

It was the panties, she decided. It was the panties she had put on, tickling her moist, amorous pussy and playing tricks on her mind. She maneuvered to slide them off, but somehow, they ended up staying on her clit, just they had threatened to before, as her fingers slid up and down on her sweet mound.

Her thinking went all wavy. Nothing seemed real or even very important outside of continuing to approach her hot little orgasm. It had never been like this before! Since when had masturbating delivered so much pleasure?

And what made it even hotter, somehow, was knowing that she was only touching herself so furiously because of how hot she was looking.

It wasn't because of some guy or a scene in a movie, it was because she looked sensational and she was just priming herself for the lifetime of fucks she was sure she was going to receive because of her new good looks.

And for some odd reason that she couldn't put together anymore, rubbing the silk panties against her clit made it all the better.

Her orgasm arrived quickly, like a cloudburst, and just like a sudden storm it left her completely soaking.  It made all other orgasms previous seem like paltry little things, mere footnotes to small appendices compared to the monumental multi-volume tome powering through her transforming body now.

She tumbled back into the room in a daze, her fingers not willing to move away from her cunt for any reason. Slick flecks of drool layered around her lips.

It had been just three hours since she arrived soaking wet in the hotel.

* * * * *

Abbie was like, such a way cooler name than Abigail.

“Abigail” was so serious, ending with that weird consonant sound. It rhymed with “ail” and “hail” and “rail” and “mail” and all sorts of other boring, bad things.

“Abbie,” though; that was a fun, cool name for a fun, cool chick like her!

It rhymed with “happy” and “horny” and “sexy” and “cummey” and “boobie” “preggy” and “cummey” and “baby” and “cummey” and “tittie” and “orgasmey” and “cummey” and oh god was Abbie cumming like crazy.

“My name is Abbie,” she cooed happily, her most recent orgasm still pulsing through her body, pushing a warm cushion of delight beneath her every thought.

She was sitting in the incredibly comfortable arrangement of clothes she had piled up on the bed.

“Happy Abbie. Not-too-shabby Abbie. Sucks-off-cabbies Abbie.”

Her voice reached sing-song levels of happiness as she rubbed her enormous tits. Her hands didn't come close to covering them. The thick, bouncy flesh jiggled happily with every single movement. They were just pure liquid sex now, like the rest of her. If she were forced to guess, she would put them at maybe D cups at the smallest.

They were terrific fun. Each little stroke of her berry-like nipples brought her halfway to orgasm. If she slipped her head down and let her tongue wrap around one of the sexy protrusions, she came within seconds. It was a fun game, feeling her thoughts wash away with each new hot cum she gave herself.

Her pillow was now the thick collection of panties. Her blanket, the mini dresses. Stockings were slid under the dresses, used as hot soft material to rub her perfect clit with.

Her hair—deeply blonde, over four feet long—was also perfect for use as a blanket to wrap around her smoking hot body. She loved her long, lovely hair. It was so soft and thick—like a real blanket. She was considering throwing out any of the ones she had it home, as they were hardly necessary now.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Room service,” came a voice.

Abbie moaned. It was a male voice. It was a voice that could command her. That could tell her to do all sorts of naughty, hot things, and she would have no choice but to obey. He could fill her unprotected, fertile body however he liked.

That was why men did so well in business. She would have to learn how to make them happy if she wanted to succeed.

To succeed was a two part process, after all. First you sucked, then you ceded any possible power you had to them.

Men liked that. Abbie liked it too.

“I'm coming!” she moaned.

She was, and how. Slipping her wet fingers into her wetter pussy, she made her moans hot, sultry, and loud as another orgasm pranced through her dynamite body.

She wanted him to hear her. She wanted him to know that his presence was getting her fucking turned on.

Out of the bed, she slipped on the highest pair of heels she could find—eight-inch neon pink-colored glass platforms, and the tiniest negligee in the pile. Her enormous titties held the lingerie fabric far away from the rest of her tiny body. Streaks of her hot pussy juice stained the soft fabric. She hardly cared. Her pussy juice was on practically everything in the room at this point.

She opened the door, toying with one immensely long lock of hair. If she twirled her hand, she could gather up what felt like a foot of hair without even tugging at her scalp.

“Hi, stud,” she cooed, before even seeing the bellhop properly.

He was a stud. Young, dark haired, built like he lifted weights regularly. He looked like he could hold her down and make her scream like the hot bitch she had been transformed into.

The hot bitch she was born to be.

For several moments, he just looked her up and down, apparently having trouble working his jaw.

“Towels, ma'am? The manager downstairs said you requested them. We ... we found some extras.”

Abbie grabbed them for a moment and then tossed them down on the ground behind her. She leaned up against the door frame, sliding her leg up against his.

“Thank you so much. I'd love to give you some kind of tip.”

He backed away, blushing. “Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. We don't ... wow. We don't take tips.”

Disappointment fell over his face even as he said the words. He didn't seem very invested in any of them. Abbie's smile become smokier and smokier. She bit the corner of one lip.

“Gosh, you are so fucking cute. Are you sure you don't take tips?”

“I'm afraid ... wow. I'm afraid not, ma'am.”

“Mmm, do you know, I don't take tips either?” She wrapped her hand around his bulge. “I take the whole thing. Head and shaft, pushed right inside my hot pussy,” she slid her other hand across her narrow waist up to her belly-button, “and showing me how to act like a good girl.”

The bulge under her hand on only thickened. It felt tremendous. Abbie felt like she could tell who would be a good fuck just by how their cock got hard.

If that was the case, she thought, she'd have to hold lots and lots of cocks.

“I ... I ... it's just ... I got a girlfriend ...”

Abbie stroked more insistently. “I'm hotter than her, though, right? I can fuck you way better than she could. I'll do anything you want me to do.”

She pushed up against his body. He was taller than her. That was hot. Her tits crushed up against his chest, even in her tall tall heels. That was hot too. 

“Does your wife ask you to unleash on her? Does she ask you to call her your slut? Your fuckpet? Your whore?” Abbie slid her mouth next to his ear. “Because that's what I'm doing, handsome. Please do all those things? Please fuck me how you need?”

“Oh,” he breathed.

One hand came up and grabbed her newly thick, sexy tit. Abbie's orgasm was immediate and powerful, pushing her against him. She wrapped her arms around his thick, chiseled chest, one leg sliding around his.

“Oh fuck.” He said, awe in his voice. “D-did you just cum?”

“Gosh,” she purred. “I've never had anyone just touch me like that. You must be such a real man ... ”

She pressed closer against him. “Won't you show me just how real of a man you can be?”

His hand came up around her shoulders and he pushed her in the room, slamming the door shut with one foot. She hopped her legs up around his waist and then guided his hands around her neck.

“Goddamn,” he said, squeezing tentatively.

Abbie moaned, her eyes wide. She wanted him to fuck her while he choked her. She wanted him to own every part of her body, including how she breathed. That was so hot.

Hands still on her throat, he tugged her in and kissed her. Abbie melted, kissing him back forcefully, letting her tongue ride over his.

Soon, he tossed her on the bed on top of the pile of slutty hot clothes. His pants were thrown against the wall. Abbie tried to crawl into position, but he flipped her over, like she was nothing at all.

He was manhandling her. That was so hot.

Shoving her face into the clothes, his arms came down on her upper back so she couldn't move. He pushed her legs out wide and unceremoniously jammed his bare cock inside of her all the way.

Abbie screamed in pleasure. She was sure she woke up the entire hotel.

His hand slid around and he grabbed her throat. Again, Abbie screamed happily, quickly running out of breath.

“You're just a fucking slutdoll, aren't you.”

“Oh yes, Sir!” she moaned between breath-gulping gasps, her voice getting deep and whiny. “I'm your fucking slutdoll.”

“You're my hot little fucktoy bitch.”

“Your hot fucktoy bitch!”

Entirely on top of her, he pounded into her cunt from behind again and again. His hand wrapped so tight around her throat that she had to stop moaning. Abbie couldn't stop cumming. She hoped she never would. His meat filled her entirely, made her life feel complete. The way he was pulling her from both ends—one hand coiled around her throat, the other around her thigh—kept her entirely under his control. That was so hot and good.

She could feel his balls tense up behind her, knowing somehow instinctively that he was about to cum.

“Spray it in me!” she cried out with all the breath she had, begging. “Spray me with your hot fucking cum, darling, please! I need it, oh my god I need your cum, please!”

He seemed happy to oblige her. Deep inside her cunt, his cock unleashed the thick, hot fountain of pure masculine cum that he had been working up to give her.

Her own orgasm matched his—maybe her thirteenth or fourteenth since he entered her. Her cunt muscles squeezed tight on his spasming cock, milking each and every bit of cum she could out from his terrific rod.

When it seemed like there was nothing more he would bless her body with, she slid off and wrapped around his body, so grateful and happy that she was good enough to make a man happy.

* * * * *

Somehow, Abbie escaped from the orgasm-induced coma the bellhop had delivered her.

The clock read eight thirty in the morning. Her meeting had started at seven.

Abbie, sliding her tongue over the tired, perfectly chiseled body of the bellhop, decided she didn't care.

Her thick tits jiggled wonderfully as she adored his sleeping form. She wished there was another man there to jerk off to her enormous knockers as they paraded naked in the room. Maybe she could put pictures of herself on the internet? That would be so cool. Way cooler than any stupid meeting.

Meetings were boring. Why would she need to go to some business meeting when there was a man to take care of? This world was all about being serious and doing all the things men wanted. There was no reason to like, go to stupid business meetings when so many cocks needed servicing.

Her tongue ran over more of the bellhop's muscles. Had he gotten in better shape since he came in? That would be really cool. He was laying on top of all those clothes with her.

Had the clothes ... changed her? Was she always this hot? Could the clothes change anyone to be better? That would be like, really cool.

Her tummy was completely full. Or was it her womb? Was she like, totally preggo? That would be so awesome...

Her wondering was interrupted when someone knocked on the door.

She considered not answering it, but then she thought that it could be another man. That would be so hot. She could get double-teamed. That sounded super fun.

Abbie slid off the bellhop—giving his cock a sweet, loving kiss before she got up—and answered the door wearing nothing but her heels and sexy pink gloves.

Behind the door was a drop-dead gorgeous blonde. She was Abbie to the 10^th degree. Bigger tits, longer hair, blonder hair, sexier face. Abbie would have been jealous if she wasn't so furiously turned on.

A bright pink mini dress, torn in several places, was wrapped around the blonde's amazing body. It looked like she had been getting pounded and hammered all night by men who couldn't even bother to take off her dress first. Even so, her face was perfectly made up, not a lash out of place. Her lips were shiny and glossy, perfect for sucking cock.

That was so hot.

“Hi,” said the angel. “I'm Cherry. I think you have my bag?”

She held up Abbie's old suitcase. It seemed ... so drab and distant, somehow.

Abbie put a hand to her mouth.

“I'm so sorry,” said Abbie. “I feel like I used all your pretty clothes.”

“Oh, don't worry about it.”

The blond giggled delightedly. Abbie giggled with her. Their tits bounced hypnotically. Not worrying was something she was getting really used to.

“I can just get more!” Cherry enthused. “That's all I make money for anyway.”

Abbie nodded, sliding forward and slipping her gloved arms around the blonde's neck, her fingers trailing through the thick, beautiful waves of hair.

“But ... I'd really love to repay you. Please ... won't you let me?”

Cherry seemed to already know what was happening. Her hot candy smell was so intoxicating.

Abbie kissed her, loving the feel of her soft tits against Cherry's giant, man-melting rack. Their lips were so soft, so right together, it was impossible to tell where one sensation stopped and the other began.

Somehow, they ended up on the bed, on top of the bellhop's body.

The bellhop began to stir.

“Oh god, it's nearly nine. I'm so fired. I have to ... holy shit,” he drifted off.

Abbie could only imagine what world the bellhop had thought he had entered. Right on top of his body were two angelic beauties kneeling, their big tits sliding against each other, lips locked like they would die if they stopped kissing.

“Uh ...” the bellhop muttered. “ ... uh ... ”

His erection, probably once thought to be impossible to revive after the all-night adoration that Abbie had given it, was now throbbing and hard once more. It looked even bigger than before. The look on the bellhop's face changed from stunned arousal to thick, almost-angry concentration that he wasn't the middle of the action.

To placate him, Abbie gripped his cock happily, holding it like a thick, hard handle as she moaned into another kiss from the blonde.

“Oh man,” the bellhop groaned. “Oh shit this is so good.”

“You'll help me repay this poor woman, won't you baby?”

Nodding, the bellhop stood up on the bed.

“Get on all fours,” he said to Cherry.

Abbie looked disappointed for a second. He shrugged at her.

“What? I've already fucked your pussy.”

Understanding sparked in Abbie's tiny bimbo brain, and she nodded with a smile. That was true. Fair was fair.

“Come around here,” Cherry cooed to her. “I'll make sure you're taken care of, sweetie.”

Curious, Abbie crawled on the bed in front of Cherry's face. Smiling wickedly, Cherry began licking Abbie's thighs and then the sweet, wet folds of her pussy, before moving on to Abbie's hypersensitive clit.

She came almost immediately. When the bellhop hunkered down and entered Cherry, encouraging a spout of even harder licking and moaning, Abbie came again.

Her body felt weak and weightless. Everything in the world was good. Nothing could ever be bad. Cherry's tongue made her feel like a waterfall of pleasure had been unlocked inside her body.

The bellhop fucked Cherry like he had owned her for a long time. He rode her hard, each pump of his cock more vicious than the last. His face was intense, almost angry, and he spanked Cherry mercilessly. The loud slaps echoed throughout the room.

Every single hard thrust pushed Cherry's face deeper into Abbie's pussy. Abbie was fairly sure that Cherry was having a hard time breathing—but it was really hard to care. It was all so hot.

“Yeah, baby,” Abbie cooed. “Fuck her hard.”

“Spank her ass,” he ordered Abbie. “Spank her with me.”

Cherry moaned in affirmation.

Obeying happily, Abbie's hand slapped down on Cherry's ass right when the bellhop's did, reaching across Cherry's sensational body.

Orgasms flowed through Cherry like water through a river—there was not the one without the other. Abbie could feel them, one right after the other, moving in time with her own.

“I'm gonna cum,” the bellhop grunted. “I'm gonna cum right in your slutty fucking cunt.”

“Do it, sir,” Abbie urged. “Cum in her hot slit. Fill her up like the sextoy she is.”

Stiffening up even as his hips still bucked and rammed, the bellhop released inside of Cherry. Abbie felt hot, easy adoration fill her as she saw the orgasm rushing through the bellhop's face. She came to, watching him cum, feeling Cherry cum, feeling Cherry's hot tongue against her clit.

His hot, perfect goo dripped down from Cherry's pussy onto all the thick pile of clothes. All three lovers slid around each other, the clothes winding up on top of all of their bodies.

Abbie licked the cum off his cock as soon as it slid out of Cherry's pussy, cleaning it attentively, looking the bellhop in the eyes. He was getting hard again already. That was wonderful. Abbie would be ready to take care of him.

It was important to be attentive to a man's needs, and Abbie was a serious woman, after all.