Katy Perry returns from her space voyage with two new problems—her breasts! They won’t stop growing!
Katy Perry’s mascaraed eyes widened with horror as she watched her heavy, naked tits bobble to a halt in the mirror—not the reaction they usually produced.
They’re. STILL. Growing.
Aghast, she hefted a colossal left breast. It sagged like a blimp in her sweaty palm, obscenely big, sickeningly heavy, collapsing over her hand and nearly swallowing it to the wrist.
How? This is impossible! It’s been months since the space flight!
She struggled to even hold the immense quivering sphere—jiggling, sweat-slippery udder-meat seemed to crawl through her fingers, oozing like jelly.
My moron of a doctor told me the side effects would be gone by now. A nipple twitched itself erect, going pulsepulsepulse like Morse against her fingertip. She fumed. Stupid ionizing particles in the upper atmosphere. Stupid little-known side effects. Why does this shit always happen to me?
She was alone in her dressing room, door locked. This was a high-stakes business meeting between Katy Perry and herself, as mediated by a mirror.
Once, this had been the singer’s happy place—stripping and running through her repertoire of cheesecake poses. Legs forward. Legs high. Side split. Shoulder tilted. Hand on chest. Hand on waist. Kneel. Alley-oop. Searing her lethally beautiful flesh in the glass. Becoming a storm, a force that evaporated the retina and incinerated the mind down to its first and most primal evolutionary response…which is always lust. Always.
Her mind would slip out of her body as she posed, racing ahead into the future. Imagined outfits, imagined personas, imagined reactions. The last was her favorite. Lewdly pirouetting for the mirror, she’d run a sexual, obscene highlight reel of her pneumatic body deployed like a Swiss army knife on stage, on TikTok, or in bed with the night’s lucky man or woman.
Imagine thinking you’d become an evangelical Christian rock singer, built like that.
Pornography incarnate.
She had a body that turned every man in every room into a whistling Tex Avery wolf. Muscular cheerleader athleticism. Ultra-thick female meatiness. Her hips and ass were shockingly wide and voluptuous. Despite the heft of her ass, her waist was startlingly narrow, an hourglass that didn’t let a single grain slip away without a fight and a custody battle.
But today, she was distracted by the wobbling movements of her suddenly ponderous-feeling breasts.
The one part of her body she didn’t like. That she’d hated in secret for years.
At age forty, Katy had made a decision about her body.
She would ditch the tits. Say so-long-a to the bazongas. Make the mammaries a memory.
She was done with being a big-titted party girl. Large breasts attract lust and obsession and record deals. They do not attract respect. Useless sandbags, she’d thought every morning for years. Useless stand-up comedy punchlines. Her tits were heavy, they sweated and pinched, and they attracted the wrong sort of fan. Yes, her busty figure was a big part of why she’d become famous. So was the Invisalign she’d worn as a child. She did not wear Invisalign now, and did not desire to have large breasts now. For nearly a decade, her tits had felt like bags of hospital waste dangling off her chest. External things. Unwanted things. Things that might have belonged on her frame once, but now deserved to be placed gently, reverently, and joyfully in the trash.
But she didn’t want breast reduction surgery. She had a phobia of doctors and a mistrust of what doctors did with pretty unconscious female patients. When Marilyn Monroe OD’d, the paramedics had taken six hours to drive her cadaver from Sunset Boulevard to LA County Morgue. Look up that route—it’s a thirty-minute drive.
In 2022, the answer to her prayers had arrived.
Ozempic.
Semaglutide had invaded LA that summer like the Huns sacking Rome. Everyone she knew was suddenly a slave to a 4mm needle—Ozempic, Wegovy, Zepbound, and Mounjaro if you were a special snowflake.
Katy was head-over-heels in love with the drug. Weight loss in a syringe, bay-bee. And all you had to do was abuse your celebrity status to jump the queue, stealing prescription medication from type 2 diabetics who surely didn’t need it that badly. An easy moral choice, in Katy’s opinion. The nobodies could wait their fucking turn—here, as always, famous people came first.
But at the height of the GLP-1 receptor agonist shortage, even Hollywood’s A-list was struggling to get it. Everywhere she turned, celebs were debasing themselves for a sniff of a blue cartridge pen—bribing guys to get it, begging guys to get it, criminally extorting guys to get it. Katy had chosen the path of least resistance.
She had fucked guys to get it.
One year ago…
“Oh, baby, FUCK! Oh yeah, put it in deeper! DEEPER!”
GLORCH! SPHLUCK! Rude, moist sucking sounds throbbed in the wheelhouse of Katy Perry’s 78-foot private yacht, The Caravelle.
A Russian drug dealer named Oleg Verzhbitsky was on top of her, throttling her neck, splaying her thighs, fucking his thick cock between them. He drove his hips downward, pumping into her with brutal force. His shaft glistened as it pounded her eager, slurping twat. The pop singer’s thighs kicked across his shoulders. Cunt-juice sprayed on each thrust.
SPLAT! SQUISH! PLAPP!
Katy moaned, eyelashes fluttering as he gripped and slam-fucked her against the blow-up mattress. Blunt-force SMACKs thundered through her stacked, huge-breasted body—cascades of jiggles spilled through her. With her cunt getting dick-pounded into Valhalla, Katy’s fat, heavy tits slapped back and forth, whipping around in a sweat-drenched loop.
They were screwing in the wheelhouse of her yacht. 180-degree panoramic glass windows folded around them, exposing a dazzling view of the Marin Headlands, with the Cali sun smiting like a sword upon the waves. The ocean swell cracked against the hull, the sounds muffled to distant knocks up in the cabin. The Golden Gate Bridge drifted off the portside bow: a red spiderweb rising from the sea, a steel spiderweb knotting land to sky.
Not a soul aboard The Caravelle was looking at any of this.
“Ohmygawww—harder, harder, oh baby, I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna fucking cum! I’m—OOOOoooOOOHH!”
As Katy rode toward the breaking point of another orgasm, her beautiful face tore itself apart. Pleasure-sick eyes streamed mascara down her cheeks. Her mouth rent a black hole, screaming over the sound of his plunging, crushing cock.
Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK!
Beside the mattress, Oleg’s identical twin brother Kiril leaned and smoked a cigarette. He was waiting for his turn inside their client’s cunt. The Verzhbitsky brothers were Z-grade Hollywood pill pushers who had plied Katy with coke and Xanax in the past. She did not know when or how they’d added GLP-1 to their criminal smorgasbord. They’d wanted eye-popping amounts of cash for the weight loss drug. Fortunately, Katy’s counteroffer had proven acceptable.
Crazed and deranged by dick, she kicked back, pushing him out of her squirting crotch with a wet plop. She just shuddered for a second, her nipples quivering in her armpits. Then her legs looped around his waist, pulling him back in. He fell on top of her, still frantically fucking away.
“UHHHH-ahh-UHHH-ohh-UHHHH HAHHH-DER!” the glass windows rang with Katy’s screams. As her next orgasm built like an itch inside her crotch, Katy heaved her ass off the mattress, up in the air. She snaked her tattooed feet around Oleg’s neck, lacing them tight—watching beads of sweat crawl their ant-trails down the thickness of her meaty thighs as they split before his cunt-slamming thrusts. Again and again and again, he pounded into her. His cock carved a slavering path through her core—her genital flesh split, squelching like lurid sexual bubblegum as his cock opened her wide open. The pleasure-blast was igniting, becoming a storm that swept her away in ecstasy.
GLORCH! SPHLUCK! SPLATT!
Katy moaned. “I’m gonna CUUUUUUM!”
Her knees flew apart and snapped her ankles against his ass—steering his body, and burying his cock deeper than ever in her churning fleshpot.
Why not spread her legs to get the weight loss drug that half of Hollyweird was eviscerating themselves to acquire? It wouldn’t be the first or the worst time they’d spread themselves. She was used to trading sex for what she wanted. Variations of this scenario had earned her record deals, magazine covers, gatefolds, sponsorships, tour headliners. The only difference was that her surroundings got nicer each time it happened. You can’t fuck your way to the top, but you can fuck your way to the bottom, and from there the top is easy, if you’re not a moron. The hardest part of breaking out in any scene is getting through the door.
Again, an easy choice.
Katy Perry climaxed—legs scissoring around his neck, urethra discharging squirt against Oleg’s pussy-crushing crotch. Oleg roared, twisting hairy-knuckled fingers around her shoulders as he slam-fucked her slippery, orgasming cuntal sheath. BAM! BAM! BAM! He went full caveman on her, lunging his hips deep into her flexing, gaping fuckhole, socketing his pelvis to her cum-splattered crotch.
“GUHHHH! Fucking American blyad!” Oleg grunted, feeling his cock lurch inside a condom.
He slid his hands from her arching neck to her tits, clutching sweaty white handfuls of her meat, and grunted as he sawed himself deep within. She whined as he split her. This time, he didn’t pull back out. His balls clenched and spewed, emptying themselves into the condom. Still orgasming, Katy felt his cock pulse and leap and jerk in her guts, thrashing like a fish. She writhed, pinned by his spasming erection.
Heart hammering, Oleg rested his weight on top of hers, hosing cum into the plastic reservoir. Then he grunted and heaved his bulk off the whorish singer’s body. SCHLORRRPPP!
His softening penis tugged from her twat with a drain-unclogging plosive. It swung, flopping to his thigh. The condom sagged with cum. He ripped it off, tied a knot in it, and slung it in the trash can, which already held at least twenty other used condoms.
The brothers had been balling Katy for two days straight aboard her personal yacht: fucking on the tanning deck, in the sauna, against the railing, on the roof, in the hold, in the toilet. The Caravelle had lolled and dawdled on its sundrenched journey from Monterey to San Francisco, the wave-rifted seas echoing with the sound of the infamously busty pop minx having dozens of orgasms.
“Who’s next?” Katy wiped sweaty hair from her face, and split her legs for him. They came apart with a fast scissoring movement, catching light. Through the panoramic display, the San Francisco sun cut slices and slivers of her pale flesh, pooling shadow in the curves and hollows. She splayed herself, an obscene and languid white flower, ready for the next pollination.
“Your turn,” Oleg grunted at his brother.
Kiril stepped forward, jerking his aching prick back to full erection. He reached for the box of condoms and cursed. “Fuck. All out. What am I supposed to do?”
She shrugged, and pressed her tits together with her hands. “Just fuck these until we’re back at the marina. It’ll be a few more hours.”
Kiril straddled her body with his hips. His weight sank across her midsection, planting his dick between her tits. The air mattress creaked beneath their weight.
Katy found herself staring down the barrel of his big, precum-oozing prick. It slanted a nearly horizontal line over her cleavage, like a lance ready to impale her.
She grasped and piled her tits inward, folding them over his throbbing dick, and began pumping with both hands. Kiril goggled at the sight before him: two giant popstar tits, meat spilling over her sweaty palms, crashing upon his pubic bone in bomb-blasts of dough.
Schlop! Schlop! Schlop!
“One of you boys wanna…pin me?” Katy asked over the sound of sweaty titflesh clapping.
Her voice was breathy and casual, but the pin me sounded more illicit than any act they’d performed aboard this yacht.
Katy gripped her tits with her palms, while Kiril fucked a wet path between them. As bodies rocked and thrashed on the mattress, Oleg rummaged through their “medical supplies”. The ones that had been signed aboard for “emergencies.”
Whistling an abhorrent hard bass topline, he found what he was looking for. He crouched beside the pop singer’s thigh with an Ozempic pen glinting from his fist like a diamond. He twisted on a fresh needle, dodging her strawberry-tattooed foot as it kicked.
“Ooooh, you shlyukha, hold them still around my dick…” His brother emitted deep grunts as he nailed her breasts like handfuls of jelly. Katy’s toes were curling with excitement.
Oleg narrowed his eyes, and adjusted the dose selector up to 0.5mg.
Then he snatched one of Katy’s thrashing legs, held it still, and hunted for a vein. With his brother happily fucking away at her tits, he pressed the red Ozempic pen to her flushed-red skin, and injected the GLP-1.
Katy’s eyes flew wide open as the needle kissed skin. Suddenly, she seemed to see behind the sky, to the edge of the known universe. Her pupils dilated. Her tits quivered in her palms like plates of piled jelly, momentarily motionless, and then they slid out of her hands, plapping onto the mattress.
“Hell yeah…” Katy ignored the desperate, unattended dick throbbing in her face. “I feel myself getting lighter already!”
Then her eyes flicked back down, onto Kiril’s cock on her chest. She arched her back, grasped with her hands, and swept her huge knockers together. They clapped around Kiril’s dick with a meaty SMACK, and she began titjobbing him so fast her breast flesh was a sweaty blur.
“Heck yeah! Here’s to Ozempic! HERE’S TO BEING LIGHTER THAN THE FUCKING AIR! LET’S GO!”
These two men are some of the last guys who get to fuck these puppies.
Possessed by manic glee, Katy slammed her huge handfuls of breast up and down, up and down, letting them splash and ripple lewdly, her nipples flying in fat bullet points as they engulfed his penis. Roaring, Kiril joined her in the onslaught. He fucked forward, hammering sticky wet thrusts into her tits.
His face twisted in sudden orgasm. “Guhhh!!”
His cock flexed inside her breasts, throbbing. His balls pulled up like salted snails, crawling upon her sternum. As his load rushed up, she opened her mouth, and stuck out her tongue. A hot pink landing strip for his load.
Kiril’s cock bucked free from her tits with a jolt. Sperm sprayed out in thick white ribbons, defiling Katy Perry’s beautiful face. He blasted her nose, her tongue, her collarbones. He pulled back, as cord after cord of hot thick semen flew over Katy’s naked face and torso, splattering her with his pulpous load.
Oleg approached, watching the slut’s huge mammaries get spunked. He’d discarded the Ozempic pen. His hand now held his own cock, which was rising again. As Kiril wheezed in completion, his twin brother shoved him aside.
Katy was blinded by a mask of spunk. She could barely see Oleg as he clambered atop her, cock wobbling like a harpoon, plunging down for the warm, tight space at the bottom of her cleavage.
“My turn to fuck the American shlyukha’s tits!”
Enjoy. You’ll be one of the very last.
For six months, things had proceeded according to plan.
Twenty pounds had flown off with Captain Ozempic at the wheel. Her breasts had shrunk from 28I to 28C. She felt the joy of an uncaged bird at how empty her old bras suddenly were. I can fit my entire fist into this bra now, she thought, wearing her old 28I.
At last, she was free!
The Verzhbitsky brothers paid frequent visits to her Montecito estate, topping her up with gray-market Ozempic. Where were they getting so much GLP-1 in the middle of a shortage? Were they brewing it in a bathtub? In an RV in New Mexico? Who knew, who cared.
Things had been going well.
…And then she’d gone into space aboard Jeff Bezos’s stupid penis-shaped rocket with his idiot fiancée.
She remembered the Blue Origin launch.
Strapped to her seat, BE-3PM engine throbbing beneath the capsule, Chihuahuan Desert filling every viewport with dazzling oceans of sand. Still panting from the seven flights of stairs she’d climbed from the launchpad to the crew capsule. She felt so high, like she was halfway to the Kármán Line already.
It was then that Katy realized—fully, for the first time—what she’d signed up for.
She was poised at the threshold. Caught between world and sky. About to be thrown through.
Heart accelerating, hearing a man intone the prelaunch sequence in her earpiece with the voice of God, feeling vibrations in every cabin surface, sheet metal thrumming subliminally. Letting the engine’s prelaunch cycle sink into teeth and bones and mind.
She’d cracked a nervous joke to Lauren Sanchez, sitting beside her. Lucky I Ozempic’d my tits off, or they’d be flying out of this jumpsuit. Watching the dizzy news anchor instantly lose all interest in the space flight. Ohmygod, you have an Ozempic prescription? Who’s your doctor? Opening her mouth to give the classic LA answer—fuck you, not telling—only for a blast of heat and light to swallow her voice from her lips.
Liftoff. Four-hundred and ninety kN of thrust had slammed her back against her seat. The hull of the shuttle had filled with a gray raging noise so intense that her head had howled with it. Then they’d vaulted off the Earth, blue-white hydrogen fire spewing out behind them. Everything radiant, everything glowing, everything sheering into an infinite manifold of sunlight.
It was as if reality was torn asunder by the blind spearing shockwave of the rocket. Katy’s senses had cracked, one by one, like eggshells, the yolks of sight and sound and feeling mixing and intermingling. She remembered a storm of shattered impressions and inchoate sights: shrieking adrenaline, nerve-shredding velocity, peeling away from the earth on a road that no legs could walk or eye perceive.
Beneath the rocket, she saw cities shrinking away to blisters and welts scarring Earth’s skin, then finally just dots—like blackheads to be squeezed out of skin. Mountains and forests and deserts shrank to patchwork, then shrank further still.
They pierced the Kármán Line, and floated in space.
Katy had left her body as the capsule twisted in zero-G. The Earth had wheeled below, staring its vast blue eye up at them. They’d spun in an empty black cradle for several minutes. The scorch of heat had faded, replaced by a chill that pierced her cobalt kick-flare jumpsuits. As they began their hundred-kilometer plunge back down to the desert, she’d sung “What A Wonderful World”.
Coming back down had been her life’s greatest moment of her life. Or so she’d thought.
Ha.
Now? She wished she hadn’t come down at all. She wished she’d Major Tom’d herself. Wished the godshitting thing had exploded on the launchpad. Where was a faulty O-ring seal when you needed one?
Nothing had gone right since that day. Nothing.
fuk u @katyperry my bf works at an amazon fulfillment center and they make him pee in a bottle
yay, @katyperry got to go to space! oppression is over! #yasssqueen #lululemon #whitewomenbullshit
@katyperry and jeff bezos are two 5’s joining forces to maximize their joint flop
buy a one way ticket next time binch @katyperry
@katyperry u go 2 space looking for ur missing boobs lmao??
why did @katyperry go to space in a rocket shaped like a penis? what did she mean by that???
glad u could burn the earth with ur rich person joyride. sickened that i was ever a fan. @katyperry
The social media backlash had been ruinous. Every time she read her feed, the sheer rage streaming from her phone threatened to melt her flesh off her face.
But something even more alarming began taking place after her space flight: the Ozempic no longer worked.
Within weeks, her deflated, shrunken breast-sacks had started ballooning in size. She’d denied it at first, denied it because it was impossible, denied that her hard-won 28C bra was now pinching a pressure rash on her undergirdle. She finally upgraded to a 30D. It was underboobing the very next morning. Then she went to a 32DD. Soon that was too tight, too.
Then, fuck, it was off to the races.
The men she was humping noticed pretty fast. She was in tour prep mode and didn’t have time for her usual amount of slutting—she’d only cheated on her husband with between twenty-two to twenty-nine men, depending on what acts counted as sex—but they’d swiftly picked up on her changing body.
Katy…your boobs… They never finished saying those words, which were spoken reverently, like they were witnessing a miracle, like they were shoving their faces and cocks through the gates of heaven. She hated that: hated how boring and predictable the reactions of men are. But sadly, those reactions were correct.
Her boobs were getting big.
In fact, they were becoming absolutely enormous.
They looked obscene in her dressing room mirror. Comical. Ridiculous. Cantaloupe-sized and growing, she was exploding through the alphabet. Breasts now dominated her figure. They were the only thing anyone would ever look at or see—she was a life-support system for a pair of tits now. Men loved her new body. Loved holding her new boobs, kissing them, fucking them. But imagine doing anything because of men. Katy shuddered at the thought.
She doubled her Ozempic dose. No result. Not only did she rebound-gain all the weight she’d lost, she gained another twenty pounds on top of it.
Much of this excess flesh had flooded back into her shrunken tits, but her hips and ass and thighs were now dump-truck thick. Her belly was soft and doughy. Her legs jiggled, thick with alluring pudge. She was now a very voluptuous and chunky woman.
Last week in her dressing room, she’d tried strapping on one of the leotards she’d worn in her Vegas residency.
Her radiation-enhanced ass had blown out the backseam.
I should sue Jeff Bezos. She thought, fuming in her dressing room.
The scandal-prone pop chanteuse slid a candy-colored nail over an enormous white globe of meat, testing its size. Raw, scalding heat blazed from the breast as her finger dragged a track through its thick, abundant meat. They were like nuclear reactors lashed to her chest.
She couldn’t sue. Court records are public documents in California.
Her sudden, apocalyptic breast growth was not yet public knowledge. She’d told her publicist to bump all media appearances. She wore an oversized hoodie when she went out in public. The tabloids didn’t know.
If she filed suit, some shitbird would file a FOIA and then everyone would know. They might discover her other little secret: gray-market Ozempic abuse.
Speaking of which…
According to the clock on her wall, it was now Next Dose O’Clock.
She stepped to the portable minifridge in the corner of her dressing room, and keyed a code into the lock. Ice-cold pens were stacked inside: thermonuclear missiles in the war on fat. She uncapped a pen, dabbed the contact point clean with an alcohol swab, then screwed on a disposable needle.
Could it be the Ozempic? My doctor says it’s not…but what if he’s wrong?
As Katy hunted for an injection site on her well-worn quadricep, she realized she wasn’t totally sure it was Ozempic. It wasn’t like she had a prescription. She was just skin-popping what the Verzhbitsky brothers gave her. She was sure she was taking far too much of it. Most diabetics run a 0.25mg or 0.5mg weekly dose. This was her third 1mg shot this week. Most people would consider such usage excessive and dangerous. Maybe they were right.
She thumped pen to skin, then triggered the needle.
Fuck right. She wanted skinny.
As the needle sank its tooth into her flesh, shadowy pain flickered, darted inward, and then dissolved in a pleasant gray wash. It was almost therapeutic, like mainlining ice that melted inside your body.
Katy counted to six under her breath, then detached the pen from her thigh. A trail of clear fluid dribbled from the hole in her skin.
My body, my choice! I’m a celebrity, god damn it, and if I want to inject black-market Ozempic bought from mob-affiliated Russians with switchblades tattooed on their necks, then that’s nobody’s business but my own.
She tossed the needle at a sharps box located at the corner of her dressing room. It missed, because her throw was obstructed by her huge rack.
It’s definitely the radiation doing this. My doctor said so.
He’d called her into his Santa Monica clinic a month ago.
“Take a seat.” Dr. Emilio Vasquez was in his late thirties—bald and tan and about as handsome as non-celebs ever got to Katy. “The results of your blood work came back.”
“Go.” She was emotionally prepared for bad news. When your doctor emerges from the diagnostics lab holding a stack of papers thick enough to be considered a dueling weapon in several states, you’re generally not about to hear that you’ve won the lottery.
“Katy, your ovaries are going berserk.” Dr. Vasquez pulled up a chair on the opposite end of the table. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years of practice. Your system is absolutely drowning in estrogen—I don’t see markers this high in extremely pregnant women. Your milk ducts and secretory glands are exploding in size and…fecundity. This is quite weird.”
‘This is quite weird.’ Scintillating diagnosis. Katy rolled her eyes. Eight years of medical school had not been wasted on Dr. Vasquez.
“Do you have any ideas on what’s causing it?” As Katy crossed her arms, she winced as they pinched the sides of her gigantic tit-mountains. Her mind had adjusted to how big her chest was. Her arms still hadn’t.
“Hmm….have you done anything…unusual in the past few months?”
“I went to space, as you may have heard,” Katy sulked. Social media was still killing her over it.
“As did Lauren Sanchez, Amanda Nguyen, and Gayle King, and their mammary glands aren’t…” He gestured meekly at Katy’s chest. Two prodigious slopes convexed out against her jacket. “To rephrase that question…have you taken anything unusual? Any recreational drugs that I’m not aware of?”
Such as bootleg Ozempic? His eyes asked. Before all this, she’d asked him to fake a GLP-1 prescription. He’d refused.
Katy reluctantly admitted that she was abusing weight loss drugs, at about four times the recommended dosage. “I’m not going to stop taking it, so don’t ask.”
“Okay. Keep taking it.” Dr. Vasquez shrugged.
She was shocked. “You’re not gonna argue or voice-of-doom me, like a doctor’s supposed to?”
He shrugged. “With medical mysteries, it’s better if you don’t introduce sudden lifestyle changes. Complicates the picture too much. I also have to be practical. Like you said, I can’t stop you.”
She shrugged. Sure.
“For what it’s worth,” Dr. Vasquez said. ’I don’t think it’s the Ozempic. Its side effects are well-known by now: rampant breast growth is not among them. And you were taking it for months before the space flight without a problem, right?”
“Right.” Katy nodded.
“Going to space is the clear causal factor here. You got a dose of ionizing radiation or something, and that interfered with your receptors, leading to your breast growth.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Katy cupped and held her absurdly massive tits. His eyes flickered onto their heaving masses, suddenly interested. “I can’t just…go around with these things hanging off me! Look at them!”
“Relax. Very likely, you’re on the other side of it. In time, your body will reset, your estrogen and progesterone levels should return to normal, and your glandular tissue will atrophy. Just wait, and continue with the Ozempic. There’s just one problem to consider…”
Dr. Vasquez leaned in, making the distance intimate. His head shone with sweat beneath the bright fluoros.
He adjusted his pants—which, for reasons beyond the ken of science, had become uncomfortably tight.
“…It’s illegal to import Ozempic without a prescription. The FDA pays doctors—such as myself—to report off-brand usage. So you see the dilemma I am in. Hmm…if only there was another way—”
“A blowjob,” Katy said. “I suck you off and you forget this conversation. Is that the general idea here?”
They’d been down this road before.
He folded and unfolded his hands. A drop of sweat ran down his temple. His stare fell to her chest, which was covered in a retro bomber jacket. It didn’t have the courage to stay.
“Well, um. That’s a bit blunt, but, well…uh, can you use your breasts?”
Katy rolled her eyes, curled her lips into a smoldering pout, and began pulling down the zipper of her jacket. She did it slowly and sensually. His eyes followed that zipper like it was the greyhound he had money on.
Can you use your breasts? The same thing the man from last night had said. And the three men from the day before. She was just a pair of big wobbling tits for men now. A walking jiggle-physics simulator. Oh, how she fucking hated it.
As the zipper cleared her chest, both sides of the jacket were forced open by a titanic surge of force.
Her enormous breasts poured through the gap in the partially-unzipped bomber jacket. She was wearing a blouse, but it was fighting a losing battle for its life. Bulges of titflesh stretched open the spaces between the buttons, giving him a brain-frying view of her décolletage.
The doctor gulped, his hands quivering in lust. He couldn’t grab her tits, couldn’t not grab her tits.
“So…” Smiling, Katy decided to ease his pain.
The monstrously-jugged sex goddess swaggered around the table. She reached kissing distance, letting him filling his mind with her Killer Queen Eau de Parfum. Like a stripper giving a lapdance, she laid hands on the chair, and spun it around to face her. Her movements were sharp and propulsive, setting her blouse-exploding boobs wobbling and bouncing. She curled her lip, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“…You like my breasts, huh Doc?”
He nodded once. She’d heard of thousand-yard stares. Dr. Vasquez’s eyes went on for several light years.
“Well, I don’t.” She started unbuttoning her blouse. Flesh exploded and burst through the gaps. Huge rolls of boob were pancaking from above the hoops of her bra. He couldn’t look. “I despise them. I can’t wait for them to be gone and in the dumpster. Fuck them. Both of them.”
Her smile did not shrink. But her words changed it from sincere to not, from earnest to full-of-shit. It was just another dial she turned. Smiles manipulate men just like tits do, with the added advantage that there’s no bra to take off.
Dr. Vasquez flinched as she exploded into motion.
“Let’s get this over with.” Katy’s playful smirk now had rage snarling through it. She flung the blouse aside, unhooked the bra. Her doctor looked like he was going to faint as her huge titty-torpedoes swung down, whamming like flesh hammers against her chest. They were ludicrously thick and full, the undersides latticed with veins and stretch marks from their rapid growth.
Katy smoothly slid down to her knees, kneeling before Dr. Vasquez like a worshipper before a white-coated god. She heaved out a hot, long breath as she unbuttoned his pants. His raging boner burst free, nearly striking her in the face.
She spiked her ass back on her heels, giving it an enterprising little wiggle. Then she rocked forward into his crotch, stacking her huge funbags on top of his knees. They bulged, drooping like water balloons against his legs.
“Ready?” Katy’s smile had a pirate’s ruthlessness. She hefted the dangling shaft, pumping it in her hand. Heat blazed from the vein-corrugated shaft. The engorged glans oozed precum over her breasts.
Then she fed it like a snake into her yawning cleavage.
SCHLORP!
Mind racing, eyes exploding, Dr. Vasquez watched his cock eaten by a cavernous, sweat-dripping void of breastmeat. Every nerve ending on his glans screamed in blissed out sensation as it ploughed through her chestal chasm.
Katy’s tits squeezed and pressed inward, sculpted by her hands. She pumped and jerked until his cock slid forward, emerging from her neckline. She gave a hot, toothy grin at the stalk of manflesh throbbing between her rack.
“Welcome to the milking station,” Katy spat into her rack, palmed her tits inward, and began jerking him off.
She worked her breasts like a master artist, smashing them together, obliterating his cock and his mind with convulsive rolls of her flesh. Her tits crashed against his prick with oscillating mashes and plunges. She let her rack bulge and balloon over him, pressing so hard her tits registered each vein in his dick, then releasing the pressure at the moment before it became pain. Sometimes the moment after. Who was checking?
With his knees buried beneath client décolletage, Dr. Vasquez’s ankles began to shake. She noticed that shake, and smiled like a pink-accessorized devil.
Grinding and pulverizing his cock between her slippery tits, she watched his dick ride her cleavage up into her chin. It spiked, then pulled back. Spiked, then pulled back. On the third spike, she snapped her head down, caught his glans between her lips, and began sucking his shaft.
“OHH!” His legs drummed a crazed rhythm on the carpet. “KAATYYY!”
sssshhhhhlllluuuuurrrrrrkkkkkahhhhhhh
She sucked him down, looking up from his crotch, making smoldering eye contact as his veiny, spit-shined prick flowed into her voluptuous lips. No longer needed, her breasts flopped away. She just took him all the way down, leaving his erection planted inside her quivering hot neck-sheath.
GLURK! He wanted to scream as her sucking mouth inscribed pink lipstick on his quivering scrotal-meat. His glans was wedged like a battering ram against the back of her throat. This woman had no gag reflex at all!
His eyes bulged as Katy feasted on his crotch, sucking and slurping, her pink nails gripping his hips and squeezing. Saliva spilled from her chin as she pumped and fucked her pretty face onto his prick, her lips pillowing against his pubis. Disgusting liquid sounds echoed from her throat, defiling the pristine air of the medical center with sin and need. The same blind gibbering male lust Katy had spent a career conjuring, and very occasionally relieving.
She gave a lewd deep slurp, and a subtle twist of her neck. That was all it took.
Dr. Vasquez plunged over the edge.
“Cumming, Katy! I’m cuh-CUMMING!”
His knees clacked together and his balls contracted beneath Katy’s chin and then he burst like a geyser going off in her mouth.
A sludge-thick river of sperm jetted down her throat, pooling in her stomach. She gagged and choked on his thick load as it pumped out in hot, slippery spurts—six pulses, eight, nine, and part of a tenth. She gripped his scrotum through his orgasm, pumping in counter-rhythm to his squirts. A white thunderclap of pleasure overwhelmed him—an orgasm refracted down to a single point.
“Oh my God…” he sobbed, openly crying as cum streamed from his balls. “You’re incredible.”
The eyes above the throbbing cock narrowed a bit, becoming cold and conniving. Her lashes twitched in amused irritation. Fast cummer, like always, her mascara-hollowed stare seemed to say. But only for a second. Never tell the customer the truth about themselves. Not the first rule of sales, but certainly fourth or fifth.
Once the spurts stopped, Katy pulled her pink lips off his sated shaft with a moist pop. The soft, shivering organ swung down between his legs.
Katy belched on his load. The loud URRRRRPPPP sound was unbelievably filthy, and seemed to cling to the white walls like slime.
“Remember, Doc, we never spoke about this.”
She rocked back, standing up in a flash of spit-shiny boobs. The bouncing of her massive jugs atop her stomach caught his eye.
“Katy…”
Mere seconds after blowing a horse-sized load down her throat, his dick began rising. Eager for another round.
He moistened his lips, and gestured at his crotch. “This afternoon’s free.”
It wasn’t anything like free, but that didn’t matter. For Katy Perry, he’d make it free. He’d cancel all his appointments. Cancel the dinner he had booked with his wife of twelve years.
Right now, staring hungrily down into the trench of her enormous dangling breasts, he thought he’d cancel his whole fucking life if it meant he could grab Katy Perry, throw her ass-down onto his desk, and then spend the entire afternoon fucking her on his clinic table.
He had to have her.
His heart throbbed like an infested cyst. He was lost, lost, lost in the massive, endless tit-trench this cruel but alluring fantasy held suspended before his eyes. His world foreshortened to two massive meat-sacks to plough his face into, two thick thighs to loop around his neck, a pink shaven cunt to pack with his cock. He was a ship lost in a sea of Katy Perry’s beautiful, unattainable flesh.
She delivered dismissals the way she delivered orgasms: with brutality, efficiency, and relish.
“You’re free this afternoon. I’m not.”
Her calendar was eleven pounds of shit in a ten pound bag. She had a pick-up vocal session with a recording engineer and A&R head, followed by a party with a Palme d’Or award-winning producer, and then an afterparty with the head of a major international modeling agency. It was unlikely that she’d fuck all four men that day, but quite likely that she’d fuck at least one or two. You never knew when a favor would come in handy.
She was above his grade. It was that simple. For sale doesn’t mean for sale cheap.
Her pussy had neither time nor inclination for the likes of Dr. Vasquez and his civilian-grade dick.
With a smile of girlish ingenuity, Katy stood, spun, and sauntered. He whined in frustration, his cock throbbing.
As she headed for the door, she flicked her hair back with an arrogant head-toss, pulled her bomber jacket over her naked torso, and zipped it up. She stopped just long enough to snatch up her discarded bra and blouse from the examination room floor.
She threw her ass around in arrogant mocking circles. His eyes followed her butt-wags with a look of helpless, pleading lust. Oh, how he wanted her. He’d do anything. Literally anything.
All sense of shame fled him. “Please, Katy…just once…”
Katy laughed pitilessly. She turned and tilted her head, staring him down in imperious disregard. “You closed the deal too early. If you want a fuck, don’t settle for a blowjob. Rookie move.”
She strutted out of his examination room—and his life, until the next time she needed him. Moments later, he heard her Maserati’s engine start. The roar shook the flimsy walls of his Santa Monica clinic.
Dr. Vasquez just sat, sick with lust, his cock throbbing as it hung from his pants. He listened to her roar away to Santa Monica while jerking off into a wad of tissues—cursing her, loving her, hating her, simply wanting her.
Most and worst of all, not having her.
That had been a month ago.
Relax. Very likely, you’re on the other side of it.
Her breasts had gone up another three sizes since then.
Katy was extra glad she hadn’t screwed the useless idiot. Some people deserved to die with blue balls.
Posing sideways before the mirror, she squeezed her monstrously huge left breast with sick fascination. It jiggled and quivered like jelly. Sinusoidal ripples wobbled through its mass.
She dropped the breast. It plunged in a heavy arc, clubbing in a spray of sweat against her stomach.
ker-PLAPP!
The sting triggered a wince—the tit had landed with the force of a flesh asteroid. Any brontosauri or diplodoci on her upper stomach were now extinct as shit. And unless she fixed this, so was her career.
I can’t dance or perform with these boulders slopping off my chest. I’d look ridiculous! Katy felt sweat trickle between her rippling cleavage. Her thoughts ran in rat-crazy circles. How much have I grown?
She put her hands on her hips, and hit poses. Making her big fuck-tanks bobble. They dangled down to her belly button, looking ludicrously big and heavy. She wondered how large they were now. She’d been wearing old maternity bras—gray and shapeless ones with the tags cut off. She didn’t know the size of those.
She decided to try one of her real bras.
She fished out the 28I she’d worn in the before-times. With a sigh, she reached and hooked up the band, and slopped a massive blob of titflesh into the left cup. It slid awkwardly into place, taking several seconds to adjust to the curvature of the cup. Breastfat spilled through the sides and top.
Oh fuck, it’s not anywhere close to a fit.
Sweating like a pig, she tugged her equally huge right breast into its cup. With her breasts roughly stuffed into the cups, she took a deep breath, and hauled the straps up over her shoulder.
Pain tore out from her chest. She wanted to scream. She felt the bra underwire gouging into her flesh like metal kanji.
She struggled with the straps, pulling her massive boobs up into her face—they were spine-breakingly heavy, and nearly engulfed her chin as they swelled against it. They ate everything in their path, like rising bread dough. The twin masses bulged into her armpits. She finally got the loops around her shoulders, grunted, and released the straps.
SNAP!
Her massive tits dropped, plunging a foot straight down. They halted with a neck-jarring jolt that forced air from her lungs in a sharp gasp. “OW!” Bra straps had just gouged deep trenches into her shoulders, sinking a full inch in from the weight of her huge breasts. Her vision swam and she couldn’t breathe.
She straightened her back with a painful jerk. The bra was rib-crushingly tight.
Katy Perry didn’t quite have enough air to laugh at what she saw in the mirror.
A pair of huge squished tits—bowling-ball sized—filling a 28I bra and almost bursting it apart. She didn’t have a torso: she had two huge boobs that filled her frontal profile from her shoulders to her belly. Huge swells of dough-hued fat spewed out of every available hole, gushing free in torrents of flesh, sin-pink at the edge of the straps. From the edges of the bra cups to her shoulders, valleys pinched and twisted through obscene meat—deep jiggly clefts that filled with shadow. Her breasts pressed out deep cleavage like tectonic plates colliding. Waves of flesh trembled and collided through her packed-tight chest with each breath, motion, and shift of posture.
Cursing, Katy tore off the bra, and flung it aside.
She went through her wardrobe like a whirlwind, ripping open trunks and luggage bags. She found what she was looking for in the abyssal depths of a heavy travel-tote; the biggest bra her sponsor—Moschino—had manufactured for her. The one they’d sent as a joke. Obviously you’ll never get this big, but even if you do, we’ve got you covered!
It was silver and laminated with powdermesh wings and stretch-mesh cups and looked so ridiculously, unwearably big as she turned it over and over in her hands. She could put her entire mystified head and both fists inside each one of the cups.
This was a comedy bra made for 300-lb drag queens who chest-padded with balloons—a ludicrously-oversized contraption that no normal woman would or even could wear. She peered in mute incomprehension at the tag.
40M.
Such a fucking letter. Such a fucking number. Yikes, I’m really speedrunning the alphabet here, aren’t I?
Katy gritted her teeth and strapped it on. She grunted and strained and swore, jiggling and wriggling and shaking and shimmying and shoveling and packing her obscene tits into place inside the mesh. The Moschino was stretched to its limit as she hooked up the backband, which released alarming pops and groans as her jugs stretched it.
She couldn’t believe how much she was still spilling.
The largest-size bra in her wardrobe. The one sent as a joke. Still too small.
Panicking, because she needed to be in rehearsals for her upcoming tour, she rang her assistant.
“Kris,” she said, conscious of her breasts quivering. “I need a new costume designer, stat. My entire wardrobe needs to be redone.”
“….Mmmkay. I’ll book you in with your usual. Robespierre Styling. They have all your measurements. Still 28C around the chest, right?”
She swallowed, and bit the bullet. “My bust measurements…have changed.”
“Changed how? Are you smaller?”
Making the assumption everyone did. That she was on Ozempic and losing weight, because that was what was supposed to happen in a sane universe, right?
She giggled. The giggle had nervousness in the front, madness in the back. “Uh, the opposite of smaller.”
“Bigger?”
Katy’s fingers bunched, forming a fist. “Bigger is generally the opposite of smaller, so yes. Glad we could clear that up.”
“So you’re a 28D or something? I can just text them, and they’ll update your measurement.”
“Actually…” Katy looked at herself in the mirror. Enormous breasts, exploding out of 40M bra, her pink flesh fountaining out in every direction.
The idea of her usual army of stylists goggling and gossiping was not appealing.
“Can you book me in with someone new? Someone who doesn’t know me?”
The I-405 blurred past the window.
Katy was being driven to a measuring appointment with the high-end couturier her assistant had booked. The chick’s atelier was way out in Orange County. Katy’s measurements would be taken, and then the laborious—and expensive—process would begin of reconstructing a vast arsenal of outfits to accommodate a much larger bustline.
Each of Katy’s flamboyant outfits would need weeks to construct, and time was running out. I need to stop hoping for things to return to normal, and get cracking.
Right now, she was wearing her favorite outfit: a stunning, razzle-dazzle number known as don’t-fucking-talk-to-me.
Her over-voluptuous body was covered in a utilitarian tracksuit that would have seemed only slightly large on an NFL fullback. The hood was drawn up, burying her head in shadow. The gray sweatpants were slack at the knee and ankle. Two noticeable bulges distorting her tracksuit at chest-height were the only clue of anything amiss. Everything was gray on gray on gray.
“Katy…” a whisper came from the front seat. “…I really admire how you went to space.”
The designer’s brother—Terrence something-or-other—was behind the wheel of the car. The guy had no idea how to handle stars, let alone attractive ones. He’d seemingly spent the entire trip ogling Katy’s body in the rear vision mirror. Every few seconds, she tried pulling up the zipper on her oversized jacket, even though it was already at her chin.
“Thank you.” Katy spoke robotically, not looking up.
“People are hating on you. That’s wrong. I think it’s amazing, what you did.”
“Mmm.” She shoved her designer sunglasses onto her face so hard that the frames almost merged into her flesh, Videodrome-style.
Don’t talk to me, fuckface. Just drive.
“I want to go to space some day…” He mused, staring at the road ahead. “I bet it feels amazing.”
She looked up, and saw his face for the first time. He was younger than she’d thought. Eighteen? He had sandy blond hair frozen in spikes, pimples of the sort you never saw in LA, and vulnerable eyes. They reminded her of a desert coyote she’d glimpsed en route to Blue Origin—a sad stare, a window to inner wreckage.
She felt mild, maternalistic pity for one of the little people. Aww, may as well fulfill my be-nice-to-a-fan quota for the day.
“It does, but it’s scary. It changes you, being up there.” Katy fell into her persona, into the handling-the-public voice she’d practiced for dozens of hours with vocal coaches, and dozens more in front of the mirror. Bright, ditzy poptimism. “I saw the Earth, and ohmgod, it looked so blue, and so fragile. Like an egg that might break if we hold it wrong. It really gave me perspective on my own activism, and role we all play in…”
Terrence interrupted her memorized talking points with a laugh.
“That’s not why you went to space.”
She raised an enquiring eyebrow.
He smiled thinly, smirking as though this was some private joke they shared. “You don’t care about the environment. Or about activism.”You were asserting dominance.”
She felt like she’d been Jean Claude van Damme roundhouse-kicked in the throat.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“It was a power move!” He gushed. “And it was awesome! I totally relate to what you did. You know, the dominance impulse. Kids at my school make fun of me, and call me names. But some day I’m gonna go to space like you and then they’ll fucking know who’s on top. I’ll be like ‘Look up, you bullying pieces of shit. That’s me. That kid you called spastic and autist is now above your heads while you’re on the ground paying tax.’ You totally had the right idea, Katy! Everyone thinks celebs should be down to earth and relatable. Screw that—you and Jeff Bezos are part of the master goddamn race! You deserve to go to space!”
Katy’s eyes became narrow slits of fury. “I don’t understand. Are you insulting me, or is this some horribly failed joke?”
“Come on,” he enthused. “There’s no way you didn’t spend the whole time thinking ‘this is the way it should be’, over and over. The high in their place, the low in theirs. Let the losers seethe and cope. They’re down there, while you’re staring at them in $2000 Versaces from your penis rocket.”
“New Shepard is not shaped like a penis!” she squalled, kicking her foot on the upholstery. “The aerodynamic thrust signature…the thermal diffusion heat ratio…SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
The penis-rocket thing was a sore point for Katy.
He changed lanes, still making goo-goo eyes of love in the rear vision mirror. “When I become famous, I’ll have my own penis rocket. Except my one’s gonna have a dick and balls, just to really rub it in, you know? You know the part in The Boys where Homelander jerks off over the whole city? I wanna be the first person to do that. Just masturbate over the pathetic planet before it keels over and dies and I go to live on Mars.”
Katy couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this horrendously maladjusted young male.
They were now in Orange County. He flicked the turn signal, and braked in front of a bungalow rising from the side of a hill.
“Um…we’re here, by the way. My sister’s studio. Nice talking to you, Katy. Say hi to Saffron for me!”
She just sat in his back seat until he cocked his head.
“…Er, you’re not mad about something I said, are you?”
“Gee, you think?” She became a snarling hellcat. “This is the most disgusting, offensive conversation I have ever been a part of. You think I went to space as some kind of power play? Go fuck yourself. You are pathetic human trash for even thinking that, let alone saying it.”
“But Katy…” he whined, looking heartbroken. “I meant it as a compliment…”
She stormed from the car, climbing the hill with her middle finger raised at the car. “Fuck you!”
Halfway to the atelier, she stopped, and swung her head back for a parting shot.
“…And the Versaces are $3000, asshole!”
Katy climbed the steps to the couturier’s private studio, quietly losing her shit.
The sensation of her heavy breasts bouncing and wobbling was maddening, and doing nothing for her state of high piss-off. She kept having to yank her panties out of the crack of her obscenely big and sweaty ass.
“Loser.” She fumed, spitting out the words. “Waste of oxygen. I hate my goddamn fans so much…”
She slammed open the door to the atelier’s reception, her face burning.
No receptionist greeted her. A messy interior was loosely divided into quarters by half-translucent bamboo-patterned curtains. Everything beneath her feet was absolutely buried in oceans of seamstress tack. Katy flung her clutch purse on the only square foot of floor that wasn’t covered in folded lengths of cloth, measuring tapes, and assorted scraps of high-end wear. There was no sign of anyone.
“One sec! Coming!” A sharp and girlish voice came from the next room over. Katy heard heels clicking a rapid approach, and sighed.
She was well-trained. The instant the blue-haired seamstress skipped into the room, Katy’s look of disgust simply slipped from her face like a Halloween mask with the string snipped. Her fists had become hands. Katy Fucking Perry was back in charge: her fun, bubbly party girl veneer. No thoughts off. Head empty. The part of her that didn’t just tolerate large breasts but loved having them. Katy Fucking Perry didn’t hate her fans. The idea was preposterous. She loved them! She loved them so much!
“Hi Katy!” the girl squealed. “I’m Saffron! I’ve been a fan of your work since forever. I saw you on the Vans Warped Tour! I had ‘Ur So Gay’ on HitClips—remember those? I used to write your song lyrics in dry-erase on my locker!”
Yeah, that’s not creepy at all. Katy thought behind a blinding, insincere smile. Meet Saffron, the next clown in today’s mentally ill fan parade.
“That’s so beautiful!” Katy cooed. “I just love hearing from people who—”
“Go fuck yourself, you planet-burning bitch.”
For the second time in five minutes, Katy felt like Bloodsport-era Van Damme had installed a foot at high speed into the softest part of her throat.
“Er…what?”
“What you did is disgusting!” Saffron wrung her hands in agitation. She wasn’t smiling now. “When I heard the news, I actually wondered if this was a different Katy Perry. Surely my childhood hero wouldn’t debase herself by becoming Jeff Bezos’s quirky PR bitch. Then I saw you on TV, spouting limousine liberal bullshit about how we need to ‘protect our mother’. Um, yeah, girlie. We need protect it from you.”
Katy’s mind imploded like a dynamited building. She hunted for a comeback. None came.
“Do you know how much carbon dioxide your cute little cashtronaut adventure released into the atmosphere?” Saffron asked. When Katy didn’t respond, she got out her phone. “Fifty tons. As much as three hundred average Americans burn in one year. You got to have your Instagrammable little epiphany, though. It’s all good.”
“But…but…I offset my carbon footprint! I planted trees in the Amazon!”
“The corporation?” Saffron rolled her eyes.
“The rainforest! Believe me, I know the…optics of the situation are complex. But you have to realize that—”
“I believed in you, Katy!” Saffron’s voice screamed over her. It was like having an argument with a high-speed industrial belt sander. “In high school, you were all I had! How could you do this to your fans?” She thumped her chest, shamelessly melodramatic with tears welling. “How could you do this to me?”
Katy glanced at the walls, and saw posters she hadn’t before.
THERE IS NO PLANET B
IF SLAUGHTERHOUSES HAD GLASS WALLS, EVERYONE WOULD BE A VEGETARIAN—Paul McCartney
THE PLANET ISN’T DYING, IT’S BEING KILLED
Oh God, I’m in the patchouli-scented hands of a crunchy eco-bitch from hell. Why had Kris booked her here, with this person? It didn’t make sense. This was the last couturier in LA who would want to work with her.
Saffron hooked a thumb out her atelier window, where her brother’s Honda Civic was parked out in the street.
“My brother is a mental case who thinks he’s a supervillain in a movie or something. I bet he tried to buddy-buddy up to you over going to space, didn’t he? He loves big, evil gestures. Loves the idea of a person who can do anything. But no, even calling you a megalomaniac supervillain is giving you too much credit. You don’t even have that. You’re empty inside. A zero. Someone tells you what to say and you perform like a clapping seal. You preach about activism and then some billionaire robber baron throws some cash your way, and none of it’s real, because you’re not real. Pathetic. Can’t believe my younger self was fooled by it.”
Katy’s mouth hung open. The brain behind it wasn’t doing a great job of manufacturing words at the moment.
“Saffron, I’m sorry.” Incredibly, some stubborn stage-trained part of her was trying to smile through the pain.. “Can we draw a line under this, and start again? Forget who I am. Forget your baggage about me. Pretend I’m just another customer.” A jag of emotion broke her voice. “Because right now, I’m having a crap day. Nothing’s going right, nothing’s working, and I just want these stupid measurements done.”
“Karma’s real and a bitch.” Saffron’s lip curled. “Go to hell, Katheryn Elizabeth Hudson. I’m not taking your measurements. I brought you out here to read you to filth. I can’t believe I ever liked you. I can’t believe I was ever your fan. You aren’t even dead to me. How could you be? You were never alive.”
Katy started moving.
Toward the door.
Toward the car.
“You’re wrong, Saffron. About everything. But suppose you were right…what’s changed?” She flicked her head back to Saffron, who saw a predatory hunger that chilled her blood. “I’m still me, and you’re still you. And like you said, I can do anything.”
Saffron’s brother Terrence had the front driver seat reclined back. He lay sprawled across it like a teenager-shaped sack of meat. Feet kicked up on the dash, finger up his nose, yawning as he flicked his phone.
The flash reflector was spun down to block his view of the house, and although he heard his sister’s front door crash open, he didn’t see Katy moving swiftly and efficiently down the atelier steps toward the car.
He was shocked when the pop singer tore open the passenger side door, and climbed on top of his body.
Even more shocked by her next instruction.
“G…get naked?” he asked as her heavy tits dragged across his chest. “Why?”
“Because you can’t fuck me with clothes on, stupid,” Katy slung her body across his. Her eyes bored into him—tunnels of madness. “I’m screwing you. Right here, right now. Where your stuck-up bitch of a sister can watch and get mad about it.”
His eyes bugged out. The busty minx’s heat and weight spilled across him, drowning thought in a tide of red meaty lust. “No…why are you doing this?”
Katy tensed her jaw as she began unzipping off her boob-stuffed tracksuit. How to answer that? The muscles in her porcelain-white face tightened with lightning-fast twitches of rage. A mind written one rictus at a time.
Because she felt miserable and inadequate? Because she needed any sort of approval? Because everyone—everyone—had been kicking her into the dirt for weeks, including her own body. Because of that high-faluting word her therapist had used, transference, where urges or impulses that can’t be satisfied one way must be realized another, different way, like a river bursting its banks and flooding across the land as it chases gravity to the sea. Frustration became fury. Fury shifted to lust. Lust transformed into a solid, visceral ache for cock that was wired right through her cunt like two hundred volts.
Right now, she needed dick. And more dick. And then still more dick after that. Dick did not ever judge her. Even gay dick appreciated her—though mostly in a politely abstract adult-watching-Five-Nights-At-Freddy’s-with-their-child kind of way. Dick was the only way back to herself.
“Because you told me the truth.” Her breath washed across his shocked face, and her boobs dangled over his chest. “Let that be why. It’s close enough.”
“The truth about what?” Terrence was not the smartest guy when two huge bra-exploding boobs were wobbling over his face. Or even when they weren’t.
She wasted no time in ripping off his shirt. Then she attacked him like a succubus, clawing at his bare skin, planting kisses on his face as she answered.
“I am better than other people. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, to whoever I want.”
Katy slithered and climbed him like a snake does a tree, clambering in serpentine movements over his body. The car was too small for her wanton aggression. A knee swung out, knocked the shift-stick out of PARK, and the car began to gently roll down the street with her clambering movements.
She pulled her head back, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Then she loomed over his body—it was smeared with her lipstick, like pink blood—panting with lust. Her fingers fumbled behind her back, unstrapping the huge 40M bra.
Straps whiplashed off her shoulders, torn by the anvil-heavy weight of her chest that were plunging through the air, only to land on him. Twenty pounds of drug-fueled Californian titmeat crashed into his lap—her tits hit with the force of a guillotine, coinciding with the moment the car smacked a curb.
ka-PLAPP!
“Ahhh!” He squirmed as waves of Katy Perry’s flesh rippled and shuddered like goo as it piled on his jean-clad crotch. His cock throbbed desperately, buried in solid foot of warm sweat-pungent tit. Katy’s hand worked under their slippery bulk, undoing his fly, and unbuttoning his jeans. Creating a hole, which his cock punched through.
A ripple quivered through her tits as his cock spiked up inside her cleavage. It emerged from the tops of her breasts. She hawked and spat into the gap, scoring a bullseye on his throbbing glans—he gasped as saliva landed on his tip. When she began titfucking him, he gasped again, and again. His broken, breath-moans became a cadence, pulsing out to match her breasts’ rhythm on his pole.
Katy gripped her tits and lifted, her knuckles white with focus as she socketed Terrence’s shaft inside her warm, pungent-smelling chasm of cleavage. Then, she let her boobs drop. GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SPLAAAAATTTT! She ground and slopped her rack over his erection—heavy lifts followed by bone-jarring drops.
She ground and smashed his sensitive prick into submission. Jerking it. Pumping it. Milking it. Squeezing it. Just once, she licked the tip of his penis as it popped from between her jugs. The flash of her tongue made him squirm, knees kicking out.
SQUISH-SPLORG-GLUBB!
“You got it fucking right, Terrence,” she snarled over the pounding drumbeat of titflesh. “I am better. I deserve better. I’m taking better. I’ve outworked, outskilled, and outtalented everyone. Who are they to judge me? That bitch of a sister of yours can fuck off. ’Oh my gawsh, you burned fifty tons of CO2! Yeah, and next time it’ll be a hundred tons. Then two hundred. Just because I can. Go cry about it.”
She picked up the pace. Terrence’s gasps gained blood and force and urgency, a frantic counterpoint to the sound of messy, sloppy titfucking. Katy’s bowling-ball sized udders flew up and down in sweaty blurs, growing steadily wetter and messier by the second, slinging droplets of saliva and precum over the car interior as they bounced. He could hardly move as boob-masses clubbed up and down on his lap, pinning his cock between their obscene blubbery masses.
GLUUURK-SPLAT-SCHLOOOP!
“I spent ten years banging dudes grosser than you to make it as a star. And I didn’t do it just to be MEDIOCRE!”
Katy was screaming in his face now, barely audible over the wet SLAPs and CLOPs of her bulging boobs.
“I’m better than you! I’m better than her! I’m better than fucking Taylor Swift, who had the nerve to start messing with me after all I did for her! I’m better than my doctor! I’m the boss queen of the known universe!”
She accelerated her tits to blurs over his cock until he bleated and shot a high-pressure bolt of cum out of her cleavage. It hit her jaw with skin-stinging force.
His cock kept jerking and pulsing, shooting urgent jets that burst and splattered against her chin and neck. She felt each spasm roll through his reproductive organ as it discharged pungent strands of boyspunk across her body, as thick as toothpaste.
When he finally finished busting, she released her cum-splattered tits. They slung back, dropping with identical SPLATS, rolling heavily off his lap and dangling on each side of the car seat. Her entire torso had white goo-strands plastered on her skin like sticky graffiti. Messy, glutinous globs of boyspunk dripped from her tits to the rubber floormats.
Katy used his T-shirt to wipe off his cum from her tits. Lip coiled in disgust, she flung the sperm-sodden T-shirt away. It hit the back window with a wet smack, and remained stuck for a few seconds before sliding down. It was like it was glued to the glass.
She climbed back up his body until she was face to face with the boy. She planted her face on his, her lips lewd and wanton. She kissed him with brutal, loveless intensity. She vacuum-pulled his tongue into her mouth, feeling his cock swelling against her navel. It throbbed in the indent of her belly button.
Katy lifted herself up, straddled his hips cowgirl-style, and flung herself down on his cock.
SPLURCH!
Her hot slutbox squelched as it slurped down Terrence’s prick to the balls. The reclined car seat jarred as she dropped her full weight onto him—not just her tits this time, but her entire body. Her pubis quivered as it settled atop his belly.
Katy moaned, filled with cock and overfilled with pleasure, shuddering at the hot shaft slithering and squirming at the bottom of her cunt. Her eyes fluttered. Sweat stung her face, and dripped down her back. She repositioned her hips with little twists and nudges, found the angle that would grind out pleasure on her clit, and began bouncing. Riding his cock hard, fucking him cowgirl-style in full view of the atelier.
SHPLOORRK-SHPLOORRK! GLOOP…FLOOP…GLORTCH! The noise of raw dirty cuntfucking made the windows vibrate and hum. The car began rocking on its springs with each impact of her hips.
As she plowed her pussy with his cock, Katy glanced back up the hill. Saffron stood at the window—doubtless attracted by the car hitting the curb.
She watched them, a hand clapped in shock to her mouth.
Katy laughed in triumph as wet fluid splattered out beneath the crushes of her falling cunt. She humped the boy like a rodeo wrangler, slam-fucking the bitch’s brother with her thick legs gripping his body for support and comfort—more her comfort than his. She kept leaning forward, sometimes letting her boobs fall into his face, othertimes kissing him with hungry, rapacious ardor. Once or twice she flicked her pretty head in Saffron’s direction and winked.
Katy felt an orgasm building.
Ten percent due to Terrence’s mediocre dick, ninety percent due to the look on the bitch’s face. It was delicious.
“OHMYGODGONNA—!”
She climaxed with a sharp, brittle scream—her horny desperate pussy gobbled and slurped and convulsed around him, spraying out musky fluid. She rode her orgasm up to the peak of the sky, into star-drenched realms Blue Origin could never breach. She tossed her head back. Her hair flew in a sweaty spray as her beautiful pink lips ululated wrathful, rapturous joy.
Awestruck, Terrence secured handholds on her volleyballing tits. He gripped them to avoid being slung off her sweat-dripping body. Her squeezing, scissoring hips were pulling him to his second orgasm in ten minutes.
Terrence gave her enormous funbags a long, hard squeeze. He squeezed it so hard that her titmeat began spilling through his fingers. It looked as though each his hand had ten fingers as her titflesh sponged out between them in rolls.
Hatred—raw and pure and beautiful—welled up through her, breaking apart every wall. She flicked out a painted hand, stabbing down the driver side window. Then she stuck her head out, and yelled at Saffron.
“EAT SHIT!” Katy roared as her orgasm boiled and thundered, her pulse kicking. Eyes full of steel, teeth locked like a trap, she mercilessly fucked with slams of her heavy, churning hips, her mind vaporized before a tide of hate and fury so hot it wasn’t red, it was white. She was glad to be insane, to be a madwoman, to be a shrieking squirting fireball, to be anything that wasn’t Katy Perry. Hatred for everything around her overwhelmed everything. Hatred for her tits, for her fans, for the space flight, for LA itself.
Then it was over.
Or at least the not-over version of over that addicts feel.
Katy lay on top of him, sweat-dripping and shuddering as if coming out of a bone-deep African fever. I have to go back she decided, feeling his cock twitch inside her orgasm-slack fucksleeve. Her clit throbbed. Have to go back to that place again.
They stirred the boy to life, and they switched positions.
The fucking resumed, this time with him on top.
While she drummed impatient fingers, Terrence awkwardly mounted Katy, pressing his cock to her pungent, jiggly twat, slowly pushing her petals apart. He seemed hesitant as he wrestled his way inside her guts—as though the fact that it was now technically him fucking her made it different and dangerous. She rolled her eyes. Just get it in, idiot. Her pussy had successfully garaged some extraordinarily large cocks in its day—Terrence’s penis didn’t rank in the top thousand.
Soon, provoked by her impatient whines and contemptuous stares—come on, put it in harder, is that all you’ve got?—he found a rhythm, and fell into it. His hips pounded a wet drumbeat inside her—aggressive tribal percussion. Savagely pumping his penis between her jerking thighs, he breed-slamming her cunt, taking out his frustrations on her meaty cunt. It became his bullies, his sister.
“Take it, you fucking bitch!” Terrence snarled spittle into her face as he straddled her body, gripping her shoulders, fucking his thick slippery shaft into her. Her fleshy petals squelched rudely as they parted before his thrusts. Katy clenched her teeth as his dick freight-trained down her cunt, aware of her monster boobs flailing and slapping in her armpits. Gallons of titmeat quaked and rippled, slinging away sweat which ran in streamers down the upholstery.
SPLAT! SPRACK! SPLOOT! The car frame shook with the force of his cunt-jarring thrusts. The windows were fogging up.
Katy’s back lifted off the car seat. Her spine arched in ecstasy. Her mouth sucked in breath, the better to scream out her next orgasm. Fucking her from above, the horny boy pendulum’d his hips back and forth, driving his cock into her foaming pussy. He fucked her hard, watching her eyelashes flutter, the lids squeezing shut with her vaginal contractions. Such a beautiful face. So much fun to wreck with orgasm.
He slid deep inside her tight slippery fucktunnel. SCHLOOOORRRPPP-GLUUURK-SPLAT! His fat prick flexed. His heavy ballsack squished like wrinkled taffy, smearing greasily against her gooch.
Her fleshy body jiggled, one fuck-stroke at a time. Their hips smashed and blurred and sledgehammered, the impacts detonating through the car. Everything that could wobble wobbled—particularly the parts attached to Katy’s gorgeously-fleshed body.
GLOOOP-SCHLICK-BUUURP! SPLOOOSH-GURGLE-PLAP! GLUUURK-SPLAT-SCHLOOOP!
“Uhh…ohmyGAWWW—!”
The singer cummed messily on his dick. Her pussy squirted, bright droplets bursting across the car seat’s upholstery, the runoff pooling in hollows and crevices. Lewd wet slaps and squelches of flesh on flesh detonated as the fucking reached its terminal point. Katy’s ragged grunts and moans rang out, crescendoing, while Terrence’s cock reduced her to squirting, spraying wreckage with brutal flexes of his hips..
WHAM! SLAP! PLAPP! SKLURRRTCH!
“Oh yeah, oh baby, oh—oh—oh—OHHHHHH!”
His own gasps gained weight and thickness, racing upward to climax. Katy’s orgasmic ecstasies settled on his cock like chains, and he felt his own release racing out of him. The brat drove his hips into her wet cuntal sheath, his fat dick pounding away at her orgasm-flexing core until he finally—but inevitably—joined it.
in a whine of rising pitch and volume as he ploughed the impossibly hot pop singer, feeling his balls tense.
“Can I cum in you?” He hissed this, feeling sperm racing in loops through his epididymis and vas deferens.
“Only if she sees.” Katy shot back. Her voice was blanketed by fuck-squelches rutted out from between their gnashing, gushing hips.
He adjusted the seat recliner lever so that they were in full view of the driveway.
Saffron looked ready to faint as she watched her brother deposit a creampie into the cunt of her childhood idol.
An enormous blast of sperm poured out into her womb, chased by several more. Terrence groaned, eyes rolling back. The noise of his cock ejaculating was lewd and juicy inside her, making the air bubble with sound. Cum gushed and slopped and dripped from their knotted-together fuckmeat for several long seconds. Terrence’s cock shrank and collapsed in on itself, deflating like a balloon inside her twat, finally falling free.
Then near-silence prevailed, broken by panted breath and dribbling cum. Until…
“I’m the best.” Katy’s huge breasts wobbled as she sat up, shoving him aside. “I’M THE BEST!”
Terrence was about to agree…but Katy’s finger pressed upon his mouth. “Don’t agree. I hate that. It’s true whether you think it or not.”
Saffron looked sick and faint. She had the complexion between a person about to die and one already dead. Katy matched her stare, grinned, and stuck out her tongue at the couturier.
“You did well.” She cradled the shellshocked youth’s sweaty head between the mountains of her bulbous, face-swallowing breasts. “Drive me home, and I’ll titfuck you again. Then you can go.”
Terrence wondered if she’d marry him. In this delirious sweat-drenched aftermath, anything seemed possible.
“D—do you want to hang out? Get to know each other?”
“No.”
One week later…
The Verzhbitsky twins left Katy Perry’s Montecito mansion, disturbed by what they’d seen.
The pop singer was going insane.
They’d dropped off their latest batch of Ozempic—or what Katy believed was Ozempic—and found a trashed mansion, with a singer spiraling inward into herself, spiritually swallowed by self-delusion and psychosis, physically swallowed by her breasts, which were continuing to grow and had reached cartoonish size.
Months of fan backlash had left Katy’s mental state in tatters, and her body had joined in the chorus. She was a clown that wasn’t funny. A joke nobody laughed at. She had retreated into the only place she had left. Fantasy.
“It’s a conspiracy of everyone. Everyone against me. Even God wants to see me fail,” Katy had flicked a nonexistent bang from her eyes, gazing placidly ahead with a deep, medicated stare. She’d made the Russians rum and cokes with a hand shaking so badly she’d almost amputated a fingertip on the edge of a steel mixer. “It’s because…” She halted to search for words. “…That’s the only way it can be a fair fight. Because I’m just that far ahead.”
Katy’s hand had jerked, knocking a $400 bottle of Diplomático off the kitchen bench. Crash. Then she’d laughed like a nest of rats being blowtorched to death. They’d shuddered at the sound.
While Katy shotgunned six drinks in rapid order, she babbled a paranoid spiel about how she was being watched by paparazzi, by stalkers, by her (now ex) husband, by the CIA. The entire cosmos was arrayed against her. Even her breasts had joined the conspiracy. Especially her breasts. They had likely attained sentience, she reasoned, and might even be the ringleaders of the plot. This all proved, of course, that she was wonderful and special.
Oleg and Kiril were very glad to be outside. Hard to know if the Los Angeles sun was unusually bright or if it just seemed that way after the psychological abyss they’d just escaped. Poe’s House of Usher had possessed more cheer and hope.
“She still hasn’t figured it out,” Kiril rubbed his crotch with the back of his hand, wincing. They’d both gotten the usual form of payment. Sane or crazy, Katy could suck the chrome off a Soviet Trabant’s trailer hitch, and her funbags were more fun than ever.
“It’s a bezumiye. A madness.” Oleg sent their secret employer a job done text. “She thinks she’s under a curse, and I guess she is. Not like she thinks, though. Makes you almost want to tell her the truth.”
“You won’t, will you?”
“No, then we don’t get paid. But she’s gotta figure out what’s going on eventually, right?” Oleg said. “What happens to us then? We’re gonna show up to her mansion one day and she’ll Aileen Wuornos our shit with a kitchen knife.”
Kiril shrugged. The word paid had a lot of sway over him. Even his own life seemed curiously abstract next to it. “Die now, beat the rush.”
Katy was wrong. It does not take a global conspiracy to ruin your life.
One dedicated person will do.
Years ago, Katy had made an enemy.
One who was patient, sly, and good at not getting caught. She’d played a long game for years, gradually replacing everyone in Katy’s orbit with willing associates. Her personal stylist, her manager, her publicist, her assistant—everyone who the star thought was on her payroll had been bribed into obedience, or compromised into compliance.
Katy’s mistake was thinking she was the only one for sale.
Oleg and Kiril Verzhbitsky had never really been on Katy’s side to begin with. Months ago—on their boss’s orders—they’d begun substituting Katy’s “Ozempic” with a proprietary blend of peptides, enzymes, and hormones. Katy had no idea that she was injecting feminization in a syringe—maximal mammarage, minimal dignity. The space flight and its radiation—which had originated as an idea from Katy’s since-fired manager—had provided a useful distraction.
A blood test would have exposed the tampering in a trice.
Too bad Katy’s physician, Dr. Emilio Vasquez, was on her enemy’s payroll too. The same enemy who was puppeteering the destruction and humiliation of Katheryn Elizabeth Hudson from the shadows. The enemy who’d only just begun.
Texts landed on Oleg’s phone. He texted back responses, glancing furtively over the top of his phone at the empty street.
“Are you talking to Tay—OOF!” Kiril leaned in, only to catch an elbow to the chest.
“Don’t say her name, zasranets.” Oleg snarled, firing glances up and down the rolling Santa Ynez hills.
Their employee was emphatic that she not be connected with Katy Perry’s ruin in any way.
Once he was sure they were alone. Oleg showed him the word from their boss.
check your western union account. ten thousand as per usual.
everything’s going to plan. her breasts are growing, her weight loss has failed, her fans have turned against her, and she is desperate.
perfect.
now, her doctor will whisper in her ear about an experimental medical procedure that will reverse her reaction to the “space radiation.”
the lab’s with an organization called Touch of Love. Here’s what I need you two to do…
TO BE CONTINUED?
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