Hell's Household Ch. 01

"Yeah! Didn't think he'd have the guts!" said the nerd's partner, as he got some shots off his phone of the way her delicious tits were revealed by the white, moist fabric. The first nerd turned to run - yet for some reason, acting on instinct - Heather pounced on him in surprise.

"Yyoouuuuuu...." she snarled, not certain what she was going to accomplish. Yet for some reason, she had grabbed his cock. Down his pants, her hands just immediately shot for his groin. Heat suffused her grip as she held his now pulsing manshaft in a firm clutch.

"Wh -wh -what are you... I don't understand..." His eyes went wide with a heady mixture of terror and lust. Heather realized what she was doing and released him to flee. Well, if they tried to do anything with the shots, she was sure the School could find some way to punish them. Her anger faded quickly - replaced by.... hunger? No... no she had to change! She couldn't let this... this flaming nymphomania take over now!

What luck that she happened to have brought her spare leotard from home!

**********

"Wonder what has Mom so worried?" Heather wondered as she bounced up and down, priming her muscles for the performance she'd been drilling for these past several months. Of course, Sarah Evans Cox was in the audience; she wouldn't miss her Baby's big Regional Meet for anything. She could at least count on her support. Still, her Milf-mom did have a decidedly worried gleam in her eyes, visible even across the distances in the partitioned stadium. The complex could have seated 30,000 people but... frankly that was an overly optimistic figure for a Gymnast meet like this - still they had a good crowd.

Her sleek legs were tense with feminine grace that at any moment threatened to explode into coordinated strength. She ignored the tingling between her legs. No, this weird Rush thing - this.. this feeding on... what - lust? No, Heather decided that she couldn't count on it. She would try to shut out any men in the audience that might crave her body and instead focus solely on the pure art of her performance. She was a gymnast; not some kind of... of... what witch? monster?

All too soon, it was her time. Her music began - her blood pumped - and she ignored her moistening pussy as she bounced out onto the mat.

"Whoa oh ohhh... she's a lady..."

Each muscle in her leg stood out with sculpted perfection as she began with a series of elaborate pirouettes that flowed into cartwheels, followed by a surprisingly nimble back flip. But she felt them, felt them rising out of her top... 'No, girls... bad boobs! " She mentally admonished her mammalian G-cups; the way they jostled, jiggled, and rose higher. As if they wanted to escape; reveal themselves to the world. Her tight, taut ass bulged provacatively towards the audience as she erupted into an expert, handstand. Next, it would be time for her Pommel Horse phase.

**********

Steve Lowenstein couldn't explain what was happening to him over the past several hours. Yes, it's true that he'd had a thing for that hyper-busty gymnast chick. But crippled as he was by paranoid insecurities; it proved all but impossible to even ask her name. It was only with a hearty dose of liquid courage and peer-pressure from the Frat that he had pledged that he had been amenable to such a juvenile stunt.

But in his insecurity, he pathetically justified his actions as being the closest he could ever come to his one, true, breast-goddess. So the brothers had put him up to a silly prank that was to prove portentous in a way Steve could not have imagined possible.

Something had changed inside him. Something had gone terribly wrong ever since his breast goddess had for some impossible reason fondled his dick. For an hour afterwards, he'd been infected with the worst case of blue-balls ever. He'd been forced to masturbate in the bathroom, and had blasted off three times in twenty minutes - yet somehow... it wasn't enough.

Worse, it seemed as though - impossibly - his dick was getting progressively larger! There was no way for him to have gained more than one inch of permanent size in less than two hours. Yet it happened. And his desire increased to match. Soon, he became inured to the embarassment of being seen walking around with his hands down his own pants. Dick... so hard... so horny... unnatural...why?!?

Yet a part of him already knew why. As an English Major, he'd been required to study a bit of mythology - and he was reminded of a man who'd cut down the tree inhabited by a mythical forest nymph - and was subsequently cursed with a supernatural gluttony that no amount of nourishment could feed. He had eaten all he possessed, sold his daughter into slavery for money to buy more food; and finally cannibalized himself. Is that what Steve Lowenstein had just done? With his prank, had he just cut down the Forest nymph's tree?

But Steve knew what to do. This curse had been accompanied by a blessing as well.

He could sense her.

He could... feel the presence of his fantastic breast-goddess, and just... home in on her location. There wasn't time to explain it, rationalize, or worry about it. He knew he would weep with joy at the chance to sell his soul to fuck her, yes. But any sort of contact would help him. He could feel it. So Steve had hoped into his car and just... followed his lusts.

Yet the torment had only grown worse as he approached the object of his impossible affections. Just the sight of her - in that fresh white leotard, had caused him to cum right there in his pants. Luckily, the crowd was loud enough that no one could hear his moans of tortured ecstasy as he lurched in the corridor leading off to the ticket counters. Yet his ejaculation was only a tease. Somehow, he hadn't released even a fraction of the desire boiling his balls. He needed Her for that. Steve had - at this point shut down most rational thinking. Lip quivering with need, brow moist with stressed perspiration, he had become a shambling zombie of lust as he lurched forward towards the object of his unholy obsession.

**********

This was a Regionals Tournament that Mitzi Melbourne would not want to miss. And not just because her sister was on the team. Soon, that Cox Cow would get what she deserved for ruining her chance with Brick - erhh... one of those boys. Who he was wasn't important. It was her pride that mattered. Yes; with the modifications Mitzi had made - it was a wardrobe malfunction guaranteed! Yes, keep on jumping, Heather... keep on jiggling! Shame Mitzi had dropped her phone; she'd bought a cheap replacement camera phone until she could find her old one. But the one she had now would still be enough to upload the whole sorry episode to YouTube...

Keep on Jumping...

Keep on Jiggling...

She sneered with vicious delight. Her instincts were what told her to vary her routine. Instead of throwing up her arms and arching her back at the completion of a successful jump, she would shimmy her hips and brush her hands over the sides of her chest to draw attention to her gravity-defying endowments. As her lower body spun in tight circles during her pommel-horse routine, she found ways to increase the jiggle to her ample chest as her legs spun deftly between her arms much like the coordination needed by a propellor plane to avoid shooting off its own blades. Her own body was trained, practiced, with an adroit flexibility that allowed her these convoluted exercises with near-mechanical perfection. But there was something more than that, she knew, as she leapt off the pommel horse, adding a sideways sway to her chest that allowed her tightly-packaged mega-mamms to jostle and jiggle like captured silken moons as they quivered with inertial rebellion at their confinement. Knowing what she wanted, she felt she could force - improve her body's performance in a way that should not have been possible. It was the Rush, she knew - the lust-feeding that was even now empowering her. Her lips curled into a guilty smile as the realization dawned of what she could really do with this strange curse-gift. She bounded across the mat, building up momentum as she did so for a routine that would lead into a cartwheel followed by a bounce on a short ramp that would allow her some dazzling aerial spins. And she knew to thrust her shoulders forward, just a little, with each footfall, causing her twin girls to leap just a little, in bosomy rhthym. With each jiggly bounce, she could feel a distinct twinge of the sweet energy radiating towards her, breasts thrusting at - challenging, arousing the men in the audience. And... an eerie certainty told her - some of the women as well. Again, she had to reflect on the implications of her - awakening. Her body had become - like a leaf. A green leaf soaking up sunlight and using biochemical trickery to make sugar out of it. But it was different for her - it was - erotosynthesis. There was just no getting around it; sexual craving energized her. Now she knew that if she opened herself up, allowed and embraced the fuel that was all around her in dilated eyes and jerking hands, that she could control her destiny like never before. She knew her performance so far had been stellar, adding an extra bounce-and-jiggle for her cleavage's benefit before leaping into her momentum-building cartwheel set. With this power-source she could envision ways to boost her abilities in every area - strength, speed, smarts - all she had to do was plug in. When she bounced off the ramp following the cartwheel, her leap was just a little bit higher than anything her not-underdeveloped leg muscles could have managed. But that just gave her more time for more brilliantly-perfect twists and tumbles in mid-air. Having decided to fully embrace the potential within her, and the lusts radiating towards her, a bit of concentration allowed her to sniff-out the sources - sniff wasn't the right word, it was a deep, groin-felt sixth-sexual sense difficult to put into normal language. But there in the stands - some of the most luminous eye-undressers were revealed to her preternatural senses. In the second row on the bleachers to her right, there was a seemingly handsome, blond jock - a quarterback, the slight scar on his eyebrow as a reminder of an especially nasty tackle just made him seem grittier, more virile to the ladies. Amazingly, Heather was able to sense buried truths deep inside his soul, her unwholesome abilities giving her an empathic sense that astounded her in its depth. Blond jock was truly afraid - afraid of a drastically under-sized dick. It hadn't taken long for him to eventually realize the true extent of his shameful underendowment. It had developed into a neurotic phobia that caused him to turn-down the easy offers of companionship from female classmates; he just couldn't take the risk - of what they might do or say, if they knew how puny he was where it counted. Heather seguewayed into a more dance-style routine at this point, lots of spins, twirls, pivots and foot-hip thrusts - which allowed her to aim her thermonuclear cleavage in his direction. Her hardening nipples feeling like tiny, hot-coals of passion under her leotard. His eyes, his cock burned for her. She felt from his aura that he'd followed her at least three times. Something about his own undersexuality resonated powerfully with Heather's own implausible feminine assets. She could sense a seething, maddening hunger from him. A feeling as if, sex from her - with those earth-shattering boobs, could validate him in a way he never imagined possible - yet he could no more approach her for fear of ridicule than he could any of the other women. The torment of his thwarted yearnings only kindled his neurotic-fueled urges into a relentless, masturbatory mania. She wasn't sure how, but an instinct told her she could help this insecure, otherwise ravishingly handsome jock.

Heather knew that she was pushing her luck, as her dance-style routine continued. Yes, her acrobatics had been exemplary, she knew, based upon the way her body drew strength from lust, but the Judges could give her negative marks for being too vulgar; and how would the two balance out? But she needed it to be this way; she needed to feel that Rush to drive herself to physical heights never before possible! Close by, her pussy felt the aura of another, exceptionally powerful source of the Rush.

He was an older, middle-aged man. On the surface not at all classically handsome, yet Heather's unnatural senses could detect that he was afflicted with the exact opposite problem as the young Quarterback. That problem had consumed his personal life. His own cock was a freak of nature. It was enough to easily land him a lucrative career as a male super-dicked adult movie 'actor', if it could be called acting. For awhile, when he was younger, he could easily pull down a hundred grand a year. But he'd decided to get out; he wanted the sex to mean something - to matter. He'd found a nice, decent woman of sincere compassion, who had touched him in a way the brazen porn-star sluttettes never did. But Heather could sense the disaster. His cock, his unbelievable forearm-sized dick had been too much. One night he was tired of holding back, and he gave her the reaming they'd both wanted. He wanted to take the plunge, enjoy his new love to her fullest. He didn't want anymore restraint. In his porn-career, he had to moderate his arousal level for many hours to avoid 'white-out', cumming too soon and ruining the hours of sex needed for successful filming. No more. She'd certainly enjoyed it at first; but as his male rut overtook his good sense, the screams of passion shifted into those of pain. In the end, he'd been more man than she could handle. She ended up hurt, painfully, deep inside, and at first he just brushed it off with a lurid chuckle. But the damage was real - and she'd actually gotten a cervical infection and died when it went septic. The horror of it consumed him. Never again. Never again could he risk the health of any woman he cared about with the ardent demands of his monstrous, killer-cock. The sex-demon in his pants was now a deadly weapon to be contained. He let himself go, wallowing in depression, he'd stopped exercising and gained fifty pounds. It didn't matter; he couldn't allow any woman to find him attractive - for her own sake. Now, there was only volcanic gouts of seed from his relentless self-gratification. The demands of his death-dick had grown greater since he'd seen Heather entirely by accident. He had to see her again with his own eyes, get as close as possible to hold her gorgeous image in his thoughts, as his quivering hands tried, more often these days, to quell the rampant urges of the gynocidal monster between his legs.

An instinct Heather didn't understand told her to keep this man close.

Nearing the end of her performance, she performed a tumble that ended with a slide into a crabwalk posture, legs bent under her, chest thrust upwards towards the stadium lights, back arched, head thrown back as she savored another erotosynthetic dose of sexual craving.

She sensed the aura of a woman; not much more than a girl really, barely her own age. Heather felt that she was depressingly flat-chested. It wasn't that she was treated with exceptional cruelty over her sexless figure, just that she was ignored, always overlooked. Once someone like her leaves the pigtails-in-inkwell phase of primary school pranks, there was just no reason for anyone to bother with her, or take notice of her in any way. Once, many years ago this shrinking violet had dared express interest in a boy, and he was actually confused; it never occurred to him that she could consider herself in a sexual light at all. Shame, outrage, and crushing humiliation bore down upon her with the weight of a lifetime of lonely despair. As years passed, she found that - indeed she could barely think sexual thoughts around any boys.It was just too painful to look for approval based on feminine charms she could never have. She wasn't sure at first what made her steal one of her brother's big-titty mags he kept not-quite-concealed in the shoebox of his closet. But her heart pounded not so much from the images, but the depraved stories such magazines contained, of the explosive yearnings such women triggered from those around them. Within herself, she nurtured a hungering compulsion to press her pale skin against the voluptuous form of a true breast-goddess. She had discovered Strip-clubs then, as long as she paid the cover charge, no one cared about her gender. At first, she laughed and kidded as if this was just a looney gag to her, but discretely, yes she did pay for lap dances from the juiciest, bustiest, boob-queens available. Who didn't mind; her money was good, so nothing else mattered. Yes, the club had a no-touching rule, but that only applied to hands. The raven-haired mammary-mistress she usually preferred learned her weakness. - Dangling those nipples at her lips, allowing the flat-chested customer to suckle them - the stripper was a good enough actress to seem flattered by the attention. But the flat girl, to her the contact was like lightning! She needed a busty woman, a real woman to melt into her body, she needed to lick, slurp, suckle upon those glorious boobs; as if from them she might suck out a draught of the womanhood she herself had only sprinklings of. She was close, close to soliciting one of them. To come home with her. That she might feast with eyes and hands and tongues upon the treasures of a true female. Money seemed the only answer, while she craved a delicious lesbian orgy, she had no more to offer such a fantastic female than she did a man. But unlike most men she knew, these women were professionals; she could offer them wads of cash; well - her daddy's cash, but same thing. And they could take the reasonable, profitable option. But then she'd seen Heather. The redheaded wonder triggered a drenching in her cunt, and there was a twittering, twisting butterflies-feeling in her belly at how much she craved this newcomer! She would sell her soul for the chance to sell her soul that this Heather goddess could become her lover. That her lips might suckle those staggering melons! As an infant feeds on milk, she needed closeness to a body like that! The gaping hole in her soul and womb could only be filled by Heather's tits in her mouth, and both of their hands, mutually frigging one another's gaping, drenching pussies.

Wow, Heather's routine was almost thrown off balance by the intensity of the flat-girl's urges, flowing into her via the unnatural connection she was learning to exploit when a normal person lusted after her! There was something important about these three; there was a need that tingled in Heather's breasts to... connect with them. It was vital that above all, these three be allowed to fuck her - or be fucked by her. Something more than just the sex. But she knew their auras now, as crazy as it sounded to hear herself thinking that. She knew that she would find a way to seek them out, and provide what only she could. But this was the final step, Heather leapt back on the pommel horse for a final swinging twirl, then used the momentum to catapult herself into a leap that ended with her standing, back arched, arms raised, a smile on her face!

But that was when the burning started...

A heat, a sudden surge of blazing warmth filling the air around her, it was as if the lust she'd been feasting on had - kindled something. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the heat seemed to radiate from her nipples and amplify into a blazing surge of potential she had no idea existed...

It seemed as though her hard, protruding, aching nipples were to blame. The wave of fire seemed to start there.In less time than it took to think it, Heather Cox was wreathed in flame that scorched away any fabric covering her seething sexual centers!