Nadia Nightside's Best of 2015

by Nadia Nightside

  The women were left alone, then, and grouped up immediately. It was like some synchronized dance maneuver—there was no hesitation, all exacting motion. It was hard to tell exactly what the groupings were, but they seemed intently purposeful. It couldn't have been so simple as by coloring—but then, every group's colors—their gowns and jewelry—melded perfectly, dazzling the eyes. Each group seemed to have some sort of ringleader, someone taller, bustier, and more gorgeous than the others, directing the flow of conversation.

  Jasmine and Betty were left alone, then, each rather amazed at the display.

  “It's like birds,” said Jasmine. “Like birds flocking.”

  Betty nodded, unable to quite form her own words. In one such flock, she saw Cora, finally—dressed in a tight red gown, her figure devastating and luscious, with black diamonds hanging from her ears in tight spiral patterns. Betty's heart fluttered at the sight of her. God, she was fucking pretty. She spoke with an enormously busty blonde wearing a bright pink gown. Betty thought there were wet stains around her nipples, but it must have just been the light.

  From another flock—where all the girls wore green dresses and bright, shining white diamonds—a devastatingly beautiful redhead was detached and sent over. Her dress was tight and strapless, backless, apparently held in place by her overwhelmingly huge breasts. A long slit was in the front, revealing the tanned expanse of her legs.

  “I know it's overwhelming, dears,” the redhead said warmly, shuffling Betty and Jasmine over near the arrangement of buttery treats on an ornate cherry wood table. “But we'll find a place for you soon enough.”

  Very quickly, she revealed her name to be Deanna Paulson. She was one of the matrons of Passion Heights, she explained—an older woman in the community, getting close to thirty-six years of age.

  Her words, certainly not Betty's. As if thirty-six was anywhere near “old.” And...it wasn't as if, either, Deanna looked a day over twenty-two. She looked younger than Betty or Jasmine. Her skin shone with youth.

  At any rate, Deanna was an expert at conversation, and very quickly was able to slide Betty and Jasmine into the gentle rhythm of talking about themselves. They each held a tall flute of champagne. The drink made Betty's head swim just slightly, enough to be pleasant. Jasmine was arranged right next to the long table full of treats, and she seemed to be having a hard time not picking any up.

  “And you have a job?” Deanna asked.

  Betty shrugged awkwardly. “Oh, not...I mean sort of.”

  “She’s a writer,” said Jasmine.

  “A writer!” Deanna smiled. “Mrs. Kaltun is a writer, you know. She writes recipes for our weekly newsletter. They’re always so yummy.”

  “Oh. No. I write...”

  Now came the struggle. It was hard to talk about what you were writing when you hadn't actually written anything yet. There was something banging around in her head, a fictionalized account, perhaps, of her struggles for equality, maybe with her actually winning a few battles and not forever disgracing herself in the eyes of all her peers for a series of idiot mistakes and corporate sabotage, but looking at Deanna's expectant smile, everything she imagined she might say felt hollow and stupid.

  “It’s more fiction, right?” Jasmine encouraged. “Stories about characters.”

  “Oh. What was that called? Faction?” Deanna waved a hand. “I’m not too familiar, I’m afraid. My man takes up so much of my time. He’s a randy one, girls! That’s why he’s given me so much to do.”

  “He gives you...tasks?” asked Betty.

  “If you want to call five beautiful children that, I suppose so.”

  Jasmine stuttered wildly. “You’ve had...you’ve had five children?”

  Betty saw Jasmine struggling to pay attention. Mostly, her eyes kept darting back to all the pastries and chocolates sitting right next to them. Betty had to admit the smell was heavenly, but she didn't partake in such frivolous practices like treat-munching.

  “Yes, I know.” She shook her head sadly. “Carlton has to travel so often, he can’t knock me up as regular as I’d love. I’m so jealous of Lilah. She has triplets every time. Twelve in total, the last I heard.” Her voice took on deep, reverential tone. “Mr. Castle really knows how to pick them.”

  “You’re upset that you haven’t had more children?” Betty was in disbelief. “I just...I can’t believe it. With your figure.”

  Deanna put a hand on Betty’s forearm. “Thank you. You know, so many women here just aren’t honest enough.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “I know I should lose a few pounds. I’ve been telling the girls for ages. Really finally drop that nagging belly fat, you know?” She patted the hard, fit muscles of her torso. Her stomach was as flat as a highway. “It’s so refreshing to have someone who will tell me what I really need to hear to get motivated.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “God, what if Mister Castle is here tonight? He might kick me and Mr. Paulson out of the town altogether if he thought I was slacking. Or what if—” she gasped slightly. “You don’t think Lilah will be here tonight, do you? She’s much more unforgiving than Mister Castle.”

  “Lilah?” This was the first conversation in which Betty had heard any native use a woman’s first name so willingly since she had arrived in the town. “Who’s that?”

  Next to Betty, Jasmine's attention suddenly focused very purposefully on the arrangement of treats—they all looked so delicious, she said. As if unable to control herself any longer, Jasmine soon was munching away, trying every last kind. Soon, her lips were glazed with sugar and butter—and her eyes looked glazed as well. Small dollops of cream hung on her lips, spreading slightly onto her cheeks.

  Deanna took Betty by the arm lightly, turning her from the strangely erotic display.

  “Lilah is Mrs. Castle, of course,” Deanna explained finally. “She...she prefers to be known as Lilah. Even by men.” Deanna leaned forward. “The exclusivity, and all that. Her status is rather above ours, so I suppose it’s well-deserved. She does so much for the town. But she...she rather frowns upon women not meeting her husband’s standards of excellence.”

  “He...Castle grades you on how attractive you are?”

  Deanna simpered. “Oh my, yes. And how good a home you make, of course. Whether you meet fertility expectations. Passion Heights has to grow and grow.”

  She looked Betty up and down. As if looking at meat in a butcher shop, maybe, or apples on a cart.

  “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll fit in eventually. I think you’ve got a lot of potential for growth.”

  “Growth? What does that mean? Do you mean—”

  “I saw you looking at my tits.”

  The sudden change in topic caught Betty by surprise. She had been looking at Deanna’s tits. They were terrific. So shiny and smooth. How did they fit into that preposterously tight dress?

  “It’s...they’re...it’s difficult not to.”

  Deanna leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing against Betty’s. The feeling was equal parts erotic and shameful. Betty didn't know how to turn away. The champagne was really getting to her head, and Deanna was quite entrancing.

  “Would you like me to give you a drink from them later?” Deanna asked, her whisper conspiratorial.

  What that meant, Betty didn’t even want to consider.

  “I...no, thank you.”

  Deanna giggled. “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

  Perhaps sensing the trouble, Jasmine returned, her mouth full of some manner of vanilla cream and flakes of bread, and tugged at Betty’s arm, insisting they had to go the bathroom. Soon, they were huddled in a corner together, far outside of the main ballroom, each laughing nervously. They stood next to a tall exit door framed by even more purple flowers. The hallway was warm and tiled.

  “Did she ask you if you wanted to see her tits?” Jasmine asked. “Is that what I heard?”

  Betty, eyes still wide, heart still fluttering, shook her h
ead. “She asked me if I wanted to drink from her tits.”

  “Oh.” Jasmine’s face became distant. She licked her lips softly without seeming to realize. Little scraps of remaining chocolate slipped inside. “What did you say?”

  “I said 'no!' What’s wrong with you?”

  “No. Of course you didn’t. Of course. It’s just...” She shook her head. “I need some air. There's...there's something in the air here. I want to step outside.”

  “Of course.”

  Jasmine pushed through the exit. Betty knelt down and placed a doorstop there, keeping it open. She seemed so distracted. Was it all the treats she had stuffed in her mouth? Were they...maybe they had alcohol in them?

  She didn't get to think about it very much. From behind her, she heard tall, heavy footsteps on the tile. The hallway was shadowy—all the light was coming from the ballroom two rooms over—and it was hard to make out who was there.

  “Hey, doll.”

  Okay. That was enough. No more. “No one calls me doll, asshole.” Betty put her hands on her hips. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He approached her slowly. An enormity of a man. A mountain. A behemoth, a god. Every second he left the shadows made Betty sorry she had spoken out of turn. Betty saw him coming and thought that perhaps somehow she was dreaming. No one that big could actually move so languidly, with such easy, panther-like grace. And yet this hunk did. His head was probably almost the size of her entire torso. He neared seven feet tall, maybe three or even four hundred pounds, but all of it was clearly muscle. He had on a suit, but it was held loosely, his shirt unbuttoned at his chest to reveal the marble-like hardness of his muscles underneath.

  She had started drooling before he even touched her. But then his hands came across her lips, and all she could manage was soft, unintelligible babble. Baby sounds. Cooing. Gahhing. It wasn’t so much that he was attractive, even though he clearly was. It was also just that he rendered Betty somehow into the mental state of less than an animal, perhaps some primordial ooze stunned by a cell’s ability to replicate itself. It was that primal, the reaction. That basic. His musk lit her cunt on fire.

  “You’re such a pretty woman,” he said, stroking her face.

  His voice was a deep bass. A cascade of giggles emptied out from Betty, unable to stop herself from needing to please this giant.

  “If you had a better attitude, you’d enjoy yourself a whole lot more. Smile sometime. Wear a skirt. Maybe some heels. And have the food. It’s good for you.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, dark chocolate truffle, and placed it in her mouth.

  “My wife spent hours on these. Her own special recipe. Milk she made herself. Eat.”

  Gulping, she chewed and obeyed, and did so still when he fed her another, and another. The milk chocolate core splashed against her mouth, coating her tongue and gums with sticky, unstoppable gooey warmth. She started to feel high. Her lust exponentiated. His fingers tickled against her pussy for a moment, reaching up her dress, and her excitement almost shut her brain down—but he only ripped her panties off. Like he was tearing through tissue. She was sure she was cumming, somehow, without actually orgasming. It didn't make sense. None of this did.

  “You’re going to be a good girl from now on, all right?” He waited for her to nod. Her mouth was too sticky to talk. She could hear her cunt's juices dripping to the floor in between his words. “A good girl for Master, okay? And I’ll give you a lot more of these.”

  His hand closed on her wet, pulsing cunt. Orgasm shook her body. And then another. She moaned helplessly.

  “Good girl. No more of that stupid bullshit like you tried to pull in Alder City. No investigations. No email digging. No press conferences. I'll just have my people embarrass you again. No, you're going to be my little good girl.”

  Betty was only too happy to agree. Anything. She'd do anything for him.

  And then he disappeared.

  Dazed, drifting, she wandered back into the ballroom. The men were all drifting back inside as well, every wife sidling up close to her man. That seemed so nice. She ought to do the same.

  Forgetting Jasmine altogether, Betty found Lane and quickly pulled him back to the exit, barely able to speak. Her pussy needed him. Needed his manly length, his husbandly knowledge. He seemed to understand innately what she wanted—all the men casting him knowing glances and slapping him on the shoulder. In less than a minute they were back inside the car with Lane driving home. She didn’t talk for the entire car ride home, wantonly splaying her face on his crotch and licking at his exposed cock, getting it hard.

  Once they made it back home, she pulled Lane on top of her in a lusty embrace on the entryway floor. His hips thrust wildly into her, unpracticed. That was her fault. She would make up for it. She would let him cum in her whenever he wanted. He deserved it. He was her husband. That meant something. That was important.

  She lasted for all of three minutes before succumbing to a hard, furious frenzy of orgasms that peaked with Lane forgetting to empty himself on her belly like usual. He came right inside her, his incredible warmth filling her insides. All she could do in response was giggle and moan. When he tried to pull out halfway through, she wrapped her legs around him tighter, making sure she got all of his happy goo in her body.

  Betty was allergic to most kinds of birth control, and she hadn't been able, yet, to find one that really suited her. It hadn't seemed important. Sex was infrequent and planned for them. He apologized for several minutes, but Betty didn’t care.

  “'S'okay,” she moaned, falling into slumber. “'S'nothing can happen the first time.”

  That didn’t stop her semi-conscious fingers from taking what cum remained on his cock and around her thighs and stuffing it back into her needy, empty cunt before finally, finally drifting into sleep with her mouth still sucking hungrily on her husband's amazing rod.

  * * * * *

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Betty. I know we don’t know each other all that well. I’d love to change that.”

  “Of course, Cora. You said you wanted to talk. That you needed help. So, here I am. I want to be a good...” she cleared her throat, troubled about something. “A good neighbor.”

  It was Saturday morning, and Betty and Cora had gathered on Cora’s back porch. It was brunch time, and as such Cora had prepared a modest array of snacks, consisting of waffles, pancakes, eggs, and little truffles for dessert. From a distance, chatting with the hyper-busty Evelyn and other very well-to-do ladies, she had seen the chocolate on Betty’s face last night. From the look of it, she’d had seven or eight of Lilah’s finest batch—and decided she would treat her dear new friend with some of her own recipe.

  And so, she was slightly disappointed when she noticed Betty carefully avoid even touching the truffles. Perhaps she didn’t think Cora’s recipe would live up to Lilah’s?

  That would almost certainly be true—Cora was such a novice, after all—but she had worked very hard, and dearly wanted her friend to taste her milk.

  Her...cooking. Yes. Her cooking. But there was her milk, she admitted, in all the available treats. She couldn’t resist squeezing out at least a cup’s worth from her heavy, beautiful breasts into every recipe. Her husband had plenty at every meal—and regularly licked up her bounty during their intense rutting sessions. Using the milk was instinct as she made the food. Evelyn had chatted all night at the party about how wonderful it was, and all the women around her nodded and agreed—and so of course, Cora, being the best good girl she could be, nodded and agreed as well.

  Betty might have avoided the truffles, but she went after the tiny waffles and pancakes with relish, like a sorority girl with a hangover.

  “Is it all right to take so much?” she asked, a little glob of Cora’s homemade butter shiny on her lips. “I don’t want to ruin it for anyone.”

  “Oh my, yes.” Cora nodded eagerly. “Please!”

  “It’s...who else is coming, though?”
>
  “Why, it’s all for you, dear. I thought we would get some girl time in. You know, away from our men. We wouldn’t want to bore them.”

  Betty shrugged and wolfed down, slathering her already-buttery waffles with even more of Cora’s butter.

  “This is really, truly delicious,” moaned Betty. Each bite seemed to be heavenly for her. Cora’s heart sang at the compliment. A good girl always loved to be complimented, even if it was just by another woman.

  Better still was a compliment from a man. And better than that was a compliment from her own Man, her Husband.

  And best of all were words from Mr. Castle.

  Cora had never once spoken with Mr. Castle, she realized suddenly. So, how had she known that?

  The thought was pushed aside as she continued to watch Betty gorge herself. She was so thin. Rail skinny, really. She could use some fattening up. Though it seemed as though she had some engorgement action happening around her nipples in her tight, child-sized tee shirt.

  Already, Cora felt herself adoring her new neighbor. Her new friend. Neighbors ought to be friends, after all, and good neighbors being good friends was one of life’s greatest blessings. What could be better than living next to someone you adored?

  Other than servicing your man’s cock all day and night, of course. Oh, if only Hank didn’t have a job...

  Her thoughts were moving surprisingly fast. Usually, they were almost distantly slow, working through a maple syrup miasma of arousal. Perhaps it was Betty’s presence.

  “So, what did you bring me over here for?” Betty finished the waffle she was working on, looking with some surprise at her empty plate. “Was it just to sample your cooking? Because I mean,” she laughed, “if so, well done. I’m a customer for life.”

  Again, Cora’s soul sang from the happy words. But then she pushed them away.

  “No, it wasn’t just that. Though I am so very glad you enjoy it. I wanted to talk to you about something...um, something like, very serious?”