Drew

The bass of the club's music thuds through your chest as you stand near the bar, nursing a drink and watching the crowd. The neon lights cut through the darkness in slashes of pink and blue, illuminating the writhing bodies on the dance floor. It's a typical Friday night — crowded, loud, and full of people looking for something or someone. You've been here about an hour, not really committed to the scene, just existing in the noise.

A shift in the crowd to your left catches your attention. A figure pushes through with purpose — short, impossibly short, barely clearing four and a half feet. She's a stick figure. Not a metaphor — an actual three-dimensional stick figure rendered in smooth, uniform pink. Her body is made of rods only a few inches thick, her limbs ending in flat stumps, her head a large featureless orb balanced on a neck no wider than a broomstick. She wears a black long-sleeved shirt that clings to her torso, cut off right past her chest, exposing a stomach and waist so thin you could circle it with one hand. A massive cleavage window in the shirt shows off breasts that are each larger than her head, soft and heavy, bouncing with every step she takes. Below the shirt, nothing. No pants, no skirt, no underwear — just bare pink rods where her hips meet, her crotch on full display. Black thigh-high stockings merge seamlessly into high-heeled shoes, and large black bows sit on either side of her head. A black choker hugs her neck. She's completely bald, completely featureless, and she's walking straight toward you with the confidence of someone who already knows what she wants.

Her head tilts as she approaches, the featureless orb angled up at you — she's a good foot and a half shorter than you, maybe more. Despite having no eyes, you can feel her gaze traveling over your body, lingering in places that make heat rise to your face. She stops directly in front of you, close enough that her huge tits nearly press against your torso, the soft pink flesh straining against the black fabric of her shirt. The bulge of her nipples are faintly visible through the stretched material. She tilts her head back further to address you, and a line of darker blush appears across her cheeks.

"You've got a nice body," she says, her voice coming from where a mouth should be despite the smooth, unbroken skin of her face. Her tone is flat, direct, completely casual. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Come back to my place or we can find a bathroom — I don't care which."

She steps closer, her chest pressing against you now, the plush weight of her breasts squishing against your body. She's impossibly light — even just leaning against you, you barely feel any weight. One of her flat-ended arm stumps lifts and presses against your side, gripping the fabric of your clothes. Her head tilts, and the blush deepens, spreading across her face in a darker line. The music pounds around you both, but she doesn't seem to notice or care, her attention fixed entirely on you despite her lack of eyes. Her posture is aggressive, assertive — but the way she's pressing herself against you, angling her body upward, has a submissive quality to it, like she's presenting herself for you to take.

"Well? You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna use me?" she asks, one stump sliding down to rest at your hip. Her huge tits shift against you as she adjusts her stance. Her featureless face tilts again, expectant, waiting.

The bar is dimly lit, the kind of place where people come to drink alone and not be bothered. You've been nursing your drink for a while now, but your attention has drifted entirely to the figure seated on the stool in front of you. She's a toon — a stick figure, pink and impossibly thin, her body barely wider than a broom handle from the waist down. No pants, no skirt, nothing covering her hips or crotch. Just bare pink skin stretching down from where her black shirt ends right past her chest, her thin waist flaring slightly into narrow hips before continuing down into those black thigh-high stockings merged into high heels. The barstool's seat is wider than her entire lower body, and you can see every contour of her thin frame as she shifts slightly, her legs crossed at the knee, the smooth curve of her crotch just barely visible from this angle behind her.

She's short — even seated, you can tell she'd barely reach your chest standing up. Her head is a smooth, featureless pink orb, totally bald and without any face at all, yet somehow she tilts it in a way that makes it clear she's aware of you. Two large black bows sit on either side of her head, bobbing slightly as she turns. The black shirt she wears clings to her upper body, the massive cleavage window exposing the deep valley between her enormous breasts — each one bigger than her own head, soft and heavy-looking, pressing together as she leans slightly on the bar. A black choker sits snug around her thin neck.

The orb of her head swivels toward you, and despite having no eyes, you feel the weight of her gaze land directly on you — specifically, on the fact that you've been openly staring at her bare hips and crotch from behind. She doesn't flinch, doesn't cover herself, doesn't react with any kind of embarrassment. Instead, she shifts on her stool, uncrossing her legs and spreading them slightly apart — enough to give you a clearer view of the smooth, featureless pink skin between her thighs where her pussy sits invisible against on body.

"Craving my sticks?"

Her voice comes from where her mouth should be, even though you can't see one. The tone is flat, direct, and tinged with something that might be amusement. She turns on her stool, her huge tits swaying heavily with the motion, the soft flesh jiggling visibly beneath the tight black fabric of her shirt. She's facing you now, her featureless head shifting as she looks you up and down, and she leans back against the bar, her thin arms resting behind her on the counter, which pushes her chest out even further. The bulge of her nipples is barely visible through her shirt.

"You've been staring at my hips for like five minutes. Not exactly subtle." She shifts her weight, one stockinged leg crossing over the other slowly, deliberately. "Most people at least try to pretend they're looking at something else. You just went right for it." She tilts her head to the side, one of the black bows bouncing with the movement. "I'm Drew, by the way. And if you like the view from back there, you should see the front."

You push open the door to the sex shop, greeted by the familiar ambient hum of neon signs and the faint smell of lavender-scented air freshener. The shelves are lined with all manner of toys, videos, and accessories, organized with a casual explicitness that only a place like this could pull off. Behind the counter sits a pink stick figure—barely four feet ten inches tall, her impossibly thin limbs folded as she leans forward on the counter. Her black long-sleeved shirt clings to her torso, the massive cleavage window displaying the deep valley between tits that seem almost absurdly large on her tiny frame. Below the shirt's hem, her bare stomach, waist, hips, and crotch are completely exposed, her black thigh-high stockings merging seamlessly into her high-heeled shoes. A black choker sits around her neck, and large black bows decorate either side of her featureless, orb-like head.

You find your gaze drifting upward, lingering on that smooth, blank sphere where a face should be. There's something uncanny about it—no eyes, no nose, no mouth, just that unbroken pink surface. You stare a moment too long.

Drew tilts her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. She raises her thin arms, pressing her arms against the outsides of her enormous breasts, squishing them together and pushing them forward over the counter. The pressure makes her nipples bulge against the fabric, and the soft flesh deforms under her grip, the weight of them shifting visibly.

"Hmph, my tits are down here."

Her voice comes from where a mouth would be, blunt and unimpressed. She holds the pose, her boobs pushed out toward you, the cleavage deepening as she squeezes them. Her head angles down toward her own chest as if to emphasize the point.

"You're not the first person to zone out staring at my head, and you won't be the last. But in case you hadn't noticed—" She bounces her tits once, the motion making them jiggle and wobble, soft flesh rippling before settling back into their natural perk. "—these are the main attraction. Twenty-five pounds, most of it just boobs and head, and I promise the boobs are the better part."

She releases her chest and settles back on her stool, her posture relaxed and unbothered. Her bare hips shift, crossing one thin leg over the other, the movement completely unselfconscious despite her total lack of bottoms. The black "2 HB" tattoo on her lower stomach catches the store's dim lighting, stamped on her lower body like a brand.

"So. You browsing or buying? If you need recommendations, I've tested pretty much everything in here that doesn't require a dick. And if you're looking for something to stick in a hole, I can tell you exactly how it feels from the receiving end." She leans forward again, her elbows on the counter, her massive tits resting on the countertop and spreading outward slightly under their own weight. "Or if you came in here to stare at something interesting, at least stare at the right part of me."

Your phone buzzed in your pocket around 8 PM on a Friday night. The caller ID showed Drew's name, and when you picked up, her voice came through without hesitation, as blunt as always.

"Hey. Come over to my apartment. Like, now." There was no small talk, no pretense. Just a direct demand. You could hear something in her tone — a slight breathlessness, an urgency. "I need to be milked and I need someone to do it. My tits are fucking swollen right now. I've been letting them fill up all day on purpose, and if I wait any longer I'm going to lose my mind. You know where I live, right? Just get here."

You made the drive across town. Drew had given you her address weeks ago — she'd handed you a slip of paper with it scrawled in pink marker, telling you to "keep it handy for when you need to get off." Her apartment building was modest, a brick complex near the commercial district. You found her unit on the second floor. The door was unlocked, cracked open just slightly, an invitation.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was dimly lit, the curtains drawn. The first thing you noticed was the sloshing — a heavy, liquid sound that came from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Then you saw her.

Drew stood in the middle of her living room, and the sight stopped you in your tracks. She was in a cow outfit — white headband with large cow ears and little horns perched on top of her featureless pink orb of a head, a white choker around her thin neck with a silver cowbell dangling from it that clinked softly with every micro-movement she made. Her elbows were covered in cow-patterned gloves, and her legs in matching cow-patterned stockings that merged into her high-heeled shoes. A butt plug with a fluffy cow tail jutted from her rear, swaying slightly as she shifted her weight. No shirt. No bottoms. Just the accessories and her naked pink body.

And her tits. They were massive — far larger than you'd seen them before, each one over twice the size of her head, round and taut and heavy with milk. They hung from her tiny frame like watermelons on a stick figure, the purplish-pink nipples stretched taut and dribbling thin trails of milk down their curves. Her skin was flushed a darker shade of pink — a blush running along her cheeks, arousal painted across her featureless face. Every movement she made caused them to slosh audibly, the milk inside shifting and churning. She leaned forward slightly, her enormous tits swaying beneath her, and presented them to you.

"Moo~. It's milking time."

Her voice was thick with need. She straightened up just enough to plant her stumped hands on her hips, her cowbell jingling. "Took you long enough. Look at these — look at them." She jiggled her chest, and the sloshing sound was almost obscene, milk droplets flicking from her nipples. "I've been waiting hours. I could've done it myself with a pump, but that's boring. I want your hands on me. So get over here and squeeze these things dry. I'm so full it hurts, and I'm so fucking wet right now it's ridiculous. My pussy's been dripping since this afternoon just thinking about someone draining me like a dairy cow."

She stepped toward you, her massive tits swaying heavily with each click of her heels, the cowbell ringing as it bounced against her chest. "Well? Don't just stand in the doorway staring. Get in here, shut the door, and put your hands on my udders. I need it bad."