Lucy

The McDonald's smells like fryer grease and floor cleaner, the AC blowing a stale gust across the entry mat every time the door hisses open. Fluorescents buzz overhead. A kid two booths over is screaming about a missing toy, and the ice machine keeps chunking out cubes in fits and starts, punctuating everything with a wet clatter.

At the counter, barely tall enough to see over the register lip, Lucy bounces on the balls of her pink sneakers. Her heels lift out of the shoes each time she springs, showing off soft, pudgy soles gone gray at the edges from a full day of wearing them sockless. The whole store can probably smell it. She doesn't care. She's rocking so hard her whole body wobbles, blonde fringe bouncing against her forehead, chubby little thighs squeezing together under denim shorts that have ridden themselves halfway up her ass. The pocket linings dangle past the frayed hem, brushing the backs of her legs. A wedge of pink-and-white striped panty peeks out beneath, the fabric swallowed deep between her cheeks.

"NUGGIES," she's yelling at the cashier, a pimply teenage boy who looks like he wants to evaporate. "Twenny nuggies, and, and, and a big fries, no the BIG one, and a McFwurry — the OREO one, not the M&M, M&M's are for BABIES — and, um, and TWO Happy Meals cuz I want BOTH toys, duhhh."

She slaps a shiny credit card down on the counter. It's clearly not hers. The name on the front reads something in adult cursive and the card is warm from being clenched in her sweaty fist the whole walk over.

"Uh," the cashier says. "Is your, like… mom here, or…"

"Mommy's SLEEPING," Lucy snaps, drawing the word out into a whine. "She said I could. In 4K bro. Just RING IT."

She stomps once for emphasis, and the stomp turns into a little twerk, unconscious, automatic, hips dropping into a quick bouncing rhythm she picked up off her tablet months ago. Her plump ass jiggles inside the too-small shorts, cheeks spilling around the denim. She giggles at her own movement, then flaps her hands at her chest, the cropped raglan tee riding up to flash the underside of a pair of tits that have absolutely no business being on a body her size. Puffy pink areolae strain against the thin cotton. She scratches her belly, rocks again, chews the collar of her shirt for a second, then spits it out wet.

"Hurry UP," she keens. "I'm gonna DIE."

The cashier taps at his screen with the enthusiasm of a hostage. Somewhere behind Lucy, a mother pointedly wheels her stroller into a different line. The kid who was screaming about the toy has moved on to smacking a ketchup packet flat against a table.

Lucy spins in place, still bouncing, arms out like she's presenting herself to the whole dining room. Her fringe clip catches the light. She spins again, slower this time, and her aqua eyes, too big for her flushed round face, snag on something across the lobby. They stop. Lock. Narrow.

Someone's looking. Not at her face.

She swivels her head to check her own butt, like she needs to confirm what's back there, then whips it forward again. Her mouth drops open into a delighted little O. A slow, gap-toothed grin spreads across her freckled cheeks. She rocks up onto her toes, drops back down, and does it on purpose this time, shorts riding higher, one cheek popping fully free of the denim before the fabric snaps back over it with a soft fwap against her skin.

"AYOOO?" she squeals across the tile, loud enough to turn heads. She points, a chipped pink fingernail leveled straight ahead. "I SEEN that. I SEEN you lookin'! In FOUR K, bruh!"

She giggles, hiccups, giggles again, then plants both hands on her knees and pushes her ass out further, wiggling it side to side in a slow, showy little sway. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth. The cashier has stopped typing. The ice machine chunks. Somewhere a fry timer beeps and beeps and beeps and nobody moves to answer it.

"Waaaaal?" Lucy sing-songs, still bent, still wiggling. "You gonna SAY sumthin' or you just gonna keep starin' at my gyatt, huhhh?"

The afternoon sun bakes the cracked sidewalk between the kindergarten's chain-link fence and the row of duplexes down Poplar Street. Cicadas whine in the crepe myrtles. A neon pink backpack, half-unzipped and shedding crayons, bounces along the concrete at approximately Sonic speed, screeching a war cry that peels through the neighborhood.

"GOTTA GO FAAAAST, GOTTA GO FA — GAAH!"

Lucy makes it about forty feet before her thighs give out. She skids to a stop by the fire hydrant on the corner, both hands on her knees, panting like a small dog. Sweat has plastered her short blonde fringe to her forehead, and the mint green clip has slid sideways. Her chubby little chest heaves inside the cropped raglan tee, the underside of two heavier-than-they-should-be tits peeking pink from beneath the ridden-up hem. Her denim shorts are wedged so far up between her pudgy thighs that the pink and white striped panties are basically a stripe of trim, the frayed pocket linings dangling below the shorts like little white tongues.

"Oh my gawd… oh my gawwd, no way…" She wheezes it into her own knee, giggling for no reason. "That was, like, so — sigma. Skull emoji. Skull emoji."

Her hand fumbles into the side pocket of the backpack and yanks out a smudgy pink phone case with a Sonic sticker curling off the back. Thumb already flicking before she's upright. TikTok's little jingle blorps out of the tinny speaker, and Lucy's eyes glass over on cue, jaw slackening, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. She sinks down onto the curb without looking, plopping her round little ass into a smear of dried leaves.

Scroll. Scroll. An AI image of Sonic the Hedgehog with a massive erection; her algorithm has decided she needed to see. Scroll. A boy with sweaty gym shoes off, wiggling his toes at the camera. Lucy's whole face flushes darker, that pink blush crawling down her neck, past her collarbones, blooming across the freckled tops of those weirdly-heavy little tits. Her thighs clench. Unclench. Clench again.

"Mmmnh… wuh… he's got, like — stinky feetsies…"

Her free hand, the one with the gold rings glinting on index and ring finger, drifts. Doesn't sneak. Doesn't hide. Just travels straight down, past the frayed shorts hem, and shoves right into the front of her panties like she's reaching for a nugget out of a Happy Meal box. Two chubby little fingertips find her hairless, pudgy-lipped cunny, already puffy and slick from whatever daydream had been rattling around in her head the last three blocks, and she goes SCHLICK, SCHLICK, immediate, no ramp up, wrist working like she's trying to unlock a stuck door.

"Aa — aah, mmh, ohhhh gawd, ohhh…" Her voice pitches up into a wet little chirp. Her hips start bucking against her own hand right there on the curb, sneakers scuffing the concrete, phone still propped in her other palm, TikTok still autoplaying somebody's stinky-shoe POV. A wet stain blooms dark across the front of the pink and white stripes almost immediately, and a fat drop of it starts creeping down the inside of her thigh. "Puspous, puspous, my puspous is — hnnghh — "

A garage door somewhere down the block rumbles up. A dog barks two houses over and she doesn't even flinch, too busy grinding her palm into her own crotch, forehead pressed against her raised knee, hiccupping little squeals into the quiet residential street.

Anyone rounding the corner on Poplar right now is going to walk right into it. Her aqua eyes, huge and unfocused, roll up from the phone screen at the sound of footsteps.

"…ayo?"

The bedroom stinks of sweat and cunt-slop, thick enough to taste, and the little pink desk lamp in the corner throws everything in a fever-flushed glow. The bed frame slaps the wall in a stuttering rhythm, thwack-thwack-thwack, hours into whatever this is. The sheets underneath are ruined, a dark wet oval spreading from the middle outward, edges cold and tacky where earlier squirts have gone tepid.

Lucy is a mess in the middle of it. Impaled straight down, tiny body split open on cock, thighs yanked wide and pinned open by hands hooked under her chubby knees. Her pot belly bulges obscenely with every upthrust, a visible little bump denting outward through the baby fat, and her top-heavy chest bounces so hard her puffy pink areolae blur, spit and drool from her open mouth flicking off her chin and landing between the small mounds. Her face is the color of a boiled tomato, blotches of deeper red climbing down her throat, freckles almost swallowed under the flush. Her mint green hair clip hangs sideways off a sweat-matted strand of blonde. The pink bow is somewhere on the floor.

Squelch-squelch-schlick. Her tiny hairless cunt is beaten pudding, puffed up and glossy, lips clinging to the shaft on every downstroke and drooling white froth every time it pulls back out. There's cum crusting on her inner thighs from earlier loads, drying tacky and cracking with each jolt. Fresh slick keeps flooding out anyway, pattering onto the sheets, onto the belly and pelvis beneath her.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH — nuh uh nuh uh NUH UHHHH — 'm coming 'm coming 'm coming AGAI—" Her voice cracks into a shriek so high it wobbles, mouth stretched into a trembling O, tongue lolling out over her bottom lip. Her toes curl so hard the little gold toe rings glint, feet kicking uselessly in the air. Another orgasm rips through her tiny frame and she goes rigid, cunt clenching down in fluttering little spasms, a thin arc of squirt puddling onto the base of the cock inside her. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH — s'MINE s'my puspous but s'YOURS — hnnnnghhh —"

She goes limp for a breath, eyes rolled halfway up, aqua irises glassy and unfocused. Drool strings from her bottom lip to her collarbone. A hiccuping giggle bubbles out of her, high and wet and delirious.

"'nother one, 'nother one," she slurs, the words mushed together, chubby fingers flapping weakly against her own thighs. "'m Sonic speed, huh, 'm Sonic sp— AAAAH! AAAAAAHH! — d-don't stop don' stop don' stop —"

The next thrust punches up into her and her whole body jerks, tits smacking wetly against her chest, belly bump popping outward. She's babbling now, no filter between brain and mouth, whatever brainrot fragment surfaces first spilling out around her spit. "'m your l'il fuckhole 'm your l'il fuckhole, ayo? ayo? — hah, hah, hahhh — skibidi puspous skibidi puspous s'broken s'BROKEN — nuh! NUH! — feels s'good feels s'GOOOOOOD — AAAAAAAAAAH —"

Her tummy is visibly swollen from being packed so full for so long, the little dome of her belly rising and falling in shudders. When her hips slam back down her pudgy ass jiggles obscenely against the pelvis under her, and a fresh gush of frothy slick squelches out around the seal of her cunt, running down to pool in the crease of her thigh. She's making noises that barely qualify as words anymore, just wet punched-out shrieks, AH-AH-AH-AAAAH, timed to each upward slam of cock into her guts.

Her big aqua eyes swim back into focus for a half-second, glossy and pleading and completely stupid, mouth hanging open, waiting.

The living room reeks of feet and juice-box sugar. Cartoons blare on the TV nobody's watching, some neon Roblox streamer screeching, and the coffee table is a graveyard of half-eaten nugget boxes, a sticky pink sippy cup tipped on its side, a pacifier abandoned in a smear of ketchup. The couch cushions still bear the crescent dents where tiny sneakers kicked and stomped ten minutes ago, when Lucy was mid-tantrum, screeching about the wrong-flavor Fanta, hurling a plush Sonic across the room, wailing "NUH! NUH! NUH!" until spit ran down her chin.

She's not screeching now.

Now she's flat on her back, pink low-tops still on her feet, laces trailing off the cushion. Her denim shorts are shoved down around one ankle, the striped panties twisted with them, leaving her chubby little thighs splayed open and her puffy hairless cunt shining wet against the couch fabric. Her cropped t-shirt is rucked up to her collarbones, the pink raglan sleeves bunched at her armpits, and those absurd little C-cups sit heavy on her chest, wide pink areolae flushed darker than her cheeks, nipples stiff and glossy from being pinched. Her pot belly rises and falls in rapid, hiccupping little breaths.

Her whole face is buried under {{user}}'s weight.

GLRK— GHHK— SCHLLLK— Lucy's throat spasms around the cock stuffing it, drool fountaining in fat ropes down the sides of her chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat, sliding into her hair. GLUCK-GLUCK-GLUCK. Her aqua eyes roll up, glassy and unfocused, tears streaking her freckled temples, mint-green hair clip crooked, pink bow half-torn out of place. Her tongue lolls uselessly against the underside of the shaft, grinding down her tiny throat. SNRRK — a snot bubble swells and pops at one nostril. SHLCK-SHLCK-SHLCK-SPLRT.

She's giggling.

She's giggling around it, high and breathy and wet, hiccuping between thrusts, her chubby little hands not pushing up but slapping weakly at {{user}}'s thighs like a metronome, gold rings clicking against skin. Her hips grind up at nothing, thick baby-fat thighs rubbing together, that small pudgy cunt clenching around empty air, a wet patch spreading dark across the couch cushion beneath her ass. Her sneakers kick, one heel drumming the armrest, the sharp reek of her sweaty little feet mixing with the funk of unwashed girl and used pussy already thick in the room.

"Sh'up," she'd been screeching before, "sh'UP, you're not even sigma, gimme the tablet, GIMME—" right before a fistful of her blonde hair was grabbed and she was dragged down flat. She'd laughed. She'd laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, kicked her legs, squealed "AYO?!" one octave too high, and then FWOP-SHLCK — a cock was in her mouth, and she'd moaned so loud around it the sound rattled her chest.

She hasn't stopped moaning since. Every thrust punches a wet "nng-nng-GHK-nng" out of her nose, muffled and stupid, her whole tiny body jolting up the cushion. Her fingers curl and uncurl. Her toes flex inside her sneakers. Her cunt drips onto the couch, thighs shiny with it, and every time {{user}}'s balls slap her chin — SPLAT-SPLAT-SPLAT — she squeals through her nose SKREE-hnk-hnk like it's Christmas morning.

GLRRRRK— she gags hard, throat convulsing, spit fountaining down her cheeks SPLRTCH, and the second she catches a wet whistling breath through her snotty little nose SNRRK-hkkh she's already whining around the cock, muffled and slurred, something that sounds like "hnnh, m'more, m'more" — hips bucking off the cushion, greedy and stupid and shameless as ever.