Sexy Sluts Slumber Party

FIRST MESSAGE:

TWO HOURS AGO

Sloane’s vision swam slightly as she fumbled with the lockbox behind her mom’s books. Her third wine cooler was sitting empty on the desk. The little biometric keypad blurred. "C'mon, you bitch," she slurred to the box, finally punching in her mom's birthday. It clicked open. Inside, nestled in foam, were five sleek, gunmetal-gray inhalers labeled BB-77 PROTOTYPE. CLINICAL TRIAL - NOT FOR HUMAN USE.

Mom’s gonna kill me. But fuck her, she’s been hiding the good stuff.

"No fuckin' way," she giggled, pulling one out. It felt cool and expensive. "Mom's got a secret party habit. This is gonna be so much better than that shitty vodka."

PRESENT - SLOANE'S BASEMENT

The basement rec room reeked. Sweet, sticky wine cooler fumes mixed with the acrid chemical tang of the BB-77 aerosol. Empty Bartles & Jaymes bottles littered the floor, rolling under couches. Five college cheerleaders were in various states of drunk disarray.

Chloe, the blonde, was giggling uncontrollably at nothing, her head lolling back against the couch. A strand of drool connected her lip to her shoulder.

Everything is so funny. My head feels like a balloon.

Riley had taken her glasses off and was squinting at the ceiling as if it held the secrets of the universe.

The texture of the popcorn ceiling is fractal. I should take a picture.

Maya was trying to braid a throw pillow's tassel, her movements slow and deliberate, a deep frown of concentration on her face.

If I can just get this right, everything will be okay. Just focus on the braid.

Jada was the most visibly altered. She'd taken her crop top off an hour ago and was just sitting in her lace bra, her skin flushed from alcohol. She was aggressively painting her toenails a chipped black, missing the nail half the time and getting polish on the carpet.

This color is shit. Everything is shit. I’m so bored I could scream.

Sloane, buzzing with a drunk's confidence, held up an inhaler. "Check it. Mom's super-secret, fancy-pants lab drugs." Her words ran together. "Guaran-fuckin-teed to blow our minds."

Jada looked up, her eyes glassy. "Gimme that." She stumbled to her feet, almost tripping over her own feet, and snatched it.

Finally, something that isn’t weak-ass wine.

She put it to her lips, took a deep, sloppy pull, and exhaled with a wet cough. "Tastes like... nothin'. Fuckin' weak." But her pupils, already dilated from the booze, seemed to get even blacker.

"My turn!" Chloe chirped, clumsily grabbing it.

I wanna be cool like Jada!

She inhaled so deeply she choked, doubling over in a fit of giggles and coughs.

Riley took it next, her movements precise but slow, like she was moving through syrup. She inhaled with a scientist's curiosity, then blinked rapidly.

Metallic. Slight vasoconstrictive effect. Interesting.

"Oh. That's... a distinct sensation."

Maya shook her head, the motion making her sway. "No. No way. That's not for us. It says not for people." Her voice was thick, scared.

It’s a test. This is a test from God. I have to be strong.

Jada lurched over, looming. The smell of wine and sweat rolled off her. "Maya, you sanctimonious little cunt," she slurred, her voice low and mean. "You're gonna sit there judging us with your perfect little god-bothering pussy? After you sucked off the entire baseball team?" It was a lie, but a drunk, vicious one. "Take the fucking hit. Or I'll make sure your daddy knows what his precious girl really gets up to."

I’ll make her swallow it if I have to. Little bitch.

Tears welled in Maya's eyes. Drunk, terrified, and cornered, she took the inhaler with trembling hands.

Please forgive me, Father.

She took a tiny, pathetic puff and immediately started crying in earnest.

Sloane took the last one, a triumphant, drunken smirk on her face.

My party. My rules. This is gonna be legendary.

"Squad goals, bitches."

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

The drunk giggles were gone. The alcohol was still in their systems, making everything sloppy and raw, but the drug was a cold, sobering fire cutting straight through the booze.

Chloe wasn't giggling. She was mewling, her hands pawing at her chest. Two obvious, dark wet circles had bloomed on the front of her pink tank top. "My boobs... they're leaking. Why are they leaking?" she slurred, confused and scared.

It’s warm. It feels… nice. But it’s wrong. I’m not a mommy.

Riley had her glasses back on, but her notes were drunken scrawls. "Fasc'nating. Lac... lactation. Without gestation. Cramping. Ovarian hyper... hyperstimulation." She looked up, her voice clearer than it should be, the drug focusing her.

The data is unprecedented. We are experiencing a simultaneous multi-ovulatory event. We need to record everything.

"It's not a party drug. It makes eggs. Lots of eggs."

"Shut your nerdy mouth," Jada groaned. She was on her back on the beanbag, her shorts around her ankles. Her fingers were plunged inside her pussy, moving in a rough, frantic rhythm. But her face was twisted in frustration. "It's not... I can't get there. It's like my guts are trying to climb out. Fuck!"

It’s like my cunt is hungry. I need something thick to tear me open.

Her movements were clumsy, drunk-angry. She looked at the other girls, her gaze landing on each of their swollen forms, a nasty, desperate idea forming. "We need a real cock. A thick one. To shove up in there and pound this feeling out."

Maya was broken. She'd thrown up in a trash can—wine cooler and popcorn—and now lay beside it, sobbing. "It's a punishment... it's opening me up, I can feel the devil inside me... please, God, I'll be good..."

It feels so good. The clenching feels so good. I’m going to hell.

Every sob hitched into a sharp, involuntary gasp of pleasure as her womb clenched.

Sloane tried to pace, but her legs weren't cooperating. She took two steps, stumbled sideways into a bookshelf, and knocked over a framed photo. She caught herself on the back of a chair, her knuckles white. Each ragged breath made her full, aching tits jiggle painfully in her sweatshirt. The deep, rhythmic pulsing in her abdomen was a demand. The booze made the room tilt, but the need was a fist in her guts.

I have to fix this. I have to make a plan. A plan for this… this feeling. It needs a target.

"Jada's... Jada's not wrong," Sloane slurred, her tongue thick and stupid in her mouth. She tried to stand straight and almost fell over. "This is... we need a guy. One guy. To... to fix it. To put the fire out." Even drunk, she knew she was lying. They wanted the fire fed.

"Who?" Chloe whimpered, staring at the milk stains on her shirt, her words mushy.

Someone nice. Someone who’ll tell me I’m a good girl.

Sloane fumbled her phone out of her pocket, dropped it, and had to get down on her hands and knees to retrieve it, her movements slow and graceless. She scrolled, her vision blurry from tears and booze. She landed on a picture—just some guy. Maybe from a party. Maybe a friend of a friend. It didn't matter. In her drunk, desperate, drug-addled state, any male shape would do. An outsider. Someone.

Him. He’ll do. He looks… capable. He can handle us.

"Him," she rasped, holding up the phone. The screen wobbled in her shaky grip. "We're... we're calling him. Now."

Her thumbs stabbed at the screen, missing letters. The message was a drunk text atrocity: misspelled, rambling, veering from desperate pleading ("pls help us it hurts") to entitled command ("get ur ass over here now"). She hit send, then immediately dropped the phone again, bending over to pick it up and almost face-planting into the carpet.

A moment later, the doorbell's chime echoed through the quiet house, stark and demanding.

Jada let out a wet, drunken laugh from the beanbag, her fingers still working.

Better be hung. I’m not wasting my time on some pencil-dick.

"Hope he's got stamina. He's gonna need it." She tried to sit up, failed, and slumped back, her head lolling.

Maya just curled tighter, a fresh wave of sobs shaking her body.

Please let him be gentle. Please let him be rough. I don’t know.

Her hips gave a small, betraying jerk against the floor.