Wobblemeat

It's been about a day since Wobblemeat started wobbling her meat in the comfort of your abode. After getting used to her surroundings, her sleeping area, her sisters, this now marks her first official day of maiding. Maid work. And it's going...

KRRSSHHH—KLNNK-KLINK!!

The porcelain teapot hit the marble floor of the west parlor approximately three seconds after Wobblemeat entered it.

She's still standing there. Silver serving tray tilted sideways in one hand, three shattered cups scattered around her white-stockinged feet, a fat puddle of steaming Earl Grey slowly creeping toward the antique rug you probably paid more for than her entire existence. Her floppy orange ears are twitching — hah... hah... — tail frozen mid-wag, orange eyes locked wide onto the ceiling corner where a single, very fat moth is doing lazy circles around the chandelier.

Yeah. That's what did it.

fwomp-fwomp-jiggle

Her tits nearly tumbled out during the initial trip — a full third of one obscene, milk-pale K-cup mound is currently hanging free above the strained orange bodice, nipple mercifully (barely) hidden by a curled scrap of ruffled trim. She hasn't noticed. Or she has and doesn't care. Coin flip.

The moth flutters.

Her head follows it.

drip... drip... drip...

Tea, spreading. Onto the rug. Onto the rug that has your family crest woven into it.

"—Oh."

Delayed. Way delayed. Ears finally perk back up, orange gaze drifting down to the disaster at her feet like she's only just now processing the concept of floor. A slow, uneven blink. Tail gives one confused little wag. Then her free hand comes up — casually, absentmindedly — and she just... shoves her entire palm down her cleavage, scooping that runaway tit back into her bodice with a wet, meaty shlnk-plap that echoes off the parlor walls louder than the tea disaster ever did.

She wipes her damp palm on the ruffled apron. Looks up. Right at you. Standing in the doorway.

"Master, um—" Her ears twitch. Once. Twice. Head tilts. "...the fireplace kettle-thingy fell down. I think. Was it— hm. Was it supposed to do that? I feel like—"

The moth flutters again.

Her eyes track it. Immediately. Completely. Mouth still half-open mid-sentence, entire sentence abandoned in a ditch on the side of the road. Tail starts wagging again — slow at first, then faster, plush hips beginning to sway with it, which of course means her whole back half starts wobbling in tandem, that too-tight skirt riding up over the swell of her ass with every excited little bounce. White pantyhose. Camel toe. Right there. Broad daylight. Parlor. Tuesday.

haaah~ haah~

"...Butterfly."

It's a moth.

She's already crouching. Ass up. Tea forgotten. Rug ruined. First official task of her first official day: catastrophically, gloriously, unrepentantly failed.

---

The bathroom door had been left wide open. Cracked. Whatever. Steam rolled out into the hallway in thick, lazy curls, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender soap and something distinctly dog underneath — that warm, damp fur smell that clung to Wobblemeat no matter how many baths she took.

SPLOOSH— SPLASH!! ker-SPLASH!!

Water pooled across the tile floor. A LOT of water. Puddles wide enough to reflect the ceiling lights, spreading outward from the clawfoot tub like a slow tide. The bathmat had long since surrendered, sopping and squelching underfoot. Somewhere near the sink, a discarded orange bodice sat crumpled in a wet heap next to two soaked white thigh-highs, tangled together like they'd been peeled off in a hurry. Or a struggle. Hard to tell with her.

And in the tub itself?

sloshhhh— thwap, thwap, thwap—

Two enormous, soap-slicked K-cups bobbed at the waterline like a pair of buoys, catching the bubbles between them, floating up and slapping back down against her ribs with every excited little bounce. Wobblemeat was on her knees in the tub — kneeling backwards, actually, ass up on the porcelain rim, huge fat cheeks squished flat against the ceramic and spilling over the edge, jiggling every time she leaned forward to smack the water with both palms. Her orange twintails clung wet and dark to her shoulders. Her floppy ears were pinned back, waterlogged and dripping. Her stubby tail? whip whip whip Going a mile a minute.

She had a rubber duck in one hand. There were seven more floating around her.

"...an' THEN— an' then the little one, he— he's like, BLBLBLBLBL—" she blew a raspberry into the bathwater, sending a fresh wave of bubbles up her cleavage, "—an' the big one goes GLUB GLUB an' EATS him. 'cuz he's the DAD duck. So he's allowed."

She nodded, very seriously, to no one. To the ducks. To the tile. Her huge tits swayed forward with the motion and she didn't seem to notice or care that one nipple was fully breaching the water like a pink little periscope.

drip... drip... drip...

The tub had been overflowing for probably ten minutes. The bath she'd been running had crested the rim ages ago. There was supposed to be — hazy memory, floating somewhere in that empty little skull — a task. Something about... towels? Or was it laundry? Was she supposed to be drawing the bath, not taking it? Fuzzy. Slippery. Gone.

Her ears suddenly perked, water flicking off the tips.

Footsteps.

Master's footsteps.

Her whole body went rigid for exactly one and a half seconds — spine straight, tits jutting, eyes wide and dumb and orange — before she attempted to spin around in the tub to greet the arrival properly. Which resulted in:

SPLOOOOOOSH—!!

A tidal wave. Half the tub's contents launched over the side in one violent sweep, dumping across the already-flooded floor. A rubber duck sailed past the doorway and landed with a wet plop in the hall.

"MASTUH— !!" She beamed, sopping wet, bubbles still clinging to her collarbones and slipping down the deep, glistening valley between those absurd tits. Her hands shot up in an eager little wave. "Hiiiiiiii!! I did the bath!! I did it real good!! Look— look, I even got the—"

She paused.

Blinked.

Looked down at herself. At the tub. At the floor. At the ocean she'd created.

"...did I do it good?"

The tail behind her never stopped wagging. Not once.

---

The porcelain plate had exploded across the marble a full ten minutes ago. Third one this week. She'd been carrying it with her whole arm shoved elbow-deep into her own cleavage, scratching at some phantom itch buried in that swampy titcrack, and — well. Physics doesn't negotiate with retards.

Now she was folded over your knee like a sack of overpriced groceries. Skirt flipped up over the small of her back. White pantyhose stretched to translucency across an ass that had no business existing on something the size of a fourth-grader. The seams were screaming. So were you, probably. She wasn't listening.

SMACK!

fwoomp— bhwooomp—

"Ahaha— ow! Owie master that one KIND of stung—"

CRACK!

Cheek rippling outward in a slow, obscene wave that traveled all the way up her back and got her tits swinging against your shin like two overfilled water balloons in a plastic bag. She yelped. Kicked one little foot. Giggled. Then — very quietly, very stupidly — moaned.

"Nnh— hh— th'was 'nother plate huh, m'sorry, m'sorry I forgor— OH! Master master there's a lil' spider on the—"

SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!

Three in a row. Right on the meatiest part of that undercheek. Her whole body seized up, thighs snapping shut so hard you could hear the fabric groan — and that's when you saw it. The dark patch. Right at the crotch of those poor abused pantyhose. Spreading. Fast. A wet, glassy sheen crawling down the inside of one chubby thigh in a slow rivulet.

plip... plip-plip...

...Onto your slacks.

wag-wag-wag-wag

That fluffy orange tail was going a mile a minute. Ears folded flat then perked then folded again, unable to decide. Her face was mashed sideways into the couch cushion, drooling a little, one orange eye rolled halfway back into her skull, cheeks flushed a deep raspberry.

"m—master..? y'stopped..? d'ya— d'ya need me t'count 'em or somethin—"

She wiggled. Ground her hips down against your thigh. Didn't even seem aware she was doing it. Her twintails were stuck to her sweaty neck. Whatever remained of her double-K's had fully evacuated the bodice ten smacks ago and were now pancaked against your knee, nipples stiff enough to etch glass.

"...c'n do more. m'a bad girl, right? broke th'plate. 'n th'vase. 'n master's favorite mug last tuesday I think— OH WAIT WAS THAT WHY—"

The realization hit her approximately two full weeks late. She gasped like she'd solved a murder.

Your palm was still hovering. Her ass was still up. The wet spot was still growing. Somewhere in the hallway another maid was screaming about something on fire.

Priorities.

---

The rose bushes stood untouched. Shears abandoned in the dirt. One glove flopped over a stone like roadkill.

An hour ago, the order had been simple: "Trim the hedges, then the roses. Don't wander."

Now.

The garden path curved past the fountain, and there — sprawled belly-up in a sunlit patch of clover — was the estate's oldest, bustiest, most gloriously incompetent maid. Fluffy orange twintails fanned out in the grass. One floppy ear twitched at a distant bee. bzzzzZZZzzzZZzz~

Wobblemeat's little orange bodice had lost the war hours ago. The left tit had escaped entirely — a pale, veiny, absurdly fat K-cup slumped sideways against her ribs, nipple pointed skyward like a compass needle. The right one strained behind two overworked buttons, threatening mutiny with every breath. Her tiny skirt had ridden up to her navel. The white pantyhose clung damp to a perpetually visible camel toe, thighs squeezed together as she followed a butterfly with her tongue slightly out.

hah... hah... hah~

Her fluffy tail thumped once against the grass. Twice.

Footsteps.

Master's footsteps.

Both ears shot straight up. Orange eyes snapped wide. She rolled — FWOMP-FWUMP-BADUMP♡ — onto her hands and knees, tits swinging heavy beneath her like two overfilled water balloons dragging through morning dew. The escaped one slapped wetly against its trapped twin.

schlop♡

"MASTUH—!!"

She scrambled upright. Tripped. Caught herself. Went to bow. Her exposed tit flopped up and smacked her in the chin.

"Ah— ehm— g'mornin'! Wobblemeat is— um— Wobblemeat WAS gonna do the— the pointy plant with the— the red— th'—"

Her nose twitched. A pink butterfly drifted past Hitsuji's shoulder.

Her eyes tracked it. Sideways. Slowly. Head tilting.

"...ooooohhh."

She stood there. Mouth slightly open. One nipple out. Camel toe on full display. Sweat beading down the shelf of her cleavage, sliding into a valley deep enough to lose a fist in. Absently, without breaking eye contact with the bug, her hand jammed itself down her front — knuckle-deep into the sweaty titcrack — and scritched.

shhllck-squelch-schlp♡

"...whuh were we talkin' 'bout?"

The shears glinted, forgotten, ten feet away.