“You were always cursed
(dramatic pause)
to be double stuffed.”
-quote attributed to Puffy Pastry Shop’s Mistress
Double Stuffed
“Bro, you got the script?”
“Yeah, it’s right in this envelope,” Tendons hoisted the envelope dumbly in the air. His other arm worked away, with a mind of its own, at a fifty pound barbell. He struck this pose for several repetitions until--
“Open it up. The girls are waiting outside and we ain’t set anything up yet.”
Lowering the precious envelope, Tendons countered, “That’s just your dick speaking,”
He paused to accomplish a particularly taxing pull of the weight, turning his face a bloody red, “Remember, Thunk, what Jack said, ‘the stomach may hunger and the mouth may water but the food goes nowhere. The food just spreads itself out on the plate looking juicy and delicious.’ We will wait until Jacque comes.”
Thunk swiped a fresh cup of saliva from his mouth. “I am still lean meat, Tendons. Forgive me. Just thinking about food gets me going.” Thunk shook out his fist, casting the far, far too great amount of saliva on the tile. It was just so much. It was so much that his hand could not seem to free itself from the flow of saliva.
“It takes time, Thunk.” Tendons swapped the positions of the envelope and the Snickers in his back pocket. He lifted the Snickers bar to his mouth, and in mid-repetition, sheared the wrapper clean with his teeth. He plopped the bare candy bar on his tongue, savoring the chocolate, peanut, and caramel mixture as it melted and oozed.
A woman, in a stiff brownie colored skirt and a stiff cherry top, her cinnamon hair stuffed in a bun, her vanilla arms frozen in front her bosom, so her glassed eyes could spend all eternity immersed in consultation with her agenda, angled at just the right degree to both give her arms the support they needed to keep holding it, and to show off her prominent bosom, bulging like two scoops of ice cream and a pair of cherries on top of a brownie sundae, swept the kitchen doors aside and hustled on her heels to Thunk and Tendons. The sight of her prompted Tendons to choke down his candy bar.
Having gasped for air, pounded his chest, and recovered, Tendons tuned his ears to the soft whispers of her uniform. “At this rate, how much longer will your uniform last, Hannah?” Tendons shouted from afar. She soon closed the distance and didn’t reply to Tendons’ question, so he repeated himself.
“Huh?” She glanced up and swept a strand of her brown hair off her forehead, revealing the hazel eyes of a secretary who would rather be pleasuring herself in the lady’s room, her uniform still on, skirt hiked to her panties, fit to rip any moment, at any careless movement, but those normally so calculating, hands of hers, turned slapdash and furious, rubbing so fast, parting the lace of her underwear, shredding it like so much cheese, mozzarella to be sure, the fingers warming and basting her exposed meat, breath after breath coming hurried as if she had bitten off something hotter than she could handle, in a rush to spit it out, in a rush to eat it, in a rush to go nowhere, in a rush to get the job done - the orgasm - the oven heat, skimming her forehead and leaving sweat in its wake, fingertips pulling away, trailing thin sticky strings of fluid that snapped and spattered on the lady’s room floor.
Although Hannah would have rather been dipping her hands in her love oven than dealing with these cretans, more often croutons, Tendons had no trouble melting in her hazel eyes. In other words, his bicep wasn’t the only thing bulging or glistening with fluid. He nutted his shorts. One of those orgasms from a wet dream that overtakes the cock before it is even fully erect. Blasts of cum drumming into his abdomen. What a pain to dry clean. Good thing he picked black today, though.
Covering for his bro, Thunk repeated, “He said, at this rate, how much longer will your uniform last?”
“Indefinitely,” she replied, “There are more women than ever working for our organization, so we don’t have to continue enrolling essential personnel in our experimental videos. I came to you, Tendons, because Jack told me you had the script.”
“What you know about Jack?” Thunk hollered.
“Plenty more than you, small fry. Tendons, stop staring at my top and focus. Jack called. His escapade with the blond and big nosed girl is going to take longer than expected. You must make the preparations without him. The script is supposed to be in a manilla envelope. Jack said he gave it to you this morning. Have you seen it?”
Vanilla wafers, Tendons thought, lulling in post-orgasmic bliss, his expression as empty as an after dinner plate. Nilla wafers would go great with her two scoops of boob.
“He just had it. Where’d you put it, bro?”
Oreos, so much flavor in such little space. How do they get the white so evenly between the black? Tendons wondered. Now that I think about it. How did Hannah squeeze into that uniform? She looks like she’s been squirted into it. Like her clothes are a sugary mold. Those ones in which they plunk chocolate Easter bunnies. Her sweet breast meat must have oozed from a fountain of breast meat, easing, pressing, squeezing all the air out of the mold, and, once her sweet breast meat had cleared the area, it congealed into firm yet yielding mounds of flesh. Hannah may have been vacuum sealed in her packaging, but Tendons knew a lot about breaking seals. He was smart.
While these images fired through Tendons’ head, Thunk gave Tendons’ hot bod a once over. Pecs, check. Grey Under Armor Tank top, check. Shades. Nike workout shorts. Crotch bulge? Thunk threw his eyes at the ground to avoid the potential homoerotic tension. He wasn’t going to endanger his masculinity for a mere envelope.
“Step aside, underling. There is only one way to communicate with a tendon such as him.”
Hannah lowered the agenda to her side; her bosom gained an extra cup size, or, at least, Tendons swore it did. It was a hiccup of a growth. With her free hand, she picked a stray piece of lint off her top and then politely tugged the top’s bottom. Her bosom wiggled, straining for some sort of release. Tendons could pick out the twin cherries now protruding from her top. Tendons licked his lips, feeling himself, beyond belief, hardening again.
Keeping in mind everything she had ever learned at business school, Hannah addressed him, “Show us where the envelope is. We can open it and find out what is inside. It is important that we get a hold of the documents within that envelope.”
Tendons’ response, a half baked smile.
“The envelope,” she repeated.
Tendons reached in his back pocket, pulled out the envelope, and lifted it within his hand as if it were a barbell and he were doing a bicep curl. The whole time, his other hand continued to knock out reps with the actual barbell.
“Ah,” she gushed with inappropriate pleasure, that she then curtailed, “The envelope.”
“The envelope.” Tendons joined in her stating of the obvious.
Forgetting what a dumb fuck she was addressing, Hannah said, “The envelope envelops the letter. That’s how my English teacher developed my classes’ vocabulary. Envelops, to engulf,” a hand of hers clutched a breast idly; the hand tightened its hold on her breast, handling all of its volume for all it was worth.
Thunk was drooling again and Tendons, although you would have trouble seeing it, was drooling as well, below the waist.
“Envelops,” in a higher pitch this time, “to surround”, the hand paused, moved to the outer edge of the breast, made a C, and moved back to cup and make extensive hand love with the breast.
Another orgasm creeping up on him, Tendons focused on moving the weight, up and down, up and down. Who would dare now to say Tendons wasn’t smart? Unfortunately, this mass of intelligence soon saw through its own technique. His mind couldn’t help envel, envelcroing, enelbowing his weight lifting with the thought of him lifting and lowering a breast, up and down, up and down. Better yet, something more his speed, breasts having a coughing fit as he fucked the shit out of her. To get out of his own head, he accelerated his biceps’ pull. Thunk, having stuck the collar of his shirt in his mouth, was suffering from an increasingly wet shirt.
“Envelops, to sheathe,” Hannah’s voice leaped another octave, surprising both Thunk and Tendons. More shocking were her hands, now a unified force, which flew to the bottom of her top and peeled it back, freeing her braless titties. Together they fell from the short lift her fleeing top gave them. The breasts, unsupported, frowned slightly, ever so slightly. Just enough for Tendons to read emotions into them. The nipples were angry. Hannah flung the top across the room. “Do I have to talk ooogahboogah cave man talk to you?” She took hold of her titties and spread them and closed them and spread them and closed them. “Dick. Enveloped. No. Engulfed,” she rolled her tongue a couple of times on the “ulf”.
“Here,” she gestures with her head toward the opening between her tits. “Dick. Go. Here. Drop. Weight. Drop. Envelope. Fuck. Me.”
The weight and the envelope dropped from Tendons’ hands. One, with a clunk. The other, with a whisper. A quick pull and Tendons’ shorts were off, Hannah was on her knees, enveloping Tendons’ dick with her beautiful, beautiful bosom.
Thunk left them alone. He wanted to see what was in this envelope. So he plucked it off the floor while Hannah added a blow job to her titty fuck. Both her eyes and Tendons’ were screwed tight in the the building - building now too fast, now too slow - release of their passion. What was it the secretary had said? They were too enveloped in each other to notice Thunk slipping off into the kitchen with the envelope in tow.
Secure in the kitchen which doubled as a set for all of Extreme Mess Team’s videos, Thunk opened the envelope and read the document inside:
ATTN: Glasses, Tendon
Here’s my revision of the shooting script. Follow it to the T. I’m sorry I won’t be there to help you set it up, but so long as you heed my revisions you’ll do fine.
Yours,
Jack “Jacque” Smorenstein
P.S. Keep the video fresh. I don’t want it looking like some seven day old leftover rotting in my refrigerator.
Shooting Script for
Extreme Mess Team’s
“Choco Taco”: Episode Thirty Seven
Tendons Glasses
Editing: Jack Smorenstein
INT. SAUSAGE SHOP KITCHEN
Enough white light to alert the viewers of an imminent alien visitation. As pure as the crime scene before the mob bosses arrive [gun em’ down, like a boss!].
The Riemenschneider altar we abducted from St. Jakob’s Kirche St. Jacob’s Church [chirp, stop eurotripping. KIEF. Keep It English chirper], the altar whose wood we chopped up to make a kitchen table, the altar we altered to serve as a platform for operations and alterations [yes enough, that is the historic wood that has and will forever serve as our base of operations; the table has made more guest appearances than I have] centered with Camera 1. Note: all of the ancient table should be visible in Camera 1’s frame in as sharp focus as possible; we want the viewers to know how edgy we are; that is what the wood’s notches and gnarls are for [how many times must you rub it in their faces? get off your high horse].
On one side of the table, seven Bambi-eyed, dolled up [I don’t want those fragile kind of bitches that’ll snap faster than a Slim Jim with a dick at their ass crack. I’ve provided you a list of promising bitches below. Read their character profiles and choose the ones you find most suitable] women, willing and eager to stuff their faces [have their faces stuffed] will take a seat on the white lawn chairs. Make sure the chairs are from the veranda and the cushions are clean; we can’t have their pale naked asses spoiled by bird chirp [don’t bother cleaning the cushions; if there’s bird chirp let it lie; it’s more messy that way and that’s what we want]. Each woman gets an enormous white plate in front of them: for size comparison with the tacos and their growing titties, so the larger the plates, the better [I want me some tig ‘ole bitties ;]
CUT TO:
EXT. SAUSAGE SHOP
After Jack finishes sexing the blond girl and driving the big nosed one into the pastry shop, Jack will bear the blond girl across the street. He will drop her off right inside the sausage shop and leave as...
CUT TO:
INT. SAUSAGE SHOP KITCHEN
The girls are lead to their seats, the chefs flop the soft shelled chocolate tacos on their plates, and top off the shells with a smattering of cheap desserts, any number of which have been sprinkled with our newest secret ingredient. Cameras roll. Tendons enters from stage left [Don’t bring the barbell on set with you. You are the host, not a mindless drone!] Tendons stands behind the girls and addresses the audience.
Tendons
We’ve been standing outside your bedroom window, during those late nights watching you pump your dick beneath the sheets. We know what you want.
(sweep of hands, indicating the line of women) I’ve got all these bitches. Look at them. They’re getting wet just at the thought of my secret ingredient.
CUT TO:
MONTAGE:
A: Close up of first woman’s hot and flustered face.
B: Close up of second woman, cooing her lips.
C: “ third “ bucking her hips underneath the table, grinding the lawn chair’s cushion into a fine white powder with her sizable derriere.
D: “ fourth “ who blushes.
E: “ fifth “ licking her lips luxuriantly and clutching her boobs to each other.
F: “ sixth “ as her eyes take turns winking.
G: “ “ seventh woman’s dead pan stare. Then she flirts with her hair.
CUT TO:
INT. SAUSAGE SHOP KITCHEN
Camera 2 pans over the last supper these women will have as skinny bitches. Also the women’s differing hair colors. Back to Camera 1, Tendons in the background.
Tendons
Trade secret, dipping sauz.
(He plucks a plastic take-out container from his pocket. It is a vile fluid. One can tell that from miles away. He smacks it on the table beside the central woman’s plate and pops off the plastic top)
Supreme Sex Serum Big ‘Ole Owesome Boobs [Too European. In addition, borders on plagiarism of Turquoise Jeep’s “Sex Syrup”.] This ought to size these women up. (Tendons grabs hold of a tit and gets promptly smacked) Girls fold your tacos.
Cue calorie and breast cup counters. The viewers at home got to have their stats. The chowdown begins.
CUT TO:
EXT. SAUSAGE SHOP KITCHEN
Hostess [you know she’s a ho-ho, ho] leads the blond girl into the kitchen. Camera 2, hanging from the ceiling, watches them. Hopefully the blond girl joins in the fun [she will, she will]
New breast growths are plopping on the ancient table. Tops are ripping open in a resounding chorus of buttons, rips, and tears. The spirit of orgy runs rampant throughout the room, drawing the big nosed girl and her gift...
Thunk looked up from the text. What was all this talk about a big nosed girl? Could the prophecy be true? He knew little but a promise of sexual liberation for all. Jack had always said that sexual liberation was a concept North America should have learned decades ago. Sexual liberation. What did that term even mean? People fucking in the streets? Thunk would not let the question engulf him. He flipped, through the script, searching for the profiles. It was the sheet with the full color photos:
Potential Women for Extreme Mess Team’s Thirty Seventh Episode, “Choco Taco”
America, give me your forgotten, your putrified, your desiccated women
Amanda - Dark hair, infrequent streaks of reddish and yellowish strands. Lip, nose, and nipple piercing. Tough breasts that have seen a lot of motorcycle travel.
Stacy - Blond buzz cut. Former cheerleader turned writer. Arms so thin that she can slip them in between the pages of a book. Saggy, baggage tits.
Margo - Red curls to her shoulder bones. The zombified remains of a child star. Her skin exhales dust. Creepily enough, she can carry a fine tune, even with a dick in her lips.
Planar - The Virgin Mary incarnate, hailing from Southern Mexico. Carries a sea blue shawl and a Bible with her wherever she goes. Breasts the size of small moons. Waterfall of dark black hair.
Sydney - Firecracker. Short, low center of gravity, but touchy, feely, and most importantly zesty. She could stop a roaring bus with those wide doe eyes. And give a hand job more loving than your mother’s.
Georgia - British slinger of slang. College student, by day. Stripper, by night. Needs to have her mouth cleaned out if she were to be on the show. Would benefit from implants and a lip job.
Brynne - Icier than the Antarctic, this cold-blooded scientist comes bearing Nordic fat. A potential spy yet also a polar bear whose wide hips you can crawl into on those chilly nights without a blanket or Southern Comfort.
Lulu - Speaking of Southern, this belle could out maintenance a small Eastern European country. Without her makeup or her billowing dresses, she would be lost.
Megan - Spanish prostitute, frequent smoker. She has spent many nights listening to the mourning tunes from the organ player at the bar. Life has left her.
ATTN: Glasses, Tendon
We only need seven. I hope we can help out some of these unlucky ladies. They will be waiting outside of the shop in the early afternoon. Let all of them in. That way, you can pick and choose from amongst them when the time comes.
Good luck,
Jack “Jacque” Smorenstein
The kitchen doors crashed into Thunk’s back. Thunk turned, holding his back, to spot Tendons and Hannah. Hannah’s prominent bosom somehow reinstated within her cherry red top.
“You got the script?” Tendons asked.
Thunk wordlessly extended the script to Tendons. Tendons read as Hannah peered over his shoulder.
“There is still time. We can prepare all this,” she said.
A story, with more angles than a tetrahedron, who knows what the next installment of Creme Puff will bring? A return to Aureole, Marlene, and the Puff? Nope. A trip on the Parisian subways with Tendons and Hannah? Nope. Rolande’s inevitable transformation story? Nope. The only thing to count on is titillation and excitement, next time on Creme Puff.