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Bimbo Beer


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Don't worry, this is just a little break from writing the Thin College story. A contest is being hosted over on DeviantArt about writing a "Bimbo Beer" short story, so I figured I might as well try writing something new. By the way, if anyone is interested, I can link them to the contest. In the meantime, enjoy this change of scenery 🍑💄🍈

Bimbo Beer

               Bag in hand, I rang the doorbell of my friend’s apartment. I say “friend” because I haven’t dared have a conversation with her about any kind of relationship. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her away. As things were now, she’d text “good morning” to me, laugh at my jokes, and invite me to go hiking every day. For me, that was just fine.

               I heard her before I saw her: light, pattering steps muffled by white carpet against soft socks. She opened the door wide, smiling wider.

               “Michael!” she sighed happily. “So good you made it!”

               “Hey,” I stepped inside as she sealed the door again. “How was work today?”

               “I had an appointment again,” she sighed. “They’re going to schedule me to look into fixing my concussion in a few months, but in the meantime, the pills they gave me still… oh… thanks…”

               I’d taken the chance to give her a warm hug – a bold move, considering how we’d only ever hugged each other when saying goodbye.

               “Don’t worry,” I patted her back (another bold move). “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

               “What’s in that bag?” she changed the subject, trying to look into the plastic bag to see what I had bought.

               I swung my gift behind my back. “It’s a surprise,” I grinned. “We can open it when we watch the movie.”

               “Okay Michael,” she laughed. “Let’s get in the living room – you ready for this? I got Chik-fil-a.”

Her name is Sam Dominique. The name alone bleeds with sexual appeal, as did her very body. I was attracted to her the very day I laid eyes on her, drawn into her bright, blue eyes and blindingly-blonde hair. Sam, however, seemed unaware of her own beauty. Truth to be told, she was something of a tomboy, preferring to dress in large tank-tops and long gym shorts that brushed over her knees. Her long locks of hair were always tied tightly to the back of her head in a neat bun. The only exciting element of style she allowed herself was a tattoo of the American flag unfurling over her bare deltoid, merging against the wings of a Bald Eagle that spread over her back. Someday, I hoped, she would show me the rest of that tattoo under her tank top.

The first time I had seen Sam’s living room, she was going through every imaginable problem. Half her life was appointments for fixing her concussion, her girlfriend moved in after months of being away only to break up with her and leave again, and all her friends and family were out of state. I wasn’t sure what to expect that time, but while she texted her parents, I stuck around for moral support, eventually falling asleep on the couch alone. A few more visits since then, and Sam was slowly starting to smile again, but it was a slow process.

“Nice,” I eyed the feast of fast food on the glass coffee table.

“Isn’t it great?” Sam plopped herself on the couch before pulling out her phone absentmindedly.

“How much did this cost you?” I asked. “I can pitch in, you know.”

“You don’t have to worry about it,” her thumbs danced across her phone’s screen, and I jealously wondered who she was texting.

“But you bought food last time too,” I pointed out. “And I don’t want you thinking that I’m some bum ripping you off. I can Venmo you if you like.”

“It’s good Michael; don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” I shrugged, edging my bag onto the coffee table by sliding it past some Chik-fil-a bags. “I did get something…”

“What’s that?”

Pressing the plastic bag’s ends to the side, I revealed my cold, perspiring contribution.

“Is that beer?” Sam was now distracted from texting, staring at the six-pack of brown bottles.

“Sure is,” I said casually. “It’s an import, too.”

“What is that?” she leaned slightly closer, revealing the upper cut of her cleavage as I politely looked away.

“It’s uh…” what was it? I leaned slightly to read the logo. “Bimbo beer.”

“You didn’t know its name?”

“I like picking new beers; I just picked this one because it was all…”

“Sparkly and colourful?”

“I mean, purple’s your favourite colour, right?”

“How do you know it tastes good?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

               It was with no small degree of hope and anticipation that I hoped that she would at least try the beer I bought. It wasn’t that it cost ten dollars, I just wanted Sam to loosen up a little. When I was young, I was stiff and uptight, not because I was indifferent to everyone, but because I was shy. It was impossible for me to get out of my shell; there were simply too many logical reasons to not act out or try something daring. That first night I got drunk – on my twenty-first birthday – was the first day I really danced, really flirted with girls, and let go of my self-doubt. Sam reminded me a lot of myself, reserved and proper, her vibrantly-blonde hair bunned tightly to the back of her scalp, and barely a trace of femininity on display. I was… almost… sure she liked me; her inhibitions were just holding her back. A couple beers would do her some good… I hoped. I hoped she tried some…

               “I think I’ll be full by the time I’m finished eating this,” Sam leaned forward to pick up her bag of food.

               “Oh…” I slumped noticeably.

               “I mean, if you feel like drinking, I got some red wine in the fridge. Want some?”

               “Sure,” I perked slightly. “But I can’t drink too much if I drive home.”

               “Don’t worry. You can sleep on the couch again like last time.”

               I couldn’t argue with that. Although – I thought as I found the half-emptied bottle in the fridge and carried it back to the couch – Sam did tend to be the one who decided what we did together, down to little details like what we ate and drank. I guess I adored her so much that I didn’t mind or notice.

               By the time I was sitting next to her, she was starting the movie from Netflix.

               “So you said this is your favourite movie?” I asked, acutely aware that her thighs were inches from mine.

               “I love 300,” Sam grinned. “It’s been too long.”

               “You don’t mind if I drink from the bottle?” I asked as I flipped my shoes off and sat cross-legged. This brought my knee precariously close to touching her leg.

               “No,” Sam shook her head. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

               “Oh good. I’ll – hang on. You drink?” I smirked in her direction.

               “Yeah? What is it?”

               “I thought you didn’t drink?”

               “What gave you that idea?”

               “I dunno. I guess it was your reaction when I brought the bimbo beer out.”

               She rolled her eyes. “I drink, Michael, but only a little. Red wine is good for your health.”

               You’re good for your health,” I chuckled, toying with the idea of prodding her arm. “I mean… you’re good for my health…”

               “It’s starting!” Sam interrupted.

               We spent the next hour watching the television screen, snacking on Sam’s Chik-fil-a as I explained how 300 was actually an accurate depiction of one of the books in Herodotus’s Histories as Sam googled the facts I fed her. At this point, the wine bottle was nearly empty, and my body swung loosely as I wove my impressive tales of facts.

               “Sorry,” I said finally, wincing. “I tend to ramble when I get excited; you have to tell me to stop.”

               “Nah, it’s fine Michael,” Sam leaned towards the coffee table to grab a handful of Chic-fil-a potato slices. “Are you drunk already?”

               “I’m buzzed,” I swayed slightly. “I am not drunk.”

               “Riiiiight.”

               “Am not. Sam? Sam Dominique… I am not drunk…”

               As she leaned over her knees to reach the coffee table, she glanced at me with a smile. Then, shaking her head, she plucked one of my beers out.

               “Just one,” she said emphatically. “I’m watching my carbs.”

               “Carbs? What are carbs, even? I haven’t gotten a straight answer yet.”

               “They’re what makes it so hard for me to lose three pounds,” Sam replied smoothly.

               “Three pounds? You sure you didn’t forget to take your shoes off when you stepped on the scale?”

               “It’s nothing,” Sam gripped at the bottle cap. “Hey, can you get the bottle opener? It’s in the cupboard left of the sink.”

               “Left of the sink?” I asked. “There’s two cupboards left of the sink. You mean the –”

               “I got it,” Sam interrupted me again as her bottle hissed. “It’s a twist off.”

               “Damn, you’re strong,” I joked as she took a light swig. “Getting that thing open with your bare hands… how is it?”

               Even before her lips parted the bottle’s head, her eyes fluttered with shock. “It’s sweet!” she raised her eyebrows. “Really sweet! You sure it isn’t cider?”

               “It was in the beer section… and it’s called Bimbo Beer…”

               “Kinda warm too,” Sam stared down her torso. “You can feel it go all the way down… like vodka.”

               “So it’s good?” I asked. “Maybe I can have some.”

               “Shouldn’t you finish your wine first?”

               “Ha! Is that a challenge?”

               “No, I’m saying space your drinks out. Take some sips, maybe have a glass of water…”

               “But I told you I’m not drunk,” I winked, swinging a mouthful of red wine that made me sputter.

               “Michael!” Sam rested her hands on her hips. “Small sips!”

               “Sure! I promise! Also, now you can catch up.”

               “Please. I’m not a lightweight. One beer won’t get to me.”

               We continued watching the mighty Persian Empire falling victim to King Leonidas’s piercing one-liners. Too buzzed to talk, I reclined comfortably into the warm softness of the couch, revelling in the experience of being next to my favourite human being. Sam sat nearby with her legs straightened over the couch’s edge, the bottle of Bimbo wedged snugly between them. From time to time, she sipped its contents, smiling at the pleasant taste. Seemingly moments later, I watched her tilt the bottle high, craning her head upwards to suckle the last few drops. Apparently, I was too buzzed to notice how close she was to finishing.

               “Ugh,” she rested back against the couch. “So good.”

               “Was it?” I smiled. “I’m glad. Now then, if I could have one…”

               “You’re too drunk to have one yet!” she whined happily as she bent clumsily forward to grab another bottle.

               “But I can have one,” I reasoned. “If I just hold it without drinking it right away…”

               “Stooooop,” Sam pushed my shoulder playfully. “I can’t trust you when you’re drunk.”

               “I’m not…”

               Sam twisted the second bottle open, closing her eyes and sniffing the sweet, intoxicating fumes. There was something about the way she was acting that brought my consciousness into just enough focus to realize that I had never seen Sam drunk before, and the way things were going, she was very close to that point.

               “Are you really drunk already?” I laughed. “One and done?”

               “Michael! I am totally not a lightweight. I told you already.”

               “Yeah, I guess you did.”

               “You think I should stop?”

               “Oh no, not at all!”

               “Well then,” she smirked, tipping the bottle to lips that puckered sensually around the rim to gulp a large mouthful – a giant mouthful.

               “Well, what?” I asked, adjusting my legs. “I’m drunk – I mean, I’m buzzed, so I need it broken down Barney-style… oof…”

               I didn’t bump against Sam on purpose – not really – but I wasn’t trying not to bump into her. Still, when I pulled my legs from my cross-legged position, Sam moved at the same time, making the couch cushions shift enough to send me careening into her upper arm, toned, yet soft against my face. It was heavenly.

               “You bimbo,” Sam snickered girlishly.

               Bimbo?” I craned my head up towards her face, rubbing my cheek against her. “Me? A bimbo?”

               “Yes,” she giggled, making her body shake pleasantly against mine.

               “I can’t be a bimbo! That’s a girl thing!”

               You’re a girl… girly man,” slightly confounded by her increasing levels of intoxication, Sam sighed and stretched her arms over her head. As her back arched, her boobs pressed tightly against her shirt, flesh oozing around the visible outline of her cups. In hindsight, I should’ve noticed something was different by then, (contrary to what every male artist on DeviantArt thinks, girls don’t  wear bras a couple cup sizes too small), but I was distracted by the sensation of her warm skin against mine, of her every breath as I rested against her, of the thought that if I shifted ever-so-slightly closer, we could be touching from shoulder to knee.

               “So I see you like it,” I smiled at her as she swigged her second bottle freely.

               “Huh? Like what?”

               “The beer? In your hand?”

               “Uh… duh!” Sam swigged again for good measure. “This is the best beer, like, ev-er!”

               “That’s epic,” I rested contentedly against her, still unaware of the latest developments.

               Sam shared my contentment, sipping happily on her second bottle of Bimbo with lacklustre abandon. By the time Xerxes decided it was time to see what the Spartan “tribe” was doing to his army, Sam had gulped her third bottle dry. Clearly, she had forgotten that she was supposed to take it easy.

               “Mmm,” she smacked her plump lips against each other. “They’re so good.”

               “I’m so glad you like them,” I smiled, rubbing against her shoulder.

               The moment didn’t last. Sam suddenly raised her arms and stretched herself with a long, sensual groan. This made me fall behind her on the couch.

               “Whoa, careful!” I warned, watching her bend forwards to grab another of my beers. “Don’t lean b – hey, let me out!”

               “You’re so funny Michael…”

               Sam’s ass was against my face, trapping me against the back of the couch. Had this been planned, I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed the sensation of her soft cheeks against me. As it was, I wanted to watch the movie – and breathe.

               “Let me out,” I slapped my free arm wildly against her thighs. “Out!”

               But as my hand slapped her thighs, I finally noticed her transformation. Sam’s thighs were noticeably plump, and soft to the touch. With each slap, her flesh jiggled lightly, moulding against my touch like a memory-foam mattress.

               “You’re, like, so clumsy Michael,” Sam shifted her ass against my face, which I suddenly realized was beginning to bulge. “Ugh! This bra is so tight on me. Let me chug this real quick…”

               As I watched helplessly, Sam’s cheeks slowly began to expand in all directions, stretching her shorts and pressing against my face. Desperately, I pushed back with my free arm, struggling for breath with muffled screams.

               “Unh!” Sam gasped, as if she had chugged a fourth bottle without breathing. A brief, tormented moment later and she loosed a deep, casual belch before leaning back contentedly.

               At this point, I was squishing her thighs with my fist and biting her butt as my legs flailed helplessly against the couch pillows.

               “Oh!” Sam started. “Michael! You kinky bitch…”

               Snickering to herself, Sam stood up from the couch. As I inhaled my first free breath, I watched her wobble on her feet and crouch low. She looked back at me over her shoulder, a sly, grin spreading across her face as she reached for the hem of her shorts and slid them over her ample, motherly hips. I gasped at the sight of her panties, bunched thong-like between swelling ass cheeks, each supported by a curved, thickening thigh that rubbed snugly against its twin.

               “What can I say?” Sam straightened-up and reached for her hair-bun. “I feel so hot in here, and my clothes are so tight…”

               When she shook her locks loose, they cascaded over her back like molten gold as she swayed her hips from side to side. Once again, she looked at me over her shoulder, satisfied with my apt attention to her.

               “Sooo tight,” she twisted around, revealing huge, swollen breasts barely contained within their bra, swelling upwards and pushing against her shirt with each breath. “I can barely breathe in this thing…”

               Reaching under, she unfastened an unseen latch, leaving her chest free to swell against her cotton shirt like soft cantaloupes. The way she was growing, they would be like watermelons soon.

               Freed of a laced, pink bra that fell to the floor from under her shirt, Sam turned to stand before me, hands resting comfortably on widened hips, a confident smirk adorning a face with long eyelashes and pouted-lips.

               “What, you’re not going to say anything about my tits?”

               I blinked, unprepared for the moment life granted my every desire at once. “I… what’s happened to you Sam?”

               “Well…” she snickered. “It wasn’t really a concussion. I totally lied about that.”

               “So…” I gulped as she rested first one, then her other knee on the couch. Her weight sank the couch cushion beneath us as she edged ever closer to me. “What… is it, really?”

               “Hnn,” her teeth spread across my field of vision. “There’s two of us. The Id… and the Ego.”

               “You mean…” I stared down at her huge breasts squishing against my chest. “You’re bipolar? Or something?”

               “Shhh…” she rubbed a finger against my lips. “Sam’s sleeping. You get to play with me for a little bit… until morning.”

               “Who are you?”

               “I’m Sam,” she shrugged. “But… you can, like, call me Dominique. Now hold me… tighter… we still have two more beers… and I’m not sharing a drop of it, honey-bun.”

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