Ashley Price, Music Lover

The old bromide about Power and Responsibility is, by and large, bullshit. And not just in the historical sense; it's obviously hard to argue that great power traditionally has come with anything but a complete ignoring of responsibility, and maybe sitting on a giant throne made of skulls. Maybe some congratulatory high fives. But it's also a stupid saying in the sense that what 'Responsibility' means can differ so drastically between individuals. And way too often they mean fighting crime, which has got to be the worst use for Great Power ever. That's a job for incremental societal and lifestyle changes, maintained and strengthened over time, not a dude with all the powers of a tarantula or whatever.

So while there are some who would say that as the proud owner of a figure that can and probably has caused traffic accidents, you've got a Responsibility. A Responsibility to keep the innocent public safe from the deadly effects of your unstoppable body. But to your mind, there is only one responsibility that comes with a body like yours: rocking the shit out of it all day, every day.

All Day Every Day. You keep quiet in that coffin, Uncle Ben.

Still, said rocking out does come with its own unique issues and opportunities. An amateur in your position would just stuff themselves into whatever showed off as much tit as possible and call it a job well done. And...eh, they wouldn't be entirely wrong. That would probably still be a solid B-. But an expert like you? You know full well that it's almost as much about the boob that you don't show that really gets things going. And even further, you ain't no one-course meal. Ashley Price is a goddamn banquet.

So while your black lace romper may have a high neck, it only juust obscures the sight of your enormous balconette bra and the dreamlike promise of an endless line of pale creamy cleavage hidden barely out of sight. And it's both form fitting and sleeveless, displaying not just the ungodly size of your womanly abundance but your killer abs and perfectly toned arms as well. And if anyone doubted that your majestically pert ass should absolutely be in the race for your best feature, the faux leather pencil pants you've shimmied into should set them straight. And don't let it be said you've only got it going on from the neck down, because you've got an inbox full of thirsty ad agency offers for skin care and toothpaste companies that might imply otherwise. You've paired your punky jet-black pageboy cut and peachy pale skin with a grey scale make up palette, the matte grey and charcoal around your lid and lash line combining with a nude lip color to make your pale grey eyes almost pop silver. Every aspect of your S-Tier body has been perfectly accented, augmented and presented for a fun night out as one of the sexiest women in the world. You wield your beauty like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, expert and precise and hopefully for the good of whoever receives it.

It works for you, but you have to admit not everyone shares your aesthetic. To whit, your friend and current club-buddy Sydney has opted to wield her beauty less like a surgeon with a scalpel and more like the first caveman to ever bludgeon in a skull with a big rock. And you know what? It works for her. No judgement.

The overly blessed scene vixen who's both your friend and semi-docile cow went in a slightly different direction from your entirely sexy but ultimately classy black lace top. Instead, she's stuffed breasts a touch bigger than even your outrageous pair into a fishnet top cropped barely long enough to fully cover them, and the heart-shaped pasties she's wearing in lieu of a bra are woefully unprepared for the task of covering her fat, perpetually aroused nipples. She's scrawled the word "HEART" in pastels vertically down her taut tummy, and if there was any doubt that "FUKKS" was written right above her pussy then wonder no more. Her itty tartan skirt is more than short enough to provide proof of that, flapping up to reveal both her special message and the utterly pointless thong her ravenous mound has all but devoured. Say what you will: Sydney Munroe dresses with a goddamn purpose in mind.

She's shrugs off her oversized leather jacket as your musings trail away, offering you a rueful look over her shoulder as she raises her voice to be heard over the club noise that the bathroom walls do nothing to muffle. "You didn't have to come with me, Ash! I just get so full during the best shows; I gotta make a pit stop. But you're totally missing out on everything!"

You lean up against the girl's room door, offering an airy shrug. "I don't mind a break." You more than don't mind it, in truth. Heart Fukks was meant to do a two hour set, and the goddamn madmen are actually delivering. When you decided to come out tonight, it was for the express purpose of thrilling the scene crowd with your rare presence and getting to see someone's fist go through a snare drum. Goal One has been a rousing success, but it's been almost an hour and Heart Fukks just keep plowing through their library. The only consolation is that they clearly are having even less fun than you are; you've never seen songs about the power of platonic love delivered through teeth that intensely gritted before. Sydney is absolutely thrilled, though, so no reason to rain on her parade. Besides, you've got another valid excuse. "And if I'm here, I can magic away anyone who wanders in while you're taking care of business."

Syndey titters at that, yanking up her fishnet crop top to send her massive breasts wobbling. "Oh true! That's always sooo~ embarrasing. 'Cept when it winds up being hot." She carefully peels off one of her pasties, then hefts one boob towards the sink. Something strikes her before she can go further, however, the girl blowing her plum purple dyed hair out of her eyes to glance back at you. "Um, do you want some?"

"Oh....nah." Sydney tastes really fucking good. "...Well, okay." The girl grins at that, arching her back to present you with her already milk-beading nipple, only to pout when she sees you pulling a thermos out of your bag.

"Aw, boo! I vote boo on that!" She clumsily wobbles her gargantuan rack, droplets of liquid milky mana sprinkling down to shimmer on the bathroom floor. "Isn't my way more fun~?"

You have absolutely zero doubt that it would be. Nevertheless, you pop the teacup top off of your bottle and present Sydney with the canister, the firm set to your mouth apparently convincing the bubbly girl that this is as fun as things will be getting. She gets over her disappointment as soon as she coaxes the first splurt of cream from her her throbbing nipple, eyes glazing as her coos and giggles of delight melt into long groaning moos. More and more squirts out of her supernaturally productive udders, your thermos filled to the absolute brim by the time her stream finally sputters to a drip.

Then she starts peeling off the other boob's pastie. "Hey, wait Sydney; the bottle is full already!"

"Oh, um..." The moo girl slowly considers that, eyes still glazed and free hand needfully caressing her un-milked breast as she considers the all but overflowing thermos. Then she looks up at you with the most heartfelt pout you've ever seen, even giving you a pleading little whimper as she jiggles her still overfull milk jug at you.

Jesus, maybe there is some truth to that Great Responsibilities shit. "Okay fine, just..wait a second." Sydney starts to whimper again, only for her whine turning into a bright cheer when you snatch the bottle from her hand and start to chug the whole thing down in one go. Ohhhh fuck, all of the girls taste great but Sydney might be the goddamn best. She tastes like it must feel to screw a rainbow inside a David Bowie song or something. By the time you gulp down the last mouthful with a **** gasp, your buzzing little nipples are rock hard and Sydney has started fingering herself, tongue lolling out of her slack mouth as she shudders and grunts. God, a pretty fucking big part of you wants to join in, but it's absolutely a piece of the Ashley Price Aesthetic to acknowledge that part of yourself and then bully it into submission.

So instead you snap your fingers, Sydney's eyes clearing up just enough for her drippy fingers to reemerge from under her skirt as you shove the now-empty bottle back at her. "Okay, round two."

Sydney grins, giving you a little salute before setting to draining her other breast with aplomb. A few moments later, you're tucking the thermos back into your bag and Sydney is pulling back on her leather jacket. "Come on Ash, we've gotta hurry if we're gonna catch the intermission act!"

Intermission act? AKA, Heart Fukks is going to go fight backstage for a while so they can make it through the rest of the night. Goddamn it, yet another missed chance to see someone hit with a keytar. Oh well. You give Sydney a swat on her little rear as you emerge from the bathroom. Might as well make the most of this. "Intermission act, huh? Are they any good?"

On cue, the boy on the stage who looks like he literally just woke up mumbles into the microphone, waiting for the loud feedback loop and subsequent audience groans to die down before trying again. "Hello, uh, we are Candledick, and we forgot to bring our instruments again, so, um, here's twenty minutes of fancy clapping."

Sydney gasps in delight, turns her head to gasp at you, then gasps in non-directed glee as she rushes past you to get as close to the stage as possible. Okay. Fuck. You are still going to make the most of this. Namely, by going to the bar, drinking all of this milk, and counting down the seconds until the night is over, someone hits someone with an instrument, or the world explodes.

Honestly, whichever comes first.