Lindsay, a neighbour - Charades

All characters are 18 or older, of course.

Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.

I don’t even know how I know something’s wrong. It’s just a strange feeling like something is out of place, not as it should be.

On the surface, everything seems normal. Smooth Jazz drifts quietly in the background of the party, playing from a speaker built into a wall and masked by the light chatter of our group. This little shindig is just for those on our block, a neighbourhood get-together for folks to sip wine, chow down on an assortment of home-cooked appetizers and Costco charcuterie boards, and get to know each other better. These are the folks that I’ve seen around the neighbourhood since Ashelyn and I moved in a few months ago, but so rarely get to sit down and have a conversation with.

There are the two blondes from down the road, Elisa and Caitlyn, who are only a few years out of university and are huddled together by the refreshments table. They’re interesting to chat with, seeing as it’s unusual to see another lesbian couple in the same neighbourhood in a red state, but even at only a few years younger than us, they’re way more in-tune with what's ‘hip’, and I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by our conversations.

Elisa is sweet, with her rimmed glasses and golden hair in a bun giving a “cute librarian” look, alongside a thin cashmere sweater that is (as much as I try not to notice) just a tad too tight for her generous bust. The real looker is Caitlyn, though, with her styled hair (recently permed and with curtain bangs that she pulls off quite well) and a cherry-red maxi dress that, against her partner, makes her stick out like an overly dressy, possibly oil-money-funded thumb.

Then there are the party’s gracious hosts, gracious in the sense that they provided the lodging and a backlog of enough beer and wine that we needn’t bring our own, our neighbours Dianna and Adam, two roommates that aren’t even dating, and yet bicker about hosting arrangements like they’ve been married for forty years. Adam always looks like he should be hauling lumber on an interstate, never seen without his signature camo trucker hat, despite working data entry for some metal fabrication company. Dianna has a food-stained apron over a floral dress and has been vaunting how she made the crescent rolls without very much help at all whenever Adam is in earshot.

Next to them, face buried in her phone with zero intention of socializing is Crystal, Dianna’s niece, who is staying with the pair as she attends her freshman year at the college in town. She’s decked out almost entirely in black: fishnet stockings hug tightly against her legs and a black plaid skirt with a red hem adorns her waist, locked under a leather belt. Above that is a dark, flower-patterned corset, which connects to two diaphanous arm sleeves that are only slightly more pallid than her arms and are intermittently dotted by black ribbons. Her style is unabashedly goth, and black lipstick, eyeliner and a pale foundation seal the look.

And just behind her is the man. He’s sitting in the corner at a grey folding table, fully naked, his fingers furiously typing on his laptop. I pay him very little attention and honestly, I don’t even know his name, but he’s elected himself in charge of entertainment for the night. Despite being utterly unremarkable in all other regards, something about him has proven to take charge of the room each time he opens his mouth, a trait I’d probably admire in someone more memorable (and to be honest, better looking). It had been his idea to try out the party-wide game of Charades, and I had obviously agreed to participate when prompted, despite having zero interest in playing and hating group icebreakers with a passion.

He has a way with words, I guess.

Is that what this strange feeling stems from? Charades? I rack my brain, trying to remember. It had started when my turn had rolled around, when I had picked up my first card. Right before we broke for ‘technical issues.’ But what…

My train of thought is interrupted as someone approaches me on the couch. Oh, whoops! I have a customer.

Angel approaches contemplatively, wearing a black outfit framed by intricate white frills. She’s in her late twenties, rocking pastel-pink highlights on chestnut hair that tends to sweep over her eyes. She and her husband Oscar rent the house down the road, and we’ve had them over for dinner once or twice. Pleasant people all around.

Stepping over the pile of my discarded clothes, Angel thumbs absentmindedly at a stack of two red solo cups in her hands as she reads the menu printed across my bare chest. The writing is smeared, having been hastily written in Sharpie, but I can tell by the way her eyes are scanning across my tits that she’s reading it with little issue.

CAPPUCCINO - 1 LICK

AMERICANO - 1 LICK

HOT CHOCOLATE - 2 LICKS

FRENCH VANILLA - 2 LICKS + 1 RIM

Her eyes light up as she finds the drink she’s been ordered to get, before kneeling and stuffing her face between my open thighs. “Two Hot Chocolates, please.” Her tongue feels smooth and flexible as it slowly slides up. I quietly moan as she reaches the top, and she briefly pauses to suck at my clit, before diving back down to the bottom to repeat the oral payment. Mmm. I’ll have to give her extra whipped cream for that. I suppose that’s the difference between regular coffee machines and women who just happen to be coffee machines - we accept bribes.

I feel something inside of me stir upon her fourth payment, like a surge of energy that sets my body into motion. A muffled churning sound begins to emit from within me, my breasts ballooning outwards as they begin to fill, a soft warmth blossoming inside each expanding tank. Soon enough my nipples become slick as a droplet of dark brown liquid crests at each. I groan as professionally as I can muster as the gentle heat floods into me. “T-two hot chocolates, coming up!”

Rising from the floor, Angel places both cups into my hands, which have automatically positioned directly below my dripping breasts, and slowly brings my wrists upwards until they lock into place. Sighing as I feel the rims press into my tits, I feel the pressure build to a breaking point inside my magnified chest. What starts out as just a few drips and drops morphs into a steady stream of steamy, creamy, delicious hot chocolate, gushing evenly out of each breast. I bite my lip, trying to hold myself back from releasing any unprofessional noises. Fuck, it feels good to do my job. Something about Angel’s nonchalant, almost bored stare as she watches the cups fill makes the situation even more delicious.

The chocolate liquid pumps out of me at a very satisfying rate, and an industry-competitive one at that– I’m a brand-new model, after all. I haven’t met any other female coffee machines in the 15 minutes I’ve been one, but I imagine we’re a lot more efficient than our non-sentient counterparts.

As the brown liquid approaches the top of the cup the stream begins to die down, the steaming downpour gushing from my knockers slowing to a gentle drip. Bending down slightly, Angel squeezes my tits out with white-gloved hands, milking the last spurts of chocolate liquid into the cups.

“Don’t forget the whipped cream!” I exclaim sunnily, as a sudden burst of pressurized air erupts from my nipples. Angel aims my nipples all around the cup as a spray of whipped cream erupts from each tit, covering the surface of the chocolate liquid with my patently sugary and creamy essence.

With each cup adequately filled, my breasts cease spraying and slowly begin to deflate back to their regular size. “Thanks for your patronage,” I smile as Angel dutifully collects the cups from my hands and marches off.

Where was I? Right, charades. Kind of a kiddy game for a party with only adults in attendance, but I do understand the appeal. A chance to flex the ol’ improv muscle, I guess.

We’d had to take a pause at some point - the naked man had informed us that he needed to change something or other on his laptop before we could continue. Oh well, at least I’d been allowed to take my turn right before the intermission.

We’d only been able to play two rounds. Angel, who had been sitting to my right, had volunteered to go first. Bouncing up to the man, he’d typed something into his computer, and a card had slowly emerged from the side, like from a printer.

He’d handed her the card, not even looking at her.

“Oh! Uhm, okay,” An embarrassed expression had washed over her as she read her card, eliciting an awkward chuckle from the Mediterranean girl as she began miming a twisting motion with her wrist. A dusting motion, I came to realize, as she strutted around and “dusted” the top of the couches, the screen of the television attached to the back wall, and even (jokingly) various other participants in the group. Her hips began to sway salaciously as she continued, falling more and more into character the more she cleaned. Varied guesses had erupted from the other couples, (“Painter! No, waitress!”), but she had simply shaken her head.

There were a couple more duds, but my guess of ‘housekeeper,’ had elicited an excited finger point from Angel. One that said almost, but not quite there…

“Maid?” Ashelyn quickly followed up, jumping off my guess. Close enough to housekeeper, but with different connotations, depending on who you ask.

There’d been a sudden ding that sounded tinny coming from the laptop’s speakers.

The change happened very quickly. Angel hadn’t even been able to get an affirmative out before Poof! She exploded into a cartoonish cloud of something sparkly, like chaff from a fighter jet. When the dust had faded, Angel’s casual outfit of a cardigan and jeans had vanished, and so had her bubbly, carefree expression. Now, there was a quiet serenity etched onto her face. A tight maid’s outfit, accented with diaphanous ruffles that clung tight in the most important places. Her posture was perfect, symmetrical, practiced.

The man clicked his tongue, his gaze switching between Angel and his monitor. “Kay, hold up… Lemme check the mental stuff. Pink hair, tell me. What are you?”

Angel instantly bowed towards him, her cotton candy highlights covering her face as she lifted each end of her frilly skirt in a genteel curtsy. “I am your maid, master.”

The man chuckled. “Okay, good. Ha. I like that I’m the master. Not your hubby over there?” He pointed to Oscar.

“I am still married to Oscar, but you are my master, sir. I am eternally at your service as your maid.”

“Mmmm, nice. Let’s make that... Sex-**** maid.” He typed with one hand while scratching his nose with the other.

Angel didn’t even look up. “Of course, sir,” she nodded, her previously sunny demeanour fully erased in service of an air of devout and eternal professionalism. “I am ready and willing to perform any sexual task you desire.”

“Damn right,” the man whistled, jumping out of his seat and clapping a spank onto Angel's thick bubble butt through her French lingerie. As if to assist him, Angel pushed her backside out enticingly as a flurry of a few more spanks followed, the sharp smacks echoing throughout the room. Seemingly unfazed by his wife’s manhandling, Oscar took a sip of beer and casually glanced at his phone. Which had been honestly nice to see. I figured he was a secure enough guy to know she was just doing her job. Relationship goals.

The man cracked his neck, seemingly satisfied. “Alrighty, you can keep sitting with your husband, or whatever.” The man paused, taking a moment to further soak in Angel’s luscious, uniformed figure. “For now. But if I need you for anything, I’ll let you know. Who’s next?”

Angel nodded and strode back to her seat. Watching her sit down, Adam piped up. “Hey, if she’s a maid now n'all, you wanna let us borrow her after the party? It’d be nice if someone helped me clean up after throwing one of these.”

Dianna glowered, swirling a glass of red in her hand. “What, are you gonna act like I don’t do anything? I cooked the food, Adam, lest we forget.”

“Yeah, and then ‘cause the taste is so bad, you have to drink yourself silly to cope!” He guffawed, then loud-whispered, “Sorry about her, folks. She’s an Alkie…”

“You’ve been drinking more than me! You pregamed an entire six pack from the garage, you know those were for everyone…”

“Shut up, you don’t know jack. Those are like 5%.”

“You can actually both shut up,” the man interrupted, and shut up they did, still staring daggers at each other. “Boy, you guys are fun, eh? We’re all having lots of fun together, right?”

I remember the way the “Yes…” had spilled out of my mouth, alongside everyone else in the room. It had just felt natural and easy to agree, even if I still thought icebreakers were slogs.

“Aaaanyways, good guessing, folks. One point to the redhead,” The man had said, motioning vaguely towards Ashelyn while returning to his laptop and getting ready for the next round. My round.

“Good job, babe!” I’d kissed Ashe on the cheek while sneakily placing a hand on her thigh. “I mean, I’d call it more of a team effort, but you got a point!”

“A whole point!?” Ashelyn had gasped in mock awe, her own hand moving to cover and lightly squeeze mine. “And the night’s still young!”

Of course, a point isn’t actually worth much. It isn’t worth anything, besides maybe bragging rights, however much those are worth for a non-competitive game of charades. I feel perhaps a bit bad for Angel in that regard, having been reduced to a life of obedient, uniformed servitude at the feet of a man she’s never met before - all over a meaningless point. But those are just the rules of the game. Heck, I’ll be serving coffee out of my tits for the rest of my natural life for the same reward, but I guess it’s all in good fun. And isn’t that what tonight is all about?

Though now that I’ve settled into my new role as a coffee machine, it comes under scrutiny if I’ll even be allowed to play once the game gets back up and running. I suppose I’ll be just as content serving refreshments to those who can still consider themselves human, but I suspect it’ll be up to the discretion of our naked master of ceremonies.

Who, as it happens, seems to finally be ready as he claps for our shared attention.

“Alrighty folks! Sorry for the delay… I’ve been trying to figure out this fucking program and– y’know what, nevermind. We’re almost ready here, so everyone, come back and sit down.”

The chatter silences, followed by the pattering of footsteps on cheap carpeting as everyone obediently shuffles to their seats: the couches that form a half-circle in the spacious living room. I’m already right where I need to be (on the middlemost couch, easily accessible for anyone who feels particularly thirsty), but to my dismay, Ashe doesn’t sit next to me, instead opting to couch herself next to Caitlyn, on the leftmost couch. I shoot her a look, but she just shrugs, apparently mid-conversation with the blonde. I get it, sitting with other humans is more socially engaging than chilling on a couch with a coffee machine, but when you’ve had such a lengthy relationship and countless sexual trysts with said coffee machine, you’d think you’d at least be willing to give her the time of day.

I can’t help but feel a tiny twinge of jealousy as I watch them, but I try to banish those thoughts. I’m not mad or anything, but it’s hard not to let your insecurities fly when your wife is snuggled up to, let's face it, a bombshell like Caitlyn. Though my eyes are only for Ashe, Caitlyn has caused actual car crashes in our neighbourhood from distracted drivers who have seen her strutting in her pumps while walking her dog.

Funnily enough, noticing there’s no space left on Caitlyn’s couch, Elisa sits awkwardly next to me and watches the chummy pair with a similarly vexed look on her face as mine. Gulping down her discomfort with her own cup of breastmilk cappuccino, she tries initiating small talk about what little she knows about the production of coffee beans, but I inform her I’m mostly involved in distribution, and the conversation quickly dies out. The guy suddenly clears his throat, which thankfully also puts an end to Caitlyn and Ashe’s chatter.

“Okay, gang, we’re back.” The man stands from his table in the corner, walking until his fully nude self is right in the middle of our room, commanding our attention through positioning alone. “Looks like the order is… more or less the same. I’ve gone ahead and updated the app, with some adjustments.” The man smiles, a toothy smile that would seem sinister in a vacuum, but when attached to him, feels about as dangerous as the beige paint adorning the walls. “As a result, these prompts might start getting a lot harder to guess. And a bit more… specific. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still have a good time!”

I’m not so sure about that. Looking around, I notice some disinterested nods, a few sighs, and Crystal still face-deep in her phone. I get he wants us to be excited, but it’s an icebreaker, and we’re adults. What do you expect?

The man seems to notice Crystal’s particularly inattentive disposition and smirks. Waltzing over, he swings his half-erect member in front of her face, before unceremoniously thrusting it against her painted black lips. She allows the member to pass through her jaw with little to no resistance and (still gazing detachedly at her phone), suckles at it with all the passion and mirth of someone being **** to mow a lawn. Kind of swirling it around in her mouth like a lollipop.

Arms akimbo, the man surveys the room as the uninterested goth blows him. “Any questions?”

I shake my head, watching the lewd display with only borderline interest. I’m feeling antsy from not being used, and I really don’t want to start my cleaning cycle before everyone drinks from me. I survey the room, trying to take count. I don’t think Crystal has used me yet. I wonder if sucking cock makes someone more thirsty or less…?

The man looks a tad perturbed by the lack of energy in the room as he, seemingly theatrically, grabs Crystal by her dyed black wolf cut and thrusts her back and forth further on his cock, causing the pale collegiate to emit a series of bored-sounding glck-glck-gluck noises. His own voice sounds a bit jerky. “A-ny-bo-dy?”

He looks around the room, tight-lipped. Nobody says a word, least of all Crystal, as she simply continues scrolling. Her only sign of discomfort comes when a gob of precum-infused saliva spills from her mouth onto her screen, and she has to wipe it off with her sleeve.

Sighing, the man stops and pulls out from Crystal’s mouth with a wet pop, and she promptly closes it again. “Whatever. Let’s just keep going,” he mutters under his breath as he returns to his laptop, “Knew I should have fucked around with the awareness settings more…”