Distracted inquiries.

Boing.

Even if they didn't quite make that noise, that's how they sounded in your head when they dallied out like so from the latina's black, now discarded, practically criminal bra.

Springing.

Buoying.

.... Being there, like that. The sheer thought; spontaneously going practically naked, in nigh-public, in the wake of droves of people, armed with cameras and Instagram profiles, all ready to fire at the drop of a hand. No. Big no. It would make an average woman go ruby.

Vanessa curls a lip.

How scandalous this would look to certain people. People like her mother. Or grandmother. What would they say? How would they faint? When would they wake up, and would she have to bring out the mint?

Crunching the numbers, the young woman's noggin lights up.

Nothing. That's right; they would say nothing, because there would be nothing to put their hair in a twist but a few split ends she had neglected to sever. Absolutely, utterly zilch; nada.

This wasn't slutty. This wasn't the bane of a drunken dare. It was what you told her to do. You! Not her -- you! Pervert.

It's not that she wanted her breasts to boing out in front of her to who knew how many people privy to seeing them two lovely lumps, those of her, Vanessa (effing) Garcia, now topless, top-heavy, and on top of even the random camel prop hanging at the kitchen corner in the protruding anatomy department, as all their horned up fantasies came to life, stiffly, with a standing ovation, like pitching a tent in a pubic Papua. The guys, anyway. Some ladies needed professionals.

Oh, and they don't literally boing, either.

Cartoons boing. Reality unfurls.

That was just... onomatopoeia.

"Vanessa!"

A turn of the head. "What now?" she clutches her hip before your upturned eye. Playful snark aside, she remains where she is as you step up to her and cradle her breasts under your fingers. Again she only but raises a threaded brow. Again, they sing at your touch.

"What?" you barely breathe it out, simmering, as if doing so would blow her breasts away from you. Like dandelions. "You thought I was done?"

"Well, you stood there staring for, like, two minutes, so I thought I should get a coke." She looks about her. You dig your fingers into her boobs as her neck swivels. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, or... groping... but... dios mio! John!" She shivers at your finger's delicate pinch, pointing her eyes at you with a frown that melts away almost instantly. Effortlessly. Because, after all, a frown was just a muscle too taxing to be worth any effort anyway. "You're excited today."

If you were listening you might have chortled. How could you not be a little sunny at the moment? You were touching her chi-chis! Thank you, senorita, come again! Die and go to heaven or a 7/11!

She truly had a set of keepers. Unlike your last girlfriend, these don't fit like a glove into your inquisitive grasp; they **** your skin in a supple spill of flesh. The feeling of her nipples pressed against your palms fills you with stirring. A taboo kind, if that makes sense; that here, as the standard party hubbub slips past both ears, you stand, squishing two delectable orbs...

"Some punch?" A well dressed man stops by the both of you, suddenly, in his hand a tray of refreshments. Several have already been drained dry.

"Yes, please." In a pleased whisk, Vanessa takes a quick shot. The homebrewn server takes the glass from the torso baring Hispanic then strides on through the rest of the house, while you play with Vanessa's breasts, in front of his FACE.

And then behind, as he approaches an animated couple who, upon his arrival, smile and initiate a segue over the contents of said tray. Meanwhile, you continue rolling Vanessa's breasts just a few heads down their field of vision. You swear the girl shoots a casual look in your direction, then returns them to laugh at something her handyman said.

... and, as ribald demonstration of your point: all these people will stand by and let you! You have free reign to fuck with them. To fuck with their friends, and their friends' friends, and they wouldn't lift a finger in the name of jurisprudence or even dignity! Who knew how far it went? How deep it ran? The number of boobs in the world now ripe for impromptu palpitating?

You lift the latin breasts up and rub them against your nose.

"God, these are nice tits, Vanessa." Looking up, you press your chin onto the swell of her right breast.

The dryness in her voice rivals nitrogen. "Yours will grow too some day, don't sweat it."

"Very funny," you begin, when a figure sidles into your peripheral.

"Hey guys, wanna head to the game room and get your asses beat in darts?" Marcie bounds before the two of you, her trim naked body looking as acrobatic as ever. "I know you suck at them, John."

"I do not suck."

"Yes, John, you do," lips Jeremy with a wink as he fills the gap.

"Thanks, Jeremy." You eye the inadvertent exhibitionist. "Marcie, rub yourself against his balls for five minutes." A finger goes upward. "Don't let him cum."

"Aye-aye, captain." Marcie pivots herself so her ass is directed towards Jeremy's groin area, then wiggles down and pushes herself onto his member. A visible jolt can be seen coursing through the man, his eyes racing back to meet yours almost as if to silently say, I'll get you back for this, you bastard.

He then grabs both Marcie's arms and pulls her onto him, somewhat dutifully.

For a moment, you return you focus to Vanessa and quietly marvel. Whatever is going on in her mind, her uncaring outward nonchalance is so hilariously empowering. To think you can reduce a straight-faced woman to such a state as this.

Another hungry eyeful devoured, you don't dismiss miss tomboy and languidly look back to naked Marcie. The slick tongued, neatly haired woman is still grinding away on Jeremy the 'ol walking tower, completely un-clothed and uncannily unbothered by it, as unbothered as both your sleek-suited friend. Well, as much as a contending butt tease counted towards being 'not bothersome'.

Being the pervert-in-command you are, looking at Marcie's revealed, well-lit body, your penis can't help but twitch.

She has one alright; one more than satisfactory, white-bred home-grown female body. And she's baring it all smack in the middle of a casual get-together while talking with a clothed acquaintance of hers. Once again at your ridiculous behest.

Gravitating downward, you note how her modest tits sit happily on her chest, while Vanessa's pair fights gravity in a pleasing act of resistance.

On the contrary, just like Vanessa, she has never shown the tendency for something like this before. She once slugged a guy for trying to grope her, and she relatively liked that guy, all things considered.

Full frontal, shameless public nudity, that is. Shameless public harassment in the nude, well -- tendencies for that implied a prolific style of life that Marcie and Vanessa were as far removed from as butterflies were from butter. All the hotter that the former had her ass shaking and baking with glee and the latter her tits out like it was Mardi Gras, in the name of your horn-dogged amusement.

That reminds you; you are feeling a little handy yourself at the moment. You think of giving Marcie a penetrative greeting.

When suddenly, a pretty blur catches the corner of your eye.

A woman you don't quite recognize passes by and you are instantly drawn to her head turning figure, garbed in a fashionable, white two-piece dress with a skirt that went down to her feet. Her face exuded a cute, even beauty, with curves that were slender, yet tight.

Throb.

You had to get your hands, your fingers, your nose on that.

"Uh, John?"

Turning, you look upon a nonchalant Vanessa staring back. "Sorry, Vanessa, gotta go check something really fast. You're, er, dismissed."

"But what about--" The breasts. Right. Words weren't even necessary; the two of them filled in the blanks like telepathic silicone had spun out of Boston Dynamics.

You pause for a second. "Here's a thought. Since your tits look so nice opened up and all, spend the rest of the party inviting any one who looks at your breasts for more than two seconds to play with them to their heart's content. It'll be a grand time!"

Vanessa raises a brow and watches as you spin away, dropping her hand back to her leg. Then, taking a chug out of her soda, she flips her hair across her shoulder, packs her top and brassiere into her purse, and enters the deluge of people before her.

"Hey," calls out Jeremy. "Where's John heading off to?"

"Beats me." Vanessa shrugs while walking away. "Probably to try and pick up some chick he barely knows."

Marcie snickers as she pushes hard onto Jeremy's swelling sonny, and then harder still, as his lungs spit out a pitiful half-moan from her unabashed ministrations. "Oh, that's just gold!"

Meanwhile, a similar forest of people awaits your own pursuits. As you practically machete your way through, you have to wonder if there was this many people before. Somehow, it seems like the scale and excitement of this lively but casual 'game night' ballooned in proportion to your own self-contained elation, and escalating hunger for festivity, for carnal decadence; in the wake of seeing Vanessa and co.'s bodies and wills and plans all at your whim. Could it be? Did you miss something on the briefing, maybe? Or were things really, maybe slightly, sorta-half-a cranked up a notch by some totally not plausible supernatural world warping means?

Whatever it was, you're certain that this is something not exactly out of the ballpark of the hosts' disposable income; they're set, and everybody knows it. And when they want to throw down, they can pull together a clean but decked out shindig, one you wouldn't easily forget. At least once the stars fall out of your sleep hazed eyes.

"Whoops, er, hi, pardon me." After stomping on a few shoes, you wedge between a college jock you think is named Luther and some other woman you don't recognize, honed as you were into the blonde head of hair before you. Like a clearing in the woods, you emerge into a pocket of comparatively spacious amount of leg room, with the blonde's sculpture ready figure moving before you, one foot after the other.

"Excuse me." You tap the blonde on the shoulder not a second in passing. The two of you are in the same hallway by the same bathroom you had stumbled out of not too long ago.

The woman stops, then in a heart skipping swish of wind, she turns to look at you, her blonde hair braided into an elegant bun, capped with a striking pair of blue, starry eyes. She is bewitching, and belongs to a class of woman that had pedicures in salons that required reservations weeks in advance, probably.

"Yes?"

"Wanna fuck?" you blurt.

Her jaw unlatches. One arm folds over the other indignantly. "Wait. Just... wait wait wait. You're coming up to me, a woman you've never met before, and without any formalities, greetings, or proper decorum, asking if you could sleep with me?"

Sounds about right. "Yes," you reply, looking straight at her.

After a moment of equally steely-eyed familiarity, the blonde vixen sighs. "Sure, why not. Where do you want to do it?"

You grab her by the shoulder. "I want to do it here. Somewhere everybody could see."

"So much for the sleeping part." She casts a look around the room. "The table, then?" Followed by your unwieldy mulling.

"Wait! There's a place I know."

You aren't sure if you take her hand or if she, but either way, the two of you intertwine and slice through the crowd. Finally, you come across a raised platform by the wall, the kind that looked like it could be used for homegrown presentations and announcements when opportune. Heather and co. could afford the luxury of epic party merrymaking, that's not up for dispute. They even had a DJ, somewhere. Currently on the longest 15 minute break you can recollect, too; this is either a double-digit thumper or the guy just set a track on repeat and hopped off to the pool at the back and couldn't find his swimming trunks.

"Up up. Watch your step." You usher the blonde beaut to follow you up the mini-stage. With one hand, you gently clutch her by the waist. She doesn't swat it away. In fact, she shows nary a flinch.

Feeling compelled by the feeling of her body under your fingers, you take this moment to lift her dress up until it is sufficiently over her bum, and shoot an undisguised, clear-as-day peek underneath the embroidered garment.

"Nice undergarment," you admire, pressing your hand against her warm and soft tush. The woman sets her eyes over her shoulder as you lift her dress higher so you can make some room for your face in its wake. With it a centimeter before you, you gratuitously sniff her ass, milling in its fragranced, boudoir curvature. Then you rub crude kisses all over her taut behind, taking blatant advantage of her patient hover -- presumably to ad infinitum if it called for it -- as you did.

"They're limited edition. Costs more than your entire outfit, probably."

"Ah, so you've got dough."

"I do. I earned it."

"Did you?'

She looks down, then up. "More or less."

You don't smirk. She probably would have expected nothing less, though. "You married?"

She casts you a stolid glint as you veer your eyes down in search of a band. Just as Heather, the woman of the hour, crosses through.

"John!"

"Heather!" Campy wave. She returns it with one of her own, then quickly tucks the hand back under a bowl she was carrying. "Fancy meeting you here, huh?"

The dark brown woman clicks her tongue as she nudges your side. "Oh ha-ha." Gaze sliding to your thigh-cupping hands, she nods, "I see you've gotten to know Elizabeth."

"Oh.." You stare at your hand, removing it from the blonde's smooth skin. Heather's pleasant, smiling face doesn't show even a hint of cracking as you look back upon her and hobble out, "I guess I have."

The (co-)host herself is behaving as if your objectifying one of her party guests was a passing cloud. You almost hear a click in your head, simply from how out of character this is of her, and how real, how encompassing your scope is over everyone. Heather wouldn't let a wayward remark go un-addressed or slobs anywhere near stranger and friend alike if she had any licking of leather to give. It was who she was; warm, yet steadfast, and above all, a merrymaking troubadour. If she couldn't lift your spirits, then you were better off talking to an angel.

That same Heather Jenkins, stalwart, unequivocal Heather, now stands by as you enact your strange new phantom properties on the hapless house guests in your proximity and feel up their carnivorously sexy bodies and body parts.

"What's so funny?" The woman looks at you, curiously amused, having suddenly broken into a small fit.

You trace a finger up to, so apparently named, Elizabeth's bum, pinching it, her skin like a warm, cushiony loaf in your fingers. "It's nothing," you utter to a confused Heather. "I was only wondering if you find anything off about what I'm doing right now."

"Not particularly."

A swish of the fist later, "Great! In that case, another inquiry: can I fuck Elizabeth here, on this stage, while you give my ass your undivided attention?"

Heather's body, as it tended to, expressed itself wholly and with animation as she comically pretended to think it over. "Sure," she conceded with a laugh. "For you, John? The world."

This was almost better than losing your virginity behind the radiator in Hawaii all those years ago. Wait, that was just a dream. You keep forgetting that.

"Sorry," Elizabeth pipes up from behind. "It's getting a little chilly."

Apparently, you still have the woman's dress upraised, exposing her sculpted lower half to all the get-down. Yummy legs and ass stare back at you like a fountain elixir. Moving your eyes up over each curve, and then hand, and then arm, and then stomach, to, finally, her face, you eject a small, sardonic chuckle and smack her in the spank tank, eliciting a strained press from both her lips.

"Then it's a damn good thing I'm here to heat things up, isn't it, babe?"