BSU: A Romance in Molly - Prologue

The original story was created by J.Swafford and further enriched by xxcecil and seraglio. Thanks, guys, for creating this wonderful, and oh-so-fuckable world ;)

I would like to thank BushyBeaver, Unpublaauthor, and Greyhawk999 for their writing advice. This prologue is a slow start in sexual terms, so skip this if that's not your cup of tea.

Prologue

Tara

Ding! Ding!

"Social Services," a high-pitched, bubbly voice chirped. Tara Sampson's mouth compressed itself into a pale gash as she went over to her front door. It was not human. The last public orgy outside the PG zone was an unnecessary reminder of that.

The men had chosen to get off their van the moment it left the PG zone - the place where women and children lived. A gaggle of those things had swarmed them, tearing at the men's flimsy garments and impaling themselves on their already-erect cocks.

They had ridden them in the open, right beside the wall separating the PG zone from the rest of the world. Tara had stopped and gaped at the heaving, writhing bodies, which were collectively engaged in a dance that blended thrusting hips, heaving titflesh, and bouncing asses. The grocery bags containing her favorite jam had slipped from her fingers and crashed on the pavement. A few drops of the cold jam had gotten on her ankles, shocking her back to her senses. She had had a wild night or two before - who hadn't?

But this - right on the sidewalk - right beside her world...

"Could you fuckers do this somewhere else?" She had screamed.

One of the 'women' riding the men, a redhead with dark skin, Arabic eyebrows, and skin that glittered with rainbow colors in the sunlight, turned her head to face Tara. Tara was across the street and behind the other 'woman', so her head had turned, turned... and kept turning until she was staring Tara in the eyes.

"Too - yeahh - bad! We're - ooh! Outside the PG - Aaah, ooh, yesss, master, Fuck me - zone!"

Tara had taken a wobbly step back and steadied herself against a lamp post. The redhead had smirked and continued rotating her head around until she was facing the man screwing her. Tara had run back home and sat under the shower, imagining that it was washing away the rancid smell of sex and pending ejaculate and wishing that it could do the same for her thoughts.

No matter how much she had scrubbed, she could not rinse away the memory of those pearly white teeth, plump scarlet lips, and knowingly narrowed eyes.

Tara opened her front door. The tan redhead on her doorstep was modestly dressed by their kind's standards. A loosely-fitted, off-white canvas hiking vest served as her top, and her frayed denim pants covered almost half her thighs. The redhead smiled and nodded at her. Tara tapped the display on her government-issued smartwatch, grateful that she didn't have to look at the redhead's inhumanly perfect complexion and be reminded of her own nascent crows' eyes.

"Miss Emerson? I'm Carla eighty-one, ninety AFF, house Alpha, and my personnel number is en -a - dash - seven one five eight three one zero zero eight."

Tara's watch buzzed. A green icon popped up on its screen, and a voice said "Personnel's identification verified. You are speaking to Carla eighty-one, ninety AFF, house Alpha. Thank you for cooperating with our Social Worker. Have a pleasant day."

It would really make my day if they could just fuck off to wherever goddamn planet they came from, Tara thought. I'll break open a bottle of champagne and go on a cupcake binge with Mom.

Carla coughed and hefted the tablet she was carrying. "Begin recording. Excuse me."

Tara realized she was still gripping the doorpost so hard her fingers hurt, barring the way into her home. Behind Carla, the two toned women who had gotten out of the car with her each took a step forward, biceps flexing as their fists clenched.

The girl on the right had blue hair and semi-Polynesian features that put Pocahontas's beauty to shame. She stuck her hand into a front pocket of her tight-fitting leather pants and smirked, triceps rippling. There was no telltale bulge below her navel, but Tara was certain she was armed. The other woman, a black-haired Amazon with exotic Oriental features, smiled and reached for her bubble butt as though to scratch an itch.

"Let's get this over with," Tara muttered, and released her hold on the doorframe.

"Tara, please. At least pretend to be professional about this." Carla said as she walked in.

The blue-haired escort planted a foot in Tara's home and bumped chests with her, smirking. Tara stumbled backwards as the stranger's chest expanded by almost two cup sizes in a fraction of a second.

"Erie!" Carla hissed. Erie flinched and backed down. Carla stepped into Tara's home and closed the door behind her, shutting the other two freaks out. "Shall we?"

Tara led the way upstairs, gritting her teeth all the way. A teenaged male's quarters was always the first on the list of the MAHAD's (Massachusetts Human Affairs Department) inspectors.

Tara knocked on her son's door. Martin cracked it open. With Carla around, the chrome bracelet on Martin's wrist reminded Tara that her son's time with her was limited.

"What?" He said. He did a double take and flung his room's door wide open.

"Martin, how much of your homework have you done?" Tara said.

"I-I need some time to understand it first," Martin said, his eyes flickering from Carla to his mother, and back again to Carla.

"You haven't actually done any of it, have you?" Tara said.

Ping!

Tara flinched. The sound had come from Carla's tablet. Carla raised an eyebrow and waggled her stylus.

Tara forced herself to smile. "Martin?" Her voice sounded a lot smaller and quieter than she had meant it to.

"No, not really," Martin said. He looked to Carla again, and the corners of her lips flickered up ever so slightly.

"That's okay," Carla said. "I'm giving you an A plus for effort."

Carla inspected Martin's action figures and ran her finger along the black wallpaper, white windowsill, and obsidian shelves. She looked through his S.F. books and opened his wardrobe.

Carla checked the soles of all of Martin's shoes. The running and indoor shoes had seen moderate use. The other pairs were brand-new. The levels of the liquids in the array of perfume bottles that he had been given on her last trip were uniformly full except for the blue fluid in the Calvin Klein bottle, which was lower by 1.32 inches.

Carla tagged the bottle on her tablet's screen and turned back to Martin. Just a few miles from their home, Tara knew, a printer in a microfabrication plant was whirring to life and dripping perfume into an identical bottle. It was a privilege that had never been - would never be - accorded her daughter, Amy.

"You sure you don't want to try any other brand?" Carla said.

"No. Not really." Martin shrugged. Behind them, Tara squinted suspiciously at her son. He shrugged a lot at the poker table.

Carla smiled at them and tapped on her tablet. She walked out of Martin's room with Tara in tow.

"Better get back to work, Martin," Tara said.

"Don't push yourself too hard, okay?" Carla said. Tara shut the door before Carla could spout the rest of her garbage.

"All right. You get ten points for cleanliness and tidiness. However, you might want to ease up on making him work," Carla said.

"Carla, he has barely touched his homework all weekend." The two of them started walking over to Amy's room. At least I have a daughter, thought Tara.

"Don't you worry about that," Carla purred as Tara closed the door behind them, her voice dying down to a quiet whisper on the last word. She turned to face Tara, licked the blunt end of her stylus, and gave a smile that made even Tara feel an involuntary burst of desire. It was immediately overshadowed by the pounding between her temples that had been growing steadily stronger since the moment Carla had walked in.

"I guess you're right. There's absolutely nothing to worry about. It's just a lifetime spent mindlessly fucking you shifters and having a dick so fucking big he can't even walk after he's eighteen!"

Carla hissed and straightened her spine. Her eyes widened, and then turned into narrow slits, like those of a rattlesnake.

"Is this how you normally behave around your son?"

Tara felt her fingers shaking. She clasped her hands and bit her lip. What was I thinking? She thought. Her skin felt a rush of heat that made sweat break out on her brow as she became conscious of the camera in Carla's tablet.

"I'm sorry. It's just that... There's been a lot going on lately."

"I'll bet," Carla said.

Tara cleared her throat. "So... how's my daughter's room?"

Carla glanced at her tablet. "I'll pass on that for the month."

Tara led the social worker downstairs and folded her arms as Carla poked, prodded, and pried through her cutlery and utensils. What Carla usually spent five minutes doing stretched on into a twenty-minute, in-depth investigation of every possible source of contamination, fall hazard, and breeding spot for pests that an average American home's kitchen could contain. Tara should have scoured her pots daily. The kitchen was pest free, but the last fumigation had been performed three days behind schedule. Had the seal between the pipes and the wall been checked? They should have been replaced two weeks and eight days ago regardless of their pristine state.

"I'm going to have to give you a six today," Carla concluded.

"What? But you gave me a ten last month. You said that it was the best kitchen you had ever seen -"

"Last month." Carla said, sounding as though she had just scored a point in a debate. She twirled her stylus. "End recording." The stylus shrank and disappeared into her hand. "I'll show myself out."

After all these years, the shifters' abilities still freaked Tara out. She heaved a sigh of relief and slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs. She looked up at the ceiling, the same ceiling that her own mother had looked up to many times, and sighed the same sigh her mother had heaved when her husband had left her for a shifter.

Tara thought her mother was lucky. She had lost a husband, true, but at least she hadn't known it was coming. Tara, though, knew the exact day and date her son would become free game for the shifters.

She felt her right hand shaking. She put her left hand over it and squeezed.

Her mother, Elaine, had been a Marine before the Shifters took over. Elaine had won the trophy for Best Markswoman of the year at her barracks, and all her daughter could do was shiver and clutch her own hand in her kitchen. Tara looked at the closed front door and spat.

"Goddamn Shifters."

Carla

"I've been thinking of reassigning Martin," Carla snarled. "The nerve of that woman!" Her driverless car purred as its engine started up, sending pleasant vibrations through her body. Carla felt her cunt throb sympathetically. It had been long. Far too long.

"I hate her too," Erie, her bodyguard said.

"What do you know about hate?" Carla muttered. She absent-mindedly rubbed a finger on the beige leather cushions. "You'll only be around for a month. Two, at most, before you'll split, and someone else will be escorting me around."

"What's it like, though, being around for so long and staying the same even after your Cycle?" Fiona, her Oriental bodyguard, said. A shaft of sunlight slid across her features and caught on the curiosity lurking in her dark eyes.

"You can't even imagine," Carla said.

"What I want to know is how you can stand doing nothing but work in there." Erie moaned. She rubbed her full milk jugs and closed her eyes. "I want so badly to run up to Him, and - and - " Erie bounced up and down in her seat, and a flush darkened her skin even further.

"Enough." Carla snapped, and slapped Erie. "He's fifteen. Fif-teen."

And he'll be Legal in three years' time, Carla finished silently.

Carla had noticed that Eau De Toilette on the shelf of Martin's wardrobe had been diluted. Not by much, but just enough so that the liquid had lost some of its color. She mentally bookmarked her observation for further investigation.

"Jarvis? Refreshments, please," Carla said.

The top of the car's center console popped open with a barely-audible hiss. A vial with a chrome cap shaped exactly like the glans of a penis rose above a cloud of cold, downward-drifting mist that barely covered four more identical caps. Inside the glass vial was a milky white fluid that looked, smelled, and tasted like semen.

Carla fondled the cap and shivered. She put the cap over her lips and ran her tongue over it. Erie and Fiona coiled in their seats like expectant lionesses.

Carla pressed a button on the top end of the vial. The phallic cap heated up, and a jet of warm white cum shot out of it to hit the back of her throat.

Bullseye, was her last coherent thought.

Semen was sex, drugs, and the nectar of the gods all at once- liquid life spewing from the Men's glorious cocks.

Carla's eyes rolled up into the back of her head. She let her orgasm take her, and triggered yet another squirt of cum to the back of her throat. Her back arched, her hips gyrated instinctively, and her lips formed the only words she could think of: "Fuck! Oh, fuuuck!"

Even high on Cum after a three-day fast, she was dimly aware of Erie and Fiona's eyes and their eager, almost pleading gazes. Carla let loose another squirt into the back of her throat, partly to remind Erie and Fiona who was boss and mostly because she was still hungry, and it felt so good, and she was flying, soaring above the cosmos and its nebulous oceans of semen, assailed by phantom cocks in her mouth, ass and pussy. The vial slid out of Carla's fingers. Erie grabbed it before Fiona could.

Martin

The next day, Martin slipped out of class the moment the bell rang. The other boys and a few girls formed a line in front of Miss Annabelle's desk.

Miss Annabelle had long platinum hair and dazzling violet eyes. She was as perfect as Carla and the various women who had come to Martin's class to conduct Inspections. She was patient, empathic, and always ready to help - with anything at all. He used to stay back after her chemistry class until he had met a girl his age named Molly last year.

Molly had freckles, and her teeth had a slight gap between them. She had gotten braces this year, and she sometimes had specks of mud on her face from her soccer games. Martin thought she was adorable. He wanted to know what the light dancing behind her dark green eyes meant.

As Martin left the room, he heard Miss Annabelle exclaim "Oh, Trevor! Roses? For me? You shouldn't have! Jeanne, stop coughing. Your question can wait."

It didn't take long for Martin to reach the school yard, but the way his heart was thumping in his chest made him feel like he had run a marathon. When he spotted Molly leaning against the fence, he skipped like a doe and waved.

The yard was filled mostly with girls. Most of them turned their heads as he walked by. A girl with yellow feathers wedged into a red bandanna tied around her dirt-smeared forehead put her fingers in her mouth and whistled when Martin drew close to Molly. Martin had learned to ignore the stares by now.

"Molly," Martin said. "I have a surprise for you."

"What kind of surprise?"

"Close your eyes."

Martin reached into his backpack as Molly put her hands over her eyes. She cracked two fingers open.

"I saw that," Martin said.

"The suspense is killing me!"

Martin put the small cardboard box he had made in Arts class in her hands. Her fingers sent a warm rush of electricity through him that lingered where their skin had met.

"Open it," he said.

Molly undid the ribbon on the box that Martin had tied into a bow knot. She sniffed at the vial of amber liquid inside.

"Eau De Toilette," she said, a look of wonder spreading over her face. Martin couldn't help but grin along.

"You like it?"

"Like it? I love it!" Molly giggled. "I'm going to wear this to school every day!"

She hugged Martin and swung him from side to side. Martin wrapped his arms tight around her, and inhaled. The soft scent of the perfume he had drained from one of the bottles Carla had given him wafted across his nose. He closed his eyes and smiled.

On Martin's wrist, the chrome bracelet flashed broken sunlight rhythmically like an SOS signal. The girl who had whistled at Martin looked at her own bare wrist, frowned, heaved a sigh, and jogged over to the basketball court where her girlfriends were stretching and shooting hoops.