Making a Scene

"Wondering what I wished for?" She again spoke directly to the audience, rather than Burt. "Well, if I tell ya... it won't come true."

--

Burt noticed something as they walked. Roughly half the time, a random unknown man would approach the model while they were filming. Half the time, they just wanted to know the website, but the other half... they were the troublesome men entirely bereft of sense and shame, who saw this as an opportunity for flirtation.

This wasn't happening that time. No man dared approach Dorothy as she marched around.

And why would they? Dorothy had to be bigger than any of the dopes who would do that, right? A man in possession of a cock as big as hers, yet possessing no sense of how to approach women and potentially put it to proper use... one might as well put a Formula 1 engine into a bed shaped like a race car.

Burt filmed the spectacle through his eyepiece. He did this every week, feeling no stirring in his heart or stimulation anywhere. But with Dorothy, and her different body... he wasn't sure he was into it.

Dorothy was such a different model. She was distinct from the floozies and such that normally came through his door. He'd seen so many inflated busts, bleached hairdos and stylishly gardened mons pubis, it was refreshing to see a woman with more natural beauty. And Dorothy WAS beautiful, with or without her extension. Definitely WITH it. Burt hadn't been working in porn long enough to be desensitized to a member THAT large.

The 'models' he normally performed this walk with were just that: models. Some porn stars tried to have a look that overlapped more with normal civilian pulchritude, as if every woman next door would undo their tops and reveal enormous inflated udders and toned abs. That wasn't Dorothy, either. She was the most 'normal' model they'd ever had... precisely because she wasn't a model at all. She was just a woman who was absolutely thrilled to do this.

They walked past the grocery store as they always did. Burt usually fell back for this bit, getting some more shots of the model's rear before continuing on to more exciting backdrops. Dorothy's sashaying and flamenco-like spins ceased and she simply walked past the window like normal.

But then... Dorothy took an unexpected turn.

Burt finally broke the silence. "Where are you going?" He shouted...

As Dorothy entered Lyman's.

--

Tom had dug out an old legal pad from below his register to communicate with the deaf patron he was serving. Nobody was behind him, so he could slowly write out an explanation as to why the credit card machine wasn't taking his card. Tom would love to learn American Sign Language to defuse the awkwardness of situations like this, but that sounded like a lot of work and time and maybe even money.

The customer was patient, reading the message, sweeping the page over and starting to write on the next page.

And then the electronic theft alarm went off.

Tom turned around, looking to see what shopper's goods hadn't been properly demagnetized at checkout. The alarm going off was never caused by someone deliberately stealing something with an electronic tag on it. A few times a year, he'd find empty blister packs of batteries tucked behind other products. Someone had stolen the batteries... and the electronic theft tag was still on the cardboard.

Why steal from a somewhat-locally owned small business like Lyman's, anyway? Steal from someplace bigger, or at least some place that sold name-brand batteries. What the hell was MegaBatt, anyway?

Tom was right. The alarm wasn't set off by a shoplifter.

But it was not a customer, either.

Dorothy had marched into the store, wearing those retro sunglasses she had bought the other day... and nothing else. She had a giant erection standing between her legs, rocking about as she strutted by him like he was a telephone pole.

Unanswered questions popped in his mind like popcorn. Why was Dorothy doing this? Why did Dorothy have a penis? Why did the door go off when she entered?

(That last question was easy to answer. On her last shift at Lyman's, Dorothy took a strip of EF tags from the roll under her register and put it in her purse. She bought a bottle of shampoo that the office decreed needed to be electronically tagged, because apparently the secret ingredient in Herbal Essences was pseudoephedrine. Maybe that's why those chicks are so orgasmic in those commercials. When she left with her purchase, the system beeped at her. The others let her go, assuming it was the shampoo. Dorothy then took the strip of EF tags and affixed them to the insole of both high heels, just to be sure that she drew attention to herself the moment that she entered.)

(And she had.)

The answer to the first question (why was she doing this?) entered behind her... that camera crew that always followed the nude model... on Wednesdays.

It couldn't be.

Dorothy was the walker for this week.

Dorothy puckered her lips at Tom as she went up the stairs to Frank's office.

Tom stood there as the camera followed her up. He looked down as the customer he was dealing with brought the pad up from the counter and showed what he wrote. With his head down, he evidently hadn't noticed any of that.

Dorothy reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the office. "Frank?" She asked.

Frank spun around in his office chair and nearly jumped out of it, pushing his legs to stand and tumbling out as the chair was sent backwards.

"Dorothy! What is the meaning of this?!" He shouted.

"I forgot my uniform, but I just need my name tag." She took her name tag from its place near the door on the peg board and slammed the door shut.

Frank immediately went to follow, but found the door locked behind him. The only lock on this door was a padlock and latch that he had the key for. Dorothy had hidden a bike lock in the pile of boxes at the apex of the stairs and locked the door with that, trapping him inside.

Dorothy hung her name tag on her thin chain necklace.

"I'm Dorothy. Welcome to Lyman's. Let me show you around."

Dorothy passed through an empty aisle of registers like it was the gates of the Taj Mahal. She walked towards the far end of the store, perplexed workers and shoppers eyeing her the whole time.

"If you're not from the area, Lyman's was founded in 1969 by one Edmund Horace Lyman, depicted here..." She gesture to the large, faded caricature of Lyman that still decorated this far wall. "Sadly, Lyman was born with a congenital condition that made his head several feet tall, and his eyes were just little dots. Excellent mustache, though. Thank goodness the Mafia killed him before mustaches went out of style, or who knows what we would have done!"

"Through the decades, Lyman's has been known for cheap Chinese electronics, misprinted cereal boxes, overstock toys from ten years ago, and being the only place on earth that still lets you pay with a check, in case you're a time traveler." Dorothy strode down the last aisle, walking backwards and directly engaging the camera. "Oh, and of course, the real legacy of Lyman... the complimentary coffee."

Dorothy stopped with the coffee maker on her right. She took a paper cup and filled it with a mouthful of coffee. "To you, Lyman, wherever you are... or whichever parking lot they buried you in." She drank the coffee. She coughed and hung her tongue out her mouth. "Like he said, it's not great coffee... it's not even GOOD coffee, and this machine might not have been cleaned last night... but it's free."

She pushed her erection down towards her cup and started to masturbate into it. "I've got an idea of how to make this drinkable..."

Less than a minute later, Dorothy had a half-cupful of her own hot jizz, which she mixed with a generous portion of coffee and swirled it with a red coffee stirrer. She took a slow, generous sip.

"Much better." She smiled, finishing the cup in another long sip and pitching it into the nearby trash.

Dorothy turned a corner down the first aisle. This was the least food-centric aisle in the store, an assortment of home goods, diapers, hardware, and a very anemic automotive section that consisted of some bottles of motor oil, brake fluid and tree-shaped air fresheners.

"I can't tell you how many people come in here and say, 'I only came in here for one thing, and look at all the stuff I have in my cart!' Yeah, maybe that's why you're poor! You have no impulse control." Dorothy spun around and pointed at the camera, getting close enough to obscure most of her nudity. "And if you think streaking makes me impulsive, that's not at all true. I've planned this whole thing very carefully."

She walked beside the hardware section. She picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers in a blister pack.

"Oh yeah." She nodded as she showed it off. "Only the best tools are tucked into blister packs, so you can't even hold them before you use them and feel how cheap they are." She looked closer. "See how it's stapled back together? Someone returned it after they used it. Zoom in on that. You can see the bent serrations on the nose, because this steel is garbage. But that's not why they returned it. People would rather drive out here and rent tools and return them so they don't spend... three dollars to have it right when they need it. I bought a hammer from here last year, and now... I never need to buy a hammer as long as I live."

Among the home goods, Dorothy found what she needed: a plastic boot tray, where one would put wet shoes before stepping inside. She walked the tray back to infant and baby section and found a bottle of baby oil. She had no clue what this was far in regards to actual babies, but she knew how she wanted to use it.

Flipping the lid up with her thumb and holding the bottle at arm's length, she squirted a stream of the clear oil onto her breasts, dribbling down her body. She squirted some into her cupped palm and rubbed it against her body until her nude form shimmered, the fluorescent lights above her reflecting off her skin in long shiny streaks.

Behind a package of diapers, Dorothy summoned a few folded paper towels that she had hidden there. While diapers were invariably appreciated by those searching for them, Lyman's still sold very few of them. She knew this would still be there, even if she'd come back a month later. With these paper towels, she wiped her hands dry and cleaned up some of the oil that had reached her shoes.

Finally, in a move that staggered Burt... she wiped up the boot rest as best she could and put it back where it belonged.

"I love the look of baby oil, but it's such a pain to clean up." She went back to the previous aisle. "But I will NOT make a mess for anyone else. I've cleaned up a broken bottle of olive oil. It sucks. At least that lady told us that it happened. She even offered to pay for it."

Dorothy pitched the crumpled paper towel towards the trash can near the complimentary coffee. The shot was good. She could almost picture the loud air horns and basketball buzzers.

"Did you catch that?!" She pumped her fists up in the air, her breasts jiggling a bit, her cock slapping against her stomach. In the high-def footage, one could see a thread of something slinging from the tip. It was probably oil, but it could have been precum. Those in possession of the high-def videos would hopefully appreciate this.

Dorothy walked past Burt, who swung the camera around to keep the eye on the action. Dorothy entered the next aisle.

"Ahh, a surprisingly popular section..." Dorothy had entered the magazine section, capped with a red wire rack carrying a few copies of the local paper, still being sold at a shockingly low price, and still barely ever moving.

"We sell lots of word search books, some crosswords... but I don't think we've ever sold one of these sudoku books. I wonder what that says about people who shop at Lyman's. Maybe they don't like math... maybe they're dumb! Maybe they don't like things named after Japanese words. Well, I guess they wouldn't like me... since I'm a futa and all. I didn't even know the word for a long time."

She looked at the selection of magazines. "When I was growing up, I'd sit at the magazine section and read comic books and stuff while my mom shopped. My mom was just happy that I was reading. It didn't mean anything for my future academic success, let me tell you." Dorothy ran her fingers across the slick magazine covers. "Nothing naughty to read here, of course. Lyman's too wimpy to even carry Maxim or FHM."

Dorothy gazed at a close-up of a cover model with windswept hair and completely clear skin. She tugged at herself a few times, but wasn't really feeling it. "I used to whack it to comic books all the time. If I could do it in the store, I wouldn't have ever bought them. I love hentai... at least they make some porn about someone like me. That's why there's no English word for futa."

Dorothy strutted confidently down the aisle until she reached the stationary section.

"I know there's one question you're all wondering."

She removed a plastic classroom ruler from its hook and placed it against her cock.

Burt got what some nineties movie fans would call an 'extreme close-up,' close enough to read the tiny risen numbers.

"Eleven inches..." She had trouble seeing the number from her position. Burt crash zoomed up to her face. "Is that a lot? I can't tell."

She hung the ruler where it belonged and moved to the next aisle.

Here, Dorothy saw a very old man in an argyle sweater vest, faint white hairs barely clinging to his head like spider silk. His head was craned slightly upward. She's seen many people doing that in this store.

"You all set?" She got the man's attention.

He turned around and looked at her through his thick glasses. "Do you work here?" He asked in a weary voice.

"I do. My name is Dorothy. What can I help you find?" She repeated the corporate-approved greeting.

"Is this the aisle with the hard candies in it?"

"Candy is Aisle 6." Dorothy pointed. "Unless you're looking for Werther's Originals, which we stock with our International food in Aisle 13."

"Thank you, miss." The man nodded as Dorothy backed out of the aisle.

Unseen by Dorothy or the video, Jack had to ask this old man something. "Did you notice that she was...?"

"Naked? Of course I did." The old man answered with a mischievous smile. "My vision isn't that bad."

Jack came close to asking, 'did you notice her very big penis?' He decided not to. The man seemed happy with the experience as he saw it, so why comment on something that could only detract from it?

After helping the old man, Dorothy herself craned her head up. She pointed skywards, to the radio speaker above her head.

"Of course, Lyman's always plays the oldies station on here. Not classic rock, just oldies. Rock would be a bit too energetic for the Lyman crowd. But with how old the clientele is, I'm surprised it's not the Dave Clark Five."

She walked past an end cap filled with plastic flowers. "Ahh, yes. The shockingly popular fake flowers. I see old women buy these by the bushel! They're not cheap, either. I guess their maternal instincts have finally run out, and they want something that looks good, but they don't have to take care of... and will never wilt the way that they did."

With sudden energy, Dorothy jumped forwards onto her hands and did a handspring, landing on her high heels a little unevenly. The crew gasped at this stunt.

"Don't be scared. I was a cheerleader." Dorothy said. "I used to be able to do backflips for the whole length of the school track. Never in heels, of course... and never with an erection. I don't know how many I can do anymore. I don't want to crack my head on the concrete."

"You're probably thinking... Dorothy, that's not concrete, you drug-addled slut! That's tile! How right you are." Dorothy put her hand on the square lens hood on the camera and pointed it down to the floor. "It IS tile. Get some shots of my feet while you're down there, I guess." Dorothy slipped one foot out of her shoe. "I don't think they're that great, but nobody's ever complained. You know what they say about women with big feet, right?"

She pointed the lens right at her cock, close enough to see the bead of clear precum sitting at the top. Behind that inscrutable black lens... soon there would be thousands... MILLIONS of eyes, all feasting lustfully on her nudity. It was easy to forget that while griping about work.

"Getting back to what I was saying..." She said, releasing the lens hood and continuing her march. Burt took a few steps back to keep Dorothy's nude cock in frame. "Before I got here, it WAS concrete. But they weren't allowed to mop the floor with detergents. Maybe the concrete wasn't sealed or something, I don't know. Of course, this meant the floors were never really clean. So they FINALLY put this stuff down, vinyl, lino, tile, whatever it is... over the ugly concrete. So does the office let us mop for real now?"

Dorothy paused for dramatic effect, spinning back to camera. "Of course not! They STILL say we should mop with JUST water. So... my boss up there, every few months, will find a 'damaged' bottle of Pine Sol or something and we'll use that up, and then he finds another 'damaged' one. We can't even mark it out for In-Store Use, because they check that and they'll know! This is how asinine the upper management is. The district manager complimented us on the floors, and I'll bet he somehow took credit for it, the bastard."

During her griping, she had wandered to the other end of the store, and into the produce section. This was a part of Lyman's she almost never had to go to or deal with. It seemed like such a pain to deal with.

"I feel like it'd be boring to go around comparing the cucumbers and eggplants to myself, since I've already measured it." Dorothy said. "And I won't make anyone taste anything that touched my thing... unless you in the audience would like that, wouldn't you? Pause the video, go to your kitchen and get something big and fun to play with and pretend it's me. But I don't think you OR Lyman's have anything that truly compares to me..."

She picked up the largest cucumber on offer with one of the thin plastic bags and was about to make a comparison when she saw something that staggered her as much as her nudity and size must have been doing so to the regular shoppers.

There it was, sitting under the misting fountains. A beautiful ripe, yellow-orange papaya, flecked with a little green at the bottom near the root. It was almost as big as her arm, and definitely bigger than...

Dorothy picked the papaya up, cradling it in both hands. "I've never seen such a big one come through here... but I bet that's what a lot of people are saying right about now."

She turned her head. Her coworker Ollie stared at her, frozen.

Dorothy marched confidently up to him. "Can I borrow that box cutter?"

Ollie silently handed her the spring-loaded plastic box opener.

"Thank you. I'll give it right back."

She ran the shallow blade around the base of the papaya and cut the bottom off, leaving a bowl-like piece in her palm. She returned the blade to Ollie and took a bite of the fruity center while staring at him.

"Want some?" Dorothy offered. "I've heard it's an aphrodisiac."

Ollie looked at the pinkish, sweet smelling flesh of the fruit. He figured, what the hell, and he took a small bite.

Ollie wasn't a man who would say he didn't like something until he tried it. Papaya, as it turns out, was very soft and almost custardy, with a flavor like a musk melon.

"Can you eat the seeds?" He said, a large round seed held between two molars like a cough drop.

Dorothy didn't answer him. She had set the papaya right where she found it, on that spongy green foam... and started fucking it.