The Bimborg (part 4)
by Doctor MC, Mad Scientist
Friday night, Stephanie and I had dinner with David and my mom. Stephanie announced that she and I were “like, a couple. You know, doing it?” It would have been very hard to doubt Stephanie—she did everything short of suck me off at the dinner table. I don’t know who was more flabbergasted, David or my mom.
As we were leaving, Mom asked Stephanie, “Are you ... is there something you need to tell your father?” Mom glanced meaningfully at Stephanie’s much-larger tits.
Stephanie glanced down at her chest. “Oh my god, you think I don’t know about protection? No, this is, like, a growth spurt.”
Saturday afternoon, Stephanie and I went shopping for sharp duds for me, and I-heart-sex clothes for her. Then I went home and worked on the computer, while Stephanie got her longer hair trimmed and her longer fingernails shaped.
Saturday night, Stephanie and I went to snooty dance club The Twelve Inch. By then, Stephanie’s tits looked like a stripper’s or porn actress’s, except that Stephanie’s still had their natural jiggle.
There was a line to get in, and we went to the end. The men ahead of us looked young and rich; the women looked young and desirable. The few exceptions got sent away by the man at the door.
“I really want to get into this club,” I said. Stephanie nodded.
Twenty minutes after we arrived, there was nothing to stop us from entering the club except a velvet rope and a muscular man.
The muscular man said, “I.D.?” in a bored voice. Once that was out of the way, he looked me up and down. “I don’t think you meet our standards.”
Now, I know I wasn’t as muscular as some other guys who’d made it in, and I was still wearing my glasses. But I was dressed as well as any guy there. And then there was Stephanie. So I figured out that if this jerk could even talk about me not getting in, he was playing a mind-game with me. So I said, “Sorry, I’m saving my cash for the bartender.”
“And I’m sure you have lots of cash,” he said to me. Then he looked meaningfully at Stephanie.
“Yeah? Like a whore will do this,” Stephanie said. Then she kissed me. For a while.
When I finally broke the kiss, the bouncer/gatekeeper said, “Let me see your I.D.’s again.” We produced them, he looked hard at them, and then he said, “Just as I thought. Fake.”
I couldn’t argue with that, since they were fake. But Stephanie said, “They’re totally legit. We’re both, you know, twenty-one.”
“Yeah?” he said. “What’s the year before you were born?”
We both answered instantly, each with the “correct” answer—me, because I’m a genius, and Stephanie because she now had a nanobot-enhanced brain.
“I’m not buying it,” he said after a pause. “You both look too young.”
Stephanie said, “Those I.D.s are exactly as real as my tits. Are my tits fake?”
“Are you kidding me? Do you know how many silicones died to make those jugs?”
“There’s only one way to find out, you know? You man enough?”
“Wow, you really are a whore.”
“And you’re so trying not to touch my tits. No wonder you’re so muscular.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re not much of a man, are you? You haven’t said a peep to her.”
“I’m not a man? Every guy but you here would pay money to grab those tits. But don’t worry, I don’t ask, and you don’t need to tell.”
He was cornered. He reached for her tits, but she backed away. She said, “The deal is, if you say they’re not silicone, you gotta, like, let us in.”
He nodded, and got to work.
Stephanie closed her eyes and smiled. “Mmm, you’re either straight, or you have inborn talent at this.”
But a minute later, the bouncer announced, “Silicone, definitely silicone.” He smirked at both of us.
“What!“ Stephanie exclaimed. And then she—
—yanked down her dress and bra to expose her tits, and started jumping up and down. Facing the line behind us, she yelled, “DO THESE LOOK NATURAL TO YOU?”
Within seconds, all the guys in line, and 10 percent of the women, started chanting “NAT-U-RAL! NAT-U-RAL!”
The gatekeeper, his shoulders slumped and his face red, opened the door, as Stephanie unselfconsciously fixed her clothing.