Vitamin C By MrGrey (Slut, Bimbo, BE)

Vitamin C By MrGrey (Slut, Bimbo, BE)

Postby Burke_Rakers » Sat Jan 12, 2019 11:27 pm

Vitamin C

By MrGrey

The vast, endless farmland stretched out as far as Rebecca's eyes could focus on. She squinted out of the passenger side window, gazing at the herds of cattle and rows of sprouting vegetables. She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, finding that it was only 3:47. Six hours left.

"Ughhhhh..." she moaned, letting her head drop back onto the headrest and slumping into the seat.

"What is it?" Brett asked, looking annoyingly at his girlfriend. He still found it strange to think of her that way, since they had only been dating about a month. Brett was a little hesitant about going on a cross-country road trip with someone he had just started a relationship with. They had met both reaching for the last copy of Catch-22 at their school's bookstore. Each had insisted the other take it. No, your hand was on it... After a week, they were going on dates. After a month, they were sleeping together and calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. That was about one month ago now, and here they were, traveling to Illinois so Brett could pick up a truck from his uncle. Brett needed someone to be able to drive it back for him, and Rebecca was the only person who offered to help him.

Rebecca blew her hair out of her face and cut her eyes at him with a grin, "I'm tired of driving."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not driving—" he said keeping his eyes on the road.

"I'm tired of riding," she said sitting up straight, "How much farther again?"

"By 'again', do you mean for the twelfth time since Ohio?"

Rebecca just smiled in her usual cute way.

Brett sighed, unable to hide his own smile. "We have about six hours left."

Rebecca dropped her head back again, and, again, slumped into the seat.

The small, red Honda Accord continued down the straight, two-lane road blaring some loud, alternative music. Rebecca preferred to travel with her feet propped up on the dashboard, pressing her toes up against the windshield. Brett stared at the toe prints spread across the glass with a nervous eye. It drove him crazy, but he was just too polite to say anything.

It was a bright, sunny day; perfect for traveling. Every five minutes a car or truck would fly past them going 70 mph the other direction. For the past five hours, no cars had come up behind them, and they had yet to come up behind one themselves. It was just open road as far as their eyes could see. Rebecca sat with her eyes closed, head propped again the passenger window. Brett adjusted the air conditioner and wiped sweat from his forehead.

That's when the RPM gauge jumped up into the red and then fell with what seemed like a crash to zero. The car made a sound like one of those party-toys that you spin around in the air. Reht-reht-reht-reht. The acceleration pedals seemed to stop working, becoming just a lever can be pushed up and down without any function.

"What the fuck?" Brett gave his dashboard a dirty look and tapped on the glass protecting the eccentric gauges. "Ah...shiiiiiit..." he murmured to himself as the old car came to a slow stop.

Rebecca blinked awake and looked at her boyfriend, "Are we there?"

* * *

"We are in the middle of nowhere! Where are we supposed to walk?"

Rebecca couldn't believe this. That piece of shit car had to break down now of all times. The couple stood on the side of the road, peering down under the open hood into the car's steaming organs. Luckily for the car, neither Brett nor Rebecca knew a thing about cars.

"If it was out of gas, I'd know exactly what to do," Brett said, mostly to himself.

Rebecca just rubbed her eyes and looked at the blurry vanishing point in the road ahead of them. That's where they should be going, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. "Do you have reception?" she asked, referring to him cell phone.

Brett shook his head and stuffed it into his pocket.

Might as well be a paper weight, Rebecca thought.

Brett took a deep breath and looked around at his surroundings. "I guess we better start walking."

Rebecca shook her head, looking at the blazing concrete road. She knew he was going to suggest that. "It's got to be over a 100 degrees out here..."

"Let's go."

So, Brett and Rebecca left the idle car on the side of the road and began walking in the same direction they had been driving for eight hours. The sun was still overhead, beating them relentlessly with blazing heat. Their only hope was to flag down a car; hopefully one with a working cell phone. A cop would be even better.

"So, are we just walking the rest of the six hours to your uncle's?" Rebecca asked, half joking and half annoyed.

Brett couldn't help but laugh, "Well, yeah. Is that going to be a problem?"

Rebecca just shrugged, "Nah. I walk 500 miles every morning." Brett continued laughing. "Let me just stretch first." Rebecca stopped walked and proceeded to stand with her feet shoulder-length apart and bent down to touch the ground. "Don't wanna pull a hemmie!" she said enthusiastically, sounding like a fitness instructor. She stood on her right foot and pulled her left foot up to her ass. "Oh yeah..." she strained, "I feel that burn..."

This was why Brett couldn't get enough of this girl. No matter what life handed her, she seemed to be able to find a lighter way of looking at it. Her glass was definitely half-full. Hell, it almost overflowed.

Brett wiped tears from his eyes as Rebecca ended her charades and fixed her eyes on something across the road. "Hey, you think they'll have a phone?"

Brett turned around to see what she was looking at.

The first thing Brett noticed about the house were the trees. There were hundreds of them on the property, and the property must have been hundreds of acres (even though Brett had no idea how to judge the size of an acre). The house was white. It was one story. There was a smaller building behind the house, probably a guest house or storage shed.

"They may even have a mechanic. Come on." Brett started toward the house, with Rebecca in tow.

As they got closer to the house, and walked among the trees, they began to notice something significant. Oranges hung from every tree. The bright citrus spheres dotted every branch. There must have been thousands of them in all.

"It's an orange farm," Brett mused.

"I thought those were only in Florida?" Rebecca said, not able to take her eyes off the shiny fruit.

"I don't think there's a law against growing oranges in other states."

"But, the climate wouldn't even be right for oranges this far north. The cold..."

Brett shrugged, "Maybe these are different..."

The couple reached the front door finally after walking up the long, dirt driveway. They looked at each other as they stood on the porch as if to say, No, you knock. Brett finally took the reigns and rapped on the door three times.

They waited.

They waited longer.

Rebecca sighed and knocked again harder, no longer shy, just wanting air conditioning.

"Shit," Brett muttered, turning around and looking back at the forest of orange trees. This may be the only house for miles. The sound of the door knob clicking caught his attention and he turned around. Rebecca stood at the door, her hand positioned by the doorknob and the now ajar door. Brett's face twisted into a look of disbelief. "What are you doing?" he whispered harshly.

Rebecca shrugged nervously, "We need a phone. If they're not here, they won't mind. They won't even know we came in."

Brett threw his hands in the air as Rebecca walked into the house. Great, Brett thought, Breaking and entering. That'll look great on a job application. He shook his head and looked back out at the orange trees. He looked around the house. No car. No sign of anything. As far as Brett could tell, he and Rebecca were alone at this house.

With a sigh of defeat, Brett entered the house.

A musky smell was the first thing Brett noticed; like rotting fruit and wet wood. He curled his nose up and looked around the dark house. No lights were on, though the house definitely looked lived in. There were dirty towels in the corner of one room, the kitchen had dishes in the sink, and, for some reason, there was a high heel shoe sitting on the dining room table.

"I guess a woman lives in this house," Brett commented.

Rebecca glanced at the shoe. "That or J. Edgar Hoover."

Brett took in his surroundings and clapped his hands together. "Okay, enough snooping. Let's just find a phone so we can get the hell out of here."

Rebecca thought that was a pretty good idea too. They found a phone on the kitchen wall. It was an old fashioned phone, one that actually had a cord. Brett reached for the phone and held it up to his ear. Rebecca expected Brett to slam the phone down on the cradle, look at her and shake his head. It's not working, he would say. But, that didn't happen. Rebecca could hear the faint dial tone in her boyfriend's ear.

Just as Brett lifted his hand to hit the first number of his uncle's telephone number, a soft voice peeped behind them.

"Can I help you two?"

Rebecca yelped and spun around. Brett froze, his hand suspended in mid-air, not wanting to turn around. He expected to see a nine-foot tall, burly redneck with a mullet and a stained tank top. If not that, then a man with a clown's mask on and a blood-splattered butcher's apron tied around his waist—It's waist.

Brett finally did turn around, after slowly hanging the phone back in its cradle. Who he discovered standing behind them did not look the least bit like a redneck or a serial killer. The man looked more like an aging cowboy. Maybe how Willie Nelson would look if he got a haircut and gained about 50 pounds of muscle. The man was tan.

After almost pissing herself, and calming down, Rebecca couldn't help but notice how tan the man was. "We're sorry. We'll leave. I'm sorry. We're both sorry—"

"Now just wait a minute there—" the man tried to say.

"We really do apologize, sir," Brett said politely, "We just wanted to use your phone. My car broke down a ways back and we didn't think anybody was home. We'll be leaving now. I apologize." Brett reached for Rebecca's shaking hand and tried to get her follow him. She seemed frozen to the spot, but eventually her feet gave in.

"Now hold on there, son," the man said, gently holding his hand up like a traffic cop, "Ain't no need in none o' that." This man that was now stopping Brett and Rebecca from leaving then gave the warmest smile one could imagine. This man made Mr. Rogers look like a Nazi.

Rebecca felt instant relief. Brett did as well, but that smile caused a rush of adrenaline to course through his veins. His mind screamed at him, Don't listen to him! Leave! Run away now! This will be your last chance! There will be other houses! Run! Run!

"If you'sa needin' a phone, well I don' see no reason in stoppin' ya." He talked slow and soft. A feather landing on a cotton ball had more bass than this man's vocal cords. "But, you say yer car ain't runnin' no more?"

Brett and Rebecca both nodded.

That warm smile replaced the look of concern that had taken over the man's face. "Well, hell, son. Why doncha jus let ol' Chuck look at yer vehicle?"

Brett's brow furrowed, "Who's 'ol' Chuck'?"

"I am," the man laughed and laughed, holding his arms out like he wanted a hug.

Brett glanced at Rebecca, who shrugged, then looked back at Chuck. "Alright, sounds good."

Chuck smiled and nodded. "Jus' lemme git a few things. Kin I gitcha anything to drink?"

Rebecca shook her head politely.

"Sure, I'd love something," Brett agreed. He looked at Rebecca, "You need to drink something after walking in that heat." Rebecca curled her lip playfully at his protectiveness as if to say, Whatever. "What do you have, sir?"

Chuck looked like he was thinking for a moment, then stopped and grinned a grin that would haunt Brett's dreams for years. "I have just the thing." Chuck made his way to the refrigerator and opened the door. The light spilled out into the room, bathing Rebecca and Brett in its soft glow. They were a little surprised at the redundancy of Chuck's refrigerator. It filled with pitchers, glasses, cups—all filled with orange juice.

Chuck smiled and pulled out one of the pitcher's. He produced two glasses from the cupboard and poured the bright refreshment into them. The glasses were set in front of a cautious and confused Rebecca and Brett. They stood opposite of Chuck at an island counter in the middle of the kitchen.

"You're really into the oranges I noticed," Rebecca said, staring at her glass.

Chuck laughed. He didn't make a sound when he laughed. If you weren't looking at him, you would just think he was breathing heavily.

"Are there a lot of orange farms this far north?"

Chuck grinned and shook his head.

Brett waited for a further explanation, but after receiving nothing, he went ahead and asked, "Well, how can you grow these hear?"

"Oh, these is special, my young boy..." Chuck said, gazing at his creation. "These ain't regl'ar oranges an' orange juice. These is my own special recipe..." He looked each of them directly in the eye, never backing down with his warm, smile. "Much better'n regl'ar oranges."

"I see," Rebecca said, now officially weirded out.

Brett gently tapped her foot behind the island, telling her, Shut up and be polite! "Well, thank you, um...Chuck. This is really nice of you."

"You two drink up," Chuck said, "I jus' gotta go upstairs an' git sum stuff. I'll be down inna minute."

With that said, Chuck left the kitchen and slowly ascended an old, wooden staircase, leaving Brett and Rebecca alone.

Brett took a sip of the orange juice. "Not bad," he said to himself.

Rebecca eyed her glass and picked it up. Instead of taking a sip, she walked it over to the sink. "I'm not drinking this stuff," she said shaking her head. "Old Man Chucky's just 'gon' hafta deal wit dat'," she said, doing a pretty good impression of his soft voice and accent.

Brett tried to stop her, but it was too late. Rebecca dumped the orange juice into the sink. "Becca!" he yelled in a whisper. It took Rebecca by surprise, both because he had never called her 'Becca' and the fact that he had never yelled at her. "The guy's being nice helping us out like this. The least you can do is drink his damn orange juice."

Rebecca just stared at him in disbelief. "Jeez. Sorry," she said insincerely. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I can just tell him I drank it and that it was 'just delicious' and—"

"No!" he shouted, "You have to actually drink it. It has a certain taste to it!" He took another big gulp of the juice. "Here," he said, asking for her glass. She handed it to him reluctantly, a little worried at his behavior. "If he asks how it tasted, you have to be able to explain. It's not like normal orange juice."

He pulled open the fridge and refilled both of their glasses.

Jesus, he already finished his... Rebecca thought, It must be the sun. He's dehydrated. That's why he's so thirsty and acting so strange.

A full glass was planted in front of Rebecca.

"Drink."

Rebecca didn't like being ordered around, but she still picked up her glass, took a sip, put it back on the table and raised her eyebrows to Brett as if to say, Happy?

Damn, that is good, she thought, eyeing her glass with more lust now. It has a tangy taste. Gritty. Like I'm actually eating the sweetest orange from the most giving orange tree! It acts on every freaking taste bud on my tongue. It's sweet, sour, salty, and bitter all at once.

She gulped the juice down greedily while Brett watched, smiling above his now empty glass.

"Another?"

Rebecca nodded, smiling, and wiped the dripping juice from her chin. Brett looked at the emptying pitcher on the counter. "I don't know if we should drink anymore... We almost emptied a whole pitcher."

Rebecca scoffed and reached for the pitcher, "I doubt he's about to run out. The guy won't even notice." She filled her and her boyfriend's glass back up. They each downed their glasses.

That was when Brett began to feel a little strange.

The earth felt like it was sitting in the ocean, bobbing up and down on wave after wave. It would stop as if it had washed ashore, then suddenly rock backwards like the tide was creeping back up to carry it away.

"I think I need some fresh air..." Brett said weakly, "You stay in here and wait for Chuck to come back down." He noticed a door that led to the back yard. "I'll be back here..."

Rebecca may or may not have heard him. She was too busy pouring herself another glass of orange juice.

* * *

The flimsy screen door slammed shut behind Brett as he found himself in Chuck's overgrown back yard. Weeds sprouted old, rusty tractors and huge tires. Crates of oranges dotted the tall grass.

Brett looked around, fascinated by this other world he found himself in. The world still bobbed and weaved as he stumbled further away from the house. He looked up at the sun, amazed at how beautiful it was. Halos surrounded it's brightness, and almost seemed to pulsate, making his eyes hurt. He looked away, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

That's when the shed, or guest house, that he had noticed when they first arrived at the house caught his attention. He was standing right in front of is. What is this? he asked himself.

He stood at the doorway, unsure of what do to. He didn't want to just walk in, but he didn't really care either way. His mind was swaying in his head as he reached for the door knob. There aren't any windows, he thought, just as he pushed open the door.

Before he could take one step, a pair of hands reached out of the darkness of the small building and yanked him inside.

"Like, omigawd, he's sooooo cute," said one perky voice.

"I, like, got dibs on his cock!"

"I got his balls!"

"I just wanna shake my tits around for him. He looks like he'll like that!"

Brett was dizzy and disoriented. He had been whisked out of the bright sun and now found himself in a hazy room with a soft pink glow. Voices danced around him, unusually high-pitched voices. Hands pawed at his arms, chest, and crotch. The voices 'cooed' and 'awwed' at him, making him feel like he was in some Twilight Zone episode.

Finally, his eyes adjusted to the light and focused.

Tits.

That was the first thing he noticed.

He was in a room with about 15 women, all with the most massive, yet beautiful, pairs of breasts he had ever seen. They were all blonde. All of them. And they all had the same perky smile on their faces.

"Hey! Like, did Chuck send you to us as a present?" one of them asked.

"W-what..." he muttered.

"We're all so horny!" one said, preceded by a sea of 'mm-hmm's and 'yeah's. "Are you here to, like, let us fuck you?"

"Where did you come from?"

Brett had never been as close to madness as he was at this moment. The swirl of surrealism was sending him to the brink of insanity. He didn't know if it was the heat. His head still felt woozy. He just wanted to leave, but the hands on him were pressing a little too hard—and desperately.

"Here, like, drink this."

Brett recognized the smell right away. It was more orange juice. A part of himself warned him that the orange juice may be the source of all this craziness, but his Id was too strong. Drink the juice, it told him, which he did.

"Can we suck your cock now?" one girl asked, drinking a glass herself.

Brett finished his glass and thought about this question for a moment. "Yeah, I think it'd be best if you did."

The girls squealed in delight as they surrounded him. About five got on their knees in front of him, pawing at his pants. Another three were dancing in front of him, rubbing each other and squeezing their bare tits. None of the girls wore any clothes. They all had heels and hoops in their ears, but nothing else. They're so fucking tan, he thought. That was when he noticed the tanning bed in the corner. They live here, he finally realized. They stay in this house all day long. Together...

He didn't get to think much more because his cock was finally pulled free of his pants and slurped up by the eager mouths that surrounded him. Tits rubbed against his face as giggles faded in and out of his ears. Long, bouncing blonde hair was permanently splayed out across his lap as the girls took turns blowing him with delight.

More orange juice was poured for all of them, including Brett. They all downed the glasses like it was a shot of whiskey. Suddenly, a tall slut was standing in front of him. "Time to fuck, baby!" she said with glee.

Brett noticed she only wore one pink heel. I know where the other one is... he thought just as she dropped her pelvis on his lap, his cock disappearing in the desperate whore's pussy. He sat in his chair, getting the best lap dance of all time from fifteen women, as they each now took turns rocking their hips and shaking their tits.

Two girls bend over behind the girl that was fucking him at the moment, shaking their bare asses in his direction. He squinted his eyes at something that caught is attention. Some purple writing on the girl's asses. He focus as best he could, trying not to be distracted by the girl fucking him at the moment.

Property of Chuck.

It didn't register at first. The words were meaningless. Then, the girl on his lap got up. "Next!" she shouted and giggled.

A new girl plopped down on his lap. "Hi! I'm, like, Traci!" she said happily. She then spun around and shoved his cock up her ass. She rubbed her ass cheeks on his thighs as she giggled and pumped the dick in and out of her ass. The position she was in gave Brett a good view of her incredible ass.

Property of Chuck.

She had the same tattoo.

"Wait a minute—"

"Spread your legs more, Traci, so I can, like, lick his balls!" came one voice.

"'Kay!" Traci said, almost bringing her legs to 180 degrees.

Brett tried to get up, but Traci and girl that now had his nut sack in her wet mouth made such a thing difficult.

"Let me up—"

"We're gonna have so much fun!"

"This is totally awesome!"

"Let me go!" Brett shouted, "Rebecca!"

"Like, who's that?"

"I dunno. Hey, let him watch you lick my tits!"

"Cool idea, Mandi!"

" (giggle) Thanks! Can I have some more juice?"

"Get the fuck off me!"

Brett pushed the girl off his lap. The girl's gasped, shouting 'Hey!', begging him not to leave. They told him they were hot and horny. They told him they wanted cock. They needed cock. It definitely made leaving hard for Brett, but he managed to do it.

Brett busted through the door.

He almost fainted at what he saw.

The sun had gone down.

The moon now sat in the sky, burning brightly in Brett's drugged eyes. He stumbled in the tall grass as moans of disappointment echoed behind him. They sounded a hundred miles away. The door to Chuck's house looked a thousand miles away.

"Rebecca!" he shouted.

Walking was hard, but he held up. He almost fell about halfway to the back door, but he composed himself and kept going.

"—es! Chuck! YES! Fuc—"

Something was happening inside. He could barely hear it.

"—my ass! Yeah! Do it! Make me your bit—"

Everything was a blur. The orange trees swayed back and forth in the cool wind. The ground seemed like he was walking through one foot deep water.

Finally, he made it to the door.

Brett opened the back door to find Rebecca bent over the island counter he had left he at. Chuck was behind her, pounding his cock in and out of her bare ass. Rebecca's clothes were piled up in the corner.

"Fuck my ass, Chuck! Oh YEAH! I love that shit!"

They both looked up to see Brett, barely conscious, standing in the doorway.

"Chuck's turning me into a bimboslut, Brett!" she shouted, grunting between each word. Then, she giggled. It was a giggle that made Brett's blood run cold. "It's the orange juice, Brett... It's the juice." She said this as she reached for a full glass and drank it. The juice sloshed back and forth from Chuck's gyrations, making the juice dribble down her chin.

"That's right, son," Chuck said, "I made the juice ma'self. Good ain't it? Lots of Vitamin C. Good for the body. Becca's body should be shaping up nicely by tomorrow. You on the other hand..." Chuck grunted as he came in Rebecca's cunt. "You'll be a great way to keep these girl's quiet while they're waiting for new customers."

Customers?

That was the last thought Brett had before he passed out.

EPILOGUE

"Fuck my fucking cock, you piece of shit whore!"

Brett loved to give the girls shit as they bounced on his cock. The orange juice had made it grow to about 10'' now which the girls just loved. Most of the girl's were asleep now, except for Traci. Traci never got enough of Brett's cock.

After she was done, they both had a glass of juice.

That was when Becca walked in.

Her EE tits entered first, as always. She was wearing her usual pasties, fishnets, and heels. Of course, right as she walked in, she immediately tore them off. "I fucking hate clothes," she said with a giggle. Her face looked a little shiny as well.

Brett laughed at how that cunt could call what she was wearing "clothes". "Shut the fuck up and come over here and suck my dick." Becca grinned and quickly got on her knees. Traci's juices were still dripping from Brett's cock, making Becca enjoy it even more. "How did your night go?"

Becca pulled his cock out of her mouth with a pop! and spoke, "Um, like, it was cool and stuff. The guys wanted to film me fucking his friend and I was all like, 'Okay!' and he was all like 'Talk about what a whore you are too' and I was like, 'Alright!' So I fucked he friend, shouting 'I'm a slut. I'm a skank. I'm a piece of trash bitch..." Becca stopped the story to lick some cum off the tip of Brett's cock, then started again, "So they both ended up cumming on my face— Hey!" Becca said, wiping her hand across her forehead and cheeks, "I forgot to wipe their cum off!" She found this incredibly funny as she giggled like a ditz while licking the almost dried cum off her hands.

Sometimes when she would laugh, something would trigger in Brett's mind. He didn't know what it was, as if she was different than the other girl's. But Brett knew that she wasn't. She was just another whore at Chuck's Orange Tree Escort Services. Every night, the girl's would be picked up in the front of the house, usually in a limousine, and taking off for the rest of the night. When they weren't doing that, they were exercising, tanning, playing with themselves, sucking Brett's cock, or drinking orange juice.

Yep, Becca was just another whore. He was sure about that. If he ever started to doubt anything, he just drank another glass of orange juice. It always made him feel better, just like Chuck said it would. Vitamin C. Chuck called it Vitamin Cunt—his own creation. Brett knew Chuck was a great man. He was the luckiest man in the world. Becca reminded him of that as she turned around, walking to the bathroom. Brett watched her naked ass bounce in the dark, barely able to make out the words on her ass, but he knew what they said...

THE END
Burke_Rakers
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