Party Girl General #2 [Futa, (blowie soon)]

    In the following days you continue work on proper homes for all your subjects. For one of them in particular, and you are reminded of exactly why you're going out of your way for her every time you pass by her room on the way to some materials, with her either standing, - her pink and yellow horsecock lazily flopping from side to side under her skimpy skirt with that cutesy cocksock on - sitting down, - those two huge, equine testicles heaving in and out with each coming breeze as they rest against her dangerously narrow chair - or merely leaning over the table, - her bright pink panties not even trying to contain that enormous package, presenting - the whole set hanging downwards - to the entire world like some kind of grotesque post-modernist satire of modern decadence - making something debaucherous heat up between your loins each and every time, and yet none of these peeks are (or at least seem to be) intentional.

    Why does she need the condom, anyway? She doesn't have it on always - she usually has it when she's on and about, visiting other people, out for groceries and the such. You frequently spot her leaning a little over some counter, hands crossed behind her back as she negotiates some kind of deal with whomever she might be talking to, that fuzzy and rubber covering extending almost to her knees. When you see her like this you frequently think of just... poking it, watching it engorge with blood under the slightest touch.

    It doesn't help that, when she does spot you, it does actually twitch. That is, before she averts her eyes and tries to busy herself with some silly party-related task. Odd, though - every time she looks at you, the very tip seems to moisten a little. Why do you know this? You once caught her looking without the rubber, and a few bits of clear fluid drip-dripped to the ground after she turned around. Neither does it help that any conversation with her seems to be done with dodgy eyes, leaned in and hands down to stretch her unfortunately cut skirt down a little further. She does manage that cheery, peppy tone all the same, but the effect isn't the same with those eyes and a blush on top. Neither does it help that she, at times, has the same effect on you.

    In fact, watching her drip - moreso when you wear something more "revealing" - gave you an idea, a distraction from building that complex. You approach the Mechanic, disgussing your strange idea with her in more confidential, vague and general terms so as to avoid suspicion. A sucking device, built to the exact measurements of the Party Girl's endowment - and yet, you are struck with an epiphany. You don't have her measurements, not even her length. You ponder this, to the Mechanic's slight confusion - how could you not be sure about the size of a pink slime, and why would it even matter? - when you are struch with another epiphany. Why not just take the measurements? In fact, your cover is perfect for the idea. It'll be perfect. You're sure just asking the Party Girl wouldn't yield much. Probably.

    You wait for nightfall, spending time by arguing with the Angler as to why in all seven circles of Hell won't he take another super special fish every twenty four hours. You manage to empty out and categorize enough space in your inventory to spare exactly three slots, then set out to the Party Girl's room, finding the door to her bedroom wide open. Like a proper headmaster, you've given every one of your inhabitants a proper room, even though temporary. Table, two chairs, bookcase, bed, a lamp and, for some, even their own showers. The Party Girl isn't an exception - although plain, she has a large bed, on which she's loudly snoozing. She's a snorer, great.

    You tiptoe up to her bed, - waterwalking boots are surprisingly good at being sneaky - avoiding the various balloons and plushies and discarded pillow cushions strewn about the floor and you look down at her.
    No matter how cute she is, in her thin, long-sleeved pink on red polka dot pyjamas with frilly stitches, with her snoring pitched up and with a breathy downtone, with her two round breasts slowly shifting skywards then down with each whistling sigh, even her position - wild with her arms and legs positioned almost at random on the bed - one cannot ignore the bulge under her slightly exposed belly. How did she not think of making custom underwear when she's got basically everything else custom made for her... stature. In fact, she's not wearing any underwear at all right now, which should make this so much more easier.
    You lean over her and reach down, bare hands carefully pulling down her pants down a little bit to expose her crotch, and you are immediately met with that huge member, as well as the smell of... bubblegum. Probably shampoo. With a beating heart, you lay your hand on top of it and it's... warm, hot even. You can feel her heartbeat reverberate through its entirety, and it seems to be quickening. Your hand wraps around the girth, lifting it up from under and you hear a dainty gasp issue from its owner as you lift the partially unsheathed meat from under her pants, just barely catching a glimpse of those two huge orbs underneath. The whole thing starts growing in your hand - as expected - and you are soon forced to use your other hand to keep it above the Party Girl's thighs.
    The Party Girl's legs and arms shift around a little, her hips coming together as you use both your hands to support the heft of her cock, and you hear some breathy squeaks from her as it slowly loses the need for support. You see it slowly unsheathe itself, medial ring advancing forth as her flare engorges, visibly twitching below her knees and still growing yet farther. You feel her heart struggle with the additional load, and you feel her wide hips brush against your hands as she wiggles around, tired, half-murmured half-words coming from her as her member, slowly but surely, goes fully erect. You prop it up vertically just to look at it in its full glory.

    And it's a monster. You pull out your pocket ruler - then another, and another, and another, and the line from her crotch to nearly her ankles adds up to about twenty six inches long and, judging from your hands not even coming close to wrapping around the base of her sheathe, the very base must be at least seven inches wide, while past the medial ring the shaft would be more like six. 44 inches in circumference, and with her flare at a whopping 51 inches in circumference, you doubt this throbbing, veined beast could fit into anything... but a slime.

    You pull out a large jug of pink jelly, highly viscous and slimy, yet easily moldable, and begin slapping it on her shaft, ignoring her sighed, blushing protests as her shifting grows twitchier and stronger. You ignore those, too, as you slap the pink goop all across it, making sure it doesn't drip down to the rest of her. Then you see a few globules of pre form at her tip, big and seemingly a little pinkish. You look at it, frozen, and the blush on your own face only intensifies as some lewd thoughts enter your mind.
    After a few moments of hesitation, you lean over, careful not to further disturb the girl, and stick out your tongue, hesitantly lapping up the biggest one, right at the urethra... Sweet. Very sweet, pungent and kind of stretchy, almost like bubblegum. You swear you could blow a bubble with it if you tried really hard. You loudly gulp down the mouthful of sweet ejaculate, its remnants gunking up your oral cavity with sweetness. You'll need to brush your teeth again right after this.
    No matter. You plop some of that pink goo on and around her sensitive flare as well, watching her moan a little as you apply it. You carefully check that you've covered every important sport, then pull out a little taser-like thing and touch it to the goo. From the point of impact it becomes considerably more rigid and loses most of its liquid form, now becoming a sort of hard jello. You grasp the uneven pink bulk of the mold and start pulling up, but, to your surprise, the Party Girl seems to be... thrusting up a little into it, pressing her flare against the top. You pull harder, making sure that there is a proper air canal at the top, and free the whole thing without allowing the girl too much fun to handle.

	~To Be Continued~