As founder and president of Mothers Exposing Licentious Filth, Brandy McWine was THE national authority on moral crusades. She rose to the top of talk shows, radio programs, grassroots campaigns, anything and everything with a billboard and a microphone. Her face appeared everywhere in the God-fearing 80s, chastising an entire nation of horny youth for their great sin of loving garbage like rock n roll. She tied it so seamlessly in with the never-ending drug war and the ever-present bogeywoman of rising crime that she had the ear of CEOs, senators, even the President himself. Her Doctorate in Psychology made her even harder to ignore, as she spouted study after study that conveniently aligned with her interests.
None of that platform, and none of those connections, were enough to save her from one opportune moment. She lost the very second she breathed in a fine mist of some new wonder drug blown in her face by one of those horny youths she often loved to browbeat.
"Mrs. McWine, what are you doing!?"
She didn't know! Her face reddened with a surface level rage as she stared into the camera, puckered her lips, and strummed a air guitar across her sweater. It was one of hers, perfectly conservative and chaste, defiled by a series of cheap plastic imitations of gemstones. her fancy gold rings, her designer earrings, the diamond necklace, they had been replaced with the silliest knockoffs money could buy. Fuck-me-red nail polish and lipstick painted over more moderate colors. When combined with her new eyelashes, and showy indigo eyeshadow, the entire look transformed her Princess Di inspired coiffure into a slutty bargain bin version of regally mature.
"I'm here to rock!" Brandy shouted. "Rock and fuck. Maybe snort some coke. Yeeeeaaahh!"
Her audience couldn't have known, but the beads had another use. With every flick, a jolt ran through wires. Those wires shocked her nipples. Normally, for a good Christian woman like her, it would have brought howls of anguish. The new wonder drug turned them into howls of frustration. Her nipples hardened to it like a vice. The effect showed clear as day even through the snowy quality of CRT screens, as she dripped with each jolt. A constant, predictable loop emerged from her rock bimbo show. Her nail tapped a bead. The bead shocked her tits. That pleasure pounded her pussy. Until, at last, her quim clenched and sopped to a point where it fell from between her legs into a growing pool at her feet.
Her lack of pants alone would have scandalized her whole retinue, and the nation, without the added knowledge of how bare she really was. It more than scandalized her. She could feel millions of eyes burning holes through her, the posterwoman of all things righteous, making a fool of herself in every state. This was supposed to be the lynchpin in her own political ambitions, but she couldn't stop herself from running backstage and returning with one of those very instruments of sin she loathed.
Her veins throbbed more than her pussy. In her neck, at her forehead, hidden by her bouffant hair and fake necklace. She wanted to scream, and she did, but not the kind she had in mind.
"Ooohhh yeeeeaah! Watch me shred my cunt on this shit."
The live studio audience gasped in horror when Brandy McWine of all people shoved the guitar's neck between her thighs and slickened the strings by thrusting it forward and back like a horny minx hopped up on sex drugs. In an instant, the 45 year old professor went from top of her field to a pariah. Morally, spiritually, intellectually, she lost all remaining dignity and decorum as crew rushed to get her off stage. The programming room scrambled to switch tapes for one of about technical difficulties, several beats behind due to their own foolish beliefs that nothing could go wrong with a staid stick in the mud like Brandy McWine on air.
Meanwhile, a lone young figure snickered at what might become of Brandy's ill-fated org.
Reblogged
Sent!
This blog contains adult content. In order to view it freely, please log in or register
and confirm you are 18 years or older
As founder and president of Mothers Exposing Licentious Filth, Brandy McWine was THE national authority on moral crusades. She rose to the top of talk shows, radio programs, grassroots campaigns, anything and everything with a billboard and a microphone. Her face appeared everywhere in the God-fearing 80s, chastising an entire nation of horny youth for their great sin of loving garbage like rock n roll. She tied it so seamlessly in with the never-ending drug war and the ever-present bogeywoman of rising crime that she had the ear of CEOs, senators, even the President himself. Her Doctorate in Psychology made her even harder to ignore, as she spouted study after study that conveniently aligned with her interests.
None of that platform, and none of those connections, were enough to save her from one opportune moment. She lost the very second she breathed in a fine mist of some new wonder drug blown in her face by one of those horny youths she often loved to browbeat.
"Mrs. McWine, what are you doing!?"
She didn't know! Her face reddened with a surface level rage as she stared into the camera, puckered her lips, and strummed a air guitar across her sweater. It was one of hers, perfectly conservative and chaste, defiled by a series of cheap plastic imitations of gemstones. her fancy gold rings, her designer earrings, the diamond necklace, they had been replaced with the silliest knockoffs money could buy. Fuck-me-red nail polish and lipstick painted over more moderate colors. When combined with her new eyelashes, and showy indigo eyeshadow, the entire look transformed her Princess Di inspired coiffure into a slutty bargain bin version of regally mature.
"I'm here to rock!" Brandy shouted. "Rock and fuck. Maybe snort some coke. Yeeeeaaahh!"
Her audience couldn't have known, but the beads had another use. With every flick, a jolt ran through wires. Those wires shocked her nipples. Normally, for a good Christian woman like her, it would have brought howls of anguish. The new wonder drug turned them into howls of frustration. Her nipples hardened to it like a vice. The effect showed clear as day even through the snowy quality of CRT screens, as she dripped with each jolt. A constant, predictable loop emerged from her rock bimbo show. Her nail tapped a bead. The bead shocked her tits. That pleasure pounded her pussy. Until, at last, her quim clenched and sopped to a point where it fell from between her legs into a growing pool at her feet.
Her lack of pants alone would have scandalized her whole retinue, and the nation, without the added knowledge of how bare she really was. It more than scandalized her. She could feel millions of eyes burning holes through her, the posterwoman of all things righteous, making a fool of herself in every state. This was supposed to be the lynchpin in her own political ambitions, but she couldn't stop herself from running backstage and returning with one of those very instruments of sin she loathed.
Her veins throbbed more than her pussy. In her neck, at her forehead, hidden by her bouffant hair and fake necklace. She wanted to scream, and she did, but not the kind she had in mind.
"Ooohhh yeeeeaah! Watch me shred my cunt on this shit."
The live studio audience gasped in horror when Brandy McWine of all people shoved the guitar's neck between her thighs and slickened the strings by thrusting it forward and back like a horny minx hopped up on sex drugs. In an instant, the 45 year old professor went from top of her field to a pariah. Morally, spiritually, intellectually, she lost all remaining dignity and decorum as crew rushed to get her off stage. The programming room scrambled to switch tapes for one of about technical difficulties, several beats behind due to their own foolish beliefs that nothing could go wrong with a staid stick in the mud like Brandy McWine on air.
Meanwhile, a lone young figure snickered at what might become of Brandy's ill-fated org.