My heart pounded as I saw my boobs growing, now to the size of bowling balls. “Dan,” I tapped my sweetheart lying in bed next to me on the shoulder. “Use a pronoun to tell me that a group of people are going to the market.”

“There going to the store.”

I screamed. Loud.

“What is it, dear? Calm down. What could the matter be?”

“Oh no,” I recoiled in terror, from the hideous grammatic error, not to mention the awful rhyme. “We’re trapped! Caught in a badly writin sex story!”

“Pipe down now sweetums. It’ll be Ok. We’ll just take a cold shower, and everything will be fine in a jiffy.”

“You first,” I shoved him off the bed. He landed with a thud. My boobs were up to the size of watermelons now, and I noticed his dick swelling as well, ten inches as least, just sort of flopping over the top of his jeans for now.

Would’ve done Pinocchio proud.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the sound of water flowing. One spigot on, then off again. The other spigot, on then off, back and forth. “Honey,” he yelled back at me, “The cold water isn’t working. Just comes out lukewarm.”

“Great,” I called back. “It’s no use. The author won’t let us escape until we have sex. Oh no, here go.”

Dan reappeared, just in time to see the moisture stain growing on my underpants, starting to drip through.

“Quick, go get a bucket,” I shouted.

“They’re out in the garage.”

“Better hurry, before we lose all spatial coherence.”

Swiftly he strode to the door, but by now his dick was extending fully hardened, jutting out from his jeans over his head, and he had to get down on the floor and crawl sideways in order to make it through the doorway. “I’ll be right back!” he said.

My boobs were as big as bathtubs now, and the erect nipples were sharp enough to poke holes in the fabric. The moisture was dripping from my cunny hole in copious quantities now, and a puddle was forming on the floor. Soon, Dan returned with the bucket, thrusting it beneath the increasing flow of cunny juice that now flowed effusively. “Gee, haven’t had this much fun since the roof sprung a leak.”

“So I guess we have to have sex now?”

“I gotta go pee first.”

“Better hurry up. Here come the descriptions.”

“Hurry? Why?”

“Hope you can hold it. All action is about to come to a grinding halt for about twenty minutes.”

Dan was a middle-aged man weighing 197 pounds and measuring 5’11” when standing up straight, or 5’10.5” when slouched a little. He was a caucasian. He had brown eyes. He liked drinking beer. He watched football on TV on the weekends. He was wearing a white undershirt that was maybe a little bit off-color white depending on which light you viewed it in. He was wearing jeans. He was wearing tennis shoes with white socks that were maybe a little bit off-color white depending on which light you viewed it in, but they were a different off-color white than the white undershirt. His hair was medium brown, and he parted it on one side. His hobbies included shopping at hardware stores and working on cars. He drove a Ford pinto that was pale yellow and had a sort of crushed left front fender. He worked at the local plumbing shop selling fixtures and gaskets.

Bessie was a middle-aged woman weighing 158 pounds and measuring 5’6” except when in high heels, in which case it depended on how high the heels were that she was wearing. For example, if she were wearing heels that were 3” high, she would measure 5’9”. She was caucasian, and she had either blue eyes with a little bit of green in them or green eyes with a little bit of blue in them, depending on how you wish to describe them. Her drivers license said they were blue, but they weren’t really because they had a little bit of green in them. She was wearing a light blue cotton blouse, but it didn’t match her eyes because the dress was a kind of faded pale blue but it didn’t have any green in it. She was wearing a green dress that was pale and faded like the shirt, but it didn’t match the shirt and it wasn’t the same shade as her eyes because her eyes had blue in them but the dress was just green, except for maybe some food stains from dinner last night. Her hair was a sort of dirty blonde, and it was eight to ten inches long, depending on where you measured. It fell to just above her shoulders, unless she leaned her head to one side, in which case it was long enough to touch the shoulder on whichever side she was leaning her head towards. It wasn’t really dirty, because she washed it regularly in lukewarm water (since the cold wasn’t working) but it was a color often known as “dirty blonde” on account of its resemblance to used dishwater. Her hobbies included shopping at the local mall and sewing. She drove a brown chevy Malibu that had a cracked windshield on one side. She worked as a housewife and held tupperware parties sometimes.