Jennifer Love Hewitt's Titfucks

An obnoxious Valley Girl drawl brayed across the hospital hallway like the sound of Satan farting. Staff shuddered. Patients quailed. Mirrors didn't shatter, but only because the budget didn't allow them to be glass.

"I'm sick of everyone treating me like I'm some dumb bimbo airhead!" Jennifer Love Hewitt flounced along, jugs almost bouncing out of her low-scooped neckline. "That's sooo not true! My IQ is 140!"

"Is that so?" Peter Langowski, her agent, matched her stride.

"Yeah, I had it tested on a website called 'Free-Online-IQ-Test dot biz'. I had to download an antivirus scanner before they showed me my score. Did you know computers can catch viruses? I thought that was only for people."

"Good to know someone's getting ahead of the problem." Peter checked his watch, counting down the nanoseconds until he was free of the Ditzney Princess for another afternoon.

"It's so unfair!" Jennifer said. "I'm actually super smart, but everyone misunderestimates me, just because I'm hot! I'm NOT a has-been! Like, hello? My career is on fire. Last year, I was in The Garfield Movie. And next year, I'll be in the sequel to The Garfield Movie. I even got a part on Family Guy--it's this show like The Simpsons, but it's, like, way funnier."

"A hot streak Brando would envy."

"Who's she? The point is, my career's a rocket and that rocket's exploding on the launch pad!" Jennifer proudly ticked off her professional accomplishments. "I have two Golden Raspberry noms. That's one of the most presti-digious awards in Hollywood. And this 'Harvey Weenersteen' guy says I can have a starring role if I privately audition in his hotel room! Isn't that cool?"

"And they say there are no nice guys left in Hollywood," Peter said, checking his watch again.

I swear, he thought, Bud o'Clock takes longer to arrive every day.

"...And now I'm here, doing..." She tilted her head quizzically, like a dog trying to learn a difficult trick. "...what am doing?"

Peter ground his teeth. He'd already printed his client's itinerary--for all the good it did, considering he was unsure Jennifer Love Hewitt could read--but repeated it from memory.

"You are working in a hospital, on behalf of Touch of Love. They are a government program that sponsors female celebrities to provide...relief for men in hospitals."

"What kind of relief?" Jennifer Love Hewitt, uncharacteristically sensing a trap, narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

A group of children were scampering past their ankles, forcing Peter to describe Touch of Love in G-rated terms.

"You are helping injured men perform a...bodily function."

"You mean I'm wiping their butts?" She wrinkled up her nose in disgust. "No way! Gross!"

"No, a male bodily function. Look at it this way: their spirits are down, and you're raising them."

"Like I'm cheering them up with balloons?"

He glanced down into the cleavage exploding from her dress's dangerously overloaded front. It seemed as deep as the Marianas Trench. The front of her strapless top could barely contain Jennifer's enormous, wobbling jugs.

"Something like that, Jen."

* * *

Peter Langowski followed his client's fat butt as it waggled down the hall.

So, it comes to this.

He did not particularly want his client working for Touch of Love. This wasn't what booking agents put at the top of their resumes. Or at the bottom. Or in the middle. But due to an unfortunate situation (wholly of her own creation) Jennifer Love Hewitt urgently needed cash.

For years, she'd paid her taxes by dumping old clothes in front of the IRS headquarters. "They can sell these on eBay!" she'd explained to her horrified accountant (who had taken an early retirement soon after). "I bought most of this stuff at list price! Some of it's couture!"

In a shocking turn of events, the IRS did not regard boxes of used clothes as a valid form of tax remittance, and were now insisting that Jennifer pay seven years' of back taxes using actual money. How inconvenient! Until the coveted Garfield 2 paycheck hit her account, Touch of Love was the only source of liquidity available to Ms Hewitt.

He prayed Jennifer wouldn't find a way to fuck this up. She couldn't afford to.

Literally couldn't afford to.

Touch of Love had set up a temporary office at the orthopedics wing of the hospital. Jennifer checked in at the desk, and was told that she would have to complete an entrance exam. Because Jennifer Love Hewitt and exams went together like gerbils and high-speed blenders, Peter filled in the test while Jennifer got briefed in the next room by Touch of Love's chief executive.

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON PRESCRIPTION MEDICATION? Y/N HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ARRESTED, ARRAIGNED, OR PROSECUTED? Y/N DO YOU HAVE ANY FORM OF COGNITIVE IMPAIRMENT THAT WOULD MAKE YOU INELIGIBLE FOR THIS PROGRAM? Y/N

Peter dutifully went down the list, ticking the right answers. Which usually meant ticking the wrong answers.

"Um, you're not allowed to do that," the assessor said. "Ms Hewitt must complete the form herself."

Peter smiled, ticked the final box, flawlessly forged JLH's signature, folded up the test, and placed it in the assessor's hand.

"I'm sure that if you look closely, you'll find everything in order."

The assessor unfolded the sheet of paper. A hundred dollar bill slid out into his fist.

"Mr Langowski..." he said as he pocketed the money, "Ms Hewitt has passed the entrance test with flying colors! On behalf of us all, please welcome her to the Touch of Love program."

* * *

"Our organization is founded on a growing body of very legitimate, very real research," Colin Drake, acting president of Touch of Love, explained to Jennifer Love Hewitt in an empty classroom.

She stared at him in polite confusion as he spoke.

"Men have a biological imperative to ejaculate, and if they cannot do so due to injury, the resulting semen buildup can have severe consequences. We're talking spermal impaction, epididymal hypertension, the whole nine yards...Miss Hewitt? Excuse me? Are you listening?"

"Yes." She was now playing Candy Crush on her phone.

He grimaced, then resumed his pre-rehearsed spiel. "You're probably thinking 'so why do you need me?' Don't we have some crusty Nurse Ratched type with a rubber glove? Well, at Touch of Love, we believe in making dreams come true! Hospitals should be places of magic as well as medicine! So why not crack open the public pocketbook, take out a lousy few million dollars that I bet no-one's using anything, and hire some attractive actresses? Lots of your peers are doing it, Jennifer. It's an easy payday. Your identity will be protected. All the men have signed NDAs and are disease free. Nobody will ever know. With me so far?"

Jennifer gazed vacantly into space.

Peter Langowski had just arrived, and restated matters in language Jennifer understood.

"They'll give you money if you titfuck some dudes."

"Titfuck them?" She screwed up her face. "Ewww! What if I get pregnant?"

"You aren't having sex with them," Colin explained. "You're only using your...chest to masturbate their penises."

"But...can't I get pregnant from that?" Jennifer Love Hewitt looked at him with fearstruck eyes.

Colin's jaw fell. His expression could be described as existentially confused. He seemed to be wondering if he'd wandered into some unethical Truman Show-esque social experiment designed to break his sanity.

"Is that a serious question you just asked? Jennifer, *h**ow the goddamn hell would a cock between your breasts get you pregnant?"*

Jennifer smacked the table and huffed.

"You are so rude!" she yelled. "Like, geez! Babies drink milk from nipples, so maybe cum can leak through as well and, like, get inside my body. Don't ask me how it works! I'm not a doctor!"

The Touch of Love chief executive clenched the edge of his lecture stand. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though praying for patience. Welcome to my life, Peter thought with a stab of sympathy.

"Jennifer. Love. Hewitt," Colin's knuckles whitening on the oak wood. "This is a question I never imagined myself answering, but no, you cannot get pregnant from a cock between your breasts. We are a hundred percent certain of this. It is medically impossible."

"Oh. Okay." Jennifer looked like she'd just had a revelation from the skies above. "Wow, I wasted so much money on birth control in high school!"

* * *

Colin handed an itemized list of names to Peter, wished them well, and shoved them both out into the hallway.

"Okay," Peter lifted the clipboard. "So let's work down the list. The first man is--"

"FOUND ONEEEEE!" Jennifer squealed and ran forward, clapping her hands.

She bull-rushed a man seated in the hallway. His arm was in a brace-sling, and his eyes filled with terror as she jiggled toward him like an unusually buxom zombie.

Grinning, she kneeled in front of him, almost shoving her boobs in his face.

"Hi, duuuude!" she hollered at blow-out-your-eardrums decibelage. "I'm super famous actress Jennifer Love Hewitt! And I'll be fucking you with my tits today!"

"Huh...?" the man recoiled from her Valspeak assault.

"Jen, stop!" Peter said, frantically shuffling papers. "I need to make sure this guy's on the list--!"

But Jennifer was already pulling off her top. Her plus size maternity bra was full to overflowing. She undid her bra, and slung it on the ground. The big cups rocked back and forth like halved coconuts.

"Er..." the man's face drained of color as the busty loud actress unbuttoned his jeans, and yanked them down. He glanced around the room, clearly looking for the reality TV camera.

Jennifer hefted her big white naked fuck-tanks, and piled them in the man's lap. His eyes bugged as Jennifer sculpted her heavy but pliant boobs into a heap around his dick, She hawked and spat into her cleavage until their massive slopes glistened with saliva.

"Now listen!" She screwed up her face,. "I don't actually want to do this! Even though you are kind of cute! It's so you don't die of sperming hyper-hydrosis, or whatever!"

Without further ado, she began titfucking the dazed-looking man.

Lifting up her enormous mammaries in both hands, she hauled them to her chin and flung them down into his lap. An obscene avalanche of white breastflesh exploded around his cock and balls.

smack! plap! slosh!

Her big jugs distorted as they hit his lap, ballooning against his legs. They flattened out like pancakes, before rebounding back into her hands. Catching her flying tits on the upswing, she plapped them back down on his dick again.

And again.

And then once more.

"Jen, just wait a second...!" Peter scrambled with papers over the din of obscenely slapping flesh. "We still don't know that this man is in the program!"

"How could he not be? His arm is broken!" Jen said, grinding overripe handfuls of boobmeat against his pink cock. "Jeez, and people call me stupid!"

"That doesn't mean he's enrolled! If he's not, he also won't have signed any kind of NDA! He can tell the press about you doing this! He can--!"

"SHUT UP!" she yelled, turning her head to face him mid-breaststroke. "Gawd, I'm trying to concentrate here! A man's life could be at stake, and all I hear is blah-blah-blah!"

Peter sighed in defeat. I give up. Jennifer Love Hewitt might have been a bit dim, but once she decided on a path of action, she pursued it with the singleminded conviction of a mediocre America's Got Sob Stories contestant armed with a shitty sense of pitch and a dream.

slap! plop! clap!

Her tits pounded out loud rhythmic slaps against his thighs as they were shaped and flung by her hands. She dribbled them like basketballs. His penis hardened into a hard flagpole slicing between her bouncing cleavage.

slap! plop! plappp!

She lunged further in, her microbladed brows arched in concentration. Her wobbling breasts drummed and plapped over his pulsing prick, crushing his hardness with softness, swallowing the shaft, batting it back and forth, releasing it with sticky SHLUCK sounds as her boobs whiplashed upwards again. Random smears of pre-cum were now plastered across her cleavage.

"Uh! Uh! Uh!!!" Clenches and spasms gripped the man's face as big fat tits pounded into his crotch. He looked like a man strapped to an electric chair, with JLH behind the switchboard. His moans--and the slaps of her moist boobs impacting against his inner thighs--overwhelmed the room.

WHAPWHAPWHAP!

Jennifer was fucking locked. Her eyes were slitted in terrible focus. Her titfucking gained speed and intensity. His cock was disappearing and reappearing around the heaving slabs of her breasts so fast that it was visible only as brief flashes of pink.

Peter stared despondently at his boss's thick ass. Her butt was parked heavily on the heels of her shoes as she grimly leaned into her work, jacking the man off to climax. Sheets of jiggling white flesh coruscated like congealed milk as she hammered his dick into submission. She relentlessly drove him to the edge, then over it.

"AHH! I'm about to--!"

The man screamed as he burst. HIs hips catapulted off the chair, throwing Jennifer Love Hewitt's boobs up into her face. She squawked indignantly. Trapped in her cleavage, his cock spiked through breast-dough, the tip stabbing against her throat as it spurted. The first pulse of sperm inscribing a long sticky smear over her chin. More blasts followed.

BLURT! SQUIRT! SPLAT!

"Oof!" He ejaculated messily against Jennifer Love Hewitt's neck. Ten or eleven gooey white streams fired from his cock, riding the curve of her chin and neck in a twisting rollercoaster ride of spunk, arcing back around, and falling back into her cannonballing cleavage, where they gathered in a clotted white mass.

Panting with exhaustion, Jennifer slid her ponderous, cum-splattered tits out of his lap. They drooped and sagged, oozing sperm. The man groaned, and sagged backward the other direction. His cock was still wildly jerking out cum between his legs, and over his shoes.

"A 'thank you' would be nice!" she yelled, flapping her cum-splattered hands in disgust. "Not as though I didn't just SAVE YOUR LIFE or anything, dude! Ick! There's so much white stuff!"

The man wheezed as his dick went flaccid. He seemed unable to understand. To think.

"See, Peter!" Jennifer beamed with a thousand watts, wiping off her breasts with a scarf she'd found lying next to the man's feet. "This isn't so bad! Stop stressing over lists and graphs and shit!"

Peter's face darkened stormily. He waved the document in Jennifer's face.

"This man you just titfucked isn't on the client list." He spat out in rage. "You don't have any men scheduled in this ward of the hospital!"

"But that doesn't make sense..." Jennifer jammed her hands into her hips, and scowled in confusion. "If he wasn't in the program, he shouldn't have gotten a titfuck...."

"YES! EXACTLY!"

She focused intensely. Something wasn't adding up.

"...So why did I titfuck him then?"

"THAT'S MY ENTIRE POINT!" Peter screamed into her face. "YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO!"

"Well, you could have at least warned me!" Jennifer squawked, flinging the jizz-ruined scarf on the floor with a splat. "Jeepers, dude! What do I pay you for?"

An anguished female scream hit them like a whip.

"MY HUSBAND!" The voice was followed by fast-approaching footsteps, coming down the hall. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY HUSBAND, YOU SLUT! AND WITH AUNT EUNICE'S HEIRLOOM SCARF!"

"RUN!" Peter slapped Jennifer's back.

She nodded, and snatched up her bra and top.

They fled for their lives.

* * *

* * *

Peter kept his client on an extremely short leash after that. And for a time, things proceeded well.

They went from ward after ward, smiling, flirting, vamping, working down the list efficiently.

"Hi, I'm Jennifer Love Hewitt, and I'll be fucking your tits today...!"

Jennifer titwanked a man with two dislocated shoulders in the arthroscopic surgery room. He exploded after just thirty seconds.

Then another man in intensive care. He made it an entire minute.

Upstairs, a third and fourth man succumbed to her awesome boobs in swift order, erupting like Vesuvius and Etna between her globes.

Peter was impressed. If nothing else, JLH was proving to be a machine at giving titfucks.

He was beaming with pride.

"Outstanding, Private Pyle! We've finally found something you do well!"

"Gee, thanks!" Not getting the joke, of course. He rolled his eyes, thinking If this ends with me getting gunned down in a Fort Bragg toilet, I'll be incredibly ready to go.

A fifth man--who'd broken both his wrists in a steel milling machine--was titfucked in the ward over. As the hospital wing had run out of private rooms, and the bathrooms were all occupied, Jennifer Love Hewitt and her client did the deed in a dirty, grimy storage cupboard.

She swung open the door, and found a chair for the man to sit in. Peter laid down strips of cardboard for her kneel on, not to protect her --like most actresses of a certain talent level, she had extremely tough knees for some reason--but because the floor was littered with rat droppings. A single fluttering lightbulb swung from the ceiling, sending shadows scything back and forth as her torso rocked up and down on his cock.

Splatt! Plopp! Squish!

Over and over, the shadow of his penis burst between the shadow of the boobs piled on his lap, like some fucked up shadowpuppet play. She wanked her tits industriuosly, ignoring the pipes leaking rusty water over them both, riding the sound of the man's ascending whines.

The man gasped in orgasm, driving his hips forward. His cock sheared free from her bulging mammaries, and hosed her front with a half-dozen powerful cumshots, which slid down her neck in a slow, bubbling tide.

Topless and spunked, Jennifer Love Hewitt grabbed a sodden towel--from the rusty bucket--and used it to wipe her dangling chest.

"This smells disgusting!" she yelled, smearing cum over her soiled breasts with an off-color rag. "Why does sperm smell so bad! Like, EWWWW!"

A powerful odor hit Peter's nostrils. They flared at the smell. That man had incredibly bad-smelling cum. Too much meat in his diet? Who the fuck knew.

"Come on," he grabbed her hand. "You're on the home stretch. One group of men left, and you're titfucking them as a group. The sooner they're done, the sooner you're done. Let's rock."

As she was dragged out of the storage closet, she dragged the bucket with her.

"What's that?" Peter asked, glancing inside the bucket. It was full of wet, weird-smelling rags.

"Some kinda detergent solution," she said. "I can use the rags to clean myself."

"Fine. Take it with you."

* * *

Jennifer insisted on a smoke break in the outpatient room--she was blatantly topless as she chain-smoked Newports, because taking her shirt and bra on and off had grown tiresome--but it didn't matter.

Her final group of clients came to her.

A door swung open. Peter turned to see five young men approaching.

They walked gingerly. Identical neck cones that restrained their movements.

"Allo," the lead one said in an unplaceable European accent. "Ve are here for ze tee-tee-fooking."

Peter didn't know what to make of them.

They were all the same age--late teens, early twenties--and seemed like clones created from a test tube. Same blue eyes, same buzzcut blond hair, same lean athletic builds, same neck cones. They wore white shorts, exposing calves exploding with muscle. Something about their stances said professional athlete.