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Some bars and clubs predicated themselves on the Bounce Virus. The lowered inhibitions, the constant, unceasing horniness, the thickening and plumping all made men enthusiastically more likely to spend their money and frequent BV-hangouts. The audience of women who hoped to be either exposed and infected themselves or who likewise were fond of curvy, horny, questionably cognizant girls was likewise sizable. But every culture has a counterculture, and some other clubs were just as successful based on the opposite–No Bounce Virus! Have a good time and don’t lose the next four days in a mindless, slutty haze while you gain thirty or forty pounds. We ensure your safe, virus-free night at the club or your money back.

“No Infectees Allowed” read the sign over the entrance, and it was as rigorously enforced as possible. There was a temporary quarantine zone by the entrance where girls were observed to make sure they weren’t too enthusiastic about shaking it to the thumping dancebeats emanating from within. Girls were encouraged to take frequent breaks from the dance floor at quiet areas near the bar that were likewise observed. It required hiring a few more people, sure, but the girls who went to No-BV clubs were generally more willing to pay a high cover that made up the deficit. The clientele was austere, conservative, mostly covered when dressed, a far cry from the lewdness of infectee hangouts, though still looking to have a good time and let their hair down. Of course, someone who knew all of these things, someone who knew the security, and knew just how to sneak an infected woman through it and position her for maximum exposure, could take advantage and deal the business a terrible blow. Perhaps a bartender, one who’d been stiffed on her tips and overlooked in favor of another, younger, more bubbly coworker.

The initial spread of the virus in the air could have been mistaken, for a few minutes, as a very enthusiastic set of dancers for a certain song. Clubs that didn’t allow infectees usually had more conservative dancers, but a nice hangout was a nice hangout. It’s not like twerking, shaking and booty bouncing were completely unheard of, even if they were generally frowned upon. Of course, the bartender had likewise bribed the DJ for some extra bouncy music tonight. It was only a girl here, and a girl there, shaking and wiggling, swiveling their hips and bouncing their modest and well-covered behinds, but those were only the seeds of what was to come. By the time the four minute song had ended, almost every woman in the building had been irrevocably exposed to a fast-acting strain. A few made it out into the street once they realized, but it’s not like they could manage much besides dancing outside, heads still caught in the faint, rhythmically thumping beats issuing from within.

It’s important to understand that women who don’t want to be infected are still quite capable of dressing somewhat provocatively. Just because they didn’t want to lose days at a time to the virus didn’t mean that they lost all sense of fun and playfulness, they just tended to come down on the side of “playful” instead of verging outright into “slutty”. Several were dressed downright, well, sexy, with tight, form-fitting spandex tights and midriff-baring crop-tops. The downside of course, was that once they were all infected, their clothes were hardly matches for the sudden onslaught of flesh jiggling up from within. Shirts rolled up, skirts split, shorts tore and panties stretched around a tidal wave of flesh. In addition to being a fast onset, this strain was a particularly pronounced pear shape. Almost the only apparel that remained completely unmolested by the thickening, were the high heels, worn by almost every woman in the club, which gave an air of tight, precarious exaggeration to their shaking. Barely balanced already on high heels, they were suddenly dropping it low, jiggling and wobbling not only out of virally-induced desire but out of simple gravitational necessity. The lower they were while bouncing and shaking, the less likely they were to slip and fall on their heels, with the added bonus, to the mastermind of this little operation, of making them all twice as lewd as she’d even expected. Some of the girls, even bigger than the average, were shaking off the last shredded remnants of their clothes, leaving them completely stark naked on the dance floor, moaning and jiggling as their pussies dripped with desire.

The bartender who’d orchestrated this entire chain of events looked on happily, reflecting on her handiwork. The entire club that had been predominantly skinny rich girls with more money than joy was now wall-to-wall curvy, ass-clapping pears. The lewd, orgasmic moans of a fire-marshall’s limit of women were loud enough they could be heard faintly over the thumping drum n’ bass that they were all grinding against each other, bouncing, shimmying, shaking and touching themselves to. Dozens of bodies were crushed together in thick, orgasmic embraces, asses bouncing off each other, thick thighs straddling other dancers, heavy, heaving breasts bouncing out of woefully inadequate bras and tees. There were more scraps of destroyed cloth on the floor of the club than there were covering the asses of the thick, lusty twerk machines dominating every inch of the dance floor.

The bribed DJ played on, at this point, to a crowd full of women who could hardly stop shaking it long enough to leave even if they’d been able to think around the pleasure-induced brain fog long enough to want to. The bouncy, rhythmic music made the onset even worse, the pleasure even more intense, the jiggling, thickening women even more completely lost to the virus. The stiffed bartender, face covered with a bandana, looked happily onto her coworker as her shorts tore, her fishnets bulging with flesh, and grinned, giving her a thumbs up that barely registered as the little tart shook her way to the first of several days worth of Bounce Virus induced orgasms. The bartender grinned, slipping her bandana down and gripping the thick, wobbling hips in front of her, pulling them and grinding against her overpaid coworker–it would look suspicious if she didn’t get infected too. Besides, this looked like a great time. Why did they run an anti-virus club again? As she felt the first involuntary roll of her hips, she found she had no idea, all she could feel was how good it felt to move, and how she’d be able to move so much better with a few dozen extra pounds, and the ensuing satisfaction as her body began to oblige, ounce by ounce, bounce by bounce.