JerJer Binks Episode 3: Revenge of the Night Battle
Battleship Musashi knew Jersey was at the door even before she hammered her fist against the flimsy wood. She could hear the floor creaking and groaning under the massive American's immense weight, and smell Jersey's sweet, but gritty and ever so slightly smoky aroma. Musashi was certain even holding a gun to her head wouldn't get the Iowa to wear perfume, but that didn't matter. She smelled perfectly nice as is.
"Come in," Musashi spun in her chair. Her meaty chocolate thighs were crossed, and she waited just a moment too long to pull her unbuckled miniskirt smooth. Her shirt hung off her shoulders, letting the finest naval rifles the world had ever seen breath free for the first time since she'd visited the States.
She understood why the prudish Americans wanted her to stay clothed while in their country. A glimpse of the unfiltered majesty of her mighty eighteens would torpedo the American birthrate as every man gave up everything to move to Japan and every woman struggled with crippling inadequacy issues, a fate Musashi would never wish on her new ally.
But against Jersey… giving the big Iowa a few inadequacy issues would be fun. If anything else, it might deflate the arrogant American's opinion of herself to something more reasonable.
Jersey didn't so much open the door as shoulder through it. She carried a case of beer under one arm—Musashi didn't recognize the brand, but the packaging looked obscure enough to be better than the usual American piss water. Musashi was certain she had help, the American's taste wasn't that refined.
Under the other she carried a box full of snacks—Doritos, the red color with dust Naka had judged "the STD of food products", and a few bottles of Gatorade. Musashi was pleased her estimation of Jersey's taste had been correct.
"Mushi," Jersey grunted and unceremoniously dumped the collection onto Musashi's heavily-reinforced bed. A king-size mattress—the only size that could fit a battleship as titanitcally massive as the second Yamato—stood on massive steel pilings that could—barely—support her weight.
"Jersey," Musashi smirked and slowly uncrossed her legs. "How long's it been for you?"
"Itsa bein too long." The American rocked on her heels, rolling her massive shoulders to work out the last few knots in those admittedly envious muscles.
"Mmm," Musashi set her features in a coy smirk and slowly stood, her enormous pagodas taking a split-second to catch up with the rest of her imperially perfect figure. She let her fingers trail along the armrest of her chair for a moment before settling her hands on her hips. "Shall we…" she slowly circled the American, letting the shirt she wore like a cape trail along Jersey's bare wrist. "commence a night engagement."
"No," Jersey rolled her terrifyingly icy eyes. "Wesa gonna fuck now, Okieday."