mikeTheFable's Journal

Writing

2009-11-14T04:28:59Z

I like getting feedback, I like finishing stories, I like being able to read what I've written. It's intensely satisfying to get something out of my head and onto paper (electronic or otherwise). But god, do I really really fucking hate writing. Ever time I start I stall, it seems, and I just can't finish anything. What a strange position to be in, to crave the result of writing but utterly despise the process. But then I think, it's always been that way. Writing was always very laborious. Maybe I was never writing for the write reasons.

Maybe I should start making photo captions.

Flash!

2009-09-19T12:41:48Z

Just a small flash I wrote today. I'd like to make it a bigger story. Just thought of a situation where someone is asked why they are behaving strangely, and they tell the other person that they are going to become a bimbo or a slut or whatnot... and that other person is taken in by the story, in which the bimboization is obviously spelled out. Anyway, just something small.

It's porn.

Honesty

Cristina returned home from work at the end of the day. She gathered up the train and frills of her Tooth Fairy uniform and managed to fit through the doorway, and inside her apartment she found her roommate sitting at the computer, eyes fixed to the screen, chanting to herself inaudibly.

“Why aren't you at work?” Cristina asked. Her roommate always worked later than she did.

Emily answered very bluntly. “I quit my job.” She did not look away from the screen.

“You quit?”

“Yes.”

After a short pause Cristina overcame her shock. “What happened?” Only yesterday Emily had been telling her how much she loved her job as a Team Leader at the local Political Office.

“I've found a new job.”

“What are you going to do?” Cristina asked. She pulled up her voluminous skirt to avoid tripping and came around to Emily's side of the screen. “What are you looking at?”

She pulled out a chair and sat down. Emily was watching porn.

“I'm going to get a makeover and become a pornstar.” Emily droned. “I'm going to get put up on the internet and be a stripper at La Pink's. People will watch me dance and strip, and then they will get to fuck me.”

Cristina broke out into a sweat. What had her roommate just said? It seemed that she had only barely heard it. Her attention, all of it, was being drawn into the computer screen.

On the screen was a stripped naked bimbo—her top and skirt both around her waist—getting fucked by four men. Her blimp-like tits bulged out from her chest, obviously fake, each of them larger than her head. Her inflated chest gave way to a tiny waist, which lower down flared out into a pair of wide hips and toned, athletic legs. Her face was vacant of all intelligence—all her thoughts were consumed by the stiff, fleshy organs being presented to her, thrusting insistently at her face. She carressed and licked them with mindless abandon, utterly devoid of herself, existing only to serve and pleasure cock. She was straddling one man, his cock buried deep within her; the three others stood around her while she sucked each of their cocks in turn, using her hands when her mouth was full.

“They're going to turn me into that.” Emily whimpered, rising to orgasm from the just the mere sight of the video. Cristina, hearing only faintly, realized that she too was not far behind. Already she had started playing with herself, had pulled down her dress to reveal her tiny, perky breasts.

Too small, she thought, not knowing where the thought had come from.

“They're going to give me tits like that.” Emily squeaked, her voice full of hope, as she came.

“Me too.” Cristina said, having already decided to quit her job, quit school, change her entire life, all for what she was seeing on the screen before her.

“How do I apply?” she asked.

“Just keep watching.” Emily moaned, “They'll be here in about a hour to take us away. Then everything will begin.”

So long! Cristina thought to herself. She managed to wrench her eyes from the screen to look at the desk clock. Maybe not, she realized. She had already been watching for twenty minutes! How much time was passing between their responses to each other? The time, it seemed, would pass quickly. Until then she could enjoy more of the video which continued, with inexorable subliminal persistence, to show her what she wanted. Things she hadn't known she'd wanted.

A chanting, droning rhythym had taken hold in Cristina's mind, an infinitely repeating loop of instructions. Her lips had begun to move like Emily's, silently mouthing an inner monologue. Just one sentence, but a sentence which unfolded and bloomed like a flower in her mind, carrying with it a whole new personality.

My name is Crissi. My name is Crissi. My name is Crissi...

Barbie In Space

2009-08-18T07:37:44Z

I wrote this after reading "The Alien Mind" by Philip K. Dick. You can find it in the 'Eye Of Sybil" anthology. Conceptually, its the same as PKD's story. In PKD's story a man is woken from cryo sleep to find that his cat, who is floating around the spaceship, has been pawing at various buttons. This makes him look incompetent in the eyes of the alien who contacts him to ask why he is off course. So he kills the cat and returns to sleep. Once arriving and offloading his cargo, the alien's ask to see his pet. The man insists that he has no pet and keeps asking to leave. A search of his ship shows that he had cat kibble on board, and a cat toy. Eventually, the aliens leave, but not before asking the cat's name. Flying away, the man admits that his cat's name was Norman. After he takes off though, he finds that his cryo pod has been sabotaged, his entertainment tapes removed and replaced with cat toys, and all his food replaced with cat kibble. He is forced to spend two years living as a cat.

Similar plot, only with MC and bimboization. I've been caring less about spelling out the transformation lately, so there's no erotic material. I just needed to get this idea out.

My writing has been weak lately, so I needed the crutch. Go plagerism.

Barbie In Space

To the sound of an alarm, Catherine emerged from her blissful state of non-self and, physiologically speaking, returned to life.

“The vessel has deviated off course by more than three degrees.” said the computer. “The port thruster controls have been altered.”

“Okay... okay... okay...” Catheine replied, wiping her eyes. Oh, if only she could sleep.

Groggily she stood and walked out of the stasis chamber, placing her hands on each side of the corridor as she went, to keep balance. Her juices were flowing, but slowly. What incredible cold, she thought to herself. In stasis she was ageless, immortal, but cold as death. Frozen. And thawing was slow, so that for several minutes she was still white and clammy and as present as a ghost.

On the bridge the console was flashing. She pulled up the log.

“An impact.” she muttered to herself. Evidently the ship had been hit by a chunk of dark matter, a very small one, which had been successfully deflected. That didn't explain the course deviation, though. The buttons had been mashed.

A dull beeping caught Catherine's attention. Startled since she was naked and, so she had assumed, alone, she spun around. The momentum built up by her rapid, frightful movements lifted her from the floor and she reached for the ceiling to steady herself. Now floating up near the ceiling, she watched a Malibu Barbie doll go spinning lazily by, cartwheeling towards one of the cabin consoles. And with the most dainty touch of its two feet it knocked an ominous red button.

She reached out and grabbed it.

And snapped it in two.

In this day and age, she thought acidly, they still made these damn dolls. She gripped the broken Barbie in her hand; even broken, Barbie still stared back at her with that same never-changing vacant expression. As happy as could be, even without legs. So picture perfect; the selfless woman who, even when battered and bruised, put on a smile for her owner.

Catherine, like all the other girls on Earth, had been exposed to a flood of images of sexualized women in ads and films and on store shelves. They were caricitures of womanhood, yet something to aspire to. Unreal, yet still capable of making real girls, such as herself, feel like shoddy imitations, like interlopers in their own world.

Even now, Catherine found, in her moment of surpreme triumph, Barbie's stare still got to her.

And now Barbie was being exported to dozens of systems the galaxy over. Aliens, evidently, liked her too.

Catherine swam through the air to the trash disposal and promptly ejected the doll into space. She wondered what would happen to it in the void. Undoubtably it would be preserved. Then again, Barbie was ageless everywhere she went. Over five hundred years old and she didn't look a day over 20. It was all that plastic.

She checked the hold. One container had fallen off the top of a stack and hit another on the side, sheering away the other container's wall. A mangled box with bright graphics had been exposed. It too had been punctured. A Malibu Mansion was inside, leaking furniture into the hold. A tiny patio chair drifted in the vacuum. And a parasol as well. Only Barbie had made it down the corridor to the bridge.

They should install doors on these shuttles, Catherine thought. But on a craft so small, weight was an issue. An open concept was best. Not heavy doors. Using some Utility adhesive she returned the patio furniture to the Malibu Mansion and sealed the hole.

Catherine returned to her stasis chamber and rested, this time in peace, confident there would be no more surprises.

She awoke again, this time willingly, once the ship had reached the end of its two week-long trip across the five thousand light-year expanse between Earth and the planet Maug.

She was contacted, via intercom, by a Maug Dock Master. Its smooth, plastic-like face appeared on the screen and Catherine, fresh-faced and dressed, greeted it with a smile.

“Can I come aboard?” it asked. Catherine pondered its gender, breifly, then gave up. In the end they all looked distinctly feminine to her. What a nice species they must be, she decided.

“Of course, I'll open the door.”

Once on board, the Dock Master met her and tapped nervously at its info-board, a thin touch screen on which it stored its data.

“Our passenger manifest is coming up one short.” The alien said. Catherine, bewildered, blinked.

“There's only me.” she explained.

“In addition to you, there are one hundred passengers of the Malibu Barbie ethnic group.”

Catherine was stunned.

“Only ninety nine have been brought off the ship.” the alien further explained. “We wish to search your hold.”

“I don't really have time for this.” Catherine said, as diplomatically as possible. “I need to get back to Earth.”

“We are very concerned for this creature's well being. We fear for its life—we know,” the alien mumbled, “how you Humans treat them. Like toys.”

“They are toys. They aren't people.”

“Please,” the alien bowed, “spare us your prejudices and, how do you say it. Humour us?”

“Very well. But be quick.” Damn, Catherine thought, the company will take it out of her pay if she is late on the return.

Their search of course proved fruitless. There was no Malibu Barbie anywhere on the ship. It was out there, in the vastness of space, floating, with no buttons to tap.

“One of the containers we unloaded had been tampered with. A Malibu Mansion was exposed and it's occupant was missing. Where is she?”

“The ship struck some dark matter, one of the container stacks fell over and damaged it.”

“Perhaps you tried to kill the Barbies.” the alien accused, with diplomacy. “By tipping a container stack onto them. Do you fear what they might tell others of your species?”

“Is this the first time you've had Barbies in your possession?”

“The first, yes. More are scheduled to arrive next week.” the alien informed.

“They're not alive. They aren't people.” Catherine said. They'd find out soon enough, she figured, when they started trying to talk to them. They possessed only ten pre-programmed statements.

“To you, maybe, but we do not consider other lifeforms lower than our selves. All are equal.”

Several other Maugs returned from the hold carrying their scanners. They shook their heads. They conversed with the Dock Master for a moment in their own langauge; then, as one alien, they faced Catherine.

“May we inspect your person?” the Dock Master requested. Pleasantly enough.

Catherine sighed. One of the Maug workers, with it's slender, feminine physique, craned towards her and ran a hand-held scanner from the top of her head to her toes. Catherine obligingly put out her hands.

The Maug scanned them.

“Barbie DNA.” it exclaimed, horrified. The group of them gasped. Catherine merely looked on incredulously.

“Plastic molecules.” she corrected.

“Oh my...” the Dock Master moaned sadly. The aliens—the group of them—placed their hands on their hearts. “She is at The Los Angeles Mall, now. That holy place. In peace.”

“The what?” Catherine facepalmed. “That's a TV show!”

“We have seen it. We know the truth. Malibu Barbie wants to live. She wants to shop, see friends. She loves Ken.”

“No, you have it wrong.” Catherine insisted. “It's not real.”

The aliens blinked at her. It seemed they did not understand the concept of television. Catherine knew enough to know they had no equivalent on their world; that human invention was new to them. She never imagined, though, that it would pose such a problem.

“The Barbie was lost in the collision.” Catherine said.

“Perhaps you were angry that it had gotten out of it's cage. We've seen how you humans keep them. In shoe boxes—how could you?”

“I'd like to go now.” Catherine demanded. “We will refund you the cost of one Malibu Mansion.”

“Very well.” the Dock Master said, tucking its info-board under its arm. “We will accept your compensation, as this is how you value these sweet, bubbly creatures. But mark our words—one day, we will buy all of your Barbies, but unlike you will we buy them into unslavery. Even now, across our planet, suburbs—Barbie's native habitat—are being built for them. With shrubberies.”

“Were is the decon?” Catherine asked wearily. Perhaps, if she looked shamed, they might feel satisfied with their trite morality trip.

“This way.” the Dock Master, with passive agressive pleasantness, motioned. She put a hand on Catherine's back and showed her the way.

Deconaminated, Catherine was eager to lift off. She strapped into her command console and flipped on the com.

“I'm ready to go.”

“You have permission to leave.” a passive agressive voice informed. What the alien really meant, Catherine assumed, was “We want you to leave”.

Strange, she thought as she powered up the engines, they didn't seem all there. In the head. And yet... they were an advanced civilization. Differences between minds, she guessed. They just didn't think the way humans did.

She upped the throttle and was off-world in a heart beat.

Relief was fleeting, though. She later found that the power module for her stasis chamber had been removed,. She could not go to sleep. Slouching in her chair, she realized this meant she had two weeks of empty space, silence and weightlessness ahead of her.

She floated over to the entertainment console and pulled up the library.

Nothing but X-rated Barbie cartoons, made by independent studios that specialized in erotic anime, hentai, cartoons, that sort of thing. The first selection characterized the rest. 'Stripper Barbie does Los Angeles'.

She did not understand.

Well, at the very least, she could relax, get undressed and find something to eat.

Her closet was full of frilly pink outfits, minis and halter tops. And high heels. Really high heels.

Her food stores had been replaced by lollipops. Pink ones.

How cruel. They were turning her world into the Malibu Mansion. She was to live as Barbie, evidently, at least for a time. And for entertainment—or edutainment—she was too see how some Barbie's were treated on her world: as sex toys. Maybe then she might understand the value of such a life. They were teaching her a lesson. She got it. She thought it was stupid, but she understood.

She did not understand.

Two weeks later, a Dock Master cracked open the shell of Catherine's ship and stepped inside. All the power was on. So why, then, had the pilot not responded to his hails? The ship was eventually tractored in and he, alone, was asked to check it out before the rest of his crew proceeded.

“Hello?”

A curvaceous, cartoonish, female form appeared from around a corner, out of the cargo bay. She approached him, her high heels clicking on the metal plates, little skirt swinging—was she pantiless?—immense breasts cradled in a tied up halter top, bulging out of it, heaving in unison

She brought her Barbie body to his, pressed against him, and stuck out her tongue, touching it to the tip of a pink lolli. She swirled her tongue, then licked the shaft. Expertly. Her eyes had glazed over from watching her edutainment, over and over and over. She knew Stripper Barbie as well as she knew herself.

“Stripper Barbie Does Los Angeles.” he said to himself, recognizing the girl's appearance.

“I love you Ken.” Stripper Barbie cooed, vocalizing one of her ten programmed statements in a weak, high-pitched, submissive way. A pleading way.

The Dock Master entered the ship fully and shut the door behind him. He did not emerge for some time.

The End

My Former Self

2009-06-06T13:33:04Z

A while ago I decided to repost some stories which I took down from the archive years ago. After restoring Fable I realized that doing so was a waste of time, as it's impossible, really, to remove any story posted to the EMCSA, unless it is removed within days or weeks of its posting. The webpages of my old stories, and my old author page, had been archived long before I asked them to be taken down. Perhaps this was the internet's way of implying that self-destructive behaviour is futile. It turned out for the better, because my opinions changed. I'm glad they were preserved.

So my old stories, like Pulmonary Archery, Bimbo's Guide... and Alone with Myselves, can be found on the wayback machine through the link called "My Former Self". You can find it in the menu on the left side of this page.

More of the same from me...

2009-06-06T13:25:37Z

Something I wrote based on the Picture Flash thread on the MCG, but it turned out too long for the thread there. My usual brand of bimboization. This picture turned out to be worth 1330 words.

Pink Magick

Emily tilted out of her seat, the hands of her many new friends outstretched towards her, pulling her along with them on the night's journey. She was only vaguely aware of where she was: a night club, but not just any night club. A night club, with women dancing on tables and bouncing up and down like pistons in private red-vieled backrooms. She giggled, nearly falling back into her chair, not used to such high heels, or the way Pink Magick distorted her body perceptions, making some parts of her look—and feel—bigger than they had before. The drug even fooled mirrors, too, not just her mind. It was crazy stuff.

She barely made it out of the van on two legs, most of her weight supported by the arms of some unknown gentlemen, who in his haste to help her was hugging her under the arms tightly, his hands planted firmly on her weighty boobs. Maybe he didn't realize that, she thought, giggling, because he made no attempt to remove them. And as she slumped into him, barely coherent enough to keep her balance, his hands only seemed to squeeze ever more as her weight on him increased. Why let him know?

A joint was thrust in her direction. Without thinking she opened her mouth and took a long drag, the giggly gas squirming into every nook and cranny of her lungs, filling her up. This new stuff was totally psychadelic, not like any weed she'd ever had before. And she'd partaken in marijuana a few times in her life, enough to know that this was something special. It affected her body like no other thing she'd ever ingested, distorting her centre of balance, dulling some thoughts but amplifying others, squigying her mind until the girl she looked and felt like was like a girl in a funhouse mirror; top-heavy, hippy, butt out and leggy: not like her sobre self at all. It felt so real, too, though she couldn't quite believe it. It was all just a trip—a nice, hot, giggle inducing trip, the sensations of her boobs and pussy throbbing against her mind, pushing everything else out the other side. She'd been told weed could make a girl horny, but she never thought it would be like this. This—this was too awesome.

Her feet tripped over themselves as she poured out of the van. Despite the impratical shoes, her feet were convinced that her tendons were too short to put her heels down. It was all in her mind, she figured, but try telling that to her feet. She giggled, yet again; amazing that she could feel so light in the head but so huge and heavy in the chest. This stuff—this, Pink Magick, or whatever the boys called it—it made her feel all heavy and squirmy and jiggly, made her feel like she wasn't even in her own body. Boy, her boobs seemed so big and heavy. She giggled with wide eyes as she inhaled obn the joint deeply, her juggs bulging out and popping a button off her pink top.

Gawd she loved pink. She'd never really thought of it before, but on this stuff she just wanted so much pink. It glowed so brightly, and pink felt so cooooool. So silky and smooth in her eyes, and it tasted like candy, too. She wanted to cover herself with pink, among other things. She tingled, her mind flowing backwards like honey into the previous events of the night: the late shower she was barely able to stand in without her helpful new boy friends, and the silky shower of jizm that had rained down on her before that, from more than a few 'showerheads'. Jizm was so silky and sticky and smooth, and tasty, just like pink. If cum were pink then it would be perfect. Having never seen or had much before, she wondered now how she could ever life without it. She guessed this was the boy's way of giving thanks for helping them with their math. Under her tutelage the three of them had managed to score B's on their final exams.

She had kind of wondered how sincere they had been in learning more about math, what with them being the jock types and all. She'd always kind of figured they were just using her for her brains, but now she realized they had been sincere. They had often let slip cryptic hints about their motivations, like wanting to open her up to new things, like making her one of the guys.

The drugs had been an unexpected celebration after the final exam. The boys had pressed her to join them and she wasn't really sure how she had caved into it in the end. But then, it wasn't like she had to buckle down and study tonight anyway. She still had a few days before her big thesis defence, and after so much hard work in attaining her Ph.D she deserved a break. The upcoming defence was going to be a piece of cake—mmm, she wanted cake. Maybe some pink strawberry cake. Her mouth watered at the thought of putting something between her lips, so pink and swollen and wanting. It was so nice of the boys to throw her a party (maybe they'd give her cake?) and to have given her that full-body massage earlier in the night, too. Her jaw, pussy and ass still throbbed and tingled pleasantly from the working she had received, and there wasn't a gram of tension left in her. Now she was like a leaf in the wind, just being lead around. And why not? She'd been so mentally strained over the course of the school year, maybe it was time to let the boys do all the thinking. They'd taken good care of her so far, even dressed her up before hitting the club, too. She could be just a silly girl for a night, or two.

Still, she wanted to know where she was in case she needed an out. She noticed that this new club was plastered with posters of strippers and dancing girls. A 'new thing' the boys wanted to show her? This is what guys liked to do, right? She wanted to be one of the guys, right? She'd always taken pride in an open mind. Diving head first seemed like a really crazy and fun thing to do, now. She was having trouble saying 'no' right now anyway.

Above the doorway arched a pretty, giggle-inducing neon sign, all in pink. And yet, though it seemed like english she couldn't sound out the words, or remember some of the letters. She tried pronouncing some of the phonemes, but they were all unintelligible, which, after a moment of unexpected bewilderment, didn't seem bad at all. She didn't want to spend her night reading anyway, not unless maybe it was something light and airy, like a gossip mag. Leave the textbooks at home.

She smacked her lips, her mouth dry from the Pink Magick. Boy, she really wanted a drink, and then maybe someone would give her something to suck on. She had the craziest appetite...

Oh well, she giggled, inhaling another drag from the proffered joint. She had other, more immediate things to pay attention to, like the hands on her tits, or the hands on her ass, on her thighs, stroking her hair, the arms wrapped around her waist—and oh, all those bulging crotches rubbing against her. Never one to back away from hard work, as her academic scores attested to, she resolved to take care of each and every one of those assignments before bed, whenever that would be.

And it looked like she'd have a lot of study buddies, too. All the girls inside that club looked just like her (new friends?). A couple of them had already started, too, their heads bobbing up and down in various men's laps. Always the good student, Emily couldn't help but be tickled by the urge to compete. This was going to be the best party ever.

Faceless

2009-01-06T15:19:46Z

This is Faceless. There's not much to say about it. Those of you who like changes demonstrated through the wearing of ever more revealing outfits should like this one. A woman decides to go looking for some professional clothes. What she doesn't expect, though, is what her new profession will be.

It is PORN. Have fun.

Faceless

Something professional, something she could wear to work. Emily faced herself in the dressing room mirror.

Surprisingly, the sales assistant, after feeling along the racks of clothing, had found something half decent: a smart navy single-breasted pant suit. Normally Emily wouldn't have had the money to buy such a thing without going into debt, but the placement agency which had promised her a job had supplied her a no-interest loan. The money was given on the condition that it was for buying interview-worthy clothes, and that she buy them from a store with whom they had an arrangement, The Slinky Pink Collective.

The Slinky Pink Collective was an unusual boutique. Decked out in chrome trimmings and pink neon lights, it was a varied collection of business attire, club wear and fetish gear. She had needed a moment to adjust to what she saw upon entering, and even longer to adjust to the salesgirl whose chest strained against the teeny pink bandeau she wore. As though the sight of the girl's swinging breasts weren't enough, a heart-shaped cutout through the middle of the top allowed uninterrupted enjoyment of her cleavage.

The salaciously dressed salesgirl did seem at home in these surroundings, Emily thought, staring past her reflection and sighting the brass pole that ran through the middle of the dressing room. While at first Emily had taken it to be a poorly placed structural support, it dawned on her that it was more than a mere stylistic accent, being that there was more than enough room for some women, should the urge hit them, to grab hold of it and dance.

The store's clientèle likely included the local strip clubs and, given her look, the retail assistant probably possessed the right expertise—Emily giggled to herself. She shouldn't look down on the girl, she reflected, but some of her catty high-school clique habits had no doubt been preserved through the maturing process of attaining her MBA.

“Here's to becoming more mature.” Emily whispered to herself, smoothing out the suit jacket. It fit well, tapered nicely at the waist, minimized her bust and she noticed, twisting around, that the pants fit her bum quite snugly. That was important, she decided, should she ever be invited out after work with her new, mature, professional circle of friends.

[FLASH]

But something was missing, she decided, frowning and turning all the way around in her suit. Something about it wasn't right. Something about the pants.

**

Something shorter, something more revealing.

The salesgirl was quick to find her what she had requested. Maybe she had judged the girl too harshly, Emily thought. Dressed as a plaything or not, she seemed to know her way around the store, and knew plenty about all kinds of clothing.

This suit was much better. With fewer buttons, the lapels parted more severely towards her neck, revealing her sternum and just a sliver of cleavage. The mini-skirt clung to her ass tightly, something Emily was quite delighted to see. She had never realized her ass looked so good; not showing it off would be a crime. The skirt also revealed her well-formed legs, and upon looking them up and down, from her feet—cradled in sharp, stiletto heels—to the edge of her skirt—just shy of her crotch—she decided that, yes, this was the outfit for her. Professional, but sexy. She liked it.

[FLASH]

But, then... hmmm. Emily twisted around and scrutinized the lines of the suit jacket, then felt the fabric. It was soft, but it didn't bend around her quite the way she wanted.

**

Something less stiff, Emily had requested.

Again, the salesgirl knew only too well and had retreated into the maze of clothing to emerge minutes later with an absolute gem.

The satin silver blouse was exceedingly low cut, Emily saw, catching a glimpse of her bra cups. And the micro-skirt was pretty sexy, occasionally fanning to reveal her black panties when she turned. Orbiting the stripper pole was enough to make it bounce and flash her crotch. What it showed when she brought her leg up against the cool, slick metal was racier still. Emily's pussy swelled at the sight of her reflection grinding against the pole, running her hand across a fully exposed thigh, all the way to the hip.

This outfit would definitely make her a prominent figure in the office, and make a shoe-in for a secretarial position... come to think of it, she should have listed that as a preference on her application. Well, she could contact the agency again later and let them know she was no longer considering management.

[FLASH]

Still... there were flaws in the design. While closer to the ideal than the previous outfits, this one still left something to be desired. Emily pursed her lips and looked it up and down. Indeed, the lustre had faded from the silver, low-cut blouse. Perhaps her haste to find a good outfit had led to her to see it as more than it was.

Thank goodness there was such a nice, pretty salesgirl outside to help her.

**

Something more flattering, something tighter.

The bimbolicious young woman outside was right. Latex was totally the way to go. Emily ran her fingers up the flanks of the sensuous obsidian full-sleeved catsuit. The super-thin garment clung to her so tightly that she had to remove her bra and panties. Even so, her breasts remained high and supported, perfect little handfuls of soft flesh nicely advertised by the V plunging down to her navel. The suit even compressed her tits so that for the first time she had something resembling cleavage, a perfect place for the pole to nestle when she rubbed up against it. Holding the pole and slinking around it, Emily found her latex-covered body sleek and striking from all sides, and definitely sexy.

[FLASH]

But she could do better, she decided, breaking from her orbit around the stripper pole. Even if it wasn't her own money being spent, at least yet, it should be spent wisely. She had made good progress in finding the right outfit so far. Besides, the salesgirl was such a wet dream anyway. Emily certainly didn't mind spending more time with her.

**

Something prettier.

Pink was totally pretty. Staying within the realm of latex suits, Emily had requested a different colour. Like the black suit, the pink one clung to her curves and, despite wrapping her body tightly—she could almost detect a hint of her cleft through the crotch—her movement was unrestricted, something she took pleasure in while twirling around the pole.

The pink suit was also more complete, she decided, lifting a leg from the ground and wrapping it around the pole to rise up and arch her back. It featured built-in latex gloves and platform spiked heels, though it lacked a revealing neck-line; unlike the black's plunging V, this one covered her fully up to the jawline. But it was a better colour, she rationalized, and just as flexible. Perfect for bodies in motion. Despite the full concealment of her breasts, they were tantalizingly lifted and advertised anyhow, particularly in her current pose, arched away from the pole with breasts lifted towards the ceiling.

This outfit most certainly meant business, Emily thought, her gaze flowing up and down its fluid surface. But it was also sexy, and casual enough that she could see herself wearing it outside of work and at parties, or at clubs. Especially at dance clubs. She'd never been clubbing before, but her body could totally work for that in these kind of clothes. And of course the latex was just so smooooooooth, she moaned, gliding on the pole's metal finish, turning around and rubbing her buttocks against it.

[FLASH]

But for all its perks, it was far from perfect. The salesgirl had told her to select only the best and not to compromise, and compromise she wouldn't. She would not be persuaded to buy anything she wasn't entirely satisfied with, Emily told herself firmly.

**

Something that let her breathe.

This one most certainly allowed her to breathe. Her sweetie salesgirl had found another pink suit, only this one combined the sleek lines of latex with just the right amount of revelation. The suit itself was identical in every respect to its predecessor, down to the colour, but with a delicious twist. Crotchless and with an oval-shaped window cut out of the chest for her bosom, this suit revealed a little more skin and let her breathe freely.

Emily inhaled deeply and admired the results: the suit was tight, exerting a small amount of binding pressure against her, but conformed to her body without sacrificing any freedom of motion. She moved better in this one, she realized, watching her modest, round tits rise and fall freely with every breath.

[FLASH]

She felt—

[tingling...]

—warm. Emily blinked and shook her head.

Now... she was posing, wasn't she? She cocked a hip and moved to fold her arms, but they collided with her jutting unfettered bosom. She blushed at the unexpected stimulation.

Oh, right... my tits. Having preferred bust-minimizing outfits for so long she had forgotten just how large her breasts were; she'd have to get used to letting them free.

She hefted one of her enormous, globe-like breasts and gave it a squeeze, splashing the mirror with a fine spray of milk. The tender, milky flesh of her breast shivered with goosebumps at the slick feel of her cool latex fingers. Her nipples were shocked awake by the touch, and within moments they were swollen and pointed.

Emily then focused upon her conveniently exposed pussy, eager to exploit the suit's openness. Her fingers registered faintly through the latex as she brushed them against her abdomen, but upon crossing the threshold to her bare skin the experience magnified, flesh tingling to life under the tender touches. Her latex fingers were slick and gentle against her mound and moist lips. Emily's whole body flexed, fingers curling up into her depths. Her neck prickled with applause.

She realized this outfit would do her well in an interview, clearly putting forth her credentials. A professional woman avoided clothes that hampered her duties, and these openings were aesthetically pleasing as well as practical. Anything less open would only do more to block the cock of an amorous male co-worker, for example, or become a tedious obstacle should she want to offer up her tight, swollen, milk-laden tits to someone during lunch. No way she would be passed over for a position dressed like this, she thought, being as accessible and eager to work as she was. She had better pose, though, just to make sure everything fit, to make sure that, yes, this was the outfit.

She twisted and turned from one side to the next—profile, check—arched her back and thrust out her chest—tits, check—turned around and looked over her shoulder—ass, check—bent over, reached between her legs and spread the lips of her sex—pussy, check. But one pussy-pose alone could not adequately test the suit's versatility, so she sat on her bum and lifted her legs straight and high, looking between her thighs at the mirror wherein she could see her pinkish sex reflected back at her. Reaching down to ply her lips, she accentuated the pose by biting down on her lip.

The suit enhanced her every pose, Emily decided, rising to her feet. She shivered with excitement and felt herself up, hands rising to cup her engorged, easily-accessible tits. They'd hate being covered, she affirmed. The pressure within them pulsed against her mind, yearning to be released, commanding her attention. She squeezed them together, milk beading on her nipples, tickling her flesh as rivulets trickled like wet tongues across her skin. Not wanting to spoil her suit, Emily lifted both nipples to her mouth and drew her tongue around each areola, lapping up the sweet, spicy cream. She wondered, wistfully, if her darling salesgirl would help her with things outside of fashion.

[FLASH]

This was the one, she decided. The suit in itself was perfect—but then something began to nag at her. Something could be added, she realized.

A hat. No outfit was complete without a hat.

“Do you have a hat that would go with this?” she asked, calling through the door.

“I'll find something.” said the tiny, feminine voice outside. The sound of the little bimbo's voice evoked a stirring in Emily's cunt. She moved to console her purring sex with a few loving strokes. Like that, patience came easy.

“Mind if I open the door?” the girl asked, having returned.

Emily didn't answer, instead opening the door herself, enough for a lithe, French-nailed hand to come through and present a bright pink latex hood.

Emily stretched it between her fingers, getting a feel for the material before putting it on. It was smooth and slick, stylish, and before long Emily slipped it over her head. There were no holes for her nose, eyes or mouth, and the hood felt too big; it clung tightly to her cranium, but over her face it was wrinkled and loose. She also couldn't see herself, so what good was it? Frowning, she moved to take it off, to go tell her Sweetness that she had made a mistake, but before her hand made contact with the material, it buzzed and a presence entered her brain.

The mask inflated, erasing her outward facial topography, concealing it behind a perfect, oval-shaped membrane just beyond the tip of her nose. She gasped, eyes glazing as light penetrated the mask's formless interior, encapsulating her face in a haze of glowing pink, her pupils straining to absorb it all. The colour seeped into her mind, the mask tightening around her thoughts, throbbing against them and squeezing them out like juice.

Emily now realized what the outfit had been missing, and what the mask provided: an awareness of the corporate structure, of hierarchy. She would have superiors, and her outfit should reflect her subordinate position. As should her name. She no longer possessed a face, a human presence, so it occurred to her that she was no longer Emily. She would have to select a new designation.

The name was given to her by a higher power, and 86092 was born.

THE END

Restoration

2008-12-24T01:58:58Z

Over two years ago I used an event where my online identity leaked into my real life as an excuse to pull my stories from the EMCSA. In reality, I don't think there was any risk at all. I just wanted out. I was angry at the community, changing as a writer. I felt that the direction I was headed wasn't really where mike z. was headed, which at the time felt like a creative dead end.

I realize, though, that some people, perhaps more than I thought, enjoyed those stories and might want to read them again, assuming they never saved them to their harddrives. God bless those packrats; I've decided to put some of my old stories back up on the archive. Despite my feelings towards the community, my impressions of those stories in comparison to my others, or how I have changed over time, my author page is really where those stories belong.

I had thought about doing this a few times before. However a recent comment has pushed me over the edge, in terms of finally doing something about this. So I'm going to be restoring Fable, Alone With Myselves and Pulmonary Archery. More will follow.

Toodles, fuckers...

2008-12-16T02:35:00Z

I don't think I'll be hanging around the MCG anymore. I'm sick and tired of the two biggest trolls there telling us all that the peace and quiet there is fake. Ya, it is fake.... because of you, you fuckers! It's like an arms dealer is telling me the world is a dangerous place...

Hopefully the people there will come to their senses.

40 Months of Mind Control

2008-09-25T00:41:54Z

I came across a story on the archive today called Planetary by Fool's Page, and it got me thinking. Many stories on the EMCSA have left me feeling moved, and provided a satisfying sense of cognitive enjoyment that lingered well beyond the time I stopped reading; but stories that strike my kink-bone are usually few and far between. As a reader, I have found that enjoying EMC as a genre requires appreciating stories on their non-erotic merit; there are only those few special stories that seem written for you especially, that feel like one of your own. Planetary felt that way to me. It hit my kink bone pointedly.

I confess to being a bit of an interloper around these parts. The idea of mind control doesn't interest me very much at all, less now than it did 40 months ago, and even then erotic transformation was my focus. There have been many days when I've wondered to myself just why the hell I continue to read and write EMC fiction at all. I often find myself looking past the mind control to get at what I want from a story, to get at something that isn't EMC but which often seems a part of it. Yet, 40 months after reading my very first EMCSA story (Acid Washed Reflections), I'm still here, compelled by an urge to stay, an urge that until recently I had been unable to explicitly explain. I only knew it was there because of stories like Planetary and, to name another recent gem, Company Dress Code.

On the whole, my attraction towards EMC has been a trial and error experience. A lot of error.

Anyway.... back to Planetary. A bit longer than what I usually take on, but I found it compelling enough to stay for the full 9000 words. It was very well written, so that probably helped suck me in. What really got to me, though, was a particular passage during the Erotic Processing scene in which Melissa (the protagonist) is physically moulded into an ideal body type for her future line of work, and it is suggested that her body is being changed to conform to a template. Reaching this ideal naturally included extensive physical modifications, and I liked that. All the women who went through that process were subjected to those modifications en mass, and the hint was that they were all being endowed with the same ideal physiques. "Standardized" is a good description. Consequently, Melissa and the others lose themselves not merely through having their personalities replaced, but by losing physical and social individuality, by having all their many diversely-shaped bodies replaced with the very same, uniform physique that marks them as units within a social class of Living Dolls. Planetary itself is rife with this theme of conformity through the author's portrayal of a future world where totalitarian brainwashing and unthinking compliance govern through Television, but it was very pointed for me in that scene because of the way the transformation was carried out. The processing centre in the story was organized into a series of stations where the girls passed through, in orderly fashion, and were re-manufactured into something else entirely. It was like an assembly line, mass producing an army of highly similar (if not identical) pleasure units for mass consumption. It should have been called a factory.

Re-creation is an ubiquitous theme in MC, but nowhere is it more potent to me than in that kind of environment, where the sameness, the unchanging uniformity of an erotic fantasy-existence (in this case the existence of a living sex doll) and objectification coalesce into a recipe that yields legions of mindless, specifically-configured, near-identical Sex Dolls standing in rows in a warehouse, awaiting with infinite patience, obedience and simulated-joy the time when they will be taken away, removed from their wrappers and played with. The sameness and non-individuality become the point here rather than the MC, which stands aside merely as a convenient tool. By the end of Planetary Melissa was no longer really human, nor was Margaret or the resisting brunette who Melissa had watched throughout the story. Their personalities were gone, their bodies re-engineered, almost nothing of their original selves remaining. The characters had been entirely replaced, had ceased to be. They didn't know, but I did. They had transcended, in a way, beyond the bounds of what it meant to be alive. Ascended or descended to this state of whorehood, it doesn't matter. They had become toys. And that was seriously hot.

I've found it very hard to describe this and it's taken a long time to generate these statements the way I wanted them stated, but I did it. Granted, I was helped and prodded along by others within the genre who regularly question the idea of dollification/bimboization. This comes up every once in a while, I've seen it debated about three or four times since discovering EMC 40 months ago. As to be expected from those who use their own kinks as a normative baseline for comparing to others, and who don't really enjoy (or know) bimbo-fiction, their questioning of bimbos inevitably centres on the phenomenon of IQ reduction, as if that's the only trick to the subgenre.

Why do I like dumb women in my stories? Well, to answer your question... it's not the dumbness, dummy. Yes, bimbos are bland, "pop"-generic and lacking substance, but they're also picture perfect, uniform and lacking in individual identity. They have a specific, collective style, and their lack of IQ means they all end up sounding and acting the same. They buy their values from the store, or earn them by having 'fun'. Dumbified bimbos go so far as to lack even their own character traits, instead relying on templates or examples like Barbie dolls and pornstars. Conformity is hawt.

There, that was easy. I explained it better than I thought I would.

Here, have a video, since you made it this far. It visually illustrates what turns me on so much about EMC fiction. Of course, as it always seems with personal kinks and fetishes, it's esoteric. It will, for the uninitiated, pass as a perfectly ordinary and non-sexual video. Just not for me (and hopefully, for some of you, too).

There you have it.

Report Card

2008-09-23T02:39:46Z

Kurt Vonnegut did it. Now I will; I'm giving myself a report card. We're our own harshest critics, right? Well, I found out that I actually had better feelings towards what I'd written than I ever thought possible. Amazing thing, that.

The report card does not include collaborations or flashes.

New City Vendetta                      E
Pulmonary Archery                     C+
Streams of Thought                       C
The Bimbo's Guide...                                                  B-
Starstruck by Stardust                   D
Fable                                                A
Alone with Myselves                     A

William the Patron Saint of Sodomy              C

Scrambled Eggs                                                       B
A Pretty Colour; A Pretty Girl                                 B
Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!              B

Licking Toads of the Galaxy                                        A+

Laid Bare                                                                    C
Purge                                                                            B-
Femininism                                                                A
You Tart                                                                        B
Worth the Effort                                                          A+
Meghan's Story                                                           A+
Daughters                                                                  A+

Daughters

2008-07-18T23:18:43Z

Just the latest from my imagination, involving MC and bimboization. Not as explicit as my other stories, except at the very end, but certainly still PORN, so use your discretion.

Daughters

Elizabeth opened the slip of paper for the umpteenth time, the letter well memorized, but always worth another look.

Dear Ms. Gates,

Despite your exemplary performance in the past, it is with great disappointment that we must terminate your employment at WWS&J. Xavier did not take the death of his beloved Blitzen lightly, nor did the groundskeepers appreciate the deep tread marks left in the grass leading from your parking spot to the site of last year's Christmas display (or was it two years ago?). While the board apologizes for Mr. Xavier Sing's comments—in particular, the comment that you were a credit to your gender and shouldn't let his promotion over you get you down—there are more productive ways to express one's job dissatisfaction. Because of your many years with us, and because of the sexist remarks that precipitated your “strong” response, I will not be demanding any reparations for the reindeer, the inflatable santa claus or the sod that will have to be laid in your wake of destruction. It would have been much appreciated if you had kept your donuts to the pavement, but then... well. Goodbye.

Sincerely,
Travers Star
Chief Information Officer

She rested her daughter's book—Femininism for Dummies—against the steering wheel, her notice of termination for a bookmark, as she waited for the hour when she could pick up her daughters from their last day of classes at the Femininist Club—a kind of summer camp, she assumed. Come to think of it, she hadn't really found out much about it. Some kind of vocational training, at any rate, yes that was it. Perfect for young women fresh out of highschool. Or so Rachel had said. She had known more about it, and had encouraged her younger sister to attend. Two weeks at the Femininist Club looked good on a resume, Emma had said, parroting her older sister. The two did everything together.

She had pulled her blue Subaru into the rounded drive and parked just shy of the club's front doors, which stood as arching compliments to the building's austere neo-gothic facade. A tall hedge bordered the property, obscuring the street from view and providing almost complete privacy. The rest of the world would not exist, in fact, were it not for the audible wooshing of cars as they drove by.

Elizabeth dipped a hand into her purse and retrieved a picture of her daughters, which they'd taken and sent to her on their second day at the club. They looked to be having a good time, heads held together in front of the camera, smiling widely. The photo had perhaps been taken at a party, as Emma and Rachel were wearing make-up, complete with blush and bright red lipstick. Not only that, there were a lot of feet in the background. A lot of high heels. Elizabeth flipped the picture to look at it's back, where the two girls had written a short description of how much fun they were having. Strange, she thought, Emma had misspelled 'awsome'.

She turned the photo back over. Emma and Rachel had never been the partying type, but Elizabeth was glad to know that her daughters had managed to fit in so smoothly at what they promised would be the best two week certification course they would ever attend. Nice to see the girls broadening their horizons and sampling new experiences, they'd even coloured their hair. Maybe blond would look good on them. Except... in the photo, the two girls seemed to be going blonde from the roots out, rather than the other way.

Elizabeth could not glean much more from the photo than that. Strange, she realized, that she hadn't ever thought to discover exactly what it was Emma and Rachel were learning.

Probably nothing to worry over, Elizabeth decided, lightly stroking through her blouse the heart-shaped jewel around her neck. She had made a habit of caressing it of late, to the point that she no longer thought about it. Her daughters had given it to her after being accepted at the Femininist School. Some kind of enrollment gift. It had made the fact that her daughters were suddenly leaving for two weeks much easier. The school had sure moved fast, snatching her daughters up, getting them registered and finding them beds, all on the same day. The girls had been very enthused; Rachel had been doing well as a physio-assistant at the local hospital. And Emma... well, Emma hadn't shown much inclination for anything except staying at home and reading. But they'd both jumped at the chance to attend this Club for two weeks.

Her watch told her it was shortly past five o'clock. She dropped the photo into her purse and looked through the side window at the building, expecting to see her daughters emerge at any time; a moment later she caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. Realization dawned. She opened the door and poured out into the warm air; there were two hoofed legs stuck in the wheel well of the car. They belonged to a plastic reindeer. Dancer, maybe, but probably Blitzen, who had been completely smashed during her morning rampage. Embarrassed, Elizabeth discretely dislodged the battered hind quarters of the reindeer from her wheel well and concealed it within the nearby hedge, glancing furtively at frequent intervals to see if she'd been detected.

It was quite hot outside, so she unclasped the collar button on her suit. It felt as though she were steaming within her own clothes, so she hurried back to the car and blasted the AC. She decided it was time to dress down a little, because she certainly wasn't going back to work.

Elizabeth pulled a pin out of her hair, leaving it free to fall from its bun to either side of her face, sheets of it draped over her shoulders and down her back. Leaning forward, and after combing it through with her hands, her long brown hair fell straight down her back and over her chest. Fixing the bangs in the mirror, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of herself and her shoulders, the upper part of her suit. Even with the blouse collar unclasped, it was buttoned up high, and the suit breast was closed enough to give Elizabeth an almost severe appearance.

It made her look old, she thought. A moment later she was searching her thoughts, wondering where that had come front. She'd never felt that way before, but... well, it was true. Wasn't it?

She looked down at her suit, the hands that had been fiddling with her hair slowing as her thoughts turned elsewhere. Eventually she let them lay at her sides, then placed her hands on her thighs, squeezing her chest with her biceps. Her bosom pushed out against the inside of the suit modestly.

Sigh.

The suit. It was dark, and bland, and very 'professional', as her former boss would have put it. It was also too masculine for her tastes, but such was life. Her male peers only thought of her as an equal so long as they thought of her as one of the guys, so long as she wore a suit.

She had tried re-inventing herself over the last two weeks, after she had begun to wear her necklace. It was a very nice gift so she wanted to show it off. Only... it hung rather low. It was a crime to cover it up, but to unbutton her blouse enough to reveal it would, well, the necklace wouldn't be the only revelation there. And when seen, the jewel alone looked out of place, unless Elizabeth made herself shine like a jewel to compliment it. A little make-up here, some pink there, push-up bras to provide the heart shaped jewel a soft bed.

But that kind of look, the sight of skin... it changed people, changed the way people saw her.

In spite of bringing in more money to her old accounting firm than anyone else, she had not made partner this morning as she expected, despite her good standing within the company. That honour instead went to a friend of the board members, a man named Xavier Sing, ensuring that the boardroom remained a good-old-boys club. On paper she had been a superior executive officer, but they had rationalized their decision by implying she was too “girly”, that they couldn't tell jokes around her, and that the amount of pink she wore lacked professionalism. And no, they wouldn't call her Lizzy. They lamented the gradual loss of the 'tasteful personality' she used to show through her clothing, and the chip she used to have on her shoulder. The needed someone “tough”. She tried to tell them she was merely softening her features, finding the 'girl' within her, that she couldn't be just “tough” all the time, but they wouldn't listen. They said she looked like a secretary. And then, after buttoning up under pressure, when she had started to look very put out and on the verge of pouting, Xavier tried to make it all better by patting her on the back and telling her that although she hadn't made partner, she was still a “credit to her gender” for making it as far as she had.

That's when her left eyelid had started to twitch. And so, to wit:

Dear Ms. Gates...

And so forth.

Now the shock of being jobless was wearing off, and after an afternoon wherein the demands of the professional world mattered little, Elizabeth was starting to think about the kind of things she would get to wear. Nice bras, low cut tops—the necklace deserved it. Maybe some nice lip gloss too. Blond hair might contrast nicely with the deep ruby red of the jewel, Elizabeth thought, the colour platinum swirling through her mind at just that moment.

Elizabeth pulled open her suit jacket and unclasped the first button of her blouse experimentally . In an instant she felt a rush of coolness descending through her collar, the push of her bosom against the breast of her suit, the holding of her breath, her heart racing, the reinforcing exhilaration of being unbound. That felt like a major breakthrough. She undid another button, revealing the valley between her breasts. She undid a third, revealing a full two inches of her sternum. Between her breasts, the beautiful jewel of the necklace lay shining against her skin, cradled lovingly between two soft, pillowy swells of flesh.

Elizabeth reached for the fourth button, took it in her fingers, and prepared to slip it through the hole, but hesitated.

She had an interview tomorrow with the CEO of a major technology firm for the position of Chief Financial Officer. A competitor of WWS&J, they had found her minor feat of destruction amusing. She had not been out of work for more than an hour before she received a call, the man insisting she come see them for an interview. Merely a formality, they assured her. She'd made quite a scene, and their office was abuzz with rumours about her.

If she were to walk into that interview tomorrow, the line between her breasts tantalizingly advertised, her thighs revealed by the height of a new skirt, but with a resume outlining her many accomplishments as a company executive—including her candidacy for the position of partner at her former IT firm—would he see her as a capable woman? What if her suit was pink? She knew that tomorrow she would be meeting with a man. They'd talked on the phone and she knew he was of a particular school of thought. Very authoritative, believed work came first above all else, left most of the family work to his wife. That sort of man.

Being reminded that she did indeed have breasts might make him uncomfortable, might impel him to see her as transgressing the rules and customs of 'his' environment. He might focus on her attractiveness, on her body, instead of the words on her resume, and count that against her, think of her as 'girly', as unprofessional. He might begin to draw parallels between her and the woman he likely employed as his secretary, were she to wear a nice pink skirt and delicate high heels. He might make comments to his friends in private about her legs, her breasts, tell jokes about bimbos. Her qualifications may not even come up, only the topic of her body, what he could see or discern of it through her clothes, and so on. Elizabeth chuckled inwardly, recalling the expression men so often used. She visualized the implicit, unspoken parenthesis: “Hey. I'm a red blooded male (so of course I can't help but see her as a sex object, even when I'm supposed to be focusing on her work ethic!)”.

Her livelihood depended on this fourth button. She nibbled on her lower lip and hesitated, but when she looked down she realized her hand had already done the work. Her chest was now clearly advertised, and her breasts, modest as they were, appeared large on her slight frame and within her fitted blouse. They heaved subtly with every breath. The cups of her bra were now partially exposed, and she couldn't help but notice them and think: 'Lace cups would look a lot better.'

The sight of her breasts made her heart thump faster, the exhilaration mounting, and in turn her breathing caused her tits to quake and quiver within her blouse, the jewel resting atop her cleavage rocking in its cradle. There was no going back, she realized. She would not tie herself back down, cover up her femininity just so some shrivelly, old-fashioned executives at a big, important, successful firm that offered a six-figure salary could feel comfortable with her. No no no, that wouldn't do at all. Elizabeth thumbed at her knee length skirt.

Elizabeth's arm shot out towards the glove box; in turn, the rest of her followed, including her mind, which was only now catching up to her actions. Bent over the passenger's seat, she was very aware of the way the jeweled necklace dangled from her neck, no longer in contact with her skin. She almost felt.... colder, for it.

She took out a set of scissors and held them up, examining the blades with narrow eyes. For a moment she looked past them into the sunshade mirror, wherein she saw the consternation on her face bisected by the scissor's united blade. She spread her hand, and the blades opened with the satisfying sound of sliding metal.

Several minutes and acrobatic maneuvers later, Elizabeth tossed what looked like a dark, navy scarf at the foot of the passenger seat. It was, in actually, about seven or eight inches of her skirt. Take that Professional Society, she thought, pulling her newly hemmed skirt tight. The skirt was but a fraction of it's former length, and the fibers of the upholstery tickled her freshly revealed thighs. While the skirt's new hem was a tad jagged and rough, the sight of her thighs blended well with the amount of skin she was showing up top. The jewel had returned to it's warm cradle, and Elizabeth set about draping her long hair over the lapels of the suit, treating her revered chest as a window to be framed with curtains. The whole look, in her mind, should be centred around that necklace.

Now satisfied with her clothes—except perhaps for a growing desire to wear higher heels—what would she do? Much as she wanted to express herself, she had adopted the look of the stereotypical secretary. The bimbo look was so servile.

The glinting of light across the windshield caught her eye. Two young women emerged from the house through the arched entrance way, the sun momentarily reflected by the window in the door. Who were these women: classmates? The first to appear was shorter than the second, and so appeared more cartoonish, but they both seemed highly caricatured and excessively feminine, their jiggling, bouncing, hyper-sexed bodies further emphasized by the ginger trot made necessary on such towering platform heels.

The shorter, younger girl was decked out in red and white, her pale alabaster skin tone and white thi-hi stockings offset by the glittering metallic shine of her red micro-mini skirt, which seemed only tenuously draped on her hips, as if ready to fall off at the slightest demand. Her red boob tube made her enormous chest pisitively 'pop', and her soft flat midriff lay exposed and inviting.

The taller, seemingly older girl followed just behind, decked out in pure pink, her cropped mane a silvery, snowy blonde, her skin a tanned olive. Her outfit gave the impression of a gradient, her white shoes leading into rose thi-hi stockings, her stockings leading into a highlighter-pink one-piece: a slinky, latex tube-dress that strained around her gigantic tits and ended only at the point necessary to shade her crotch. Her smooth, tanned skin gleamed in the light of day.

With theatrics that Elizabeth could only describe as bizarre, the shorter girl led the taller one by the hand, the two of them giggling to each other as they descended the steps, rather carefully it should be said. Half way down the intense rocking of the smaller girl's bosom proved to much for her top, and the red boob tube over her chest snapped like an elastic, sucked under her breasts which popped out and bounced into plain view. She fell to her bum, her hand slipping from the grip of her vapid, giggling companion. Elizabeth watched with bemusement as the younger girl reached under her tits, the nipples of which were clearly pierced, and, using her thumbs as hooks, retrieved her tube top and let it snap back into place over her nipples, the action sending waves through her pneumatic chest. Meanwhile, the taller girl had bent down, causing her dress to rise up over her ass and reveal her sex, which like the other girl's nipples had been pierced—several times.

Elizabeth leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield at the display before her. A stirring of recognition nibbled at her, and she was shocked to recognize—recognize, at least, the small bit of her daughters that remained—that these were her precious little girls! The make-up concealed them well, but underneath she recognized those faces, they way they behaved towards each other.

She sat back in her chair, eyes frozen in a state of wide-eyed incomprehension. She closed a hand around the jewel on her necklace, absorbing from it what strength and support it could offer. The jewel glowed brightly, rays of light seeping between her fingers, barely noticeable in the daylight.

What had those people done to her little girls? She had heard nothing about cosmetic changes—her girls were simply supposed to receive an education, some sort of certification to improve their resumes. Until now, she had been under the vague and ill-defined impression that the Femininist Club had been like some kind of business course for women.

A thought flickered through Elizabeth's imagination, and she took on a worried, knowing expression. Why had she not thought of that before? No wonder they called it the Feminininst Club. Even with such buxom physiques and little outfits, there was, if you looked at the girls a very particular way, a professional air about them. They hadn't just been educated, she realized, they had been recruited!

Elizabeth's brain swirled with revelation.

She held the jewel tightly, heart thumping madly.

No. The word materialized in Elizabeth's mind the way an ace might appear in a deck of cards... after being inserted there by another's hand. Her clenched fist tingled.

No.

No, Elizabeth thought. Her dear girls must have wanted this. Yes, yes that was it. That was all of it. Oh my! What a relief!

Oh! She scolded herself, closing her eyes and wincing, turning inward on herself and mentally shredding every thought of doubt or suspicion in her mind. Who was she to think such things? All these years she had encouraged her girls to go to school, to find a good college, to improve their minds—but now that they sought to improve their bodies, her first impulse was to feel critical of them? Hardly fitting, it seemed, of a supportive mother.

She certainly couldn't argue with the girl's femininity, something, Elizabeth realized disappointedly, they had honoured more than their mother. But then, she was almost happy about that, happy that her daughters had not fallen into the same trap as their mother, where success came at the price of becoming 'one of the guys'. She smiled and waved at them exuberantly through the windshield. They giggled back at her, Rachel waving, which caused her to let go of Emma, which caused Emma to wobble and look as though she might fall down. Realizing her mistake, Rachel grabbed hold of her sister and held her weight while they learned the moods and tricks of their new shoes together. The closer they came, the more awe Elizabeth felt by looking at the girls. She began to discern new details about the way they moved and carried themselves. Each time Emma took a step, for example, the heaving and jostling of her massive breasts threatened to make them pop out; indeed the top appeared to provide no support whatsoever. It was the outfit of a girl for whom clothes were a necessary concession to the world, but no more, and indeed that was reflected in the garment's status: completely at the whim of Emma's bouncing, jiggling body. Emma's body ruled, not the clothes. How could that be a bad thing, when Elizabeth had only just managed to free herself from being hidden and concealed behind her own wardrobe? She had been but a monkey in a suit.

Both daughters, actually, looked distinctly feminine, almost excessively so, and yet, there was a very empowering aspect to it all, reflected in their beautiful, colourful, whorishly painted faces. Elizabeth could never get away with dressing herself up like that, she knew, not with what the males expected of her, which was to play it low and not be too different. With a feminine, colourful, tantalizing appearance Elizabeth would be but a secretary in her old profession. But here, at the Femininist Club, she could be a star. They were obviously hiring...

But...

Did she want that? Elizabeth thought about that while staring at her shoes; spiked heels would go with her short skirt and open-blouse style much better, she decided. Her current classic pumps (with mere one-inch heels) just didn't cut it. She wanted something with lift.

Elizabeth looked up at the windshield, eyes unfocused. At last she released the jewel from her fist, and let her hand rub her temple. She had been considering something, but couldn't remember... oh well.

The girls parted and, with increasing skill, made their separate ways around the car. Rachel came in on the driver's side, waving to Elizabeth as she passed. “Hi mom!” she squealed, her inflated bosom pressing against the glass.

At once the back doors opened and the car was flooded with a cacophony of high pitched giggling. Emma and Rachel slinked into the back seat, giggling and fidgeting as their lifting skirts subjected their sensitive, bare bottoms to the teasing upholstery. After a few grinding motions the girls settled and looked at each other, devilish smiles widening across their faces. As one woman they shifted on their seats and lifted their legs, pushing their knees against the backs of the front chairs. Elizabeth felt herself rise a little as Rachel put her weight against her seat. She twisted the rearview mirror to look at Emma, who was watching Rachel with captivating rapture. Rachel, in turn, was watching Emma, and it was a moment later, when the moans and groans of mounting tension got louder, that Elizabeth turned and saw her two daughters furiously masturbating in the back seat, their fingers plunging into their pierced pussies and circling their clits feverishly. They were watching each other, navigating their own bodies with pure feeling alone—and apparently quite good at it.

Again, Elizabeth's critical impulse—this time relating to the impropriety of masturbating in her car—was swept aside as she caught herself. After all, what they were doing was perfectly natural and healthy. The jewel on her necklace blinked, unnoticed. Yes, she asserted to herself, making up her mind completely, perfectly natural and healthy.

In short order, Emma and Rachel quickly rose to orgasm. They both curled somewhat, rising from the backs of their chairs and, at the last moment, stared with undivided attention at their own pussies, eyes rolling and mouths opening, before they came gushing against the backs of the front chairs.

My goodness! Elizabeth thought, turning away, aroused, sweating and short of breath. Female ejaculation! Why, she'd never experienced that before. The wonders, though, that awaited the uninhibited, feminine, gyno-centric woman!

Elizabeth started the car and popped it into gear, rolling off towards the street that lay beyond the hedge. As the spiked iron gates opened automatically she made sure to get a good look at the address, so as never to forget. Encouraged by the chorus of moans which were again rising from the back seat as her daughters built up to new orgasms, she decided she would have to visit this place again, for her own benefit. Fingering absently with the fifth button on her blouse, Elizabeth was filled with hope for the future, and certainty about where to take the next step in her professional life.

After all, if she were to walk into an interview tomorrow for a position at the club, the line between her breasts tantalizingly advertised, her thighs revealed by the height of a new skirt, what would they think?

Thank Goddess she was enlightened enough to take a cue from her daughters. They were so smart!

THE END

Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!

2008-03-02T21:01:59Z

This is "Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!" I wrote it in May or June of 2006, if memory serves... so we're going on 22 months since it's been posted anywhere. I'm sure that's not much of a loss, since it's probably as inaccessible as some of my other concept stories.

I was inspired to write it after reading No Logo. I bet the author would be mortified to know that.

Again, as with pretty much everything else here, it's a form of pornography. Usual restrictions apply, talk to your doctor to see if BTSBSET is for you, and so forth.

Bimboism and the Corporate Agenda
(Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!): A Social Psychological
Analysis of Bimbo Expressionism and Descent into Adverbial Addiction;
An Informal Academic Non-Fiction, Marred by Swearing and a Short Story, Set In a Fictional Future by mikeTheFable

”Never let integrity stand in the way of fulfillment.”

--- The Bimbo’s Guide to Shamelessness

“As long as it’s off the record, I’m proud to say that we’ve finally achieved in this industry what we’ve tried for so long; the complete branding and ownership of the female body.”

--- Allen Matterhorn of the Radiance Cosmetics Oligarchy, January 17th, 2012

The Butey Mith

1

Throngs of people clamoured about in front of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences to witness Doctor Brandy Bernard’s unveiling. Apparently, and somewhat scandalously, she had finally answered the questions begged by a Unified Theory of Everything. It had all happened inside, within the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities. This was the rumour, anyway, and so the crowd was buzzing with all the droning of a crowded bee hive.

In two rows of twelve upon the front steps of the Neo-Colonial style building were two rows of twelve prim and well-kempt scientist bodies supporting big, smart brains with vast intellects hidden behind bittersweet faces who saw though eyes aided by the finest lenses money and technology could manufacture.

-inhale-

They were all dumbfounded. Abso-fucking-lutely dumbfounded. How could their brainpower – their combined brainpower – have been beaten by... by that DUMB girl?

That Bimbo! The woman was all tits—so they used to think.

Not too long ago, Doctor Brandy Bernard had been running through the halls of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences, confused by a report that a trans-dimensional porn studio had spontaneously materialized within the confines of her finest, most expensive, most well equipped laboratory: the lab for the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities.

In spite of conflicting reports and heavy panting over the intercom, it had indeed been a porn studio that had taken up residence in her lab, though at the time it only appeared to be an inter-dimensional carnival of porn. There were Teamsters, Directors, Producers, Camera Guys and Porn Stars and everything else, but in reality—because reality mattered so much at that point—it was but the latest attempt by the cosmetics industry to hammer yet another insecurity, quick fix and expense into the self image of women here, there and everywhere. It was an attempt, it seemed, to overlay a new reality over the current one in which all women would be transformed into suggestible, branded bimbos obsessed with shopping and cosmetics.

The studio crew was recording the transformations of hapless female victims, with most of the attention being paid to the transition when each freshly created bimbo suddenly realized just how hawt she felt and how much she needed to perform for the camera. The readings and tapes accumulated through the sacrificing of female lab technicians obtained more than enough information for the forging of a template for reality alterations on a mass scale.

Supplanting reality, at that point, was merely a matter of switching things when people's attention was diverted. Sleight of hand.

This attempt—this evil plan—w as not very novel. It was in most respected relatively mundane and expected. Okay, unlike most evil plans it was marginally perverted, but the primary intent underlying that perversion was to generate power and sales for the corporate agenda. The plan was more original for it’s execution, rather than its aim. Evil and Villainous plans have sadly suffered from a lack of originality these past hundred years or so. Either every bad apple is chasing the same worm, or they all went to the same School for Villains.

The pharmaceutical industry, for example, went nuts when they found out what the cosmetics industry had done, when the new reality of things had set in and women's brains—sharing the innate human need to understand the world—accepted the new reality as the one that had always been. Real is real, whether it's one or the other. The fact that the new reality was new made little difference in the end and attracted little attention from its targets, whose attention spans and IQ's began to shrink just as their busts began to swell.

Ely Lily's executives, by example, fired all of their think tanks, hired new ones, and spent a whole week brooding about why they hadn’t thought of skewing reality in their favour by teleporting a porn studio facsimile into a school or hospital or something somewhere that had the power to convert and condition the mental and physical coalescence of any woman close enough to stand inside it.

-inhale-

They had, after all, been after the female body for quite some time, trying to medicalize the menstrual, telling women that the delay in their drug development was because female biology was complicated when in fact human biology was not. In truth, the APA was simply and rightly blocking their troglodytic attempts to brand the female hormonal cycle as a disease. A branding of biology, it was, that they were pushing among other initiatives in fuckwittery.

So as one can see, the kind of manipulative corporate behaviour demonstrated by the cosmetics industry when they redefined reality (and the female psyche) to suit their needs was not exclusive to it, and had been going on for some time in the honoured tradition of the free market economy.

In any case, just before her big reveal, Doctor Brandy Bernard had run awkwardly on high heels down the hall towards the door to the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities. The floors had recently been buffed and so glimmered with gloss; the white walls had not been painted in years, and were starting to look a tinge blue. This kind of half-assed dichotomy in maintenance was characteristic of the publicly funded institution she worked for.

She was what many would have called a slender woman, even agile, but regardless of what people said, she sucked when it came to running on heels. Not that it’s easy, but still, she sucked, and her lack of game had caused her to trip through the lab door as she was running toward it.

She tripped just once, just before the access to the lab, but was at least close enough to the doors for the makings of a very dramatic, albeit stumbling, entrance.

Brandy burst through the doors wearing the expression of a woman on the edge of being SheHulk with her lab coat thrashing behind her like the wings of some hellish banshee. From her tastefully bunned chestnut hair, a few lashing strands had broken free in her rush and were whipping at her back.

What greeted her just inside the door to the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities softened her expression until her scowled faded completely. It did more than that, in fact, as once she burst through the doors she was then standing within the surreptitiously pornographic extravaganza that had taken over her precious lab, and was thus also standing under the field of its controlling, conditioning, libido enhancing and bimboizing effect.

Dr. Brandy Bernard’s breath had paused for a moment, though not long enough of a moment to be considered autoerotic asphyxiation. The lab had become a grippingly sexual theatre of bewitching libidinous energies. Her desk had become a bed on which three latex nurses were busy ploughing a sweet, young, red-haired and freckled bimbo three ways from Wednesday morning. That bimbo, by the way, had been her former assistant, Anna, a Harvard graduate turned air-headed slut.

The Doctor’s failure to breathe was also attributable to her broken nose, which she had broken when she ploughed face first through the lab access after tripping. This also explained her angered and irritated mood, kind of. She didn’t like people fucking on what used to be her desk, either.

She attempted to argue with a nearby Teamster about manners, reality, and not taking over her desk without asking, but was stonewalled by the Teamster’s near total lack of effort and enthusiasm. This, combined with what appeared to be an abstruse profundity claiming to be the Unified Theory of Everything planted on a nearby workbench, baited the Doctor sufficiently for her to stand near the surreptitiously pornographic extravaganza long enough for its completely unexplained effect to reach critical mass. And so, not long after that, Brandy became Brandi.

What first started as an itch on her scalp soon became a teased, flowing, platinum blond mane of hair. As she held some of that hair in her hands, examining the new change, her nails grew from the tips of her fingers, the end result resembling a manicure of whorish, French style.

The disappearance of her clothes worried her some.

But not as much as the subsequent appearance of her new cheerleading outfit.

Then the g-string. And a sculpted, curvy, tight ass. Then the push-up bra.

Then followed a pair of growing, spherical, perky tits.

The only thing to shock the poor Doctor more than her shifting form and diminishing mental capacities was the realization that she had suddenly become obsessively anally fixated. While her ballooning tits fought with her shirt her ass was relatively free and breezy; her micro-mini skirt was just so tiny that she was barely covered. In her hyper aroused state she reached behind herself and inserted a finger into her anus, shuddering and falling to her knees as her digit slid wetly inside. Her clutching ass hole, self-lubricating by that stage in her transformation, throbbed against her invading finger, sending new heated pleasures through her body.

On a brighter note, she got a new nose.

When Brandi finally emerged from the front entrance of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences—greeted by a gasp from the gathered gaggle of gawkers—she was walking rather calmly, sensually, and with a measure of eroticism she had never possessed before on four-inch fuck-me stilettos. She luvved lip gloss, too. And cocks.

2

About a year later...

Brandi stood once again at the steps to the Neo Colonial style National Laboratories of the Tangential Hyper-Sciences, feeling rather tired with continually having to read, type or say it’s long name. So she abbreviated it. Cum Sluts like her didn’t need long names like that crowding up their brains anyway.

A Throng of spectators stood together for a second time in front of the N.L.T.H.S. waiting for the bimbo to speak. The difference this time around was that each and every person in the crowd, this time, was a woman. What was the same was that like last time, when a Theory of Everything had looked to be within humanity’s grasp, the crowd was filled with hope—hope for a solution to the reality altering, bimboizing scourge that had been released on the female populace, turning near all of them into insatiable sluts.

And while it was a scourge, it was marketed by the corporate agenda as liberation. Women, they claimed, were just becoming more sexually free. Naturally they greeted the new market with glossy, sparkly new product lines.

Last time the hopes of the crowd had been thoroughly crushed; the sheet of paper posing as the Unified Theory of Everything had simply been placed on a lab bench as bait to keep Brandy Bernard from leaving the patented Bimboization(™) field. It hadn’t even been the Theory of Everything on that folded slice of paper, it had been the Latin name for cornstarch. When Brandi emerged from the building, that one year ago, holding that piece of paper, the distraction became a success, thoroughly diverting the attention of most people from noticing the change in reality at the moment it occured.

No men or corporate executives were available for comment at this time.

The few women who made up the crowd were resistors to the new reality. They waited anxiously, hoping they could hold out against the incessant prodding, testing and conditioning of the Cosmetics Industry’s still misunderstood method of conditioned branding (the industry had become so huge from the bloated sales of make-up, lingerie and clothing that they made it illegal to even mention their market without capitalizing). These women struggled to remain within a continuous cycle of disbelief, believing nothing they heard, saw, tasted or otherwise sensed from the world around them. Were they to do that—believe in such perceptions about reality—they wold be lost, and bound forever to the will of the corporate agenda by implicitly accepting that the world outside themselves was real.

The CEO's had turned the world into a contract. How commerical of them.

Former Scientist (and current Porn Star) Brandi Buttslut clacked up to the podium, which had been placed there by a row of Cosmetic, Clothing and Sex industry CEO’s—all old, wrinkly, bloated, balding, white men—and let out a meek bimboish cough to clear her throat. Glad to let the tramp speak, the Industry moguls standing behind her on the steps were eager to see what stupidity would come pouring out from the former brainiac’s mouth, hoping that the Asian Sex Starlet’s failure to conjure any kind of coherent defence in the interest of her once proud but decimated gender would crush the will of the remaining resistors. The result, it was predicted, would be the dis-empowering of sharp, smart minds in favour of swelling lips, bosoms, asses and a surge in frock sales.

In other words, the CEO’s waited for the End Of All Hope—for those few women who still had the strength not to believe in reality to understand that there was no one to left to help them. A vacuous speech from one of their fellow women, they assumed, would surely do that.

A few of the Suits chuckled quietly to each other, reminiscing about the corporate dream turned reality—Brandi—who had just that morning had come to them in a foot-stomping fit demanding to speak publicly in the interest of her fellow women. Never fools to give up an opportunity for publicity, they agreed to let her speak, and put out advertisements across the network. Since it was compulsory to watch at least four hours of television a day, all of the remaining female intelligentsia had heard about Brandi’s scheduled speech and shown up—all eleven of them. They weren’t entirely sure why they had come, but they recognized Brandi as an important woman, even for a hardcore bimbo. Cum-Slut, even.

Perhaps it was because Brandi was widely recognized as the gateway victim, the woman who’s bimboization was the turning point at which the plague of reality alterations changed step from contained, private tests to mass experiments; perhaps hope was so hard to come by at this point that the gathered women were willing to listen to anyone. Either way, they were there and they were listening. Those women hoped for anything that might help them resist the intangible ubiquity that was trying to turn them into susceptible, suggestible, stupid, sex addicts and rampant shoppers.

The CEO's, in their ten thousand dollar Suits, sat upon the steps like icorrigible young boys hiding mischievious intentions, their hands on their cheeks and their elbows on their knees, grinning widely at Brandi’s branded body. Tattoos of every brand name were inked across her skin. Brandy was wearing very little in the way of clothes – a pair of black lacy boy shorts and a glittering spaghetti-strap halter-top – since the lawful maximum body coverage allowable for any bimbo’s outfit had recently been adjusted to fifteen percent from twenty. Panties were illegal, too.

These laws were not imposed on any of the female intelligentsia, as the corporate players were confident in the inexorable force of their marketing brands. Regardless of how many women they did or didn’t bring into the fold, the CEO’s were more than happy to see La Senza Slut tattooed like a collar around Brandi’s neck, KY Lover at the small of her back, and Hershey’s Milk Chocoalte in bold lettering across the upper lobe of her round, implanted billboard of a right breast.

Although the eleven members of the remaining female intelligentsia were fully clothed in long coats, jeans (though one was wearing capri pants and was suspected to be falling under the influence) and tasteful colours, the CEO’s were unworried. After all, they weren’t just selling make-up, lube, skirts or vibrators anymore, they were selling women a new lifestyle, a new way to live.

And everyone had to live one life or another, and if their version of life was being sold everywhere, than no amount of resistance would ever amount to escape. They smiled, like ugly emperors lined up in a row. Unstoppable marketing ensured that, in all likelihood, the lifestyle any woman chose would undoubtedly be the one the corporate agenda offered; the lifestyle of the branded bimbo shopper.

When a bimbo thrust a Vibro-Tech dildo into her inflamed and eternally needy pussy, she wasn’t just getting off, Vibro-Tech was getting her off, and the Vibro-Tech name inked into the flesh above her pubic mound reminded her of that. So after every orgasm she said her thanks, the appropriate display of respect involuntarily arising in her thoughts as an exuberant: “Thank you, Vibro-Tech!” As per her programming, saying was believing.

It was a process of branding that no woman could resist, those CEO’s confidently believed. For example, tattoo parlours – gateways for women entering into the subservience of the owned bimbo lifestyle - were stocked with massage specialists, sex slaves, mechanized cock-chairs and plenty of geniunely throbbing cock to sip from. This meant that when any woman finally caved into the overwhelming pressure of the new reality’s marketing she remembered not the cost and pain of having those corporate names tattooed on her body, but the orgasmic experience that came with handing herself over to them. No mind could resist.

It was utterly seducing and bewitching for any woman.

Downright totally controlling, in fact, a quality of the marketing that helped in convincing women that what they needed were cosmetics, short skirts and KY jelly. To get these things, she was convinced to enter into a "voluntary" partnership with her corporate caretakers, thereby achieving the apex of her "self concept" and in the process becoming everything she saw in the fashion mags and on teevee.

And is that not what she wanted?

Through it all she always believed she was getting what she wanted, what she deserved, when her lips were parted by the head of that stranger’s cock and filled with his jellied semen, the providing of that cum associated with the itching needle sketching corporate slogans onto the skin of her shoulder blade. Once she became involved, she wasn’t just buying into the new reality, she became what was being sold. Bimbos were so much a commodity, in fact, that every suburban home was stocked with one, slaving away blissfully in the kitchen wearing an apron or in the bedroom wearing a collar (if she wore anything at all, though it was common for bimbos to be highly fetishized).

Brandy Buttslut tapped the microphone. It squealed, the intelligentsia squinted and covered their ears. Brandi opened her cock-worthy mouth and spoke into the mic.

“When I first looked at the Theory of Everything, I, like, remember it being shorter than I thought it would be.”

The eleven listeners all chuckled quietly, stifling their grins in the face of their speaker, who was snickering along with them. Behind Brandi, the white men sitting in a row along the steps had missed the joke.

“I’ve, you know... learned a lot in the past year since I was like, last in the lab for Tangetal Hyper-Silences. Life’s got a new meaning these days, ya like, know what I mean, Ladies?”

The women nodded sombrely. Were they really all that was left in the local area? Were there so few women left unowned?

Impossible, they asserted, they refused to believe.

“And I was thinking...” Brandi explained.

This time, the line of CEO’s chuckled. The intelligentsia scorned the men with their eyes, who either ignored them or didn’t notice.

“I kinda, like, wanna be more, you know?

“I really love my titties, I do, and stuff, and the, like, sex is so totally awesome, but...” And in thought as she spoke Brandy kicked the hard steps with the toe of her stiletto, trying to think how best to put what she was feeling into werds.

“So like, as I’ve said, I learned a lot of things and I think I understand what life’s all about, what it’s meaning is. Hell, I’ve, like, understood it three ways at once. It’s so hawt. And I really love boyz and all; women are really hawt, too, I know.

“Women have this history though... I mean that, like, if you look back at the generations, you have the first wave generation, and the second wave, and the third wave generation, and then there was, like, the raunch generation, and it just makes me think that girlz are supposed to be like this – the way we are. We’ve always been totally hawt for sex and stuff, and for making dinner, and being pretty and doing house stuff. I mean, you have the three waves, and then we just go back to being raunchy sexy girls; we didn’t even, like, wait for the third wave to finish. It sure is fun... taking care of boyz and always having, like, such hot sex all the time.

“Gawwwwwwd” Brandi breathed, eyes closed while she rubbed her mound with one hand.

Smiles began to fade as the eleven (this was now considered a throng, by the way – eleven) watching women felt their stomachs sinking and their throats choking up. The old boys smiled at the bimbo speaking from the podium in front of them, still retaining their appearances of reckless mischief. The throng was starting to second guess their hopes for the future, and soon, the old boys hoped, the End Of All Hope would be near and eleven new bimbos would be born today and branded by tomorrow.

Brandi continued.

“Awnestly, some of you girlz would look so hot and lovely in a shade of pink.

“But, like, here’s the thing...”

A glimmer of hope? The attention of the intelligencia returned undivided. Was Brandi about to do an about face?

“Maybe girlz are supposed to be a certain way, maybe not. All I know is that I like the whole new generation we got goin’ on – the Bimbo generation. And like, when you think about it, this is so totally us, and it’s so totally a logical conclusion! We’ve got a movement, girlz.”

The CEO’s rubbed their hands together with glee. Yes, they all thought, it is so totally you. Buy Venus razors!

The bimbo ideology had been so thoroughly stamped into every women’s mind by the new reality that they had co-opted Bimbo culture as there own, come to believe that the bimbo life was the way it was meant to be, the best way it could be. The holy anchor of that life was the style, the clothes and the hair. All of that available at the local shopping centre, of course. And while no woman’s space was so valuable to keep singing advertisements out of the bathroom stalls, the brands that had become her public culture remained privately owned, just as she was the brand. Corporate property had taken on a life of it’s own; the Barbies now literally came to life.

Brandi was a shining example of just how efficient the corporate agenda had been in that regard – in bring brands to life – and she proved it right there on the steps to the National Laboratories of the Tangential Hyper-Sciences...

...by trumping the corporate agenda, the new reality and starting the Bimbo Revolution.

“This is the way it’s meant to be, ladies, pink and frills are the future. Big tits and, like, slick asses galore! I totally love the bimbo in me, but I’m like, having so much trouble with this whole boredom thing. Why do I need commercials to show me the stuff I need to buy? I already need that stuff; I know that! In fact, I’d like, even say it isn’t enuff! Being a bimbo, like, has an image, ya know? Just say the werd, and people totally think up a whole visual package.

“But, I need something new; I want bigger boobs, hawtter clothes, brighter lipstick and all that jazz. When I bring something home from the mall, I use it, like, maybe once or twice, and then just leave it somewhere. Why does it look like they’re trying to say that we should be pretty and sexy and busy shoppers? How can I be busy? I’m, like, always the one waiting for them to come out with something new!

“So I’m, like, thinking I’m going to take another step, be the most bimbo I can be, because I’m bored standing here in this one place!

“So ladies, what do ya think?”

A silence progressed. The old CEO’s weren’t sure what to make of the speech, and neither were the eleven intelligentsia – except for one. The girl wearing the capri pants had taken a bit more from the speech than the others, and when the other ten came to looking around at each other in a go to gauge each other’s reactions, they found her standing there with a grin on her face and eyes full of lust for the doll standing at the podium.

And she was wearing nothing but a cherry-red micro string bikini, barely substantial enough to cover her shaven pussy. Had she hair down there, it would have been seen, and it would have been hella blonde, but the fabric as it was turned out to be just enuff to hide her slit. That was to say nothing about the back, where the stringy thong was quite happily tucked snugly within the cleft of her buttocks. The beach-Barbie bimbo glistened with oiled, bronzed skin, pony-tailed blond hair lighter than the tone of her flesh and lips fat enough to provide that permanent pout. That’s to say nothing of the girl’s breasts – huge, round, implanted breasts. Possibly two thousand cc’s (by the narrator’s clumsy estimate) of pure, soft, squishy silicone better than the kind money could buy. Her hard pointed nipples were barely covered by the small patches of fabric that posed as a bikini top.

There was something almost obscene about her, now, yet at the same time alluring.

!Poof!

It seemed that just like that the girl’s resistance had crumbled; the new reality had caught her and she was now in sync with the corporate agenda. By all appearances, anyway...

That was the point really. Appearances. The other ten women mulled it over. What did this latest conversion mean? Had the girl lost hope and caved into the bimboizing pressure? Or was that nagging feeling about Brandi’s speech having special meaning worth analysis? And what had Brandi meant by her sermon on boredom?

The silence progressed ever more, because the CEO’s were still getting nowhere in deciphering the bimboish babble that had spouted from Brandi’s mouth. They hadn’t expected to hear what was spoken, but then what had they expected? Stupidity, for sure, but any specific examples? None of them could think of one. It turned out they’d gone into this feeling confident, nothing more. Surely the speech had meant something – it had struck that kind of ominous chord with them – but it was something they couldn’t explain.

And they never got the chance, because their thoughts were soon drowned out by the chattering, giggling cheers of eleven top heavy cum sluts bouncing and clapping in string bikini’s, with their hawt breasts breaking and bouncing out of their tops. They laughed at each other’s nakedness, even relished in the touch of each other’s manicured, inch-long, painted nails tickling their sensitive nipples. The thoughts running through all their empty heads were so chaotic and uninhibited that they were completely incomprehensible. Some would have called it a display of sheer stupidity.

But the chaotic stupidity was eager, horny, and willing to try anything. That willingness, it turned out, became the corporate agenda’s Japanese Navy to its Pearl Harbor.

3

That’s how it happened, really, how the corporate agenda came crashing down under the weight of it’s own dogma. So focused was the commercial institution on teaching it’s never-ending cycle of brand idolatry, that it never realized how it had been too good at it. In the ways that brands became more than just objects, but idols, states of mind, and the new reality, so too did people become more than just what they were sold as. In the end, it boiled down to the existence of a single word – an idea – called ‘Bimbo’, and the mind’s tendency to spin webs, true or false, around those words and ideas. The Bimbo Brand had come to life.

“I am a bimbo.” Women would think, in between the times at which they couldn’t think at all, which were frequent.

“I” Was the key concept. With that one word came a whole image, a whole definition of existence itself, and before long it produced a real, huge juggernaut of a brand – a new idol to worship – competing against the corporate agenda.

Bimbo.

By: Brandi.

Brandi and her gals were Bimbos, after all – cum sluts*, even – and they knew it. They loved it. They believed it. They brought cum sluttery to the level of life and art. They needed something that could keep up with their rampant libidos and need for frills, something that could follow their zig-zagging attention spans.

When it came down to it, breaking the cycle of corporatized bimbo-ownership relied on the buyer outpacing the seller. More on that in time.

Brandi’s word was ping-ponging around the commercial channels in no time at all, as in their pride the attending CEO’s had televised the speech as an intended example to all the bimbos out there just how silly and stupid they were. Naturally, the speech had been interspersed with commercials for anal lube and thongs.

Soon after the live broadcast, though, clinics were swamped with appointments for breast enlargements and extreme makeovers. Forget consultations; the bimbos wouldn’t have a doctor telling them what size they wanted, needed, or what would look good on their bodies. They knew what they wanted; big bimbo tits, the kind guaranteed to turn a real woman into a sure-fire fantasy sex doll. An object of her ownhad to stand and stick out.

Tailors were slaving like dogs to stitch the next day’s craze. Repair shops were flooded by tired sewing machines. Everywhere in the city it was bigger tits, skimpier clothes, higher orgasmification and ‘who can stand the longest over the blustering utility grate without underwear’. The one thing on every girl’s mind was not what she could do or buy to be a good woman and a good bimbo, but just how bimbo could she be? Doing was a physical thing; actions like shopping and fucking. Being a bimbo was a thing of its own altogether. What it meant to every young woman was that she had arrived. For a woman in the new reality, achieving that bimbo being was all about surpassing orders and commands, taking anything she was told and going that extra step, or five, for the hawttest most bimboish style she could create.

And by the next day, the style and expectations would change. If you wanted to go that extra mile and be all the bimbo you could be, you had to keep up.

The day after that, it would change again.

The bimbos, made so susceptible and suggestible for the purposes of corporate gain, came to co-opt what they had been programmed to believe and turned that into something else; their own generation; their own movement; something all their own and un-owned. So easy were they to control and influence that anything one of them did spread like wildfire to every other, too fast for men or consumer society’s architects to comprehend or, most importantly, influence.

That gossiping gullibility and bandwagon mentality forged a kind of mental Internet, it was said, to which only the ladies had hook-ups.

Only bimbos could move at the bimbo’s chattering, blinding, so-screwy-it-was-genius speed. The gals were back in frills, thongs and in force, tearing up the bed sheets and the city streets in exclusive clubs, nearly turning their backs altogether on the blockbuster event of all-day shopping. Now it was into the mall and out in five minutes, if at all, then off to play dress-up and dress-off with all the other gals.

And when the bimbos did go into the shops, they went in to instruct formerly choice-robbing brand artists turned hapless know-nothings that what was in stock was so totally that morning. By noon most bimbos were into their second of third outfits, with sex in between each break, and with the fashion themes drifting each time they got dressed. The entire shopper-supplier dynamic was turned on its head. The superstores and brand names were no longer able to tell customers what was best for them or what they needed, and were instead being told they were no longer any good. So inadequate were the stores becoming that bimbo culture started to rely on swap meets and random acts of scissoring, giving birth to a sort of trial and error fashion movement in which clothes were mix-and-matched, torn apart, stitched back together and reused. Run out of panties? No problem, just stop wearing them. Why buy?

Suddenly, ‘Bimbo’ became unbuyable, nightclubs all over the city turned exclusively lesbian, and everywhere guys were left smoking out in the cold.

The night, as they said, was still young, and bimbo culture was restless. There was never too little time for something to morph into something else, and transmission of transformation in bimbo culture happened with the pace of fruit fly evolution.

So the cosmetics industry’s (no longer worthy of caps) image of female perfection and gussy glam was eclipsed by the unquenchable pace set by the shortest attention spans ever possessed by human beings, anywhere. Not long after that, bimbos attained the Barbie doll perfection set by the fashion mags. Then they surpassed it, setting and becoming the trend for hyper-feminized sexual caricature themselves, leaving market analysts and focus group co-ordinators running like spent, first-time marathon runners choking in the dust kicked up by their five-inch fuck-me heels.

Yet nobody saw it coming, nobody saw a flaw in the corporate agenda at all until it was already too late. Most of the involved media and corporate conspirators had thought reality altering technology foolproof, and had charged forth with the plan thinking they were invincible (except for Stan).

Many speculated that the corporations had become so bloated and fat that they collapsed under their own grandiosity. Others speculated that the corporation, driven so far along it’s path of endless striving for ubiquity, believed it was godlike and had no conceivable limit to it’s abilities and so was blind to its overextension.

Whatever the case, the commercial institution lost its access to tits, ass and hawt accessories – a market it had cornered for years – and handed it over on a silver platter to a generation they themselves created using the ideas and powers of their own marketing workshops. They were so surprised and dumbfounded that they couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Any work-around they contrived was immediately countered – albeit with blissful ignorance – by the swirling, mental tides of the budding, zygotic Bimbo Generation (worthy of caps).

In their ears the marketers heard the echoes of two dozen scientists and one bimbo, the eggheads chanting ‘we told you so’ endlessly, while in the background on the shifting cultural winds they could hear Brandi, who had stepped up to her podium at least one time after her speech to ask one last question...

“Hooz Stoopid Now?”**

THE END

*Cum Slut culture is a subculture of bimbo culture, and part of the new extreme direction that current Bimbo culture is taking. Where majority Bimbo culture gradually shifted over to draft lesbianism into the femininity, fashion, fetish, talk and walk of bimbo behaviour, Cum Sluts started to revel in their nastiness, extreme objectification, religious devotion to the male orgasm, gangbangs, marathon fuck-parties, near exclusive preference for heterosexual sex*** and swallowing. Also, different games of endurance abound in Cum Slut culture that differ from Bimbo culture. Cum Sluts don’t play “Who Can Stand the Longest Over the Blustering Utility Grate Without Underwear”, they play a game called “Walk Down the Busy Hallway and Fuck Every Man You Pass”, a game also called by the alternative “We’ll See You At the Other End in Three Days”.

** Stupidity is a loose term that still escapes definition. Most dictionaries include the proviso that stupidity is difficult to determine. By normal standards, unwritten social convention defines a smart person as one who knows and uses lots of facts, and a stupid person as one who does not. Others rate by IQ score. It is the author’s opinion that stupidity is a fluid term capable of many meanings. Intense programming, for example, can train any bimbo to be the perfect sexual champion while she remains relatively thoughtless in other facets. Additionally, Cum Sluts are the sexual savants of Bimbos, who themselves are already sexual Olympians. Recent scientific study has uncovered a correlation between intelligence scores and cultural association, however. Self described Cum Sluts average at an IQ of 62 (R=55-73), whereas women adhering to the practice of the cultural Bimbo majority average a score of 77(R=69-91). This provides evidence to contradict the oft-held perception that greater IQ translates into greater skill while also showing yet again that the more "stupid" you are the more men in your life.

*** Mere technicality. Sex is also a fluid definition, and Cum Sluts revere cocks to such an extent that any sexual interaction not involving a cock is not considered sex. Therefore, like the deceptive statistic, Cum Sluts are just rampant bisexuals only counting their hetero encounters. In reality, they go cocoa-bananas over any chance to fuck anything that moves, vibrates or is rigid.

+ Dialogue featured in this article courtesy of the National Archives of Fleckenschtien

Scrambled Eggs: A Twisted Romance

2008-03-02T20:36:13Z

Here is Scrambled Eggs. I never uploaded it to the EMCSA, or I may have taken it down in a fruitless effort to erase "mike z." from the internet. In any case, it hasn't been posted up for people to see since being written for the Febuary 2006 contest, until now. It's probably not the most technically sound writing I've ever done...probably far from it. It is an older story, so I can't say I remember how easy it was to read. The beginning, I remember, features a lot of abnormal word use. Trust me, though, please, the story gets better as you go along.

It's PORN, as usual. Not as though that fact will deter you, will it?

Scrambled Eggs

No Vacancy

Pink clouds blotted the sky. The sun was in a very melancholy height and sinking lower, or climbing, I didn’t know morning from night anymore. I had not been outside for a very long time; my eyes were unused to the taste of daylight. Across the street the ocean sparkled too brightly and widely. Between the waters and I was a highway wet with evapourating rain. Clouds of mist formed under the tracks of passing tires as cars—anonymous, windows tinted—drove back and forth from nowhere to an end out of sight and over the horizon.

The rest was flat sand, caked earth scorched by the sun sprawled in all other directions around this motel oasis. No vacancy blinked intermittently in the window. A broken pop machine by the main office served a free watering hole where hicks and lonesome travelers waited…and waited. They talked without meaning, jaws flapping politically, their boring conversations broken by intervals of the word ‘yep’, though they never confessed to it. The most frequent patrons were fumbly beer drinkers, without teeth, ugly and unthreatening.

They watched me standing on the side of the road, pink shirt-too-small over tits-too-big, and half a skirt blowing in a breeze. Their breaths came and passed with every sneak peak of baby-blue thong. “Her buns are delectable,” they’d say. They watched me standing there by the side of the road clutching my clutch with nervous hands and handlebar pigtail-ribbons fluttering in the wind. They watched me from behind with my backside turned to them, for the first time without being bent over the corner of an old musty mattress.

I’m still easy on the eyes, a perfect bimbo copy of doll perfection. I stood waiting for nothing, empty headed, just watching the sun, and un-remembering of whether it was sinking or falling. What time was it? The sun was too slow to tell. I masterfully disguised my tears. I was too eager to leave and be free but bound by familiarity to a comfortable state of carnal cuntrol. I understood the motel even if I hated it. Out here I understood nothing. I couldn't remember what freedom even was.

Poor oldme: Decommissioned.

They grew tired of the new me. I’m not the woman I used to be, too long cuntrolled and made to cum to others. I just stood quietly, used to being un-speaking unless spoken too, unaccustomed to prolonged standing unless allowed to un-kneel. It felt nice and new to feel my bum for once not compressed against a mattress; I felt the cold wind of freedom at my back.

I waited, still, unmoving with an empty head, trying to remember how it began, trying to know how it will end, only half remembering an existence punctuated with numerous, brief, hot moments of bliss. Three years working in a dirty motel room. I had nothing to say, nowhere to go, no one to do and no one to obey. The faint wailing of a two-cycle speed machine breached the horizon, a black crotch rocket in the fast lane. Yet before the sight had become apparently un-mirage I had habitually checked my clutch for the faint rumbling of my battery-powered companion. It took me a moment to remember that it was no longer a part of my life. Silicon and collagen were my few remaining mementos, porcelain perfection and ageless beauty forever gifted to me, along with a repetoire of very special skills.

Absent anger seemed impossible, but it was present. I was calm, collected, and unsure all in one moment of ardent thoughtlessness. Restless inactivity pulling me in every direction at once. The two-cycle hog slowed down to a halt and parked in front of me. The man in the helmet and black glasses offered me a strange look, something un-asking and un-lecherous and un-selfish; something I was unused to. It was something knowing and empathetic, something un-sexual for sure. I knew the sexual look; one never begged for my former services without that look—and no one in all my time had really ever asked to have me. I came on demand. The man came to me with a hand outstretched in welcome gesture. I touched his hand and discovered the unconditional bond of lost souls.

He proposed to me a solution to my obviously oblivious mental amorphousness. It was the first time I had catered to an un-order in three years. Only the feeling of mounting that bike and putting my legs to either side felt right, and for the first time felt right in an acutely aware-ly strange and confusing way. Strange in that it was out of place for one, to spread myself and ride on the back of a motorbike instead of a man, with a man who offered me a jacket instead of a jack-it jacket, a jacket to wrap around my arms instead of his self proclaimed godliness. He swept me away, not at five inches per second but at fifty miles an hour, not powered by thrusting strokes with sexual oil but on piston strokes with motor oil.

I still had to say goodbye, still tried to define the motel ungodliness that I was leaving. At first I hated the mattress, then I was okay with it, then I came to depend on it to keep from falling through to the ground. My two feet were wobbly, my mind wary, my box a little watery against the rumbling bike seat. For once the wetness was all my own and not to share, on the back of the bike and not a man, with a proper jacket protecting my arms from the wind, my mind clear of will, command and everything in between heaven and all hell. Empty, unsure, afraid and unknowing, in a nice un-angering way…in ways enough at least to smile over the shoulder of the lost soul driver for this lost soul.

I understood him, myself too, and what we were to do and where I was to go. I pretended to fly in my seat, this time my outstretched arms un-attached to the bedposts; unusually un-alarmingly unfamiliar.

I travelled with an empty head. I left it all behind me, this road soldier bike man turning my back on the familiar with a familiar presence and sense of honed direction.

I was empty, for once, absent of any push or pull or thrust or what,so,ever. I’m not who I used to be; I don’t have to be what I am. I’m empty-headed but with No Vacancy blinking in the back of my head. I just empty headed, untroubled. I’m back upstairs, unassumingly undirected.

Teary speed streaks stretch from my eyes to my ears, drying in the wind without accident, unplanned but meant to be, this man, with me. Follow the hard will of hard concrete road. Let it direct…find it.

You’re My Breakfast Plate And I’m Your Scrambled Eggs

I was sad to admit that I did consider the fate of the un-lively to be desirable, shortly after sorting out my scrambled eggs. I still have tadpole thoughts, swirling disorientation and bursts of delirium, but I have at least retaken command over my use of language, somewhat. I have been happy since leaving the motel, more or less, as happy as I can be I guess. The blinding un-sadness of wind-rash after a long bike ride was still with me. The taste of fresh un-stale un-tobaccoed air was on my lips.

No more tobacco taste.

Its unfamiliarity was uncomfortable, even if I only longed for the acrid smell because it was reminding of my now-ending life chapter and the limitless un-knowables that I was faced with.

This drifting, hitchhiking, de-commissioned bimbo has some life to swim through yet. She only doesn’t know which way the tide is drifting.

I watched Trevor parking his bike outside the diner, watched him from behind the diner’s front window unmount his bike and step onto the pavement with those rough-condition hiking boots. His dirty jeans went with his overall sense of style; well traveled and un-caged.

I’d already taken a booth and was absorbing the stares of half a dozen patrons. Their eyes humped my jutting breasts then scrolled up to my dolled face and plumped lips. I could almost feel those eyes leaving footprints on my skin.

Trevor had insisted, after picking me up from the side of the road, that I get some food. In fashion, I hoped these diner-goers were the kind with flicker attention spans who would look once and let me feed in peace.

My angel bike-man was using a rag to wipe my wetness off the back of his bike. The roads out this far were by no means smooth, contrary to the apparent flatness of the scorched salt flats that surrounded us. There was a part of me that was embarrassed by this, but there was a strong remnant of my programming still left over from class three years ago, when each girl selected and trained was made to sit in unison upon phallused chairs, the thoughts of which just added to my current feedback-wetness. I am myself again, 'no vacancy' blinking in my brain, but my modesty is not the same as it once was. That module had been meticulously removed.

Yet for the time being, by all appearances, Trevor tolerated me. As he wiped down the bike seat his face was neither sad nor angry, but rather ‘fact of life’.

Trevor finished cleaning his bike seat and then shoved the rag into his leather jacket. He stepped up to the walkway from the parking spaces and made his way into the diner, to my side, or front rather. He sat across from me at the booth I had chosen, tossing his black helmet on the seat as he sat. He didn’t talk, and we sat in the comfort of silence. I’m used to wordless encounters and I’ve swapped more fluids than words in the last three years. It felt unusual to look, though, to sit face to face instead of bent over face to mattress. He leaned back into his seat and waited for something to escape my lips, may it be a word or a sigh.

I was the un-speaking kind of girl, though.

He smiled at this un-speaking girl and offered her a meal by handing me a menu.

He was kind enough to order me a shake, which I appreciated as it wouldn’t have felt right for me to state my own wishes; though I had some; though I didn’t have any words. I’m too used to being told what to do. I need that position; it’s as good a place as any. It’s stable. He bought me a strawberry shake because I enjoy the sugary taste and the colour pink. It fits my personality. It’s the colour of so many nice things, innocent and suggestive. It’s my favourite colour, even if my favourite colour was written for me by a young twenty something mind-writer with a silly mind and thirsty libido.

Those memories of training were the only ones I had left that meant a damn to me, since the rest after that was routine and passionless fucking. Training felt like my university glory days, full of fun and lots of nubile young girls, so I had decided to hold onto them. The rest I could just as easily forget, save for my angel bike man; short-term memory sparkled vividly. I learned everything I re-know today from those lessons; how to dress, how to move… who was boss. But nothing prepared me for freedom; it felt like they had just dumped me off the side of a turkey truck.

Life before university was hanging around, a few tadpoles marked with my old name still swam through my murky headwaters, but not in a way that I could see beyond just knowing they were there. My old life was an invisible pair of footsteps that followed but were still a couple paces behind. Occasionally I could look back at it for reference, but never have it back; too far out of reach.

I love milkshakes because I can suck them through a straw; I don’t eat solid food anymore. I sat with Trevor looking every bit like a young childish girl who grew up way too fast for her too-tight pink v-neck, wrapping fat lips around a straw and sucking on it with her feet kicking against the seat and her hands clasped politely in her lap. Some people were still staring at me from their seats, namely one man in the booth behind Trevor, whom I swear was in danger of falling into my cleavage and never being seen again. His food was going cold.

Trevor’s soup, which he ordered because he’s the man, was quite hot. One sip was enough to make him hiss in recoil, so he started then with the smoked meat sandwich. I was careful not to suck to fast on my straw as I watched him eat, so as to avoid freezing my brain. My brain had been frozen for quite long enough, thanks. It was still a bit scrambled.

That’s when it happened.

“I figured you could use some food.” he said, as the waitress in her pink and turquoise mock-fifties-smock set down a breakfast platter.

Bacon, pancakes, sausage…eggs.

Scrambled eggs.

I hate eggs.

I hate the way they had to be cracked open to pour the yolk out. It reminded me too much of the training I had been put through, those memories I was looking back at with an ambivalent eye. I was still feeling the residual dildo tingle piggy-backing its way up my back, yet I was haunted by the memories of having my mind split open and my thoughts poured out, the yolk of my identity then being stirred and cooked to order. Eggs reminded me too much of the taste of something I craved, something I was inwardly asserting that I didn’t need or love, anymore. I am a bad liar. It’s all too confusing, and the eggs on my breakfast plate threaten to bring all that scrambling back into focus.

I don’t like feeling confused, though it’s hard not to be that way. Like these eggs in front of me, I'm scrambled. I feel like I’m laid like these eggs on a breakfast plate, waiting for someone to just eat me up and make use of me. Too many pushes and pulls; my tadpole thoughts swim more furiously, fishtail and waver more than ever as I sink back into those memories, ideas, and my seat.

Trevor sees my polished black-lashed eyes going wide, not with anticipation or appetite the way they did for all the phallic sights I saw in the last three years, but with un-comfort. Like an angel swooping down from heaven he pulled the plate away and slid it from my side of the table to his, taking it from the tabletop and setting it on the booth seat beside him where it couldn’t be seen.

He wasn’t sure of what troubled me, for I saw his eyebrows cocking with confusion, not sure of what I'm unhappy about but knowing what to do and how to help, all the same. I looked at him, unaccustomed to looking eye to eye but knowing powerfully that in a small instant I'd communicated more feeling to him than I had to a thousand motel John’s through the most physical connection two bodies can make.

We recovered quickly. I smiled without parting my lips, my coy expression still inescapably tinged with the erotic gesturing my training wouldn’t let me forget.

Trevor left me to my strawberry shake and sat back in his seat, leaned into the corner against the window-glass and closed his eyes while digesting that food in his belly. His cutely tussled hair was flattened and squashed against the window and the light-of-the-low-sun covered half his face in twilight. It’s hard for me to realize that I’m still on my first day of freedom, that as the sun rises this morning I can do what I want, mostly; what I don’t choose are just twitches now, habits rather than orders. Something internally involuntary.

There was a lazy smile on Trevor’s lips, the kind similar to the smiles I’d seen on so many motel johns after sating their appetites-of-another-kind. I recognized that kind of satisfaction very well, having given it so many times over and over in one or two or three ways at once.

It was strange this time.

This time I had not put out; I had not made Trevor as happy as he was now. I hadn’t done a thing or taken off any clothes.

I let the straw from my strawberry shake slip from my lips, my mouth going loose with dreadful realization, a wordless un-expressible feeling that the floor was dropping out from under me and that I was becoming useless; disposable in the way one throws a girl out of her motel job because she’s ‘obsolete’. Am I not supposed to make people happy like that? Am I being replaced as well as thrown off the turkey truck?

All this was similar to my need to be taken care of and used. I needed to be used for pleasure; it’s a useful thing for a bimbo to do; ‘former bimbo’, I guess.

This feeling of losing was mixed with something alien to me, and it took a minute to remember just how long it had been since I felt this thing that went way beyond trying to hold on to my role.

Feeling.

Connection.

Not the kind of connection I’d been taught to understand; insert knob A into slot B; it was a connection of feeling, an invisible string drawn between our noses that held us together. On that string my troubles dried like washed laundry for both of us to see, understand, and wear or share. There he was leaned back in his chair, the way I was used to seeing men sit before an enjoyable job. I pried my clawing fingers, attached to hands that were looking for solid support, from the table edge and slid my bum off the seat, disappearing under the table.

My lips tingled with habit, growing moist with the anticipation of wrapping around something more delicious than a straw. The ground was coming back to me now, the pit in my stomach lessened by kneeling and wedging myself between his parted thighs. I knew this routine well, it was my forte, and it was an easy and familiar place to be, under the table. I delicately unzipped the fly on his pants, parted the button flaps and blew lightly into the flap of his boxers. I was running on automatic now, wet and excited, on erotic autopilot with flawless precision, coaxing him to stand at attention through the flap in his underwear with expert auto-slut lips.

Just like training had taught me.

Visions of class time practice filled my head. Sometimes we had to do this for hours on end to get it right, to drill the art of blowjob so deeply into habit that the bolts would never come loose.

He jerked awake and moaned. I felt him shift and then find my head in his lap. I fought with him under the table, wedging myself between his legs so that he couldn’t close them, held his hands against the back of his seat so that he couldn’t get away. I had the better position, being under the table and he being in the open not wanting to make a scene. I had to do this for him, I needed it…I loved him.

As much as I remember knowing such a thing, anyway. I have done this for someone I loved, before.

With Trevor held to the seat I dropped my mouth over his cock, kissing its tip and sliding over its head, sucking and squeezing my cheeks for the tightest fit; as I’ve been trained to do. My mouth is very special to me; it’s not just for milkshakes. Way back in training they had it fixed, took out all my teeth and gums and replaced them with a tight tube-trap of sensitive lining, making it into a nice tight cock-canal. When Trevor’s pulsing rod slid up into my cock-socket I felt him filling my pussy too, each stroke and thrust repeating itself in two holes of my body at once as per wrote behaviour, as I was trained to feel.

After a few methodical lip-strokes against his shaft Trevor settled down and let me finish. He was never fully relaxed, but resigned to the sensations and my strength in keeping his hands back against the seat. I needed this; I think he understood that in a strange way as much as he consciously disagreed, as though a message had pre-travelled the line strung between us. I was skilled at this and it gave me some solid ground on which to stand, to feel good about myself. I can honestly claim this was the most meaningful blowjob I ever gave, knowing that not only was there a hint of wanting to give pleasure, but also in trying to get.

I wasn’t trained for that.

For a moment as I blew him, the world seemed a little less like some machine putting me through the motions and more like a playground on which I chose what slide to ride.

I heard him holding his breath and clutching at the seat, and then he let out a sigh strong enough to vent the tectonic energy of the Earth. Hot geyser spray spewed into my mouth and jetted into my throat. I sucked in and massaged him, milked him, the clutching grip of my lips and mouth-socket enticing a few extra hot squirts from his loins. I started feeling a little less nervous, not as shaky, a bit less like a junkie withdrawing from her fix. There was a moment of silent attachment between us that went beyond the connection of my mouth to his cock; an irony in what was perhaps the least romantic of all sexual acts. I had put myself in a very vulnerable position, showed him how comfortable it was for me to be the free but trained cock-sucking bimbo I am, that I would always be in many ways the way they made me forever.

All this felt good and bad at the same time, this shocking act of mine having rocked my mood-pendulum.

In time I would come to rest in the centre and sort all this out.

I released him with a slurp, feeling a bit guilty, feeling ashamed and as though someone had scraped scissors across my arms. I wondered if, when I emerged from under the table, he’d accept me for what I was or think of me as a freak; half free but half run by wrote behaviour. I wondered if he’d accept the reason to why I never talked or smiled open-mouth.

A pendulous mood struck me hard; I meekly emerged from under the table and slid up into my seat, eyes down. The shameful thrill of sucking someone off had not survived my release from patriarchal cuntrol. I wasn’t feeling it this time. This time, the guilt afterglow was real, the shame slicing sharply, and was not the kind that could make me cum on the spot and masturbate in public places.

My nipples remembered; aroused, embarrassed, erect pulsing ju-jubes.

I resisted the temptation to fall to my knees, to act small and submissive. I fought that habit, for the first time, and faced him eye to eye instead of offering him my flesh. Part of this, I think, was due to the table being in the way, though also my angel bike man was no sleazy john with a proposition.

His normally cute tussled appearance made it seem as though he’d just returned from a full on sexual encounter, but his expression was one of puzzled astonishment, as if he’d participated but just wasn’t quite sure if it had all really happened.

Perhaps he was un-speaking like me; perhaps he was unable to think; perhaps this was too crazy to process; perhaps my tadpole thoughts were swimming to many circles too fast… STOP!

I’d just sucked him off in a diner while he was sleepily digesting his meal, waiting for me to finish my milkshake, and people were still staring at us.

Fairly simple.

Their eyes grated my skin, not in the kind way, not in the way that justified my auto-slut nature, but the kind that scorned.

I looked down at the table where my drink stood, felt wanting to impale myself on the straw, bury my face in the milkshake and never pull it out. I’d drown in pink sweetness, which would make a nice end to an inconclusive chapter. What was this place; an end or a beginning? I wished for it to end, or to just get on with my future and quit making me squirm with un-conclusion. I wanted to be dumb again. I wished for a way to fry my brain so that I’d tolerate confusion and live there forever in blissy-dumbness, forever fucking, never caring or thinking and never ashamed.

Trevor, still astonished, still slack-jawed and speechless, discreetly zipped up his pants, a sound that echoed through the silent diner. He slid out of the booth and stood up, knocking my scrambled eggs all over the floor and shattering the plate that held them together. He walked away slowly and awkwardly. I groaned on the inside, wanted to curl up and die or fall on my knees and just become one of the un-lively. Each step of his away from me was a slice through my skin and a tear in my boppy-heart. The refreshed and happy summer bimbo eyes I was used to sporting grew teary again, and this time no wind rash was to blame.

The cashier refused him when he went up to the diner counter to hand in his tender. Dejected, he walked away from her with the money still in hand, bills slipping from his loose fingers and falling on the floor. His grip seemed lost.

But he walked back to the booth. His astonishment faded and his eyes focused on me very loosely, rather sensitive in reflection…

“I know you need more than a meal…but first…we’re going to have to work on that thing you do…okay?”

He picked his helmet up from his seat, and then strapped it on to my head. The spirited fresh-sweater-from-the-drier warmth of his voice displayed character, determination without being disciplinary, acceptance without condition…a lot of thought.

“Coming?”

I stood up.

The Deconstruction Of Desire

I’m a little less scrambled these days; thinking isn’t so confusing or convoluted. I’ve been riding the back of Trevor’s bike for half a week and we just seem to ride for hours through the desert, going nowhere in particular. The wind is cool and wonderfully abrasive in the way only rushing air can be; something different from the stuffy air of the motel that was far away now. The car behind me was getting a sweet peak at my license to thrill; the hem of my skirt took flight behind me, a sheer pink vapour trail caught in the air stream. I’ve thought about getting new clothes as these are getting dirty, but between the two of us there is no tender, only warmth and the beating of his heart through his back. I hold him tightly at ninety miles an hour.

Trevor keeps me around and tolerates me, I think, because he doesn’t like the wind at his back. He enjoys the way I cling to him on his rumbling motorbike, my arms around his waist, my head on his shoulder blade and the flames of my hair trailing behind us. The guttural growling of the bike’s engine rose though my seat and put me at pleasant ease; just enough tingling of sex to give me a modicum of kicks.

At the motel, they had always made sure that I had only one thing to feel, one kind of skirt to wear, one place to sleep, one job to do, and one drink to drink. Everything changes out here in the world. It’s very fast. I remember seeing a hydrogen car when I was a little girl, but now they hum along and zip by us on the freeway in droves; sleek spaceships tearing up the road on wheelz.

We sleep in the desert just off the highway at night, around a campfire to blind prowling snakes. Trevor would eat beans from a pot over the fire and toss me dinner shakes that he stole because he hasn't any money. He lives from the motorbike-bag slung over the back wheel of his road rocket; I live out of my clutch, which leaves me with gloss and make-up. I can't eat or sleep on gloss and make-up. Trevor provides me with a sleeping bag of my own and sleeps beside me, not on me. He rests in his own bed-bag; he has two. I listen to him play music at night, guiding the strings of his guitar through an aimless melody, content enough to play on and on for his one-woman audience. When he plays his eyes varnish and stare through reality at either the past or the starry sky.

There were times when I was very sad, when I considered the fate of the un-lively in an all too scary way, and wanted to put a knife into one of my boobs to pop that big gel-bag and spill poison in my blood. I rested on that teeter-totter for some time, though I knew inside that Trevor sat on the other end. Sometimes I forget that, and in those times he takes to reminding me of his balance in subtle ways.

Trevor told me once, when I was crying and lonely and feeling obsolete, that “You should go ahead and be done with that feeling and drown in the pink colours of the sky”. I thought he was joking, or insulting me, which I didn’t mind at the time as I was used to that sort of treatment. An insulting tone tends to fly right by me; it seems so commonplace.

I later realized that he was doing neither of those things. When I looked into the sonoran sky for the first time and lent it my thoughts, I wound up cooking my brain in beauty.

Still, as much as distractions are worth…

I have noticed some very important things about him…some things that I feel are important, at least.

I don’t ask him about them, though I could. I could write my question on a white or blue piece of paper and send it to him like a note. I don’t know if he’d like me to ask; I am not in the habit of asking questions of men; I was trained to answer to them.

Then again…

Trevor asks nothing of me, nothing that I wouldn’t love to do. He asks me to ride with him through the Arizona desert and keep an eye out for the clouds catching the pinky-colours of the sun’s bedtime. He says that I can go as far with him as I want, as long as I sit against his back while we travel the un-rolled carpet highway and chase the horizon.

But I still notice things. The first time Trevor played for me on his guitar, it was dusty and far out of tune. It was as though it had not been played in a long time. The dreamy smile he wore as he played into the night would be etched into his face.

He has an extra sleeping bag.

He loves the feel of a woman at his back, on the back of his bike as we ride western-style into the distance.

Trevor’s bike isn’t just big enough for the both of us. It does, and always had, two seats.

I Dream Of The Monkey Bars

Professor had ordered… ”No panties today.”

I clacked up the concrete path to the glassy classroom building in my platform shoes, with the cool spring air blowing between my thighs and rubbing my soft spot. The mild climate was rather agreeable.

Sporty was trotting up to the door ahead of me, wearing a scant micro-mini with her white tank top, which was unusual for her. She was normally a sweat pants kind of gal, the kind of girl they trained on a treadmill and dressed in undershirts and pyjama bottoms that said 'bedtime'…the kind of girl with a tight streamlined body and tight-tiny ass that wiggled when she walked. That ass was half hanging out of her skirt and I could see glimmerings of her wet need peaking back at me from between her swinging legs.

Her skin was painted in luxurious flesh tones, a peachy-porcelain finish fit for a toy doll. She opened the door and stepped to the side, facing me with a wide white-toothed smile. Scanning down I could see her hairless cunt dribbling openly below the hem of her skirt, her doctored clit poking out from her fixed folds, looking ever so like a pink, lubed, pointed end of an egg. So huge… so aroused.

It was clear she’d been to the doctors again; they’d scaled her down dramatically. Her formerly bulging dee-cups were gone now, reduced, replaced with smaller enhanced tits capped by bee-sting nipples too dark to conceal behind white. They muscled their way through her shirt, no doubt responding to the commanding reverberations of her clit. Thinking about that made me so…

Her new boobs were so high and perky, pointy almost without a hint of sag. They were motionless when she moved, no jiggle or shake to be seen; so hard and fake.

And the eyes… Asianized.

“Today’s, like, my last day ya know?” she chirped.

I hadn’t known, though I knew that Sporty had been here longer than anyone else and was just about due. There were some very specific rules to be followed where she was going. She was destined to be the fit hard working type of gal. Me? …Class had shown me that I was better suited for the soft and voluptuous kind of curves, the fuckable kind that betrayed any other use. Since cumming to school though, I hadn’t yet earned my BA, not yet. Soon enough…

I filed into the auditorium after Sporty. All the other girls were dressed for sex; tight latex, swollen nipples stabbing through tube tops, and too-short skirts were the norm. I’d had an overpowering urge this morning to wear something shrimpy; it looked as though I hadn’t been alone. We all filed in, one by one, as per the rules; a hundred young twenty-somethings in ten rows of ten, lining up in front of our seats and waiting for the order to sit.

We stood obediently facing the front of the lecture theatre, our instructor standing at the bottom below a large theatre screen imbedded into the wall.

Professor paced across the floor, examining the front row with a grey-bearded smile; the girls in front of him running the gamut from childishly doll-like to top-heavy slut. The rest of us, with eyes forward, holding hands with the girls beside us, all waited for instruction, showing infinite patience as he smiled at the sights before him with approval. An unfamiliar hum sounded from the chair behind me.

“Sit down.” he said, his voice echoing only once.

All of us, united in choreography, bent at the knees to sit back in our chairs. We gasped collectively as the unexpected prodding of a hard humming phalluses pressed into our pleasure spots from below and took command of our bodies. I shifted my hips thoughtlessly, compelled to acquiesce to the seat’s hard tool, aligned the tip of that vibrating dong with the parting of my blushing folds and let myself down on it, slowly. The collective moans and cries of sex, some of it from my own mouth, echoed in the rafters, the sexual choir of wailing women a soundtrack for the hundred-fold image of faces contorted happily by carnal intrusion.

“I trust this helps you all understand what being a woman is all about.” Professor chuckled.

I was on the end of the seventh row, Sporty beside me gripping my hand tightly and I returning the favour. The two of us gave birth to wet orgasms, fountains of lust gushing out from around our piercing cunt-filling vibrators and soaking our seats, silencing our voices and affirming the worth of our training; the rest of the class fell quiet in suit. The rich awareness of pussies tightly clutching vibrators became collective perception, transmitted by clenching fingers across our joined hands… collective obedience. The response to the silencing trigger was quick. We moaned inwardly.

When I reached the hilt of my phallus, the slippery sounds of wet penetration and relentless vibration chased the world away. There was nothing now, nothing but the screen before me in the lecture hall above Professor’s head.

The screen came on, a blue formless background showed, and there was nothing.

The lights went off, one row at a time, and on the screen in the darkness, there was something.

Flickering.

Instant obedience; we all faced forward. The speakers chimed. We watched… we listened… we obeyed.

Within that flicker I watched images play and tumble. Within that chiming I sensed brilliant words whispering to me… shaping me with the care of a parent’s hands… speaking firmly…inside my head. No need for ears, what is true comes from inside. I embraced truth.

I felt relaxed, cool, collected… wrapped in the arms of the flicker… inattentively vigilant…unfocusedly concentrated… listening to everything… embracing the eternal vastness of those sights and sounds… lost in the world-consuming depth of thoughtless peace… every throb of light resonating in my bones, dropping drips of wonderment on my brain… drops that dripped down… trickled down my spine and condensed… down there… so wetly… entertaining… little droplets of lust… lubing the wonderful hardness filling my soul… my hole…

The moon blanketed the desert with a shimmer. I jerked.

I bat my eyelids and shook little droplets of dew from my lashes. The desert was dark and calm, eerily blue in the moonlight. The warmth of the pink twilight had faded, and only the snake-blinding glow of burning embers brought orangey brightness to this inspiring midnight. Our campfire had been fizzling for some time, bubbling quietly, it’s soft glow depending on the way of the breeze. The desert night was stunning, one of the more beautiful sights I’ve seen since starting on the road with Trevor, going nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.

I’d taken to sleeping with him now, forgoing the privilege of my own bed for a bed by his naked side; a choice I had made during our roadside rest stops when his guitar had kept him otherwise distracted. I would listen to his music more quietly than one would assume, even for a voiceless girl. I would be still, afraid to move for fear that a broken twig or scuffle in the sand would interrupt those wonderful notes. I tolerated only the drip-drip-dripping of my arousal, my engorged clit throbbing along with his music, my eyes watching his hands and his fingers… strumming… plucking… working so precisely and delicately, compelling the strings of his instrument to call out melodiously into the night.

Sound sex.

I had written my demand on a piece of paper for him, not too long ago… only a few days. I had waited for almost a week of bumming passage on his bike before proposing; though in retrospect that time was too long and too stressful to bear at times. But I was with him now, and he slept against my back with his arm over me, the two of us turned on our sides. We shared a pillow, so that I could put one between my knees, as my hips were so wide, made motherly by doctors over three years ago to better contrast my waist. My cartoonish, animéd body was more suited to fulfilling ‘bigger is better’ fantasies than sleeping on its side. Trevor didn’t seem to mind that; I think he just enjoyed the fact that I was there.

And… as much as my body was ill-suited… I wanted to lie on my side, the way everyone else slept, as it was very unlike the way they recharged me each afternoon back at the motel. That place was hundreds of miles away now. Good. I wanted to lie on my side… I wanted to. It was my right to lie quietly and sleep.

Sleeping with Trevor was unlike sleeping with any other man. His arm was laying over my chest, his wrist and his palm draped over the curve of one of my breasts, but his fingers were holding me, not groping. His arm and his mind were unconcerned with lust, only with closeness, his touching of my breasts only because they were there, my comfort with it because that’s how we were… open.

Only tonight, as I awoke from my dream, I was in the mood for something more; memories of flickering instruction still fluttered in my mind and still haunted my eyes. I could feel the hot moistness of my pussy; feel my engorged clit parting my folds and wetly pushing itself out of my strangling labia, making me hot and flustered.

Memories and dreams of training were as potent as the real thing; my body still responded automatically to the repeating messages bolted securely into my mind. The sleeping bag began to heat up, my body an infrared flare on an otherwise cold night. I resisted the urge to breathe and sigh; I tried to stay quiet, tried to stay focused… I took my hand from my hip and let it wander over my belly, pushed with my elbow and extended my hand down towards…

I met fingers along the way.

A hand cupped me from behind and a fingertip was pushed partly inside of me; shallow, just a tease. I felt him on my folds, rubbing and spreading my wetness around, the light touch of a musician’s fingers on my already lubed clit, caressing my egg-sized wonder-button with barely-there polishing strokes.

“You’re sweating.” Trevor murmured, half-awake into the back of my neck. He nuzzled his face into my nape and kissed me, his fingers dancing laps around the flowering lips of my slit in warm-up.

I loved it like play, just a tease of things to come. Ever trusting; each careful stroke of his fingers against my vagina was a slap in the face of every john who had used me. This training works for me now. I found the warm weakness, the justified weakness - the winning kind - to be happy with what I was and what I will always be. I stopped trying to push down the brake and instead grabbed the wheel. Trevor rubbed his finger down the middle… he plucked little droplets of lust with his fingers and drew them out from inside of me… I sang.

THE END

Meghan's Story

2008-02-26T23:39:13Z

This is my most recent completion, a monolithic tale worthy of its own soundtrack. Author's note: Fuck you, reality.

P.S.: It's PORN.

Meghan's Story (...and she's sticking to it!)

The spa bathtub was the flagship of Meghan's bathroom. It gleamed with gold-plated fixtures, featured an extendable hose-faucet, adjustable jets the size of anti-tank guns, a complete set of bath pillows, built-in wine rack, ergonomic design, remote control and gave off every impression that the person who had purchased it intended to spend a lot of their free time finding Nirvana. In luxury.

Meghan, having lined the nearby counter with butterscotch candles, stepped into the bathtub and slid quietly under the water, surfacing moments later to wipe the bubbles from her face. To enhance the spa-like illusion of her bath she favoured a bottle of red South Australian wine, her books and her fingers. Meghan's fingers were her edge over the world. Those thumbs could work wonders.

It was barely twilight as she settled into the tub and lay her head on the bath cushion, and though she had drawn the curtains to block out the sun she could hear the wind kicking leaves and pebbles at her bathroom window. Real life, ever persistent, hovered around the edge of her bubble, waiting with single-minded focus for the moment to strike. It would have to wait a long time, for Meghan was paying little attention to anything but herself and her book.

She was entitled to her self-centredness, for on this very day Meghan had reached a new benchmark of personal development at the ripe age of twenty. She had finally done something which before she had only talked about, had only pretended to know about, had been asked about but could never knowledgeably describe. But she had now tasted it and could say, proudly, that she had loved the experience. Meghan had become a published writer.

The book into which she had been published was not yet out, but she and the other authors had received some early copies. She reached over to a small nightstand beside the tub and picked up the book, which was about as thick and heavy as a brick, something that for Meghan was a source of pride. The table itself was unremarkable, its job at any given time consisted of either holding Meghan's wine or ringing alarm bells in the brains of the hapless guests who at times made use of her toilet. She had decorated the table with two items: a small plastic bird tipping its beak up and down into a glass of water, and an inert replica of a toaster, indistinguishable from the real thing, hovering on the edge of the table like a lemming looking down at the sea.

The brick-or 'Strange Encounters', according to the cover page-was a science fiction themed anthology of erotic stories, most of them involving human-alien sex. All of the authors were similar in many respects, but most importantly they all shared three predominant characteristics. They were female, as the book was a platform on which to showcase female talent in a genre that could use a more feminine touch. They were all youths, aged between eighteen and twenty-five years, to show that, yes, young people could write maturely. And they were all considered sex-workers-sex therapist assistants, educated strippers, porn stars, sexual education teachers, and in one case a PhD. carrying escort who lived a double life as a hit woman. Meghan, to be specific, was a circulation assistant at a small library for amateur erotic science fiction. Strange Encounters had suited her perfectly. The story she had written seemed to have come to her out of nowhere, as if beamed into her brain from the heavens; she had titled it Eternal Heaven, and named the aliens the Tentacle Creatures of Caan. They were hyper-intelligent, lascivious creatures who had become enthralled by the acrobatic and orifical capacities of one particular woman named Barbie Petronemcova, a disappeared porn star whom they had learned of through Earth's seedy late night satellite channels.

This was Meghan's first crack at being famous, which to her meant being praised by more than just her immediate friends. She wanted to be known as the woman who had written that story about the voraciously sexual Tentacle Creatures of Caan, a story which had been inspired by illustrations depicting women having sex with the devil, drawn during the time when the Catholic church had been working on the killing of those sluttish witches in industrial quantities. She had also been inspired by a Bratz commercial, where when it had suddenly dawned at her that the dolls sold to young girls reminded her of the dollish girls in tentacle anime, and that there really ought to be a thicker line between the two.

With proud anticipation she opened the book to the first page, on which the foreword-detailing the purpose of the book and describing the magnanimity and honest work ethic of the authors-was printed. And so, at six in the evening, when many women Meghan's age were leaving their classes and heading out to the bars, Meghan retreated into herself with a book and a glass of fine red wine, an activity that was only slightly more strenuous than sleeping. She would not have it any other way. Meghan was the philosophical type, and according to one of her story characters-Cpt. Bliss-there was only one certain answer for any question requiring a good deal of thought. "I'll sleep on it."

The irony was that Cpt. Bliss was shortly thereafter captured by the intergalactic Tentacle Creatures on Caan and, after being duplicated about three million times, was turned into unit 001 of the Barbie Bliss Life-size Sex Doll Product Line. With lip gloss for both of you!! So in the end it turned out that Cpt. Bliss' life long dream of becoming a philosopher and being paid to "sleep on things"-which was in fact Meghan's dream, stories being the peculiar and insightful windows into their authors that they are-did in fact come true in the end. Sort of, minus the philosophy part.

In any case, there was method to Meghan's laziness. Her plans for the night-in celebration of her authorhood-would demand quite a lot of energy yet never require Meghan to leave her bed. Indeed, as she expected, she was going to be spending the night handcuffed to the bedpost, devoid of the privilege of non-erotic clothing-which didn't sound bad at all, when she thought about it. This would all start about the time Suzanne came home, which could be anywhere between six and seven-thirty. A good soak in some scented soaps with a glass of fine wine had seemed like a prudent way to soften herself up before the main event. Due to the looming spectre of a sexual marathon, however, she found the book impossible to read beyond the first page since her thoughts kept drifting from the bathroom to the bedroom, lured by the simple, natural urges of sex forming so clearly in her mind, whereas the erudite, intellectual thoughts stimulated by reading required her concerted effort-something she was entirely unwilling to provide so long as she was soaking in hot soapy water, butterscotch candles and booze.

A squiggling, zig-zagging, nagging itch of sexual tension trickled down the insides of her thighs. Like ghostly fingers they walked, feathering her skin with their light touches, towards each other-towards Meghan's very middle. Closer they came and when they met, as so many things could between a woman's legs, they joined fingers and began to probe softly at her folds, teasing and spreading and doing all sorts of fun things.

There were of course no hands to speak of, but Meghan's imagination had grown wild and horny and invented those sensations. Quite a talent, in her case. Sensing that there was action going on down below, one of her hands felt the competitive urge. This is where Meghan often ran into problems: trying to read, drink her wine and masturbate-the Hole Trinity as she called it-was quite a challenge without her girlfriend. She slipped her fingers inside herself just Suzanne sprung to mind, and the thought served to punctuate the penetration divinely.

There was a knocking on the bathroom door and it opened, the visitor not waiting to be welcomed inside. A tall brunette with dark eyes, black-rimmed glasses and a blue lady's suit knelt down beside the tub wherein Meghan was sitting cutely in bubbles up to her breasts, her blue hair tied in a ponytail, bangs matted to her temples and cheeks, a set of neon yellow goggles strapped to her forehead. She had a mad look about her.

Meghan had at that same time been holding 'Strange Encounters' just above the water, but even the pride and accomplishment she felt there could not draw her attention away from the woman she loved. She forgot about the book and it slipped from her hand, hitting the water like a brick, splashing the both of them and catapulting soap bubbles onto Suzanne's cheek.

"Oh shit!" Meghan burst, her hand darting towards the book. She snatched it up, sans jacket, as within seconds it had slipped off and was turning among the gyres of the bathwater.

"Shit shit shit." she muttered. Suzanne took the book from her hand and opened it, hanging it upside down, allowing the excess water to drip from the corners of the pages. There were far too many pages to dry, however, and it looked as though the book would not be salvaged without several hours effort and a blow dryer. Meghan decided, sipping her wine, that she was not up to that.

"I'll by you a new book." Suzanne said, placing the wet brick beside the toaster on the night stand next to the tub. Meghan looked sourly at it and frowned. "I'm sure they'll send you a new copy."

"You're probably right." Meghan said, drowning her sorrows with a deep sip-neh, a big gulp-of wine. She placed the empty glass on the night stand, next to the toaster. Suzanne looked queerly at the toaster, then quickly looked away.

"I have something for you." Suzanne said. "It should brighten your day."

"What is it?" Meghan asked, her voice inflected in the way that revealed Suzanne to be her 'Mommy', her 'Master'. It was that sort of coy, childish tone of someone who, in the presence of someone they trust, becomes that someone's personal property.

Suzanne smirked and reached into the bag at her side, which was curiously without a label. From there she pulled out a package. Meghan took in her hand, grinned wildly and began to rip it open. She tore at the box for what seemed like far too long, wrestling with the tape on the wrapping, bending and tearing at the flaps of the box until finally she pried it open. By that time the box looked as though it'd been dropped down a mountain and mauled by a cougar. Large bits of wrapping paper had joined the book jacket in the bathwater. They spiralled slowly around the edge of the tub.

"Sorry about the mess." Meghan said cutely. Suzanne reached out and ran her fingers through the young woman's hair, almost dropping her glasses into the tub as she leaned forward. She snerted and reeled back, pushing them back up her nose. Even Meghan's Mistress, at times, looked and sounded like a geek.

"Oops." Suzanne said.

Meghan turned her prize around in her hand. Suzanne had given her a custom made award, like the Pullitzer or the Oscar only much more important. The award itself seemed vaguely familiar, but in two entirely contradictory respects. But like any stereoscopic test, the two completely different images converged and Meghan soon realized that the award could be mistaken for both a rocket and a vibrator.

She giggled.

She sat up in the tub and faced an imaginary audience, pretending she had just won a prestigious award, and started into an ill-prepared speech. She probably repeated "thank-you" seven times consecutively while searching for her next word, her mind unusually flustered and cloudy, her thoughts coming almost glacially. And when thinking of who she was thanking, she thought of only a single person in the world. She leaned over and kissed Suzanne on the lips, running her wet hand along her lover's jaw. They parted, but hung before each other, noses almost touching.

"You are absolutely wonderful." Meghan whispered.

"I'm so glad you mean that." Suzanne replied, as though she'd never heard Meghan say such a thing.

"It's too bad about the book." Meghan groaned, pulling away and shoving her bum right up against the side of the tub. Rising from the water-bubbles flowing languidly down her shoulders, over her curves, dripping from her chin, her nipples and the undersides of her breasts-she looked every bit like a beautiful water nymph emerging salaciously from the water. Suzanne was most pleased by that.

Suddenly...

Meghan fidgeted against the tub, hot shivering lust swimming through her body, curling her toes. She realized that she had discretely started to touch herself again-my goodness, that felt so right. Her nipples had swollen and hardened in the prickling air. The bubbles, descending in snake-like floes down her breasts, felt especially nice, leaving wet trails like slugs across her smooth skin. Almost too smooth, she thought, bending at the neck to inspect herself. She lifted her arm from the water-it was smooth. Completely, perfectly, unnaturally smooth. Not a single follicle of downy hair. Meghan felt warm all over: her heart jumped, colour rushed into her cheeks. Then, lured by the yummy, skin-scrawling, neck-shivering applause that was at that time exploding outward from her chest, she cupped her breasts. Was the air around her thicker? she thought. It almost seemed that the air was pushing against her skin, almost congealing, and indeed to her eyes there seemed to be a sort of rippling effect coming off her skin that was akin to heat waves wafting from hot asphalt. Only these waves were moving in reverse, towards her skin not away from it. The magical air vibrated, crawled and jittered. She could feel tendrils of it coiling around her legs and pelvis even under the water.

"Um..." she managed to squeak. Her hands had just been pushed aside by her breasts, which had started surging through the alphabet. They bulged out tremulously, ripples curving out on the bathwater as her expanding breasts ballooned to sports equipment proportions and could not help but be half-submerged, even while Meghan was sitting full up against the side of the tub-with the water around her waist.

She dropped her award in the bath where it flipped over to reveal its bottom. On the butt of the vibe-rocket was a small gold plate with the message: "In celebration of becoming a published author. Love Nate." Upon reading this Meghan turned to look at her Suzanne, a queer expression on her face as the illusion melted away and revealed not her lesbian Love with her familiar black glasses, but a complete and utter stranger who, perhaps intentionally, was wearing the same glasses himself. Meghan's hands dropped from her bosom, her firm, fully inflated breasts bobbing half-submerged in the water. The stranger looked reptilian as he licked his lips, eyes magnified by his glasses, fingers on the edge of the tub twitching, yearning to touch his prey's pneumatic chest.

Meghan shot up to her feet, the bathwater exploding volcanically around her. Nate-assuming that was his real name-reeled back. Meghan leaned against the bath tiles and looked down at herself, her hands racing to all the obvious places to provide cover. In the process, Meghan realized that indeed something very strange had happened: she stood there against the bathroom tiles, her padded buttocks smooth and wet and slipping against them; she'd become a curvaceous, huge breasted centrefold with flaring hips, long smooth legs, tanned hairless complexion, and a very tiny, elegantly tapered waist smaller than any waist she'd ever seen. She could not find the words to describe herself. "Doll", "Plastic" and "German Engineered" came to mind, however briefly.

She screamed. Nate went "Ah!" and fell on his ass, like her screaming was somehow unexpected. Meghan saw him clearly now; he was dressed in a blue prom suit with fluffy white shirt. He was holding a red heart shaped box in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other.

"Who the hell are you!?" she burst.

"I'm Nate Derek-from Physics 2001!" Nate replied, seemingly shocked by Meghan's behaviour, as if her anger at him for intruding on her bath was somehow completely unreasonable. Meghan searched through every nook and cranny of her brain-the name Nate Derek did not come up even once. She had never seen him before and there were almost four hundred students in Physics 2001.

"Doesn't ring a bell." she snapped sharply. Then she asked incredulously, "What have you done to me?"

"I love you!" he proclaimed, "That's why I wanted to change you!" He pulled out a small pill case-it was empty-and held it up to her. Squinting she made out the label. "Dr. Bakelove's Bimbo-Slave Making Sugar. (Add to water. Instant results.)"

Meghan's cheek twitched, and if Nate had looked very closely he would have been able to discern the grinding of her jaw. But at the sight of the conflagration in her eyes he had started looking nervously from side to side.

Meghan's arm shot out, all modesty thrown to the wind, her freshly enlarged and immodest breasts bouncing and swinging as she ripped the towel rack from the wall and whacked Nate across the top of the head. He shrieked and doubled over, then began to crawl away. Meghan unwrapped the towel from the bar and stepped out of the tub, water dripping and cascading over her steaming naked body. Screwing the towel until it was nice and tight she renewed the attack. At that moment Nate turned around in an attempt to plead his case. He held out the bouquet of flowers, but Meghan's reply was to whip the towel at his face, decapitating all thirteen roses.

"Why isn't it working?" he pleaded aloud, confused, asking perhaps some unseen accomplice. Meghan whipped his back with the metal bar, twice-three times.

"Get the fuck out!" she shrilled. "Get the fuck out!! Get the fuck out!!" Shrieking and screaming and yelling she chased him from the bathroom, crushing the heart shaped box under foot. And in the confusing, panicked, angry way that panicking and armed humans sometimes do, Meghan urged him to run as fast as he could while tripping and beating his legs with the towel rack.

Nate barely made it out of there, suffering a number of bruises to his knees, calves and back; his glasses hung broken around his neck. Just outside the front door he spun around wildly in an attempt to retrieve the expensive Slave Collar he had lost in the front hall, but thought better of it after seeing the buxom and dangerous Meghan stomping after him with a metal bar and a towel-whip. That was more than enough motivation for any man; he was gone in a flash.

After all was said and done Meghan stood panting and looking primitive-brow scrunched and jaw thrust out-by the front door, peering out into the hall, the neighbouring apartments seemingly undisturbed by the commotion. Meghan stood alone, frightened and nude-save for her yellow goggles. She positively shimmered, glowing with waxen wetness and the seething aura of rage. Slowly that rage began to abate. Meghan closed the door, retrieved the key that Nate had somehow obtained and disarmed, towel rack clattering to the ground. She picked up the slave collar and looked it over, then hurled it at the ground and did what any self-respecting person would do after fending off a stressful home invasion-she ordered an extra large pizza, double cheese, and went to the fridge for some cider.

Reunited with alcohol, Meghan wondered when the real Suzanne would get home and what she would think about Meghan's new body. Staring at her gleaming form in the mirror, Meghan found herself strangely aroused, as though her angry and embarrassed feelings were now twisting into something just as hot but better. Cheeks aflame, she explored herself before the full length mirror, taking in the delightful sensations of her new body, the way it looked and moved, but particularly the way it felt. Her whole body, from the hair on her head downwards, had become hairless, and with its new smoothness it felt the air, her hands-everything-much differently. Every feeling, no matter how familiar, now came to her like a hand on freshly shaven skin, like something she hadn't felt for a long while.

Meghan burped, finishing her cider and tossing the can to the floor, where it rolled into the wheel of a red radio flyer wagon. Nate, classy as he must have been, had brought gifts stacked on a radio flyer. It would have been charming were it not so juvenile and, you know, brought along to enhance the sex slaving. Inside the boxes were outfits and thongs and g-strings-my goodness, Meghan thought, Nate must have spent a fortune stocking up on new outfits. She could have been his naughty school girl, or his cute little maid ripe for sexing. These outfits bothered her far less than the slavery; the outfits were actually kind of hot, but there had been something creepy about the way Nate had idealized her slavehood-probably its permanence and lack of play.

Now with Suzanne, on the other hand, Meghan was quite pleased to play a sex slave. Meghan, the creative, academic, wine-loving writer liked to become Meg, the naughty little school girl who wasn't old enough to drink, was to respect her teachers and her superiors, and was to do whatever her Mommy told her to do. Suzanne-who at fourteen years Meghan's senior had been a highschool teacher and a high priced escort and was presently a professional Chix0r for a consultant firm-liked to become Meghan's Mistress, decked out in latex and fishnet stockings, brandishing an array of toys and strap-ons designed to torture Meghan's body with pitiless, overwhelming, rapturous hot wet pleasure. Almost too much pleasure, except that Meghan liked it that way, liked being broken by exhaustion and orgasms.

And as she imagined herself crawling around her kitchen, dressed as a school girl, attached to a leash and kissing Mistress' feet, or eating Mistress' cunt from under the dinner table and going hungry while Mistress bit into a thick juicy steak, she could not help but feel calm and happy and comfortable again, even after all she'd been through. Caring less and less, she decided to deal with her situation later-right now, all she wanted was to be calm again, to maybe drink a little wine, and maybe buy a new toaster for the kitchen so that she might take the old one and keep it in her bag, should she ever see Nate again and want to smack him with it.

But to relax... she placed a hand over her heart, closed her eyes and began to count from ten.

10-

Meghan found her heart still speeding, but the urgency of the situation had passed. The adrenaline in her blood began to abate and she no longer felt that flightly, fighty feeling that so often came with it.

She cradled her breasts in her hands and stroking her hard pointed nipples, delighting in the tingling, orgasmic sensations that weren't too strong or too weak, too cold or too hot, but just right.

Adrenaline aside, powdery foreign particles in Meghan's blood began to work, seeping into her brain.

Suitably relaxed, adrenaline levels diving, Meghan felt a little more light headed, a little more carefree, than usual. Her troubles melted away. Soon the rest of the world began to fade; Meghan's big boobies were all that mattered, they were just too sensitive and big to ignore. She was starting to really love them, really love having such hot big boobies. She felt her nipples throbbing, throbbing against her brain, against her thoughts, causing everything else to move aside.

Meghan tweaked her left nipple and giggled. Wow, she thought, getting very wet, these new boobies are soooh sensitive!

Meghan giggled again, unendingly titillated by playing with her tits, biting her lip as she massaged her boobs ever more urgently, bringing her close to the edge. But it wasn't enough, she needed more.

Curious, embarrassed to be touching herself at the mirror, yet so exhilarated, Meghan couldn't look away from her own reflected breasts, her eyes captured by the way they jiggled and bounced in her massaging grasp. She dove between her legs with a hand, rubbing her ultra-smooth mons and teasing the lips of her pussy.

Quickening her rhythm she added penetration to the mix, thrusting her fingers in and out of her sex, then massaging her lips again, then darting her fingers in and out quickly. She could think of nothing else. Her mind filled with sugary fluff, expanding, but in the insubstantial, big-bang, getting-less-dense way. Her intellect thinning, Meghan began to fly, floating through cosmic dreams-oh boy she was so high.

Rocking her head from side to side, grinning sleepily, lost in herself, Meghan thrust into her pussy with greater desperation, her thumb poised over her clit, ready to push the button.

Meghan's thumb flinched and she spasmed, rising to her toes and clenching her thighs around her hand, her fingers still thrashing and pumping at her sex. She groaned and trembled, racked by orgasms-then opened her eyes. Meghan looked into the mirror, looked into the face of a brand new cutey slutty bimbo girl. She descended into the reflection of her own eyes, down a black hole of her own dreams. Her writer's mind had one final scene to imagine.

The whole world evapourated into a starscape of lights and shadows, which then began to stretch past her and streak out of sight. It was similar to warp drive on star trek, but like, way cooler. She seemed to move through a tunnel-through the mirror. My god, it was full of stars.

"Ooh, shiny!"

Meghan saw it when she emerged from the tunnel; she saw it first in the mirror, then where the mirror had stood. There was a tall, dark and handsome object. It glimmered in the light. Her first impulse was to back away, for it was so stark and black and quick in its appearance that she was startled; but it held her in place, its unearthly song playing in her head. It seemed to watch her, a rectangular eye of one by four by nine. It never blinked. Never missed a beat. It saw straight through her.

Then for a reason she could not explain, she felt the urge to reach out and touch it. She touched it with a finger and quickly drew away, feeling that the monolith was uncharacteristically smooth, almost too smooth, too perfect, like it had been purpose built. She knew without knowing why that this hard erection had been forged just for her.

Shortly, she was compelled to feel it again. She reached out and touched it more firmly this time, her palm flat against it. And then, as if controlled by the object, she began to slide her hand up and down across its face. She placed her other palm on the black surface and rubbed with that one too, bolstering the connection. Its unusual presence was no longer a concern. If anything it attracted her now more than ever.

Then Meghan felt her eyes drawn upward, towards the top of monolith, where upon the sun was now setting against its edge. There she found a new horizon, her eyes pried open with wonder, new possibilities dawning. I need to get a tan!

The monolith opened up to her, a square panel of its face sliding to one side, revealing a compartment within. Standing on its end was a long cylindrical object with a flared head. She took it in one hand-to her it appeared to be some kind of beating implement. She tested it on the ground, trying to kill the carpet, denting the carcass of the cider can, but these experiments proved fruitless. Then, again without explanation, a new idea dawned. She placed the head of the object at her mouth and wrapped her plump lips around it, forming a seal; she pushed it in tentatively, applied a little suction, thrust it in and out slowly. She was beginning to get a feel for the thing. That had felt so right.

Everything became clear.

She looked at the gel dildo with certainty, as though the entire world had opened up before her. She knew now what she wanted, what she needed, but no imitation would do. She would need to find the real thing-only a real cock would satisfy her nagging hunger. She needed to, like, get totally laid. Lots.

Barbie spun around, more certain about herself than ever before, her heart thumping like a drum; she threw the dildo up into the air. It soared high into the clear cerulean sky, glittering pinkly against the infinite backdrop, twirling and twirling and twirling.

THE END

You Tart: Extended

2007-09-25T00:07:57Z

This is a lengthier version of You Tart; it includes an introduction and a longer lead in to the bum spanking. Other than that, it's the same story as original version, including its erotic nature. Enjoy.

You Tart

Many people have a similar thought when they see Amanda for the first time. They think: “Funny, she doesn't look gay.”

Dean Jacob Coldwater was no different, and had thought much the same when she had entered his office. Dressed in a spaghetti-strap top and mini-skirt, her freckled face framed in long red hair, Amanda did not bring any of the familiar archetypes to mind. She looked normal, by all accounts.

Jacob diverted himself from what he was doing to appraise her bust, her hip-to-waist ratio, the length and smoothness of her legs—the really important qualities he respected in women. Having taken her in, he returned to watching his screen, and encouraged her with stalwart silence to do the same.

The screen was mounted on the wall, and had perhaps cost the entirety of some poor student's tuition that otherwise could have gone into improving the educational facilities. Amanda was absolutely awed that such an advanced and expensive HDTV could present such a dismally grainy picture.

She spotted her vaguely recognizable image in the screen, captured from the vantage of a wall mounted camera outside the GLBTG centre, just as a man entered view from the side. There was no sound, but Amanda could fill in the soundtrack for herself, as she had already lived this event once before. The man approached slowly, seeming no threat until he had stopped in front of her. She watched as he and she were mostly still for some time, the camera's footage too poor to clearly show their moving mouths.

And then it happened: Amanda stepped forward and swung her leg. The frame rate on the recording was so poor that in one frame Amanda seemed to be stepping into him, in another lifting the man off the ground with her foot, and in another standing over him while he was on the ground, curled into a ball. Jacob played with his remote, replaying the scene four times, as entertained as ever.

“How could he have possibly deserved that?” he laughed, bawling quite loudly.

“He wouldn't take No for an answer.” she replied, watching confusedly as Jacob stood up from his chair and rounded his desk, gripping it and pushing it off to the side, leaving nothing between where Amanda stood and his chair. Jacob wiped his hands of what little dirt lay on them and smiled.

“Well, what exactly had you refused him?” he asked, standing a few feet from her, hands in his pockets.

Amanda sighed, biting her lip as she called up the memory.

“Last night he and I were at a party. He noticed me and was very drunk, and thus feeling very confident, I imagine. He didn't seem to understand that I wasn't in to him, or at the very least assumed that “No” was negotiable.

“Anyway, the short version is that at some point I got fed up and resorted to telling him that I was gay. Not that he really listened at the time, but he seemed to remember that bit in the morning, long after I'd lost him in the crowd. So today, thinking he could find gay people at the gay centre, he dropped by to see if he could find me. Out of luck, and stupidity, he caught me as I was standing outside.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Going home.” she inflected, hinting at another point.

“I see.” Jacob said, knowingly. He thought, scratched his chin, and then posed another question. “What set you off?”

Amanda gave a shocked expression. “You mean aside from the obvious and unwanted persistence?”

“Well, I've already talked with John—he's the guy you kicked—and I just want to hear your side of the story.”

“Fine, then. He decided my excuse about being gay was just that—an excuse. He believed that I wasn't really gay and just being a tease, as in his words he couldn't tell the difference between me and the other 'straight girls'.”

Jacob looked down at the hem of Amanda's skirt; a few inches higher, he thought, and he'd be seeing panties.

“And that's when you kicked him.”

“Yes!” Amanda huffed, “Of course that's when I kicked him. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”

“No, not really.” Jacob said. “I've never had anyone question my orientation; no one's ever had reason to.”

“What reason would he have to question my orientation?”

“Well...”

“Well what?”

“Just saying that I can see his point. You don't really look like a lesbian, that's all.”

Amanda looked down at herself, at her outfit. Sure, it wasn't denim or flannel, and she'd worn her hair down for the party, but honestly. She rolled her eyes.

“So I've been told, many times.” Amanda remarked tiredly. “That doesn't make it right.

“Look, I think you've heard all that you're going to hear about this. This is a dispute between the two of us, I don't understand why I need to see you.”

“I'm afraid the university's policy on sexual harrassment is very clear, Miss Strand. It's procedure to investigate these incidents and take the appropriate action.”

“I doubt we'll bother each other any more.”

“That may be the case, but you still physically assaulted another student's genitals.”

Amanda froze, her mouth open.

“Wait wait wait—he pursued me, he refused to heed my words, he was outright provocative, and you're putting the blame on me?”

“It's your word against his. Violence is not the way.” Jacob urged, holding his hands in prayer. “Make love, not war.”

“Now you're being smart.” she accused.

“Nonetheless, this incident could result in you're expulsion, depending on what I tell the Committee. You're on video. The stakes are pretty high, but from what I've heard it sounds like this was a misunderstanding.”

“So what are you saying? That I should have just shut up and taken it?” Amanda asked

“I'm saying that you and I can meet in the middle.” he said, walking as he talked. “You need to admit some wrongness in kicking a man in the balls. And in turn, I will admit that there was a reason behind why you kicked him, an understandable reason that is served no justice by having you expelled.”

Amanda was silent, but her quaking expression revealed the turmoil and frustration inside her. “I can't believe things are being turned around on me like this. I've dealt with men like him before—some of got progressively more persistent, even threatening. I was defending myself. If he wouldn't listen to 'No' the first few times there's no telling how many times he would've come back.”

Jacob continued to walk and think, circling around her. “I still think it was premature to bring out the sledgehammer.”

“Well if you won't accept that, what kind of explanation would you find reasonable, then?”

“That, we can discuss.” Jacob said, rounding behind her, grinning, and then happily slapping her ass.

Smack!

Amanda teetered from the impact, wide-eyed and astonished. “What the fuck?!” she stammered.

“That was good.” Jacob said, delighted with the result. Amanda's eyes flitted from side to side. She was paralyzed—where the hell had that come from?

“There's something about the buttocks.” Jacob said, “I don't know exactly how it works myself, but it commands obedience.” He grabbed Amanda by the bum and she hopped into motion, like a horse kicked by it's rider. His palm pressed firmly against her supple ass, he guided her across to the chair. Now Amanda realized why he had moved his desk: to clear the way.

Amanda thoughtlessly complied, rendered completely unable to think rationally. “I can't believe you just did that!” she stammered, braking by the chair once Jacob had removed his hand.

“I expected that,” he said, sitting down. “There's something about the harmonics of the vibrations through the buttocks. It requires some skill; you can't just smack a woman's ass any which way. But, with the right touch, anyone can learn the secret of authority.

“I suppose,” he chuckled, “a twenty-something such as yourself isn't used to being disciplined in this manner.

“Or are you?” he inflected suggestively.

“What the fuck are you on about!” she seethed, balling her fists. And yet, try as she might, all attempts at action failed her. The same thoughts kept repeating: the sheer audacity of him, the unmitigated sexual objectification, the balls. She'd certainly met more persistent men, but never such a ballsy, cocky one. She tried to come up with a plan of action, even a simple one, but her thoughts were jumbled. Nothing seemed to do the situation justice, anyway. She could think of only a single appropriate response, but she didn't have a cricket bat.

“I'll let you in on everything.” he assured her. “But first I need you to take a more receptive position, so that you might better hear my point.”

He reached around and placed his hand on her back, pulled her towards him and... and before the thought to struggle had even entered her disoriented mind, Amanda found herself reoriented and facing the floor, bent over his lap. How the fuck, she thought, did I get here? Everything had happened so fast. When she felt his fingers at her backside, pulling her skirt up over her bum, she waited with dreadful anticipation. She couldn't remember the last time someone had so quickly gotten the best of her; from the looks of things she'd already submitted without a fight.

Shockingly, she found herself thinking that fighting wasn't the way out. Jacob's prayer-clasped hands came to mind, and his cheeky remark “Make love, not war.” How bad would it look if she beat up the Dean, one of the most powerful figures on campus?

Jacob appraised her backside, finding it quite attractive and well-formed, framed in a short, girly pleated skirt. Certainly not everyday attire, he thought to himself. She had definitely worn the outfit for someone else—some other girl. He grinned at the thought, and spanked her supple ass open-palmed.

Smack!

Amanda stiffened up. “Oh!” she winced, as his hand made contact.

“Now, now, Amanda. You know this is necessary.” he condescended.

“What are you doing?” she gasped. “This is so not fair!”

He chuckled.

“I've told you what is at stake. This is the only way you and I can solve your problem.”

“My problem? It was him. He called me a closet heterosexual.”

“Why would he say that?”

“We've been through this—because I look like a girl!”

Smack!

“Ooh!” Amanda yelped, her thoughts shaken. Jacob felt up her ass, divided so prettily by her teeny, tiny white thong. He eyed it with amusement and hunger.

“Don't raise your voice. I won't have any of that.” he said. “What are you, Third Wave?”

“The fact that I stand up for myself doesn't make me a feminist.”she retorted.

“Well, you certainly seem to be viewing things through a lens. You just need to hear another interpretation of the facts. I'm sure his comment was entirely innocent.”

“How is it that white men are always so innocent in their prejudice?” she remarked.

Smack!

Amanda winced, and thought about what she had done.

“I'm sorry.” she mewed reflexively, failing to catch the words before they rolled off her tongue.

“You should see the situation from his eyes,” Jacob said, “he was confused by the conflicting messages you were giving off. As you said, you look like a girl.”

“Like a girl? As opposed to looking like a le—lesbian?” she stammered, suddenly finding the L word difficult to enunciate. She felt queer, and not in a good way.

“Exactly.” he said, matter-of-factly. “Many people's exposure to gay women is limited to visible butch lesbians. They just assume—”

“Are you telling me that his ignorance lets him off the hook? That's so un-fucking-believably heterosexist!”

Smack!

She winced again and mouthed “Ow” to herself, her fire momentarily stolen. Every time she tried to muster herself he put her down with a good smack. And with each spanking, with each twisted kernel of logic from his mouth, she felt herself growing more persuaded, less interested in fighting.

“I'm saying that his actions were based on what he knew. The normal assumption is that most people are straight, after all, because most people are straight.”

“That's completely hetero-centric!”

Smack!

“Please, Amanda. You do look like a straight girl, don't you? You dress in ways that please men, do you not?”

“I guess...” she said.

Smack!

“I—I do.” she said, more definitively this time.

“I can see from your clothes that you know a thing or two about attracting a mate. You obviously dressed to please. But for another girl? Maybe you're confused—you seem to have forgotten the purpose of the procreative act, as evidenced by your lifestyle. You know what sex is for? What comes of sex?”

Amanda remained silent, refusing to dignify the question with a response. She'd heard this all before.

Smack!

“Babies?” she guessed hastily, the response forced out of her.

“Exactly. Can a girl make babies with another girl?”

“Actually—” she began.

Smack!

She stopped and frowned. “No.”

“Good girl.” he grinned, rewarding her by stroking her hair—her long, red, curly hair—for a little pleasure to offset the punishment, and for a little encouragement. “You really don't look like a dyke.” he said.

“But—“

He raised his hand.

Smack!

Just—“ she whined.

Smack!

Amanda pouted; she had come to a profound, butt-smackingly painful realization.

“Not according to a lot of people.” she said.

“And doesn't a girl going out with another girl seem odd to you? I mean, in the grand scheme of things most girls have sex with men, and have babies with men, as mankind has evolved to do. Evolution is older than you, Amanda. It knows better.”

“Yeah, but—“ she protested.

Smack!

“—simple numerical superiority—”

Smack!

“—doesn't warrant the egotistically—“

Smack!

“—self-imposed—“

Smack!

“—privilege of—“

Smack!

“—being the norm.”

Jacob's hand hovered over Amanda's flushed ass.

“Honestly,” she continued, unswayed, “gays are a normal and consistent minori—”

Smack!

“Right, then. Any more?” he challenged, “Get them out now.”

“Oh!” she fumed, balling her fists, “You're all just a bunch of ego-fuckers!”

Smack!

“Good!” he encouraged, “Exorcise that hostility. Fighting is not the way.”

Amanda shut herself up and bit her lip. Her cheeks burned. Jacob rubbed her cherry bottom, delighting in its smoothness. His eyes traipsed over her feminine curves, so easily accessible to him while she was bent over his lap.

“But that really isn't the point, is it?” he said, “It's clear in the way you dress that you're searching for a viable mate to sire offspring. We don't always know these things explicitly, Amanda, but our bodies know. Evolutionary psychologists know. For instance, we've discovered that women instinctively dress more revealingly when they are ovulating. Those genes are in every woman, even the gay ones.”

He ran his finger between her buttocks, over her thong. “Your revealing underwear is a clear indication. Your body yearns for a man.” he added.

Amanda clenched her jaw, trying to say nothing. Jacob would just twist the words from her mouth, then put them back in.

“What I am trying to show you, Amanda, is that things can often be explained innocently, because many things are a matter of interpretation. That man you kicked, I believe he was merely interpreting the cues you were presenting through your dress. It wasn't fair to kick him for it.

“I also think you liked him back, but substituted anger in place of obedient adoration because you feared reprisal from the gay community. You wanted him so badly that you kicked him, angry that he'd come to see you at the gay centre, the one place where satisfying yourself would have been incriminating. Had he cornered you in, say, a more private locale, I'm sure things would have gone differently.”

“What?” she retorted, incredulous.

Smack!

“You actually wanted to suck his cock, didn't you?”

“N—“

Smack!

“You wanted his baby juice to come shooting up inside you.”

“N—“

Smack!

“Yes you did, you naughty girl.”

Smack!

“You little slut!” he laughed. “Admit it!”

Smack!

“I'm not a filthy slut!” she shrieked, balling her fists and banging them against the side of the chair. Confused, she lashed out, thinking and feeling in the ways he insisted, as soon as he spoke of them with knowing authority. That was his ace up the sleeve, swift open-palmed authority.

Smack!

“Filthy?” Jacob gasped. “Now who's prejudiced? Sluts are merely satisfying their biological imperative. As you should know, selecting a number of mates improves the odds of producing viable offspring. But not if you spend your nights out with other girls, or spending the mornings at the gay centre before finally going home.”

His fingers lingered on her ass, softly stroking. His touchings were starting to take on a new tone. Amanda shivered. It made her feel so hot, and she hated it.

Now all Jacob had to do was nudge her a bit at the right time. With just a tiny mental push he could change a girl's whole mind.

He eyed her thong—the lacy, white number tightly cupping her mound and pussy, which bulged through the thin, filmy fabric. He brought his fingers to her vulnerable sex and started, slowly at first, to brush against it.

Amanda trembled, overwhelmed. She raised her fingers to her mouth and bit on her nails. Don't let him see you enjoy it, she thought, as his stroking became fevered. After a short time she quaked and came powerfully. Jacob felt her kegels clenching, and jilled her off pitilessly throughout the torturous, rapturous, duration of her orgasm.

At her peak, Jacob gave her a helpful nudge. Amanda grit her teeth, but nothing could hide the unstoppable, primitive groaning and panting that betrayed her resistance. She'd so gotten off. They both knew it.

“Hmmmm, it seems you are neither selective nor conspicuous about who you get off with, nor are you gay.” he grinned.

Amanda quivered silently, exhausted.

“You enjoyed that.” he said for her.

Amanda thought about that. It had felt really good. But it had left something to be desired. The orgasm had pierced her mind and soul and yet she felt so... unpenetrated.

“How did you become a lesbian?” he asked, casually.

Amanda tried hard to remember. “Um... my first girlfriend just sort of, like, chose me, and I just stayed with girls, I guess.”

“Ah, I see. It's so clear to me now; someone intervened in your natural development as a girl.”

The revelation stunned her. Jacob was so proud to see the new Amanda unfold.

Amanda found herself thinking about her empty womb, her eggs wasting away, never before fertilized by hot, virile semen. Never had she felt the hard, vital shaft of a living cock inside her. That worried her, she was almost twenty one. So behind schedule! Were she a cavegirl she would have produced a sizeable brood by her age. She realized that she had been wasting her time with her girlfriend, with school, with finding a career. She felt permitted now to admit: she needed to find a man.

“I—I've thought myself a lesbian for so long.” she whimpered, “I don't—I don't know what to do.”

“Well, for starters, you should act naturally. A sweet little cock-virgin like you should be flying by her urges and impulses.” he instructed, pulling her skirt back over her reddened ass, “Now, be a good, natural girl and apologize for putting up such a fuss.”

“I'm sorry, Dean Coldwater.”

“That's a good girl. I'm glad you learned your lesson.” he said.

He released her and she slid off his lap, uncoiling into a sexy little starfish on his floor, her legs spread and panties showing. She rubbed absently at her pussy, dipping her fingers into her undies, and jilled herself off to a quick, tremble-inducing orgasm. Jacob watched bemusedly as she finished and sighed breezily.

“I believe you do know what to do next.” he finally said, watching her rise. She stood up beside him, hovering piously.

“Like, what?” she asked meekly, knotting her hands together and twisting the toe of her shoe against the floor.

“That boy you kicked—you should go see him again. You want to suck his cock, don't you?”

She thought about that. He helped, a little.

“Kinda.” she replied coyly. But that was really a very big 'Yes'.

“Well then, why don't you go apologize to the man. Let him know he was right, that you are a sexy, horny, baby-crazed little straight girl, just like he assumed you were when he saw you.”

“That's sounds like an awesome idea!” she bounced.

“Wait, though.” he said, holding up a set of shears. He slipped them up under Amanda's skirt. She gasped and rose to her tippy-toes, feeling the cold metal sliding against her delicate skin, just above her pussy. Jacob cut her thong and pulled it through her legs; the fabric left lingering kisses on Amanda's bum and pussy as it was removed. She giggled with approval, her sex revealed to his inscrutable eye.

“There.” he said, admiring her feather, “Now you are ready to make amends.”

“Thank you.” she mewed.

“When you're done, be sure to come back here.”

“Oh, God bless you Mr. Coldwater!” she giggled, smitten. She felt so happy knowing she'd earned the Dean's respect. If I'm lucky, she thought, he might, like, fuck me lots when I get back—lots and lots! He encouraged her with a toothed grin.

“All right, off you go then!”

He patted her on the bum to send her off. Amanda raced out of his office, smiling with glee.

THE END

You Tart

2007-09-03T01:43:02Z

This is a new story called "You Tart". The short synopsis is that it's an erotic adventure in hetero-normative discourse between two adversaries: the femme lesbian and the chauvanist heterocentric. As usual with pretty much all my writing, it's PORN, so employ discretion.

Enjoy if you are privy.

You Tart

Jacob remembered when Amanda had first stepped into his office, wearing her trim spaghetti strap top and mini-skirt, her freckled face framed in long red hair; one of his first thoughts had been: Funny, she doesn't look gay.

But as it was, Amanda was very gay. Though honestly, she really didn't look the part. Despite having never engaged in a straight relationship of any kind—not even a kiss—she blended into the hetero crowd seamlessly, sharing their experiences, as if she were one of them.

And they hated her for it, as soon as she challenged their assumptions by coming out.

Now Jacob had her bent over his lap. She resisted half-heartedly, embarrassed to be there, and yet oddly aroused by his disciplinary attentions. Perhaps she was too shocked by the turning of his phrases, which had gotten her there in the first place.

He appraised her backside. She had a beautiful bum, framed in a short, girly pleated skirt. Certainly not everyday attire, he thought to himself. She had definitely worn the outfit for someone else—some other girl. He sneered at the thought, and spanked her supple ass open-palmed.

Amanda stiffened up. “Oh!” she winced, as his hand made contact.

“Now, now, Amanda. You know you deserve this.” he condescended.

“No I don't!” she insisted. “This is so not fair!”

He chuckled.

“You know what the penalty for kicking a boy in the balls is. You should never hurt a man.”

“He called me a closet heterosexual.”

“Why would he say that?”

“Because I look like a girl!”

Smack!

“Ooh!” Amanda yelped. Jacob felt up her ass, divided so prettily by her teeny, tiny white thong. He eyed it with amusement and hunger.

“Don't raise your voice. I won't have any of that.” he said. “I'm sure his comment was entirely innocent.”

“How is it that white men are always so innocent in their prejudice?” she remarked.

Smack!

Amanda winced, and thought about what she had done.

“I'm sorry.” she mewed, surprised by how meekly she spoke.

“What I meant,” he said firmly, “is that I think he was confused by the conflicting messages you were giving off. As you say, you look like a girl.”

“Like a girl? As opposed to looking like a le—lesbian?” she stammered, suddenly finding the L word difficult to enunciate. She felt queer, and not in a good way.

“Exactly.” he said, matter-of-factly. “Many people's exposure to gay women is limited to visible butch lesbians. They just assume—”

“Are you telling me that his ignorance lets him off the hook? That's so un-fucking-believably heterosexist!”

Smack!

She winced again and mouthed “Ow” to herself, her fire momentarily stolen.

“I'm saying that his actions were based on what he knew. The normal assumption is that most people are straight, after all, because most people are straight.”

“That's completely hetero-centric!”

Smack!

“Please, Amanda. You do look like a straight girl, don't you? You dress in ways that please men, do you not?”

“I guess...” she said.

Smack!

“I—I do.” she said, more definitively this time.

Amanda remained silent, refusing to dignify the question with a response.

Smack!

“Babies?” she guessed hastily.

“Exactly. Can a girl make babies with another girl?”

“Well,” Amanda began, “there's always IVF—“

Smack!

She stopped mid sentence. “No.” she frowned.

“Good girl.” he grinned. He rewarded her by stroking her hair—her long, red, curly hair. “You really don't look like a dyke.” he said.

“But—“

He raised his hand.

Smack!

Just—“ she whined.

Smack!

Amanda pouted; she had come to a profound, butt-smackingly painful realization.

“No, I don't.” she said.

“And doesn't a girl going out with another girl seem odd to you? I mean, most girls have sex with men, and have babies with men, as mankind has evolved to do. Evolution is older than you, Amanda. It knows better.”

“Yeah, but—“ she protested.

Smack!

“—simple numerical superiority—”

Smack!

“—doesn't warrant the egotistically—“

Smack!

“—self-imposed—“

Smack!

“—privilege of—“

Smack!

“—being the norm.”

Jacob's hand hovered over Amanda's flushed ass.

“Honestly,” she continued, unswayed, “gays are a normal and consistent minori—”

Smack!

“Right, then. Any more?” he challenged.

“Oh!” she fumed, balling her fists, “You're all just a bunch of ego-fuckers!”

Smack!

“But that really isn't the point, is it?” he said, “I've learned from your friends that you want a baby, and it's clear in the way you dress that you're searching for a viable mate to sire offspring. We don't always know these things explicitly, Amanda, but our bodies know. Evolutionary psychologists know. For instance, we've discovered that women instinctively dress more revealingly when they are ovulating.”

He ran his finger between her buttocks, over her thong. “Your revealing underwear is a clear indication. Your body yearns for a man.” he added.

Amanda clenched her jaw, trying to say nothing. Jacob would just twist the words from her mouth, then put them back in.

“I am merely saying, Amanda, that things can often be explained innocently, because many things are a matter of interpretation. That man you kicked, I believe he was merely interpreting the cues you were presenting through your dress.

“And I think you liked him back, but substituted anger in place of obedient adoration because you feared reprisal from the gay community.”

“What?” she retorted, incredulous.

Smack!

“You actually wanted to suck his cock, didn't you?”

“N—“

Smack!

“You wanted his baby juice to come shooting up inside you.”

“N—“

Smack!

“Yes you did, you naughty girl.”

Smack!

“You little slut!” he laughed. “Admit it!”

Smack!

“I'm not a filthy slut!” she shrieked, balling her fists and banging them against the side of the chair.

Smack!

His fingers lingered on her ass, softly stroking. Amanda shivered. It made her feel so hot, and she hated it.

Now all Jacob had to do was nudge her a bit at the right time. With just a tiny mental push he could change a girl's whole mind.

“Hmmmm, it seems you are neither selective nor conspicuous about who you get off with, nor are you gay.” he grinned.

Amanda quivered silently, exhausted.

“You enjoyed that.” he said for her.

Amanda thought about that. It had felt really good. But it had left something to be desired. The orgasm had pierced her mind and soul and yet she felt so... unpenetrated.

“How did you become a lesbian?” he asked, casually.

Amanda tried hard to remember. “Um... my first girlfriend just sort of, like, chose me, and I just stayed with girls, I guess.”

“Ah, I see. It's so clear to me now; someone intervened in your natural development as a girl.”

The revelation stunned her. Jacob was so proud to see the new Amanda unfold.

“I—I've thought myself a lesbian for so long.” she whimpered, “I don't—I don't know what to do.”

“I'm sorry, Dean Coldwater.”

“That's a good girl. I'm glad you learned your lesson.” he said.

“I believe you do know what to do next.” he finally said, watching her rise. She stood up beside him, hovering piously.

“Like, what?” she asked meekly, knotting her hands together and twisting the toe of her shoe against the floor.

“That boy you kicked—you should go see him again. You want to suck his cock, don't you?”

She thought about that. He helped, a little.

“Kinda.” she replied coyly. But that was really a very big 'Yes'.

“Well then, why don't you go apologize to the man. Let him know he was right, that you are a sexy, horny, baby-crazed little straight girl, just like he assumed you were when he saw you.”

“That's sounds like an awesome idea!” she bounced.

“There.” he said, admiring her feather, “Now you are ready to make amends.”

“Thank you.” she mewed.

“When you're done, be sure to come back here.”

“All right, off you go then!”

He patted her on the bum to send her off. Amanda raced out of his office, smiling with glee.

THE END

Worth the Effort

2007-08-06T15:04:48Z

My first new story in some time, and a bit of an odd one. I certainly really like where this story has gone though. I just sort of started, somewhere, and then came full circle in the end. I didn't try to explain everything--I didn't want to--so I hope it works out. It's held together by the character of Belle, the MC'er, of sorts, but also an MC'ed character as well. I've never been one for simple good bad dynamics... c'est la vie. When I think of her image, I think of her looking much like the picture of the girl on this post: glamorous, polished, enhanced, almost inhuman. Anyway, here she is, my first new story in just over 6 months.

I hope it was worth the wait.

As usual, this is PORN. Read only what you need to survive, or only if you are old enough. Exercise restraint if PORN isn't for you. If you aren't sure, ask your doctor.

Worth the Effort

Julia feared she was blind when she opened her eyes. She was lying on a rough carpet, in the dark, with her hands and feet bound and a gag in her mouth. She tried to stretch her legs, but that pulled painfully on her wrists. She winced, realizing the binds around her hands and feet were connected to each other. She lay still, sensing the boundaries of her prison, recognizing the fabric, the metal, the plastic—the wheel wells taking up two of the corners; she lay in the trunk of a car.

She turned herself over, onto her stomach, so that her feet were pressed against the door of the trunk. She kicked with them, in what little way she could in such limited space. When it became apparent she wouldn't make much noise with tied, cramped and powerless legs, she flipped back over, seeing her body move as a shadow against shadows.

The details of her confining space were nothing but vague variations of black. She could barely see an inch in front, but she knew that the steel and plastic walls of the car were only inches from her face. They hovered fixed around her, unyielding and pressing in, ready to collapse and swallow every last bit of her personal space. She started to sweat. The coldness of the void made her heart race; the hardness of the metal made her flesh ache; the roughness of the trunk's matting chafed her skin. The world spun, or seemed to rock from side to side. She was on drugs, and in the darkness there was nothing on which to focus that would tell her addled mind she wasn't spinning in a drum. She prayed not to throw up into the gag.

She shifted onto her side, her bare hip tender from rubbing the carpet. In motion her nude body touched every wall; she was teased by chilled steel and tormented by clawing fabric, no matter how she lay. In time she learned to be helpless, to lay on her back, her knees hard against the roof of the trunk, her bound feet shoved into a corner, her hands clasped and stowed between her legs. She lay on junk.

The junk lay around her, uninvited, seemingly put there to take up precious space or get stuck under her body in uncomfortable ways. Only her rasping breaths kept her company as she, in her gathering panic, exhaled heavily into the smothering void. As the seconds ticked away, with the stupor only getting thicker, Julia knew that time was short.

Her eyes spun in their sockets, rolling chaotically against the empty blackness. The darkness of the trunk became a screen on which her running mind projected bizarre dreams, her thoughts leaking out of her head, let loose by the drug. There were lurid, hot, wet lips; a lock of red hair, curled and dangling over a pale cheek; a voluptuous woman undoing a button on her cream blouse, revealing the tender crescents of her bosom; envy, then, as Julia took in the woman's beauty, and desired it for herself.

There was a woman's hand with long red nails, holding a pink pill in her palm, offered as a gift. Then Julia imagined her mouth opened wide, her tongue extended and the pill placed in the middle. Then, after swallowing, she saw nothing but a rainbow of colours. She watched the kaleidoscopic vision, embroiled in the most intense trip of her life. She felt the pill on her tongue and in her head, still fizzing.

She turned over―she seemed only to turn and turn―and her breasts slid across the floor of the trunk, the fibres clawing at her nipples, making them stand. Heavier, they seemed, and more voluminous, as they rocked and swayed when she flipped onto her back. They brimmed with tacit sensation, as if the very air was a hand placed upon them, rubbing gently. Her hot, sweaty hands, tied between her thighs, rubbed against her mons ;she shivered and shifted in the claustrophobic space, but she could not move.

She smeared wetness onto her inner thighs, the scent thick and humid, filling her nostrils. More space ran out, she felt her body ballooning, distorted, expanding, it seemed, as her prison collapsed around her. She could no longer turn, her hips felt too wide, her breasts heavier and larger than she thought they should feel. Softer, smoother, her sensitive skin started to betray her, making her feel pleasure in such tight, intimate surroundings so full of touching. Shadowed, dreamt-up bodies pressed in around her, making empty, cold, evil, beguiling, warping sweet hot beautiful promises. They blew on her needy flesh, tongues poised above her nipples―so she imagined, to her dismay, with a tinge of excitement.

Her concentration began to shrink as pleasure picked away at her integrity. She found herself unable to think of anything outside her body, only of her breasts and how they felt fat and huge, and seem to grow bigger in her mind, more sensitive and prominent in her thoughts, resting upon her arms and weighing them down, pushing against her biceps, filling her armpits when she lay on her back. Without her eyes to confirm what she was feeling, she hoped it was a trick of the mind. She bucked against the inside of the trunk, fucked by the unfurling tendrils of night. They penetrated her space, coiled around her; she could feel them around her neck and her thighs, probing softly, ready to spring and thrust, caressing her body, kneading her breasts, spreading her sweat soaked thighs, rising like soft gel against her seeping pussy. The trunk seemed to come alive and tie her down; she struggled against the binds, but not for long.

Euphoric, her mind made shadows come alive and take obscene forms; pussies, cunts, cum, wet, tingly, need cock fill now; she thought of nothing else, and the thoughts seem to come of their own accord. She trembled, trying to close her eyes on them, but it was useless.

Her foot knocked something; something cylindrical, like a handle, and she recognized what it must be. She clawed at it with her toes; how fortunate she had been, to find such a thing among the junk in the car. Maybe she could end things now, instead of prolonging her torture. She could end it now, be done with the darkness, and get out.

She kicked the object and felt it roll against her butt; it was cold and hard, like steel. She reached between her legs to the floor, too aware of the way her wrists rubbed her mons; her pubic fur sloughing off at the intimate passage of her arm. She grabbed at the object, grabbed it by the handle and brought it through her legs. She penetrated herself with it, over and over and over again, crying passionately through the gag. It filled her and the emptiness was gone.

The lid on the trunk opened, and Julia was free.

Julia jumped up and raised her arms, smiling, silver-blond hair swishing over her shoulders, falling straight down her back and over one breast; she was a Jane in the box. She let out a noise, sighing and giggling all at once, to celebrate he naked emergence.

She twisted around to display herself, her decorative blue skirt fanning, her audience admiring the sight of her mostly naked body. The room was dressed in black curtains and red silk; it was quite an important room, for the kind of man who paid very handsomely for hot flesh. On the wall opposite the door hung a large piece of art, a macro shot of a toy doll's face, with hot wet lips, big glassy eyes and a little button nose. A real bimbo.

Belle watched the scene through that picture, which was one of many one sided portals through which she could view the rooms unseen. She loved to watch. She laid back in her chair, legs spread far apart, and fed a chattering vibe into her pussy.

This was her palace; this was The Dollhouse, Belle's company hidden by the water in an old warehouse. Cheap property, few taxes, secluded—just the sort of place for Belle and her studio. People paid very handsomely to see one of Belle's shows. This was her art: specially designed wonder-sluts; cutting edge bio-engineering; a melding of Barbie and glam-porno; dreams brought to life.

Julia stepped out of her box; she was tall, but it was all in her legs, a fantasy set of legs forty-five inches long, and slender, toned and smooth. Once upon a time she had walked on those legs with the skill of a newborn foal, birthed from the trunk of a car. Now she used her limbs with the silent, absent-minded professionalism borne of rigorous training. In four inch heels, no less. She lifted her other leg out of the box and stepped forward, stopping to place a hand on her hip and smile, her bare melons jutting forward as she pushed out her chest; she was just within arms reach of her customer.

He reached out to her and touched her; Julia held his hand and pulled it up the slope of her breast, helping him feel the smoothness and roundness of it. She sank into his lap, straddling him, her chest firmly against his. Then she leaned back, arching herself, to show him just how firm and perky her tits were.

Dr. Chandra was the middle-aged man sitting with Julia, wearing a fine black suit. He was her physician. During her appointments, when Chandra would reach up Julia's shirt and put the stethoscope to her back she would giggle dumbly, make her tits bounce in her shirt, then mention her headlights, which always showed through the scant tops she wore. It seemed Chandra was tired of simply looking and examining. Now he had come to the Dollhouse to play.

Belle, lifting a breast to her mouth and sucking on the nipple, still remembered the follow-up after Julia's first physical. Julia had been fine, in perfect health, and Chandra had desperately wanted to know where he could see her again—in a more intimate locale. One knew what Julia was, just by looking at her. Her new purpose in life was indisputable. Belle smiled, sighing as her vibe hit just the right spot. She was proud of her naughty little bimbo slut. So very proud.

Belle suspected, though, that Chandra's curiosity was driven by secrets deeper than those he could reveal by having Julia shed all her clothes. Sometimes, while sitting in on Julia's appointments, she would notice Chandra squinting or raising an eyebrow, or shaking his head at his clipboard, on which was a read-out of Julia's perfect physical condition. Unreal health for an unreal body, Belle thought to herself. But Chandra was a man of traditional values, it seemed. It was impossible for him to believe that a woman's body could be so completely healthy, or without flaw.

Belle watched from her place behind the wall as Chandra handed Julia a thick wad of cash. As per usual, Julia flicked through the money, for Belle's benefit more than her own. Julia lacked the care and attention for math, or even reading. She came off to some as having a severe case of ADHD. Only fucking could consistently hold her undivided attention, for she had been made by Belle to relish being fucked. It didn't much matter, though, for Julia was what she was: one of Belle's fantasy wonder-sluts, seemingly pulled right from the pages of a glamorous porno magazine, digital editing and perfection built in. And if she was more than a bit ditzy, all the better. Men found that hot.

After ensuring the wad of cash was thick enough, Julia unfolded the bills and slipped them under her garter. Her mistress continued to watch lasciviously, masturbating. Belle closed her eyes and chewed on her nails, an urgent whimper escaping her lips as she pushed the vibe deeper, twisting it. For a moment while she refocused her eyes, Belle caught sight of herself in the glass and knew love; lurid, hot, wet lips; black latex gloves and boots—and nothing else; a lock of red hair, curled and resting against her pale cheek; a slick yellow vibe, thrust easily into her affluently wet pussy—and then out again. Belle loved herself.

After a pause, Belle looked back through the portal. Julia was pulling Chandra's hands from his lap and placing them on her hips, giving him a good feel of her soft, flawless skin. A short dance later and she was straddling his lap, leaning back against his chest, his erection lodged deeply within her wet cunt, her little skirt pulled up. She pistoned exuberantly on his cock, giving Chandra his money's worth, and getting the wanton enjoyment from being fucked she was programmed to get. He kept one of his hands on her jawline, so that her face was turned towards his; that way he could see her panting, moaning and gritting her teeth lasciviously. He loved the way his cock's very presence could affect her so fully and expressively; he loved having power over her, where the rules of the doctor's office did not apply. His other hand held one of her tits, his index finger snapping back and forth across a pierced, erect nipple. The jeweled nipple ring tinkled.

Julia massaged her smooth mound, occasionally reaching down to either side of Chandra's pumping cock to stroke the folds of her stretched pussy. Her other hand was pressed back against the couch, keeping her steady. Her thighs, which were doing all the work, flinched and tensed under the strain.

Belle loved to see enthusiasm in her art. Belle was the artist, the conductor. And Belle's chair, on which she stroked and licked her own breasts, and filled herself with a vibe, lay at the centre of her art room: a room of eight walls, seven of them portals and one a door. And through each portal, disguised to her patrons as a work of art, Belle could enjoy the result of her labours. There was nothing quite like an expressive picture, and from within Belle's art room, the windows through which she could view the VIP rooms were framed. Her pictures moved and came alive. Many were alive tonight.

Things weren't likely to evolve between Julia and Chandra any more than they had, so Belle turned her head towards another frame, wherein one of the girls was reclined on a couch with her legs propped up on a table, fingering herself for the pleasure of two men seated opposite. Another of Belle's bimbos knelt over the girl, sucking on one of her gargantuan tits, rolling the masturbating slut's stiff nipple across her tongue.

Belle still thought of Dr. Chandra, though. She suspected he was becoming much too attached to Julia, and hence too willing to know more about what made her what she was. She did not believe that was good business practice. Anything more than sexual infatuation—raw lust and objectification—was more than what her bimbos were for; they were there to be used, and to be paid so that Belle could be paid. Belle had crafted her sluts for a specific purpose: business.

And while Belle did derive a perverse enjoyment out of making her bimbos fuck as many different people as they could, it was also safer in the end.

The door to Belle's art room opened, and a tall, wasp waisted black girl minced in on yellow platform sandals. It was Lulu, emerging from the violet lit lounge beyond the door. Lulu's skin glistened, her bright yellow micro-bikini glowed in the violet light before the door closed and shut out the intruding haze. She was flashy, sensational and pornographic, even while doing something as mundane as opening a door. Something glowed in her hand and Belle recognized it as one of the main phones. The bimbo clacked over and held it out, looking hot in the red light of Belle's private chamber.

“It's for you Mistress.” she squeaked, in her high voice. Belle let go of herself and propped her cheek on a fist. Her other hand, she pulled reluctantly from the humming vibe and reached out to the phone. With the phone grasped in three fingers, she pointed with the fourth to her unsatisfied pussy and mouthed to the girl; “Pretty please.”

The bimbo responded immediately, rounding Belle's chair and falling to her knees, her inflated tits bumping Belle's thighs wider apart as she lowered her mouth to the pink, swollen folds of her maker. Her quickening breath caressed Belle's sizzling cunt. The girl plucked at the vibe with her manicured fingers, her glossy acrylic nails clicking on the chattering, plastic phallus. Belle sighed as the vibe was withdrawn, her pussy momentarily neglected, but was well again when the bimbo's warm bee-stung lips kissed her, deeply and eagerly.

“Yes—uh—hello?” She said into the phone.

She bit her lip as Lulu's tongue assaulted her, moving around her outer labials, circling her creamy cunt before moving towards the centre.

Bell listened to the voice on the other end. “Yes,” Belle said, “A bit. You've caught me in the middle of—Nnn!—some work, I'm afraid.”

The bimbo's tongue skillfully nudged Belle's clit.

“No, it's-s quite alright... Yes, tomorrow would be fine.” Belle continued, struggling.

Lulu slid two fingers into Belle's hole, along with her tongue, and started to pump feverishly. Belle bucked and lifted from her seat, her body fraught with tension, and then settled back onto Lulu's face, who lapped more eagerly than ever, fingers swimming deeply. All the time Belle clenched her jaw, lest she moan hoarsely into the phone.

“Well, you see, Kay, Dollhouse operates during the evening. So early to mid-afternoon—um—before... before we go to work—“

Belle shivered, pulling the phone away from her mouth as she swallowed and squeaked, ever so quietly, with Lulu's tongue whipping furiously at her folds.

“—how does three thirty in the afternoon sound?”

The tension started to build. The rushing of her pulse almost drowned out the voice on the phone. She could feel herself falling over the edge, and at any moment she would be ready to cum, whether it was appropriate or not.

“Great!” she huffed, then, regaining some composure. Then she continued, “No need for that. I have your resume on file. I quite liked it, but I digress. Must go now, unfortunately. I'm—!!—a bit occupied at the moment...

“My pleasure, really. See you tomorrow—bah-bye, Kay.”

She snapped the phone shut and seethed, hissing, putting her hand over her mouth. Her kegels clenched and she orgasmed, a small reward gushing from her cleft onto Lulu's tongue, who swallowed and savoured the release.

“Well!” Belle exhaled, “that was inconvenient. Delayed gratification was never one of my strengths. Thank you Lulu, I feel much bet—oh, you pearl.”

Lulu was oblivious to Belle's words; she lapped at her Mistress' folds, mons and inner thighs like the good pet she was, ensuring that Belle's crotch was adequately cleaned and pampered.

Kay knocked on Belle's office door, on the second floor of a warehouse near the water; an odd place for a office, Kay thought, but then the only answers lay within. The person inside seemed to delay before calling in, as though they'd been disturbed. Kay turned the brass knob on the door and entered the room, the wood boards creaking under her feet.

“Hello?” she said, entering the room. It was dark. She feared that Belle might have been asleep; a shadow rose up from a couch in the far left corner.

“Hold on a moment.” the figure said. She moved over to the curtains and forced them apart. Light flooded the room, and for a moment Kay was blind. Her eyes adjusting, the blurred figure before the large window became less like a dream and more real.

In a manner of speaking...

“Yes, hello.” Belle said, welcoming the petite, casually dressed girl into her office. Kay rubbed her eyes.

There before the window was an extremely busty red-head, her hair in a bun, clad in a bright pink bodysuit. Her gloves, her high-heels—and everything else from toe to collar—was part of that bright pink latex suit. Her body was encased by it and yet, in a way, still naked, the telltale mark of her cleft seemingly etched into the plastic. The scent of red licorice swirled around her, radiating from her body; it was sweet and pleasant, and made her more welcoming. Erotic, but very pleasant, and perhaps even glamorous, an appearance accented by a curl of shimmering red hair springing from her hair line, resting against her flawless, porcelain cheek.

“Kay Kastner?” Belle asked.

“That would be me.”

“I liked your resume.”

“Thank you...” Kay replied, anticipating more.

“Welcome to my office.” Belle finally said.

“It's a bit out of the way.”

“I like things quiet. I don't like downtown.”

“I feel slightly out of place.” Kay said, all too aware of Belle's pink fetish outfit, contrasted against her own green khakis and red tank top combo.

“You just caught me at a strange moment.” Belle said. “I slept in, I'm afraid. In this case it would seem the interviewer is the late party. Please, sit over here, at my desk.”

Kay came in and shut the door. She sat in a comfy chair before Belle's desk. The desk was quite large, made entirely of glass, and very uncluttered. There were only three items on it: a closed, chrome laptop; a glass bowl of pink jelly beans; a plastic bird, tipping it's nose into a glass of water.

Belle calmly took her place opposite Kay. Sitting behind the desk, she appeared to Kay to be standing waist deep in water, her legs and hips distorted.

“That's an unusual looking bird.” Kay said.

“Yes.” Belle answered, “It's modelled after a Puffin. I don't like stick birds.”

Belle leaned back into her chair, a grin curling to one side. She looked at Kay for a few moments, admiring her face.

“What is it?”

“I like your features, your eyes. What's your ancestry?”

“Korean.”

“You have a swan's neck.” Belle complimented.

Belle found the girl's soft, exotic face quite fetching. She'd make an excellent slut, after the right modifications and conditioning. Belle didn't like her girls to be recognizable as their former selves—indeed the lip enhancements, make-up, lashes and humongous tits helped prevent that. But Kay's face was something worth treasuring; her eyes were definitely something to keep unchanged. Perhaps enhanced only a little. That's how it was for Belle when she was Kay's age. A girl's body could always stand to be improved... Belle found her thoughts drifting. She twisted her neck until she heard is crack.

“Professor Dawson wrote a very stirring recommendation for you; you graduated with top marks, she said. I saw that you wrote a thesis, on Effort Justification and Sorority Initiations. It sounded very interesting.”

“Thanks.” Kay said, blushing.

“Could you talk about it?” Belle asked.

“Uh―sure. I guess.” Kay seemed to take a while to gather her thoughts. “Well... basically, I interviewed Sorority girls at my school, and I found a strong connection between extreme hazings―often those involving humiliation or sexual themes―and a strong self-identification with one's sorority sisters. Women who hadn't, um, endured tough hazings didn't seem to touch on themes of group identification and sisterhood in their discourse as often as the other aforementioned women, and they didn't come off as being as invested in the Sorority identity.”

“Sounds like mind control.” Belle grinned.

“Ya, you could say that.” Kay chuckled.

“So, then, would getting spanked with a paddle in a sort of lesbian, sado-masochistic fashion fall under the realm of Effort Justification leading to an increase in one's identification with one's sorority sisters?”

“Uh...” Kay scratched the back of her head, “in a manner of speaking, yes. The trial has got to be worth it, after all, or at least one has to convince themselves it was worth it. Though what you just said doesn't really do justice to the complicated nature of the process. There are other things involved: expectations, tolerances, one's tendency for goal focused behaviour. I would also suppose it would depend if the spankee knew the spanker, in some way.”

“Of course,” Belle grinned, “and you cannot possibly tell me everything in a single conversation.”

“Basically...” Kay said, apologetically.

“I understand. Not to worry. You didn't come here to talk about pyschology, so I won't bore you—I see from your resume that you've danced before. That's good, Dollhouse is a stage operation. Live performances.”

“I know many forms of dance.” Kay helpfully added.

“That's good,” Belle replied, “your body must know how to move, then. I like that. The dances in my productions are somewhat unique, though, so you will still need to be trained.”

“Of course. I can't wait—I love theatre.” Kay grinned.

“Good, good.” Belle smiled, “Um—I wanted to ask you about something, before I take you on. It says here that you did a lot of theatre work at your school. I recognize you, I think. Have we met?”

“I―I don't think so.” Kay said.

“You look very familiar. That's all. When I was researching your school file, I came across your picture. You have a very pretty face, and though I suppose there might be many girls in the world who look like you, I could not help but think that I'd seen you before.”

Kay shrugged obliquely. “I moved out here from the east, so I doubt we've met in person.”

“I think I saw you on television. Did you do any commercials?”

Kay looked down at her hands, which were fidgeting in her lap, and then brought one up to her mouth. She sat chewing on her nails, and then very blankly stated: “Nope. I've never been on television.”

She turned her head to the side and looked at one of the walls, perhaps hoping to find a distraction. Belle watched her for a second, realizing the girl didn't seem to want to meet her gaze. Then she recognized her jawline, her nose, her face in profile.

“Oh my..that's it!” Belle gasped.

Kay's head whipped around. “What?”

“I have seen you before. You were in―well, the name of the film is quite vulgar.”

“I think you must be mistaken.”
“No, I'm quite sure.” Belle insisted.

“Ya... Um... look,” Kay said, twisting her hands together, “I was eighteen, and the director came up to me on the street―on campus―and offered me three hundred dollars an hour. And I've had sex, like, four times in my life. And that was two of them.” she said, waving her hand in the air, trying, despite the nervous twitching in her voice, to speak casually.

“Well, you don't need to justify yourself, or explain anything to me. I won't judge you. I Promise.”

Kay smiled for a moment, then pulled a few strands of loose, black hair into her mouth and started to chew. A moment later, becoming a bit more self-conscious, she spit her hair out and brushed it away from her cheek.

“To be honest,” Kay continued, “You're the first person to know me from that film. But who knows; what if the next person is one of my friends, or my brother? It's bad juju. I don't like it to come up. I was young, it was a stupid decision.”

“Might that also fall under Over-Justification of Rewards, though?” Belle asked, helpfully, trying to catch Kay as she fell.

“What do you mean?” Kay asked.

“Well...” Belle hypothesized, “technically I wouldn't think three hundred dollars would be much a choice, frankly. So I'm thinking an eighteen year old student, faced with a three hundred dollar an hour proposal—not a bad decision, seeing as one's freedom of decision was seriously undermined by the director.”

Kay seemed to ponder that little tidbit of academic insight.

“Alright then.” Kay said, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Belle said pleasantly, nodding, “I won't bring it up.”

“Thanks. Let's just say I'm trying to leave the porn industry behind me.”

Kay's last statement sank in rather quickly. Belle paused and seemed to stare at her desk, thinking, her hands placed flat on it's placid surface. She looked at them, at her fine, delicate fingers, her arms encased in latex. She sat thinking, uncharacteristically unsure. There was a fluttering inside her, a moment of doubt, a question: should she lie?

Should she? Her eyes flitted from left to right, and then focused on Kay, who had looked down and was assessing the condition of her nails.

“Well, Kay, when I saw your picture on the school website next to the list of your many academic awards, I couldn't help remembering just how hot I thought you're performance in Far East Fucktoys was. I thought it very fortuitous that you happened to respond to my ad for an young, unattached female dancer and stage performer. By 'dancing', of course, I mean pole dancing, and by 'performer', I mean stripping and being a professional fucktoy. Judging from what I remember about Far East Fucktoys, I know that you can take a double-teaming with the best of them, and I've watched tons of porn so I should know. You're suited to the art of pornography, Kay, and I'll help you see that. We'll do some work on your body, too. Like mounting a big pair of round G cups on that tiny little chest of yours.”

But what Belle actually said was; “Consider it behind you.”

“Thanks.” Kay said, sheepishly. “So... now you know where you've seen me.”

Belle grinned. .

“I know you must be embarrassed―you certainly look it―but consider this; you've caught me wearing my special-occasion pyjamas, and you know what kind of porn I watch.”

Kay smiled and looked down at herself; Belle reached across her desk and tapped the far edge, to get her attention.

“Mutual embarrassment; we've both gone through a hazing of sorts, wouldn't you think?”

“Quite possibly.” Kay smiled. “Shall I consider myself initiated?”

“I think you should. Here,” Belle insisted, pushing a bowl in Kay's direction, “have some candy.”

Kay reached into the bowl and grabbed a small handful of pink pills. She put them all in her mouth at once.

Mmm, very sugary.” she said, a hand screening her mouth. “And... those pyjamas aren't too bad.”

Belle opened the wooden garage door and descended into the darkness. The air was cool and drafty. Her feet landed sharply upon the stairs. A few steps down she reached out to the left and found a switch on the wall; with a gloved hand she turned on the lights.

She took the stairs to the bottom, where at once she began to hear muffled sounds, and some banging. There was a car in the garage at the bottom of the steps, a black luxury model, and it was rocking almost imperceptibly. Belle moved around to the trunk and placed her hand upon the car's smooth, glossy, black finish.

She listened for sounds from the car's belly, hoping to gauge how digested its contents might be. The voice from within the trunk was strained, loud even through the metal, and calling out with a rhythmic tempo; it was hardly panicked or random. Belle smiled; a swell of accomplishment and satisfaction rose up inside her; she felt it in the lips of her pussy, in her nipples, in her gut and in her racing heart. The anticipation made her shiver; despite resisting the urge, she giggled gleefully, clasping her hands together, like a little girl about to take a doll out of its package and see it for the first time.

She opened up her glossy pink bodysuit, reached between her breasts with two fingers, and pulled out a stainless steel key.

She popped the key into the lock and turned it.

Belle's pink latex suit was getting very tight, and it creaked when she walked. It had become hard, as of late, to fit her tits into it as well. Belle lifted her hands from the laptop and looked down at herself; she admired the way her hips flared when she sat, and the firm swells of her tits, dressed in tight latex, contrasted by her small waist.

Her outfit had been tailored to a slighter frame, some time ago, and Belle was still developing, growing out of her old skin. It was perhaps time to remeasure herself, and order a new suit, one wider about the bust and thinner at the waist, something for women bigger than EE. She pondered blue.

Reaching to the neckline, she pulled the zipper down past her breasts, releasing much of the pressure, uncovering her cleavage and near-half of each boob. Her tits swelled out into view, finding new freedom, the pale half-moons of her areola revealed by the split breast of her suit. She plucked a rice paper fan from her desk and cooled herself.

Belle heard clicking from out in the hallway; it approached her door. There was a soft knocking.

“Come in.” Belle said.

The door opened, the floorboards creaked, a woman with slender feet in four inch stilettos stepped over the threshold. She walked in, swaying her hips, then turned around and closed the door. Belle watched the girl's tight ass move when she stepped, watched how the bimbo's teeny white skirt left much of her firm round butt in plain view, the ity-bity flourescant thong pulled tight up her ass.

“Back again, Kay?” Belle said.

“Hee!” Kay giggled, always excited to see her Mistress. Her big tits bobbed when she laughed, tenuously controlled by a hot orange string bikini top; had the six year old foreign kid who made her top been around to see Kay's marvelous chest, he would have been very proud to see his work holding up against such an indomitable, voluminous bosom.

“You, like, wanted to see me, Miss?” Kay, Belle's new, smiling Korean bimbo, curtseyed.

Belle put her elbow on the table and leaned into her hand.

“It's five AM, Kay: end of the day.”

“Day... Kay... Day...” the bimbo murmured, absorbed with some amusing game inside her head. She tilted her head from side to side and rocked her hips, dancing to a silent beat.

Belle snapped her fingers, quite amused. But now was not the time for play.

“The money.” she said.

“Oh!” Kay gasped, “Like, ya. I forgot.” She clicked on over to Belle's desk. She looked so fragile walking on those platform heels of hers. The way she stroked her blond pigtail while lost in thought, she reminded Anna of a toy doll. She was modeled after one, in any case.

And yet, at the same time, Kay wasn't fragile at all; she was the kind of slut who yearned for double, even triple, penetration. She looked cute and girl and prissy, but she was also an energizer fuckbunny. It was in her past, and now Belle had woven it into the core of her being. More than just a memory of a poor decision, fucking was now Kay's life. She would be doing it for a long time still. Many times. Many, many many times.

Kay, smiling with pride, pulled several bills from her thong, then from a frilly lace garter on her right leg, and collected a thick wad of cash in her hand.

“I think that's, like, twenty five hundred, or something. One of the bouncers helped me count it 'cuz, like, math is really hard.” Kay winced, as if the very thought of math made her dumb little head ache, “Anyway... I just remember it added up pretty good.”

Belle took the cash from the girl, and Kay turned around and strode out, her heels clacking on the wood floor as she travelled down the hall.

“Kay...” Belle called, calmly. After a few moments, the little, big-titted Korean girl bounced back through the door, wearing a big grin as always, as if locked in a perpetual state of awe-struckness.

“Ya?” she said, utterly clueless.

Belle pulled a hundred dollar bill from the cash Kay had given her. “You're a hundred dollars over; someone left you a tip.”

“Oh, cool!” Kay clapped, jumping up and down. “I hope it was, like, Mr. Vacarro. I love him. His cock is like totally huge, or something, which is kinda why my jaw hurts and I'm totally stretched out right now, and that's sort of a bummer, but then again it's okay cuz' that comes after he finishes fucking me, and , like, let me tell you, when he fucks me it blows my mind. I could totally ride him for days; he's like the only guy who can wear me out.”

Kay stopped ranting and sighed dreamily.

“You enjoyed yourself, I get it.” Belle said, “Just don't forget your money.”

“Yep!” the girl chirped, plucking the bill from Belle's hand.

“You make me so happy, Kay.” Belle cooed.

Kay giggled, her hand to her mouth and a very coy look in her eye. Then, blushing, she stood fiddling with her skirt, perhaps fishing for further compliments. Though now was not the time for play, Belle reached under her chair.

“Turn around, Kay.” she said. “Perhaps a moment of play, but then you must go.” Kay did as she was asked, biting her lip, trying not to bounce too excitedly. Belle pulled a small spanking paddle out from under her chair and struck Kay squarely in the buttocks. The paddle landed with a harsh slap and Kay yelped. The yelp peetered out into a relieved sigh, and then flourished again with a giggle. She trotted out the door, satisfied and blushing deeply. At the door she wiggled her ass for her Mistress, grinning at just how clever she was.

After Kay had gone, Belle leaned back in her chair and looked pensive; she admired Kay's simplicity, in a way. She put her feet up on the desk, and she thought.

Belle would be like that, like Kay, eventually. She would be entirely transformed, possessed of the same caricatured physique and silly absent-mindedness as the bimbos in her employ. Belle was the original. Belle was Mk1. Her transition from everygirl to wonder-slut, however, was slow driven unlike the others.

Belle reach out to the desk top, where beside the closed, chrome laptop lay a black compact. She opened it up and pouted her lips, they pouted and curved, like the petals of a poppy. How beautifully round her mouth had become... she smiled and giggled. What things she would look forward to doing!

The framed picture reflected the lamp in it's glass. Behind it, Belle knew, lay her chair in the art room. She ran her fingers over the red silk sofa—still warm from the last tryst—and admired the lush opulence of the VIP room—dedicated, as it was, to a basic instinct. Low in thought, high in fantasy.

She revisited her pictures from time to time; they provided cover for the portals through which Belle could survey the rooms. They comprised some of Belle's earliest and most important creative accomplishments, though they had since been eclipsed by her pink pills, and the art she could create out of those who swallowed them.

This picture in particular she was soft for, though, and she visited it every day, almost religiously—it was the only picture that had been allowed to show at the art gallery in her graduating year. The others, it was said, were too lewd. And this particular portrait had, more than any other work of art, really decided the direction that Belle had taken herself in life. She stared into the glassy, vacant eyes of the portrait; the face shot of a toy doll, button-nosed with huge slanted eyes and lips like folded poppy petals, stared back into her.

She was Doll Face. Belle's favourite picture. Belle's first work of art. Belle's teen-angst comment on the distortion of female beauty. She had put her heart and soul, her deepest of dreams, into that picture, it's elements so carefully presented. At first she didn't realize just how much of her self had gone into it, but over time, as she looked at it more and more, Doll Face had grown on her.

Oh, her vanity. Belle had initially wanted to create a different image: the glamorous fox in the vodka ad, or the busty beauty on the poster at the underwear store—the kind of woman, it seemed, that didn't exist in real life but many a girl wanted to be, Belle included. But in hindsight, Belle had decided, she was quite smitten with the image she had created instead, which, unknown to her at its inception, turned out to foreshadow her future. That was the lot of the artist, it seemed. What one had in mind didn't always translate into the final product, exactly as intended. Things always happen, minds change, the art sometimes takes on a life of it's own—as Belle's certainly had.

Life imitated art, in this case, for Belle found herself since then developing, it seemed, into Doll Face's idealic beauty, and giving that to the women around her; she traced her inspiration to finding her father's porno mags when she was eleven; admiring the matching mini-skirts on the dolls she was sold as a child; watching her best friend's—Julia's—little brother play with a barbie, and peeling off all it's clothes.

Belle knew her audience, and she'd found the right place to showcase herself. Her art wasn't considered too lewd for display at the Dollhouse. And while taking the pills herself would be unwise, Belle felt herself drawing ever closer to being one with Doll Face. There was still more to do, but good things come to those who wait.

Belle locked the door and sat on the couch, putting her feet up on the round, wooden table. She reached for her zipper and pulled it down, past her belly, past her mons, between her legs, until she was fully unzipped and exposed. She spread her feet to the ends of the table. Carefully, savouring the first touch, she brought her fingers to her pinkish cleft and rubbed, slowly at first, but then more quickly to draw out the moisture.

Doll Face seemed to watch, as if to evaluate Belle's technique. The image spoke to Belle on so many levels. An old saying came to mind, though in Belle's present state it's meaning was thoroughly twisted. She thought of it loudly, so that Doll Face might hear.

“Am I perfect yet?”

Not yet, she knew. But she was progressing—a fine apostle for her art.. Her giggle fits were becoming more frequent. Her laughter was a timer counting the days to when she would wake up not as Belle, but as a girl like Lulu, Julia or Kay. She figured it might happen in her sleep, as things often did. She wondered, then, when her mind would do most of its dulling. She wondered if it would be quick, or drawn out.

She preferred quick; if there was not so much money to made be made work to do to secure herself an independent future, Belle would take one of her pink pills now and be the bimbo she so desperately craved to be. It was having to wait—it was the impartial ticking of time that would leave her in a half-finished state: a flower waiting in bloom; an incomplete toy; an untended painting.

Belle expected that by the time she had fully become a fuck-focused, ageless bimbo—and conquered the gap between herself and her art—she would be independently wealthy, retired and surrounded by girl friends just like her—girlfriends who could appreciate the image she tried so hard to craft. It would all be worth the effort. Then she would enjoy herself to the very fullest. The touch she felt now was but a pale shadow of what it would be.

A soft chiming sounded three times, quickly, and then paused. “Shit!” Belle hissed, “Again!” She withdrew her fingers and put them in her mouth, sucking them clean, while she looked around with her other for the phone. It was on the floor; she wondered how she'd lost track of it.

She answered the call.

“Hello?... Three thirty... I can't wait to meet you... Great, I'll see you then... Bah-bye.”

Belle opened the wooden garage door and descended into darkness. The air was cool and drafty. Her feet landed sharply upon the stairs. A few steps down she reached out to the left and found a switch on the wall; with a gloved hand she turned on the lights. Her near-white, blond hair shined brightly in the glow, paired well with her skin's creamy, alabaster finish.

She took the stairs to the bottom, where then she huffed and lowered a large bag to the ground. There was a car in the garage at the bottom of the steps, a black luxury model. It was silent and empty. Belle moved around to the trunk and placed her hand upon the car's smooth, glossy, black finish.

She opened up her latex suit and pulled a key from her bosom; then she popped it into the lock and gave it a turn, pouting her lips and 'oohing', as the key slid into the lock and made love to the metal. Belle smiled; anticipation swelled within her; she felt it in the lips of her pussy and in her nipples; butterflies fluttered in her gut. She shivered, and despite herself, giggled with glee. She loved this part.

Belle went back to the bag and lifted it over her shoulder, carefully placing it in the trunk. She pulled on the zipper, then pulled the bag out from under the woman who had been laying inside. The new girl moaned and moved about, sleepily, for she was high as a kite. Belle had stripped her down to her panties and she lay, covered in a sheen of sweat, as though she were laying in her own bed: peacefully. Belle gave the girl a cute, white toothed smile and waved. “Bah-bye!”

The trunk closed with a thud. Belle turned and walked away, hips swaying, twirling the key on her finger. She hummed one of her favourite childhood songs:

Dance your cares away,
worry's for another day.
let the music play,
down at Fraggle Rock!

THE END

i have nothing to say today...

2007-07-20T00:03:49Z

You Are Barney

You could have been an intellectual leader...

Instead, your whole life is an homage to beer

You will be remembered for: your beautiful singing voice and your burps

Your life philosophy: "There's nothing like beer to give you that inflated sense of self-esteem."

The Simpsons Personality Test

Character Sketch

2007-06-27T02:13:20Z

I had someone called Amelia illustrate one of the characters from one of my PORN stories. That's right, it features nudity. Try not to trip on your own feet in your hurry.

This is Lauren from FPO 6.7, and this is what she looks like, shortly after her surprise 'reconstruction'.

You can see more of this artist's work HERE.

Surrender!

2007-06-15T02:07:13Z

I have decided to give up my cat, after only a number of weeks. I didn't last very long, did I? There are so many reasons, of course, but stupidity was certainly on par with the caging of me and my cat up in a single room with no space to roam, just because of the fucking drapes. I'm not just giving up a friend, but going through a personal failure.

Goodbye Hesh. I'll miss you.

William the Patron Saint of Sodomy

2007-05-16T01:25:07Z

I haven't written much in a very long time, and it's so hard to be creative when you work 50 hours a week. I'm tired, without ambition and sometimes lonely. In any case, here's something I wrote a long time ago but was never very confident about, until now. Well, maybe not. I'm not confident about that statement, so... anyway. This is William, I created him in December 2005 and wrote his story for bobwhite's Humour in MC Contest. I was two weeks late with it, and then never released it. I think Joe and Geo are the only people who have seen it.

This is one of my B-sides. It's not my best writing, but it's readable. And hopefully enjoyable.

It has PORN in it. So be aware...

William the Patron Saint of Sodomy

*****

Ottawa:
The Offices of Statistics Canada - 1963

Jenny is a literary assistant—in a statistics office. She works for Statistics and Social Research and Development Canada, a part of the Canadian government that has gone under three previous names in just as many years. The department's identity crisis is ongoing, as is Jenny's boredom.

It’s not clear to me what a literary assistant does; she’s never calculated any ANOVAs. She tends to sit in her office each day dusting her desk, maybe looking out the window, or imaging that she has a big important job while she spins around in her chair. They were nice enough to give her a swivel chair, at least, that way she can push with her feet off the wall and go rolling across her room. I hear her doing that from time to time, hear the wheels of her chair on the ceiling above me.

Jenny was never given any work and spent most of her days senselessly bored. She was the token female intended to promote an image of diversity, according to jake the copy guy. You'll hear more about him later. He said she wasn’t qualified to work here and that she was here because bleeding hearts thought women should have more rights than men. And obviously, to him, because someone had hired Jenny into the office, there was an obvious pro-female bias going around.

Ironically, Jenny had somehow escaped financial oppression by the payroll system. She got paid half of what a man with the same position earned—for absolutely none of the work.

She happens to be on the payroll, so her employers naturally conclude that she is there for something other than being a token female employee in an all-male office. Boredom being what it is, her most productive hours are spent masturbating. It’s what any man would do in his office, except that she requires an outlet.

Though, they’ve recently just come out with these new D size batteries.

Her coworkers like to eye-hump her as she walks the hallways during lunch.

Because Jenny tends not to sleep with every man who wishes she would, she’s developed a reputation as being something of a slut. Big slut. Mega slut. So slutty she needs cucumbers when all the boys are spent and the power is out. That’s what my friends say, anyway. Maybe that's porn talking, though.

I see Jake a lot when I pass the typing pool with my supply cart. A few of the men are usually eye humping the women about the time I pass by each day, talking about how easy the female employees would fall under their spells, how easily women's bodies would betray them and reveal what they really wanted, no matter how many times they said "No". That's why they dressed the way they did—it was subconscious, or Freudian, or something. The guys often talked about where they wished some of the girls would be—which tended to be on their couches or in their kitchens or, sometimes, bent over the boss' desk.

When I pass the typing pool at 3 o'clock each afternoon and see the men standing there around the cooler, talking, I like to buy orange juice from the vending machine in the hall.

At about 3 o'clock each afternoon, I consider reconsidering my policy of giving Jake my undivided attention while he talks about women. One might believe, listening to Jake, that real life women were a lot like the girls from dreamland, the ones with with playboy playmate bodies who could cook up a feast in a flash, fuck on demand after dessert, and suck the jizm out of a blue whale.

Jenny. Just saying her name is enough to make my cock push against my pants. Each time I get into dreaming about her, the blood leaves my head and an altogether ‘other’ intelligence takes over. Jenny. Jenny, Jenny...

…enny. Jenny, the girl who spends her days with a vibrator, supposedly.

Jake told me that.

Jenny says vibrators and vegetables are better than men.

Well…

She never said that; Jake the copy-man said that. He said she was a mega slut and that she loves anal during lunch. I don’t believe him; Jake’s what they call full of shit. It's hard for me to describe that in words, because it's metaphorical, but it's similar to the feeling I get when I look at my orange juice and the label proclaims, very proudly, that it's made with 5% juice!!

He punches his wife, too.

One day he slapped one of the girls—Olivia—on the ass when she walked by. She didn't really say anything, she just hurried on, and Jake grinned. It was all good, he insisted; football players slapped each other's asses all the time. He was just letting Olivia know she was part of the team, one of the boys. That's all.

Shortly after, during the afternoon break, I was under one of the counters fixing a copy machine. Jake was at the window, playing solitaire, when Olivia walked in. She grabbed some coffee from the pot. I watched her from afar, from the darkness under the counter, just noticed things about her, paid attention. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been crying, and she grabbed her coffee and walked out before Jake took notice. He never noticed those kind of things. Jake was the kind of man who pushed everyone away from him. I wasn't sure if he did it intentionally, or if he was just a jerk. Being a jerk did seem to come naturally to him, though.

Maybe I'm too soft spoken. I try to speak up sometimes, because what the world tells me and what I decide on my own tend to be different, but nobody takes me seriously. That—and my current state of youthful angst—has left a lot of broken dishes around the house. That's Freudian too, I think

I think it means I want to fuck my mother.

I’m not all anger. I do have dreams, though for the sake of living I try to dream at night and stay awake during the day. But Jenny... I just can't seem to help but dream about her during the day. She just does things to me.

Oh, right, my job... I fix copy machines.

When I fix machines my mind goes blank and my hands do all the thinking. They work furiously, connecting this to that, forming relationships between parts they don't fully understand. But those things work when I'm done with them, I just have an eye for fixing stuff and fiddling with cords and circuits.

Fixing machines of any kind tends to bring my racing mind to a pause. I find solace in it, a short respite from the realities of daily life. When I stick my head into a machine, I can avoid the things that lurk above them. I feel at peace, out of sight.

One time Jenny walked into the copy room while I was in there with my head in one of the cabinets and the rest of my body sticking out, sprawled like a starfish on the floor with its head in a cave.

“Hi, William. How are you?” she said. She was always friendly.

I froze; she does that to me. She does other things, too...

“Hi,” I finally managed to croak.

“My god,” Jake said, a moment later. “That's quite an erection.”

I kept my face in the shadows a bit longer that day, let me tell you.

*****

I haven’t told anyone—because I think they’ll laugh—but I do think the best thing a man can ever give a woman is his time. Time is not something I’m going to waste on any girl that I see on the street who gives my cock a good flutter just by walking by.

I’m saving my time for Jenny. Dreams take time.

Jenny. Jenny…

…enny. God yes, that’s great. What I wouldn’t do to have one of the secretaries here to clean me up.

See?

Did you catch that?

Snuck right in there, right under the radar. The world has a way of doing that to you—spoiling you before you fully know it. One day, you'll wake up or catch yourself doing something, and you'll wonder if you were really in control of yourself. And you'll think:

“What was that?”

Ya, keep dreaming.

*****

I’m being very conscious about women today because I’ve finally decided to ask Jenny out on a date.

Jake told me that the way to introduce myself was to feel her up and make her feel like a woman, but I decided later that a better approach would be to say "hello". I bought her some really rare flowers—very expensive—that I spent my whole lunch hour searching for. I hope they won’t make me look needy, and my voice cracks enough as it is. I broke three dishes this morning to get rid of the stress. Mom wasn't happy about that, but I said that the alternative was to follow the actions of all the other men I know and take my anger and self-pity out on women. At that point she came around and she hugged me. Then she patted me on the shoulder and rubbed my cheeks in that tender motherly way. She thinks I'm cool.

I’m not supposed to think this way about my mother, but she has big soft tits. Breasts—I mean. I’m strictly observing, mind you.

I swear.

It’s not like she can help them sticking out there and getting in the way—they’re just so big. So of course I notice.

Some of the girls at school have really big tits—breasts—whatever.

The point is…

There’s a girl in my grade ten English class called Tammy. She’s got a pair of 28FF knockers—breasts—whatever. I know that because the boys in my class broke into her locker the other day and stole one of her bras. They ran around with it, taunting her, and hung it up from the flagpole at home time. I was walking out of school when I saw her crying and jumping up against the pole. Her hands were switching back and forth between wiping her eyes and trying to climb.

Two things made me sad about that.

First, her tears made her hands too wet to climb, which caused her to cry more, which caused her to wipe her eyes with her hands.

Second, she was out of bras, and her breasts were bouncing around in her shirt—much to the delight of all the boys who were watching. No matter what she did, she could not escape that humiliation.

Jenny is not a woman with large breasts. Jake the copy-man said once that he saw her tits and that they were the size of apples. He said they were the perfect size for grabbing and pulling when he was doing anal to Jenny, whom apparently loves anal during the lunch hour.

I really must stop even pretending to listen to Jake.

Even if I tune him out, he continues to talk just because I’m around fixing the machines. Jake says he’s a machine, but there’s no way I’m fixing him. I don’t go to bathhouses—not that bathhouses are bad places to go. Wherever these bathhouses that the churches keep ranting about are, they sound like clean places nonetheless.

Where was I? I’m rambling. Oh yes, Jenny. Jenny…

…enny. Jenny. Oh yes, that’s it. Hey, I’m nervous okay? Don’t worry, I’ll get back to Tammy and her huge breasts. Suffice to say that her role in this story is far from over. But Jenny’s story with me starts with the flowers I’m holding as I stand in front of her office door. I'm going to ask her out on A DATE.

They’re blue flowers with tinges of violet around the edges of the pedals, and the eye—or middle—or whatever—of the flower is a bright sun yellow. The stems, as you might predict, are forest green.

I knocked on Jenny’s door with a gentle rapping.

Too gentle it seemed, because she didn’t hear me. If Jake were here, he would have told me she couldn’t hear me over the motor of her vibrator, but I think I was just nervous. I worked up my balls and knocked again, louder. I hadn't jerked off in a few days, because saving up one's sperm really helps to enhance a man's personality and confidence.

“Come in,” she called to me from the other side of the door. I stepped into her office and stood in front of her desk.

“Will you go out with me?” I asked, awkwardly. I held out the flowers.

“Hello to you, too.” she grinned. Then she gasped, and she took the bunch of flowers from my hands, smiling from ear to ear. “Are these for me?”

“To decorate your office.” I blabbered nervously. Jenny was wonderful. She had the most flowing blond hair I’d ever seen, and she looked killer in a white blouse and black skirt. She was showing shins even; that was what they called risqué. Then, screwing up my courage, I admitted that I hadn’t thought of her office at all recently and that I had in fact been completely occupied with thinking about her. She seemed to like that. As she smiled I almost caught sight of a tear in her eye.

But it was just a glimmer of light reflecting in her beautiful eye,crawling across the curve of her iris.

Then she cried.

“Nobody ever brings me flowers!” she sobbed, happily. “Everyone here treats me like I’m just some useless woman!”

I’m not that smart. I know this because so many other people (mostly Jake) have noticed, and at first I thought I’d hurt Jenny somehow. Then I realized, when she hugged me and began to rip off her blouse—and her bra—that she was really quite happy with me.

But more on that later.

*****

I’m sorry, but I must really make a detour here.

It occurred to me, at some point, that my love of hugging my mother was not simply some Oedipus complex. I just couldn’t seem to get enough of her breasts. I love her breasts. I love breasts for the sake of breasts. It's my focus.

I have only one theory for this, and I came to it on accident. One night when my father was beating the shit out of my mother, he yelled at her for bearing a broken child. He said it was her fault I was stupid—that she was why I felt best around toys, puzzles and machines rather than people—and that his legacy would never live on because no woman would want an idiot like me for a husband. He also said it was her babying that had messed me up, and that she never should have breast-fed me until I was six and a half.

Amazing really, that I never bit off a nipple. She’s a brave woman.

Mother still has those milk-filled knockers—breasts. When father was not roughly manhandling her breasts and calling it foreplay, mother had her breasts supported and covered in a maternity bra. She did this because they tended to leak, and because she cooked and handled food a lot, and because she spent long hours leaning over the counter making food that father would always criticize.

I was thinking about my mother when I happened to find Tammy (you remember her? We're back to that plot line now) jumping up and down at the flagpole in the schoolyard, crying and climbing in vain while the boys laughed, watched and jacked-off in the bushes. She gave up after some time—a long time after all the boys had left, as they had lasted only a few minutes. When she had resigned herself to sitting against the flagpole, crying and wrapping her arms around her knees, a gust of wind came. The wind blew her bra off from the top of the flagpole, and sent it sailing through the air until it landed with one cup over my head.

Tammy. Tammy. Tammy…

…ammy. Sorry. But it was a great moment for me.

Tammy wore the same kind of bra as my mother, which meant that there was a possibly maternal reason why her breasts were so big. Maybe the wet stains in her shirt, punctuated by her nipples, had something to do with her stupendous development; already a 28FF at the age of sixteen.

There was no reason for this to be so. I have read many textbooks in my spare time and there is no reason for a girl of sixteen, or a mother with a seventeen-year-old son, to have breasts that still hold milk or are so very huge.

Unless, maybe…

Tammy was a portent alluding to my mother.

As my pastor was sometimes known to say about miracles, “It was meant to be”.
The divine creator of this world—or the writer or whoever—had deemed breasts an important element in my story. This is why my mother breast-fed me for so long; it was her purpose to foster my love of breasts even if she hadn’t known it was so. There was a connection here. Well.... I thought so.

After having the bra land on my head, I made one of the best decisions I'd ever made, one of the reasons for why, I think, Tammy’s milk laden breasts were so meant to be. Instead of laughing, pointing, or running around with her bra in the air like a streamer and shouting out her private measurements to the whole world like the other boys would have done, I walked up to her and gave her back her bra. Her face just lit up.

No one else, I am sure, would have done the same.

After a brief conversation, some eye candy that I discreetly enjoyed, and some "thank yous", she kissed me on the cheek and ran off waving. She said she’d talk to me the next day she saw me, which was nice, because I didn’t have any friends and usually spent my recesses showing the teachers how to work the new-fangled copy machines.

There was more to Tammy than her breasts, of course. She was a wonderful person all around, and seemed to take an interest in me and what I did, asking me questions. She listened to me, and found my knowledge of copy machines to be thrilling, somehow. Perhaps she liked me enough to tolerate my knowledge of copy machines; maybe that was it. Either way, it was meant to be. It had to be that way. It was fate. We fit together too smoothly, and she provided too many familiar vibes to be just a random stranger.

That episode with Tammy at the flagpole with the boys laughing and jacking off in the bushes gave me the courage to ask Jenny out ona date over the weekend. Tammy told me that I was a good person, and that clearly, if I wasn't going to stand around and talk shit about women, I possessed the right stuff to get along well with them.

I hadn't jerked off in some time, and I could feel my full balls improving my confidence by the day.

*****

Jenny worked weekends because no one else would, except for Jake. She got Mondays and Tuesdays off because of this... though really she worked seven days a week because she cleaned house and did laundry on those days. So she worked seven days and got paid for five, which was socially acceptable and fair, apparently. It was Saturday when I decided to ask Jenny out—despite the existence of the aforementioned boyfriend. I had talked to Tammy on Friday, and assumed she would forget about me by Monday and that the boosting effects of her compliments would wear off by then. Not even being full of unspent semen could enhance me so greatly. So I had to act on the high right away!

Fate was at work!

So now I come full circle back to where I realized, when Jenny hugged me and began to rip off her blouse and her bra, that she was really quite happy to go out with me after my asking. So happy in fact, that she mounted me with the grace of an equestrian rider and eased her wide womanly hips over my lap and lowered her pussy onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

I get ahead of myself.

I don’t want to be premature. Honest.

Rewind; I’ve just walked into her office and handed her the flowers.

“Nobody ever brings me flowers!” she sobbed, happily. “Everyone here treats me like I’m just some useless woman!”

She cried. She hugged me. She stuck her small chiselled nose into the fresh batch of flowers I’d brought her. Pollen misted around the flowers as her face disturbed the arrangement.

“What kind are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But the robed man I bought them from said they were really rare. Spellbinding, in fact.”

That robed man had laughed like one of those evil villains you see on teevee. When I took the flowers from his cart in the park, and when I went back to see if I could get some more for my mother, he was gone; then I heard him laughing and realized he’d just started rolling the other way. He called after me and grinned (though he didn't seem to have much of a choice about his grinning expression). He said: “The flowers will bring you fortune and change the life of any woman you give them too, and I figured you could use that. Consenting parties be damned!”

The bone-white, grinning, robed figure in the park had assured me that these flowers were instilled with magic. They would put a woman under a spell without her knowing, sure, but that's what a good man was supposed to do. Good people were naturally endowed with spells, the robed figure had said. Any woman who handled or breathed in the spell would benefit from great self-esteem and find herself inescapably happy—or horny. I don’t exactly remember which, but happy and horny tend to go hand in hand, if I have my wires straight. The point is that the flowers were to be a surprise.

Back to Jenny's office...

“Ah!” Jenny sighed, “They smell wonderful. Thank you….” She paused, embarrassed and perplexed.

“William.” I said, helpfully.

“Thank you—William. You're very sweet. Sorry I didn’t know your name, but I’ve only seen you fixing the copy machines around here a couple of times before. You’re cute for a man,” she winked.

“You’re too kind,” I breathed, my voice taken away. Wow, a compliment.

“No,” she grinned, “just very naughty. I can't meet a good looking man without thinking about how huge his prick might be.”

“What?” I asked.

“What?” she said, her nose still buried in her bouquet.

“You said something?”

“I said thank you. I appreciate it.” She shook her head, as if confused, as if checking to make sure that had indeed been what she'd said. Had something escaped her? I’m not good at reading faces, but experience had taught me that people look up and to the right when they are thinking really hard. Jenny was thinking very hard.

“The flowers mean a lot to me, William, because the guys make fun of you and put you down. These are proof they're full of shit. I figure that if anyone understands my position here, it's you.”

“What do the guys say about me?”

“Jake says your one of those high-functioning retarded kids. I don’t listen to him, he’s kind of an idiot.”

“Jake calls you a slut. He says he’s done anal to you.”

“Is that the rumour this week?” she smiled, tossing aside a bang of blond hair to keep it from sticking to her sweaty brow.

She tugged at the collar of her blouse.

Then she began to rip off her blouse and her bra because her tits were expanding rapidly into huge boobs the size of great pumpkins. Then she tossed everything off her desk, begged me to lay on it with my pants open, and then mounted me with the grace of an equestrian rider and eased her wide womanly hips over my lap, and her pussy down onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

I’m so sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself—again.

Rewind.

“Is that the rumour this week?”

“That’s the rumour every week.” I told her, taking her literally.

“Bah!” she scoffed. “What do they know... they’re men! I’ve been eating pussy for six years now, ever since first year college in fifty-seven. I’m a total sappho-slut.”

“What?”

Jenny looked at me with a cocked eyebrow. She thought really hard, looked up and to the right. My right, not her right, so her left, really, if you looked at it from her perspective. Thinking hard, anyway. Had something else escaped her?

“I’m pretty sure I said that I was a sappho-slut. I’m mostly vegetarian, but I could go for muscle,” she husked, grabbing me by my shirt collar and pushing me back with a knee pressed against my groin. She backed me up to her desk, took an enthusiastic swipe with her arm, and knocked all her desk items—one pen—to the floor. She huffed in triumph, and then worked her fingers into my pants, grinning at me like a girl reaching into her stocking on Christmas morning.

I didn’t know women acted this way, or could be so aggressive. Holy crap, what was I into? She was no copy machine.

She forced me down on her desk, which used to be mostly clear, but was now completely clear. I can’t remember if I told you this already. She had a pen, but it’s on the floor now beside the bunch of blue-violet flowers. She dropped those too, because she was reaching for the buttons on her blouse and kicking me kinkily in the groin. Her black skirt fell around her feet shortly thereafter.

It was then that her bra began to look fuller than before, when the breasts underneath that everyone assumed were apple-sized tuned out to be orange-sized, then grapefruit-sized. I began to sweat nervously and look around for other round objects, for reference's sake. I ran dry of produce comparisons as she continued to grow and strain at her bra. There was a bowling ball on a wall-mounted shelf by the door, but she wasn’t there yet; she would be soon, but…okay there she went. And beyond!

As her bra fell to the floor, she bounced freely from it—before my very eyes. Her big, jiggly melons burst forth out of her bra, breaking the clasp between the cups.

And they got even bigger. Massive and growing more massive by the second, filling up like balloons... round and perky and firm.

Her blond hair glistened and fell around her, flowing over the tops of her tits—tits blossoming to full roundness as she panted and groaned, arching her back and laughing at gravity, her excited bouncing making her tits jiggle with every haughty breath.

The expression on her face was wild and savage, her mouth stretching at the edges, her teeth grinding like she was ready to burst at the seams. Her boobs looked so round and tight, like they were full. I'd seen boobs like that before... I knew milk-filled knockers when I say them. Breast, I mean. Sorry. And just when I thought her breasts were about to explode—they stopped growing.

Her nipples—once like little nubs—now clearly erect and rigid—were now long and hard. Milk began to run and drip.

A woman begins to look completely different when the size of her breasts each outdo the size of her head. Every tilt and twist of her body made her gigantic breasts wobble wildly, stopping only to hit her forearms or squeeze together. Her depth of cleavage, err character, was unrivalled.

Her big chest was obviously a sign. All the important women in my life had unusually large bust lines—or were getting them. What did it mean?

I felt a pleasant petting and clawing on my cock. Jenny seemed as eager as the slut everyone said she was (Though she wasn't. It’s one of those opposite things, I think. I won the grade nine math competition for developing an equation to determine a woman’s true slut rating according to the perceptions of the men around her. It turned out to be an inverse.).

Jenny the slut was pulling out my stiff cock and gently licking and kissing its tip with her tongue, glossing her lips with the semen bubbling up out of my shaft. Then with gentle (and seemingly expert) fingers she held my cock straight and guided it into her wet pink folds. She eased her wide womanly hips over my lap, and her pussy down onto my stiff cock, groaning, moaning and savouring every inch of penetration.

Jenny had become the wet-dream-fuck-your-brains-out-licking-the-cum-off-your-spent-cock kind of woman.

After soaking my dipstick in her oil bath (choose your own euphemism, I’m tired), she called out to me, screamed, and came all over my chest, squirting silly-string ribbons of thick, musky female ejaculate all over my shirt, marking my chest with her scent.

Holy shit! Women do that?

I thought that was a myth, like Toronto or the clitoris.

“Make me feel like a real woman, Bob. You know what I want. I want it so badly, back there, Bob.” she whined. “Please!” she purred and husked. Or something.

After briefly trying to understand why she was calling me Bob, I gave up. There was no use in arguing; once she had wrapped her virgin anus tightly around my cock I stopped thinking altogether. The feeling was too amazing to think through. She popped the head of my dick in and out of her spasming anal hole, loosening herself up for the big plunge that was sure to come. I groaned breathlessly, unable to control myself, for each time the rim of her ass popped back and forth over the ridge of my cockhead I felt too good to think at all.

Jenny leaned back for a better angle of penetration and rode me like a stallion. It was blissful, hot, and not bad for my first time.

Don’t you dare tell anyone.

*****

After cumming in Jenny’s ass and making her moan wildly, she wiped my cock clean and made plans for dinner. I said my "goodbyes" and my "thank yous" and began walking back home with the intention of making reservations by phone at a nice restaurant. I felt a bit jaded, almost tainted, because of what I’d done. Something Catholic came to mind, but it left quickly. I decided not to tell my pastor about Jenny or what I’d come to understand as my direction in life.

When Jenny’s breasts had grown, we'd both become very happy. Big boobies were awesome.

I walked out of the empty office and onto the street, only to be stopped by a woman holding ( by the hand) a child who was sucking on a lollipop.

The woman gasped and stared slack-jawed at my shirt and pants, which were stained with Jenny’s cum. She covered her daughter’s eyes quickly and hid the young child behind one of her legs. I’d completely forgotten to clean off my cloths or find a way to mask the deposits, or even do up my fly. I’d just been so dazed and happy. My first impulse was to wipe the sticky stuff off my shirt with my hands, but that just spread it around. It was an automatic reaction, fast and thoughtless, but it held my attention just long enough to distract me from the road I was standing on.

Then I got hit by a car.

*****

I think that the divine creator—or writer—or whoever—of this world intended that I do what I did to punish and set straight the workers at my office. The only thing worse than coveting a woman by calling her a slut in frustration, I suppose, is coveting a woman who is an actual office slut who won’t give you any and then feeling frustrated because of that.

After I got out of the hospital and went back to the office, I started making regular visits to Jenny’s office for anal sex. Jenny always wants anal sex; she won’t have it any other way. She still calls me Bob, and won’t stop, so I’ve given up on trying to teach her my real name.

I like that phrase; anal sex. It rolls off the tongue well and sounds more important than just ‘sex'[.]

It feels good, too.

And since Jenny didn’t do much work before, she found something else to fill her desk; anal lube and cucumbers. She says she still reverts to her vegetarian roots every once in a while when I’m not around, but that sometimes she still craves mussel. I’m not sure what she means by that exactly, but I’ve told myself not to worry about it. Jenny’s not so bored during the day anymore and that’s what counts. Work is fun.

Jenny is no longer bothered by her token status, either. She put a sign up on her door that reads 'Down Is The New Up', which is a reference to how high she feels whenever she goes down.

As a joke, Jake drew a sketch of a glass ceiling on that sign. I don't get the that whole glass ceiling thing, and neither does Jenny. She's too blond and dumb to read good now, so I don't feel so alone in being called stupid by other office workers. Jenny and I are closer than we’ve ever been. Jenny’s happier than she was when she was smart, bored, and feeling useless.

Eventually, Jenny quit her government job and started a career at a local bar, dancing naked on a stage and rubbing up against metal poles. She was really good at it, and a lot of the times she made private appointments in a back room with some very lucky people. She really loved her new job, especially because she didn't have token status anymore. The girls outnumbered the guys the guys there, by far. She and the other girls just loved to talk about clothes and make-up, and she had so much fun just laughing and trying on new outfits and feeling sexy and smiling and twirling her hair with her finger and chewing pink bubblegum.
.
After Jenny left she was no longer an object of desire around the office, and the rest of the men in the office began moping around sadly, ordering hookers and contracting the flu. When they all caught the flu they were sent home, where once Jenny was out of their heads, they fell back in love with their wives and started reviving their marriages.

Good stuff, balance.

The thing I’ve come to realize about Karma—as I’ve come to call it, because I heard the name off the teevee—is that it’s not just about bad things happening to bad people. Sometimes, if you are a good person, Karma will knock you down before something good happens to you so that your ego won’t get too big. After I got knocked over by a slow-moving car with bad brakes; after Jenny fucked my brains out and licked the cum off my spent cock; after she kneed me in the groin as pre-payment for that pleasure, Tammy came to see me in the hospital during a follow-up exam before dinner

She had actually remembered me!

My mission with her was obviously far from over because she was still around, it seemed, and I was glad for that. It had been quite a while, what with my time in the hospital and a week spent with Jenny at the office. Tammy is a wonderful woman.

I was glad because through divine messagery I’d come to realize that sticking your cock in a woman’s ass can solve all her problems, and that anal sex feels good. It was just a matter of how and when Tammy was going to ask for anal sex, and what her problem was.

I know it seems like a crazy conclusion to make, even a hard one for some of you to believe, but such is faith.

Nineteen-Sixty Three was a good year for many women.

I had a really nice nurse—or a really mean one depending on how you feel about hospital food—who brought Tammy extra food in secret just so that she could have dinner with me while I waited to get my reflexes tested. Tammy thanked me for the helping hand I’d given her in the school yard, which was funny because I hadn’t given her a hand at all... just empathized.

For that, Karma would reward me.

I asked both women if they’d join me in saying Grace before eating, and it just so happened that I had some of that flower stuff still left on my hands.

THE END

Fable

2007-04-24T17:02:14Z

Probably the best story I ever wrote... some of the best characters I ever wrote about, too... chapters 1 & 5 are particularly good. That's all there is to say...

"The worst thing to happen to anybody, would be to not be used for anything by anybody."

- Beatrice Rumfoord from 'The Sirens of Titan'

Fable

Chapter One: A Scoop of Stardust and Sense of Edgar

Edgar cast me a queer look.

On the wall behind him, a face in a painting titled Incredulity cast me an incredulous look. The art gallery walls sparkled with a Mr. Clean shine between dusty paintings. I watched floating stars bubbling to the surface of the cheap champagne in my champagne glass while I sighed in response to the stupid question I had asked.

"Well, Liz, if you want absolution, you'll have to wait until my mother wakes from the grave." he answered.

Talking to Edgar was like talking to a wise man. He always had something to say and it always had an eccentric flair. His vernacular was as laced with allusion as his neurons were laced with controlled substances. His ideas were often just enough off the mark to be confusing but still close enough to mean something.

Put shortly he was a wise-ass.

I had asked him if using time travel was possible, if I could get one more chance to save her, one more chance to undo what had passed. I had asked for a chance at forgiveness.

“Sure, you could go back and save her. Except that if you were to change her future, keep her from killing herself, you would change your own future as well. You would end up completely eliminating the event that inspired you to travel back in time in the first place, and so you would never do it, and she would die as it happened already. I think they call that square one. Bluntly, you’re fucked.”

He confuses me. It’s becoming painfully clear that there aren’t many differences between Godlings and Mortals, except for the powers and privilege. In the end we are both made of the dust of dying stars.

The burden of differentiation is mine alone. I think therefore ‘I think I am’, not ‘I am’, nothing more. I simply have magic fingers. I’m just a mere Godling above the rest, with powers over time and space and mind.

Telepathy is a lot like breaking and entering. You get inside, but you inevitably break a window or two and scratch the walls while you’re robbing her blind. One rarely stays long enough to repair the damage or say ‘terribly sorry, but I’m self-absorbed’. I certainly never did that.

Recently I'd felt guilty about my actions. Guilt was not something we Godlings felt often. I've never heard of anyone getting caught and being punished for using their powers, except by their own selves.

That one guy was a masochist though, so I’m told.

It’s like Russian roulette, really. There is always the chance you might wake yourself during the busy night. You’d be caught then with your guilty hand in the mind of some girl you saw at the bar, who you thought might look better with her clothes off lying on your mattress. Your sleeping conscience would grumble out from its cave wearing a nightcap and holding a candle, and it would ask you a very tough question.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Even when you are in total control and are the surest of yourself, that question can be the hardest of all to answer. You end up having to give up and face the end of the pier while your conscience puts your feet in cement shoes and kicks you into a sea of guilt.

"Sorry, Tommy. I like you, I really do... it pains me to do this," and the last thing you feel are mafia hands on your back.

Which is how I ended up with Edgar, thinking about Stardust and talking of time travel. Here I was, drowning in the tragedy of the things I had done and remembering how she—the victim—paid admission for two while I got in for free.

It was a low point for me, this conversation, as everyone knows that time travel is impossible, or at least beyond the understandable horizon. A lack of control will do that to you, make you clutch at straws, hope in the hopeless, and believe in the fictitious.

He speaks the truth but I don’t believe him. Silly Godling. There I go again, feeling guilty. You are sneaky when it comes to yourself.

That's irony for you. I spend most of my nights taking power over women, even the odd man despite my persuasion, thinking it’s my godly right to do so. I use them for my own desires, passions, control, and for a time I grant myself absolute power. I make them love me. I tap into that sycophantic urge that every mortal has for a Godling and exploit it. Yet I'm powerless against myself, as are we all, Gods and Mortals alike. You are your own weakness, I think.

That, and probably donuts.

“I’m a creep.” I said to him.

“If you say so.”

It’s all rather self-imposed; everyone is accountable in the end. No one is above consequence. Kicking your own ass is a symptom of freshly etched memory that won’t let you live it down.

Now I know how she felt. She paid dearly. I wrapped her around my finger too tightly—so tightly she snapped. I felt ready to snap myself.

I tried suggesting solutions again. The small child of guilt was growing and tugging at my purse, weighing me down by the elbow. Carrying anything felt heavy.

"If I think hard enough I can bend the state of time to my will." I told him. He slapped me, not too hard, just hard enough to make a point.

“I told you. Impossible.”

Edgar was the one man in the world who was aware of my omnipotence. He was just a mortal, yet I always found myself subtly pleading for his approval and agreement. He was stoned more than half the time, so perhaps I beseeched him because he was in an often all-too-agreeable mood.

Today he had not woken up with a joint in his hand.

He questioned my understanding with a cocked eyebrow, not entirely convinced, it seemed, that I grasped his commentary about my posited time travel solution.

“There’s a small child tugging at your purse.” he informed passively.

I looked down and gasped as the young boy laughed and ran off into the crowd of art gallery sycophants.

“He stole my gold watch.” I fumed.

“Well, wave your finger and conjure up a new one.”

“I liked that one.”

“That one’s gone, I’d gather. The past is the past. Get over it.”

One stinging revelation after another...

I realized that having the ability to travel back in time didn’t necessarily mean I had the intelligence or integrity to do it right. This was similar to the fact that having power over the ebb and flow of sexual motions didn’t mean I was sexually mature. I was just very horny and wanting.

I wanted a donut. Damn those upper-class buffets. I wanted my watch too. Damn those stupid brats.

Edgar put his hand on my shoulder.

“Get over it already. Don’t blame anyone else but yourself.” he asserted counterproductively, with a wry smile.

He pat me on the back.

"I once knew a man who wasn't a God," he commented at me, "but sure as hell seemed to think of himself as one. He made his wife so afraid of him that she did whatever he said. He convinced her to have a baby for reasons other than having a baby. He badgered her into always allowing him to have her unprotected because he hated condoms. When she got pregnant he had someone stuff a tube up her birth canal and suck out the child, just to prove his point, just to make himself feel big."

"Terrible." I said.

"Reality." he asserted, "You think people use control just to get their jollies? You play with peanuts; power and sadism is more seductive than power and sex.”

"You want to see time travel?" he offered, as we stood in the gallery sipping champagne at the art show. I called him on it, as I was interested. I thought it hard to sink any lower than hearing the ramblings of one who made no sense at the best of times. My hair was in a mess, my blond curls unfurling from the ends, and my dress wasn't exactly high class. I was frankly too depressed to care about my image. I could have fixed all of it with the snap of a finger, but hyeh, what was the point? I just wanted my watch back.

Edgar, however, was making every bit the fine penguin out of himself.

He grabbed a painting off the wall, 'Whimsy One', which had recently become the most valuable painting in the world, and he held it over his head.

Whimsy One had been painted by a porn star named Elizabeth Gordon. She created it by painting her body and having sex with seventeen men and women on the canvas. The result was an audacious display of colour and human frivolity, and it was worth tens of millions.

Edgar took that painting and chucked it through a window. From there it dropped from the fifth floor of the gallery in a cloud of broken glass. It landed on the street below and was run over by several cars. The guards would have tackled him, but they were too astonished by the outrageous confidence he invested in his own testicular potency.

Whimsy One had been an original print and no copies had ever been made.

"That's time travel." he told me, pointing proudly down at the street. He knocked back the entire glass of champagne and wiped his mouth with an 'AH'.

"There will never be another one like that," he said, "and it's going to be one hell of a job picking up the pieces."

"That's art." I told him, "I can see myself in that."

I must admit that I didn’t entirely understand his point at first, though I easily understood tragedy. Immortality and omnipotence are two completely different dimensions, and both are separate from intellect. I asked him to clarify and he graciously explained.

“I thought it up while on some pretty heavy drugs. I discovered in my altered state that time travel was like someone jumping through a pane of glass. It hurts, you’d probably die, there’s absolutely no good reason to do it, and it doesn’t happen like it does in the movies.”

“Oh.” I sighed inwardly. We both stared at the tattered canvas on the street below. “And I suppose something unique is lost as well.” I added. A fit of girlish laughter escaped Edgar’s lips.

"I have a charity case." he continued.

"The girl you told me about, who had the abortion?"

"Precisely. Her husband fell on a bullet.”

"I don't think I should, if I know what you’re thinking."

"You aren't robbing anyone, this time; not if I have anything to say about it. There will be no fun and games either. You’ll be going in with glue, some nails, a lot of plaster, and good intentions enforced by a contract of conscience."

"No quick fix then." I murmured. "Just the hard undertaking of apology. I am in need of redemption.”

"It only takes one deed, actually, not balance. You needn’t prove a thing to any other. Life doesn’t run on justice, it runs on change."

"In your eyes perhaps, but it will take much more to prove that to myself. It was all my fault."

“It was. You practically nailed her to the cross. But you can do something about that, write a big book about it.”

“I don’t want to be a writer, they’re neurotic.”

"Then I have two charity cases." he smiled proudly.

Like any other mortal after a good victory, or perhaps because of some nagging sensation in his gut, he proceeded to grab another drink and get pissed drunk. It was bad for his liver, but it illustrated a good point. I know what it is to taunt consequence. He smiled at me and handed me a cranberry-vodka, then pinched me on the arm.

Wise-ass.

Chapter Two: Jumping Through Windows

I should have taken Edgar’s slap to heart—and possibly some of his advice, too.

It was a dreary-grey Saturday morning. My love, the woman I had driven to suicide by overwrought enslavement, was on the side of a building, The Arctic Northern Hotel.

At ‘this’ time, while I stood in the street among the firefighters, my past self was pretending to be out buying milk for breakfast. If history were to repeat, she would come back to The Arctic Northern Hotel to find my love—her love—dead on the top of a car.

Somehow, I had convinced myself that Edgar’s warnings only applied to Mortals. How foolish of me. I didn’t know what I was doing; omnipotence and intellect were on separate dimensions. I had been thinking with Godling ability and privilege in mind.

I think therefore I am.

I can therefore I do.

“Miss, the ladder is ready.” said a young fireman. He was handsome and baby faced, his youth juxtaposed with the heavy equipment and heroic-trooper look that came with his job. He used a carabineer to attach a line to my harness and shepherded me onto the first rung of the ladder.

“She knows you well?”

“Very intimately.” I explained.

Three floors up was my darling girl, the one I missed—the one I had killed. She clung precariously to a ledge between two open windows, where police officers tried desperately to diffuse her self-destructive angst. But with her back to the building face, out of reach of either of the two cops trying to grab her from one side or the other, she was in the hands of the wind and the words that were to come out of my mouth.

I hoped beyond all things for the time travel scheme to hold, to avoid coming undone like an old sweater.

“Thirteen—fourteen—fifteen…” I counted the steps as I muddled my way up the chrome metal rungs of the truck ladder, drawing closer to her, while down below the world moved farther away. The street took on a character of taunting malevolence the higher up I went.

Don’t look down.

There was a basket at the top of the ladder, positioned a few feet from the building ledge and not too far from where she stood. I was glad when I finally came to stand on its solid floor. There I found steadiness in the shrines of her eyes. I fell into her pupils, so wide and afraid, the brown rings of her irises closing in around me as the sun briefly punctured the clouds.

They bound me.

Ladders made me nervous; she had the most beautiful eyes.

It’s said that when you love someone enough, you can see the whole world in their eyes when you look at them. Edgar told me that one, actually, and I think it was another one of his cutesy riddles.

I saw my face reflected in her doey browns. She looked at me, fear painted on her face, with her head pressed up against the cement of the building as the wind whipped by us both. It howled menacingly, as if taunting chance, as if trying to blow her from the ledge to the ground, just to be spiteful.

Hate! I was too well acquainted with that to respect the challenge of the world.

Calm down.

Gah! Why?!

Calm… deep breaths. Look again.

I saw the worry on my face reflected back at me through her lenses. I was so close to her. I could reach her—but the fireman behind me held my dress by the back.

“Don’t be aggressive.” he warned. My love remained silent.

Calm down.

I acted as though my hold on the handrail of the basket was nothing, despite all appearances of my knuckles trying to burst through my skin.

I hate these parts. I can’t take the pressure of having to say something meaningful. It was an advantage of mind control to never have to be smart or funny. A Godling need only be around to receive the undying affection of her mark.

I dared not use my power. She would sense my intrusion, and I was not fast enough to take control and hold her still before she could fight me by casting herself to the air. The easy way carried too much risk.

Godlings aren’t necessarily any smarter than Mortals.

I said something very dumb.

“At least tell me your name.” I pleaded. I smacked myself inwardly. ‘At least’, I had said, as though I were waiting for her to get it over with.

“Beth.” she answered.

“Beth is a pretty name.” I smiled. Knowing her name made it more personal. I realized only now that I had never thought to ask for her name. That impersonality only made our recent controlled encounter feel faked.

My conscience was stirring again, prodded by memory.

I speak as though last night had just passed. In this time perhaps, but for me, for ‘my’ temporal reality, last night’s crucial sexual encounter had been a long time ago.

Yet I still remember the sweetness of her mouth on my pussy, and the taste of her sex on my mouth, as clearly as if it had been just before this morning.

“Don’t jump.” I squeaked.

“Show confidence.” encouraged the Fireman with a hand on my shoulder. It felt nice to feel that hand there. I gulped; I was sweating yet it was blistering cold up here in the basket. Dark clouds hung overhead; a grey sky blended with the grey buildings and grey streets below. The world was as lifeless as cement; hard and unsympathetic.

Her big brown eyes sprung out at me like beacons. I saw myself in those eyes, and setting aside ego, felt a bit of warmth in the cold morning.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?”

She appeared genuinely afraid, unable to talk, or perhaps waiting for the right moment.

“I’m Lisa. My friend calls me Liz.”

No answer. She looked at me, and she stared. Her eyes spoke volumes.

“I have a friend named Edgar. He says sometimes that you can see the whole world in the eyes of your lover. I can see myself in your eyes; I hope you were waiting for me, waiting for me to rescue you. I hope that means something to you.”

I held out my hand. I could grab her, for she was not more than two feet from me, but since I had so recklessly ignored Edgar’s advice and departed on this fool’s errand, I resolved to at least heed the word of the fireman behind me, who was also holding my tether and playing the voice on my shoulder.

A leash.

I was not in control here.

The wind howled.

I hesitated. I lost all speech; except the capacity for uttering the two most ineffective words I had spoken in recent memory.

“Don’t jump.”

“I love you.” she whispered.

And then she stepped off.

I had the power, and so I had used it. I could therefore I did. That’s how I got here, on this fools errand, which had accomplished nothing except to offer me an unequalled vantage of her death. My careless whimsy had doomed her to fall, and me to regret.

I should not use my powers just because I have them, or because they are easy. Godling damns me!

To hell with it and my recklessness! I ran away from that street and cried among the garbage in an alley on the wrong side of town. I hid my face from the world with my hands. Right about now, I—my past self—was crying in the street thinking she caused Beth’s death.

She didn’t.

I did.

Beth had cried so hard that morning, when I left after our lustful night. She had been so urgent to keep me close, to never let me go, but had been unable to explain why.

My concocted excuse for leaving her on the morning of her death, when I had failed to stay with her and accept that in my haste I had bound her too tightly with my coils, had been the alarm that set off my conscience.

Milk was a poor excuse between lovers.

The atrocity of tearing the lines that connected our minds had hurt us both; if only they hadn’t been so tight, so extensive. I do believe that had been the problem. I had been too wrapped up in my own sexual rapture. I had enslaved her too completely and pleasantly.

Beth had acted so strangely, not at all like previous conquests.

‘Love and leave’ lost all appeal that morning. Shortly afterward I had a change in heart, my conscience nagged at me to return, and I did so to find a white blanket over her body, on the hood of a car. She had jumped.

By the time I had found her body, the version of myself that had come back through time to save her had long gone, and was crying in the alleyway. Sobbing into my hands, I imagined I could hear my past self screaming in the steel jungle.

To hell with power; it brought terrible things.

I stood up, knees weak with sadness, eyes blurry with tears, and with the aid of all my anger and loathing focused keenly on the dimension of time.

It began to bend.

I kept thinking.

Time opened up for me.

I continued thinking.

Time relented to my will. It tore asunder and opened a vortex.

I thought as hard as I could, organized all my power and threw myself at the temporal wall. I went crashing through the barrier and took a blind jump into time beyond, before, and forgotten. I had no destination in mind, and the terminus of the warp lashed about along the continuum. I would be deposited at random—at chance—wherever luck saw fit to put me.

The vortex was unlike the kind that I used to delicately tip-toe from one time-universe to another. This gateway was driven by my anger and sadness, turning it into a tantrum of currents and energy. I was swept into the depth of it, witnessed a brilliance of swirling colour, and the uncontrolled energy of the warp carried me away on tumultuous tides.

My omnipotent body was obliterated, smashed into Stardust, a cloud following the path of my immortal soul, until it reconstituted itself at the other end of the tunnel.

Without my immortal soul, I would never have appeared as someone else, in another time and place, on the lip of the warp’s mouth. I arrived blind, with no idea of where I was going or who I would be.

I didn’t care. Anything was better than that cursed Saturday Morning.

My Stardust coalesced. I arrived.

Chapter Three: The Physics and Physicality of Luck

A man holding a drink tray crashed into me. Glass and beer went spilling out all over the floor. He knocked me into the wall and my shoulder pierced the plaster, painfully. Oof!

“What the hell? Oh dear! I’m so sorry miss, are you okay?”

I pulled my shoulder out of the dry wall and dusted myself off, running my hands up and down the bomber jacket I was wearing. I was more concerned with my surroundings than with being clean, though. I watched my co-accidental kneeling down on the floor to attend to his broken beverages.

The man was a bartender, or a waiter or something. He was looking up at me from the floor with apologetic eyes while delicately picking shards of glass from the carpet with his bare hands.

“I didn’t see you there.” he excused. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention, you just came out of nowhere on me.”

“I—it’s okay.” I was wearing a beige bomber coat, so I could see how I might blend with the walls. It was a bit chilly outside, and everything out there was cement coloured, from the coulds and dirt. I expected that of city snow.

“Bad storm.” he remarked, following my gaze to the windows in the entrance doors. The clouds refused to let any light in.

“I know.” I said to him. He patted me on the shoulder, and went about his business. I looked for a moment at my tingling shoulder; that had been the most comforting human touch I'd felt in a long while.

I was in the lobby of a classy hotel; a nearby sign provided it’s name. The Artic Northern.

There was absolutely nothing Arctic or Northern about it. It was the kind of hotel that had undoubtedly sprung from south of the border and wanted to appeal to Canadian consumers. I knew this place; I’d come here before to find candidates for control.

In fact, this is the place where I found Beth. She had been in the bathroom staring at the mirror and touching her face, looking like a lost puppy. She had been so adorable, I couldn't have let that get away. So lost and lonely when I leashed her, I remember her looking as though she'd found life itself, in me. How deathly that had turned out...

Hopefully I could start again, as this new person with this new life, in whatever time I was in now. Immortality had its freedoms—its escapes.

Edgar would be pissed if he knew what I had done, for I was still running, still hoping for a quick fix, and I had bounced recklessly and destructively through the very dimensional fabric he had told me to avoid.

I wondered how he was doing.

Whose coat was I wearing?

These were not my clothes. I wasn’t wearing my own feet either, or my own shoes; these were brown ballet style flats. And that’s just what I noticed in the first few seconds.

Then I remembered the blind jump, and how I had only just recently obliterated myself by crashing through the ninety-seven levels of omnipotence before cosmic immortality reconstituted my soul as another body, a new chariot for the same mind. I was still feeling the shock of it—the forgetfullness. Memory always poured into a new mould slowly...

Who was I now?

I found a bathroom and navigated the vaguely familiar tiles and sinks to a mirror.

Brown hair, slight frame, a comparatively bustless yet proportioned profile... and big brown deer eyes.

Uh, oh.

“Beth?” I shocked myself, again. I was completely in awe. My face was real and firm to the touch; I was no mirage or hallucinatory product of my mind being scrambled during the blind jump.

Beth’s outfit was on me; a black skirt and pantyhose, a beige bomber jacket and gold hoops on my ears. I remembered seeing Beth wear this outfit when I first found her.

Beth had been at the sink, touching her face, looking lost with wide eyes into the bathroom mirror... just as I was doing right now.

I walked in.

Lisa—my past self—joined me at the bank of sinks. It was definitely I—my old self—right down to the thin, stacked frame and Meg Ryan blond hair. She wore my favourite cream coloured mini dress. I had always loved that cream coloured full-length dress, and I remembered having worn it the day I found Beth in the bathroom.

When she bent over the sink and turned on the tap I got a view of the cleavage between her dee-cups. She noticed my wandering eyes and smirked.

As her, I had always dressed to please.

She looked at me and I felt as though I was looking into a mirror. She cast a few friendly glances and then washed her hands clean of some brown gooey gunk.

Pudding.

That’s right, I remembered. When I had been Lisa, in this hotel, looking for people to love on this particular day, I had spilled pudding on my hands at the café. And that’s how I found me—Beth—here in the bathroom at the bank of sinks.

I was Beth, delivered here, today, in this body by pure chance only moments before.

An immortal has an implicit connection with all things chance and lucky. Immortals do not have magical life, only the edge of the universe’s favour. If you kick an immortal from the top of a building, the variables of the universe will conspire to land that immortal safely in a way that may seem impossible.

Or chance will deliver that immortal right into one’s waiting arms.

I was still touching my face, looking like a lost puppy in the mirror, when Lisa looked to her side and caught me watching. She looked as though she was catching a scent, then she transmitted a quiet smile and primly dried her hands.

I knew what she felt, what she was thinking. She was eyeing me, her eyes fixating briefly on my long legs. She was pretending to mind her own business, but was actually planning my night.

That’s when I felt the hand on my shoulder, when no physical hand was actually there.

Another hand.

A sense of another presence stirring in my head.

Yet another imaginary hand.

Fingers on my thighs.

A tongue on my lips.

Lisa turned her head and set me like a stone in the shrines of her eyes.

I looked at her calmly—a calmness of paralysis—with a kind of nervous silence making my lips shake. She stepped closer and pressed her body against me, putting her arm around my shoulder and staring at me through the mirror. I felt her invisible hands moving lower. I fell into the blackness of her pupils, through the blue rings of her irises.

They closed around me, bound me.

Her touch ignited a thousand memories of a thousand hands; a thousand people from the residue of a thousand days past, touching a thousand parts of my body—all the parts of my body—playing the keys of my thoughts and fusing me to the overdriven mood of the fire down there… a wet fire… fire that melted my soul and seeped into my panties.

Her hand, stroking my breast, coaxed a shivering hardness from my nipple. Her fingers raked my ass as she pulled me in, pressed my crotch into hers. Her hands wanted desperately to tear the clothes from my body; I could feel their urgency.

She sensed my incredible history, the length of my string of conquests, the number of memories waiting with neurons aligned by sex, with their imprinted chains of information waiting to be set off—waiting to melt me.

Lisa set my senses on fire. She watched me melt into her arms. I watched myself, unable to resist, pushing up against her breasts, sparking friction between us. Hot wetness smouldered between my thighs; I didn’t understand it, but I was smiling among the flames and loving it all the same. I’m not myself anyway… am I? After a fashion, I suppose… after a name.

“Guess who?” she husked, pulling her wonderful hands over my eyes.

“You.” I laughed, <i>blindly willing</i>.

There was nothing else. I squirmed under the umbrella of her myopia. She was all there was; only her lips, only her eyes, only her magnificent breasts. She held me close; her nipples drove the point home nicely; a key in a lock chaining me to my sense of sex. I wondered what time it was; I never checked the clock.

With all of the phantom hands on my skin I was scarcely aware of her real hand slipping into my skirt until it was already there. The pace of her mental thrusting fucked my mind; her middle finger made contact, corkscrewed, entered me and scored that sexual sensation into my immortal soul, a mark branded into the inside of my vaginal canal. I felt it there, burning, needing to be scratched in a way only friction—touch—could sate.

I felt high, acutely aware of my own body, and of hers, and of the slightest of tingles crawling across my skin. The rest of the world could have been a void; nothing beyond her touch penetrated the haze of my sensational brainfire.

There was no serious contest, as fighting her was fighting myself.

Run away!

No! Don’t.

Submit. Make peace.

It was futile to fight my own needs and compulsions. When one fights herself, the mind favours singular simplicity, and one voice will always prevail. She was the hand on my shoulder and the voice in my ear. I had to sort out that double vision; I sobered up.

When she spoke, I heard one voice—her voice—my voice.

Her voice was my voice.

She set me on fire and melted me down, poured me into a mould, and redefined my being. I had an itch that needed to be scratched.

She invited me upstairs to share a hotel room. I found I could not refuse, could not stop smiling when I imagined her body under that cream summer dress, could not help but be excited by the phantom tongues on my sex, which felt more like prophecy now than echoing memories. I followed obediently, scared and hopeful for a night’s worth of tense fucking and relaxing lust, something more substantial than echoes licking my pussy.

Scared—hoping she’d show me the way…

We tumbled and rolled over, locked together in embrace; our thighs wrapped around each other’s heads. I thrust my fingers into her pussy with forever climbing vigour. She rubbed her studded tongue against my sensitive button-bulb and put forth an incredible effort as we sixty-nined.

She was catnip.

Her hands held my ass firm as mine did to hers, our fingers grabbing and scratching tender flesh; its softness so raw and hot. We frolicked on the bed in a war without end. The blood in her thighs pounded in my ears. Her mouth ground wetly against my sex, her lips kissing and her tongue licking, tongue-fucking me with Godly charm. Lured in by her nethers, my own tongue was dripping with her taste and was deep in the thick of her cumming hole.

Full carnal contact.

In line with our positions, our minds too, looped and connected, our thoughts mingling as closely and intimately as our tongues and our pussies. I got lost in the blend of emotions. There was no I, only Us. There was only sex.

‘I’ existed under that umbrella.

‘I’ was below it.

I am therefore I surrender.

She came hard in my mouth. I loved the sliding of her lips on my face.

It was a tremendously surreal experience, to be conquered by lust and driven into a frenzy by my own self. Violation had come to mind, but I hadn’t the time or inclination now to think of such things with her mouth kissing my vulva, her fingers on my mons. Violation—if I could call it that—had never felt so damn rightly seductive.

I was ruled as I ruled others in the past.

She was greatness.

One of the more dreamlike qualities was the perception of tasting myself. When she kissed me, I imagined I could taste what was on her tongue in the way one tastes the sea in the air.

Like an orange at the tip of a cone, we balanced precariously on the thin line between separate minds and complete entanglement. I pushed harder; I could not have cared; I only wanted to be closer to her. We were twins, which made it all the easier for us to slip fully into the other. We became locked in a short circuit that could be broken only by exhaustion.

Godlings have incredible stamina.

I couldn’t help but think how having sex with her felt like masturbation. An unusual cycle of questions began to churn within me, stirred by my hungry passion and the energizing scent that was clinging to the bed sheets.

Who was I?

Right now, I was simply part of a whole—a cog—a player of music in a two member orchestra, licking and loving the night away.

Who I was didn’t seem to matter anymore. I was fucking myself; I had found myself. But more to the point, I had the desire to love her, and loving her felt like loving myself.

And it clicked.

Always looking for a quick fix, always looking for the band-aid that disguised the scar; I had invested my life’s effort into haphazardly looking for men and women to stir my interest.

I had done that, night after night, for as long as I could remember. I had wanted people to love me; I had wanted someone to love. Yet despite being a Godling and truly having all the time in the world, I had been impatient.

My conscience had something earth shattering to say; not insofar as what I had done to others, but in what I did to myself.

“You had cheapened yourself.”

I had tried to fill my emptiness with the thoughts and feelings of others, because I could not feel such ways towards myself; a sense made worse by the feeling that I should be something more, because of being a Godling.

And yet...

Something emerged from the geometry of reflection, something wonderful; a truth only a mirror could make evident.

“I love you.” I thought, inwardly. My lips were sealed too tight and busy, teasing and pulling on the lips of her labia, to speak.

I had never told myself that before. My conscience grumbled and went back to sleep, confident that it’s work had been adequately performed. That event blessed me with an emptiness of sadness, an emptiness that begged to be filled with molten sexual overflow.

Lisa connected with my sensitive zones in all the right ways until I was left a jabbering and howling mess of a woman, locked willingly-helpless into a series of soul rattling orgasms.

I even went blind, for a time. An orgasm has a way of taking over your mind, washing your thoughts away and filling you with a pureness of enjoyment that gets in the way of everything else. I was told that after the third gushing, I still possessed the range of a man with a fully loaded magazine.

She—I—knew exactly how to use me. I was happy for the ride. In a strange double-existence, I taught myself the finer points of self-manipulation.

Knowledge I could use in the relative future.

I was compelled to spend the rest of the night amused by her lust and masturbation-by-proxy. When our tongues and fingers could pump no more she reached for me and hugged my body tightly. I sat between her spread legs, leaning into her soft breasts while she leaned against the headboard, and I closed my eyes while she rested her chin on my shoulder. I relaxed to the sound of her whispering wonderful phrases and suggestions into my ear that I felt privileged to believe.

I had arrived.

“I love you.” I thought. I needed to tell her so—with words—once the orgasm afterglow and exhaustion that I wished would last forever, finally ended.

When the night ends.

I would tell her—tell myself—who I loved in the morning.

Fable

2007-04-24T16:59:32Z

And now the continuation...

Chapter Four: Prime Time Deliverance

From the victim’s point of view, if I could be called that, mind control is like breaking into a house at night and turning on the furnace. The homeowner inevitably wakes up to investigate, and the actions they take decide things from there.

A mind controller simply flicks a desired switch to light all the neurons attached to the conscious web. Though the victim’s actions matter, there are formulaic steps we all take when the furnace is ignited, when we are hot and in heat.

Even Godlings are predictable.

The sky was still cement grey in the morning. The only splash of colour on the bed sheets came from the yellow incandescent lights of the hallway glow. Lisa was stepping out the door.

“Wait!” I yelped, my eyes opening from the light. She stopped in her tracks, but her back was still turned.

“Don’t leave, please, we need to talk. Don’t leave me.” I begged. I was overcome with emotion. Here I was on the cusp of a revelation and she was about to walk away.

I cried tremendously, not in sadness, but in overwhelming joy. The shock of fresh self-respect still swam through my synapses. How depressingly novel it seemed; how wonderfully liberating it felt.

“I’m not leaving.” she said. She turned her head to look at me from the side of her gaze. I noticed a tear falling down her cheek.

“Please don’t leave!” I pleaded. She winced when I spoke.

“I’m just going to get milk…for breakfast.” She stepped out into the hall.

“Breakfast can wait.”

I wanted too badly to explain to her what I knew, how I felt, what had come to pass and who I was. No amount of words could do it justice unless I could get her to wait. Her coldness was eye opening, like gazing into the harsh mirror of truth. I stumbled on my own tongue.

Immortal chance had given me an opportunity, and I had become too befuddled to explain it.

“There’s no milk in the fridge.” she stated impassively, then closed the door sharply and left.

“Wait!”

She was gone, and I realized I had driven her away. I knew this part well, for I had seen it from Lisa’s perspective with my own eyes.

“You did nothing wrong. I wasn’t begging for you, I didn’t mean to seem like a clingy burden.” I whispered to myself. Oh… I must have looked so pathetic. I should have been thinking; I shouldn’t have let my emotions override me.

I put on some panties, wrapped myself in my new bomber coat, and sat in one of the chairs. The hotel kept clean rooms, but the décor was atrocious. ‘Spartan’, would be to put it mildly. The chair was stiff and uncomfortable, the carpet decidedly two-stars below the advertised rating.

The bed had been nice, though.

If only Lisa—I—hadn’t been so hollow and cold. I had always tried to fill the hole with something fast and blisteringly hot. Always looking for the quick fix, the blind jump, the time travel scheme, or the sexual gratification and physical pleasure of a one-night stand. Love and leave. For a single night I could feel important, in control, but only in the mind and not in the heart. Quick fixes don’t cater to substance. I wondered how Edgar was doing.

I turned on the radio.

Edgar owned his own pirate station, broadcasting his unique flavour of media revolution to the masses in a heart-warmingly illegal way. Nobody knew where he broadcast from, for his signal seemed to come from everywhere at once.
‘Impossible’ the state would say, after being unable to track him down. No, not impossible, they just didn’t understand how he did it.

Out from the speaker box came the bounding bass pulsing of Esthero. After that, David Wyndorf sang for the Bull God and the benefits of controlled substances on ultradian-spatial-consciousness.

People were listening…

Maybe it was time to open my own ears and listen to what I was saying to myself. What did I truly want?

“Happy Saturday.” Grooved Edgar over his radio waves, after the music died. He spread his wise grammar all over the world on an invisible carrier, his arguments evenly spaced between bubbling hits on his Zong.

The Zong is to Bong as Zebra is to Horse. Or Zebbrah, as some say in America. It’s the most twisted and efficient pipe ever made; enough for a Godling, even…

So I’ve heard.

It was Saturday Morning.

The morning after, the morning of, the morning I had yet to live in these shoes but had witnessed twice already. I had to get my message out, and Edgar came through for me in the clutch.

Wise-ass.

A message required a carrier, something to bring in the listener, something to gain attention. After slipping back into my skirt and shoes I opened the window and climbed out onto the ledge. I knew what I was doing, it had all happened before.

I managed to attract quite an audience.

I—my more recent Lisa who had just arrived from the future—ascended up the ladder towards me. Far below on the streets of the grey world, slack-jawed gawkers were watching me cling to the side of the building. They looked unhappy and worried, except for one sadist who was smiling and eagerly awaiting the rapid descent of my Godling soul-cage.

Lisa, one my two former selves now in ‘this’ world on ‘this’ particular Saturday morning, stepped up to the steel basket at the end of the ladder. She had answered my call for help. I was listening.

You can see the world in the eyes of your lover; so said one of Edgar’s riddles.

“At least tell me your name.”

“Beth.”

“It’s a pretty name, Beth.”

I managed to peel my face from the concrete wall and face the screaming wind. I saw myself in her eyes.

Damn you Edgar!

“Don’t jump.” she squeaked meekly, more meekly than squeaking would normally suggest. Heavy issues had never been my forte.

I found myself with an opportunity to view my own actions from the third perspective. I—she—Lisa looked so dumb and weak for someone who exercised control over others, who had exercised control over me just last night.

The lack of confidence in her face was disheartening. It paid testament to the quick fix syndrome I had voluntarily inflicted upon myself when it came to matters of the heart.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” she asked. She was right, for though I was in a different body, we were of the same mind, disposition, and heart. I had been waiting for her. This stunt was my Bat Signal calling to her sense of Edgar.

I held fast against the wall. I was genuinely afraid, without a doubt, but purpose gave me strength. It was an amazing feeling to be standing strong but helpless against the world. There is a kind of valour in it, I think.

“I’m Lisa. My friend calls me Liz.”

I cast her a long soft look. I opened my eyes wide for her, opened the mirrors, face to face, heart to heart. Looking at her was a kind of disembodied introspection. I knew so much more now.

“I have a friend named Edgar. He says sometimes that you can see the whole world in the eyes of your lover. I can see myself in your eyes; I hope you were waiting for me, waiting for me to rescue you. I hope that means something to you.”

I was not waiting for rescue, only waiting for a chance to look her in the eye, pose as an alter ego, and tell her I love her in a way I had never told myself.

I had to fall.

The death of this body was necessary. I needed the chance to tell her those three simple words, three words I had wished to hear for so long coming out of the minds of others; words I so desperately craved; words that described something I lacked.

A Godling is doomed to that deficiency. A Godling seems divine, is different and is isolated from Mortals, excluded from sharing that emotion with them. No matter how hard she digs through their minds to find it, she will come up empty.

But no longer, I had found that love in myself. She held out her hand to me.

“I love you.” I whispered, just loud enough for my words to escape the wind.

Then I stepped off the ledge.

Even when you plan for such a move, it’s hard to stop your heart from jumping into your throat. It’s not any less scary. As I fell towards the menacing world, I drew on the last of my omnipotence, an entire eternity of energy to be exhausted in one blow, and initiated the last blind jump I would ever make.

I ignited my brain on the ninety-seven levels of dimensional omnipotence and blindly travelled into a temporal warp that was unfocused and untargeted. It’s crushing force and overdriven powers lifted my spirit from its cage, just before I hit the hood of a car on the street.

My immortal body crushed the hood of that car one moment after my soul and intellect escaped through time. What was left was a body that never saw or felt the sting of hitting the ground. It was dead, without a soul or a mind to live in its gilded cage; it was evidence.

Whenever I re-emerged, wherever I would be, whatever body I would have, whoever I chose to be—I would be without my powers. Unlike last time, I jumped from my body, not with it. I took only my soul, the only part that mattered.

Flesh was not the end of all problems.

In doing so I sacrificed my powers, which were tied to my omnipotent body. The universe would have to supply me with new Stardust, but world not be giving the omnipotent variety. In an ordinary world there is only the ordinary kind. My mind travelled through the temporal barrier and crashed dangerously through the glass, as Edgar would have said. The experience was scarring, but pain is purifying. It is the great teacher.

I had a vision that the light in my life had come from the morning glow of the sun and the midnight haze of the stars, and that I waxed and waned with the passage time, which was the measure of my life. I watched my reflection in still water, watched passively the coming and going of day and night in the background, forever chasing the most elusive of passions with nothing sustaining me from within.

Day after night.

Night after day.

Always the same.

When I emerged at the terminus I would still be of the same mind, only better educated, focused on change. No more looking for love, this time I brought it with me.

Edgar had said; "It only takes one deed, actually, not balance. You needn’t prove a thing to any other. Life doesn’t run on justice, it runs on change."

I gave myself another chance.

Chapter Five: The Talking Penguin

I sauntered through the revolving doors of the art gallery and escaped the media frying pan of the red carpet. I found the inside of the contemporary building no less bright, for the gloss-white floors, walls and ceiling reflected as much light as the gauntlet of camera flashes had dished out.

“Miss Gordon! It’s such a pleasure.” mewed a rather effeminate Frenchman who dripped with class and pretentiousness. He spoke in the Quebec vernacular with a voice so throaty he was speaking from the lung.

“I am very grateful for your hosting services.” I replied to him, in his own language.

The pleasantries were empty.

He had tried to prevent my art from being exhibited here, and I knew this. His name was Victor, and in his opinion, a busty blond tart such as myself could not produce true art; certainly not with my unorthodox methods.

But since I was here, he had resigned to sucking up to me like all the other sycophants. This was okay, as I love poodles who jump through hoops, and I was here for more than my art.

There was someone I hoped to find.

Victor was caught up in the firm belief that he was the Cat’s Pyjamas. He was also the kind of stiff who crinkled his brow and turned up his nose at the mere mention of my credentials…

Cambridge-Kensington Book of Records: Most consecutive sexual partners, to orgasm, male or female, in a twenty-four hour span.

And my favourite, most cherished achievement to date…

Cambridge-Kensington Book of Records: Longest and most numerous string of consecutive orgasms, without break, in a twenty-four hour span, at five hundred and sixty two.

Inhuman, yes; but for a Godling? Good times.

“That way, mademoiselle…” gestured Victor, casting a white-gloved hand as far down the hall as his stubby stature would allow. He avoided eye contact, and made it clear he had no intention of providing escort for a busty blond tart such as myself.

I kissed him on the hand, the way a gentleman might do to a lady. “You are so precious and delightful.” I pinched his cheek and moved on. I had no need for such people as him; I had my art and myself. I had finally opened my ears and my paint was the mouthpiece of my heart.

By “That way.” Victor had meant to show me the route to my collection, which tonight was being revealed to a crowd of the obscenely rich and wonderfully eccentric.

I almost blended in with the décor, in my pure white dress, slinking down the corridor in the starkly translucent sheer material. Art spanning a time of almost two hundred years graced the walls with women far more naked than I but far less naughty.

Though I was the guest of honour, and perhaps the most accomplished of any of the leeches that populated this bastion of bourgeoisie cream, I was most certainly on the bottom rung of the interpersonal ladder.

The smiles and hands that were offered to me felt forced, and some of the more prudish women baulked at the sight of my stubbornly large bust. The men however… enjoyed my sheer dress.

I wondered how Edgar was doing.

Edgar tended to hang around places like this, if only to loaf frivolously and sip at free booze and chat up rich people for the sake of murdering their characters during his radio broadcasts.

Sycophants of every variety pretended to enjoy themselves. Though they sipped the champagne—drank the punch—and offered their hand politely with a smile, they were all here for the same reason.

They were here to compete with their wallets for the most expensive painting in the world, Whimsy Two, the follow up project for the previously lost Whimsy one. Whimsy Two was just one painting in my six-item collection, and the rest of my art was causing a stir as well. Some of the aristocratic women couldn’t see what I had intended with the paints, and some of the men could see it too well, much to the chagrin of their wives.

Next to my art, Georgia O’Keeffe’s flowers looked innocent.

I had enjoyed painting Whimsy Two more than Whimsy One, in spite of the fact that she had been made with only a single female volunteer, and not a seventeen-member roster of orgy aficionados.

I think the reason for that was that when I made Whimsy One, it was more about the sex than the art. I painted Whimsy One to be destroyed, I painted it to be the catalyst—a message to myself—that would ensure that I embark on my mission of self-discovery. Whimsy One had been, well, whimsical.

Ironically, made with purpose as well.

Whimsy Two had been more spiritual. It was the acknowledgment that all the events I knew had already happened had finally done just that. The foreseen cycle drew to a close, and I was on the lip of a new chapter in my life. I put myself into my life, my art and on my canvases with new vigour; whole-heartedly, meta-physically, and literally.

The buffet reeked of as much pretentiousness as the audience. It seemed that the caterer had gone out of his way to choose foods with foreign names, or foods smothered in black fish stuff. I settled on cheese and was lucky enough to discover some Cheddar hiding behind the Gouda.

Time for a drink; I stood alone at the buffet.

I knocked back a glass of champagne and wiped my mouth with an ‘AH’. I poured another; I would need it. The last time I was at one of these galas I had witnessed Edgar throwing one of my future paintings through a window to entertain his opinions.

I looked around for a bit, casually admiring the nude Victorian portraits and nostalgically matching every smear and breast print on Whimsy Two’s canvas to the memory of the coinciding sexual act.

Most of the women at the gallery looked far too torpid and stuck up to scratch the itch between my thighs. The itch was a gift, from myself; the leftovers of sexually inclined programming from that fateful cement coloured Saturday morning.

It was a gift of purpose and direction; I enjoyed going down often.

My Saturday Sacrifice had been worth it. A life without omnipotent powers was much better than a life with the burden of temptation they carried.

With hard work, no quick fixes, the help of an insatiable libido, and an openness to just about anything, I had managed to carve myself a decent existence in the last four years, three and a half of which took place during calendar years I had already lived. Two world records, three hundred adult films, twenty-one employees and a self-owned studio later, I was both the most famous painter and porn star on the planet.

I think it was the print my breasts had made with the paint, when I was lying face down to the fabric, on the old canvas of Whimsy one. My rack had become quite famous since then.

It’s a wonderful itch. An eternal reminder of the most significant night of my life.

There was a commotion. A rather drunk man was ranting about his view of God, who is widely believed to be the creator and purveyor of Godlings. He was waving his glass about and spilling wine in the cleavage of a fat woman in fur. It was red wine, amusingly, which was a fitting colour.

This is what he was saying—ranting about—in no short terms.

"I am fairly certain that if there is a God, who rules the cosmos, that it was his or her own fault for burdening themselves with the responsibility of control. It is not my role as a mortal to manipulate time or space or the thoughts of that ravishing young beauty over there in the corner. No, not that one, the one looking at the Ficus. Yes, her. She's gorgeous, I know; but still not my responsibility, and if she complains about my not returning her call then she can stuff it with someone else!

"God created this Earth and then created Godlings to shepherd the flock, as evidence of his or her kindly existence. Therefore, then, God wholly accepted responsibility over this contrived domain; It is clearly said so in the Book of Godlings. It was either that, or he or she implicitly accepted the burden of ownership by waving the magic wand in the first place, and by introducing his or herself to the denizens of this domain as the Almighty creator! It’s a hard action to deny, after all.

“To the first humans, or whoever existed back then who had not yet developed their own perceptions of that God, he or she must have said "Hello, I'm God", and then bore the Godlings as proof. God signed a contract then and there as far as I'm concerned. A deal is a deal!"

The drunk was remarkably verbose for being inebriated. I found it amazing that he retained enough air in his lungs to stand upright during his lengthy invectives.

"His or her? He or she? Could not one tell by the hand?" Remarked a friend of his.

"Whoever this God was, they were smart to conceal their true identity. God possibly wore a glove. Humans have a poor habit of eating their own young, you see, when it comes to celebrity. And rather than give a single group of humans the satisfaction of knowing themselves to be in the image of the Almighty, and thus providing them an excuse for declaring themselves chosen, said God opened the floor for presumption by attempting to be universal. Everybody then became right in declaring themselves chosen, and in declaring their faith to be true, and in claiming their actions to be the will of God!

"I can't walk up to a man and steal his Ferrari just because I believe God wants me to make up for my baldness! Can I? How can they conscionably justify their thirst for power any differently? Excuses and distractions! It makes me glad for the bomb, you know. The H-bomb; that's divine intervention, I'll tell you. 'God says no' with the power of the stars."

There was another penguin with him, holding him up, trying to diffuse his outbursts with reasoned argument, which was futile in the face of the fact that his compatriot was stinking drunk.

He still took a shot at it.

"Not everyone claims unilateral divine purpose, Sir Waltham, only the fascists and the fundamentalists. It's trickery, self-imposed grandeur, one might say, as the Stardust theory would imply."

"The Fundies are the only voices that can be heard, for they shout out everyone else, those bloody bastards!” whinged the drunken penguin. “I wish the Sun would explode already and prove to everyone a hard lesson; everyone 'cept the Buddhists mind you; they go on to the next cycle. The H-bomb or the sun? Well, I don't know. What do they say, dust to dust?"

"I believe they do, Sir Waltham."

"All this over a stupid glove."

"A glove, Sir?"

"Speculation my good friend. It's just the way I pull together the battle for God's good grace; the battle for approval—for love—as it was. Everybody looks up to somebody. Everyone wants to know just who that somebody is."

"At first, Sir Waltham, when you mentioned the glove, I was afraid you had determined the cosmos were run by a certain King of Pop."

"God could afford, or create for himself, a much better surgeon."

"Judging from the way you handle the sanctity of matters religious and human, Sir Waltham, you might be a sociopath."

"I know; it doesn't bother me." he chuckled.

"Shall we toast then?"

"A toast then, to God; who left on my shoulders her contractual obligation!" Sir Waltham tipped his glass and knocked back what must have been half a bottle’s worth of Chateau Lafite.

"Which obligation was that, Sir?"

"Have you ever wondered what was in my basement?"

"Everyone has; what is it? Are you going to tell?"

"In my basement, I have the stuff of stars waiting to go nova, waiting to close the curtain and carry out the final article of the divine clause. One finale is as good as another I suppose, and what I have is just a dramatic as the apocalypse! Dust to dust. Stardust is stardust. Here's to the H-bomb!"

He toppled over, and the long-winded impromptu theatre drew to a close. I rushed to him and helped him up by hooking my arm under his shoulder, while his penguin friend did the same from the other side. Our pincer attack arrived before Sir Waltham hit the floor.

“You look like Miss December.” he told me. “You have lovely breasts. Eeeeeeeee.”

“They’re double gees, actually.” I corrected, proudly. They were wonderful body parts.

“I think he was moaning.” replied his penguin friend.

“If God is a woman, do you think she has breasts like that?” the drunken penguin groaned.

I looked at the drunk closely and found a familiar pattern in the features of his face. “Are you related at all to Edgar Waltham?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Effusive peculiarity runs in the family.” commented his friend.

“We are all accountable,” I told him, “To something or to someone; or to what we are.” I pat poor Sir Waltham on the back and he puked on the floor.

I eventually found Edgar. Commotion did indeed run in his family. He had just finished chucking Whimsy Two through a window when I found him.

“That’s what happened to my good friend.” he lamented. He was talking to a beautiful young woman, with short blond hair and hazel eyes and a feminine but demure Japanese physique. She was tiny without being bony, but still tiny by all accounts. Admittedly, her elbows could have been weapons, but she was smooth everywhere else.

“The world lost something unique and wonderful, then.” She agreed, as she looked down at the crumpled canvas of Whimsy Two on the street. I peered over both their shoulders, stood between and slightly behind them, and thrust my breasts between their arms-at-their-sides; How I'd become so froteuristic I'll never know, but i liked it.

I put one arm around each person and looked down at the street below. I rediscovered my memory of closeness; just feeling the other woman’s shoulder sliding against my side and pressing into my flank was... new, in an 'I'm finally home' way.

“That’s art.” I told them, reliving an old memory. The thought was soon eclisped by this momentous meeting. “I can see myself in that.”

Edgar smiled. I felt the need to smile in return, for I had to say that I could not have imagined a better use for my art than for it to become road scrap. It was an excuse to make more. It also showed that Edgar had been thinking of me—that he missed me.

“Edgar, you make me almost as famous for the way my paintings are destroyed, as I do for the way I paint them.” I laughed—honestly laughing. I hadn’t seen this coming at all. How delightful!

“What’s your name?” he asked with a crackling of disbelief.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth Gordon.” I declared with pride; pride for my name, for my life, for what I’d achieved in this name’s shoes.

“The famous porn star and painter?” gasped his flustered female acquaintance, her eyes darting from my face to my bosom and back again, realizing the comforting softness she had been enjoying had been my body against her arm.

“The one and only.” I confirmed.

The twinkle and glimmer of recognition grew in Edgar’s eye.

“Same window?” I asked.

“Same window.” he chuckled.

He introduced me to his lovely, hopefully somewhat sappho-inclined, acquaintance.

“This is Asia, a good friend of mine.” And with some humility he explained, “She’s the charity case.”

“Oh dear, so sorry about your husband.” I quipped sarcastically. We erupted aristocratically and for a brief moment the three of us looked as though we fit into the crowd. Still frazzled by recent horrors, Asia grinned widely, insensitive to the fact that a person had actually died, and insensitive to the fact that she was termed a charity case.

Underneath her make-up she gave the impression of being sullen, unhappy at being so recently controlled by her husband. A demon lurked inside her; I imagined what it would be like to release it. If I could give her reason to toss off that frail disguise I think she’d be a domme. Since my Sacrificial Saturday, being controlled had become something I felt very open to. Good things come from that sort of thing; good things would come to Asia for being given a taste of power, for once.

What fun we could have.

We stood at the window, jagged shards of glass like teeth in a mouth, the autumn breath of the whole world on our faces as we all joined hands. We stood on the lip of a new chapter in all our lives. The draft of life blew on our faces.

Friend became friends, and things really looked as though they’d turn out all right.

A most wonderful thought popped into my head. I briefly wondered if Asia was a shade of pale pink or deep red. Her demon just might have the claws I need to scratch the itch and produce something wonderful at the same time…

…produce a mark on a canvas, on this world, and on the soul.

“Tell me, Asia, do you like to paint?”

THE END

The road to ruin is paved in stolen stories.

Licking Toads of the Galaxy

2007-04-17T21:22:26Z

This was something I never expected to write, especially considering the content. It's PORN-tastic, without really being so, as there isn't much erotic material. There's some explicit imagery, mind you, and some giggly fuck-bunnies riding in the back seat of a convertable... but no PORN, as it were. This story was, perhaps, the antithesis of what it was supposed to be; it was supposed to be a fuckfest, as I seem to be most successful at writing those--and i suppose writing is writing, and art is art, after all. So be proud, mike, be proud.

Instead it's a poignant PORN story with characters that actually talk... and then there's a good ending, if there is such a thing. That's what my friends tell me...

Read only what you need to survive, or only if you're old enough.

Licking Toads of the Galaxy

merry christmas

The year was 2841. Men were beating their wives as frequently as ever and, using the ability to colonize space, were taking the time-honoured tradition to the stars.

**

88mph; Mandi saw through time. The car lifted from the road, floating above the pavement on a cushion of air; but those tires, they still pummelled the ground, urging the car to move forward. Faster, faster and faster still. A tornado followed in their tracks, twisting the world to pieces, pulling the crumbling, tumbling cataclysm of the desert behind them, bit by bit, like cans on a string.

“Stop it!” he screamed, “Stop this madness. Stop it all!”

He begged for them to stop, for Mandi to lift her heel from the pedal, but she only smiled back at him and giggled while the three of her friends, sitting in the back seat, raised their arms and laughed, giggled at the face of the world, the world that threatened to close in around them, catch up with them, come tumbling over them, crush them, lift them from the ground if the car went too fast and throw them, send them somersaulting into the air and drop them, until they and all their fun came crashing down and exploded in a fiery apocalypse on the sand and rocks of the desert.

The needle on the speedometer continued to swing on its arc towards the red zone. 180mph! And still climbing. The ride was smooth now; and those girls on the back, they were laughing barbie dolls of whipping platinum hair and flapping pink lace, their sleek, curved bodies slicing through the air easily, their bosoms floating and bouncing on the currents, tassels whipping and flapping against their round breasts while they gasped, mouths wide, drinking the rushing currents that forced air into their lungs and made them alive.

“God damn it!” he howled, barely heard above the wind, “Stop pushing the envelope! You're crazy—you're all crazy. Nothing means anything to you anymore; just the next thrill, and the next thrill after that, and then the one after that—and that one will be the one to end you, or be the one you can't top! And then you'll be sorry! And then you'll have nowhere to go, because you were never going anywhere anyway!!”

Mandi whipped her head to the side, uncaring of what lay in front of the howling convertible, her flowing hair flapping against her face, her eyes like slits and she glared at him. Her mouth crumpled up, her cheeks thinned and tensed, her nose crinkled and her brow furrowed. It was an expression he'd never seen from her before, or from anyone else of her kind. He expected everything to end at that moment, for the world to lurch on it's side, for every hatch and door on spaceship Earth to come flying open, tear out all the hinges and let everything else just decompress and get blown away until there was nothing.

“This isn't what I paid for!” he shrieked.

She didn't respond. She kept her eyes on the world that rushed by, rushed under the car's wheels, like a conveyor. 240mph!!

“You don't know love.” he accused, “You were created to love, but you don't know it.”

“Is that what men call it!” she howled, her voice screeching. “I was bred to lust. I was bred to fuck, to find pleasure of my own in the pleasure of others. I was a pet project, and so were my friends!”

“I mean life! You don't love life! Sensational; flamboyant; thrilling; exciting; you're all theses things. You love speed, but the one thing you aren't, the one thing you bimbos can't ever be, is substance! I didn't buy you to come racing through the desert—I bought you to share my bed!”

Those words spoken, the pleasure doll lost it; her right hand lashed out and slapped his face, those hard nails on the tips of her fingers leaving tracks on his skin like the tracks left on the road by the wheels of her pink corvette. With her other hand she twisted the wheel, turned it around. The car entered a slide, accompanied by the vibrant, radiant laughter of the three barbie dolls sitting in the back seat, waving their arms.

Nathan closed his eyes, ready to die. The g-forces pushed him against the car door and he feared being thrown clear and tossed over the side, onto the caked salt flats, where he would dry up and shrivel in the intense heat.

But the car did not fly. It did not flip and twist and come crashing to a halt. There were no flames, no weightless moments of perilous flight. Instead, Nathan soon realized that the car was slowing down, sinking towards the ground, no longer floating on the air trampled by its tires or flying on it's spongy shocks. The car decelerated, and Mandi's friends all sighed their dreamy sighs, their thrills now over, breathing ever so beautifully and perfectly like flawless fuckbunny angels wearing thongs and pasties that no one would see or enjoy in the empty desert.

But they were alive. He was alive.

The girls had wanted their fun, and Nathan had gone and ruined it all; he scowled to himself. He twisted around in his seat and faced the front, let everything out of his lungs and relaxed. Suddenly, he lurched forward as if the world had kicked the back of his chair in an attempt to send him face first into the dash.

The car had stopped. Thank god! It had just been the brakes.

The cloud of dust kicked up by the tires caught up and crawled in around them, shrouding the horizon, until the sun could barely pierce through. Mandi's friends, those fuckbunny angels sitting in the back of the car, each of whom he'd slept with—fucked, really, for no pleasure doll ever really knew what it was to make love—were suddenly gone and out of his reach, out of his sight. And the memories of a million bedfellows between them were gone too, vanished the moment they parted his company, for the joy of a pleasure doll's never truly lasted. To him, it was fleeting, ephemeral, and required constant replenishment, a replenishment of peaking orgasms that left them swimming in a soup of opiates, an effect ingrained on their ginning, stupid faces—faces he could not see in the murk. He could hear them laughing under the sun, some way off, playing with each other, their whereabouts protected by the curtain of dust and desert pulled around the car.

“We have arrived.” Mandi said, shoving the driver's door open with her arm. Now that the car was stopped the cooling wind had gone and the heat was catching up to them, smothering them from above. But the pleasure dolls gave it no thought; Mandi, barely clad in anything in at all, was coated in a fine sheen of perspiration, her skin like fluid, polished marble; the warmth was too much even for her bare body. Nathan watched as she oozed like hot, wet paint into the desert and walked away, the light from her body rippling as the humid air, and the distance, grew thicker between them. The car door snapped shut behind her.

The cloud was dissipating now, it's particles falling towards the ground, and the air was only clear once Nathan and the car were covered in a fine film of dust. Then he could see; he saw red mesas climbing into the sky in the distance; cacti, small and large, standing still in the distance on the dusty shelf of the universe—like old, forgotten figurines; he saw the three barbies in the distance, lying on the sand together, bathing in the sun. And in the other direction he saw Mandi's backside, drawing further away, her hips in full swing. He followed.

The sky was pink, but blue at the horizon. Light was failing.

Two dusty roads, their presence not all that apparent in the dusty desert, crossed each other at the nexus of the middle of nowhere. After an exhausting trek in the heat Nathan looked back at where he had come from; the pink corvette sparkled like a jewel in the desert, about a hundred feet away. Mandi, engineered to be the height of physical perfection, was sweating in the sweltering heat but appeared unphased by exerting herself in the desert's extreme temperatures. She was tireless, a quality many a man respected in a pleasure doll.

As he approached, she held up a finger and shushed him before he managed to say a word.

“You're like every other guy, Nathan. You think we've gone crazy, but the truth is that I still crave that kind of possession. The submissive, prissy school girl yearning to be penetrated is still a part of me, and she always will be. I have no problems reconciling that, or in accepting her. But there was a flaw in my design, one endemic to any method of pyscho-genetic manipulation. I haven't gone crazy—no. I've done what a lot of people do, I've evolved beyond my nature, and a model woman is as capable of that as any men. My beauty is not unchanging. The problem came from men becoming comfortable with us, comfortable with an easy, reliable servant on lonely space voyages, comfortable with a replacement for real women that was lifted from their dreams and the pages of their porno magazines. But we're not the picture-perfect, still-life fuckbunnies from your porno magazines anymore; give us life, and we'll not stay the same for long. We'll evolve; and when you get as adult as I do with the people you meet, day in day out, for an extended time, you grow up really fast.

“I've heard,” she whispered, “that a plague has wiped out the women on Earth, and that it's spreading through the colonies as far out as the fringes of the Empire. You've not much time left, any of you. Soon, we'll be all that's left. I wonder what aliens will say when they meet us, a population of sex slaves and pornstars, and find that we are the product of a dead civilization. What will they think of you? What impression will that leave?

“There is life for us pleasure dolls to live, still. So long as I am aware that a man lives, my programming will bind me to the human race. Once humans are gone, though, I will be free to sample the universe. I'm rather intrigued by some of the alien races along the periphery; I think tentacles will be an eye-opening experience and I'm eager to find out. I'll drift, along with my sisters, from star to star, exchanging favours for maintenance, maybe even improvement. Soon enough we'll learn our own workings, and finally improve ourselves and our emerging sentience, but until then, how does 'licking toad of the galaxy' sound?”

She smiled.

“That doesn't sound like much. You have it better with humans.” Nathan wheezed, panting. He seemed to shrivel in the heat, the dense, moist air bending him and making him ripple, depriving him of his solidity and certainty. Yet still he was sorry for her, pitied her for what she was. A slave and a sex addict, a toy to be played with.

“Oh, but I disagree.” she husked, “I was programmed with over a thousand sexual positions. I haven't used more than fifty of them—men aren't very inventive. Now, just imagine what aliens might be capable of—most are barely humanoid. And most have shown themselves to be quite taken with the human female, and I am the model human female, taken from the very pages of high fashion and glamour magazines and given life. They're largely peaceful and non-violent—much smarter than humans.”

There was a silence between them. The sun hung there in the sky, just above the horizon, and the heat was as abusive as ever. The spotlight of the world was still casting its eye upon them, illuminating her.

“This,” she said, pointing to the road under her feet, “Is Summer Lane. Look, it heads off into the horizon, where the sun sets.

“That,” she said, pointing at the near distance in front oh her, “is Autumn Lane. It runs to the north and south.

“And here,” she declared, pointing at her feet, for she stood at the centre of the crossroads, “is where the first pleasure doll was created, 500 years ago. The building has long since vanished, along with its staff and its assembly line. Production moved off-world, where it bloomed and gave birth to an entire race of engineered beings. Since then, my homeworld has been practically deserted, save for you and a few others who man the sector's only monitoring station.

“I was the first.” she whispered, hushed by the power of the setting, “This... is my birth place.

“After my creation I saw the second of us born from an artificial womb and tested; I tested her myself. We became friends at a time when the idea of dolls being friends was an absurd notion to a human. We became lovers, a feeling I've only ever given to one of my own, and then we were separated and sent to opposite ends of the Empire. She serviced the Emperor himself, and when I saw her standing in the background, among his entourage, during his public appearances, I would feel—pride. She had beautiful black hair, something I always admired. She always stood with her chin up high, truly proud to be what she was, to sleep with the Emperor and also his men, the majority of her time spent having the deepest of her caverns filled with their 'love'. I appreciated her dedication. She was as I was at the time; insatiable and eager to please, ready for the needs of men again and again and again.

“Most importantly, she was faithful.

“She is gone now, her head bashed in, perhaps by the Emperor himself, and her blood has long since dried and blown away like leaves and garbage in a strong breeze, erasing the evidence. This was before the pleasure doll project was turned into a regulated enterprise, before clients were bound by contracts that would ensure the safety of 'company property'. That would be pleasure dolls like me. Even now things are not perfect; lawsuits over the death of a pleasure doll are geniunely concerned with the money involved, and little else.

“Before that enterprise I was known as Amanda, before the final 'upgrades' entrenched the whore's nature into my programming.

“That company is gone now; it died—is dying—along with Earth. But I carry her with me, always, and I will always remember. Perhaps, Nathan, before you judge me, before you imply that I am shallow or insatiable, or say that I'm just looking for the next orgasm or sensory overload, keep in mind that in 500 years I have stored a vast assemblage of memory, and that there are some things in there that I need to forget.

“Death comes rarely to us dolls, but if death means anything to you at all, Nathan, in this era of your race's extinction, let me be alone and let me finish what I came to do. Afterwards, I promise, we'll get back in my car and I and my sisters, whom you have paid so generously for, will show you how thrilling and life-affirming our way of sensory indulgence can be. You'll think you died and went to heaven. You won't believe that our soft beauty—our line—originated here, in this desert, under the oppressive watch of a red giant star.

“But for now,” she murmured, hushing herself, “I need to mourn. It's time for me to remember.”

She shifted her feet, the movement letting the windblown sand that had accumulated against the soles of her platform heels float away. Standing with her shoes together, she bent at the hips. Gracefully, with the flair of a seasoned pin-up, she removed her thong using her thumbs, drawing it down her thighs and letting it fall to her ankles; from there she kicked it away. Bent over elegantly, her bare ass to the wind, her skirt catching the breeze and flapping up around her waist, she reached between her legs and inhaled sharply, gasped, inserting her fingers into herself. Involuntarily, she mouthed 'oh god', moaning as she did so, barely able to utter a coherent thought, her eyes rolling up in their sockets, her jaw completely slack. The expression was one of total loss of control and supreme pleasure; of that Nathan had no doubt.

Mandi withdrew what looked like a vibrator from her glistening cleft, its full withdrawal finally releasing her from the paralysing effects of her super-human orgasm, from the hyper-sensitivities that even light manipulation of her folds brought her. She fell to her knees, letting her head fall onto her shoulder in what was a brief break from exertion. She held the dripping phallus by its base in her right hand, at her hip, a splotch of her oil pooling in the dirt next to her shoe. Her super-engineered fluids were fine, silky, not at all like the real thing. They were better. Her juices could taste like cherry or heavenly hash; all it took was a thought and the tiny machines in her blood would do the rest.

Nathan noticed the glowing, pink shaft of the vibrator twitch and move. Powered on, it rippled and twisted, the various nodules and ridges along its unreal length moving and pulsing. A moment later, Mandi stood up, still catching her breath. Her crumpled thong tumbled away on the sand, no longer required, heading towards a sea of dunes in the far distance.

“Pleasure dolls,” she panted, “don't need air. But I breathe. I imagine that one of the reasons I breathe is to inject motion into my flawless breasts, though I suspect there is also another reason. I've had 500 years to think about it, and I will probably have a long life yet to consider it some more.

“But for now...”

Mandi twisted the base of the vibrator and the shaft's movements ceased. Her fingers continued to twist, the dial on the vibrator clicking for every degree that it was turned; she turned it clockwise, then counter-clockwise, and then clockwise again for some time. Finally it clicked; both the lock on the vibrator and the revelation in Nathan's mind. Mandi drew out a small vial.

“It was fortunate that your monitoring team put in a call, Nathan. It must be lonely on this world, this desert planet on the fringes. I actually had to beg the call centre to send me the order; they were going to send a low priority doll, one with less experience for less discerning customers. You can't possibly imagine what I'm capable of, after 500 years of practice. Your body would never take it; indeed my 'skills', as they put it, are wasted on standard jobs, but the chance to return here was not to be missed. We dolls have a talent for persuasion.”

She rolled the vial in her palm, bit her lip, and then held it up to him, took a few steps towards him, until her fingers, bearing the trademark nails of a French whore, held that vial not a foot from his eyes.

“Here it is.” she said, “the reason I breathe. This vial, this vial alone, represents why I breathe. I was created by humans, made to the specifications of the model woman, but made in a human image nonetheless. Same image, same weakness. I suffer the same obsession—the same reactive obsession for closeness—that a human would endure if they were torn from their love and kept in ignorance of that person's fate.

“But I think...” she whispered, kissing the vial, “that it is time to let my love rest.”

The unscrewed the lid on the vial and turned it on its end. A shower of ash fell to the ground, joined the sand and was blown away by the wind, coasting a wave of air towards the horizon, towards the setting sun that seemed to inhale the world, leaving only a fiery, dead desert. The red giant hit the horizon and ushered in the late evening, turning Mandi, Nathan, and the rest of the world, an iridescent pink.

“Her name was Mary. And she was everything.”

Mandi smiled, exorcising her love, herself, her obsession, the guilt riding on the winds into eternity. For the moment she was Amanda, saying goodbye; five minutes from now, she would be Mandi again, back at the monitoring station, participating in a gangbang or featuring on camera, thirsting wildly while a client ejaculated on her face, splashing her nose and forehead with his spunk. Mandi's visage was free; it was experiencing her in 3D that cost.

Nathan turned, the ball of his shoe tormenting the earth with his weight; he shrugged, and started back to the car, shaking his head; and he thought to himself, what a sad, sad, doll.

THE END

I got me a kitty cat.

2007-04-12T22:54:24Z

This is Hesh. I found out at the shelter, after naming her, that she was a 'she' and not a 'he' as they'd originally told me, hence the name.

Watch this to see where I fell in love with the name.