Bimbofication Stories: May 2018

A shaft of light shot through the dark, slicing it open like a surgeon's blade, letting the colour of everything touched by the light bleed through the shadows. A girl emerged from a fallow, unilluminated field and crossed over into the school's property through a hole cut in the fence. Someways off, in a forest that was back in the direction from where the girl came, the earth and the air were throbbing with the sound of laughter and music; a dorm party was blaring, exploding and sizzling among the trees. The girl, having come from the party, had left with the desire to shed what sizzle from the festivities had stuck to her, like so much semen or smoke or dried sugar. She pushed her thumb forward, snuffing the bulb in her flashlight. What light the torch had brought into the park was snuffed accordingly, returning the six-bench, barely-lit plot of pathes and bushes to something more like its usual self: a dark, dank and wet grotto. Condensation dripped from the tips of dead leaves clinging to nearby tree branches.

Wearing the pair of shoes that clopped along in the mud was a young girl with black hair cut just below her ear line, brown eyes, thin pale lips, a soft chin, boney ankles and breasts slightly smaller than pear halves, with nipples akin to small nubs of maple fudge—or something sweet in any case. She was 15 years, 307 days, 17hours, 23 minutes, 16.239 seconds old. She was 5 feet, 6 inches, 1 centimetre and 3 microns tall. Most of her features, such as her physique and overall size, were small and unassuming with the exception of her eyes, which were large and young and bright. She was short and small, in other words, and she skulked through the darkness with a hunch in her posture, her large eyes seeing in the dark what most would fail to notice. But no, she was not a squirrel. The thin, lithe tomboy of a teenage girl brought her thin, lithe teenage hand to her pocket and put the flashlight away.

Amy crossed over into the school's private campus and stepped out of the bushes and onto the path, the heel of her shoe striking the cobblestones sharply, and then poured out of shadows and into the dull light of the moon. She straighted up, adjusted her pink cardigan in the cold, autumn night, and then walked out under the stars and the burning autumn trees, feeling very small under the sparkling, cosmic majesty of the night indeed, while the legs of her baggy jeans slapped unmajestically together with each stride. There was only one thing on Amy's mind as she walked in the direction of the girl's dormitory at the Bennington's School for Young Women.

Spending the night on her bed, sinking into the soft mattress, covered by a set of warm sheets.

She hurried up to the front door of the dorm, pushed her way through the entrance, entered the lobby and called the elevator. She stood there tapping her toe of her shoe on the persian carpet as the lift made its way to her level. When the display claimed that the lift had arrived, the elevator lights blinked six times and fizzled. There was no longer any power to the shaft.

Amy exhaled, blinked six times, and then after a short time of looking at her reflection in the chrome elevator doors, decided to take the stairs. It was, though her mouth failed to enunciate what she was thinking at the time, much too late for her to deal with broken down elevators. She was far too busy dealing with broken relationships and other teenage drama.

But the climb up the stairs was not the only obstacle between Amy and a smooth transition from the outdoors to her bedroom. Upstairs, on the third floor of the dorm, she walked up to her room and unlocked the door, only to find that someone had broken into her room. More strangely, they hadn’t stolen a thing, instead choosing to leave a pair of translucent, pink platform heels by the door. The shoes looked as though they had been forged from glass, but upon closer inspection turned out to be a combination of soft gel and hard and soft plastics. Decent looking, but rather cheap when one thought about it.

Nonetheless, the presence of the attractive and elegant pair of shoes was inexplicable. This quieted Amy with a sharp sense of foreboding and disbelief. This was especially so when one considered that she had just moved into the dorm room two months ago and most of her possessions were still packed into boxes, which would have made carrying them off all the more easier for any theif.

But if not a theif had entered her room, then who?

Amy was worried that she had somehow come into the possession of a pink, glittery pair of Trojan horse. Only she doubted that small plastic faeries with pink wands would be crawling out of the sparkling shoes at night to tie her down and take her away. Instead, she reasoned, the shoes were a 'gift' from her algebra classmates. Holding the shoes together in hand, she noticed a tag tied to one of the heels; it read 'Congratulations on your score'. Amy frowned and trembled, until eventually she managed to crack a smile and sputter and laugh. It was forced. She was trying to prove to the nearby flies and bacteria who were watching that she could take a joke. She leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, unable to stand or properly breath. Eventually her episode passed.

She looked at the slippers once more and, after checking around her room again to make sure that nothing had indeed been stolen, decided to ignore them for the rest of the night. She dropped them on the floor and rubbed her temples. If she didn’t look at the shoes, she reasoned, they didn’t have to exist.

It occured to Amy that, perhaps, two months was long enough to wait before fully unpacking for a ten month school term. Her room was a patchwork of hastily placed items, put in corners for the sake of keeping them out of the way. In thoery, that seemed to make sense, but not in practice.

She sighed. She didn't have the strength to stand up.

The closet was empty, only two outfits hanging within; Amy's baseball T and ripped jeans, and her white dress shirt and green plaid skirt. One of those was acceptable attire at Bennington's School for Young Women, the other wasn't. There was some itemized nostalgia sitting in a box brimming with bubble wrap; old trinkets and keepsakes. That was in front of the closet. The television was hooked up and watcheable, but propped upon a stack of two unopened milk crates. In time it would have to be moved, and Amy had neither the strength nor care to do it soon. Order was never a condition she appreciated, and pride of ownership was an entirely alien concept. If it was liveable, it was good enough for Amy.

Surely then, that wasn't what was bothering her.

The TV was a piece of junk she’d bought from her old neighbour’s yard sale for twelve dollars, which, when she thought about it, was probably equal to the age of the child in Indonesia who had put it together.

She wiped her eyes and groaned. Just what the hell else, other than the shoes, was bothering her anyway? She looked around the room, as if passing her eyes over the objects in her possession would let her remember. Sometimes she tossed things around and left them behind boxes. Other times, she relieved stress by moving boxes and furniture before putting them back to where they had first been. Some of the stuffs in her room were bound to act as cues; in the worst of cases, they might only serve to remind her that what bothered her was the disorder of her room. Being bothered by disorder without possessing the strength to order it was an affliction Amy had not yet conquered; she was too busy, at the moment, trying to become a proper lady, in step with the maxim and reputation of Bennington's School for Young Woman; “We make proper ladies.”

She considered the thought—indeed it didn't fit at all into her worldview, something her teachers and even the principle had made her accountable for. Bennington had no room for women feeling a bit black in the wool and they'd tersely told her so several times.

She wasn't much interested, though, in a lifestyle that served to reinforce the notions that women had to alter themselves to be beautiful, that they had to be placative or acquiescent—disposed towards servicing others—or that a ceaseless climb towards perfection was the burden women must accept because, some men have said, they put those rediculous standards on themselves. Amy, unfortunately, found it difficult to resist how the winds of culture had duped her into an attraction towards high heels.

No, she thought to herself, free will is a necessary illusion.

This was probably the reason that, from a month ago to the present, you wouldn't have caught Amy without a pair of baggy, ripped jeans and a fitted baseball-T in public, nor would you have found her without her wallet and chain, or without her one earring in her left ear. A particularly erudite person, Amy had caught on to the simplicity of normative sexual standards; if you looked like a dyke, there was less pressure to fit into the standard female model for the benefit of the more macho, womanizing kind of man. She still shaved her legs, as she liked the smoothness of it, though she also understood the connection that the seemingly trivial practice had to the overall sexism of the beauty equation, which sometimes made her feel like a chump for having internalized the desire to be young and hairless at such an early age, making the pursuit of beauty an inescapable part of her life; there was a stack of cosmo-girls in her bedside drawer to attest to that. Thus, to appease herself, she shaved but never showed her legs in public, hitting two birds with one stone. The disguise had, for a time, shielded Amy from the one accusation she hated most: being called a slut.

And that’s how she remembered what it was that was bothering her. Her eyes, after scanning the blank white walls, boxes, her desk, unused closets and child-built television sets, settled upon the bubble wrap.

She sat up and crawled over to the box with the bubble wrap and pushed it aside. Lying behind it in the corner was a small black book; Amy's journal.

She couldn’t toss it out the door. It just wouldn't be right. She could neither be rid of the black journal nor be rid of the pink shoes. She wasn’t sure why, but those shoes were sacrosanct. If she was to rid herself of them and they turned out to be magic wishing shoes, she’d regret it forever. It was a silly thought, but highly improbable rather than impossible, all things considered.

Silly thoughts made the world go round, anyway. Entire empires and whole wars had been founded on them since the dawn of time. There was a silly idea sitting, even now, on the floor in the corner of Amy's room. She glared at it, at the black journal in the corner, hoping that if she looked mean enough it would vanish from fright.

That book was Amy's prized school project, a project she had presented at the Bennington's Math Fair for Women where she won first prize.

The slut equation; it was something she'd developed after a great many hours at the library, reading books about sexuality and other dirty things. Her research had been extensive and had visited the seediest of literary genres. In the process she had amassed a vast mental portfolio of sexual information, innuendo and positions. She knew several books like the back of her hand, and she would be the lying if she said that she hadn't enjoyed the material on a personal level along the way. She had read Nabokov's Lolita six times, an astounding feet for a grade ten student.

She didn’t really use them—the sexual positions, the positions she'd learned from reading books like Strange Encounters, a sci-fi anthology of human-alien sexscapades, at the library—but she knew of them and spoke often of what she knew, and that had earned Amy a lot affection from the boys and a lot of disaffection from the girls, which was usually negative in both cases. Amy managed to prove, with a degree of precision and confidence matched only by the hardest of scientific laws, that a woman's true slut potential was near totally inverse to how slutty the people around her thought she was. In fact, the more a woman resisted sexual advances, the higher her risk of succumbing to the rumours of slutdom.

That's the way it worked at Bennington, where visiting boys were a scarce resource and catfights a daily occurence.

That was how her project had worked; it accounted for variables, took note of personal characteristics, divided, slashed and subtracted away the stupidity of society's stereotypes and churned out an answer. A normally accurate answer; in fact, one so accurate and precise that no teacher or mathematician at the fair had or has since noted a flaw in its design. Her project was, at the time she returned from the party a week after the fair, still being subjected to the testing of the Canadian Mathematical Society. It was simply that good.

In the beginning, the cliquish atmosphere of private school had given rise to the rumour that Amy was a very, very, very experienced young girl. And winning first prize at the math fair for a project about the very kind of person she was rumoured to be only encouraged her schoolmates to believe the various stories they were told—like the ones about her masturbating under the table as she read her 'research' at the library. And it had been one of those stories, brought up on this very night when Amy was rejected from the upper-social class at Bennington's—as if they had been rejecting a donor organ—that had convinced Amy she needed to seek the solitude of her dorm room, away from the eyes and opinions of everyone else. The most recent rumour had claimed that Amy had kissed and felt up Miss Mayfield, the school's large breasted algebra teacher and the judge who had also marked her final paper on the slut equation. Such stories got around, and got around especially fast in loud, drunken environments. They were so especially hurtful because, like every myth, trying to counter and disprove them was like shooting at smoke. They made Amy feel helpless.

And yet, there it was, staring back at her; Amy's dirty little secret, the rough copy of the equation she used on herself written out in the pages of her little black book. She picked up the black book and opened it to the most recently editted page. The numbers, the brackets, the division—it was all there, burning holes in her eyes. She had plugged her life into the equation and received a high score. Not just any high score either, but the highest slut rating she'd ever seen anyone receive—and there was nothing she could do to change that or alter the past. It had happened.

It was never wrong. Her system had always been correct in the past. Her equation spanned an entire three pages of painstaking analysis. She couldn't understand how her equation—how she—had resulted in an anomaly within her own meticulously crafted theory. After the incriminating, rumour-confirming score she had received from her own experiment, she ended up secretly presenting her older sister's lower slut rating to the crowd at the Bennington's Math Fair for Women by passing it off as her own. Naturally, when presenting her findings in public, Amy refered to the 'slut' rating with cleaner language.

Miss Mayfield, she thought, her stomach filled with butterflies.

Miss Mayfield was aware of Amy's true score—she had marked the paper after all. Not willing to go into detail in public, Amy had soothed her conscience by inserting a description of her single anamolous score into the discussion section of her paper, hoping that one teacher was enough to both make her feel truthful while at the same time protecting her from embarrassment.

Given the stakes—like Amy's desire for a scholarship at Bennington's Post-Secondary Math college—Miss Mayfield had emphasized in her evaluation of Amy's project the proper scientific integrity displayed by her inclusion of the score in her paper, downplaying the fact that she had lied to an entire audience, including many prominent members of the mathematical community.

Amy sighed.

She let it go, tossing the black book onto her desk, where it landed next to her two latest reads; 'Strange Encounters' and her algebra textbook, which was worn and dog-earred from overuse. Ridding herself of the black book, she then walked over to the glittery, pink platform heels and took off her socks. She couldn't ignore the slut shoes, not with the tag attached to them screaming “Congratulations on your score” in black marker. And indeed, when she turned the tag over and looked at the rear face, it was signed by none other than Miss Mayfield herself. If Amy was to accept the shoes as the cute joke Miss Mayfield had probably intended, she reasoned then that she would have to exorcise them—wear them at least once and smile about them.

She balanced and slipped her feet into the platform heels, rising four inches in the process. Bending her knees to twist and pose with the shoes on, she briefly admired the way they shaped her feet, and the bright, almost excessive indulgence of their colour. It was enough to make the young highschool genius tingle. Placing her hands on the window sill and looking up at the moon, she clicked her heels three times and made a wish; she wished for her prize project, her equation, to tell the truth.

“No mysterious anamolies.” she whipsered, “just cold, hard fact.”

She backed away from the window, kicked off the pink slut shoes and climbed into her bed, hoping that the next morning would be brighter and far more self-affirming. She settled into her mattress, her thin body sprawled out, her limbs tossed to each of the four corners of her bed. She smiled. She closed her eyes and dreamed. And she fell into a deep sleep.

Part 2: Amy

The girl's dorm, at six-fourteen in the morning, had not yet started to buzz with activity. The girls were not yet awake. The rising sun had only just started to shine in through the windows on the east side. And on the east side of the building, on the third floor, second window from the right, was Amy's window. She was sleeping soundly in her dorm room, and the sun's slow marching had brought with it a shaft of light that was beaming in through a gap in the drawn curtains. The shaft of light twisted, moved as the sun moved, until it came to shine upon Amy's desk, which was set up on the floor underneath a small black journal, the Strange Encounters sexthology and an algebra textbook. The book most centred on the desk, and therefore of most importance, was the black journal.

The black book was lying open, turned to a page near the middle, and in the light the paper shined to reveal numbers and brackets and equations all drawn in with black ink. The book had been looked at just the night before, but the burgeoning, teenage mathematician who had been scowling over it into the early hours of the morning had long since tired and grown weary of numbers, and had gone to bed.

The light coming through the window seemed to make the entire room shine, a shine that soon dissipated and returned to a muted morning glow coming through the curtains. The shaft of light, now concentrated, glared at the book on the desk, which happily absorbed the radiation. After a few moments, the black book erupted in flame and magic, and then reappeared as a small pink agenda with tabs and post-it notes sticking out of its pages on all sides save the spine. It was at this time, when the book spontaneously erupted into a flaming magical racket, that Amy woke up and turned on her side. After returning to a conscious state, all knowledge of the noise vanished from Amy's mind, replaced by the understanding that she owned a pink agenda.

Swallowing dryly, and with her eyes still mostly shut, she twisted on her bum and lifted her legs over the side of the bed, placing them on the floor; as the toes of her left foot touched the ground her toenails sparkled and turned pink; following that, lines and swirling stains of ink began to appear on her foot and spiral up her leg, coalescing into a tiny procession of tattooed butterflies and faeries flying circles up her calf; as her right foot touched the ground, the nails on her toes there too shimmered and turned a glittering pink.

Amy stood up and rubbed her eyes, still looking rather tired with her short, black hair matted against her temples, cheeks and her ears. She then turned to the window and pulled the curtains wide open, facing the new day confidently in her undershirt and cotton panties. The sun warmed her face and she stood there, enjoying the beaming, watchful eye of the sun on her skin, thinking how muchly she wished there was a beach nearby the school where she could be seen all day. Bennington's School for Young Women, unfortunately, was located in the middle of a coniferous forest—a hundred clicks from the nearest coastline. She fiddled with some of her lengthening hair, which at that time started to fall like water over her back and over her shoulders, taunting the upper slopes of her tits, which themselves were starting to bulge and pull her tiny undershirt tight.

Her hair, now more than ever, was a fountainous mane of platinum and blond—bright, vacuous shades that welled in her scalp had come flowing up out of her roots, recolouring her hair down to every last end. Oblivious to her transformation, Amy continued to curl a lock of her hair with a finger, failing to notice the change taking root in her hand. As she held some of that hair in her hands, the nails on her fingers shimmered and grew out, the end result being similar to the long, square-tipped nail extensions of a glamorous prostitute.

After a short reverie in front of the window, Amy soon realized she needed a drink. She backed up and turned around, walking from her bed to the small kitchenette at the front of her dorm room, which also led off to a bathroom and the door to the hall. Passing her desk, her closet doors and her television stand, each item of furniture exploded into a shower of sparks, one by one, leaving a small pink writing desk, a pink closet, and a well-lit vanity mirror and make-up centre in place of the original items. The bed, having just been vacated, exploded like a grenade, showering the bedroom with clouds of glowing sprinkles that reacted nebulously when they struck the walls, just as Amy entered the kitchenette. The event, as sparkly as it was, had no effect on the girl, who didn't seem to notice that anything had happened. The world hadn't seemed to notice at all, either. There were no holes in the walls or the floor made by any flames or incantations; there was a four poster bed with white lace fringes, a sheer canopy, and a pink quilt sitting there in the old bed's place.

Amy walked up to the sink, her feet hurting as the short muscles in the back of her calves prevented her heels from touching the floor. She slipped into something more comfortable; the pair of pink, shimmering, platform 'fuck-me' heels that appeared as though they were forged from glass, but were actually made of soft gels and hard and soft plastics; the high heels supported her feet more elegantly and competently than Amy's natural foot structure could do alone. She smiled, standing there, gingerly inserting her feet into those sexy contraptions. She relished the tickling insertion of the shoe's strap between her first and second toes. With her feet now cared for and her height increased by several inches, she turned back to her thirst and opened up the kitchen cupboard on the wall above the sink.

She lifted herself on her tippy-toes, her firming ass jutting, her spreading hips flaring, her thighs stretching and toning, and she reached up and retrieved a tall glass; after that she turned the tap on to draw out some cold water. Within a few moments the water was coming out of the faucet an icy temperature, and Amy put the glass under the spout and poured herself an early morning drink. Her cotton panties, once full and thick, shrivelled and shimmered, emerging from the glow a skimpy g-sting so tight it drove a wedge between her pussy lips, making her 'Mmm' obliviously, thinking that a good tight, filmy pair of undies was something she normally enjoyed. A set of tiny paw prints appeared on her left ass cheek, walking over her buttocks in succession, leaving a cute trail of five tattooed kitty-prints on her skin.

Swallowing the liquid, the glass pressed to her lips, she was swept by a troublesome feeling of wrongness--'out-of-placeness'--that she had suffered from the day before. Her stomach felt cold and heavy, and not just from the water. There was a foreboding sensation in her gut, as though something important had just happened, as though she didn't truly know herself, or the room she lived in, or the school she went to—or that she had something important to do. For a brief moment she wasn't herself and that scared her. She finished her water quickly, gulping it down, her right breast surging in size as she swallowed, leaving her breasts uneven, until her throbbing left breast grew and caught up a moment later, the girth of her new tits stretching her top and pulling the collar tight around the back of her neck.

Both of her breasts, then, pulsed, throbbed and tingled, and she could feel them aching, her nipples erect and full of blood. She did laps around the edges of her areolae—dark shadows under her white cotton top—with the fingers of her right hand, switching from one breast to another, her laps getting progressively longer and larger as her budding nipples grew rigid and erect and their accompanying areolae began to sprawl, spill out and increase in width. Soon she was tracing the edges of areolae as wide as her palms, and loving every moment, the intimate touching erasing the previous attack of anxious, implacable thoughts of misplacement.

She was shocked out of her masturbatory day dream when the empty glass she had been holding crashed to the ground, sending real shrapnel across the kitchen floor.

“Shit!” Amy hissed. Startled, she suddenly felt the need to go 'ooh' and hold her hand to her mouth.

She turned around in circles, taking care not to step on any of the glass or wet the bottoms of her shoes.

Amy surveyed the damage and then sprung into action, grabbing a broom from the corner beside the fridge as if she were specially made to hold it, use it and know where it was at all times. She swept the shards of glass into a dustpan and then opened the cupboard under the sink that concealed the blue box. She picked the dust pan up from the ground and tossed the glass into the box in one fluid motion, spinning the dustpan by the handle in a show of pride. The scene of the crime was clean in thirty seconds flat and she moved on—moved on to the bedroom that had felt so eerie and other-worldly only a few moments before.

The room was bright pink, with a large window in the wall opposite the kitchenette. From where Amy stood, things were as they should have been; her vanity in the corner to the left, the closet to the right, her bed in the far right corner and her desk in the far left. There was a small nightstand at the head of her bed, under the light of the window, and Amy suddenly had an idea.

There was something wrong with the nightstand, and she was going to open the drawer and catch it by surprise, catching whatever it was in its state of wrongness. She was sure that she had the right idea; she clopped over to the nightstand and pulled open the small drawer. Inside she found an array of vibrators and dildos, some anal plugs, anal beads, an assortment of tubes of jelly and lube; all of this was lying atop a stack of selected lesbian and hetero porn magazines that Mistress Mayfield had generously bought for her as gifts.

“This is wrong.” she said to herself, reaching into the drawer and pulling out one of the magazines.

“Is it?” she questioned herself, perusing the images in her magazine. The women in there were certainly lovely, and there was a certain kick to the lesbian thing that Amy found appealing, but she was certainly not a lesbian. She loved cock, she was sure of it.

But she was also 'equal opportunity', she told herself, and she did like the magazine in the end, so she returned it to its place and closed the drawer. Nothing was wrong there.

But perhaps there was something wrong with her closet. If I was something wrong, she thought to herself, I would probably hide myself in the closet.

The darkness in the closet was suddenly split apart and shattered by the light of the bedroom when a buxom Amy wearing faux-glass high heels appeared at the closet with her arms outstretched, holding the doors wide open. She scanned the lacy, glittering, shimmering fabrics, her eyes flitting from one side of the closet to the other, making note of her inventory; her micro-skirts and halter tops; her slinky mini-dresses and latex bodysuits; her corsets, garters, stockings and rows of heels; the bin on the floor, loaded to the brim with her stringy thongs and beaded g-strings and minuscule crotchless panties and silken undies (with slits cut down the middle for easy access to her pussy, decorated with little ties to close them up when she wasn't giving it away) and her slick, black, liquid lace ones with built in vibrators for ever-available stimulation; everything in the closet looked just fine. You couldn't catch Amy walking around in public these days without a sexy, tiny skirt or a cropped, tight V-neck to show off her amazing tits; she bit her lip and wondered what she would wear outside today, after she got off work.

“He!” she squealed, imagining the possibilities. I love fashion so much! She giggled inwardly. She cleared her throat, making a cute little sound with her cute, high voice, and stopped tittering long enough to gain control over her racing mind. The bimbo raised a finger to her mouth and wondered about—things.

Amy, yet again, failed to place where her sense of wrongness was coming from.

She stepped back from the closet.

She wasn't sure what to say or think, or what she was supposed to do. Standing there, frowning slightly with her chin down, she started to believe that her wrongness was inescapable. Backing away some more, she headed into the kitchenette, until she backed her naked bum into the cold, metallic casing of the refrigerator. Her cushioned tush bounced off the refrigerator. Her cotton top burst at the seams, vanished, her freshly enlarged breasts bouncing in unison, no longer constricted or bound up in a shirt. They were proud and high, and firm like globes of fresh, milk-white teen-flesh. The sparkling remnants of her shirt rained upon the floor around her shoes, but for all of its spectacular showiness, Amy noticed none of the magic. The magical particles could have had voices and screamed “look at us, look at us!” for all it mattered; Amy was change-blind.

She reached out to the refrigerator.

Maybe there, she thought. She opened the fridge, putting all thoughts of drinking gin and tonic in the morning out of her mind. Simultaneously, she tried not to impose her own fantasy of a fridge teeming with pudding, apples and pumpkin pies on the reality of the empty fridge she expected to encounter. She tended to buy food in small, infrequent spurts.

Closing her eyes to rid herself of the illusion of food, she breathed deeply, felt a high amount of erotic pleasure from the cold air fuming out of the fridge onto her naked chest, and resolved to face her reality for what it was. She gasped—“Nnnn”. Her surging tits expanded again, so big now they knocked together, hanging from her chest while she bent over in front of the fridge, surveying a possible mystery. They pulled down on her, forcing her to bend lower until she obliviously responded to the growing weight on her chest with a stronger use of her back. She inhaled deeply, straightening up a little, enjoying the pull of her perfect, full, teardrop tits on her body, a pull that never let her live a moment without forgetting that her tits were there—a sensitive, dominant part her physique demanding the tender, loving support of a pair of hands. Her hands or anyone's hands, it didn't matter. A young self-employed slut like Amy had plenty of offers.

She imagined the possibilities, reliving the memory of a recent party in which she was carried by five classmates to a bed, her legs pulled apart by two of them, and had two of her holes filled before she even hit the mattress, the others two cumming on and massaging her tits and sucking on her nipples pitilessly. She groaned, her eyes rolling in their sockets, while a tiny baby of an orgasm zig-zagged its way up her pussy, bouncing off the walls of her inner canal, and into her uterus, causing everything to tighten up and spasm along the way.

She sighed, adrift and happy in a tide of endorphins. Her own flesh was like one great hit off the most expensive kind of heroin money could buy. Coming down off her high, Amy returned to the real world, turning her attention back to the fridge she had so recently opened.

She let the appliance’s emptiness seep into her eyes in all it’s empty glory, and finally gasped again. She saw something that hadn’t consciously registered with her before. A bright, hot colour glared at her through the plastic face of her vegetable crisper. She pulled it open and looked at what was inside, which rolled around in circles at the bottom of the bin.

She closed the fridge and looked at the door, considered buying magnets, blinked six times and then backed away, leaning up against the kitchenette’s opposite wall.

“There’s a jelly belly in my fridge.” she breathed.

Poof! There went her panties, eroding into little bits of stars that fell to the ground, leaving her glistening, aroused privates fully unclothed. Poof! her clit was pierced. The stud twinkled.

The phone on the wall rang abruptly and sent her heart racing. With her hand clutching her chest—gently stroking the upper slope of her left breast—she turned to the phone and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

“Hello?” she asked, softly, her fattening, blooming cock-sucker's lips brushing the phone's mouth-piece. Her voice had turned breezy and high, rising an octave at least, every syllable uttered from her mouth now drenched in helpless desire, vocal sexual tension and a need for flesh.

She received an order from the other end of the line.

“Come on up,” she breathed demurely, “see you soon, sweetie.”

Someone had paged her dorm room from the lobby and was asking to be buzzed in. She pushed the star button on the phone and waited for the tone to sound, then she hung up the phone and jiggled over to her desk.

“Oh shoot!” she scolded herself, “It's Saturday!”

She flipped open her agenda and turned to the appropriate page. There was a list of appointments; underlining the first entry with her finger, she reminded herself of a name. Darren Victor. A young lad from her grade ten history class. British. Liked under-age drinking. Nice guy.

“Oh dear!” she worried, “can't be late for work.” She clacked away from her desk, her platform heels forcing her to take small, hopping steps that caused her mammoth tits to bounce and wobble. She slid sideways into the chair at her vanity and leaned in towards the mirror, turning her head from side to side to inspect her soft, youthful face. She inspected her small, button nose and her large expressive eyes, her gaze then dripping down to her large, pouting lips. She appraised herself quickly and organized her objectives.

“Eyes, lashes, mouth.” she coached herself. In moments her lashes were curled and thick, her eyes traced with a dark outline, and her mouth covered with a thick layer of gloss. For good measure, she applied another layer to her lips, giving them that extra sparkle, and then applied another layer, to make sure that her wet and inviting look came across. There was nothing subtle about the message she was trying to convey; oohing, her lips conformed to an inviting pout, parting always just a little. She ran a comb through her shimmering platinum hair, making sure it was straight and soft and like strands of silk, ensuring that it dangled neatly over her forehead and over her shoulders and back.

She spread her thighs, eyeing the wisp of fuzz that sprouted from her pubis. She disapproved of it, and had hoped to shave, but there was no time. Cute, sexy sluts like Amy were not meant to be hairy. She jumped up from her chair and made for the door, but she stopped next to the fridge.

She opened it up, opened the vegetable crisper, picked up the jelly belly with two fingers and then, thinking she'd found the source of her haunting misery, swallowed it, overcome with butterflies and pink fuzzy 'rightness' when the small sugar pill hit her stomach. She cupped her tits, lifted them, gave each one a loving lick and trembled. She shook the nervousness from her body.

She shivered and breathed deeply, her ??-cups rocking against each other, moving together as a pair in graceful, pendulous arcs; her hands instinctively traveled up and down her flanks, massaging the dipping, flaring, curvaceous landscape that was her matured body; her tapered waist, her flaring hips, her new, firm, globe-like breasts a landscape of worn, curved hills and valleys. That tuft of hair on her pubis vanished, the hairs falling and vanishing into thin air; her pubis turned baby soft, her smooth, young, hairless body both adult and childish in the way boys liked. She looked positively anime-ish; leggy, limber and fragile, framed in a glowing back-light from the window that amplified her angelic lewdness. She was the paragon of the rosy-cheeked, helpless young female in dire need of masculine attention, with that twinkle in her eye that some men sometimes said they thought they saw that said “fuck me to your heart's content, you stallion”.

Just like the kind of girls in the pages of the porno magazines.

Standing up straight at the entrance to her dorm room, and with her hands clasped behind her back, her breasts thrust forward, her ass thrust out behind her, a big grin on her face and no clothing to speak of save for her shoes, Amy greeted the day's first customer at the door.