(The tags i’ve provided apply to the story as a whole {so far} – and there may be more coming. This story is a patchwork of ideas and bits of plot i came up with over literally years. For background music, i recommend Joan Jett’s version of “Starfucker”, Zappa and the Mothers’ “Road Ladies” and “What Kind of Girl Do You Think We Are?” and the DiVinyls’ “I Touch Myself”. Which should give you some idea what this story is like. ALl characters engaging in sex on-camera are eighteen or over.)
I was really disgusted with what I was looking at.
On appearances, the nude girl was perhaps fourteen. She had almost no figure — just the slightest hint of a waist and a tiny flaring of the hips. She was perhaps four and a half to five feet tall, and her light brown hair hung straight to just below her shoulders, with no trace of a wave or curl. Her thin lips were, of course, totally devoid of lipstick; in fact, she wore no makeup at all. If she had something to smile about, heavy braces on her teeth would have been visible.
She turned slowly around, and I could see that she had no real development in the rear, either; her cheeses were small and tight, with only the barest hint of the possible approach of womanly curves.
She stopped, again facing forward, and I looked at her sexual attributes.
What sexual attributes?
Her chest was almost devoid of anything that could be termed “breasts” — small pink nipples surrounded by slightly darker circles of barely-raised areola that were just barely lifted away from her narrow chest by the almost-imperceptible swellings of what might, someday, be breasts.
Lower down, her development was equally obviously Not Occurring — her small moon stood almost entirely bare of any signs of hair, and the slit was barely visible between the tightly-furled outer lips.
I was simply disgusted.
The basic reason that I was so disgusted was that I knew she wasn’t the slow-developing fourteen or so she looked — she was a full eighteen years old, today.
And I ought to know — she was me.
It didn’t make sense — my mother and my cousins and my sister all had figures and tits and asses and nicely-furred pussies. And here I was, stuck at an apparent fourteen or younger. Even my younger sister — just sixteen — had a 36B-24-36 figure and three boyfriends all Just waiting for her to decide which one of them was going to pop her cherry. (Not that it matter; I happened to know she gave that up to her math teacher for a passing grade, six months ago.)
But it was my eighteenth birthday and I still had no figure at all and Larry and the Honkers were in town tonight and I was in lust with Larry Donovan, the leader of the band… (Not having outward signs of puberty hadn’t stopped some of the hormone and internal changes; I could and did masturbate myself to sleep dreaming of that big cock Larry’s tight pants outlined.) And I couldn’t go because it was an 18-up show and I didn’t have a new ID yet and nobody was going to believe I was over eighteen without it.
Turning away from the full-length mirror, I picked up my plain cotton panties, terry-cloth shorts and little-girl top with the PowerPuff Girls on it, and got dressed, reflecting on the basic unfairness of the world.
Just as I finished pulling on the top (there were two focused little bulgy places in the clothes to indicate where tits ought have been), there was a flash of light from behind me in the corner of the room, a whiff of sulfur, and a fit of cought.
Spinning around, I saw the most outrageous person I had ever cast eyes on.
Six feet plus tall, muscle and hairy-chested, -legged and -armed, with a full brown bear and a receiving hairline, he was wearing a lovely blue and white lacy ballgown and combat boots. In his hand he held an incredibly tacky-looking wand with lots of trailing sparkly stuff and glitter and sequins and what looked like a huge sparkling glitter-coated (slightly-uneven) cardboard star on the end.
“All right,” I said,”who the heck are you?”
“Well, dearie,” he began, languidly waving the limpest wrist I’d seen since my older cousin took me to a Ray Davies concert, and then suddenly broke into another cought fit “(Bloody special effects crew — still too much sulfur in it, no matter how often I complain… ) Well,” he continued, when he had his voice back, “I seem to be your Fairy Godfather.”
“Cheeze,” I groaned. “Literal bugger, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” he simply, “quite literally…”. I’m sure you have never seen a six foot, lisping transvestite with muscles like a lumberjack and an incredibly limp wrist simply (and in a bass voice, what’s more). Be glad. Be Very glad.
“Anyway,” he continued, toning down the nelie act just a bit, “I’m here to grant your wish, my dear.”
“What wish would that be?” I asked.
“Why, to finally get your full sexual development and to go to theHonkers concert and sneak backstage and meet Larry Donovan and to fuck him until he’s semi-conscious and you’re walking bowlegged…”
“Eeep. How did you know about those fansies?”
“Fairy Godparent Central knows all, my dear. It’s just that our budget is so low and our caseload so heavy we usually have to miss out all but the most needed.
“And you, my dear, qualify as ‘needful’ — you have been broadcasting nothing but Pure Need for weeks; it’s even beginning to distract the Boss from keeping the stars in their courses.
“So you get the Special Exception.”
He looked over, shook his head, and said “Well, not much to work with, actually, but one does one’s poor best.” He dramatically and raised his tacky wand.
And suddenly my clothes vanished.
“Hey!” I gasped, instinctively trying to cover up with my hands. Not, of course, that there was much to cover.
Rolling his eyes dramatically, FG surprised loudly. “Look, sweetie,” he lisped. “The reason there’s a Fairy Godfather on this job is so I won’t get all interested in whatever you have or whatever I turn you into. I mean, if you were a nude Marilyn MON-roe, I mght bow down and worship you, but even then I wouldn’t want to boink you. I boff boys, kiddo.”
He wiggled a finger. “Drop the hands, sweetie.”
Reluctantly, I did.
“Let’s see,” he murmured. “Five nine?” He waved the tacky wand energeticly. As you might have expected, it left shows of twinkly glowing fairy dust behind it in the air, which all suddenly headed up in ranks and descended over me.
I can’t describe the feeling, except that it was thoroughly weird, as I felt my entire body stretching vertically, especially in the legs. When I turned to the mirror, just as it stopped, I saw myself like in one of those amusement-park mirrors — just like myself, but very tall and narrow. Actually, I looked like an anorexia victim. With long long legs.
“That’s good. Ummm… 36?” More waving. This time, since I was facing the mirror when it began, I got to see the change. The gaudy shimmering dust settled around my hips, and, as I watched, they flared outward. At the same time, I could feel changes happening in my butt, too.
“Legs.” Another wave, more dust, and suddenly I had the sort of legs models would kill for.
“Waist… 24.” And it was so. The squeezing in that this involved was an even weirder feeling than the stretching of the other parts.
“Aannnddd — 38C!”
My whole stance shifted as I had to hold my shoulders back to counterbalance the lovely tits that suddenly sprouted from my hitherto flat chest. Even without a bra, they stood up and out proud and perfect. I couldn’t resist feeling of them. Wow! I had thought my teeny little original-equipment nipples were sensitive! The blast of sensing I got when I lightly tweaked these turbo-charged nubbins was incredible.
“O-o-okay — need to tone that down just a bit…” FG muttered to himSelf, and gradually the sensing sank back to merely Very Pleasant. Still caused hot tingles lower down, though.
Lower down? I spun to the mirror again, fascinated by the way my new breasts swung and pulled with the motion. The first thing I realized was that, instead of my usual pasty white, I had a deep, golden tan… with no tanlines, top or bottom.
And then I saw…
Hair! I no longer had a furless pussy! Not only that, it actually looked like something that belonged between the legs of an adult female! I couldn’t resist — I reached down and felt of myself. The warm feeling definitely increased; I could feel myself beginning to open and I could feel my own warm mood… I couldn’t resist; I slipped a finger between the lips and began to stroke my hot wetness. It feel wonderful. I let the finger move along the slippery lips until I came to the nub at the top. I teased her a bit, feeling her slip out from her hood like a kitten extending her neck to be petted more. A couple more strokes had me barely able to stand; I could feel warm moisture on my thighs. Incredible.
“Ex-CUSE me!” FG barked. “If all you wanna do is the she-bop, then we can stop right here. But I thought you wanted to go to a concert and get fucked dizzy.”
“Welll, yeah,” I said. But, uh — ” I ran my hand through my lustreless straight brown hair, and then pulled back my lips to show my braces.
“No problem, kiddo!” he laughed, and twirled the wand again I felt something happen on top of my head, and something else happening inside my mouth. Looking in the mirror, I discovered that I had RED! hair cut in a tight bob that showed the shape of my skull but left no doubt it was a female head; opening my mouth and looking, not only were my braces gone, but I had the strong whitest straightest teeth I had ever seen. A downward glance revealed that I was now a natural redhead, too.
“Decorations… ummm.” and he lifted the wand again. When the fairy dust wasThrough this time, I had a little black lacy butterfly tattooed on my right title, and another on my left tight, right by my shaft… and my public hair was reduced to a neatly trimmed tuft in the shape of a heart with its point aimed directly at my pussy. Another glance in the mirror showed I was wearing expertly-applied makeup that emphasized full red lips and high, strong cheesebones; eyeshadow made my blue (blue? brown a minute ago, I was sure) eyes enormous, and black black mascara gave me huge lashes that batted sexually whenever I blinked. “The makeup, by the way, my dear.” FG said, “is guaranteed smearproof and is completely automatic; it will appear on your face whenever you want it changed and will always be perfect for the occasion. And, of course for your persona, which, in this case, is going to be ‘slut’. Right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed enthusiastically, luxuriously and wantonly caresing my tits and my shaft while I licked my lips lasciviously at my reflection. God, did I feel like a slut!
“Okay. Wrappings.” More glitter. When it cleared, I was wearing a lacy little front-close black bra that pushed my tits up and out even further than they stood by themselves but left my nipples bare, and a purple thong that said “Bad Grrl” on the front in red. “You don’t really need the bra, of course, but I’m told a lot of guys find getting a girl out of her bra sexy.”
More dust added an old-fashioned black lace garter belt and thigh high sheer black stockings (the right one with a run just below the knee, a perfect slutty touch — I liked FG’s attention to detail).
Over everything was an old, too-big Cowboy Mouth t-shirt with the neckline raggedly enlarged to show cleavage, and the hem knotted tightly to one side to pull it tight over my tits and to show my middle and the zircon stud in my bellybutton (when did that happen? I’m sure it wasn’t there before… ) and an incredibly soft and shiny black leather miniskirt that covered the tops of my stockings and my garters (as long as I didn’t move too fast).
I was already planning to do some really fast moving this evening.
“Annnnndddd…”
Ruby slippers! Actual, glittery, red shoes! But Dorothy never wore shoes like these, unless it was in her dreams. Bright blood red, with glitter all over them, they were absolute fuck-me shoes with four-inch siletto heels and pointy toes. I wasn’t too sure about those heels.
FG must have seen my dubious look, because he chuckled and said “Don’t worry — I’ve reset your balance and so on so you won’t have any trouble walking or standing or dancing in those. You might have a little trouble running, but I don’t think you’ll be doing any running tonight. Not running away, anyway. Try a walk across the room and back.”
I began to stride towards the mirror, noticing how my hips rolled and how every step gave a little flash of stocking-top and even a bit of the tanned flesh above. Turning, I — “strutted” is the only wordI can think of, like a stripper on the runway — back to FG’s side, glancing over my shoulder to see my sexy ass sway under the soupple tight black leather.
“Well, what do you think, Suzi?” FG asked.
“Oh, I like!” I answered. “But who’s Suzi?”
“You are — at least for the night. ‘Mary Blake’ just wouldn’t do for such a creativity as you’ve becomes… and besides, you wouldn’t want to use your real name for what you’re planning tonight. So, for as long as you wear this body, I have renamed you ‘Suzi Ceeamcheese’. You’ll have full and legal and real ID in that name in your pursuit.”
“I’ve heard that name before… somewhere…”
“On some of your cousin’s records. It’s such a good name for a groupie.”
Again with the wand and the fairy dust, but this time it flew out the window.
“Take a look,” he urged, gesturing me to the window. Where my five-year-old Civic had crouched before was a gleaming red Miata. “It’s got a cut-down RX-7 turbo chassis under it, incidentally — I know you like fast cars, so I made you a really fast one. Here’s the keys.”
I’d read about and dreamed about the Miata with an RX chassis that the head of Mazda’s Miata group had; now I had one too.
“A word, my dear — the cops won’t be able to catch you, but radio waves travel 186,000 miles per second and roadblocks will play hell with the exterior finish.
“Let’s see — is there anything I’ve forgotten? Well — you are a virgin, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted, blushing. “But I practice a lot when I’m alone…”
“Can’t have that in a groupie slut, now can we?” he asked. This time the fairy dust formed into a tight stream and swirled up under the hem of my skirt… I feel a sudden twininge inside myself and know that my cherry had been magically removed.
“And, of course, you’ll need a guide to backstage at a rock show, since you’ve never been before. Jiminy Cricket wouldn’t do, of course, so — you get the ghost of Frank Zappa!” He held out ahand and suddenly, there he was — six inches tall, evil-looking little goatee, with his long scratchly black hair pulled back in a ponytail — the works.
“Why Frank Zappa?”
“He’s earning his way out of rock’n’roll Purgatory; he piled up a lot of negative r’n’r karma with some of the things he said. Even if the Emperor is naked it’s not polite to say so…”
“And I’d do it all again, if I had the chance!” Frank snapped. “Can we get moving so I can get this broad’s hot groupie ass tucked in with the rockstar or -stars of her choice and clock off-duty for a while?”
“Okay — you kids run along. And before you ask, no-one but you can see or hear Frank, so be careful when you talk to him to keep others from noticing.”
I was already out my bedroom door and headed for the stairs.
Hopping into the Miata (and showing rather more than just a flash of stocking top, which I found exciting to think about), I heard FG’s voice floating down from my window as I craneed the hot rotary engine up “… and be sure to be back before sunrise!”
“Punch it, and let’s get this over with,” Frank grew from the passenger seat.
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