Meghan’s Story
By: mikeTheFable
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.
9-
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.
8-
Adrenaline aside, powdery foreign particles in Meghan’s blood began to work, seeping into her brain.
7-
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.
6-
Meghan tweaked her left nipple and giggled. Wow, she thought, getting very wet, these new boobies are soooh sensitive!
5-
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.
4-
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.
3-
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.
2-
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.
1-
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.