http://f3.to/mbap/gueststories/trick.htm

The Trick
By Grosporina

I was a prostitute.

    How does one get into this sort of life? For me, it started when I was almost fourteen, going on twenty one. You know those girls who had a "growth spurt" when you became teenagers? I was one of them. I had my first period three weeks after I turned ten, and I was getting my first training bra a few months later. For my eleventh birthday my mother—always the jokester—gave me one of her C cup bras. Six months later the joke was on her: I couldn’t wear it ‘cause I was bigger.
    So there I was a month short of my fourteenth birthday, a five foot three inch blond vixen with dark blue eyes, a seventeen inch waist, and double D cups, and guys are hitting on me all the time. And I mean all the time. Fuck being jailbait: I had one guy threaten suicide if I didn’t go out with him, and another who asked me to marry him. But the one who got to me was Johnny Branca. He wasn’t all that good looking, but he was always nice to me, and had told me once that he’d always be there if I needed him—
    He also told me that he’d give me $50 if I blew him.
    Johnny, who was sixteen, knew how old I was, but he didn’t give a shit. He told me he’d never had sex before, and he wanted to cum in my mouth. And that he’d "make it worth my while."
    I was a little pissed off at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I figured, what the hell. It’s just a little cum . . . .
    So Johnny became my first customer.
    He’d show up about once every other week and want the same thing: blow job for $50. Not a problem. It was essentially $100 a month for what amounted to about three minutes of work. And like the one comic said, mouth wash is three bucks a bottle. I can put my dignity on hold for a few minutes, after which I can figure out what I’m going to do with the cash.
    This went on for seven months, and then Johnny ran his car into a tree and that was the end of that. Or so I thought. The day of the funeral one of Johnny’s friends, Brad Gilford came up to me and asked me if it was true and Johnny was paying for sex from me. I figured it was no big deal, so I told him yes. Three nights later I get a call from Brad wanting to know if I’d go out with him. We went to the movies, then got some pizza. Then came the pitch: would I have sex with Brad? I told him I wasn’t sure. He said he’d pay me $100. I told him I would have to think about it. He said $200. I told him I was a virgin. He said $350. I told him next Saturday my mom would be out on a date so I’d be by myself from 7 PM until about 1 AM, he had to bring the rubbers, and it would be $400 or he could fuck Mary Palm and Her Sisters next weekend.
    That next Saturday I sold my virginity for $400. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought.

    By my sixteenth birthday I had three things going for me: A client list that consisted of fourteen guys and two girls, a reputation as the "whore" of the school—and about $5,000 hidden in various bank accounts. I even had three $2,000 CDs that I’d bought when I was fifteen that were still rolling over.
    After Brad I didn’t mind giving it up for money. I even had a price list: $50 for a blow job; $150 for a straight lay, protected (you bring the rubbers, but I kept a few on hand just in case); $300 if you wanted to fuck me in the ass; $500 if you wanted to have unprotected vaginal sex. The later I had to plan around my cycle, so I wouldn’t be fertile when the deed went down, but I’d already had two guys go Full Monty on me. Most of the time it was blow jobs and fucking, maybe three, four times a week. May not seem like much, but that’s $400-$500 a week that I was pulling in—and it was all cash. A damn sight better than slinging burgers down a Mickey D’s.
    Fucking guys hadn’t been that hard, but I was a little spooked the first time a girl came up to me and asked me if I would "do her." I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she didn’t buy that shit. "I heard you fuck for money," she told me as she followed me home one day. "I want you to eat my pussy for $50." I told her I didn’t eat pussy, but if I did it would cost her $100. She then asked how much it would be if she could eat my pussy. I thought for a moment and said, "$50. But if you make me cum ten times, it’s free." That was the first time I had any sex and it didn’t cost someone money. It wasn’t soon after that I did eat Mandy’s pussy, and soon after we did each other for free. Hey, a girl’s got to have at least one real friend.
    So I decided not to leave the ladies out. Eating me was $50, eating another girl was $100, and if we wanted to 69—well, most of the time we ended up doing that anyway, so I just left that at $100, too. Anything kinkier than that we had to negotiate—like the time a couple of fifteen year olds had me come over to their place one night so I could "tinkle" on them. They’d saved up a couple of hundred in birthday money and were ready to party. I took a hundred, quaffed down six liters of Sprite, and spent the evening pissing on them while they lay on a plastic sheet making out.
    Never did understand that one. But the customer is always right.
    Other than Mandy—my girlfriend—I had a couple of girls who were regulars. Not counting the time I was the "party favor" after the Ladies Basketball team won the regional championship. But that’s another story . . . .
    It was a good thing I was pulling in good money, ‘cause my clothing allowance was getting up there. While most of my "girlfriends" were dressing in crummy cotton tank tops and jeans baggy enough to hide your kid sister in the ass end, I was wearing silk tops an nice skirts and really bitchin’ shoes. Mandy said I had a shoe fetish. She may have been right: I was spending about $300 a month on shoes. Most of them were too sexy to wear to school—like the black pumps with seven inch heels I bought off the Internet. I wore them and this pink crotchless outfit I’d gotten surfing the Web for some college grad who was the brother of one of my "regulars." For laughs I once wore this red cami with a black leather skirt and knee-high boots to school, just to see what would happen. I was kicked out for "inappropriate attire" before the end of the first period. I had Mandy forge my mother’s signature at the end of the three day vacation and went back to dressing like I had a little class. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

    High school graduation saw Mandy and me getting the hell out of town and into college. We went to the University of Colorado, Boulder, just because they had a good business curriculum—and because it was far away from Cleveland. My senior year in high school I was "lesbo" and "whore" and it was starting to get to me. When Mandy got beat up by a couple of girls from the varsity cheerleading squad for being "queer" we decided there was no way we were sticking around this shithole town, and started making plans. We got into UoC and didn’t even bother showing up for commencement. We cut out with as much as we could carry in my car—and some instructions I left with a couple of guys I could trust to keep their mouths shut. A few weeks later we got the news: the two girls who’d beaten up Mandy had run into some serious "misfortune." One had been blinded in a home invasion, and the other was attacked in the parking lot as she left her job at the mall and was paralyzed from the neck down after being stabbed repeatedly with an icepick.
    Payback is a bitch, you know.
    In school I didn’t go out of my way to look like I was advertising, but word did get around that I was "available" for a price. That was Mandy’s doing. She would hang back when we were out, and then whisper about how she had "heard" stories about me . . . of course guys in college have two choices: hope to get lucky with their girl (if they have one), or pay for it.
    And do you know how much money some college guys have? More than you think.
    I didn’t change my rates, so I was affordable. I looked hot as hell, and I always dressed sexy when ever I had a "date." Plus I was smart, I could carry on a conversation (with those who were interested), and I wasn’t always ready to "get down to business," which meant you could take me out and enjoy yourself before paying up. I was a one-woman escort service, and I was busy. It was a wonder I had time for school, with all the "extra curricular activity" I had.
    It got to where Mandy was walking around with a pager and a cell phone, and was keeping track of my "appointments" on a Palm Pilot which linked into my laptop. After business got going I was working four, five nights a week, and pulling down about $1,200 a week on average. For three and a half years. Talk about getting into your business . . . .
    And we were careful. I almost got busted once, when some guy claiming to be the father of one of my "clients" asked me out. Right off the bat he started talkin’ about "what I charge," but when I’d ask him what he had in mind, he’d say, "What do you have in mind?" I told him dinner. About fifteen minutes into our drinks (he was sippin’ a gin and tonic, but very slowly, while I worked a Coke) he started in again, wanting to know what I was wanting to do. Since this asshole had called me I knew what he had in mind, but the vibe wafting off this dude was bad. Like I said, I was smart, and even if I did act like a bimbo—well, looks are deceiving.
    I excused myself to the lady’s room, took a right turn at the kitchen, went out the back door and down the alley, and caught myself a cab, looking for vice cops all the while. I got out about a block from the campus and called Mandy, telling her to ditch the cell phone and pager. We got new services the next day and slowly let people know about what had happened. Two months later I saw my "date’s" picture in the paper, right above an article about a hooker roundup. I laid low for a month and then got back into the picture.
    At twenty two both Mandy and I graduated. We both had degrees in business, jobs waiting for us in Chicago—and about $150,000 in cash left over from my "after school job."
    Who says young people have no work ethic?

    At twenty five we were sitting pretty. Mandy was working for an accounting firm. I had been working with her for a couple of years, but moved on—so I could concentrate full time on my call girl business. Most of my interest in business had been on how to wash money and create phony accounts and whatnot anyway, so I wouldn’t say my education had been completely wasted . . . .
    Mandy was really a front. She made pretty good money for what she did, and it allowed us to project the image that we were both young, single working women who could afford a "better than average" pad on the Near North Side. Of course the place was in my mother’s name (she had died last year in a car accident, but did anyone in Chicago know that? No), and we paid the realtor with a suitcase of money—hey, shit happens, right? But we kept it low keyed. No flashy cars, no designer clothes (well, maybe a few), no dinning out at Chez Paul every night. We took a couple of vacations every year, usually to the Bahamas or Europe, and always came back with money we won "gambling."
    We had a lot of fun.
    I had a shit load of money in off shore banks by this time. While we weren’t major millionaires, we would be by the time we were thirty, which was when I planed on retiring. The way I saw it, I’d work another five years, then Mandy and I would split for parts unknown, get fake IDs, change our names, and live off my investments for the rest of our lives. We were very close to being extremely comfortable, and in five years time that would grow considerably. We could spend a lot of time in the Islands or in Europe jetting around and having fun, and not working much . . . well, maybe a little "fun" here and there. All tax free, we hoped.
    Part of the reason I wanted to get out was because of Mandy. While I didn’t have any problem doing "my job" with men and women, Mandy was gay and proud of it. As far as I knew she’d never had a dick inside her, and probably never would. While she was happy I brought in a lot of money, she hated how I got it. She wanted my tender young pussy all to herself, and didn’t like the idea of it being "polluted" on a nightly basis. I loved Mandy, but sometimes her bitching got to me . . . anyway, in a way I agreed with her. I did want to stop one of these days, because I didn’t want to get too old to enjoy the fruits of my labors—nor did I want to be one of those sad, old hookers with their tits down to their knees trying to compete with young things like myself.
    So I told her that when I turned thirty that was it, the only sex I’d be getting after that would be from her—
    Well, maybe. I was pretty much a confirmed bisexual, and though I couldn’t tell Mandy I didn’t think I could go the rest of my life without having a man fuck me once in a while. Mandy fucking me with a vibrator was one thing—a guy with a hard-assed cock pumping his cum into my hole was something completely different and, in many ways, much more invigorating. But I wasn’t going to tell that to Mandy. Being gay she’d never understand.
    So I did my job, and Mandy did hers. There were no problems—
    At least not then.

    I was a few weeks from my twenty sixth birthday when I got the call on my cell phone. I figured it was Mandy: she was the only one who knew this number.
    Was I wrong . . . .
    There was a man’s voice on the other end. "Am I speaking to Nancy?" he asked.
    I didn’t know what the hell was going on. This should have been impossible. Yet there was no mistaking it was a man. "Who the hell is this?" I demanded.
    "We have never met, but you were referred to me by a—mutual friend," he said. There was no smugness in his voice; his tone was straight forward. "He said you were a good person to know."
    "Depends on what you want to know about."
    "I’d like to engage you for an evening of sex."
    The possibility he was a cop was thinning, but . . . "What sort of girl do you think I am?"
    "The sort who accepts money for sex. Say, $500 to let someone cum in your ass?"
    He knew my prices, so he must have known my work. But entrapment doesn’t work well on the phone . . . "You would quote a price like that to my face?"
    There was a slight pause on the other end. For a moment I thought he might hang up, but then: "My dear, I will not only quote you a price, I will tell you what I want, how much I’m willing to pay—and say it to you while standing naked in a public place so you may be assured I am not wearing a wire."
    Whatever this guy might be, he wasn’t a cop. Or if he was, he was way off duty. "Okay, what do you have in mind?"
    "Are you available this Friday night?"
    Actually I was, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t put off until the next night. I was curious to find out who this guy was. Any person that could snag my private line had to be a little interesting. "Yes, I am."
    "Can I pick you up at, say, 7 PM?"
    I explained to him that I would be waiting for his pickup at a location of my choosing, but that 7 PM would be fine. "What is it you’d like."
    "Sex." Damn, can’t be any more blunt than that. "I’ll bring you to my place, after which . . . well, you’ll see."
    "This isn’t going to involve any group action or S&M or something like that, is it?" I’d once shown up at a trick’s home and found I was the "main course" for him and about seven of his closest friends. I was well paid, but I did end up with a few unsightly whip marks on my ass that took a few days to heal.
    "No, nothing like that." I could have sworn I heard a chuckle, but I wasn’t sure. "I think you’ll find it enjoyable. Wear something nice—say, a very short skirt. And we’ll take it from there."
    I gave him the location where I could be found, and told him to look for a girl in a red leather miniskirt and jacket. With that he hung up.
    I didn’t think any more about the call. Given the circumstances—that fact that I was called on a private line that no one other that my lover knew abut—I should have been a little wary. On the other hand, if this guy could find my number, then he probably had a lot of connections. Connections mean power. Power means money.
    And money, as they say, is a girl’s best friend.

    I was prepared for just about anything, but when I limo picked me up I was pretty much aside myself. Not that I haven’t had this happen before—it’s not like I’m some street walker working Crack Whore Alley—but it was the type of limo. It was a stretch Mercedes, something I’d never seen before. Very chill. And expensive.
    The windows had a heavy tint to them, but I wasn’t trying to figure out where we were going. I never tried to hold someone up by knowing where they lived. Business was business, and once I got paid that was as far as I wanted to take it unless my client wanted another meeting. If anything it helped me, since if a client doesn’t need to worry about some whore dropping a dime on them, then he (or she) wouldn’t have to worry about ratting me out since I wasn’t about to put any pressure on them.
    Besides, there was a magnum of Dom on ice waiting for me once I got settled. This was going to be fun if this was only the warm up—
    It did take us about an hour to get to the house. That meant we were either way the fuck out in the country, or up in Lake Forest, someplace like that. Someplace rich. When I got out I saw we’d pulled up to a very, very nice—and big—house. Yeah, money was damn near hanging off the trees.
    The inside of the place sort of matched the outside. It was very gloomy; none of the rooms were very well lit. You would think if you could afford a place this size lighting it wouldn’t be that huge an expense . . . then again, there was probably some atmospheric thing going on here. The client was trying to impress me. What else could it be?
    I was directed by a butler to wait in the library, which was as you would expect: large, lots of books, fireplace going, large, soft comfortable leather chairs . . . .
    I had to wait about ten minutes before my date showed up.
    He wasn’t as I would have expected. I was thinking older, distinguished gentleman looking for some kinky action with a younger woman . . . instead I got the brother of Bill Gates. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty five. He wasn’t all that tall—maybe five nine—and weighed about one hundred and forty when wet. No glasses, but his clothes . . . right off the rack at K-mart. Worn jeans, sneakers, heavy metal tee shirt. He was a classic geek if there ever was one.
    But when he spoke . . . he was my man, that’s for sure.
    "How you doing tonight?" he asked. I noticed he was carrying a drink in each hand. Not that I had asked for one . . . but you know it’s rude to turn down a host.
    "I’m fine," I told him. The drink was a vodka and tonic. Absolute from the taste. The guy knew his shit, I’ll give him that. "This place really yours?"
    That seemed to strike him funny somehow. "Yeah. Hard to believe once you get a good look at me, right?"
    "Well . . ." I was trying to back peddle hard. I hadn’t meant to come off like a bitch.
    Fortunately he was a good sport. "I know; when you see me you must have figured, ‘No way this is his.’ Well, it is." He spread his arms, allowing me to take in the place. "I’m very comfortable."
    "Nice to know." I crossed my legs, hiking up my skirt to show a lot of thigh and a suggestion of a panty shot. "Is this where you bring all your girls?"
    "Only the one I want to fuck." His smile was infectious.
    Now it was my turn to laugh. As geeky as this guy was, you would think he could get any girl he wanted. But then . . . most of the rich bitches who orbit this world only want a guy if he’s got lots of money—and a build like a muscleman. More often than not these days rich dudes are like this guy: not very big in the looks category, but pretty fat with cash.
    Problem is, after all the high profile divorces which have hit the papers in the last couple of years, the dot com techies are staying away from the rich bitches if they know what’s good for them . . . which means they either get hooked up with some dumpy geekette who wouldn’t know what to do if you stuck your tongue in her ear—
    Or get a girl who’s interested in a very short term relationship with you and your dough.
    Like me.
    I stood up. I figured I’d walk around the room, let him get a look as what he was paying for. I’d left my jacket slung over the chair so he could check out my ass in my leather skirt. I was wearing a white body suit with a deep scooped back, giving him a clean view of my shoulders. Although I was wearing boots, they were the soft red scrunch ones, and they molded over my calves so you could see the muscles work when I walked.
    This little tour around his library would also give me time to figure out what I was going to charge for tonight’s activities. I mean, we weren’t dealing with a normal trick here—
    It was almost as if he read my mind. As I checked myself out in the large mirror over the fireplace, the trick said, "By the way, I’ve got something here that you might enjoy . . ."
    "Your cock?" I was trying to play up to his ego, but when I turned he was holding out a bundle of papers.
    "No, your payment." He laid it on the table next to where I’d been sitting. "You might want to look over this."
    I walked over and sat down, removing the band from around the package. It was one of those legal folders that you would keep important papers in. "And what are we wanting tonight, my love?" I asked as I started to remove what was inside.
    He got right to the point, just like on the phone. "Straight up unprotected sex," he told me, taking a hit from his drink.
    "Hum, you’re not carrying anything I should know about, are you?"
    "I had a medical screening last week; it’s in there." He started walking about. "I’ve no venereal diseases, nor am I HIV positive."
    "That’s nice . . ." I had only been half ass paying attention to what I was reading while talking to this guy. Suddenly something stood out that caught my eye: it was a stock transfer agreement. For a rather large block of stock from a Fortune 100 company. It was then that I realize there were a number of these agreements in the package I was looking at.
    Apparently this was how the guy was going to pay me for my services. But . . . .
    I started doing calculation in my head. I wasn’t through a half dozen of these sheets before— "Christ! Are you serious?!?"
    "About what?"
    "About paying me—this!" I waved the sheets at him. "There must be a couple of million dollars in stock here!"
    He looked like he was thinking. "If my memory severs me correctly, based on today’s closing there’s about 4.7 million dollars in stock there," he told me. "But you haven’t even looked at the mutual funds and bonds that are also included—"
    "What?!?"
    "Given those, and the overseas stock profolio—it pays to be diversified—the whole package should come to just under ten million."
    I took all this in. "Dollars?"
    "Yes."
    If he was bullshitting me, he was very, very good at it. I couldn’t detect a lie, and I’d been around a lifetime of them. "You want to give me ten million bucks for a fuck?" He nodded. "Why?"
    His hesitation was longer this time, and I knew he wasn’t going to be straight with me. "Well, you see—"
    I held up my hand. "Okay, asshole, here’s the ground rules. You tell me why you want to throw this sort of money at me for a slap and tickle, or I’m out the door. There is no way anyone lays out this sort of cash just so they say they came inside a call girl. You have to have AIDS—"
    "No, I don’t."
    "—or some shit like that, and you’re trying to buy off your guilt and my illness. So what’s it gonna be, my dear? Talk, or walk?"
    It didn’t take him long to get to the point. "I’m not sick, but . . . I’m cursed."
    Right. "Cursed? In what way?"
    "It’s a long story as to how I got there . . . the short version is that any woman I come into contact with will transform into whatever my libido wants."
    "Let me guess: you were cursed by a gypsy."
    "Something like that, yes." He shrugged. "It’s the price I way for my wealth."
    I wanted to say he was full of crap, but the way he came across . . . I wasn’t so sure. Anyway, who believed in that shit anyhow? "So what constitutes ‘contact’? Touching? Kissing? Fucking?"
    "Touching, no. Kissing, yes. Fucking—most definitely." He poured himself another drink. "It starts with kissing—usually—and ends with the consummation of physical love."
    "Kissing?" I stood up and moved over to him. The Absolute was making me feel very good, and the idea that I was getting enough to retire on just for fucking this guy . . . Curse or not—and I most assuredly didn’t buy this "curse" thing—I wanted to do what I was brought here to do.
    I put my arms around him. "Do I sign the papers and then start making out?"
    "Are you sure?" He was looking at me like he was trying to decide if he wanted the Big Mac or Quarter Pounder for lunch. "It’s just that . . . ."
    Now would come the warning that something bad would happen to me. "What?"
    "Once you start to transform, there’s no going back. You just start changing . . ." He nodded towards the papers. "That’s why I’m giving that. You’ll not have to worry about working after we’re done."
    I was beginning to believe my customer had been sitting in front of the computer too long. But why not humor him? I figured after we kissed he’s have someone come down and make me put on a kitty cat suit or something strange like that. It’s always nice to let the trick keep his fantasy. In fact, I figured the papers were all a prop. He was trying to sucker me into this crap, and I’d find out later that the only thing the papers were good for was wiping my ass.
    I sauntered over and spent the next few minutes signing everything, so that I’d "get" all the goodies I was promised. After that I slid up next to my date for the night and planted a big, long kiss on his quivering lips. "There. Now there’s no going back, is there?"
    He started to say something, then stopped. He just stared at me . . . "What’s wrong?" I asked. I didn’t want to sound worried, but the mental image of him pulling out a huge knife and running me through came snapping to the forefront of my mind.
    But something else was happening, too. It was like . . . my skin felt like it was crawling. Literally. I could fell it moving on my body like I was made of something soft and pliable—and it was being worked upon. To say it felt strange—it did. But at the same time there was this calming effect which fell over me. It might have been the Absolute. Or it might have been the fact that I wanted to panic, but I was so afraid that there was nothing to do but stand and take it.
    The guy was just staring at me, but there was something in his eyes now: lust. Lots of it. He was seeing something prime coming into view, and it was looking mighty inviting. Remembering the mirror, I turned to see what was happening.
    I almost fainted at that point. My skin was moving! It was squirming about like it was alive. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore; whatever I was becoming, I didn’t look the way I had.
    But I wasn’t scared. It was like watching a picture of yourself being morphed on a computer. You wanted to see what was going to come out in the end. Although this sure as shit wasn’t any computer I was going to get down at Circuit City . . . .
    My features started to come into focus, and after about thirty second I recognized who I was becoming. I looked like the twin of Sarah Michelle Geller. Same eyes, same lips, same body from what I remembered of her. Damn!, I thought. Not only was this guy not lying, but he transformed me into someone about thirty million guys want to fuck! Christ! Talk about a money maker. How much better can this get? This isn’t—
    I lost my train of thought, because things hadn’t stopped. I looked like ‘ol Buffy—but I continued to change. It wasn’t stopping.
    The front of my body suit was starting to get pretty tight. I thought my breasts might have gotten bigger—like I really needed that!—but there was something else. They were moving apart, over to the sides. And I found out why in a few seconds: there was another breast forcing its way onto the middle of my chest. And growing. Fast.
    I was used to having a lot of weight on my chest, but all of a sudden things were getting a little out of hand. My "original" breasts had swollen considerably; they had to be stepping way over the line into E cups by now, if not bigger. On top of that, I was growing a third breast which was getting as big as the others. It quickly felt as if I was carrying around about thirty pounds on just my chest, and my lower back was starting to get a tad overstressed.
    My hands were under my breasts, holding them up. I didn’t know if they were going to stop growing or not—they were getting a hell of a lot bigger—and a touch of panic was starting to creep in. My body suit was getting uncomfortable as the material stretched, bunching up the slack in my groin and buttocks, giving me the Wedgie from Hell. My bra felt like it was going to blow out at any moment. On top of all that, I could feel my leather skirt getting extremely tight around my hips. That one wasn’t hard to figure: I had something of a boyish looking ass, while Sarah’s butt was much fuller.
    I finally pulled my top down, and not a moment too soon: the bra exploded off my body and flew across the room, my triple whoppers acting as the propelling force. I was really worried: looking like Sarah wasn’t a bad idea, but I was becoming a totally freakish-looking Sarah, with these three huge tits almost hanging past my waist. While firm, they were a foot across at least, and the three of them together were going to prevent me from doing anything normal, like driving a car. Or maybe even getting through a doorway. Not to mention there was no way in hell I could buy clothes . . . .
    Suddenly the growth stopped. I gasped when I saw my reflection. My breasts stretched across my body and beyond, as wide as I seemed to be tall. I had no idea what size I might be: my whole torso was hidden from view—my crotch was almost impossible to see as well—and I had to raise my arms out to my sides to see them. "That money is gonna come in handy," I mumbled. I noticed I didn’t sound the way I did before, another part of the transformation. "It’s gonna be all I can do to walk—"
    And that’s when the pain really hit me.
    Someone had hit me hard in the lower back with a club. No, not even that. It was much, much worst. I was more in the realm of someone reaching in and pulling my spine out of my asshole. I was blacking out, believe it. My sight was blurred; tunnel vision wrapped around me, blocking out everything in the room except this little dot of white pain that kept hammering at me. I didn’t scream, I know that much, but I was frozen in place from a agony so intense I almost couldn’t feel it . . . .
    And almost as quickly it was over.
    My head was swimming; I was disorientated. I knew where I was, but beyond that my mind was almost blank. After what seemed like hours I saw my host standing a few feet from me. His pants were off and he was stroking his dick for all it was worth. I didn’t think I was ready for any action, so I started to back away—
    And took two steps in his direction.
    Now I was really freaked. I didn’t know what was going on, but . . . I took a step forward, and moved away. What the fuck? Since I wasn’t facing the mirror any more, I tried to turn around so I could see if there was anything the matter. I was having a lot of trouble moving; my balance was all off. And it wasn’t just my breasts that was causing the trouble.
    I saw myself, and started screaming.
    My breasts were still there—maybe a little bigger, and riding higher. They seemed to stick straight out from my body. While my upper body was still pretty much hidden from view, I could now see my lower body—
    And I was looking at my ass.
    That’s why I was screaming. My torso had been twisted around so that everything from the waist up was now facing what had been backwards. I could see my ass and the back of my legs. This can’t be! I thought, trying to not lose it completely, ‘cause I knew if that happened I’d find myself curled up on the floor pissing myself. But I couldn’t deny what I was seeing. I was all twisted around, like a character out of the Exorcist. I stepped forward and moved away; my legs were still working the way they would if I were "correct." But my movement was jerky. And why not? My center of gravity was off, and I had close to thirty pounds of flesh riding on my "back" instead of my chest.
    But that wasn’t all. As I watched my skin began to change. It turned darker, the texture coarser. The color began to brighten, and it took me a minute to realize it was changing to the same color as my leather skirt. Color, hell! I touched my breasts—and they felt like my skirt. After only a few more moments my skin had turned a bright red leather, and my hair began glowing as if my now blond locks had become chrome-like and been buffed to a high gloss.
    Enough of this bullshit! I was a total freak now. No way would I even be able to go out in public anymore. Now I know why there’s so much money . . . "What the fuck are you doing to me!?" I screamed. But that’s not what I heard. That’s what I said, but what I heard was, "Em ot gniod uoy era kcuf eht tahw?!" I threw my hands to my mouth, stunned.
    The trick stopped beating off long enough to smile and say, "Is something the matter, my dear?" in the smug, cock-sure voice of his.
    "Pots . . . tihs siht pots. Ti pots! Kcuf uoy!" My words—my sentences—were coming out backwards. I knew what I was thinking, but when I tried to speak—garbage. Nothing but gibberish came from my mouth. Not only was I a freak, but I couldn’t even communicate any longer.
    Except this wasn’t the end. Not even.
    I felt another pain, this time in my hips. My skirt was stretched even further across my hips—I was wondering if it was going to hold up under the pressure of my "enhanced" ass and this new—whatever. Turning back to the mirror I saw my newest "add on"—a set of legs growing out of my skirt. I was suddenly finding myself standing on tip-toes, my new legs taking on the same appearance as the rest of my skin, which had not lightened somewhat, but still looking like smooth calf leather. I clamped my teeth together as the pain in my hips intensified; my hips were being reconfigured to allow me to walk on all four limbs. In keeping with the transformation a pair of boots like the one on my "other" legs formed out of nothing. I paused as I tried to balance myself. While feeling strange, I was more stable. Of course I hadn’t tried walking yet—
    Then another pain assailed me, this time in my sides. With tears in my eyes I started feeling around—and found reason to scream, "Dne eramthgin gnikcuf siht lliw nehw, tinmaddog?!" I couldn’t see them yet, but I could feel them: another set—no, two set of arms were growing out of my sides. It wasn’t long before I was waving them about like Kali, running them over my almost glowing body—yes, the glow of my skin had started to intensify, then started smoothing out, like I was turning into vinyl.
    Then two more breasts began to form beneath the three I now had. There were growing quickly, covering the view I had of my ass, and I knew they would be as large as the others. That was the last straw: I started giggling, "accepting" what I was becoming because my mind could no longer try to deny these changes couldn’t happen in the reality I’d grown up believing. You had to kiss him, I thought. I didn’t know if I were insane, but if not, I was very close to madness. You had to make fun of his "curse." And now . . . now, you’ll have money, all you could probably ever want. Only you’re a fucking freak, and you’ll never be seen by anyone ever again, never, ever, ah ha, you smart little bitch, should have—AHHHHHHHHH!!
    This pain was the worst; so bad I thought my head was going to explode. I was sure I was screaming, but I sounded different—much different. It could have been my voice, but I couldn’t see that well . . . and then I was on my chest, crushing my tits into a table, only I could feel hands on my ass and my legs moving; one pair wrapping around someone, and the ankles of my second pair resting on someone’s shoulders. I was being penetrated, and my pussy was helping with the penetration, working of it’s own accord, sucking in the cock as if it had come alive. I was still laughing, but there was also laughing in my ear: a voice very much like my own, yet not . . . I couldn’t see clearly—
    The mirror was there, blocking my view.
    It was only as I begged to be fucked harder that I realized there was no mirror.

    That was the last memory Nancy experienced.
    I must have went catatonic, ‘cause I don’t remember the trick cuming, or my leaving his house—or arriving at my new digs. I remember opening my eyes and seeing Mandy in a bikini, hovering over me, the sunlight streaming in from a nearby window, the sound of the surf off in the background. I tried to sit up, tried again, then "remembered" the nightmare I had lived through and realized it had all been true, that my waist didn’t work the "right’ way anymore, that I was a twisted, multi-breasted thing with six arms, four legs—
    And two heads.
    That was the last thing Nancy saw: my "other" head staring back at me, an identical twin attached to my shoulders, screaming and moaning as I was. Nancy vanished in that split second—and Sarah Michele appeared.
    That’s who I am.
    I look just like my namesake if you can get past the fact I have two heads. And that I have five huge breasts—Mandy told me I’m a JJ cup: no shit, that’s great, like I can find a bra—two of which rest on my ass most of the time. I have four legs which face "backwards" for me, but in time I learned to move around pretty well considering I spend most of my time walking away from everything as I continually glance over my shoulders. I must always wear heels at least four inches high, since my feet look like they came off a Barbie doll and walking around barefoot means walking on my toes. But it’s difficult to put on shoes; when I sit down I’m facing away from my feet, and when I "bend over" I’m looking up and all six of my arms have to reach behind my back to get at my feet. Even with two heads it’s hard to turn and see what I’m doing, which is why Mandy usually dresses me.
    And the other changes . . . my skin still feels like leather. It’s very soft; I actually like it. It’s also red—actually a light crimson. It could have been worst: the jacket and skirt I wore that night had been fire engine red. I’d have looked like shit with skin that color.  My hair is blond, but looks as if it was chromed.  It almost glows, and can be blinding if I'm in a bright light.
    My nipples are the size of Dixie cups, and I’ve never known them to not be erect since my change. I walk around nude all the time these days, and when a breeze hits them, it’s maddening. My breasts are a hundred times more sensitive than before, and I’ve cum just rubbing them against the silk curtains.
    And my pussy . . . pussies, actually. A new one formed where my asshole had been, and the clitoris of each throb constantly throughout the day. I once had Mandy hold a mirror up to my new pussy, and the clitoris looked like my pinky, it was that big.
    It’s probably one of the reasons I cum so explosively when Mandy licks me.
    It took time for me to discover that Mandy and Sarah Michelle (we always talk about ourselves in the third person. It’s easier than saying "me" or "her," since we are one and the same) had moved the Maui. A nice, quiet, secluded place just off the ocean not all that far from the main hot spot on the island. Not that I would ever go there, but I know it’s there. Mandy had a position with a large resort as their director of finance, and she spends most of her days working and most of her nights—when she’s not out—having sex with us. Which is good; our body is so sensitive now that every orgasm—and we have a lot—is like 4th of July fireworks. Mandy loves us, and though we can’t talk to her, we are able to respond either through writing—that comes out okay—or through our actions.
    But there’s something that Mandy didn’t count on—
    Sarah Michelle talks a great deal in that same gibberish which no one else but us can understand. We talk about how we came to be. How we were chosen for this "curse." How that trick was able to contact us.
    And how Mandy came to be with us here.
    She’s always claimed she received a package in the mail a couple of days after we vanished. That there was instruction and air line tickets in side, and that all she did was come to Maui and find us in the house sleeping. That she was told she was to take care of us, and that she would have a job where she could "stay busy."
    As we’ve said before, we aren’t stupid. Insane, yes. You would be, too. But not stupid.
    And two insane heads are always better than one.
    Sarah Michelle spends a lot of time on the Internet, chatting ("Buffy SM" is one of the great cybersex machines, trust us) and searching. If you spend enough time you can find just about anything. We have time. And money. Lots of money . . . .
    It took three years, but Sarah Michelle found what she was looking for.
    The trick.
    Once we discovered that Mandy had placed a few phone calls to a number that we didn’t recognize, it was child’s play to find the person at the other end of the line. And we did. We recognized the voice right away. You never forget the person who transforms you.
    We eventually discovered that he had an AOL account, and Sarah Michelle finally contacted him. And we chatted—
    And chatted—
    We learned about his wealth. And how he came to receive his curse. And how he controls it to the best of his abilities, but there are times . . . Sarah Michelle understands. Sometimes you can help yourself.
    We also found out that Mandy had used him to keep us.
    If she had only asked . . . .
    It took another year, but we were able to discover something else about our last trick: his curse only worked one time. We know. Sarah Michelle invited him to Maui, and while Mandy was in Honolulu for a couple of days, we experimented. Eric—that’s his actual name—had sex with us again. We didn’t change. The curse only works once per person.
    The sex was incredible. Eric loved our form, and fucked us incessantly for hours. Our body responded in ways we didn’t believe possible. As I said, lesbian sex is good, but Sarah Michelle has to get a little dick now and then. And when you have two pussies with large clits and the ability to become as tight as a twelve year old virgin—
    If it’s possible to become more insane, we were afterwards.
    Eric left the next day, but said he’d be back. We chatted on the Net. We cybered him until we knew he was mad with lust for our body.
    And then we made a deal.
    Mandy should have known we wouldn’t be the same after our "change." You never fuck with an insane person, particularly one with two heads. While we love her, we feel betrayed.
    When Mandy left for Los Angeles for a few days Eric visited. He promised he’d not only take care of Sarah Michelle, but Mandy as well. For the rest of our lives. In return Sarah Michelle would love Eric, which we actually did. Check out the legend of the Sabine Women. You may not understand what I’m talking about—but you will.
    So . . . when Mandy came back from LA late at night, tired from her trip and not a little jet lag—we were waiting.
    Now the trick is on her, so to speak.
    She’s tired up on the bed, and we’re in the next room listening to her scream. Eric’s probably kissed her by now, so she’s changing. Into . . . well, we can’t say for sure. But Sarah Michelle spent a lot of time planting ideas in his head, getting his libido fixated on a certain fantasy, a certain kind of woman he’d want—
    And while Mandy might not be keen on the idea now, in time she’ll come to love her new body. And the attention we’ll give her.
    She might even love being called "Ashley Kate."
    Payback: it is a bitch.