By Guest Writer: Mike
Chapter 4 – Cynthia
I awoke Sunday morning and my first thought was of the Wererock. I had learned some amazing things and I wanted to play some more. That thought was replaced with thoughts of Cynthia. She and I had dinner plans; I found myself looking forward to that. It had been far too long since I’d had a real date. I spent the day cleaning the house, just in case Cynthia came over. As I cleaned I played with the rock. I made myself a skinny, Latina woman, imagining I was nothing but a hotel maid. I couldn’t tell you if I was Mexican or Cuban and it didn’t matter, I was playing with the stone.
I imagined Cynthia standing behind me, scolding me for missing a spot. The thought made me smile.
Lunchtime found me eating a banana sandwich. The sight of those bananas reminding me of the shame I’d felt the day before. Just remembering the humiliation made my cheeks flush crimson.
Hours later, I got ready for my date, confirming via text that we were still on. I’m looking forward to it, Cynthia texted back. I showered and dressed in black dress slacks and a crisp white shirt. I donned the same jacket Cynthia had returned to me the day before. A splash of cologne and I was ready to go. I paused at the door.
I made my way back to the bedroom and with the stone in hand I made my cock a few inches bigger. You never know.
I picked Cynthia up at her house. She answered the door wearing a stunning red dress, slightly low cut revealing just a flash of cleavage. The dress ended just above her knee. Her brown hair was pulled up revealing a tantalizing neck. Twin diamonds hung from each ear, shining in the porch light. A silver necklace decorated her throat. Her pretty eyes looked more hazel than blue and yet they seemed to make her whole face light up when she smiled. “Wow,” I didn’t even know I was going to speak until I did.
Cynthia giggled. “Thank you, good sir,” she elevated an arm.
I took it, stacking our elbows. I escorted her to my SUV and drove us to the restaurant. The drive was relaxed and comfortable. We talked our jobs and found they were remarkably similar. I owned a software business and Cynthia wrote code. “What about the mall?”
“Community service,” she admitted. She followed that admission with a sip of wine.
That sounded interesting. “Oh?” It didn’t take much convincing to get her to tell the story.
Turns out Cynthia, the lovely woman sitting across from me had a playful streak. Pun very much intended. She looked around the restaurant. We were sitting in a booth, a single candle flickering in a dark red glass. Above us, a single bulb, silvered on the bottom, hung from a jet black wire. There was a couple behind us, talking and drinking and enjoying their dinner. The booth in front of us was empty. I couldn’t really hear the couple behind us and so they probably would hear us. We were fairly isolated and I think Cynthia came to that same conclusion.
Oh, I knew about embarrassing. The thought of strutting through Publix with my mammoth tits brought a flash of color to my face. In the dim light, Cynthia didn’t notice. “I know about embarrassing things,” I admitted, trying to spur her on. “But if you don’t want to tell me, well, that’s okay.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “You mean that, don’t you?”
I answered with a nod.
“What the hell,” she said after a moment. It was as if she’d been having some internal debate and had finally reached a conclusion. “I’ll start by saying I’ve had a good time. I’ve enjoyed your company.”
“You sound like the date’s about to end.”
I took her hand, “I’ll make a promise to you; I won’t think less of you, no matter what and,” now it was my turn to take a risk, “no matter what, I can top it.”
“You don’t know that.”
But I did. I smiled, “Yeah, I do.” I hadn’t planned on telling Cynthia about my Wererock; I hadn’t ever planned on telling anyone, but somehow, at that moment, I wanted to tell her. No, I wanted to show her. I’m sure that the decision wasn’t mine to make. I think the stone made it for me.
She finally made up her mind. “Not here, deal? Take me back to your place and I’ll tell you my dirty secret. At least we won’t make a scene in public.”
She gave me a look and then smiled. “Cute.”
But I wasn’t being cute. I was picturing my ample chest leading me down every aisle of that brightly lit grocery store. I was revisiting the flush on my cheeks when I paid the bill and the amplified shame I’d programmed. I felt my hands shaking as the memory washed over me.
“What’s wrong?” I was touched by the concern in her voice.
“My story might just beat yours,” I admitted. The look on the face showed me that she was both doubtful and intrigued. And that face was gorgeous.
We dropped her car at her house and then I took her back to my place, thankful that I had cleaned it up. I excused myself just to check on the rock sitting in the nightstand by the bed. It was resting next to my pistol and at that moment I knew the stone was far more powerful. It was an interesting revelation.
I popped open a bottle of red, poured us a glass and sat next to Cynthia on the couch. I could smell her perfume, some sweet, flowery scent that made my head spin. I touched her hand, feeling the heat of her skin. There was something brewing between us. I can’t really describe it better than that. I was sure she felt it, too.
“I’m kinky,” she said. She took a sip of her wine, giving me time to respond or kick her out or laugh. I just smiled, waiting for her to continue. “Really, really kinky,” she said. “I’ve not dated many people. Once they find out about my,” she hunted for the word and went on without it, “well, nobody has stayed on past that. It’s why I tell it on a first date. You kinda forced my hand early talking about our jobs. Mine sucks, by the way.”
“I’m hiring,” I said in response.
That made her smile. “I get turned on by,” her voice dropped, “humiliation. Mine or somebody else’s. Mostly somebody else’s, but mine, too.” She took another sip of her wine.
I aped her actions. I wasn’t sure she wanted me to talk so I kept quiet. She put her wine down and pulled her hand from mine. She took a deep breath. “I give myself commands to obey, sometimes, when I don’t have anyone to boss around.” She paused again, looking for a reaction. I just looked into her pretty eyes, waiting for her to continue. She was toying with me in a way I didn’t understand. The stone had made me humiliate myself, or had I done it because I was kinky in the same way. I didn’t have an answer and now wasn’t the time to ponder. Cynthia had a confession to make and I needed to hear it.
“I’m pretty bossy; it comes from the job. When I write the lines of code, the damned things obey. Have you ever thought about that? There’s no ambiguity. I say jump, the code jumps. It made me want that in my own life and I won’t lie or say otherwise. Not a lot of people are into that, you know, or maybe a lot of people just won’t admit to it. I know I’m pretty,” she smiled, but kept her hands in her lap, “you proved that again when you met me at my door, but I’m also, well, old enough to be honest with myself.”
“And that led to community service?”
“Yeah. Well, when I don’t have anyone to obey me, or tell me what to do, I give myself orders and must obey myself. I write the code in one sense and I am the code in another.” She finished her glass of wine and asked for another. Or maybe she told me to get her one. I can’t really say. If it was a test, I must have passed.
“So, I was feeling pretty kinky and ordered myself to go to the mall and well, I had to obey the voice in my head. I took a shower, shaving myself, all over,” she was toying with me, those final two words came out as a seductive whisper, defying me to not imagine what she had done. “I wore an old sun dress that was mostly out of style. It was thin and white, faded really, with black leaves and branches on it, decorated with little yellow birds sitting on those black twigs. I wore that into the mall with nothing on underneath it, no bra, no panties, nothing. Just the dress and some crocks that seemed far too noisy as I walked on the concrete sidewalk. The day was warm and the outdoor mall was mostly empty. The mall is busy in the spring but during the summer people prefer to be indoors,” she shrugged. She was watching me, taking in my reaction. I held her eyes with my own; this was important. For both of us. “I walked into the bathroom on the opposite side of where I parked. The only things I had with me was a pair of scissors and my car keys.
“Do you see where this is going?” She waited for me to respond. I nodded, anxious for her to continue. “I locked myself into a stall, shaking and scared. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. But then I heard the voice of my imaginary,” she swallowed a sip of wine, “mistress,” and then another, “’do it slave’, the voice said. ‘Make your mistress happy. Show her what a slut you are. Cut up your dress.’” She had changed her voice when she wanted me to know it was her internal owner speaking. That voice was a little deeper and quite erotic.
“I was shaking but I wanted it. I really did. I took off my dress and sat naked in that dirty stall. I held the scissors in one hand and the dress in the other. The dress was old and worn and the scissors destroyed it easily. Snip, snip, snip, just like that the dress became nothing more than confetti. ‘Flush it,’ I ordered myself. At that point it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t anything big enough to use for cover but I obeyed anyway. It took seven flushes to make the whole dress disappear down the drain.”
She sat quietly for a few moments. I watched as her hands moved to her crotch; I watched as her thighs seemed to shift around like those of a fidgety child. The memory of destroying her dress was affecting her in much the same way it was working on me. I took a sip of wine and watched as Cynthia did the same. Her face was flush and I noticed a little quiver to her beautifully painted lips.
“I was stuck, you see, stuck. That word is so exciting,” Her voice cracked but she kept on going, “I had to get back to my car. I was naked, with no money, no phone, no purse, just my keys and an old pair of crocs that made the most horrendous noise when you walked in them. I picked them for just that reason; they’d draw attention to me.” She gave a small half-smile, “Not like a naked woman in the mall was hard to miss. I sat in that stall for ten minutes, trying to work up the courage. It took the voice of my mistress, my programmer self, to make me move.
“I darted from the bathroom, clip-clopping through the concourse as fast as I could. At first I held one hand over my tits, what little I have, and the other over,” I got the point, “but that wasn’t good enough. ‘Drop your hands,’ the voice commanded and I obeyed. I raced through the mall, forcing my hands at my side. Everything I had was on display, my ass, my boobs, my fantastic shaving job.” She swallowed heavily. That was followed by a heavy sigh.
“Mall security caught up with me. They were nicer than they had to be. They escorted me to their office, gave me a jacket, and offered me a choice. Work every Saturday for two months, unpaid of course, or wait for the cops. You know how that turned out.”
We were both quiet for a long time. Cynthia finished her wine, watching me. I was debating what to do next. The scene she described hit eerily close to home and turned me on. I was sure that latter part was obvious. “How did it feel streaking the mall?”
“I was embarrassed, scared, humiliated. But that was the point. That’s what turns me on.” She looked at her hands still toying with the fabric of her dress at her crotch. “While I was running through the mall my senses were hyper-aware. I could see and hear everything. I saw people gasp and point and laugh. I heard mocking at the size of my boobs. I was the subject of both desire and ridicule and if I hadn’t been caught I’d have masturbated in my car before I even left the parking lot.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “If mistress would have allowed it. Sometimes she doesn’t.”
“Wow,” I said. The same thing I’d said upon meeting her at her door a few hours earlier.
“If you want to take me home now I’ll understand.”
The sadness in her voice stung. “Why would I want to do that? I,” I paused, not sure if I should tell her about the Werestone. But, as I said, that decision wasn’t mine to make. “I did something similar yesterday.”
She looked at me, trying to decide if I was mocking her, too. I continued, long before she had the chance to make up her mind. “I was in Publix yesterday, strutting around, well, can I show you something?” As soon as I asked the question I wanted to show her.
Cynthia nodded, still looking at me like I was about to make fun of her. I dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the Werestone. I made my cock its normal size, it seemed odd to lie now that the biggest truths were coming out. I carried the rock into the living room, clutching it tightly. I could feel how cold it was, like it was filled with anticipation. I sat next to Cynthia, grabbed her hands, and placed the stone in one.
She looked at it and shrugged. “A rock?”
“It’s,” I started to say, “a magic rock,” but thought that would sound ridiculous. There’s an adage authors use, “show, don’t tell,” this was the perfect opportunity to do just that. I took the stone back and stood up again. “This is going to seem crazy, but bear with me, okay?” I smiled, “You told me yours, let me show you mine.”
I took off my shirt. Topless I took the stone from Cynthia’s hand.
“Holy shit,” she said, rising to her feet. “No way,” she was rubbing my tits, feeling the weight of them. I gasped at her touch and lowered their sensitivity. Now was not the time to show a lack of sexual stamina. She lifted them and let them fall. She tapped them, pushing them from side to side. She pinched my nipples and even with their normal sensitivity that made me gasp.
She was full of questions as her doubts turned to excitement. I told her about my humiliating trip to Publix the day before and about everything I knew the Wererock could do. I explained it all, how I could affect my body and my brain. I explained the triggers and the memory trick. Through it all Cynthia was playing with my chest. “That’s crazy,” she said. “Can it do me?”
“I don’t know.” I offered her the stone, “Here.”
She clutched it, that seemed to be the standard move, like you’re afraid to drop the rock and break it, taking away its power. “What do I do?”
I told her what I did and when she tried it nothing happened. We were both disappointed. I laughed when she flopped onto my couch and said, “Poo.”
I reached for the stone, “May I?”
Her eyes lit up, “what if I don’t give it to you?”
I knew I chose the right word when I said, “then I’m stuck with these things.” I cupped my breasts to indicate exactly what I meant even though that was unnecessary.
She heard the word stuck and smiled. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” She placed the stone on the coffee table, “Now don’t touch it. That’s mine. You can only touch it when I say.” I looked at the stone. It would be so easy to grab. I looked into Cynthia’s blue eyes; there was a longing there I’d not seen in a long time.
“Do you understand me? That’s mine.”
“I didn’t hear you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She waited, an eyebrow raised, “Mistress.”
She grabbed my hand and yanked, pulling me down on top of her. Her hands were on my tits, her mouth was on mine. We were teenagers again, racing to finish what we had just begun. Her dress was on the floor in minutes; her matching panties thrown on top of the rock. She kept her bra on, perhaps too ashamed by their size or maybe because she only wanted mine uncovered. We were both sated by the time we were done. Cynthia repeated my own word, “Wow.”
I smiled, breathing heavily. I was practically panting. We took a shower after that, both of us naked. Cynthia took off her jewelry before getting in the shower and when I came up behind her, I caressed her tiny tits. She brushed my hands away but didn’t stop me from bringing them back. “Do you know,” I said, kissing her neck, “the perfect breast size?”
She turned around and rubbed my massive boobs, “This big?”
“I’m serious. The perfect sized boob to a man, any man, are the size of the ones he’s allowed to touch.”
She considered that and gave me a hug.
Afterwards, while we were drying off, Cynthia decided it was time for me to drive her home. “I have to work tomorrow,” she pouted. I understood her sentiment; when I discovered the rock, I took a week off. “I really do hate my job and, dammit, I want to play.”
“I really am hiring,” I said. “You could come in for an interview.” I looked embarrassed, “It’s a test really, but if you pass it, the job’s yours.”
“I’ll think about it.” I could understand her hesitation.
“I guess I should take those away,” she said.
I was going to say that it wasn’t necessary, that I’d do it after she left, but kept quiet. She had seemed so forceful when she took mock ownership of the rock and that power had been electrifying. I watched her leave the room. A moment later I heard a loud shout of delight and then she was standing in the bathroom with me, her own chest now massive. “It worked! Look, Adam, it worked!” She was caressing her tits and I started to respond, even though I felt more than a little drained. You try not becoming aroused when watching a naked woman fondle her tits in front of you.
It took us about twenty minutes to figure out why it hadn’t worked before. Silver. It was silver. The first time she’d tried to use it, she had been dressed and had been wearing that thin silver necklace her grandmother had given three days before she died. Thanks to our joyous tryst and our subsequent shower, Cynthia had removed her jewelry. When she’d picked up the Wererock to bring it to me, she happened to try again. The squeal I’d heard had been her reaction when it worked. Another discovery totally by accident.
After that, Cynthia wasn’t in any rush to head home. She changed her body and directed me how to change mine. She watched as I turned myself into a woman and then had me increase my libido when I balked at touching her after she had turned herself into a man. The sex that time was different and almost overwhelming. My orgasm had curled my toes and had somehow filled up my whole body and not just that overly important half a foot dangling between my legs.
“Wait here,” Cynthia said, her voice gruff. She looked a little bit like Brad Pitt when she went into the bathroom. She came out as herself only with slightly bigger boobs. “Put this on,” she said, handing me her grandmothers necklace.
I was willing to play. I donned the necklace. She handed me the stone and had me try and change back to normal. Satisfied she took the necklace off me. “Oh, I’m so glad I met you,” she sighed. The honesty in her voice moved me. “We’re going to have so much fun.”
Then, one last, happy accident happened. She asked for the stone and when I offered it to her, her hand slid across mine, the rock between us. I gasped and jumped backwards as an electric spark seemed to leap between our fingers. The stone fell to the ground. I gasped and clutched my chest, falling onto my bed. My boobs were buzzing. It felt like they were tingling and begging to be touched. I rubbed myself, trying to satisfy the burning need my tits had to be touched, licked, nibbled, or even mauled. I didn’t seem to care, I just wanted them to be played with.
“What happened?” I gasped.
Cynthia picked up the stone, “Here, make you you again.”
I took the Wererock from Cynthia and made the change. My breasts receded but that overwhelming need to have them touched lingered for a few minutes longer. Cynthia was standing by my bed watching me. “Wow,” was all she said.
“What?” I could breathe normally now. That was good.
“When our hands touched with the stone between them I was able to change you. I didn’t think it would work, I really didn’t. Wow,” she repeated. “Do you know what that means?”
The reality of it was gigantic. I could see the scenarios playing out in my head. It took me a while, but I finally nodded. “Yeah.” It never dawned on me to be angry with Cynthia for attempting the change. Hadn’t I done the same thing to myself when I was playing with the Wererock. The temptation to misuse the thing was even more powerful than that irresistible need she’d put into my brain to have my tits caressed. Somehow, though, I trusted Cynthia. My Cynthia. And after that night, she was mine and I was hers. I was already smitten.
Cynthia pouted, “I do have to go home. Can I borrow that?”
I flashed her a smile, “I thought you said it was yours.”
She jumped into my arms, pushing me onto the bed, he lips all over my face, “You magnificent man!” We kissed for another ten minutes and afterwards we both needed another shower. “I’m never going to get home this way.” I offered to let her stay, but she declined, “I don’t have any clothes here yet.”
I loved how she said yet.
“I want to do something.”
She put the rock in my hand. “Give yourself a pussy. A pretty one like mine,” she parted her legs to show me what she meant. I matched it fold for fold, even taking the hair away. Cynthia giggled. She took the stone from me and attached the necklace around my throat. She made her way into the living room, carrying the Wererock with her, and came back carrying the red panties we’d taken off a few hours before. “Wear these to work tomorrow.” She rubbed the panties across my face.
She pulled me up and hugged me. “Thank you,” she said. “I really did have the best time.” I drove her home, knowing she had the Wererock in her purse and that I was stuck with my pussy until Cynthia gave me the stone again. Even if I took the silver necklace off, that would only be half the things I’d need. I had somehow become both enraptured and ensnared by that beautiful woman after only one date.
We kissed goodnight on her front porch. “I’ll be by after work,” she said. “I expect you to take good care of my necklace. I’d hate for you to lose it.” The necklace was more symbolic than anything else. Without the stone I couldn’t change back anyway.
“I won’t.” She smiled at that and I smiled back.
“Good.” She said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go clothes shopping. My girl needs some new outfits.” She kissed me one last time before scurrying into her house.
Suddenly I was looking forward to a Monday.