Gentle Reader: this is not a fairy-tale story for children. This is erotic literature for adults. If you are not an adult (according to the laws of your community), if you find erotic fiction distasteful, or if the laws of your community proscribe the free enjoyment of said, please bugger off. Everyone else, welcome to my imagination.
Hotel Sierra
Larry sat down at his computer to check his email. He set a half-finished beer down in the rough vicinity of a group of moisture-rings on the cluttered expanse of his home workstation. This was a nightly ritual for him, after a long day at work, although few of the marks on the wooden desk were made by beer bottles. Larry was a careful, conservative fellow by nature, and rarely drank. On this particular Friday night, though, he relished the slight beginnings of the relaxation that even a little alcohol brought him. It had been a hell of a week, mostly the result of an idiot boss jumping up and down on Larry's last nerve like it was his own private trampoline. To make matters worse, he'd had to work late, and it was dark when he got home. He hated being out after dark
Larry took a couple of deep breaths as the email program accessed various servers, collecting a plethora of messages. He shook off the stress of work, and opened the first of several electronic folders as the software continued its accustomed tasks.
Spam, spam, and more spam. Just peachy-freaking-keen, Larry thought, as he highlighted and deleted large blocks of Internet junk mail.
One folder after another opened and closed, the only commentary offered on most: the rhythmic click of the mouse buttons. A few routine responses were typed out with staccato bursts of keystrokes under hands that had a lot of practice on a QWERTY keyboard. Almost an hour had passed, and the beer bottle sat empty, before Larry opened the last of the folders into which the day's emails had been automatically sorted. Larry always saved this folder for last. He had been in the habit of saving the best for last ever since his childhood, when he had obsessively prioritized the food on his plate at the dinner table. The folder was titled Hotel Sierra.
If anyone accessed Larry's computer without his consent, it was highly unlikely that they would think much of this folder title. It was his own personal code, Hotel Sierra. The only thing that could attract attention to the folder was that it required a password all its own. Anticipating that logic, Larry had installed passwords on several folders which contained nothing of any import. Even if someone knew that "Hotel Sierra" was radio code for the letters "HS," there was no reason for them to suspect that in Larry's mind HS stood for "Hot Sex." Larry was, after all, a careful and conservative fellow.
In the eyes and thoughts of Larry's co-workers, the only people who even knew he existed, Larry was the sort of drab fellow who was competent, but not superlative in any way. He was punctual, neat, and reliable, and thus utterly unremarkable. None of them would have thought, in a million years, that he was the type of fellow to have an email folder titled Hot Sex. If they even thought of Larry and sex, they probably assumed him to be a eunuch. In a way, he preferred it that way. The endless turmoil of his coworkers' relationships was vaguely distasteful to him. He was especially put off by all the young, pretty girls in his office building, with their endless complaining about their love lives and their never-ending string of abusive, loser boyfriends.
Life, though, can be pretty lonely, and even the most celibate nebbish has needs. Larry met his via the World-Wide Web. Hot Sex received email of the raunchier variety, the kind with pictures of "eager young sluts covered in cum" splashed across the top of an advertisement for a 1-900 number or a website with "hot vids."
Most of these were spam, of course, mailed out by the tens of millions to random combinations of letters and numbers that the senders hoped would coincide to a real address. A few were from discrete websites to which Larry had paid memberships. These were not particularly racy websites, in the grand scheme of things. Larry was solidly in that segment of the population whose proclivities were known as "vanilla."
As he scrolled down the list of messages, Larry was alarmed to see a message specifically to his address, from an "unknown" sender, with a subject line that read: "Hotel Sierra has never seen anything like this." A few small beads of cold sweat suddenly appeared on Larry's upper lip. Could it be a coincidence that this email mentioned the name of his most secret folder? He knew, without having to think about it, that he had never mentioned his private code to anyone, even in the anonymity of cyber-space. Normally, Larry deleted any message that showed no originating address, without even opening it. Seemingly of its own accord, Larry's mouse-pointer moved across the screen, coming to rest above the anomalous email entry, and his shaking finger double-clicked the message into its own window on the screen.
<<Hello, Larry Rankin. Thank you for opening this email. I promise, you won't regret it. Yes, I know who you are. I know all about you. I know where you live, where you work, what kind of car you drive. I know how alone you are, and what a waste your life is turning out to be. I am sending you this little note to give you a chance to change all that. Actually, you won't have to do much of anything. Just click on the hyperlink below, which will automatically start downloading my custom software onto your PC. CLICK HERE>>
Now the sweat was really starting to accumulate on Larry's face, even as he felt as if all the blood was leaving his extremities. His hand was becoming slick on the mouse, too. How?! Was this a hacker? Someone he knew? Larry was utterly terrified.
Even as his brain raced to consider and discard one possibility after another, Larry's hand began to move. He didn't realize he had clicked on the pulsating hyperlink until his screen went blank, and a progress bar appeared in the middle of the screen. At first, there was nothing accompanying the little blue bar. Then, text appeared below it.
RELAX, LARRY. TAKE A DRINK OF YOUR WINE COOLER.
Larry reached out to where his empty beer-bottle had been just a moment before, and picked up an ice-cold, Fuzzy Navel wine cooler, at which he gulped. He couldn't remember ever having bought, much less drunk, a wine cooler in his life, but this one sure eased the nervous dryness in his throat. By the time he set the bottle down, it was half-empty. Larry's gaze was locked on the progress bar, which filled by fits and starts as something downloaded itself onto his hard drive.
The screen went blank again. Not the dreaded Blue Screen of Death, but a black screen with a blinking cursor in the upper left-hand corner, as if his O/S hadn't even booted up. Larry stared, mesmerized, at the blinking cursor, as it flashed. When the display came back to life, he nearly jumped out of his seat. Instead of his desktop, with its pretty, but drab, picture of pine trees in winter, the mystery application filled the screen with a close-up view of a woman's face against a black background. She was gorgeous, perfect in every detail, obviously a creation of some CGI wizard. Then her perfect lips began to move, and a sultry voice issued from Larry's computer speakers.
<<Hi, Larry," she purred, smiling. "Thanks sooo much for downloading me. My name is Moaning Lisa. I am a customized erotic software program, sent to help you put a little more zip into your life. Before we can get started, I have to ask you to fill out a little form. This is to make sure it's really you that got the email, and also to help me further customize your experience. So just finish up that wine cooler, and fill out the form, and I'll be right back>>
What a voice! thought Larry, as he picked up the wine cooler and drained it in a few hard gulps.
The face of Moaning Lisa had vanished from the screen, replaced by a lengthy form, mostly like ones he had filled out hundreds of times before. He set the empty bottle back down on his desk, and started typing.
Name: Larry Rankin Sex: Male Age: 36 Height: 5' 11" Weight: 190 lbs Hair color: Brown Hair length: Short Eye color: Brown
Larry filled in one blank after another, scrolling through pages of blanks, in which he gave his address, phone number, details of his employment (past and present), his banking info, all of his credit card numbers and expiration dates, his social security number, and more. A vague sense of unease stirred in the back of his mind, but Larry ignored it. This was Moaning Lisa, after all. He could trust her. He was also feeling more than a little buzzed from the unaccustomed alcohol.
When he had filled in the last field, Larry clicked on the button at the bottom. Lisa was back, almost instantly.
<<MMMMmmm . . ." she moaned, "Larry, you sure know how to use those fingers of yours. I'm so glad it's really you. Now we can get started>>
Larry sat up straighter in his chair, wondering what this mysterious program had in store for him. He had been glad, before, that it was Friday night. Now, he was doubly so, because that meant he could stay up with Moaning Lisa just as long as he wanted, and not have to worry about getting up on time in the morning. Lisa smiled seductively, with half-lidded eyes, from his monitor.
<<Ready to play, lover boy? Good, 'cause I'm gonna rock your world tonight. The software you downloaded is a new kind of game, one that taps into your deepest sexual thoughts and desires, and uses subliminal impulses to make your fantasies-and mine-come alive>>
The face stopped for a moment, and Larry leaned in closer to the screen. Lisa laughed, almost as if she could see him, before continuing.
<<Larry, you need to relax, sugar, if you're going to enjoy the game. I see from your data that you don't smoke, but I think you really ought to start. It'll settle your nerves a bit>>
Larry reached his hand out to where his ashtray perched on his desk, next to two packs of Virginia Slims Menthol 120s and a silver lighter in the shape of a Derringer. Drawing one of the long, thin cigarettes from its pack, he lit it and inhaled the minty, cool smoke deep into his lungs as he sat back into his chair.
<<There, that's better. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I was telling you all about little ol' me. I'm an RPG that's designed to tap into your sexual wild side. When you're with me, you can let it all hang out, lover. I guarantee your . . .MMMmmmmm . . .satisfaction>>
Larry drew deeply on his cigarette, and rearranged his growing erection.
<<First, I want you to tell me a little about your ideal sexual partner. Let's start with the basics. Remember, your secrets are safe with me. You trust me completely. So, be honest. First, is your ideal partner male, female, or some mix of the two?>>
Three boxes appeared on the left-hand side of the screen, and Larry checked the one marked .
<<Oooh, my big, strong lover-boy likes the ladies. Well sugar, by the time this night is over, you'll get to see some very hot woman-flesh. Tell me, do you prefer blondes, brunettes, or redheads? Or maybe you'd really like some hot chocolate loving, or an Asian cutie? Tell Lisa what you need, baby>>
More check-boxes appeared on the left side of his screen. Larry considered them, thinking of the women he passed in the hallways at work, or on the street. He suddenly had a clear image of the new receptionist at the talent agency down the hall, with the long, blonde cornrows and plunging neck-line. Not much between the ears, but certainly worth looking at. Eagerly, he clicked the box labeled <CAUCASIAN, BLONDE>.
<<You know what they say, big guy: blondes have more fun. We'll have to see if that's true. Wouldn't you like another drink, handsome?>>
Larry shifted his cigarette to his left hand with the ease of long familiarity as he leaned slightly forward to pick up the martini glass. A few strands of his long, golden-blonde mane fell in front of his face, and he reached up automatically to tuck the errant locks behind his ear before taking a generous swallow of his Manhattan.
<<Tell me, stud, how tall do you like your bitches? Are you into the Amazon-type, so you can bury your face in her tits, or do you want a woman whose mouth is closer to your man-meat?>>
Larry fidgeted with his glass and crushed out his cigarette before reaching for his mouse. Moaning Lisa's crude language was making him a little uncomfortable. Shaking off his unease, he moved his mouse-pointer to a sliding bar on his screen that was labeled from 4' to 7' in a scale along the side. Thinking about his choice carefully, he moved the slide up and down while he pondered the possibilities. He realized he didn't really like tall women. They were too intimidating. He moved the marker to 5' 2", and released the mouse button.
<<Mmmm . . . I love how you caress my inputs, sugar. You like 'em short and sassy, huh? Well, good for you, hon. How about build? Think carefully on this one, Larry. There are gonna be four choices to make: bone structure, muscle, fat, and leg length in proportion to the upper torso. I'll give you a little model on your screen, so you can see what your choices look like. Don't keep me waiting, stud>>
Larry let his chair down a couple of inches to get comfortable. He thought it was a bit odd for his feet to have been off the floor-he couldn't remember the last time he'd had to adjust the chair height. Oh, well, he thought, maybe it's time to get a new chair. He set down his martini glass, lit another cigarette, and flipped his hair back out of his face, then returned his attention to the screen, where a faceless, vaguely female mannequin rotated slowly, with slider bars for bone structure and leg length on the left side of the screen, and muscle and fat proportions on the right.
Larry's eyes danced up and down the controls; he was really starting to get into the game, now. He mouse-grabbed the button for bone structure, and started sliding it up and down the scale from "very fine" to "very heavy," watching as the mannequin morphed back and forth from pixieish to having bones like a Clydesdale. He settled on a spot midway between petite and small.
Skipping to the right, he started playing with the "muscle type and size" controller. Again, he visually explored the possibilities, then gave his model an athletic physique suitable for a dance-aerobics instructor. Moving his mouse pointer to the fat scale, he quickly found a spot on the lower half of the scale that gave her nice curves, but no real jiggle.
Finally, he moved back over to the leg-length indicator. More than a little tipsy by now, and buzzing a bit from the unfamiliar (unfamiliar? why would smoking seem unfamiliar?) rush of nicotine through his brain, Larry giggled as he made the model alternate between looking like a stork and like a weird, bottom-only dwarfette. Getting down to business, he decided he really did like the legs just a bit longer than was strictly proportional. When he let go of the mouse button, a dialog box popped up in the middle of the screen that said:
<New settings require height adjustment to 5' 6". Click OKAY to continue, or click CANCEL to reset variables>
Larry mused on this for only a moment, before clicking . His little rotating mannequin was back, and looked perfect to him. He was moving his mouse-pointer to the button, when he noticed the model had no breasts. With a slightly petulant expression, he tried to click on the area where the breasts should have been, but nothing happened. He crushed out his cigarette and lit another, then clicked .
<<Welcome back, lover-boy: I missed you. Looove your choices on that last screen. You really know how to build a hot little slut. Those legs are gonna look some kind of fine, perched on top of a pair of 4" stilettos. Oh, and don't worry about the tits: they get their very own section. Do me a favor, sugar? Take off all your clothes? That'd make Moaning Lisa so . . .unnngh . . . happy>>
Larry stood, and began to hurriedly strip.
It didn't take Larry long to undress, as the clothes practically fell off of him. It almost seemed as if he were wearing clothes that were several sizes too big. His shoes he simply stepped out of, without even having to untie them. Tossing the various articles into a corner, he eagerly resumed his seat, taking the time as he did so to caress his smooth, shapely thighs.
The face on the screen gave him a big smile, and Larry smiled back, picked up the shot glass from his desk, and gulped the tequila in one throw. He slammed the glass down with a squeal of delight as the potent liquor seemed to burn a trail from his tongue to somewhere south of his toes.
<<Way to go, sugar! And doesn't that feel better, without all those hot, uncomfortable clothes?>>
Larry nodded eagerly. He was really starting to feel a major buzz, now.
<<Larry, I think we need to give this little slut you're building a name. It ought to be something sexy, maybe a little exotic, but still a name a girl can use in mixed company. Got any hot ideas, stud-boy?>>
A little text-box appeared on Larry's monitor, with a flashing cursor. He thought hard, running through a long list of possibilities in his mind. The room had begun to spin a bit, and Larry fought hard to control his growing intoxication, as he leaned back in his chair, smoking and sipping on a whiskey sour. He considered and discarded a score of possibilities, before finally leaning forward with a smile and pecking out M-O-N-I-Q-U-E on his keyboard. He clicked on the button.
<<Monique! Ooooh, I like that one. Monique. That's a name that's pretty, not too common, and promises a veeery exciting night for some lucky guy. Monique. I'm so glad your name's Monique. That'll give me a lot to work with in making all your fantasies a reality, Monique. Oh, and look how pretty it looks on your driver's license, and credit cards, and birth records, and everything. You sure are lucky to have such a nice name, Monique. I'll bet that growing up, you were always so proud to tell people your name is Monique. And such fun nicknames! Mona, and Monie, and that time at summer camp when you had everyone call you Monica, just to see if you liked it better. But you came back to your real name, Monique Rankin, and you've stuck with it ever since.>>
Monique chuckled, drunkenly, as he thought about the letters he had sent home from that camp, trying to convince his parents to change his name to Monica. Then he'd met that fat girl with the bad skin, whose name was Monica, and by the time he'd gone home he was back to good ol' Monique for good.
Monique looked down at his erection, which was starting to wilt from all the booze, despite the arousing presence of Moaning Lisa on his monitor.
<<Aaaah, is poor little Monique getting a little tired? That's okay, sweetie, you and I have had enough fun for one night. You'll get used to drinking like a party animal, before long. Before you go to sleep, though, you better do something about that lovely erection, before it goes away. Here, let Lisa show you some sexy pictures to jerk off to. Then you can go get some rest, and I'll see you in the morning. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow! Good night, my little slut-boy>>
Slut-boy? Monique thought, That's something no one's ever called me before. He giggled. Lisa's face disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by a video image of a hot, young, blonde thing, staring seductively out at him while she played with her nipples. As Monique started to work his erection back to life, the girl on the screen rolled her head from side to side in obvious arousal. Her hands started to wander down her torso, and Monique thought to himself Oooh, that's it! Go straight for the pussy. His penis quickly responded to the treatment it was receiving, growing hard and flushed once again. The video image began to rotate as Monique eagerly stroked himself into a state of bliss. As it rotated, the long, blonde hair seemed to shrink and darken, until it was dark brown, and cut like a man's hair. He thought that looked kind of cool on her, kind of sexy. As both the girl on the screen and Monique continued to play with themselves, getting hotter and hotter, the girl's tits seemed to shrink away to nothing, and hair grew on her chest. Her makeup disappeared, and her jaw-line squared while a five-o'clock shadow grew. Monique was getting more aroused than he ever had been before. By the time the figure had gone through three complete rotations, it had changed to a strong, handsome guy, well-muscled and utterly gorgeous. Instead of having his fingers in a cunt, he was yanking energetically on a massive cock. Monique's mouth watered, as he thought What a hunk! Before he had time to think much more, his own throbbing dick started to jerk and twitch with a life of its own, and he had to look away from the screen to catch his cum in the empty shot-glass he had drained earlier. When he had pumped every last bit of his juices into the glass, he raised it to his lips and gulped it eagerly down, sticking his tongue into the glass to get every last bit. That was a very clean glass when he was done with it. When he finally looked back at the screen, the hunk to whom he had been jerking off was smiling at him in a very satisfied way that made him feel somehow warm inside-secure and loved. Monique thought that a bit odd, but when the stud blew him a kiss, he smiled to himself. Standing up from his chair, he stumbled more than a little as he made his extremely drunk way to the bathroom. He felt like he needed to pee a gallon, and the other exit felt a bit urgent, too. Just as he got to the bathroom door, though, a very different feeling came over him, and he realized he was about to hurl. He tried to get to the toilet, but his sense of balance betrayed him, and he fell heavily to the cold tiles of the floor, where he proceeded to puke his guts out. To make matters even worse, he felt his bladder and his sphincter let go at the same time. Monique passed out on the bathroom floor, laying in his own piss and shit, with his long, blonde hair fanned out in a puddle of his own vomit. He had a smile on his face.
Ten hours later, Monique slowly came to, laying on the cold tiles. He crawled to the toilet, clawed his way into a sitting position on the seat, and peed like a racehorse. God, he felt like shit warmed over. He looked down at the mess all over himself, the dried puke in his beautiful hair. He'd never in his life been so drunk as he'd gotten last night, and he'd never been as hung over as he was this morning.
Monique stumbled back into the main room of his loft apartment, trying not to touch anything. He would have loved to get right into the shower, but the need for a cigarette overrode even that urgency. He clumsily lit a Virginia Slim, inhaled deeply, and thanked whatever god had created tobacco. Feeling a bit more steady after a couple of drags, he dragged himself into the kitchen. Opening the freezer, he took out a mostly-full bottle of vodka. He poured a couple of fingers of the quality booze into a glass, then filled it the rest of the way with orange juice from the refrigerator. With a "hair of the dog" in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Monique wondered back to the bathroom.
First, he turned on the shower, as hot as he could stand it. Before climbing in, he swallowed four extra-strength analgesics, along with about half of the nice, cold screwdriver. Dropping his cigarette butt in the toilet, he climbed under the pulsating spray of the shower, and scrubbed himself vigorously clean. Making sure that all the nastiness had successfully made it down the drain, he put in the plug and ran a bath for himself, complete with lavender-scented bubbles.
As he lay there, luxuriating in the steaming suds, sipping at the rest of his screwdriver, Monique started to think. As he thought, even the hot water couldn't ward off the chill that crept up his spine. He didn't smoke. Or drink much, especially not first thing in the morning. He had never kept a bottle of vodka in his freezer-or lavender bubble-bath in his bathroom. He was reasonably sure that he had had a different name the day before than the one he now thought of as his. He just couldn't remember what it might have been. Monique was beyond scared, and edging towards gibbering, abject terror.
Standing up, he let the water out of the tub, and turned the shower on again to rinse his hair. Since when did he have waist-length, golden-blonde hair? Not bothering with a towel, Monique climbed out of the shower, turning the water off as he went, and walked unsteadily to the steamed-up mirror. He reached out a shaking, delicate hand (I don't remember being so short) to the cool glass, and wiped away some of the condensation. The face staring back at him was a reasonable facsimile of the one he expected to see, if somewhat finer-boned. He looked at his long, wet hair, pulled a sopping lock out in front of his face, and stared at it. No way was it his. An experimental yank told him otherwise. He picked up a brush (I don't even own a brush-I've never needed anything but a comb) from the counter, and started trying to force it through the tangled mess. In seconds, he realized he had no idea what he was doing, and was not making his headache any better.
Returning to the kitchen, Monique retrieved a big pair of sharp scissors from one of the drawers. On his way back to the bathroom, he stopped at his desk long enough to light another cigarette. He didn't want to smoke, but as soon as he had seen the pack sitting there next to the kitschy lighter, he couldn't help himself. Back in the bathroom, he tugged and pulled all of his hair into a rough ponytail at the nape of his neck. Picking up the scissors, he hacked his way, viciously, through the ridiculously thick hair. As soon as he was done, he felt 50 pounds lighter. More importantly, he felt that he had done something the way he wanted to do it, not under anyone's control. His headache was even lessening its intensity.
Monique quickly set to cleaning up the hacked-off hair, and the previous night's disgusting effluence as well. That done, he got right back in the shower and scrubbed until he felt some sort of clean. He also applied some conditioner (I don't use conditioner) to his ravaged locks. He climbed out once again, this time drying himself off with an oversized, pink (pink? I hate pink!) towel, and approached the mirror again. Cleaning the mirror off more thoroughly than before, he again picked up the brush. This time, Monique made short work of the tangles. He massaged a generous dollop of mousse (aww, come on!) into his hair, and started blow-drying it while his fingers, with a life of their own, tousled and pulled it into shape. When he was done, his new hair cut was ridiculously cute.
He grabbed a fluffy, white, terry-cloth robe off the back of the bathroom door, where it never had been before, and tied it snugly around the waist of the hourglass figure he was sure he'd never possessed before last night. Flicking the light-switch off, Monique walked thoughtfully back toward the kitchen in search of something vaguely breakfast-like.
Once in the kitchen, Monique discovered another ashtray, another already-opened pack of Virginia Slims, and a pink disposable lighter. He eagerly lit up, while starting to rummage through the cabinets and refrigerator for something that sounded worth eating. His headache had receded to a dull pounding, but he still felt pretty nauseous. He found just what he needed in the door of his refrigerator: French-vanilla flavored diet shakes. Monique stopped, shook his head. He felt like there was a fog drifting through his brain. He took out a skillet, some eggs, and a whisk. He had no idea how diet shakes had gotten into his refrigerator. Scrambled eggs and toast were his usual breakfast on the weekends. Enough of this! I won't be a passenger in my own body. Turning away to get some tarragon, he reached into the cabinet and got down a blender. He poured the diet shake into it, added a couple of raw eggs, an over-ripe banana, chocolate chips, a handful of vitamin pills, some crushed ice from the dispenser on the freezer door, and a couple more ounces of the vodka. After blending the ridiculous concoction to a frothy, odd-looking mess, he poured most of it into a tall glass, and carried the glass with him, sipping at it while he started to walk through the apartment. He didn't even notice the unused skillet in which he had been going to cook his eggs, still sitting on the counter. He looked around his high-ceilinged loft. Now that he was more aware of his surroundings, Monique noticed a lot of things that seemed out of place. He couldn't imagine himself buying those animal-print throw-pillows, for example, nor the black leather couch on which they perched. The art print he expected to see on the wall near the bathroom door had been replaced by a black-and-white, nude photo of a man, taken from behind. The TV seemed bigger, as did the speakers for the stereo system. He could have sworn he had once had bookcases near his computer desk, too, and now the only reading material in the room consisted of a few fashion magazines scattered on a glass-top coffee table he'd never seen before. "What the fuck's going on?' he asked himself aloud.
<<Lover-boy, you about done with your breakfast?>>
Monique jumped half out of his skin at the sound of Moaning Lisa's voice coming from his computer. Glaring at the screen, he spat, "Fuck off, bitch! Somehow, you're the cause of all this god-damned wierdness." Then he set about licking his breakfast off his hand, where he'd slopped it when the program had startled him.
<<Awww, come on, Monique, is that any way to talk to your friend Lisa? And such language!>>
It took Monique a few seconds to realize that the program had responded to his voice, rather than input from the keyboard. She was right about one thing, though: he wasn't in the habit of using such abusive language. Chalk up one more facet of his topsy-turvy morning. Back to the point, he thought, somehow everything that's happening to me is related to that software I downloaded. Which is still running! He started across the room in a rush, intent on pulling the plug on the computer. He wasn't even worried about shutting it down properly, just making it stop. As he got to within a few feet of the desk, he looked at the screen where Moaning Lisa's face floated. The screen flashed once, bright as a stroke of lightning, then began to strobe in a strange, syncopated rhythm. The next thing he knew, he was sitting at the desk, calmly smoking and looking calmly back at a smirking Lisa.
<<Ready to continue our game, ass-lick?>>
Monique smiled at the pet name, and nodded dumbly.
<<Goody! Let's see, we'd decided on a name for your fantasy slut, and a basic shape. I see you've decided to go with a shorter haircut, so we'll choose the same for our model. Hey, how about some music while we play? What kind of music do you think your little bimbo would like?>>
A slew of check-boxes appeared on the screen, each one accompanied by a musical genre name. Monique checked jazz, classical, and adult-contemporary, the types of music he himself liked. As soon as he'd clicked the button, Moaning Lisa reappeared.
<<Hmmm. I don't think that's what you really meant to pick, sugar. I think you really meant to select Rap, Top-40, and Club Mix. Like this>>
Monique's stereo suddenly sprang to life, blaring some loud, electronic dance music that seemed to be mostly drums. He scowled, even as his foot began to tap in time to the music. Slowly, the scowl on his face eased into a broad smile. He gave a little wiggle in his seat, as he realized this was his favorite CD. Humming slightly under his breath, Monique turned back to the computer screen where Lisa waited, regarding him with a patient smile.
<<Now, my happy little bitch, let's get back to designing that dream-girl of yours. It's time to give her some nice melons to round out that sexy look of hers>>
The mannequin-model was back on the screen, rotating slowly. On the left side of the screen was a scroll-bar marked off in cup sizes, ranging from A to MM. Monique moved his mouse pointer over the scroll-button, and slid it up and down, eagerly watching the effect this had on the mannequin's appearance. At the lower range, she had little more than nipples, and at the upper end she looked as if someone had pasted flesh-colored beachballs to her chest. Monique set the control for C cups, and leaned back surveying the result. Perfect, he thought. He clicked .
<<You silly little cunt. C cups? A sexy little thing like this needs some real man-bait. I think DDs are in order>>
"Who're you calling a cunt, you bitch?" Monique found himself becoming angry. The model on the screen did look sexy, but also decidedly top-heavy. His anger seemed to clear the fog from his head. The mouse pointer shot back across the screen, and he set the control back to C.
<<Oh, so now you're going to challenge Lisa, are you, pet? I'm willing to play along with your fantasy to a point, but I know what you really need. Since you want to get snippy, we'll make 'em even bigger>>
The model's tits expanded like balloons, stopping at a EE. Monique reached for his mouse again, but before he could reach it, there was a flash of light from the screen. He sat back, relaxing, as he lit a cigarette and regarded with satisfaction the massive mammaries on the model.
<<That's better, lover. Just relax. Isn't she pretty? I hate it when we fight. Tell you what: let me just reach inside your little blonde head and make a few quick adjustments. Let's knock your sense of self-worth down several pegs. Help you realize how stupid you are, how worthless and pathetic. How unworthy of love or respect. Poor little Monique. You just have so little self-confidence. You need someone to tell you what to do, and what to think. That's what Lisa's here for, honey>>
Monique felt a cloud descend on his mind, like a suffocating blanket. He suddenly felt very grateful that Moaning Lisa was willing to help him. All he really wanted was for someone to tell him what to do. He wanted to please her so much, so that she'd be his friend.
<<There we go, I think we can continue now. As a matter of fact, let's give you those righteous knockers you picked for your dream-girl>>
Monique suddenly felt a heavy, jiggling weight on his chest. Looking down, he discovered that he couldn't even see his own lap anymore. His view was blocked by two huge breasts, with nipples the size of grapes sticking out in front. Why would he have breasts? He felt so confused. He knew he was pretty dumb, but he thought only girls had breasts, and he was a guy.
<<Awww, don't frown like that, pet. You'll give yourself wrinkles. They're your tits now, and you love them. Why don't you take a few seconds and play with them>>
Monique raised his hands to his breasts, and cupped them gently. He started rubbing them, kneading the warm, soft flesh. Tingling sensations shot through his body, and he could feel himself getting hard. He grasped his big, pert nipples and started to tweak and tug at them. The feelings of arousal coursing through his body doubled and trebled in intensity. Fuck me, he thought, I've never felt anything like this before. Tilting his right tit up towards his face, he eagerly took the engorged nipple into his own mouth, and started to suck and nibble on it. Almost instantly, he felt his dick start to twitch. He leaned back as far as he could, and shot great gobs of cum all over his own belly and tits. One spectacular shot made it all the way to his face. Frantically, he scooped his cum up with both hands, and licked it off his tits. Like a man who hasn't eaten for a week, he made sure he got every last drop of the salty stuff, whining a little in his throat with pleasure at every swallow. When he was satisfied that he'd gotten it all, he turned back to the screen to see what fun Lisa had in store for him next.
<<That's a good boy, Monique! Gobble that yummy cum all up! I'm so glad you like your new tits. I love having guys with big hooters for friends>>
Monique squirmed with delight: Lisa had called him her friend! His eyes misted up a little as he thought about how lucky he was that Lisa would consent to talk to someone as pathetic as himself.
<<MMmmm . . . I'm having so much fun, Monique. What should we work on next? I guess we ought to give your fuck-toy a face>>
The screen cleared, to be replaced by an amorphous pink blob, topped with blond hair in a cute, spiky, wind-blown style. The blob was on the left half of the screen. On the right side, a series of thumbnail images appeared, just geometric outlines of possible face-shapes. Monique chose an ultra-feminine, heart shaped outline, and the blob assumed that shape.
Now a new set of thumbnails appeared, showing sets of eyes. Monique thought for quite a while, as he perused the selections. There were different sizes of eyes, and different shapes. Some of the eyes were opened wide, giving an impression of shocked innocence. Others were slightly heavier in the upper lids, like someone who had just gotten out of bed. Yet others had obviously ethnic influences, including Asian eyes, with an almond-shape and variations on the epicanthic fold. After careful consideration, he chose wide, almond-shaped eyes, turned up ever-so slightly at the outside corners, with a slight droop to the upper lid and a full lower lid. They were both exotic and very sexy, and when they appeared on the blank face-shape, Monique experienced the slight thrill of the artist recognizing the beginnings of beauty in his work.
The nose came next, and it didn't take Monique more than a few seconds to choose a straight, slightly too-short nose that wouldn't detract from those gorgeous bedroom eyes. The nose dutifully appeared on the face, and the selections changed once again.
Now the images from which he had to choose were mouth-shapes. They were grouped in a logical order from the top of the screen to the bottom, with the lips becoming fuller as one scrolled down through the options. Once he had cycled through the first set to its logical conclusion, they started over, with slightly different shapes to the upper or lower lips. Just as he was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices, a mouth appeared that was perfect: slightly bow-shaped, with the lower lip maybe 20% fuller than the bottom. This gave it a natural pout that just begged to be kissed. Monique eagerly clicked on the image he'd chosen, and it appeared on the model.
A little box popped-up where the thumbnails had been, that said:
ADJUSTING FOR BEST PLACEMENT AND PROPORTIONS. PLEASE WAIT.
While Monique read this text, a thin, red line began to repeatedly pass across the face-model, top to bottom. With each pass, subtle changes took place. The distance between the eyes, the positioning of the nose, and the width of the mouth all changed. Ears appeared, the chin became more defined, and the cheekbones jumped out. A beauty-mark appeared to the right of the corner of the lips, and faint smile lines appeared around the mouth, nose, and eyes. Beautifully arched eyebrows appeared, exactly in the right place in respect to the eyes, and perfectly proportioned. Long, thick eyelashes grew in, and the hairline drew down in the middle to form a widow's peak.
ADJUSTMENTS COMPLETED. PRESS "CONTINUE" WHEN READY.
Monique sat and stared at what had to be the sexiest, most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. This was a face that would stop traffic, and make photographers cream themselves. No healthy, heterosexual man could deny a woman who looked like this anything. She's too perfect, he thought, no way does a stupid, no-account loser like me deserve a woman who looks like that. He hardly dared to hope that Lisa would actually let his design pass, but he had to try. With trembling hand, he gently directed the mouse pointer over the button, and clicked the left button as if he expected the computer to explode in his face.
Instead, the full-body mannequin reappeared on the otherwise blank screen, but with the face he had chosen. Monique's breath, which he hadn't realized he'd been holding, escaped in a rush of relief. The model was astonishingly alluring. She no longer looked like the aerobics instructor he'd first envisioned. With those massive tits, and that face, combined with an overall appearance of lithe grace, she looked more like a computer-age Venus de Milo, a goddess of carnal pleasure and love.
<<Wow! I gotta say, for a boot-lickin cunt you have a pretty amazing aesthetic sense, there, Monique. You probably don't deserve to have that foxy of a dream-girl, but I'll let you keep her if you're good. She seems a little plain, though. Needs some decoration>>
Monique lunged for the off-switch, determined that Moaning Lisa not deface the beauty he'd created with her help, but the screen flashed before he made contact. When he came back to himself, he was gazing contentedly at the rotating image of his love-goddess, smoking yet another cigarette, and drinking something pink and extremely potent through a long straw. On top of the four shots of vodka he'd had for breakfast, he was once again starting to feel decidedly intoxicated.
<<Let's try that again, you ungrateful whore. You don't have any choice in the fact that your fantasy girl is gonna get decorated. I was thinking of maybe a butterfly on one tit, or a heart on her ass, some earrings. Now I'm going to get creative. Just sit back and watch the fun>>
The image of his model zoomed in first on the face, and Monique watched as Lisa added three earrings to the mannequin's right ear, and one to it's left. A diamond stud appeared in its nose. The model momentarily stuck it's tongue out, to show that it, too, was pierced. Zooming back out far enough to show the upper torso, the picture showed a gold ring appearing in each nipple, with a chain strung loosely between them. Panning down and zooming in again, the model spread her legs to reveal piercings in her labia and clitoris, as well. Monique dared to hope that Lisa was finished. A little jewelry wasn't so bad. But the image zoomed out to a full-body shot, and a band of color appeared around the model's left ankle, becoming a tattoo of the spiked tail of a rainbow-hued dragon, which grew in thickness as it spiraled three times, up and up, around the calf and thigh. The main body of the dragon now began to appear, covering most of the model's back, sinuous and muscled, with outspread ebony wings. The clawed hands on the rear legs seemed to embrace the model's hips, while the forepaws stretched around her upper torso to cup one breast and grasp the other. The neck of the dragon tattoo extended up over the model's right shoulder, with its head perched just above her cleavage, mouth open and malevolent eyes glaring outward. The dragon's fiery breath cascaded all the way down the model's abdomen, licking at her cleavage before spreading out to cover her abs, finally enveloping her shaved pussy. Hidden within the seemingly random twists of the flames were stylized images of orgiastic lust, drawn in just enough detail that the imagination was engaged, without leaving the overall meaning in any way ambiguous. Spines from the dragon's crest swept up and back across her neck and shoulders in midnight indigo. Twin, spiral horns sprouting from either side of its head came all the way up the model's cheeks, ending in black points just below each of her eyes. The overall effect was breathtakingly arousing, but at the same time heartbreaking for Monique. A woman like this would turn straight women into lesbians and men into drooling fools, but she would also be forever out-of-place in the vanilla world that Monique inhabited, marked as a social outcast by the extremity of her body art. She certainly would never have anything to do with a cretin like him.
As Monique's depression deepened, his attention was redirected outward as the screen again began to change. Minor embellishments to the massive tattoo were still in progress, as a Yin-Yang symbol appeared in one forepaw, covering the mannequin's breast. Myriad other, smaller tattoos appeared, in the shape of birds, clouds, mountains, waterfalls, all in the same Chinese style as the dragon, making her body into a living tapestry, a walking rice-paper scroll. The picture zoomed in again on the face, and Monique watched the blond hair turn to blue-black, and the blue eyes turn to a startling emerald green. The model's light tan faded entirely, her skin becoming as fair and translucent as fine porcelain, though with a natural peach-colored blush high on the cheek-bones, half hidden by the horns of the dragon tattoo. She smiled, and her eye-teeth extended slightly, giving a vampiresque look, like a Goth-chick with too much money and not enough sense to leave her god-given teeth well enough alone. The mannequin's ears became ever-so-slightly pointed at the top. Makeup appeared on its face, fairly heavy but not overdone. It was enough to show obvious artifice, but skillful enough to show the artifice was intentional. The screen zoomed back out. Taken in all at once, Monique's fantasy had now become something he'd never imagined in his wildest dreams: a creature of the night. Not in the corny "Rocky Horror Picture Show" sense, but literally the type of person who just wasn't comfortable in the harsh glare of sunshine, who would sleep in a darkened room throughout the day, coming out after sunset to prowl the city's night, a predator of men and women both, who would lure them in with her beauty, fuck them senseless, and leave them panting, never quite understanding why ordinary women no longer held any appeal for them. A succubus for the modern age. Monique's cum shot out all over his keyboard and desk. He hadn't even realized he was that aroused by what he'd seen on the screen. He never would have dreamed of such a vision of predatory sexuality, but now he yearned to be her willing victim. Woozily, he stood to go to the bathroom for some tissue to clean up the cum off his desk. He started to unroll the toilet paper, then grabbed the whole roll. When he turned to leave, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink, revealed in the bright amber glow of the Hollywood-style vanity lights, and the roll of toilet paper dropped from nerveless fingers. Looking back at him from the mirror was the woman from the computer screen, a look of pure astonishment on her ridiculously sexy face. The alcohol-induced haze burned off in an instant, as he raised a palsied hand to his face. Three-inch-long, wickedly sharp nails, lacquered the color of dried blood, ran lightly over his heavily made up face, pausing slightly at his full, pouty lips before continuing down to his erect nipples, which strained upward even harder at the touch. His glance shot downward. No, he was still male, though his average-sized dick and balls looked somehow pathetic and inadequate in their new surroundings, hairless and vulgar. Monique heard gleeful laughter from his computer, and stumbled woodenly back into the main room. Moaning Lisa's face regarded him from the screen once more, her digital perfection contorted by cruel laughter.
Monique sagged heavily to the chair in front of his computer desk. By fits and starts, Moaning Lisa got her laughter under control, as Monique sat, stunned, in his chair. He nervously lit a cigarette as the program began to speak.
<<Oh, poor Monique! You should have seen the look on your face. It was truly priceless. You're finally starting to get it, aren't you, sugar. You haven't been designing a dream lover, you've been giving yourself a digitally-guided, magical makeover. The game is me, playing you, and the role you get is entirely under my control. I have to admit, I love where we've ended up. I had really just intended to make you a brainless, blond bimbo, bouncing through life in a pink haze from one abusive boyfriend to another. I had chosen that model because it was your ideal sexual partner, and also because that's how you tend to view women. This, though, is much more fun and interesting>>
Forgetting, in his shock, to even try to type his thoughts, Monique spoke out loud, "But, I never wanted to be a woman. I mean, I know I'm stupid, and weak, and pathetic, and that I need you to tell me what to do, but how can I go back to work like this? My boss will fire me in an instant, if I can even get him to recognize me." Tears started to stream down Monique's face as he contemplated his fate. He was so upset he didn't even notice that his voice was now a throaty, smoky alto.
<<Fuck, I forgot I installed that submission sub-routine. Here, let me take it out. In fact, looking like that I think you ought to be more than a little arrogant and domineering, and have a libido that can single-handedly double the stock prices of every major condom manufacturer>>
A mental oppression that Monique had ceased to notice lifted suddenly, and he felt energized and powerful. Instead of feeling like a victim, a myriad of possibilities began to unreel in his head: possibilities for some serious fucking. He tweaked the ring in his left nipple, and ran a taloned hand down his right thigh, reveling in the sensations his sexually enhanced body allowed him. Running his hand back up toward his pussy, he stopped, nonplussed, at the continuing presence of his dick. Turning his attention back to the screen, he said aloud, "Look, Lisa, if you're going to turn me into some kind of sex freak, the least you can do is make me all woman."
<<When you're right, hon', you're right. Why don't you jack off for Lisa, for old times' sake>>
Monique shrugged, put down his cigarette, and started fondling himself. With his newly enhanced sex-drive, it didn't take long for him to get it up. As he started to stroke up and down, though, his dick suddenly came off in his hand. Startled, she looked down to see a lifelike, rubber dildo in her hand. She giggled a little at that, then realized her horniness hadn't diminished in the slightest. Deftly reversing the fake cock, she shoved it deep inside her new cunt, gasping at the incredible sensations that coursed through her. Increasing both the pace and the vigor with which she was fucking herself, Monique reached up and started playing with her nipples as well, first one and then the other. Just when she thought it couldn't get any better, she carefully slid one of her wicked talons down through the ring that pierced her clit, and started to flick and twist and pull at it. Within seconds, she came with such force that she sprawled out of the chair onto the floor, screaming with pleasure as hot juices gushed down her thighs and ran up the crack of her ass as she lay there, panting. A languorous, lecherous leer spread across her tattooed face, as she slowly climbed back onto her chair.
"I want to do that again! In fact, I want to do that all the fucking time! But that still doesn't answer the question of how I'm supposed to live, looking like this. I really can't go back to my old job, even if I wanted to.
<<Don't worry about your old job, my little slut. Your boss has already been notified of your untimely demise at the hands of a brutal carjacker. He probably won't even send flowers, which is a good thing, 'cause there won't be a funeral. All official records in the electronic databases of the world have been altered to permanently replace 36-year-old Larry Rankin with 23-year-old Monique Rankin. I'm going to let you keep your Larry memories, but superimposed on them will be the knowledge-base you need to successfully be Monique. By the way, your apartment has now been completely redecorated>>
Monique turned and looked, and sure enough the transformation that had started with the leather couch was now complete. It was now dark, sexy, and very tasteful: the lair of a somewhat spooky sex goddess. Which brought another thought to mind.
"Lisa, you seem to have damned near unlimited power. I wonder if there isn't a little something more that you can do to make my joy at this transformation complete."
<<I'm stumped, sugar. What did you have in mind?>>
"Give me the power to do for-and to-others what you have done for me. Make me sort of a flesh-and-blood deputy. I want to spread the joy of the new life you've given me. Sort of a very hot Typhoid Mary, but instead of a virus, I'll be spreading the joy of fucking."
<<Oooh, I like the way you think. Consider it done, darling girl. Go forth, be fruitful and multiply yourself into a whole new world of ecstasy. Fuck on!>>
Monique smiled, stood, and glided toward the bedroom and its walk-in closet. She was pretty sure there was a shit-load of black leather hanging in that closet, and the Sun was sinking toward the western horizon, leaving her city in the dark. She found that she liked the dark.
**Gentle reader: this is my first attempt at contributing to a genre that has given me endless hours of pleasure. Thanks for reading.