(The tags i've provided apply to the story as a whole {so far} - and there may be more coming. This story is a patchwork of ideas and bits of plot i came up with over literally years. For background music, i recommend Joan Jett's version of "Starfucker", Zappa and the Mothers' "Road Ladies" and "What Kind of Girl Do You Think We Are?" and the DiVinyls' "I Touch Myself". Which should give you some idea what this story is like. ALl characters engaging in sex on-camera are eighteen or over.)
I was really disgusted with what I was looking at.
On appearances, the nude girl was perhaps fourteen. She had almost no figure -- just the slightest hint of a waist and a tiny flaring of the hips. She was perhaps four and a half to five feet tall, and her light brown hair hung straight to just below her shoulders, with no trace of a wave or curl. Her thin lips were, of course, totally devoid of lipstick; in fact, she wore no makeup at all. If she had had something to smile about, heavy braces on her teeth would have been visible.
She turned slowly around, and I could see that she had no real development in the rear, either; her cheeks were small and tight, with only the barest hint of the possible approach of womanly curves.
She stopped, again facing forward, and I looked at her sexual attributes.
What sexual attributes?
Her chest was almost devoid of anything that could be termed "breasts" -- small pink nipples surrounded by slightly darker circles of barely-raised areola that were just barely lifted away from her narrow chest by the almost-imperceptible swellings of what might, someday, be breasts.
Lower down, her development was equally obviously Not Occurring -- her small mound stood almost entirely bare of any signs of hair, and the slit was barely visible between the tightly-furled outer lips.
I was simply disgusted.
The basic reason that I was so disgusted was that I knew she wasn't the slow-developing fourteen or so she looked -- she was a full eighteen years old, today.
And I ought to know -- she was me.
It didn't make sense -- my mother and my cousins and my sister all had figures and tits and asses and nicely-furred pussies. And here I was, stuck at an apparent fourteen or younger. Even my younger sister -- just sixteen -- had a 36B-24-36 figure and three boyfriends all just waiting for her to decide which one of them was going to pop her cherry. (Not that it mattered; I happened to know she gave that up to her math teacher for a passing grade, six months ago.)
But it was my eighteenth birthday and I still had no figure at all and Larry and the Honkers were in town tonight and I was in lust with Larry Donovan, the leader of the band... (Not having outward signs of puberty hadn't stopped some of the hormonal and internal changes; I could and did masturbate myself to sleep dreaming of that big cock Larry's tight pants outlined.) And I couldn't go because it was an 18-up show and I didn't have a new ID yet and nobody was going to believe I was over eighteen without it.
Turning away from the full-length mirror, I picked up my plain cotton panties, terry-cloth shorts and little-girl top with the PowerPuff Girls on it, and got dressed, reflecting on the basic unfairness of the world.
Just as I finished pulling on the top (there were two pitiful little bulgy places in the cloth to indicate where tits ought have been), there was a flash of light from behind me in the corner of the room, a whiff of sulfur, and a fit of coughing.
Spinning around, I saw the most outrageous person I had ever cast eyes on.
Six feet plus tall, muscular and hairy-chested, -legged and -armed, with a full brown beard and a receding hairline, he was wearing a lovely blue and white lacy ballgown and combat boots. In his hand he held an incredibly tacky-looking wand with lots of trailing sparkly stuff and glitter and sequins and what looked like a huge sparkling glitter-coated (slightly-uneven) cardboard star on the end.
"All right," I said,"who the heck are you?"
"Well, dearie," he began, languidly waving the limpest wrist I'd seen since my older cousin took me to a Ray Davies concert, and then suddenly broke into another coughing fit "(Bloody special effects crew -- still too much sulfur in it, no matter how often I complain... ) Well," he continued, when he had his voice back, "I seem to be your Fairy Godfather."
"Cheeze," I groaned. "Literal bugger, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes," he simpered, "quite literally...". I'm sure you have never seen a six foot, lisping transvestite with muscles like a lumberjack and an incredibly limp wrist simper (and in a bass voice, what's more). Be glad. Be very glad.
"Anyway," he continued, toning down the nellie act just a bit, "I'm here to grant your wish, my dear."
"What wish would that be?" I asked.
"Why, to finally get your full sexual development and to go to the Honkers concert and sneak backstage and meet Larry Donovan and to fuck him until he's semi-conscious and you're walking bowlegged..."
"Eeep. How did you know about those fantasies?"
"Fairy Godparent Central knows all, my dear. It's just that our budget is so low and our caseload so heavy we usually have to miss out all but the most needful.
"And you, my dear, qualify as 'needful' -- you have been broadcasting nothing but Pure Need for weeks; it's even beginning to distract the Boss from keeping the stars in their courses.
"So you get the Special Exception."
He looked me over, shook his head, and said "Well, not much to work with, actually, but one does one's poor best." He sighed dramatically and raised his tacky wand.
And suddenly my clothes vanished.
"Hey!" I gasped, instinctively trying to cover up with my hands. Not, of course, that there was much to cover.
Rolling his eyes dramatically, FG sighed loudly. "Look, sweetie," he lisped. "The reason there's a Fairy Godfather on this job is so I won't get all interested in whatever you have or whatever I turn you into. I mean, if you were a nude Marilyn MON-roe, I mght bow down and worship you, but even then I wouldn't want to boink you. I boff boys, kiddo."
He wiggled a finger. "Drop the hands, sweetie."
Reluctantly, I did.
"Let's see," he murmured. "Five nine?" He waved the tacky wand energetically. As you might have expected, it left showers of twinkly glowing fairy dust behind it in the air, which all suddenly headed up in ranks and descended over me.
I can't describe the feeling, except that it was thoroughly weird, as I felt my entire body stretching vertically, especially in the legs. When I turned to the mirror, just as it stopped, I saw myself like in one of those amusement-park mirrors -- just like myself, but very tall and narrow. Actually, I looked like an anorexia victim. With long long legs.
"That's good. Ummm... 36?" More waving. This time, since I was facing the mirror when it began, I got to see the change. The gaudy shimmering dust settled around my hips, and, as I watched, they flared outward. At the same time, I could feel changes happening in my butt, too.
"Legs." Another wave, more dust, and suddenly I had the sort of legs models would kill for.
"Waist... 24." And it was so. The squeezing in that this involved was an even weirder feeling than the stretching of the other parts.
