Oh the Places She'll Go

Brandon tried not to roll his eyes as he tore the graduation-themed wrapping paper off yet another slim, special edition hardcover of some learning-to-read rhyming book for kids. Apparently people who have to buy a gift for the high school salutatorian all go to the same place because this was now his third copy of that stupid children's book, Brandon thought to himself as he plastered a fake smile on his face and scanned the guests in his parents' spacious home, looking for the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Levenson, so he could thank them for their thoughtful gift. At least this one came with two crisp hundred dollar bills taped inside. Cash was something he could actually use, unlike weird nursery rhymes for kindergartners. He was going to MIT in the fall and it wasn't cheap. As Brandon neatly set the book aside and began reaching toward the pile of presents in front of him for the next one to open, something he could use even more came into view. Stepping out from behind a festive cluster of party balloons was the neighbors' daughter, Lola. She looked stunning, as always.

Lola was eighteen, the same age and class as Brandon, and she positively radiated beauty. She was average height, but exceptionally slender, with lustrous, straight blonde hair cascading across her elegant shoulders and down her back, big, dreamy blue eyes and a dazzling smile that could light up a room. Lola had a lithe, dancer's build, with firm B-cup breasts. Her ass was tiny and tight, without an ounce of fat on it. She seemed to glide wherever she went, moving with an effortless grace, looking as pretty and poised as a princess.

Lola was the finest girl Brandon had ever seen and he had secretly lusted after her for years, but Lola had never thought of him as anything but the boy next door, a friend — and, perhaps, a friendly academic rival. As if her flawless good looks weren't enough, Lola was also smart as a whip. She was, in fact, the class valedictorian — just edging out Brandon by a fraction of a grade point.

As two of the brightest students at Beaver Brook High, Brandon and Lola had each won their share of accolades. He won top prize in the chemistry competition; she was named homecoming queen. But whenever they competed head-to-head, Lola seemed to come out on top. She was elected student body president; he was treasurer. She was voted "most gifted" and "most likely to succeed" for the yearbook; he got "biggest nerd." And, of course, she was number one in class rank, while the biggest nerd was somehow runner up.

Brandon let out a small sigh as Lola approached, but he was breathless watching her smooth thighs sway, the hem of her mid-length tartan plaid skirt bobbing as she moved. He saw Lola every day, but he could never see enough of her. She was so exquisite, so incredibly beautiful, that it hurt a little, but he always wanted more.

"Hi, Brandon!" Lola said, her voice soft and warm. "Congratulations!" There was not even a hint of gloating. Lola was classy like that. She didn't flaunt her natural gifts — and she didn't need to.

Brandon chuckled. "And congratulations to you too! I can't believe it's all over."

Now it was Lola's turn to let out a little sigh as she considered just how quickly high school had gone by. It didn't seem possible that all those moments and memories had been crammed into four short years — and that the summer before college was already upon them. As if in an effort to recapture that fleeting feeling of high school for just one more minute, Lola asked Paul if she could sign his yearbook.

"Sure," he said, not really caring. Brandon had enjoyed high school, but now that it was over, he was glad to leave it in the past. He didn't feel the need to reminisce and the idea of signing each others' yearbooks seemed childish. Everybody wrote the same stupid shit. "You're the best!" "Never change!" "Remember that night in the woods?" Who fucking cares? Brandon almost said aloud, but didn't.

As Lola leaned forward to sign the yearbook that was spread out on the table, the neck of her blouse fell loosely open, giving Brandon a fantastic look at her small, but perfectly proportioned breasts, peeking out of her lacy white bra. He drank in the view. When she was done scribbling on the front page of his yearbook, which had been blank, she slapped it shut, stood up on her tiptoes, like the trained dancer she was, and asked Brandon what he was he was up to for the night. "I'm having some people over at my house tonight. You should come!" she offered. "My parents are taking everyone's keys, but of course you could just walk home," Lola added with a cute laugh.

As tempting as it was to get drunk with Lola and her friends, Brandon wasn't sure he could spare the time. He was working on something special in his basement and it was almost done.

He had won that chemistry contest by inventing a new kind of food coloring. Ever since he was a kid, Brandon had loved candy, but unlike most kids, he had always been curious about how the candy manufacturers made all those wonderful colors and flavors. After studying the molecular structure of common artificial food colorings — blue #2, yellow #5, red #40, among others — he began experimenting with his own variations and recombinations. The happy result was an artisanal powder that, when sprinkled onto food, greatly enhanced its natural appearance and flavor, while eliminating some of the known dangers commonly associated with chemical additives. Even better, it seemed to facilitate weight loss. Everyone who tried his inaugural batch had reported that their food tasted great and that they ended up dropping a few unwanted pounds as well. Brandon called his creation "Tastrix." And while he could only make tiny quantities of the prize-winning powder in his basement lab, he hoped the facilities at MIT would help him commercialize the product.

But tonight he was hoping to perfect a new, much more powerful version of Tastrix. He hadn't given this supercharged substance a name yet, but he knew it would be revolutionary — if he could get the formula just right. His idea was to chemically bond a Tastrix powder extract with a special compound made up primarily of synthetic heroin and hyoscine. If done properly, Brandon thought that this combination could deliver consumers into a state of euphoria and suggestibility. Eventually, he hoped they would crave Tastrix in all their food, much the way people crave refined sugars and other chemical additives. Reminding himself that those drugs are illegal, and that he needed to cook before he got caught with them, Brandon decided to decline Lola's invitation.

"I'd love to come to your party," Brandon told Lola, "but I'm doing lab work tonight. Sorry about that."

"That's okay," Lola replied, taking it in stride. "But if you finish early, you know where I live. We'll be in the basement, so if it's late and you don't want to wake my parents up, just come to the back door."

"Thanks. Maybe I will," Brandon said, with feigned nonchalance. The thought of spending an intimate night with a drunken Lola Levenson was more intoxicating than any of the drinks she would be pouring for her friends. She was an angel in his eyes, possessed of the most delicate and refined features that heaven could bestow. But Brandon had to resist. He had work to do. And he knew that if he did his work well, Lola could be eating out of his hand.

Just then, as Lola twirled around with a saucy twist of her hips while her skirt played catch-up, Brandon realized it. He was in love with Lola. He had always been in love with her. She was kind, she was brilliant, and she exuded a rare grace, energy and verve. She was innocent, but knew how to flirt; she was precious, but self-assured; she was intelligent but still down to earth. Most of all, she was astonishingly attractive. In that moment, Brandon could see clearly what he had probably always known, but only in a dim and unarticulated way. Everything he did was out of love for Lola. Even Tastrix — and especially the new, narcotic version he was experimenting with — was ultimately just an effort to win the girl that he never seemed to beat.

Admitting to himself that he was in love felt strange, but it gave him a renewed focus on finishing his work and he went about it with gusto. Brandon cast the yearbook down on a lab table and threw himself into a flurry of activity.

Brandon was a dervish in his basement lab, studying samples under his microscope, tweezing minute flakes into a tube of chemicals, firing his burners, and manipulating all manner of scientific instruments, many of them his own handiwork. But after several hours, he was still unsatisfied with the results. He was confident that the new powder he had concocted was what he had wanted: a super additive that would give food a rich, satisfying flavor while triggering weight loss, feelings of joy and arousal, and an urge to obey. The stuff worked. But although Brandon had stabilized the combined chemical ingredients, somehow they just didn't sing. He was still searching for that elusive perfection, the blend that would harmonize Tastrix, heroin and hyoscine into a mighty orchestra of ecstasy.

It was almost 1:00 a.m. when he decided to quit for the night. He wanted to go to bed and let his subconscious chew on the problem, but he hadn't stopped thinking about Lola's invitation.

Leaving his basement through a bulkhead that opened into the back yard, Brandon stepped out into the night. He felt a small surge of excitement as he cut through the trees into the Levensons' backyard and crept up to their patio. The basement lights shone through a set of double glass doors leading into a downstairs rec room. He hadn't been inside the house in a few years — probably since Lola's sweet 16 party — and it looked different now. Brandon heard Lola and her friends laughing, playing music and swapping drunken stories as he approached. He could see them through the glass, sprawled out on a massive, overstuffed couch, sipping from martini glasses, but they couldn't see him. The warm night air wrapped him in a cloak of invisibility and instead of knocking on the door, he stood silently and watched the girl of his dreams. Lola looked ravishing as she tucked a strand of her golden blonde hair behind an ear and laughed loudly at something one of her friends had said.

His interest was piqued, however, when he thought he heard his name. Then one of Lola's friends repeated it, asking, "Yeah, where's Brandon? Wasn't he going to stop by?"

Lola didn't have time to reply before another friend chimed in, "Let me guess. He's in that fucking lab," she scoffed while pantomiming as if she was strapping on some safety glasses to inspect the contents of a beaker.

Lola didn't mean to egg her on. Lola liked Brandon. He was a nice, smart boy and a good neighbor. But when she confirmed that Brandon had said he would be doing lab work, the girls erupted with hoots and guffaws. Lola wasn't trying to be funny or to make fun of Brandon, but she was feeling giddy from the alcohol and found herself laughing along with them.

Just when it seemed the uproar would die down, one of Lola's friends spiked a hat on the floor and dramatically exclaimed, "NERDS!" At eighteen years old, these girls weren't even a glimmer in their parents' eyes when Revenge of the Nerds came out, but they vaguely got the reference and hysteria ensued. Lola's deep blue eyes were moist with tears as she doubled over in laughter. She was a nerd herself, but she could take a joke.

Brandon felt his cheeks burning hotter than the night air. His feet, however, were frozen. He couldn't will himself to knock on the door now; he couldn't face these girls who were whooping it up at his expense. So he just watched from outside, his mood growing as dark as the moonless night sky. The girls' laughter stung. Brandon was so hopelessly in love with the gorgeous girl next door that it took him years to admit it to himself and there she was, cracking up while her girlfriends mocked him.

When his feet finally moved, it was to retreat through the trees and into his own backyard, the landscape unfamiliar in the pitch black night. Paul slipped back into his basement lab, but even there he wasn't safe from fresh humiliation. His safety goggles and beakers mocked him from the table. He felt like swatting them across the room, but then he noticed something out of place. It was his yearbook. He didn't remember bringing it down there. Brandon flipped it open and read Lola's inscription. "Congrats on getting into MIT ya big nerd! Let's stay friends 4 ever!"

That did it.

Stay friends? Fuck that. A sneer crossed Brandon's lips as a plan took shape in his mind. In a flash, he saw what was wrong with his new formula. It triggered weight loss. Lola didn't need that for a second. Her body was lean, firm and fit. She was supermodel thin. And that was the problem. She needed to be his slut, not his perfect, brilliant, size 2 little friend. He wanted her to be a stupid bimbo with voluptuous thighs, a set of big titties and an ass that jiggled when he hit that shit from behind. Oh! the places she'll go, Brandon chuckled to himself as he set about adjusting his lab equipment, and oh! the ways her body will grow!

Brandon worked feverishly through the night. He wasn't tired. Lust was his muse and his raging desire to transform slender young Lola into a busty bimbo slut kept him busy for hours.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn lit up the morning sky, he put the last, triumphant touches on his chemical masterpiece. The work was done and the results, he knew, were inspired. Brandon marveled at the new powder he had created, chopping it into little lines like cocaine. But this was no common street drug. This was perhaps the most potent substance on earth, capable, he believed, of making whomever consumes it grow hopelessly addicted to its delectable taste and the bursts of narcotic nirvana that it delivered. But its real secret lay in a suite of secondary properties. The consumer would not know until it was too late that the powder gradually suppressed activity in the frontal cortex, leaving them as dumb and easily manipulated as a child. In fact, if it worked as well as he hoped, they would become too vapid to ever figure it out. Meanwhile, the powder would also boost the body's natural abilities to store fat and grow breast tissue. By reverse-engineering Tastrix, Brandon had created a powder that would not trigger weight loss but would instead cause targeted weight gain in the consumer's tits, ass and thighs. And the cherry on top was the way it would stoke the body's natural pleasure centers, driving them to incredible heights of desire. It was nothing less than a bimbo drug. As he savored his creation, Brandon decided that a substance so uniquely powerful and finely-crafted deserved a special name. He would call it "Thictrix."

Brandon couldn't wait to serve some to Lola, but he needed to figure out the best way to do it. For once he was happy that Lola fills her Instagram account with pictures of the meals she cooks instead of bikini shots. Her photos were a treasure trove of information about the food she likes, but Brandon really struck gold when he came across an old photo of Lola, in an apron and oven mitts, holding up a loaf of fresh-baked banana bread. The caption said that her parents couldn't eat any because of their nut and banana allergies. Perfect! He didn't go to all this trouble just to make Mr. Levenson's man boobs get even bigger. Brandon baked up some banana bread, making sure to add two generous scoops of Thictrix, and left it on the bench in front of Lola's house with a note that read, "Sorry I missed your party. Please enjoy this banana bread as my little graduation gift to you. Fair warning: it was baked with nuts, bananas and a sprinkling of joy. Let me know how you like it."

Satisfied that the note was disarmingly dorky, he went back home to finally catch some sleep. When he awoke, the first thing on his mind was Lola. Brandon was dying to know if she tried a slice of his special bread. Hopefully she had an extra thick piece, Brandon thought, chuckling at his double meaning. On a whim, he opened Instagram and there was the answer. Lola had posted a picture of a half-eaten slice, complete with a cutesy filter and the caption, "Let's get this bread!" That's not all you'll be getting my dear Lola, he thought to himself. It was only a matter of time.

One hour and twenty-seven minutes, to be exact. That's how long it took for Lola to come ring Brandon's doorbell. His parents were gone for the day, so he had to answer it himself. But first, he took a moment to spy on her from his bedroom window. Looking down, Brandon saw the lovely crown of golden hair that Lola had tied back into a sleek ponytail. She seemed a little fidgety and was tapping one foot while she waited. He was just as impatient to see her, so he bolted from the window and made off downstairs.

Opening the door casually, still clad in pajamas, Brandon gave Lola a warm neighborly greeting. But he couldn't resist asking, "So did you like the banana bread?"

"Oh yeah, it was yummers!" Lola exclaimed, with a small squeak in her voice, which seemed to register higher than usual. "That's why I came over,"' she said with a bubbly tone and just a touch of vocal fry. "I wanted to ask for the recipe so I could, like, make some myself."

"Well come on in," Brandon said a little quickly. He had no trouble detecting the effects Thictrix was having, even if Lola herself seemed blissfully oblivious, and he wanted to get her alone and in private immediately. "So how much did you eat?" he asked, then immediately wondered if he was being too obvious. He hastily added, "A baker always likes to know!"

Lola didn't think anything of it. She was too busy concentrating on walking — and she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Lola was wearing tennis sneakers, but she seemed unsteady on her feet. Her stride, normally purposeful and elegant, was halting and knock-kneed, more of a waddle than a walk, as if she was unfamiliar with the shape and movement of her own body.

And she was. Lola was wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt and Brandon could see immediately that neither fit her quite right. Her ass, normally dainty and little, as if it could fit in a teacup, looked plump and juicy. Her meaty thighs strained against the tight pants. And the way her breasts jutted out proudly beneath her sweatshirt, their rounded fullness pressing against the soft material, confirmed that the Thictrix was working.

When Lola finally answered Brandon's question, some shame crept into her voice. Her shimmering blue eyes lowered and her voice became a girlish whisper, as if she was confessing something secret. "Two whole pieces!" Lola certainly wasn't accustomed to eating that much, but the bread had tasted so good, like the ultimate comfort food, that she just had to indulge.

Brandon put her at ease as he ushered her up to his bedroom. "That really makes me feel good!" he said. "It was my first banana bread and I wanted you to enjoy it. You should have as much as you want."

Hearing how pleased she had made Brandon restored her good spirits and she practically bounced up the stairs and into his bedroom. "Is this where you, like, you know, keep the recipe?" Lola asked with naive sincerity.

"Yes," Brandon replied as he followed behind, imagining how good it would feel to grab a handful of her brand new booty.

When they got to this room, he opened his laptop and pretended to be searching for his secret recipe. But he had no intention of letting her know what was really in that banana bread. Instead, he just did a google search for "banana bread recipe" and printed out the first one he clicked on. He didn't give it to Lola right away. He wanted to see just how bad she wanted it, so he snatched the paper off the printer and held it like a closely-guarded secret, asking, "If I share this with you, will you do something for me?"