Pygmalion

Carrie was a liar. A big, fat liar.

She told Tracy that this guy was handsome, but it was obvious that the only person who would consider this balding dork to be handsome was his mother, and even that was a long-shot. She described him as stocky, but he was closer to fat. She said he was well-off, but judging by the way he was dressed, Tracy also doubted that. He was wearing tweed, for Christ's sake. She said he was charming, but this guy was boring. And he could not stop talking about his job. As if Tracy really gave a shit about digging up Egyptian mummies or some crap like that.

Carrie also said he was dynamite in the sack. Not only did Tracy sincerely doubt this, but the thought of finding out if this was true turned her stomach. Boring guy – Malcolm was his name, right? – struck Tracy as strictly a two-pump missionary devotee. She'd probably have to wrap herself in bandages and lie still just so he could get it up.

To make matters worse, after all the talk Carrie had done about this guy, Tracy had gotten herself seriously worked up over this date, and had gone all out to prepare. She had squeezed her lithe frame into her favorite dress, a very tight, very short black number that really showed off her long, tan legs. It even hugged her chest nicely, and added some padding to her somewhat meager bosom. She spent the afternoon having her shoulder-length blonde hair professionally styled, and even went so far as to have a complete bikini wax, just in case. Hot, rich fuck-machines were in short-supply, and if this guy was everything he was supposed to be, then Tracy wanted to make sure he recognized that she was something to hold on to.

But now, Tracy could not even be bothered to feign polite interest in this guy's boring stories. The night was obviously a complete bust, and she hoped he would take the hint and put a quick end to it. Well, maybe not a complete bust. The busboy at the restaurant was cute, and Tracy flashed him her very first smile of the night when he stopped by their table to fill up their water glasses. She made no effort to be subtle about it, and was sure that Malcolm saw. But she did not care, and if it took insulting this guy to hasten this date's end, so be it.

To his credit, Malcolm kept his poise. He took a sip of the water and, fingering the thick, gold ring on his right hand, said, "I get the impression that you want to go home."

"Yeah," said Tracy, "I have to get up early in the morning for work. You know how it is."

"I understand completely," Malcolm replied as he gestured for the check.

The drive home took place in complete silence. Tracy stared out the window as Malcolm drove. Occasionally, he would take his eyes off the road to look at Tracy with a quizzical expression on his face, which gave Tracy the creeps. "He better not try to kiss me," she thought, "otherwise he's going to be in for a big disappointment."

Malcolm parked in front of Tracy's apartment building. He got out of the car, and walked around to open Tracy's door. "Thanks," she said, dripping with insincerity, "I had a lovely evening."

"Well, the evening's still young," said Malcolm, "how about a nightcap."

Oh brother, thought Tracy, how thick could you get? "I don't know, it is kind of late," she began making her excuse.

"One drink," he insisted, "you have time for that."

Much to her surprise, Tracy found herself agreeing. She tried to figure out why as they entered the building, and walked up the stairs to her second floor apartment.

By the time they were inside her place, she had regained her senses and was determined to feed this guy his drink, and get rid of him.

"All I have is beer," she said, hoping a stuffed shirt like Malcolm would consider himself above brew. The last thing she needed was for him to get drunk here.

"Beer will be fine, thanks." He walked into her living room, and made himself at home on her couch.

Tracy grabbed him a beer from the fridge, not bothering to get one for herself. She handed it to him, and sat down on the other end of the couch, as far away from him as possible.

Malcolm took a long swallow from his beer, then looked at his date. "You were kind of rude to me tonight, Tracy." She stared back at him in stunned silence. Was this jerk telling her off, in her home, while drinking her beer?

"But that's ok," he continued. "I forgive you, because I think I understand. Now, you can be honest with me, Tracy, I won't mind. You don't feel that we're in the same league, do you?"

Tracy decided the time for politeness, or what passed as politeness for her, was over. "No Malcolm," She answered, "I don't think we're in the same league at all."

"And this made you uncomfortable tonight, and you wanted the date to end as quickly as possible. This is why you were rude to me."

Tracy sneered, "You hit the nail right on the head."

Malcolm nodded and took another drink. "So why do you feel that you're not in my league, Tracy? You're a fairly attractive girl, and you seem kind of bright," he said with a smile.

Tracy's eyes went wide at this insult. She jumped to her feet, and said, "Ok, I think it's time for you to leave."

Malcolm remained where he was, calm and composed. "Sit down," he said, his voice even. Much to her surprise, Tracy sat.

Seconds seemed like hours in the silence that immediately followed, Tracy sitting there mutely staring at her date, wondering why she couldn't stand. Malcolm reclining on the couch, fidgeting with his ring. Finally he spoke.

"We all get a little insecure sometimes. It's nothing to be ashamed of." As he talked, he rose from his end of the couch and walked over to where Tracy was sitting. She looked away from him, her body trembling with fear. She wanted nothing more than to jump up and slap this asshole as hard as she could. But she could not move off the couch. Or maybe she didn't really want to move? She was very confused, and very scared.

"We're none of us perfect," he continued, "but we often see our flaws as magnified. Huge, grotesque imperfections that prevent us from ever being accepted by others. Now what is it that made you feel that you weren't good enough for me?" Tracy's eyes flared with rage, and she turned to yell at him, but he quickly put a finger to her lips and whispered, "shh." Tracy fell silent.

Malcolm moved his fingers up to her hair. He began pulling pins from her hairdo, until her blonde tresses fell down. He ran his hands through them, messing her hair so that it hung wildly over her face. "See, this is what I mean," he said, "you're obviously a natural brunette, but your insecurities drive you to dye your hair blonde. Why do you do this?"

She looked up at him, tears now flowing freely down her face. "It's prettier blonde," she whispered.

"But it can't just be your hair that made you so insecure tonight," Malcolm said. He brought his hands down to her chest, and cupped her breasts. She closed her eyes, and fought back the tears, trembling as he mauled and kneaded her tits. "Your breasts aren't very big, are they?" he asked the paralysed girl. When she did not answer, he slapped her sharply across the face. "Are they?"

"N-n-no," she stammered.

"And it makes you insecure, that you have small breasts? You wish they were larger? Answer me truthfully now."

"Yes," she said, weakly. He had pulled her dress down below her breasts now, exposing them fully. They were small but firm, the size of apples, with large nipples that covered most of their surface. He pawed them roughly, and, taking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinched it hard until she gasped.

"Stand up," he said, and she obeyed. He slid her dress down her legs, and had her step out of it, so that now she was standing before him, naked except for her panties and heels. "How tall are you?" he asked.

"Five foot ten."

"That's tall for a woman. I'll bet you were taller than all the other kids in school Taller than all the boys, weren't you?"

Tracy nodded. "And did the boys make fun of you, because you were taller than them?" She nodded again. "Did they have a name that they called you?"

"Yes," Tracy whispered. "They called me Tracy Towers."

Malcolm sighed, "Kids can be so cruel. And unimaginative." He was kneeling in front of Tracy, running his hands up and down the inside of her leg, staring at the damp spot on her pink panties that seemed to be growing larger by the second.

Tracy could not believe her body was betraying her like this. Not only did she seem to have no control over her actions, but she was soaking wet. It seemed some sick part of her was enjoying being molested like this. And Malcolm knew it. His caresses were getting closer and closer to the wet spot between her legs.

He stood up and whispered into her ear, "The insecure ones are always the sluttiest." Tracy flushed, and his fingers began rubbing between her legs, drawing little circles on her clit.

Then, abruptly, Malcolm stopped, and walked back over to his end of the couch. He plopped down on it casually, and finished his beer, while Tracy stood there in her living room, trembling. "Y'know," he said, "I used to be just like you. Insecure. Convinced I was woefully imperfect, and that nobody would ever love me.

"But I changed," he was fidgeting with his ring again. "Or more to the point, I found something that helped me change. I know my job bores you," he held up his hands mockingly, "No, no! It's ok, you can admit it. But you would be amazed at some of the stuff you find at these digs.

"And I like you Tracy. And, even though you were kind of a bitch to me tonight, I'm going to help you. I'm going to help you get rid of your insecurities. Because I'm a nice guy." Malcolm smiled at her, and leapt to his feet. "And I don't want you to feel that you're not good enough for me. But I think the only way I can do that, is to make you good enough for me.

"Are you familiar with the story of Pygmalion?" he asked.

Tracy nodded. "He was a Greek sculptor, and he fell in love with his statue."

Malcolm looked pleasantly surprised. He walked over to her and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Well, well, well, there's hope for you yet, Tracy," he said. "Behind that shallow bimbette exterior, I think there might be a brain that has read a book or two.

"But Pygmalion didn't just have a marble fetish. He felt that, because he was the best artist in the world, that only the best beauty in the world could satisfy him. When he couldn't find it, he made it for himself. He sculpted the perfect beauty, the only woman flawless enough for him to love, out of marble with his own hands. And then his love brought her to life.

"I want you to feel as though you can satisfy me, Tracy." Malclom walked around behind the frozen girl, and, wrapping his arms around her body, cupped her breasts in his hands. "But I think your insecurities are too big to be overcome. So we're going to have to do some sculpting."

Malcolm's hands kneaded Tracy's breasts, and an eerie green light began to shine from his ring. Warm waves of energy coursed through her body, and her knees buckled. Malcolm propped her up by her breasts. Tracy's eyes grew wide with terror. "Wha-what's happening?" she gasped.

"Art," was Malcolm's reply.

As Malcolm kneaded her breasts, Tracy felt them growing fuller, heavier. She looked down and saw them expanding into fleshy, voluptuous orbs that weighed heavily in his hands.

Malcolm spun her around and evaluated his work. "These," he said, bouncing Tracy's new, generous tits in his hands, "are breasts to be proud of. Now, let's say goodbye to Tracy Towers."

He began running his hands along Tracy's sides, from her rib cage down to her ankles, his ring glowing furiously. Again, waves of energy coursed through her body, a tingling sensation that produced powerful heat between her legs. Slowly, her lanky body began to shrink. Her eyes rolled back into her head as inches magically disappeared.

"You need to feel what it is like to be petite," he said. "Tiny, helpless, smaller than everybody, easily overpowered. And feminine, no longer tall, gangly, and awkward." He let her go, and she fell to the floor. Malcolm let her lay there, gasping for breath, for a while, before he ordered her to stand. She did so tentatively, her body adjusting to its new proportions. She had lost almost a foot of height, barely standing five feet tall.

"How do you feel now?" he asked. "How do you like the new you?" Tracy looked down at herself in disbelief, barely able to fathom that her tall, slender body had now somehow metamorphosized into a tiny, voluptuous package.

"How", she stammered. "How-how…?"

Again, he silenced her with his finger. "We're not done yet, my dear," he said. "There's just one more change, one more thing you need to have in order to be good enough." He turned her around, facing away from him, and then shoved her roughly on the couch. She extended her arms, to stop her fall, and wound up on all fours, her ass pointing at her sculptor. In one quick motion, he tore her panties from her, and cupped his hand around her cunt.

" I know you want to please me, I know you want to be good enough for me," he said, his hot breath almost burning her ear. "I know that you wished you were able to save yourself for me, that I could be your first."

The now-familiar waves of energy coursed through her again, although this time they were concentrated solely between her legs. She felt herself tighten, and a once-familiar band of skin reattaching itself in her vagina.

Malcolm hastily unzipped his pants, freeing his turgid cock from its restraint. "Now you're perfect darling," he said, once her new hymen had completely formed. "Absolutely pristine, and it will be my pleasure, to deflower such a beautiful and worthy slut like yourself. But, only, of course, if you ask."

Tracy was still trembling with fear. Her mind was cloudy, and she was confused as to exactly what was happening with her. But her pussy throbbed, and felt wetter than it had ever been. She did not know if her state of arousal was just another command she was unconsciously obeying, or if her helplessness before this strange and powerful man had activated some primal desires she had never known existed in her. But the reason for her condition did not matter, all that mattered was that it was satisfied.

"Yes," she gasped, panting like a dog in heat.

"Louder," Malcolm said.

"YES!" Tracy screamed, "please, please take me."

Malcolm waited for no further encouragement. He slammed his cock into her dripping pussy, tearing her seconds old hymen in one deep stroke. Tracy groaned, a familiar combination of pleasure and pain, one that she was once certain, like most women her age, that she would never feel again tore into her. The sensation sent her into a powerful, crippling orgasm, that forced her limbs to give out and dropped her, moaning and thrashing, onto the couch cushions, and causing Malcolm to slip out of her.

"Get up!" he spat. "You're not done serving me yet."

Forced to obey his command, Tracy's shaking limbs lifted her off the couch, and repositioned her ass in the air in front of him. He drove back into her, and began fucking her furiously, the stimulation of his thick cock hammering away at her combining with her complete powerlessness to send her into orgasm after orgasm.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of relentless fucking, Malcolm grabbed her by the hair, and spun her around to face him. He pressed his cock against her lips and fed it to her, forcing her to suck the mixture of her juices and virginal blood off his member as he fucked her face. She enthusiastically fellated him, until he pulled out of her mouth and fired his come all over her face.

She lay there awaiting her next order, slumped against her couch, his semen dripping from her face.

He looked at her with scorn. "You know what Tracy," he said, "On second thought, you're not good enough for me after all. And I don't think anything is ever going to change that. In fact, the only thing you're ever going to be good for is this, a come-receptacle for any man who wants it.

"So from now on, that's what you're going to be. Any man who wants to have you, to fuck you, to use you, you're going to let him. You're going to let him do what ever depraved or perverted thing he wants to do to you. Do you understand. Because that's your new mission in life, that's the only thing you're worthy of."

Tracy was openly sobbing now, but she knew she could only answer in one way. "Yes."

Malcolm zipped up his pants. "Smile Tracy," he said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life."