This story has interactions between male-bodied people and penises. If that bothers you, please move along and enjoy most of my other stories. There is also more violence in this story than most of mine.
It was foolish, the sort of thing one would do if one had a death wish, but I had done it anyway, and here I was. The bastard had killed my father, John Grant - not directly, of course, but his goons had - and as his only daughter, I couldn't let it lie. I had the cell phone he always insisted I have on me in case of trouble, but trouble would catch up to me before I could get any help from 911.
The guys chasing me weren't Hutton's goons, just a couple of horny thugs strung out on something or other. That, in a way, was the artistic touch.
I ran down the alley. I was making good time, and I thought I had a chance. The two men, barely more than kids really, were a lot larger than me but not particularly fast. With luck I'd out distance them or find help.
But my luck ran out. The alley was a dead end. At the end of it, lounging against the brick wall that loomed so unfortunately, was a man incongruously dressed in outdated formal wear, complete with tails and a cravat. He didn't belong in an alley, and I wasn't sure he belonged in this century, but there he was, looking like he was in a swanky hotel with chandeliers, looking over the debutantes of some other era.
I hadn't gotten close enough to Hutton's operation to make him mad without taking chances when I found them. Maybe he was on my side. Maybe he had a gun. From the look of him it would probably be some antique breechloader, or at best a Colt Peacemaker. Nothing more modern would fit with the outfit. It was a ridiculous thought, one that I didn't have time for, but I was scared out of my wits. I'd love to tell you that I was calm, cool and collected while I was running from jerks twice my size, but I'd be lying. And I only do that on days that end in y.
I kept running toward him because it was the only way to run. "Please! Help me!" If that sounded pathetic and less than heroic, so be it. I could hope he wanted to help a cute girl, assuming he thought I was a cute girl. I'd used my charms to get me in and out of trouble before.
As I got closer I saw that the man had a markedly triangular face and an intense sunburn. The shape of his face was accentuated by a Van Dyke beard. He paired the beard with a waxed mustache that twirled around on each side of his nose.
He couldn't help. He was a fop, someone misplaced from a costume party, and I more likely had placed him in danger than he was to get me out of it. Heavy footsteps pounded behind me, and I was almost to the fop and the wall. I'd have to try to climb it, and I didn't like my chances.
"Help?" The man said calmly, as if we were talking about whether tricorn hats were making a comeback or if the top hat was there to stay. "Would you accept my help, whatever form it might take?"
I didn't have time to go over all the possibilities. "Yeah," I said, on the one in a thousand chance it would pay off. Meanwhile I tried my other long shot. I tried to run up the wall, hoping my bare feet - I'd kicked off the heels blocks ago - could find purchase in between the red bricks and my hands could find handholds, but I got a few feet up and fell. I landed on my feet, at least, although I scraped my forearm in the attempt to climb. My dignity was intact, but I'd sell my dignity in a heartbeat for a way out. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the two creeps enter the alley. I had less than ten seconds.
The fop touched my arm. "Here," he said. "Have a piece of my soul. And have an interesting life."
That was a curse, in some cultures. "Do you have a gun?" It would be more useful.
"No. Advice. Give into your anger. Good luck."
I blinked and he was gone. I looked around for his escape route, thinking I'd take it too. But I didn't see a door, a trap door, or even a hiding place, just a few kitchen-sized bags of trash.
My pursuers slowed down and sauntered toward me. They knew and I knew I was trapped.
The one I'd labeled Baldy spoke. "C'mon pretty pretty. We just want to have some fun with you. Don't you want to have some fun?"
Scarface had a knife out, which managed to reflect what little moonlight filtered down between three story buildings. He was just a punk, and didn't deserve Al Capone's nickname but it was all I could think of right then.
"All out of fun," I said. "Sorry." I didn't think I could talk my way out of it, but I wasn't going to just panic.
Give into your anger.
They were going to have their way with me, regardless. And when they were done, they'd probably think they were safer with me dead than alive. Probably they hadn't thought it out that far, but I had seen their faces and could pick them out of a lineup. Whatever they intended now, and I had a pretty good idea of what it was, when they were done and had no more use for me, they'd kill me. They wouldn't have to dump the body anywhere; the alley was already the perfect spot.
If I got angry, and got them angry, maybe they'd kill me first, before the other thing. If that was all the fop had meant, it was crappy advice, but I still took it. "You bunch of cocksuckers couldn't get it up to save your lives. What are you even bothering for, you assholes? Can't get laid any other way? You're such losers."
"Big talk," said Scarface. "Why don't you take that pretty blouse off and show us your titties, and maybe we'll be nice. Otherwise I'll have to cut it off, and I might nick you."
Fuck no. I clenched my fists, and glowered. "Try your worst," I said. "I'll pound your face in." It was ludicrous. He had six inches and a hundred pounds on me, probably more. They both did.
"I'll hold her," said Baldy. "You can cut her clothes off. It's okay if she bleeds a little bit."
Give into your anger.
It would have been harder to hold it back. I just had to let go, so I did. I looked forward to adding a few scars to their faces for them to remember me by when I was gone.
Then something ripped. There was a sudden breeze on my chest, but the knife hadn't moved yet, and Baldy was still circling around. I felt stronger, and thought for a moment of mothers who, powered by adrenalin, could push cars off their children. I hoped that wasn't an urban legend, and that it was happening to me.
I grabbed Baldy by the arm and yanked him. He wasn't moving toward me with any great momentum, so I wasn't in the ideal position for a judo throw, and anyway I'd only taken four classes and quit. I didn't expect much. But he ended up flying through the air and colliding with his buddy with significant force.
"You mother fuckers," I said. They hadn't fallen, but they were staggering. I had a chance now to run out of the alley, but I'd lost my temper, and I didn't fucking feel like running. I wanted to teach them a lesson. Scarface was lunging toward me with the knife, and the moment for escape had passed. I grabbed his wrist and squeezed.
Something bent and broke, and a girlish shriek pierced the night, but it wasn't me doing the yelling. Who knew Scarface could hit that note? The knife clattered to the asphalt.
"She's one of them!" yelled Baldy.
"One of who?" I threw a punch at him and busted his nose. His face gushed blood as he staggered back. I didn't just feel stronger, I felt bigger. My license said I was five-six, and I was staring at these six-foot thugs directly in the eye.
Scarface pointed at me with his remaining good hand. At my crotch, the same part of me that they'd been most interested in when I started running. But now he looked horrified rather than predatory.
The idea that either of these two represented a threat to me seemed ridiculous now. They were both stepping back, not bothering to pick up the knife, and I got the feeling the only reason they weren't in headlong retreat is that they didn't have the courage to turn their back to me.
I glanced down.
I was bigger. My chest was bigger, for one thing, which was why my blouse had ripped and my bra had popped open, but the rest of me had grown, too. I was taller. The extra height had made my already short skirt shorter, and I could feel a breeze on my ass. My skin was a reddish hue, like the fop's skin, and a very large cock jutted out from under the skirt.
I didn't have the wits to wonder if I was dreaming. "So," I growled, "You wanted to fuck, did you? Bend over, boys."
They turned and ran. I had no doubt I could catch up. I'd been faster than them before, and I was almost certainly faster as well as stronger now. I could grab them and show them what it was like to be prey, to have no choice as to what a stranger did with your body. I started to run toward them, and then stopped after three steps.
I'm better than that.
They ran out of sight. I took several deep breaths, calmed a little, and then looked myself over again.
Yeah, I still had huge red tits and a big red cock. It was softening a little, not jutting out quite so hard. I fastened my blouse as well as I could, using the one button remaining, and managed to make it so my broken bra would mostly stay in place. After that I managed to pull my skirt down so that it covered my new, uh, appendage, although that meant having the waist stretch around my hips. I was probably showing some reverse cleavage, but I was sort of decent.
None of this made sense. Who was the man with the silly beard and the crazy mustache? And where was he? I took a deep breath. "Hey, you can come out now."
No reply. Well, I suppose him vanishing made as much sense as anything else. I was glad to be alive.
My car was eight blocks away. If I kept my skirt tugged down and one arm crossed over my chest, I could maybe make it there without getting arrested, and not drawing much more unwanted attention - nothing more than a catcall or two. I couldn't do anything about my skin condition, but that wasn't illegal, even if it was inexplicable. I started walking out of the alley, not knowing what else to do. There was no place for that guy to have gone, so I didn't have the faintest idea where to search for him to get an explanation.
A woman came wandering down the alley toward me. For an alley with no exit, it sure did see a lot of traffic. And the woman, in her own way, was nearly as striking as the man with the Van Dyke beard had been. The same sunburned skin, nearly as red as my own, spilled over a tight leather bustier, was flaunted on a taut stomach, and another flash of it was visible between a leather mini and thigh-high leather boots.
"Hello there," I said, all witty and everything. "Are you, um, with that guy?"
"Az? Yeah, I clean up after his messes. Did he tell you anything?"
"Anything about what? He just asked if I wanted help, I said yes, and... then he vanished. Is he responsible for... this?" I gestured at myself.
