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Spare Parts

Written by circes_cup :: [Sunday, 17 February 2013 00:18] Last updated by :: [Monday, 04 March 2013 04:48]

Amanda stepped gingerly over moving boxes as he threw clothing willy-nilly into suitcases.

"I'm sorry to see you leave," she noted.  "You were a good tenant."

Oscar stopped what he was doing, and cast her a grateful look.  "No, it's I that should be thanking you.  You taught me how to shop at a grocery store, how to get a driver's license, how to use email, the list goes on.  Without you, I never would have figured out how things work..... around here."

"I can't believe there's actually a place on earth where you could grow up not knowing those things,"  Amanda chuckled.

"Perhaps there isn't."

"Why haven't you ever told me where you came from?"

"It's a long story."

"And where are you off to now?"

"A long way away."

His obtuse foreign-ness, although baffling, was one of the things that she found most endearing about him.  She had leased the apartment to other men previously, but they were just typical men.  Some would tack up inappropriately suggestive "skin" posters in their bedroom.  Others would bring home the occasional girlfriend, keeping Amanda up long into the night with the wailing of their amorous encounter.  Oscar did none of that.  He was strangely asexual.  And just as many women count gay men among their closest friends, there was something endearing about having a male presence in her life, without the lewdness, the desire, the hormonal baggage.  

Amanda also liked having someone to care for.  He was oddly vulnerable -- someone who had no clue whatsoever how to live in the United States, and no awareness whatsoever how to interact with Americans.  He had to learn everything from scratch.  Even his name, Oscar, was an adaptation;  his real name, he once admitted, was unpronounceable to Americans.

"When's the moving truck showing up?"

"It's not.  Most of this is going to charity."

"That's good of you.  I feel like so many people kart their junk around with them, and never use it."

He paused thoughtfully.  "That reminds me.  There's something I wanted to give you."

Oscar led her into the walk-in closet, where a bed sheet covered a coffin-shaped object.  He pulled the sheet back to reveal a glass canister, containing a human form.

"Oh my gosh, Oliver!  You've got a corpse in here?!"

"No," he chuckled.  "It's a spare body."

"A spare what?"  But even as she questioned him, she realized that her fears about Oscar harboring a corpse were misplaced.  The object had a roughly human shape, but was not human.  It had no facial features -- or any features -- to speak of.  It appeared to be covered in a skin-like substance, but it wasn't exactly skin.  It was as if a fifth grader had been given one hundred pounds of clay and told to fashion the best human they could in 20 minutes or less.

"A spare body," he replied.  "In case the primary one breaks down."

"I see."  She didn't.

"I'd take it back with me, but this light here shows that it's suffering from some type of minor behavioral abnormality."  Oliver pointed to an orange light that glimmered in the corner of the case.  "It could be some residual programming from an older assignment was that never wiped off. I don't know.  If I bring it back with me, Inventory Control will want me to fill out six or seven pages of paperwork on how it got damaged.  But if I simply report it as 'destroyed,' then the file goes straight to Accounting, an they need me to write up only a half page form.  So, easier to give it to you.  It's yours."

Amanda looked at him in confusion.

"Merry Birthday," he prodded.

"We say 'Merry Christmas'," she smiled.  "Or 'Happy Birthday'.  Either way, thank you, I think."

"See, even now you are still educating me on local ways."  His eyes shone with gratitude.  "I wish I had more to repay you with, than my spare equipment."  

"Oscar, you don't have to repay me.  That's what friends are for."

"Here, I'll give you some instructions."  He pointed down at a dial. "It's very simple, actually.  Our Cultural Reconnaissance Department reviewed American broadcast media -- television shows, you call them --  to determine the identities that would most easily blend in with local culture.  Ten were selected, and they are displayed on this dial here.  To transfer into the body, you simply select a form on dial, and then hit the big white button."

Amanda wanted to ask what he meant by "transfer into the body," but at that moment, the doorbell rang.  Oscar opened the door to reveal a truck from the local charity, ready to pick up his belongings.  

"It a wonderful sentiment, Oscar."  Amanda's voice was hushed as men lumbered past, trying to navigate the sofa through the front door.  She struggled to think of a way to rid her house of the preposterous thing, without offending him.  "I couldn't possibly accept it.  I am sure it cost you a fortune."

"My cultural research had prepared me for the reluctance of humans -- I mean, locals -- to accept gifts," Oscar waved dismissively at the body.  "These are very cheap for us to produce.  We have dozens more rotting in warehouses deep inside mountains, probably never to be used.  So, have fun with it.  Keep it around the house, take it out for a ride on the weekends, and you can put it back in its closet on Monday."

Amanda scrambled to finish the absurd conversation as politely as possible.  She left the apartment only moments after the sofa did.



"So, are you coming to the Empowering Women book club again this week?"  Amanda asked into her cell phone as she flipped through the channels on her muted TV.  The Empowering Women book club was all about feminist literature, and Amanda was its organizer.

"I don't know," the voice on the other end groaned.  The voice was attached to Maggie, one of Amanda's best friends.  "I'm not getting much out of the sessions anymore.  Sometimes, I feel it's just girls -- sorry, women -- sitting cross-legged on couches in corduroy pants and wool cardigans bemoaning the lack of respect they get from men."

"You used to like it," Amanda responded.

"I don't know.  Maybe I'm depressed generally.  I've been that way ever since my boyfriend broke up with me."

"See?" Amanda nearly exclaimed, feeling vindicated.  "That's EXACTLY the point of these sessions.  Why does your conception of personal fulfillment rely upon being with a man?  Women need to be empowered on their own.  They do not need men to make them complete."

"I know, I know," Maggie conceded.  But her voice didn't agree entirely.

"The whole point of the book club is for us women to help each other -- or frankly, force each other -- to become our own people.  We need to hold each other accountable to living lives in which we are more than just sexual half-people -- imperfect on our own by perfected by the presence of a male companion."

"Amanda, I agree with the overall principles, but the sessions are becoming, well, a little bit dreary.  Last week we spent 45 minutes debating the use of 'women' versus 'womyn.'"  

The former word presents females as derivatives of men, whereas the latter word presents them as their own co-equal gender.  

"That was an important debate," Amanda responded.

"OK, but it had nothing to do with the actual book we were reading that week, Little Women.  At that's 'Women' with an E."

"So are you saying we won't be seeing you again, at least at book club?"  

"I don't know," Maggie replied over the phone.  

Continuing to cradle the phone on her shoulder, Amanda fingered through the paperwork on the coffee table as she  listened to Maggie enumerate her misgivings about the book club.

The paperwork was her diagnosis.  

Although it was completely horrifying to her, Amanda couldn't stop looking at it.  She couldn't believe that it was real, couldn't believe that the consequences were so... imminent.  She wished she could tell Maggie, but she wasn't ready.

"I'll probably take a six-month-break from the club and then see if it makes sense to return.  Will you still be the organizer then?"

"No," Amanda replied, carefully placing the paperwork aside.  "By then, I expect I will have moved on."


Amanda flipped on the transistor radio and returned to her paintbrush, resting on a plastic tarp near a wall that was wet with new paint.  It had taken her two weeks to return to the downstairs apartment.  But she wanted to get a new renter in there soon and had finally forced herself to make the preparations.   

The apartment was sadly quiet and empty without her tenant's presence.  

She always made a point of painting some of the scuffed walls before new renters move in, and this time was no exception.  As Amanda  worked the brush across the walls, she admitted to herself that she did not know why she was cleaning, why she was seeking a new renter.  You can't take apartment leases with you, she thought.  But at the same time, it was helpful to keep up the daily routines, to create the trappings of normalcy, even if the underlying normalcy wasn't even there.

Her thoughts were turning in depressing directions more and more often these days.  That was why she had flipped on the radio.  Listening to something, even the news, would be a good distraction.

"North Korea took another step  towards becoming a fully fledged nuclear weapons nation today with the successful underground testing of a nuclear bomb.  The country's premier, Kim Il Sung, appeared jubilant in front of an adoring crowd as the test was announced."

"Men," Amanda complained caustically.  "They just love fighting -- beat the other guy up, show him who's in charge.  Violence is such a guy's thing."

The radio droned on.  "The Japanese military responded to the tests with increased naval activity off the Korean Peninsula -- a clear challenge to a nation that considers much of the Korean Sea to be its territorial waters.  Armed conflict in East Asia -- which once seemed a real but manageable threat, seems now to lurk just around the corner."

"Ugh," groaned Amanda to herself.  "The only reason we have wars is because the world is run by men.  If womyn had more power, there would be more peace.  Fighting and violence just aren't in our nature!"  

After cleaning the excess paint off the brush, Amanda appraised the paint job.  Good enough for now, she thought -- on to the next chore.

Amanda wheeled the vacuum cleaner into the apartment.  Vacuuming was actually supposed to be Oscar's problem; his lease required him to do it upon departure.  But when Oscar had turned the vacuum on, he expressed so much fright at the noise, Amanda stopped him and promised to do it herself.  It was like he had never seen one of those things before.    

Opening the walk-in closet, she shoved the vacuum cleaner forward as she searched for the light.  As one hand fumbled for the light switch, the other felt the vacuum whack into a solid object.

Damn it, she thought.  He left that stupid thing in here.



As Amanda fumbled with her keys at the door, vacuum and cans of paint in her arms, she felt a presence behind her.

"Hey," they presence said.

Amanda instantly recognized the voice.  It was Mike, her ex-boyfriend.  The ex-boyfriend that dumped her a few weeks before receiving her diagnosis.  He said he needed some space.  But what he really needed, she knew, was a better pair of tits and a better ass, preferably hung from a frame with less fat.  And, judging by the companion she saw from across a room in the restaurant the other day, he had found it.

"You startled me," she admitted.  "Didn't think I'd ever see you again.  Aren't you seeing someone new?"

"Not any more.  She.... needed some space."

"I know how that goes."  Amanda hesitated.  Best to avoid ex-boyfriends like the plague, she thought, especially when they are simply hormonal fools that need a place to deposit their sperm.  He values women only for the places where their bodies stick out -- or curve inward.  She stuck out in all the wrong places.  She was smart, but that had become almost a liability in his eyes.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

Amanda wanted to say yes, she did mind.  But should couldn’t bring herself to be that rude.  



With Mike sitting across the kitchen buffet from her, an offer of a cup of coffee quickly deteriorated into an offer to split a bottle of wine.  And then a second bottle of wine.

As they drank and commiserated over their love lives, she noted the increased width of the man she knew all too well.  He was trim, and fitter than she remembered him.  He had been working out, and his meaty arms conveyed the strength he had earned through the effort.

After their imbibing was behind them, Amanda headed for the front door, extending her arms across the width of the hallway to steady herself as she walked.  It had been fun, although somewhat bittersweet, to spend time with him.  But two bottles of wine was as far as she could go.  It didn't make sense to have him sleep on the couch, much less in her bed.  Having him around in fact had resurrected some of the bitterness of their break-up, and reminded her why she often found men so detestable.

Her hand was on the doorknob, turning it to allow him out, when she felt his hand on top of hers.

"I'm not done yet."  His voice was almost a growl.



The hours that followed went by in a blur.  She tried to fend him off, but she was never a fighter to begin with.  And with the wine, her feeble swipes and slaps were even less effective.  She remembered him overpowering her and hauling her off to the bedroom.  She remembered his animal writhing on top of her, and the disgusting, sweaty scent of his skin as he penetrated her.  She remembered the awful feeling.


That was what the clock read as she slunk out from under his meaty arms and tip-toed out of the room.  Her insides still hurt, and she couldn't bear the idea of trying to sleep next to the man that had caused that --- the man who had once said he had loved her, then dumped her, and then returned to exact this type of violence upon her.  It would have made a great case study for that book club, she admitted.

Even more hurtful was the timing.  She needed to be alone, to console herself and deal directly with her upcoming death, without fend off the selfishness of others.  He had violated not only the sanctity of her happiness, not only the sanctity of her womb, but the sanctity of these last precious weeks before her time on this earth expired.

Where the hell to spend the night, with this asshole in my bed?

The downstairs apartment, she realized.  A few moving blankets were left behind in the move, and a night under those on the carpeted floor was preferable to a night in bed with the man who had just taken so much from her.

The downstairs apartment had the blankness common for rentals that were between renters.   Wall-to-wall beige carpeting and recessed halogen lighting made the space feel larger than it was.

Of course, Amanda didn't simply curl up and snooze in the emptiness of the living room.  She quickly found herself in the walk-in closet, kneeling next to the glass casket containing a humanoid form.

He had said something about "spare body."  She coughed, and then glanced down at her hands to see an orange-brown smear of blood.  It must have come from her lungs.   She didn’t have much time left.  

If ever she needed a spare body, she laughed to herself, it was now.  He had said something about options, how a "cultural reconnaissance department" had identified personalities that would "blend in" based upon the department's interpretation of our culture through whatever they saw on TV.

She looked at the dial of options and could hardly contain her derision -- Humphrey Bogart, Gilligan from Gilligan's Island, Spongebob, Pitbull, Pokemon, the dude from the Gangnam Style song, and worst of all, Jeremy Renner.  What kind of cultural luminaries were these?  Oscar's people had picked these personas, for all reasons, in order to blend in?

She looked for a woman in the group and found only one -- Bharbeee.

Shit, thought Amanda, they didn't even spell it right.  And moreover, whoever Oscar's "cultural reconnaissance" people were, they were just as misogynist as the asshole upstairs.  She couldn't wait share this with the book club!

But even as she had these thoughts, she found herself turning the dial slowly towards Bharbeee the only female option.  As objectionable as the persona was, she felt an almost sick curiosity to explore Oscar's outlandish suggestion that this was a "spare body".   It was preposterous to believe that she could have a second shot at life, but even fantasies are appropriate when you're dying.

As her hand proceeded towards the white button, she almost laughed what she was doing.  Oscar might be from far away, but there was no technology on Earth that could create a spare body.  So why was her hand trembling?

When she depressed the white button, a light came on inside the glass box, right above the statue's head.  It cast the humanoid form's features in stark relief.  The statue's lines were minimalist to begin with, and the high contrast of the harsh lighting accentuated this.  The statue looked like a statuette from the Oscars.

That's funny, Amanda thought.  His name was Oscar, and this thing looks like an Oscar.

A enormous whirring sound overwhelmed the room, accompanied by a deep rumble.  Amanda looked for an OFF button, but found none.  

Even as the whirring and rumbling intensified, the back of Amanda's mind still tangled with the odd coincidence of Oscar's name.  It looks like an Oscar.  His name is Oscar.  Did he shape the statue this way as a joke, a play on his name?  

As the whirring and rumbling grew louder, Amanda looked around the room with an increasing degree of concern.  Any more vibration and this thing could shake her house right off its foundations.  As her eyes wandered the room, she spied a second casket/box peeking out from behind a corner of the linen storage area.  She crawled over to it -- empty.

Blinding lights began to emanate from within the occupied box.  Despite the chaos, Amanda's mind somehow stayed calm, and the terrifying realization set in.  

Oscar had picked that name for himself only recently, she remembered.  

So what if the joke was the other way around?  Instead of shaping the statue to reflect his name, what if he picked his name to reflect the shape of the statue?  There was only one reason, she realized with horror, to name himself after a statue: ...

...because he was one.



Glass.  Amanda woke up with it only inches from her face.  The panic instilled by being in a box, any box, no matter how transparent, was significant.

Amanda screamed, but could tell from the sound she produced that her voice had changed.  That made her scream some more.

She thrust her arms upward to escape the box, and was relieved that the lid opened easily.  In the back of her mind, she wondered why her arms were so elegant, why the dark hair that she had always hated to see on them was replaced with an soft blond peach fuzz, why her nails were done in a fetching red and pink motif.

Amanda stood unsteadily, surprised at how her body felt different -- longer, and with the weight in different places.  But those surprises were nothing compared to the surprise at seeing herself -- plump, with brown hair and hands covered in orange smears of dried blood -- curled up on the floor next to the box.  She was in one body, and her old body was lying discarded next to her.

Amanda had no idea how long it took her to find the bathroom, but it felt like only an instant.  The sight that greeted her elicited another scream.  She was no longer herself.  She was somebody else, and naked.

And what a somebody she had turned out to be.  Buoyant tresses of golden blond hair, a heart-shaped face with a button nose.  Huge, expressive blue eyes.  Perfect peach-colored skin.  

And those tits -- they were the size of watermelons cut in half.  They jutted out from her chest with a firmness she had never expected.  As her eyes traveled down further, she was no less surprised with what she saw below.  Her waist was comically narrow, but super cute nonetheless.  Her hips flared wide, but not quite as wide as those mammoth tits.  And her legs stretched on in endless flowing, sensuous curves.  And what the hell happened to her pubic hair?

It was only after seeing all the pieces that the whole picture came into perspective.  She was built like a plastic, childhood doll she had once owned. But the doll had never seemed to represent a real womyn.  Instead, its extreme curviness had seemed to suggest only a caricature of a real womyn.  But the womyn standing in the mirror was both -- all the curves of the doll, but so elegantly fashioned that she was real and accessible.

All told, she noted with disgust, she was really, really hot.  She was everything the male superficial eye could possibly want.  She was a carbon copy of all the objectified images of womyn spewed out constantly by our male-dominated commercial sex culture.  In fact, she was more than a carbon copy of these awful images, but the epitome of them.  All the plastic surgery to which womyn models submitted themselves in misguided service to the male commercial sex industry -- it was all intended to achieve something approaching what she now saw in the bathroom mirror in front of her.

And yet, normally, that surgery produced only insults to the womyn's natural bodies -- boobs that looked out of place, scar lines, skins that had been inappropriately stretched. The womyn in the mirror looked different than that.  All the absurd curves after which our voyeuristic society lusts were outlined unapologetically in her blonde bombshell body.  They were real.  They were natural.  Those tits alone could sell a mountain of magazines in hours.  Amanda almost wretched at the thought.

Even if this wasn't some sort of awkward nightmare, even if this was real, how would Amanda possibly get through a day?  She had been a normal, if somewhat frumpy, womyn earlier, and had nonetheless ended the date in date rape with a drunk ex-boyfriend.  How would she even survive a week's worth of pawing, leering, harassment?  How many more assaults would be forthcoming from our male-dominated culture of predation on womyn?


The words appeared suddenly across her field of vision.  Actually, it wasn't that word exactly, but some unknown language with characters she had never seen.  And yet, she somehow knew the translation.  But the very appearance of a word in her field of vision made her feel that she was looking at the world not through eyes, but through some type of closed-circuit camera that had taken the place of her eyes.


A flood of sensation inundated Amanda's body.  Her muscles seemed to come alive as they filled with an intense power like nothing she had ever felt or imagined.  Even her fingertips and her skin rejoiced at the unexpected sensory overload.  

The sensory maelstrom so surprised Amanda that she seemed to lose hear bearings, vertigo overtaking her.  She reached down desperately to steady herself.  One hand grabbed the ceramic lip of the sink, and the other grabbed the metal faucet itself.  With wooziness overwhelming her, she gripped these items hard.  Instantly, she heard a CRACK and realized that the thick ceramic of the sink had nearly disintegrated under her grip.  Then there was a CRUNCH, and Amanda looked down to see the faucet mangled, collapsed like a drinking straw that had been absently chewed.

The power that overwhelmed her came with a confidence too.  For the first time in her life, Amanda felt entirely safe -- free of vulnerability and fear.

No, that wasn't quite it.  She felt more than safe.  She felt invincible.


Everything else that had happened during this surreal episode had been frightening, so Amanda could only wonder what what horrors were coming next.  She splayed her hands across the surface of the bathroom vanity, lowered her head and tried to breath deeply.

But nothing happened.

After several minutes, Amanda looked up at the mirror, still forcing herself to remain calm, to breathe slowly and deeply.  Her massive chest heaved with each breath.  God, those tits were huge, Amanda noted to herself.  If fact, Amanda began to think, "huge" didn't quite capture it.

They were magnificent -- wonderfully large and remarkably firm.  They were capped, Amanda noted for the first time, with the most awesome set of nipples -- nearly thumb sized protrusions that begged to be sucked, just as the mountains on which they sat begged to be squeezed and fondled.  Amanda felt a wetness forming between her legs at the thought.  

It would be so nice to get a pair of misogynistic male lips sucking on those teats, Amanda noted to herself.  It would be the wrong sort of attention, of course -- some superficial hormone-laden sexist man who wanted her only for her body -- but it would feel sooooooo good.  

Elbows on the vanity and her head turned up at the mirror, she continued to watch the engrossing rise and fall of her chest with every breath.  Wow, that's sexy, she thought!  This is what I would look like if I were ever to get reamed doggy style.  Of course, I know that's an objectionable sexual position that prevents equal partners from seeing each other and transforms women into mere vessel for male lust.  But it looks really hot in this position, she admitted.  I probably look hot in any position, the voice inside her head giggled!

Amanda's hand wandered down between her legs to explore the wetness that resided there.  Her perfect lips formed a slight "o" as her fingers found their target.  Her lips formed an even bigger "o" when she discovered the size of the clitoris that awaited her there, easily three times as big as her original one.  

But it made sense in a way.  This incompetent Cultural Reconnaissance Department knew only that the children's doll had absurd dimensions amd that it was popular.  But perhaps the researchers had very little else to go on.  They must have noticed the absurdly large genitalia on the doll's chest and concluded that it was hyper-sexualized generally.  And that would mean....

"OOOOOOOHHHHH!" Amanda screamed in delight as she pressed her fingers lightly into the clit.  That felt better than anything that had ever emanated from between her previous legs.  And that was just a single touch.

She stared at her excited face in the mirror.  God, what a flawless visage, she realized.  The little "o" of her sensuous, full lips allowed a glimpse of her perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth.  Her inviting mouth was framed by the most flawless of faces, with high cheekbones and wide blue eyes that had a glassy, almost doll-like appearance.  Duh -- of course they were doll-like!  And this wonderful face was framed by the most extraordinary cascading tresses of blond hair.  

Her clit eagerly received her further touch.

Amanda's deep breathing continued, but it was no longer fear that drove it.  Arousal had replaced everything in her heart and head, and soon her pussy yearned with almost supernatural desire for the vibrant strokes of her hand.  As Amanda ministered to herself, her eyes continued to take in the svelte arms, trim and defined abdomen, supple thighs, and buoyant, bra-busting tits. Seeing this exceptional woman in the mirror turned her on all the more, and Amanda could feel that a climax was quickly approaching.

"AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!" Amanda exclaimed, as orgasm came powerfully and suddenly.  Whatever she had experienced earlier in her life, whatever she thought was an orgasm, was nothing compared to the searing, racing wildfire of ecstatic pleasure that burned within her now.  How could it feel so good?  It was like three or four of her previous best orgasms piled on top of each other.  Just by fingering herself?

Her fingers traced lazy post-coital circles up and down her labia.  This wouldn't be enough, she realized.  She needed more.  She needed a man.

Disgusting, Amanda thought as she her fingers danced over her pussy.  And yet, strangely enticing as well.  Amanda began to wonder if that jerk Mike upstairs might again be ready to ram his cock into her a little bit, to finish scratching the itch.  

She still hated him, she reminded herself deliberately.  She didn't need to be screwed by that jerk,  right?  She was her own woman, wasn't she?  

And yet, the thought of an orgasm in  his arms seemed endlessly more appealing than another solitary one in the downstairs bathroom.  She desperately wanted to have him penetrate her all over again -- roughly, endlessly.

In fact, the very thought of Mike's manhood inside her sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine, turning her on once again.  Amanda gave her gave her clit a firm stroke, which only added fuel to the fire of her desire for his body.

Amanda was well aware of the enormity of the changes she was experiencing, she noted as she absently stroked her clit.  She was well aware that she was living in a spare body.  She was well aware that she loathed Mike and yet wanted his cock at the same time.

She was not aware that she was pressing down on her clit with 10,000 pounds of force.


The early hues of dawn were flooding the house when Mike made his way quietly down the corridor, throwing his jacket on as he did so.  He didn't know where Amanda had wandered off to, and after what he did to her last night, he didn't want to.  He wanted to avoid her.  And he needed to slip out early enough to get across town, shower, change and get to work.

His hand was on the doorknob, turning it to allow himself out, when he felt her hand on top of his.

"I'm not done yet."  Her voice was almost a growl.



If given the opportunity to consent, Mike probably would have happily chosen a roll in the sack with the mysterious, ravishing, buxom blond over an on-time arrival at the office.  But he never had the chance to say "yes".  Instead, he felt himself brusquely hauled off his feet and carried down the hallway back to the bedroom, arms and legs flailing as he went.  Pictures and knick-knacks came clattering off the wall as he sneakers scraped along it.

Before he knew it, Mike was laying face-up on the bed.  Straddling him was the most extraordinary blonde bombshell he had ever laid eyes upon.   The absurd attractiveness of her dimensions was made even more dramatic by the horizontal light of the rising sun, which cast her ridiculous curves in stark relief.

Her tummy was entirely flat, apart from the ridges of some six-pack abs that appeared every time she thrusted downward into him.  In fact, there was not an ounce of fat there, or anywhere else on her.  

It was as if the normal degree of pudge that would reside on any 30-year-old-- man or woman-- had, on her, been reallocated.  All of it, and then some, seemed to have gone into those extraordinary tits.  They were huge, shameless spheres -- ignorant both of the laws of gravity and of his ravenous stares.

The rest of her was no less erotic than her tits, and the sound of her musical voice approaching another climax set everything within him on fire, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Wow, he bragged to himself.  I could do this for hours on end and not want to stop!



"I want to stop!" Mike nearly begged.

"Come on baby, we've only been at it a little bit."

The slant of the sun through the windows suggested otherwise.  It must have been late morning.  Perhaps if he twisted toward the nightstand, he could get a look at the clock....

As he twisted, a hand grasped his raised shoulder and violently flattened it back down against the bed.  She was a strong one, he noted.

With increasing urgency, she resumed riding his cock, which had grown sore from her constant aggressiveness.

"This is starting to hurt," he argued pleadingly.

"So?" she purred.  Her eyes were closed and her head craned upward in contentment.  He watched the mesmerizing sway of her mammoth breasts as she rocked back and forth on top of him.

He began to get annoyed at her lack of consideration for him.  It was degrading.  What was he after all -- just a cock, just a sex object?  He was a real person, that deserved to be respected!

His anger piqued, Mike raised a muscular arm and grabbed her opposite shoulder.  A single exertion would sweep her off of him.  With a grunt he tried to force her torso to the side.

Her eyes, which had been closed in a delirious bliss, opened.

"How dare you try to shove me away!"  She exclaimed.  "I'm not done having fun!"

Her thighs closed around his abdomen like a vice, knocking the air out of him and creating a painful pressure throughout his midsection.

As his feeling of hostility towards her grew, why, he wondered, was his manhood also growing harder?



Amanda noticed that Mike had begun to snarl and thrash wildly.  But she found she could parry his blows easily.  She had no idea that she was so fast, or so strong. She was surprised she had so much fight in her.  She was also surprised she had so much sex in her.

He tugged and grabbed desperately at her breasts.  Or at least, he had grabbed the END of each breast, she noted happily.  Grabbing the entirety was at least a two hand job.  She glanced down at the immensity of the orbs that protruded from her chest and felt an unfamiliar emotion-- pride.

As she gazed downward, Amanda also noticed the knuckles of Mike’s hands whitening as he grabbed and pulled at her tits.  He wasn’t trying to caress her, she realized.  He was trying to assault her.  This type of aggressive squeeze would normally have been painful in her old body, and given the grimace on Mike's face, that was clearly his intention.  But in her new body, his assault on her tits actually felt good.  Really good.  She wished he could squeeze harder.

A confident feeling of invincibility -- one that she had first felt in the bathroom downstairs -- began to return.

Amanda cupped her hands over his, one on each nipple, and pressed them into her breasts.  Even as he continued to protest with his voice, the man's hands wriggled and writhed in the most delightful of ways.  Amanda pressed each hand further, and the feelings in her nipples intensified.  God, she thought delightedly, my old body's clit had less sensation than each of these nipples!  It was -- wow, my gosh -- it was certainly pleasant.

Amanda pressed inward further and heard a cracking sound -- or perhaps a half dozen cracking sounds.  Did I just break his hands, she wondered?  Amanda released his hands and saw that they had deformed at odd angles.  His screams of pain were probably another clue.

Even in the pleasurable throes of intercourse, Amanda had enough presence of mind to know that the screaming would get the attention of the neighbors.  She cupped a hand over his mouth and turned his shouting into "mmmmph mmph  mmpph" sounds.  She felt his teeth try to bite her, but to her, it was more of a lovers' nibble than a painful bite.

After a while, his thrashing stopped, and Amanda realized with reluctance that her fuck was over.  He had passed out.



The drive to the ocean in Mike's pickup truck was surreal.  He should have been at work.  She should have been at work.  Instead, he was slumped in the passenger seat, flopping with every bump and turn on the road.  And she was in the stupidest outfit she had worn in ages -- baggy sweatpants and a baggy nightshirt that, on her, had become a midriff-baring tank top.

"Whaaaa...." Mike asked as he began to come to.

"Hey there, lover," Amanda chirped, one hand on the steering wheel.

"Fuck, my hands are killing me!  Why are you driving my truck?  Where are you taking us?"

"Oh, I'm driving you to the boat launch," she said cheerfully.  "That's where I'm going to kill you."

"You're going to kill me over my my dead body," Mike growled.

"That has got to be the worst fucking analogy I have ever heard," Amanda giggled.  She floored the accelerator, and the truck's engine roared.

Amanda watched laconically as Mike reached across the truck's cab and desperately struggled to intervene with her driving.  With all his might, he tugged and pulled at her right leg, trying to remove it from the accelerator.  But to her it felt more like a caress than a desperate exertion.  He grabbed at the steering wheel, and from the size of his flexed muscles, he must have put a great deal of effort into turning it.  But to her, it felt like nothing.

His panic increasing, Mike did an about face and reached for his passenger-side door, opening it as if to jump out.

Amanda's feeling of invincibility was now churning inside of her.  Without knowing why or how, she sensed there was hardly anything she couldn't do.  Without ever having used these unnamed abilities, she somehow sensed they were there.

Mike had succeeded at opening his passenger-side door.  With the wind howling inside the cab, Mike reached to his left to unclasp his seatbelt.

But Amanda's hand beat him there.  She grabbed the clasp mechanism and squeezed, feeling the metal collapse under her grip with an audible crunch.  Removing her hand, she should see finger indentations throughout the steel clasp.  

Mike tried to unclasp his seat belt, tugging to extract the metal latch of his seatbelt from the mangled steel mess.  He was no match.

Amanda slammed on the brakes and sent the truck into a sudden, yet expertly controlled, skid.  The rear of the vehicle fishtailed ninety degrees to the left, and the force of the deceleration slammed the passenger door shut.

"Much better," Amanda chirped.  "I hate driving with the door open."  She deftly righted the skid and slammed the accelerator down again.

"What are you -- some kind of stunt driver?"  Mike asked.  

Maybe it was easier for him to ask about driving skills than her obscene strength, she mused.

"Today, I'm anything I want to be."



The boat launch was a ghost town at this time of year-- too cold for most people to go fishing, Amanda noted as she walked to the back bumper.

As she fixed her hands on the back bumper, she heard Mike start to shout from inside the cab, still restrained by the smashed seat belt clasp.  "What are you trying to do?  Push me into the water?  It's way too heavy for you!"

Amanda felt an odd confidence surging inside of her.  

Mike continued, "There's no way you, let alone I, have the strength to push this thi---"

She gave the truck a tentative shove and it lept forward a few feet.  

"What the hell was that?!"  Mike shouted.  There was now fear in his voice.

"Who said I was going to push it?"  Amanda laughed.  She place one hand on the underside of the bumper and heaved up, the back of the truck rising to eye level.  Another hand went on the underside, and within a moment, she was holding the whole truck over her head.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit" she could hear the man exclaiming from the front of the truck.  The truck -- thousands of pounds of manly vehicle -- felt like nothing to her.  Should couldn't wait to show this pathetic man what she was made of!

Cocking her arms back, Amanda launched the truck out over the water.  She intentionally kept it a short throw, hurling it about one hundred feet over the open ocean before it entered with a splash.

Amanda took deep breath -- so deep that a large cloud of sand was temporarily kicked up on the beach.

With a running start, Amanda then jumped off the dock.  Careening one hundred feet over the water, she reveled in her newfound feelings of hyper-athletic prowess as she expertly tucked into a dive and landed in the water one hundred feet from shore.

Despite the murky underwater gloom, the truck was easy to see, only now settling to the bottom.  Amanda's eyes, she realized, were capable of vision beyond what any human could hope to experience.

So, too, her swimming abilities were supernatural as well.  She kicked and paddled faster than any swimmer she had ever seen.  The truck, sitting at a depth of perhaps fifty feet, should have been accessible only to SCUBA divers, but she reached it easily.

Opening the driver side door, she climbed in.  A look of mortal terror was on Mike's face.  Water had risen to his shoulders, and given the depth to which he had sunk, it would cover his head in only moments.  He had struggled with the door, but his weak man strength was not sufficient to open it under the water pressure.  And besides, he was still confined by his seatbelt.

"Hiya," she chirped.  

She formed her mouth into a little "o", and a blistering wind emerged from between her delicate lips.  Mike groaned in pain as the air pressure inside the cab increased tenfold.  With only the pressure of the air from Amanda's pursed lips fighting against the water pressure of the sea, Amanda of course prevailed.  The water level inside the truck cab began to recede, and in moments, the water was back down to their ankles.

"How about that?" she giggled.  "Aren't I just awesome?"

"Whhhaaa ... uhhhhaaa."

"I know, I know, you're in mortal peril and probably not at your most articulate."

"I uuhhhh ... waterrrrr.."  His expression switched to one of adamant pleading.  

"Oh my gosh, I have complete power over you, and you sooo know it!  That's such a huge turn on!"  She felt a wetness down below, and it wasn't from the saltwater, either.  She had never been an aggressive person before.  But this new body -- it wanted unfamiliar things.

"Plllleeeaassee...."  Mike squirmed, as the water resumed rising, and was now back up to his waist.

"Are you begging me?"

"Pllleeeaaasseee..." Mike continued.

"OK, so you're not very creative on the begging point.  But you're begging nonetheless, and I like that."  

The look of desperation on Mike's face had her pussy doing somersaults.  He was a man, and he was so used to being in charge.  And now he lived or died on nothing more than her whim!

"Anything...." Mike gasped.

"OK, here's the deal.  You will serve my every need.  Cook for me.  Clean for me.  Do whatever I want, whenever I want it.  And when I want some cock, you'd better be rested and ready."

Mike nodded, his face still a mask of fear.  The water was back up to their shoulders.

"So, just remind me," she purred.  "Who's the bitch in this relationship?"

"I am," Mike admitted. He cast a fearful look at the rising water, which was now at his chin.

"Lucky for you that you finally remembered how to talk," Amanda laughed as she placed her hand on the seat belt clasp.  She squeezed the metal -- hard -- and watched it deform and groan under her grip until nothing remained to restrain Mike.

Amanda waved her hand above in a broad sweep over their heads, tearing away the pickup's roof like it was nothing more than paper.  Water spilled down on them, as did the sunlight from the surface above -- their path back from the abyss.


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