Fugue by Tainted Sins (AR,AP)

[Finkleberg]

Hi. I'm Time. Don't fuck with me.

I used to be Amy Greenberg. Blond and skinny. A nice tan and nice tits, too--no need to be modest. I was the epitome of a California girl. Born and raised in a small beach town you've probably never heard of. The people down here have money, and do what they can to keep tourism down and the sand and the surf quiet and uncrowded. On roller blades, my house was five minutes from the beach, and, when I wasn't in school, I never wore much more than a bikini and sunscreen.

Time used to be a silver hourglass in the display window of a small antique shop down along the peer. When I bumped into the shelf while browsing and the hourglass fell to the floor and broke and the white powder inside filled the air and made me cough, the two of us kind of became one. At least, that's how I think it happened. I haven't been the same since.

The woman who owned the place was one of those New Agers. You couldn't call her old. She wasn't Mom age. But you wouldn't call her young either. If she had gone to college, she might have graduated a few years ago. She wore several scarves, and a loose flowy dress, and nothing on her was the same color and none of the colors were very flattering.

She was scolding me. Maybe yelling. But I could hardly hear her. Something about having to pay for the hourglass. Her huge silver hoop earrings dangled beneath the red streaks in her black hair. But that wasn't what was distracting me.
Knowledge was distracting me.

Not the head kind, either. That isn't worth much. That changes from day to day, minute to minute--it's worthless. No, this thing I knew was buried it my gut, it burnt in my cunt, that's how badly I knew it.
It was time.

It was before and after. Backwards and forwards. But those things had wider implications. My aching cunt and my quivering thighs knew that time dictated circumstances, and circumstances were the building blocks of history and of all the things to come. My cunt and my rumbling stomach were, I realized, the future and past of all mankind.

"What's your name? What's your phone number?" the woman said. "I'm calling your parents."

I told her.

She picked up the phone.

All the power of the universe pressed against the inside of my skin. It was so easy to let just a little bit of it go.
The woman dialed her ex-boyfriend.

"Hello, Mike?" she said into the receiver. "It's Marianna. Yes. Uh huh. I know. Yes. Yes. Look, I need to see you. Yes. And your new girlfriend, too. What's her name? Shelly? Right. It's just important, okay? You can swing by the store? Great. What's wrong with my voice? A bad connection, I guess."

It wasn't a bad connection. During the course of the phone call Marianna had gone from being a twenty-eight year old woman to an eleven year old girl. She had pigtails and braces and a pink T-shirt with a unicorn on it and a training bra underneath which supported only a slight swelling that had once been her voluptuous breasts.

What she wanted to talk to Mike about, I already knew: Time. Or rather, a particular point in time. I had reached into the woman's (now girl's) past as easily as reaching into a jar of cookies and grabbed her first teenage crush, her worst crush, and brought it into the present and directed it towards Mike. The crush had been on a member of the group Wham--Not George Michaels, one of the other guys in tight shorts clapping his hands together singing "Wake me up, before you go go!"
I could already see it all now. She would worship her ex like a rock god. By the time he and Shelly left the store, she'd be begging on her hands and knees. She'd cry herself to sleep that night in her apartment which had already shifted--from furniture to underpants--to her childhood bedroom.

The thing about time is, no one questions it. Not unless I want them to. It's a constant. A universal truth.
Just like me.


2.
If someone wanted to give an example of passive aggressive behavior, they might relate the following story:
That night it was my turn to put the dishes away. That's how it went in our family. Everyone took their turn. My Mother, Father, little Brother. That was our system, and normally it ran smoothly.

After the events at the antique shop, though, you can imagine my being distracted. You can understand.

My Mom didn't. She lectured me for nearly fifteen minutes:

"You need to learn responsibility," she said. "You're not going to be a teenager forever," she said. "And if you think they're going to put up with this kind of nonsense out in the real world, you're in for a rude awakening."

I guess she had had a bad day. I stopped listening after that. I just nodded and smiled. I agreed with her. I apologized. I said, "I love you Mom," and we hugged and I kissed her on the cheek.

That night, my Mom wet the bed.
She became a chronic bed wetter, in fact. I couldn't help it, I just thought it was too funny.

The fourth time it happened, she woke my Dad up in the middle of the night. She was sitting up in bed, sitting in her wet panties, in her wet nightgown, on her wet sheets sobbing.

"I can't stop peeing myself," she moaned. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

I was listening through the door. I smiled.


3.
I learned an important lesson that night listening to my Mother cry through the door: Time should feel no guilt. It's natural. It is, as they say, the way of the world.

I decided to test this theory one day while laying out on the beach. A yellow towel was beneath me and a striped yellow umbrella was planted in the sand next to it, offering me some cooling shade. I wore sun glasses, and a bikini that matched the towel and umbrella.

Natalie Stoddard was a classmate of mine. When she walked by, she didn't wave or say 'hi.' She wore a pink thong for the same reason anyone does anything: because she could.

She had bigger tits than me, and we'd competed for boyfriends on occasion. One of her victories was holding her hand as they strolled down the beach. His name was Richard.

I stood and packed up my things. As slow as they were walking and talking and giggling on this perfect California day, it was easy to catch up with them.

I tapped Natalie on the shoulder. The umbrella tucked under my arm.
Her and Richard both turned.

"What?" Natalie said in a less than congenial tone.

"I just wanted to tell you not to worry," I said, "It happens to all of us. It's natural."

"Fuck off," Natalie said.

That's when I turned her into a fifty year old.

She hadn't aged well. She'd gotten fat. Her big flabby butt cheeks hung low and wide--you couldn't even see the pink string of the thong between them anymore. And thick cottage cheese thighs underneath. She had a bit of a potbelly, too, and the bottoms of her sagging boobs hung exposed beneath her tiny bikini top. Her hair was brittle and already starting to gray.
Natalie was mortified. You could tell by her eyes, by her expression. She couldn't believe she had come out in public like this! She tried to cover up with her hands, but could only do so much. It was a big job after all.
People were starting to stare, were starting to point.

I was smirking.

Despite her age, Natalie was still in high school. I made sure of that. I smirked at her in class. She looked miserable. She was still on the cheerleading squad as well. I went to practice and watched her try and jump up and down with the other girls. There, I laughed and clapped and whistled instead of smirked.

Richard broke up with her the next day. She had a tough time finding dates after that. Eventually she got so desperate she was offering anal up front. A few of the nerds accepted--just to be able to say they weren't virgins anymore, and not be lying. The scenes mostly went like this:

Natalie on her bed on her hands and knees, her fat ass bobbing up and down as she tried to be quiet so her parents downstairs wouldn't hear. The geek thrusting, thrusting, adjusting his glasses, thrusting, then finishing within minutes with a groan and pulling his pants up and promising to call and never calling.


4.
None of this was my fault, really. It's just that people kept irritating me.

On Saturday, my Dad told me I couldn't go to the mall with my friends until I mowed the lawn. He got his way. I mowed the stupid lawn. And that night he had to fuck my Mom with the dick of a twelve year old.
Two inches and no hair, and he was almost, but not quite, developed enough to cum. I made sure to walk in on him in the shower while he was trying to masturbate, just to see his little thing firsthand. I giggled when he shrieked and crumpled the see-through plastic shower curtain at his crotch to cover up--as if there was anything left worth covering.
He yelled at me for barging in, and, as he did, his vocal cords went backwards through puberty. By the end, it sounded like I was being scolded by a ten year old.

After that, nights in my parent's bedroom grew more and more interesting. My Dad would try and fuck my Mom and would moan, and my Mom would pretend to moan, and it was hard to tell whose voice was higher pitched. You could tell it was over when you heard my Dad apologize once again for not being able to finish. My Mom would roll over unfulfilled. In her sleep, a smile crept across her face as she peed in her panties--that warm release the only contentment she would ever feel lying next to my Father.

5.

Justice is all well and good, but sometimes you need to blow off steam. Just have some fun.

After I mowed the lawn I was sweaty and tired and in a bad mood. I had to shower a second time that day. Had to get dressed again, put my make-up on again. I was two hours late meeting my friends, Kira and Anne, but we all had cell phones and found each other okay in the food court.

The mall was out of the way--closer to the poorer neighborhoods, my Dad had to drive me (I'd already failed my driver's exam twice). While he was at the wheel, he kept shifting in his seat and eyeing his crotch. He wasn't used to having such a little willy, I guess.

I brought up the lawn thing again. When I asked him why we didn't have a gardener like everyone else--both my parents were entertainment lawyers after all--he replied, "That's why we had you and Chris. Cheap labor."
Good luck having another one, I thought.

When he drove off, I saw him feeling around inside his pants with his right hand while steering with the left.
When I met Kira and Anne near the "Hotdog On a Stick," we offered our usual greeting of delighted squeals, and gossip and more squeals, and talk of who likes who and more squeals, and who likes Anne or Kira or Me according to so and so's sister or friend or cousin, and more squeals still.

"May I take your order," the girl behind the counter loudly interrupted. She wore the required blue and yellow striped hat, the blue and yellow button-down shirt, and a frown.

"Excuse us, we were talking," Kira said.

"Some people are so rude," Anne said.

"She's just ornery because she has to wear such a silly uniform," I said.

The girl now wore the required bulky, adult-sized disposable diaper freckled with little pink hearts; a bib with pink ruffled lining and cutesy lettering that said, "Yum yum!" that didn't quite cover her otherwise naked breasts; a large, frilly pink bonnet; and a frown.

Her feet were bare and cold on the dirty floor.
My friends both took a second look.

"Oh God, you're right," Kira said. "I'd feel like the biggest dork if I had to go out like that in public."

"Does the big rude girl have to stand there all day in a diaper and serve us corndogs whenever we want? I bet she does!" Anne teased.

The girl was eighteen.
She didn't feel eighteen.
Embarrassed by her outfit and wounded by my friend's comments, she opened her mouth to say something obscene.
Her jaw stayed open. No words came out. Her eyes became distant. A calm look. She found she couldn't focus on anything. She just stood there; relaxed; mellow; peeing and peeing into her diaper. Peeing without thought. Peeing just like a little baby would pee.

She soaked herself. The bottom of her diaper yellowed and sagged.

"My, my," I said when the girl's wits came back to her and her cheeks were red and she looked like she wanted to cry. "And still over two hours until your break. That's got to be embarrassing."

The girl looked confused. She looked like she wanted to say something. Maybe, deep down, she knew something was wrong. But, as I've said, you can't argue with time. It's just the way of the world.

"Could you hurry it up? Come on!"

A man behind us, in his twenties and in a suit. He reminded me of a younger version of my Dad. Probably a law student, which explained why he was eating at the mall instead of a nice place.
Kira and Anne shot him dirty looks, but otherwise quickly ordered their meals from the woman in the diaper. Some sixteen year old girls are still intimidated by adults. Not me.

With their new uniforms, I thought, "Hotdog on a Stick" also needed a new mascot. I looked at the man and considered the nature of circumstance. About how being at the right place at the right time determined the events of your life.
Just a thought in my pretty little head, and the man had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Partying instead of studying, and he had failed out of law school. Applying for this job instead of one he was more qualified for, and he was the new mascot for "Hot Dog on a Stick."

When we left with our trays, the man was standing on the counter where everyone in the food court could see him. His pants and underwear were pulled down to his ankles; he had the penis of a five year old; he wore an embarrassed expression and a sign around his neck which read: "Tired of false promises? At Hotdog on a Stick you'll never get stuck with a small wiener again!"
Already a group of preteen girls had grouped around him. They were pointing and tittering and whispering amongst themselves.
For this, the man made $5.25 an hour.

6.
Eating the phallic shaped corndog made me think of one of my ex-boyfriends, Greg. We'd only gone out for two weeks, but still, he annoyed me, and my mind began to wander.

This is how that went:

Greg was dating a girl named Joan. I'd seen her in gym class, but really didn't know her that well. Her hair was brown and straight and hung past her shoulders. She originated back East, and it showed. She didn't have the thin build I boasted. She had a bit of weight to her. Not fat or even chubby, just curvy. She looked like one of those nude paintings you see in museums from old Europe.

Greg was slender for a boy, but his muscles were well toned. He had sandy blond hair and a really big dick. Throughout the course of our going out, I'd given him three handjobs. But that's as far as we ever got.
He was going farther with Joan.

They were upstairs in her bedroom. Her parents weren't home. Greg had her pressed against a wall as they kissed. She wore a skimpy black top; he had his hands on her breasts. He had her skirt down to her ankles. He had her panties pulled down to mid-thigh.

As she undid his fly, he reached his hands up the back of her top and unhooked her bra. She pulled his pants down, his underpants down.

"Stick 'em up," he said playfully, making twin pistols with his fingers--his dick was also pointing.

And she raised her arms high in the air. And he pulled her top off. Her unhooked bra fluttered to the floor. Her tits were round and milky white.
He licked his upper lip. He licked her nipples and they stood to attention. He pressed her harder against the wall and started fucking her. She grunted with pleasure.
Miles away, I sat at my table and dipped my corndog in ketchup and waited.

I didn't have to wait long. Four minutes and twenty-six seconds to be exact, and Greg was about to cum. His body tensed. He moaned loudly to announce the oncoming climax, she moaned loudly to announce the orgasm she was about to fake.
And that's when I turned them into a couple of six year olds.
Greg wasn't cumming anymore. His miniscule member couldn't even penetrate her; it slipped out of her pussy and hung small and pathetic between his scrawny legs--his oversized T-shirt would fall and cover it if they weren't still pressed against one another.

Joan's panties fell from mid-thigh to the floor. Her ass wasn't round anymore. She wasn't curvy. She was flat. Her ass was flat, her chest was flat. Her nipples were small and pink. Her vagina was small and pink.
The two children stared at each other in their lewd embrace. Greg started to cry.
Joan kissed him.

I guess some people just can't accept things. Time is the way of the world. Greg and Joan were children now. People would treat them like children. On Monday morning they'd both find themselves sitting in the first grade. But they didn't want to believe that. Joan didn't want to believe that.

She wanted to be a big girl still. She wanted to be doing whatever it was they had been doing. She tried to remember. She helped Greg take his shirt off, and pretty soon the two were completely nude and rolling around on her bed.
At their current age, they had a hard time figuring out how to go about it.

It started out with a pillow fight. Then they were kissing--eyes closed first, then open. Then they each agreed to sit with their legs spread wide so the other could examine their privates. Greg boasted that if he rubbed his thing he could make it stand up--he demonstrated, it was a small and unimpressive display. Then they were giggling and taking turns kissing each others bums.
I can't tell you how much it amused me seeing in my mind's eye the guy who dumped me trying to figure out how to fuck a girl. It was almost as satisfying as seeing him bent over the lap of Joan's Mom, getting his bare bottom spanked after her parents arrived home and walked in on them. Joan was next to him, bent over her Dad's lap.

Both of them were crying. Both had very red little behinds.

I threw my corndog sticks and half empty cup of lemonade in the garbage; my friends did the same. As we were walking towards the stores, fancy clothes and dollar signs in our eyes, Kira said, "Where have you been, Amy?"

"Huh?"

"You were daydreaming all through lunch."

"What were you thinking about?" Anne said.

I smiled. "Just old times."

7.
We were en route to "Bed, Bath and Beyond" when I noticed the couple in front of us. They were in their early twenties. The girl had red hair and big tits. The guy was a bit on the chubby and hairy side, but not what I'd call ugly. It was obvious their relationship was still in that new and exciting phase, that blind adoration.

They were all over each other. The guy had his hand on the girl's ass, and the girl, when she thought no one was looking, playfully reached down and gave his cock a squeeze. They kept kissing too. On the lips; the cheek; the lips, again, now open and tongues inserted--slowing us down with their mobile make out session

"I love you," he said.

"I love you more," she said.

"No. I love you more," he said.

It all blurred together real fast: "I love you the most...I love you even more than that...I love you infinite...I love you infinite plus one! Plus one thousand! Plus one million! Plus infinite!"
And so on.
Well, if they wanted to act immature, I thought, they might as well be immature.

The couple both stopped mid-declaration, bent over and clutched at their stomachs. A sinking feeling. Like the hill of a roller coaster, as their ability to act like adults faded away forever.

The man seemed to recover first. A mischievous grin crossed his face. While the woman was still dazed, he bent over, gripped the sides of her skirt, hooked the hem of her panties with his thumbs, and yanked down--hard.
Everyone in front of them saw her bush. Everyone behind them--my friends and myself included--saw her ass.

The woman let out a loud, "Eep!" She pulled her skirt back up, she blushed terribly.

"You're stupid!" she yelled at him and punched his shoulder.

"You're stupid!" he yelled back and punched her shoulder.

After we had passed them, we could still hear the continuing echoes: "You're stupid! No, you're stupid! No, you're stupid! Nuh uh! You're stupid."

Later, when they had made up, they spent all the money they had in her purse and his wallet. First on toys, then on candy that ended up smeared all over their faces. They played tag, running and screaming and hiding behind racks of cloths in department stores, until mall security kicked them out.

That night the woman sat in undersized Wonder Woman under-roos she'd purchased at the toy store, and picked her nose while she watched cartoons. Her boyfriend had announced he had eaten beans for dinner, even though it wasn't true, and kept sneaking up on her and farting on her head.

"Beans, beans, the magical fruit! They make you smile, they make you toot!" he'd sing and dance while she screamed at him or punched him in the arm or pulled his hair.

Eventually, though, her mock anger faded, and she started laughing along with him. She even joined in, making farting sounds herself by pressing her lips to the fleshy part of her upper arm and blowing. The best noises, though, she soon discovered, came from blowing on one of her big boobs as hard as she could--she did this for over an hour, giggling hysterically after each toot-toot-toot on her jiggling, generous breasts.

By the time she had tired of the game, her nipples had hardened, and she pretended they were laser guns and chased her boyfriend around the room, topless, yelling, "Plow! Plow! Plow!"

Neither of them thought about sex. Although, when they decided to play outside for a while, the woman still in her under-roos and nothing more, she did ask practically every person in the apartment complex, "Wanna see my butt?" and bent over and bared it, regardless of their answer.

The relationship ended somewhere around 11:00 PM, when the man put peanut butter in the woman's hair. She stomped her foot and threw a temper tantrum and kicked him out of the apartment and cried in the bathroom.
They made up and got back together twenty minutes later.

8.
Some old wise guy once said, "The journey is more important than the destination." Or something like that. At the mall that day, it was certainly true. We walked all over the place, in and out of stores, back and forth to see if we missed something, to try something on one more time--and we never really got anywhere. But a lot of stuff did happen. I don't care enough to give you all the details, but here's the highlights:
In a jewelry store a woman pouts and argues with her fiance. "That little thing? That tiny diamond? Is that how much you love me?" And she wins the day, and she gets the biggest diamond the store carries. She's so pleased she even gives her fiance a blowjob that night at the dinner table--for the record, she spits.

Skip to the wedding.

The woman, her name is Anna, is in the back dressing room of the rented mansion where the event is to take place. An army of women and gay men fuss with her hair and makeup, and set out the dress and the bouquet of purple orchids, and do their best to ensure everything is going to be just perfect.

Anna steps into the bathroom and strips and starts sliding into the white and pink lingerie she's selected for the wedding night. The front of the skimpy thong panties is shaped like a heart, so are the cups of her bra. The garter belt is pink, the stockings are white.

In the doorway, Anna's three year old Niece, the flower girl, is standing there staring in.

"Get out of here Missy," Anna says. "Go help the others."

Missy reaches her hand up and picks her nose. And, at the exact same time, with the exact same gesture, Anna does the same. Her eyes slowly fall to the invasive finger in disbelief.

Missy secures what she was after and wipes it on her leg. Anna does the same.

"What's going on?" Anna says, her voice shaky.

"I have to go potty," Missy says, Anna says.

"Here, let me help you, sweety," the three year old says. Anna doesn't repeat it.

Missy steps forward and takes Anna by the hand. The touch feels warm and Anna realizes she does have to go potty. As her Niece leads her towards the toilet Anna notices her stockings have begun to wrinkle.

"I don't think this is right," she says.

The string of her panties feel loose, her garters, too. The strap of her bra hangs off her left shoulder.

"It's okay," Missy says. "I promise I won't flush until you leave the room."

Anna feels relieved. She remembers how scared she is of getting flushed down the toilet. With every step forward, Missy helps her out of the lingerie as it loosens and slips off piece by piece.

Anna is amazed by how much bigger and prettier and smarter her Niece is. By the time she reaches the toilet, Anna is three years old.

Missy is twenty-three.

Missy helps Anna up onto the seat. Anna's feet don't touch the floor. She swings her scrawny legs back and forth and goes poopy and wets some, and while she does she says, "I'm getting married today!"

Several minutes later, Anna declares she is finished. Missy is dressed in the white and pink lingerie. She pulls off a piece of toilet paper.

"Lift," she says, and Anna lifts her right cheek, and Missy wipes her Aunt's butt then dries her little hairless crotch.

The ceremony begins thirty minutes later.

Anna is crying as she waddles down the aisle in a big puffy pink dress, tossing flower pedals left and right, stumbling forward several times on her short awkward legs.

"Isn't she precious!"

"Oh how darling!"

"Really quite cuter than Missy would have been, you have to admit."

The audience all knows. They know that Anna was supposed to get married today. They know how old she is supposed to be. But no one questions time.
This is the way of the world.

"I guess you won't be getting the big diamond after all," her fiance says as Anna reaches the alter.

There is a chuckle from the crowd. Anna is pulled aside by her Sister (Missy's Mom), and is forced to stand there and watch as her Niece, now a sexy, well filled out young woman, says, "I do." As the man she loves says, "I do," in return. As the preacher says, "You may kiss the bride." And they do.

That night, while the bride and groom fuck on the floor of their honeymoon suite in the Bahamas, Anna lies curled up in Missy's old bed, sucking her thumb, and crying herself to sleep.

Dreaming about the man she should have married, about what they should be doing right now on the floor of their honeymoon suite, Anna tosses and turns, and does what any upset little girl in her situation might do: she wets the bed.

Back to the mall.

"But Mom, why can't I?" The girl is ten years old. She wants to sleep over at a friend's house that night.

"Because we have church in the morning." The Mother is snooty and needs to get some exercise. She looks like an overweight chicken.

And I'm already passing by them...

And, on a whim, I reverse their power hierarchy.

"Can I buy this dress?" the Mother says.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I want you to buy me this toy instead," the girl says.

"Can I look in this store?"

"No, I want to go get ice cream."

"Can I go to the bathroom?"

"No, I want to finish playing my game first." And ten quarters later, the woman is dancing back and forth holding her crotch--left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

And, at home that night.

"Can I watch television?"

"Not until you've finished cleaning my room," the girl says.

And the woman spends two hours cleaning her Daughter's room--the pigsty, as she used to refer to it.

"I'm all done. Can I go for a walk and get some fresh air?"

"Not looking like that, you can't. Go take a bath, and wash your hair and wash behind your ears."

The little girl supervises to make sure her Mother does as she was told: "Under the arms. You need to shave your legs. Wash your privates."

And later, in a whisper, "Can I have sex with your Father tonight?"

"No, it's your bedtime. Just roll over and go to sleep."

And the woman does that too.

Back to the mall.

"Victoria's Secret" looks the way the world would if women ruled it. Girls walk and shift confidently through a wonderland of our own personal arsenal. We talk loudly and openly about the best new methods of bringing guys to their knees where they belong, while all the while the men and boys in tow, dragged in by their girlfriends or wives or mothers or sisters, keep their eyes downcast. They sneak peeks at the racks of bras, the tables of neatly laid out multicolored panties, at the girls who are about to buy them, at the dressing room--the promised land--where we make sure the satin or lace holds our breasts in such an enticing manner that you'll be apologizing for ejaculating prematurely later in the evening.

A man will buy you flowers everyday for a week if he "accidentally" cums in under thirty seconds.

My friends and I split up and start foraging. But I'm not interested in underwear today. Instead, I'm looking at this woman. She's twenty years old and has black hair that hangs down, partially covering her cat-green eyes. She's dressed like a stripper, but I know she's a waitress--whether I've seen her before in a restaurant, or it's my power that's telling me this, I'm not sure anymore. The woman is well endowed, very well endowed. And she wears a top that is anything but concerned with hiding this fact.
Her boyfriend is with her. He's nondescript. One of those guys you date to accentuate your own appearance. He wears the same embarrassed expression as every other guy in here.

The woman carries a fistful of bras and panties and makes her boyfriend wait outside the dressing room as she goes to try them on. The guy keeps his eyes on the carpet. Twice, he glances at the little pink footstool--unsure if you're supposed to sit there while you wait.

And I close my eyes and think: about time, about circumstance, about the roulette wheel of genetics.

A few minutes later the woman walks out with the same fistful of underwear. She looks irritated.

The tags on all the bras--she carries six total--say "DD." None of them fit her.
Of course they don't. She dropped a full cup size the moment she tried the first bra on. The truth is, she'll always be one cup size smaller than any bra she attempts to fit into.

I should probably tell her she's making a mistake as she wanders the store, picking out the same style of the bras she had, now all the tags baring the letter "D". But she is too busy complaining to her boyfriend about the incompetency of the staff and their chronic mislabeling as she continually tugs on her strapless top to keep it from falling off.
So I don't bother her.

I notice a woman has brought her eleven year old daughter in to buy her her first bra. The girl has straight blond hair down to the shoulders, just the cutest thing she could be. Her loud, high pitched voice annoys me.
I watch as the two browse, and the girl insists on trying on this, and this, and this and this too. And the woman, thirty-six and with the same blond hair as her daughter, also picks out a few things for herself.

The girl demands her own dressing room, and the Mother takes the one adjacent to her daughter's. I think about them as the girl pulls her dress up over her head, as the Mother unbuttons her blouse.
I think about them as they both stand topless in front of the mirrors.
And then I decide they should switch boobs.

In seconds, the Mother's breasts stop sagging, they become full and round like they were in her twenties, then perky and upturned like her teenage years, then hardly there at all with the puffy pink nipples of a preteen.

Her daughter screams from the next room. The late thirty C cups with the slight sag and the nipples hardened from breast feeding her Mother had possessed moments ago, now hang huge on the small frame of the eleven year old.
I watch one of the salesgirls rush back to help. I watch the waitress from before, still dragging her boyfriend along, cussing louder now, putting the "D" cups back and selecting "Cs" in their place.

"There's no way I'm a C cup," she says, tugging on her top. "No fucking way."

You won't be for long, I think.

I watch an eighteen year old pick through the kinkier selection of underwear and lingerie. Despite her age, she has never been very sexually adventurous, but tonight is her one year anniversary with her boyfriend and she wants to do something special. Looking almost as embarrassed as the men in the store, she picks a few things out then rushes back into the dressing rooms.
A few minutes later the salesgirl who had responded to the screams of the little girl comes walking out.

"Alright, very funny," she says. She's holding a little squirming baby girl in her arms with a purple thong dangling from her chubby legs. "Now who's kid is this?"

It was the first time the eighteen year old had ever tried on a thong. It would be a few years before she'd have the opportunity to do so again.

The waitress is back out. Her face is red, fuming. She's so mad she's not even speaking to her boyfriend. I watch as she walks around picking out "B" cups. I shake my head. Some people never learn.

Meanwhile, the blushing Mother is purchasing the bras she had picked out for herself for her frowning daughter, while meekly putting the bras her daughter had picked out on her charge card as well.

The big bosomed little girl is crying. She can't fit into her dress anymore. She's wearing a "Victoria's Secret" nightshirt that hangs down to her knees with the little pink signature heart embroidered near the left butt cheek.

Of course, there are a few exceptions to men and their reactions to this store.

I see one beefy guy in his mid-twenties over in the lingerie section. He's looking for a birthday present for his girlfriend. He tosses a few items on the table aside, then holds up a pink number that is all strings. I can't even tell where it's supposed to go or how you're supposed to put it on.
He smiles.

A salesgirl is watching him. I think about circumstances, about fate. Then the salesgirl's look of distaste turns to amusement. She approaches the man.

"Awww, did you come in here to peep at the girl's underwear?" she says. "We send out catalogs in the mail for that. But I'm sure you're already pretty experienced with those, aren't you?" She winks.

And the man is only thirteen years old.

And he's back to being a virgin. He's never even seen a naked girl before, not even in magazines. And the woman's right, the closest he's come is jerking off to his girlfriend's "Victoria's Secret" catalogs in the bathroom.
His girlfriend. His twenty-two year old girlfriend. Who won't have sex with him, won't let him see her naked, won't even kiss him because he's only thirteen.
And then he realizes something. He's holding underwear. Girl's underwear. And suddenly his three inch dick is hard and aching in his jeans.

The salesgirl smirks at this. She leans over, she whispers in his ear, "You know, sometimes I wear that for my boyfriend and do a sexy little dance on the coffee table."

And the boy creams his pants right in front of her. The salesgirl is giggling madly, and everyone can see the stain on the front of his pants as he scurries out of the store.

By this time the waitress is crying. Both her arms are pressed against her top to keep it from sliding off. She must have gotten to the "A" cups while my attention was elsewhere, I decide--she looks as flat as her boyfriend.
Kira's bought a bra, and Anne has three new pairs of panties. Sacks in hand, we move on.

9.
I'm standing in "The Gap," and both my friends are trying on clothes. I'm not trying anything on. I didn't see anything I liked. I don't know, I'm not really into shopping today. Maybe it's because I'm having too much fun with my new powers.
As I'm thinking about this I see a boy and a girl pass by. The boy's hand is sweating. He wipes it on his jeans. He is trying to work up the courage to reach out and hold hers--I know, I can read the signs.

This is their first date. Worse, this is the boy's first date ever. Worse, the boy is fourteen, the girl is fifteen--something else I know, at this age, dating a girl a grade above you is huge.

You may hate me for what I do next, but let me tell you something, power doesn't corrupt, we're already corrupted--we just don't have the power to do anything about it. We're all embittered.

To the guys: You hate girls for all the things they won't do for or to you, and you hate guys for all the things the girls are doing for and to them and not you.

To the girls: You hate guys for all the things they won't do for or to you, and you hate girls for all the things the guys are doing for and to them and not you.

And if you're gay, figure it out. It's all the same story.

So, like I said, I'm embittered. And I'm looking at this boy as he passes, and he does work up the courage and he does reach out and grab the girl's hand.

And I'm counting backwards, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven. And something's wrong. The boy hasn't gone through puberty yet, his name brand clothes don't fit, they're too loose on him, even by today's standards of baggy jeans and low hanging Ts. Ten, nine, eight, seven. And all those push-ups he did before school were a waste. They guy's a wimp. Skinny arms, no muscle mass. He's a shrimp. His head comes up to the girl's chest. Six, five and I stop at four.

And the girl isn't on a date anymore, she's babysitting. She isn't smiling anymore, she's frowning. She's annoyed at having to waste a Saturday on such a chore.

"God, I never would have agreed to go out with you if I'd have known you were such a baby," she said. "And if you think I'm kissing a preschooler, you're out of your mind!"

And the little boy is blushing. His head is at the level of her crotch.

"Look at you! You're clothes don't even fit."

His pants have fallen off. He holds up his white briefs with both hands. His shirt is bigger than he is.

I guess it must be embarrassing for him. The girl he has a huge crush on drags him to the children's section of the nearest department store, pulls clothes off the rack, shoes from boxes, and herds him into one of the changing rooms.
She undresses him with rough, indifferent efficiency, until he stands small and naked in front of her. She sees him nude from the front, and nude from the back all at the same time thanks to the large mirror behind him.

He thinks about what she said. About how she had been planning on kissing him until he turned into a little boy. He sprouts a small baby erection.

She looks at it.

"Yeah right," she says and helps him into his Big Bird underpants.

My attention is brought back to my present situation by my friends. They have tried on skirts and blouses and swimsuits, buying only one of the blouses and leaving the rest behind.

"You ready, Amy?"

"Yeah," I say. My concentration interrupted, I lose track of the boy and the girl.

Later, though, on our way out to the parking lot where my Dad is waiting to drive us home, I catch site of them again. The girl
is flirting with three other guys, a smile on her face, her finger twirling her hair. The little boy stands quietly next to her, shifting his feet, looking miserable.

I can't say I feel bad. I don't do it for the boy in the Big Bird underpants. Who cares, right? What I do to the girl's mind, I do just because I think it's funny.

Here's how that went:

One of the guy's she was flirting with had a car, and he'd actually passed his driver's exam. I knew his face from school, but that was all. He had brown hair, and blended in with all the other guys with brown hair that weren't too ugly or too good looking.
Anyway, the two hit it off, and they drove Big Bird boy home and left him there on his front porch. Then they found an empty parking lot behind a grocery store that had recently gone under where they could "talk" in private.
Their little chat lasted about half an hour. Then the guy moved closer, the girl leaned into him--they embraced, and their lips pressed together in a long deep kiss.

That's when the girl knew (not the head kind of knowing, but the stomach and cunt kind that I mentioned before) that she had to act like a baby for exactly one hour.

The guy first noticed his conquest's change in behavior by the dampness spreading across his thigh. The girl had her crotch pressed against it, and was now wetting herself. Then the smell hit.

The guy pulled his mouth away from hers, and saw her vacant expression.

"Me go poo poo," she dumbly said. "Ga ga goo goo!" Then she drooled on herself and sucked on her thumb.

It wasn't an accurate portrayal of an infant, but that's how the girl pictured baby's acting and so that's how she acted.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he yelled, his dick already expressing its frustration by going limp.

"I want my Mommy! I want to go watch cartoons! Wah wah wah!" she said and started to pout and started to cry.

And so it went. And that's how it would go from now on. Whenever she tried to get intimate in any way with anyone, including herself, she'd find herself forced to act like a baby again for another hour. A kiss, another hour. A fondle, another hour. Too short of skirt, another hour.

The way of the world.

[WnDLizzie]

Another great TS story Thanks for posting... By the way were did you find this do you have any more?

[Finkleberg]

I've been slowly shifting through the hard drive of an old computer. There are still a few more stories, but I am pretty certain that this and the Mall are the only two by Tainted Sins.

There are a few from the old sites I would have loved to see again, but so it goes.