The Visable Writer free porn video

Synopsis: What would happen if the fiction you wrote became fact? Jerry finds out when he asks for a computer to write his stories on. His mother can't afford one so she gives him his Great Uncle's old Oliver #3 Visible Writer and Jerry finds out what it means when your writing becomes visible. THE VISIBLE WRITER By Persephone I begged and I pleaded but it didn't do me any good. As my mother put it, "You can't get blood out of a turnip Jerry." I knew what she meant. Since my father died a couple of years earlier things had been tight. He had insurance that paid off the house and all of our bills and his insurance from work would keep us going for some time yet but we had to stay on a strict budget and a computer just wasn't in that budget. Mom looked at me with sadness in her eyes as she gently laid her hand on my shoulder. "I'm doing the best I can but we just don't have enough money to buy a computer. I have an idea though and I'll see what I can do to help you. Okay?" I told her I understood. I knew she wanted to get the computer for me so I could keep up with the rest of the kids in school. I had explained to her that my homework had to be printed out on a computer. I explained to Mom that the teachers told me that my grades would improve if I didn't turn in handwritten homework. She didn't think that was fair on the kids that couldn't afford a computer. I told her that I mentioned that argument but they just said that there were computers and printers available in the library I could use. I told her I had tried to use them but that they were always taken by other students and I couldn't count on getting one when I needed it. All in all it was hopeless unless I could get my hands on my own computer. So, that was where things stood until I came home from school on a Friday and Mom met me at the front door. "I have a little surprise for you up in your room." She said. When we got to my room I went in and there on my desk was a large dark green object that resembled a typewriter... almost. "This typewriter belonged to your namesake and one of the greatest newspaper reporters that ever lived, your Great Uncle Jerry. He wrote many great stories on this machine. The one thing that set him apart was that he always told the absolute truth when he wrote. Everything he said in his news articles was always proven to be the truth in the long run. He used to say, 'Everything I write is fact and if it isn't, by the time it's printed it is.'" My mother said as she showed me the ancient typewriter sitting on my desk. I looked at it and then at her and asked, "What am I supposed to do with this thing?" Mom looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, Jerry. I know you wanted a computer to do your homework and write your stories on but I just can't afford one right now. I was hoping that you could use this until we can afford a computer. I went to your Aunt's house a couple days ago and picked this up for you. She told me the other day that you could have it. She had no use for it and it's just been gathering dust since she inherited it from her mother. I took it to the repair shop and had it all cleaned and oiled for you. The man said it was in great shape for its age." After Mom left I checked out my new typewriter. It was a big heavy cast iron thing and according to the name written on it in fancy gold gilt lettering it was an Oliver. The lettering on the front said 'The Oliver Standard Visible Writer No. 3' and it was made in 1898. This was just great! Not only did I not get the computer that I needed. I got a typewriter that was so old it wasn't even a typewriter yet. It was a visible writer! It was in great shape and there was even an extra ribbon sitting next to it besides the new one already in the machine. I decided to give it a try so I got a piece of paper out of my desk drawer and rolled it into the old machine. I was sitting there in front of it trying to figure something to write when the phone rang. Mom called from downstairs to say it was for me. It was my best friend Tom. Yeah, yeah I know. You're probably thinking Tom and Jerry like the cartoon characters or the drink. We've been kidded about that almost since we first started hanging around together back when we were in kindergarten. Guess we always will be. Now Tom was probably my best friend but he had a bit of a problem with finishing. He was real good at 'envisioning' as he put it. He was even pretty good at starting. It was the finishing that he had problems with. He always seemed to have a dozen or so projects in the works and all of them awaiting the coming of his vision for them. I was always telling him to stop bouncing from one project to another and just stick with one until it was finished and then move on to the next one. It never did any good but I kept trying. He told me I sounded like his mother when she got after his dad to finish up some of his projects. Anyway I picked up the phone in my room and said, "Hello." "Hey Dude! I just had this fantastic idea. Now just try to envision this. You know that old shed in my neighbor's back yard? Well, he's going to tear it down and he said I could have the wood from it. I figure I could put it together into a small garage in our yard where I could work on my car. I was wondering if you could help me with it? Can you come over tomorrow morning?" I let out an audible groan and said, "Not another project. When the Hell are you going to finish something? Why don't you just work on the car in the garage where it is?" "But this would be so cool. I would have my own space and not have Mom on my back about finishing the car or cleaning up the garage." He said. I groaned again and said, "So, why don't you clean up the garage and get your car done? Then she wouldn't be on your back about it. Just envision it, a clean garage, a finished car and no mother on your back. What a concept." He made some nasty remarks and told me he didn't need to make a phone call to me to hear this shit. All he had to do was go see his mother. Bottom line was we had an argument and he hung up on me. I shrugged it off and went back to my 'Visible Writer' to see if I could come up with a story idea. Suddenly I had it. I wrote a story about Tom and his car and how he found the inspiration and spent the last couple of months finishing up his car and then called me to say he was coming over to show me. It was one of my better stories and it had a moral to it too. I turned the roller and just as I pulled the last page out of the machine the phone rang again. Mom called up to me and said it was Tom. I figured he was calling back to apologize for our argument earlier so I thanked my mom and picked up the phone. Tom was all excited on the other end. "Jerry! It's done! I finally finished it! Wait till you see it. Can I drive it over and show you? Do you have the time now?" "Slow down! What the heck are you talking about? You don't mean that you actually finished something other than dinner do you?" I said. There was a silence on the other end of the phone for a bit and then Tom said, "Hello! Anybody home over there? What have I been working on night and day for the last few months? I finished my car Dude! I finished my car. I was just calling to make sure you were home before I drove over there to show it to you." I just sat there with the phone to my ear unable to utter a word. I was completely dumbfounded. I just talked to him a few hours ago and he wanted my help making a garage out of his neighbor's old shed. Now he tells me that he spent the last few months working on and finishing his car. It was my story. Everything he was telling me was what I wrote in my story. This was impossible. Tom's voice brought me back from my thoughts but not my confusion. "Hey! You still there? Can I come over or not?" "Ah, yeah, sure. Meet you out front." I hung up the phone and sat there for a moment. Then I folded the story I had written about Tom and his car and put it in my desk drawer before I went out to meet him. He pulled up and got out of his car. It was beautiful. He had done a great job on it. We went for a ride and stopped by a burger joint before he dropped me off back at home. After he left I went back up to my room to reread the story. I just had to see it again. I had to be sure that what I had written was what had just happened and that I had written it before it happened. I opened the desk drawer and pulled out the folded papers. As I unfolded them I was surprised again. They were blank. There was nothing written on them. There wasn't even a mark, indentation or a smudge. Just completely blank plain white bond paper. I searched my desk. I searched every drawer. I couldn't find my story and my mind rejected that it just disappeared from the paper. When I finished with my desk I searched everyplace in my room even though I knew it wasn't there. I finally had to admit that the blank pages were what were left of the story I had written or at least I was willing to admit it was possible if the incident could be repeated with similar results. So, to that end I sat down in front of my 'Visible Writer' and tried to think of another story that if it became real would not have disastrous results. I finally came up with a great idea. I always thought that my mother would look really great if she would bleach her mousy light brown hair a nice golden blond but she never would. Mom was downstairs watching TV when I finished the short story and pulled it from the machine. I reread the story about how as Mom sat watching TV her hair slowly turned to a golden blond and grew from the barely covering her ears style she always wore to a naturally wavy middle of the back length. The end of the story had her call up to my room and tell me that dinner was ready and to come down and eat. I sat the story down on my desk and waited anxiously for a few minutes for her to call me. Then I heard it. "Jerry. Your dinner is ready. Come on down and eat before it gets cold." I answered her and turned to look at the story. There was the paper right where I left it but it was now a blank piece of bond paper. I turned it over and the back was the same. My heart was beating faster and my breathing was coming in short breaths as I got up out of my chair and headed downstairs. As I entered the kitchen I saw a woman standing at the sink. She had long beautiful waves of golden blond hair hanging half way down her back. When she turned around it was my mother. She came over to the table and sat down and as she did she smiled at me and swept some of her long beautiful hair out of her face. I just sat there at the table and stared at her until she said, "What's with you Jerry? Usually you dig right in but tonight you're just sitting there with that silly grin on your face." I shook myself and said, "Oh nothing Mom. I was just admiring your hair. It sure is beautiful. I hope you never cut it short like a lot of the other guys moms." "Oh, I'd never do that!" she said. "I love my hair like this and plan to keep it this way. I always dreamed of having a daughter with long blond hair like mine. I just regret that I'll never have that chance now." As I ate my dinner I thought about what had happened to Mom and to Tom and how what I had written changed from being just a story to become fact. I thought about how all of the words just disappeared once the fiction was fact. What was I going to do with this? How far could I go? How about world peace or the end to hunger and poverty? How about a couple of million dollars for Mom? Were the possibilities endless or were there limits to what I could do? That's when I decided that before I went any further I would have to come up with a plan. Some way to test the limits and not hurt anyone or upset the balance of things. I finally devised what I believed was the perfect plan but I would find out that there is no such thing as a 'perfect' plan. I discovered that world peace was out. So were the million bucks and an end to poverty. What I could do was change people. I could change them physically like I did with Mom or I could change their personality like I did with Tom. I also became aware that when I changed a person's appearance or personality it became as if they had always been that way. That's why Mom thought she was always a blond. And that's why Tom finished his car. It was because I got rid of his penchant for starting and not finishing things so it was as if he had always been that way It was certainly interesting on my way to finding out what I could and couldn't do with my visible writer. A lot of my friends and other acquaintances were a little different now. Sally had larger breasts like she always said she wanted. Jan had long wavy chestnut brown hair like she wanted instead of the tight kinky hair that she was born with. Our school bully was now an alter boy at Saint Luke's and with a personality shift the class nerd was now reasonably popular. I found that if I made the changes happen in stages like big breasts now and blue eyes in two days that the paper didn't go blank until after the final change. I also found that if I put in the stages and then burned the paper before the final stage was complete everything reverted to what it had been originally. Burning seemed to be the only way to cancel out the changes. Erasing did no good at all so I tried crumpling the paper. I tried ripping it to shreds. I even tried wetting and mulching it. Nothing short of burning would cancel the changes once written. My last experiment was a test of proximity. It seems that my visible writer had a range limitation. Hence the no world peace or an end to world hunger or poverty. I tried changing things at a distance and found it had a range of about twenty miles or so. With my experiments pretty much concluded I decided it was time to get serious and have some fun. I now knew most of the limitations and the abilities of the machine. I also knew how to cancel and revert back to the way things were. But now I had the problem of what that fun would consist of. That was going to take some thought. Fortunately, or unfortunately looking back on it now, Tom unknowingly came up with the answer for me. We were riding around in his car checking out the girls when we saw this one with a real nice rack. After making the usual comments that teenage boys make about things like that Tom said, "That's gotta be a real pain carrying those things around hanging off your chest. Can you imagine what that's like? Every step you take they'd bounce and then there's those things poking out like that so you'd be running into things all the time. Like I said, that's gotta be a real pain in the ass. Sure glad guys don't have to deal with those things. Other than on their girls that is." I agreed and we both laughed about it. Then I started to think about what he said and began to think and wonder what would it be like? Those thoughts were still in my head when Tom dropped me off at my house and they were still on my mind as I sat down at my desk and rolled a clean piece of bond paper into my visible writer. I thought carefully and formulated the entire story in my head before I started. I didn't want to screw this up or I could be stuck with tits for the rest of my life. I had to set the time right for this and give myself time to change, check it out and then change back again before Mom came home at five o-clock. That gave me three hours. I started typing and finished my short story in about fifteen minutes. My safety clause, as I thought of it, gave me until midnight when according to my story my eyes would turn blue. All I had to do was burn the paper before midnight and cancel everything out. With the story complete I pulled it from the machine and set it on my desk and then as I had written in the story I went to my mother's room and got one of her bras out of her dresser and then returned to my room. I felt really weird. I had never even thought about doing something like this before. I removed my shirt and T-shirt and picked up the bra. I had no idea how to put it on but managed to get it hooked behind me at my waist and then stuck my arms through the straps and worked it up to where I felt it belonged. It had no sooner settled into place than I felt the strange sensation on my chest start. Within five minutes I was looking down at a mighty fine pair of tits that completely filled Mom's 36B bra, I read the label before I put it on, and I could hardly wait to check them out. I started by gently squeezing them and manipulating the soft flesh through the bra. Then I slipped my fingers under the material of the bra and gently stroked my new assets. The feeling was strange and erotic as I stood there with my eyes half closed. Then I reached the tip and rubbed the now large nipple. I made a small moaning sound and my eyes closed tightly as a tingle spread over my body and centered between my legs. My knees grew weak and nearly buckled and my male member screamed for relief. I lay down on my bed and continued to manipulate my new flesh while satisfying the needs of a more familiar body part with my other hand. I provided the release that every fiber of my being required and it came in an explosion like I had never felt before. I was left weak and almost breathless covered in sweat lying on my bed. I inhaled a long and quaking breath and let it escape as I said, "Holy Shit!" After I recovered enough to move I got up and walked slowly to the mirror on my wall. I stood there looking at myself covered in beads of sweat with my mother's bra pulled up into my armpits and the breasts protruding from under it. As I stared at my reflection and noted the incongruity of what I saw I knew that this was not my last trip down this road. I also realized that it was time to burn the story and change back before my mother returned home. I removed my mother's bra and got dressed. I picked up the story from my desk and took one last look in the mirror before I left my room. It was truly strange to see my normal reflection standing there dressed in my normal clothes but with my T-shirt pushed out in the front by the newly added mounds of flesh. I shook all over and brought myself out of the daze and then headed downstairs. I went into the living room and stuck the crumpled paper into the wood stove and set it on fire. As the paper burned I could feel the recent changes to my body slowly revert to normal. By the time the paper was reduced to blackened ash I was back to my previous form. I felt a twinge of disappointment as I looked down at my chest but brought myself out of it quickly as I realized that Mom would be home soon and I needed to return her bra and straighten up my room before she arrived. When I finished with my room I went down to the den and watched TV until Mom came home. I don't know what was on the television because my mind was occupied with my recent experience and making plans for my next foray into the mysteries of the female anatomy. I found myself composing the next story in my head and trying to decide how far I would go. It was never a matter of if I would do it again. It was only a matter of when could I do it again. The next day was Friday and when I got home from school I found a note from Mom on the front door saying that she would be home around seven o-clock and to go ahead and throw something in the microwave for my dinner. Dinner was not at all important to me. It was three-thirty when I headed for my room and my visible writer. In a few minutes the sound of clacking from the keys of my machine was all that could be heard in the house. A half- hour later I was done and pulled the paper from the roller. A few moments later I felt the now familiar sensation of the change taking place only this time it encompassed more than just my chest. I had written in a few more anatomical parts this time. When the sensations of change ceased I was standing in the middle of my room wearing a skirt and blouse and I could feel the now familiar constriction of a bra wrapped around my chest. I felt the long hair brush my cheeks as I turned to look in the mirror and I could see the protrusions on my chest in my peripheral vision. My movements felt the same but different at the same time. The same thoughts controlled the same movements and produced the same results but the feelings and sensations that were returned to my brain as a result of those movements were different. As I looked into the mirror I could see myself but with a girls body. Well, almost a girl's body. I instantly realized that I was no great shakes as a girl. It was obvious that when I wrote my story I had concentrated on the two primary areas of a seventeen-year-old boy's lust. I had done fairly well in the breast, waist and hip department but that was about all I had done well in. The face in the mirror was a boy's face, as were the shoulders arms and hands. My feet were too big and my legs were damned ugly. I was very disappointed with the results of my first effort. I went to my desk and pulled out a pad and made some notes on what was right and the many things that I had neglected in my haste to get the story written. I wanted to get them down while they were fresh in my mind. Over the next few months these notes would grow considerably but for now they were pretty basic. I had things other than writing notes that I wanted to do. I walked around the house to get used to the feel of my altered hips and added weight suspended from my chest. I sat down and I stood up. I jumped up and down and I went up and down the stairs a number of times and noted the additional bounce when I did. I brushed my long hair and pulled it in different ways to see how it looked. There were so many things that I wanted to do and try but I just didn't have the knowledge that comes with growing up in a female body. I felt frustrated by my lack of knowledge and basic female abilities but I still found plenty of new and exciting things to try and experiment with. Needless to say, as part of my explorations I found myself naked and prone on my bed. I was in the midst of my second orgasm and both hands were very busy when my alarm went off. I had set it for six-thirty so I would have time to change and get everything straightened up before Mom came home. I shut it off and got off my bed feeling a strange emptiness. My body did not want to quit right then. I guessed it was the female version of blue balls or something. I contemplated getting back to it but knew better. I threw on my bathrobe, went to my desk and got the paper with my story on it and headed for the wood stove. A few minutes later I was myself again and went back upstairs to take a shower. Changing back didn't get rid of the sweat or the smell generated by my sexual diversions. I left the bathroom just as Mom was getting home. Perfect timing. She asked how I was doing and did I get dinner and all of the usual Mom stuff. We talked a bit and then I headed back to my room to jot down some more notes for the next time. And, as before, I knew there would be a next time. A lot of next times. I decided to try a little experiment before I went to bed that night. I rolled in a piece of paper and wrote a real short story about how my hair changed color from the light brown that it was to a golden blond like I had made Mom's and then removed it from the machine and set it on my desk. By the time I stood up the paper was blank and a check in the mirror was proof of the change. I then went back to my visible writer and rolled in another piece of paper and wrote a story about my hair changing back to its normal color. The problem was that no matter how many times I hit the keys and no matter how many times the machine struck the paper not one mark was left behind. The machine would not write the story. I tried one more thing. Using the same paper I tried changing the story to read that my hair became shoulder length and wavy like Mom's and pulled the paper out of the machine. Again the paper went blank almost as soon as I removed it. The mirror showed that my hair was just as described in the story. I got brave and went down to say goodnight to Mom. She showed no sign that anything was out of the ordinary and just said goodnight to me. I went back upstairs and went to bed after making some more notes. The next morning I was scared half to death when I woke up with a face full of long blond hair. After I recovered I got dressed and decided that it was time to get a serious haircut. I wanted to check two things. One, could I get my hair cut or did it have to stay this length and two, would anyone else notice something different about the long hair? I found out that I could get it cut with no problems and that everyone seemed to know me with long hair. Mom was pleasantly surprised when she saw my new haircut. I made more notes on my pad. My notes became quite extensive and my alter ego became more and more refined as time went by. I gained confidence and knowledge and eventually exposed myself to the outside world. No one found it at all unusual that I would go into my house as a guy and leave an hour later as a girl. When I ran into Tom on one of my trips downtown I found out that I was his girlfriend now not just his friend and buddy. We went out to a movie that night and I had a great time. It certainly was different being with him as his girlfriend. I found that I liked it when he opened doors for me and I really liked it when he paid for everything. I felt different and heretofore unknown emotions emerging that I had to learn to deal with and I began to enjoy dealing with them. I was becoming Jerri more and more often after I found out that I could change back and forth without anyone questioning a thing about it. It got to where I would come home from school and go up to my room and change, and I do mean change, and then go meet Tom to hang around the mall or go to a movie or whatever. Matter of fact I had been Jerri so often and spent so much of my time as her that it got to the point where I felt awkward and uncomfortable as Jerry. I began to make mistakes as Jerry when I was with Tom. Like unconsciously taking hold of his hand when we were walking through the mall or the time I gave him a kiss on the cheek when he gave me a ride in his car to the next town to pick up some things I needed. My confusion between Jerry and Jerri wasn't doing Tom any good either. I found myself thinking about Tom while I was Jerry as if I was Jerri. The line between my two personalities became so blurred that at times I had to look down at myself to see who I was before I acted. Mom was becoming concerned too regardless of which one I was. Once as Jerry I was walking through the kitchen when she mentioned that she was going to the mall to look for a new dress. I got all excited and asked if I could go with her to help. I didn't have to look at myself that time, the look on her face told me that I was Jerry at the time. Then there were other things that proved extremely difficult to explain like when I was out with Mom as Jerri and Mom was looking at some earrings in the jewelry store. I found a pair that I really liked and she suggested that it was time I had my ears pierced. I was thrilled with the idea and without thinking had my ears double pierced right then and there. Later that evening I switched back to Jerry and without a thought went down for dinner. Mom just stared at me and said, "Jerry! Did you have your ears pierced? Oh my God, you had them double pierced? Why? Why would you do such a thing?" Boy was that a hard one to explain. Not only to my Mom but also to everyone else I knew. By this time Jerri was completely the way I wanted her. Every aspect of her appearance and personality were refined to what I considered the perfect combinations. I even went into detail about the clothes she owned and the decorations of her room. I literally created a person and gave her a personality and knowledge. I described everything she did, everything she knew and everything she owned. Jerri was written down on my pad in longhand and I just copied it verbatim every time I made the change. At the end I wrote my escape clause. I wrote it one night after a date with Tom while I was still in the throes of passion and love after a particularly satisfying evening in his bedroom while his parents were out to dinner and a movie. The end of the story had me getting married to Tom at the age of twenty-two, after graduating college, and having my first child two years later. No matter what happened I had seven years before anything became irreversible and I didn't plan to follow this path for more than a couple of days at a time at most. After a couple of months I had made the change so often that I almost had the story memorized. And so things went until that fateful day when I came home after a date with Tom and went up to my room to retrieve my story and head for the wood stove. The paper was gone. I searched everywhere. I looked in places that I knew it couldn't possibly be. I searched every square inch of the house and came up empty handed. Finally, in desperation I went to Mom and asked her about my story. She knew where it was. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked her to get it for me. Then I got the bad news. She had been telling her friend, Beth, about the cute stories that Jerri wrote and took the one on my desk to show her. Beth was so impressed with the story line and the detail that I went into that she wanted to make a copy of it. Mom told her that she could just have it because I wrote them all the time. I almost lost it right there. I insisted that she call Beth right away and get the story back again but it was past eleven at night and no time to be calling someone. Mom promised to call first thing in the morning and she did. That was when I came to the realization that Jerri had come to live here permanently. Beth told Mom that she had been visiting her husband on a construction site after she left our house and that while searching through her purse the story had fallen out and been blown into a concrete form that was being filled. My story was now entombed forever in a twenty cubic yard block of concrete buried thirty feet down under a new building. It would never see the light of day again in my lifetime let alone my seven year escape clause. It would never be destroyed by fire or any other element. Jerri was here to stay. I guess I was stupid for leaving something so important just laying around but the thought has occurred to me over the intervening years that maybe what happened was just what I wanted to happen. Did I leave my stories lying around out in the open like that with the subconscious desire to be discovered? Did I want an end to the changing back and forth? Did I want an end to the confusion in my life of Jerry and Jerri? Who knows? It's a moot point now anyway. That was nine years ago. I finished high school with honors and went to college on a scholarship. I was married to Tom right afterwards and we have a beautiful daughter and a son on the way. I couldn't be happier and if given the opportunity to become Jerry again I would turn it down without a second thought. On the night that my seven year escape clause expired I was laying on my back in the delivery room of the hospital with Tom holding my hand. When they laid our new daughter on my chest I knew that two lives had just been born. Hers and mine. Oh, the Oliver Visible Writer? I still have it. I had it cleaned and polished and it's in a glass case with a heavy- duty lock on it. It sits in a place of honor in our den. Tom doesn't understand why I place so much importance on it but I just tell him that it's a family heirloom and that its responsible for making our family what it is today. He just shrugs his shoulders and says, "I guess its things like that that make you the way you are!" I always smile and say, "That's right." The Visible Writer, (c) 4/15/2002, Persephone Special thanks to Deanna Lea for the review, corrections and suggestions.