Becoming A Teenage Girl Intermission
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Just West Of Happy Intermission: Proving A Man's Worthington free porn video
Warning: This story contains MATURE THEMES including nudity, sex,
sexualization, and vulgar language. Do not read if you are under 18 or if
it is otherwise restricted for you to do so. If you wish to share this
story, contact me at [email protected]. I will likely agree, I
just want to know in advance.
This is a bit of an intermission, a bit of a bridge between "act 1" and
"act 2" if such things can possibly exist without any sort of actual,
long-term planning on my part. There is no sex, but instead, we follow the
frantic, panicked first few moments of George Worthington as he realizes
what has been done to him.
On a weird little side note, I realized I was a little confused about
George's name. I had initially typed out Worthington but for some reason,
thought I had written Huntington (the name of an RP character I played a
few years ago) and, for a few chapters, used the name interchangeably. I
thought long and hard and decided that I liked "Worthington" best, if only
because it allowed for the interesting play on words I used in the
intermission's title. I intend for George to have a bigger part in the
story than I had initially planned, but also Quincy, Makayla, and even the
dumpy boy in the intermission chapter who, spoiler alert, is named Elton.
As always, please visit me on Deviant Art at
http://whimsicaltales.deviantart.com/ for more frequent updates and to
keep up with my the goings on of my TG stories. Updates happen there
first! :D
Intermission:
Proving a Man's Worthington
By: Whimsy
He was catatonic. He had to be. He couldn't see anything but that strange
girl. His eyes were locked on hers and, for a moment, he felt like he was
looking into a great, vast, malevolent abyss.
"I can take that pain away."
He was vaguely aware of this pain she was talking about. Yes, someone had
kicked him in the crotch. He hadn't been quite as hard as he'd been when
he had been putting the moves on that Ione West girl--thanks in large part
to the sucker punch from the tall, dark guy that he didn't know--but it had
still been blisteringly, blindingly painful. Now, however, he barely felt
it. He barely felt anything.
The pain in his crotch was gone, replaced by an emptiness. It was slightly
moist and very alien feeling -- or, it would have been if he felt anything.
But he couldn't think about that now. He couldn't think at all. He
couldn't look down or even move. Those black, void-like eyes still gripped
him. Nothing else in the world even existed.
"You wanna know how the other side feels? You wanna know what it feels
like to be a victim? I'm going to send you out of here knowing exactly--"
Her words were cut off suddenly, and the spell on George had been
broken...sort of. He vaguely registered voices, raised voices, panicked
voices. He blinked placidly at the two in front of him arguing--or, rather,
one was arguing. The girl that had been staring at him with those weird
eyes was now collapsing into the other, taller girl, the blonde that he'd
been...had he been accosting her? No. He'd just been putting the moves on
her. Like he did all the girls. He was just going to give her what she
wanted, what they always wanted. Sure, he would resist at first, but she'd
like it in the end. They always did.
His head hurt, it was spinning, but he was coming back to his senses
slowly. The pair of them were walking away. He was left alone.
The thumping, throbbing bass came to him first. He felt like the ground he
was sitting on was trembling slightly beneath him. Each thump of the music
sent a ripple, a shudder of feeling and sensation through his body, but he
couldn't understand what he was feeling, what it meant. He staggered
pathetically to his feet. Somewhere in the base, lizard-portion of his
brain, he thought about finding the guy that had punched him, to defend
his honor from the sneak attack, but to no avail. He and the cow who'd
kicked him in the crotch were gone.
His head swimming. He staggered out of the alcove, ignoring the looks he
was getting. They kept staring at him as he passed, but he wasn't sure
why. His head was itchy and his mouth dry. He thought about going to the
bar, but he felt like he needed water just then. Booze wouldn't cure this
thirst. He needed something cool and wet, not hot and dry.
He stumbled on his pants legs. His pants were hanging off of him. He
couldn't tell why and, just then, he hardly cared. He hiked them up,
holding onto them as he stumbled blindly and unaware of much else but each
staggered step and the thumping, throbbing of the bass.
"Hey, you ok?"
He pushed aside the nosy guy trying to get in his way. Didn't they know
who he was? George Worthington. His father owned this club, owned half of
Danbury. Yes, it was all coming back to him now. He tried to walk with a
little more swagger, tried to put all the peasants beneath him. He was
practically royalty in this town. That's how he always got what he wanted.
That's how he got into Dance Berry every weekend with a new girl (or two)
on his arm even though he was only 19. That's how he got the bartenders to
serve him. That's how he got laid practically every night. His father had
taught him just how to get anything he wanted:
"Be who you are," he had always said with a firm tone. "Don't make
apologies. You are a Worthington. You get what you want and, if it's not
given to you, you take it."
He shoved the bathroom door open, bouncing back a bit comically as it hit
someone on the other side. Normally, he could pushed past anyone, but for
some reason, he was still feeling weak and a little feeble. He cursed
under his breath as the man who'd exited when he'd tried to enter walked
past him. At first, the stranger looked like he was going to chew out
whoever pushed the door into him, but when he saw George, his look turned
to confusion.
"That's right," George said haughtily, his voice a bit squeakier than he
remembered it, but he chalked it up to that bitch who kicked him in the
nuts. "Move it."
He pushed past the guy, who didn't dare retort. The power of a
Worthington, George thought arrogantly.
He stomped into the bathroom like he owned the place (which, in a way, he
did), trying to ignore the strange, small, weak feeling he'd had since his
encounter, trying to ignore the strange looks. He stooped at the sink
basin without so much as a moment's hesitation, ignoring the bustle of
guys around him. They didn't notice him at first, but as he began to drink
from the faucet, he felt their eyes on him. Clearly they recognized him,
probably shocked that George Worthington would be drinking from the
faucet.
"Yeah what?" he snapped at a particularly dopey, dumpy kid who was
watching him. He had a big nose and ears and a slightly portly body that
certainly wasn't up to the usual Dance Berry standards. Probably the omega
dog of some rag-tag group from Hillsborough. George didn't recognize him,
but he could hardly be expected to recognize every nobody he came across.
The other guys in the bathroom snickered--at the dumpy guy no doubt, George
though with a haughty smirk--and began to filter out. But the boy didn't
move. He just watched George with a strange sort of concerned look on his
face.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
George was surprised to hear the his tone, which was not stammering and
cowed like George would have expected from someone so clearly on the
bottom rung of the social ladder and in George's nigh-regal presence, but
actually relatively calm, perhaps even a bit sonorous, deep and soothing,
even when faced with George's ire.
George huffed, "What's it to you?" he asked. His own voice still wasn't
sounding quite right, and seemed to contrast irritatingly against the
boy's deep, rather dulcet tones. He took another swig of water, but he
couldn't help but feel a strange imbalance on his chest, like it was
slightly heavier, slightly different shape than usual. He just wasn't
feeling like his usual self and, as such, felt like he couldn't muster up
enough of that usual bravado he used to put people in their place. That
was the only explanation he could think of for this nobody continuing to
stare at him like this. That was the only explanation for the concern in
his voice. That was the only explanation for why he wasn't scurrying off
like the bug he was.
"Did you lose your shirt or something?" the boy continued as infuriatingly
calm as ever, shucking off his own rather worn jacket and handing it to
her. "Here."
George looked at the thing with disgust. He'd probably bought it from the
Salvation Army for a buck, he thought with a wrinkle of his nose. He
slapped it, and the boy's hand, away, "I don't need your handouts you
idiot!" he yelled--no, now his voice sounded a bit like a shriek. "Get out
of here!" he continued snappishly, trying to cough and return his voice
back to normal. "If I see you again, I'll kick your ass, you understand?!"
The boy sighed and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said with that same
infuriatingly patient tone as he slung his jacket over his shoulder. "I
hope you have some friends that can help you."
George was about to snap again, but the boy was already walking out.
Friends. Hah. George had enough of a circle that he wouldn't need some
dorky, dumpy guy in a $15 outfit. Not that he needed help at all, though
he was definitely starting to feel more than just slightly off now that
the numbness was fading, now that the world was starting to come into
focus.
He forced himself to huff again, to ignore the strangeness and the sense
of unease that accompanied it. Who did he think he was? George turned to
take another drink, but this time, his eyes caught a reflection in the
mirror. At first, he thought it had to be his, but that was clearly
impossible. The figure in the mirror was clearly not the rugged, gorgeous
example of masculinity that was George Worthington. It looked more like a
girl, truth be told. She was skinny and awkward, with tiny buds for
breasts and a slender frame. Her hair was ragged and unkempt, unstyled and
looking more like she'd just rolled out of bed. It was the kind of girl
George wouldn't have wasted a moment on for better, more sultry game. Like
the lithe, tiny thing that had been with Ione (who herself was a six at
best, but she had a decent enough rack).
George stared at this girl for long, drawn out moments and she stared back
at him. It was the steely gray eyes that first snapped George out of his
reverie. They were his eyes. This girl had his eyes. He was no wiz at
math, but it didn't take long for him to put two and two together and
realize whose reflection this was. There was only one person left in the
bathroom. George himself.
Herself.
George stumbled back, watching as the girl in the mirror did the same. She
tore open her shirt and stared at those breasts, little but still
undeniably breasts. He probably would have laughed at a girl with breasts
like that an hour ago but now, he felt like they were gigantic on his
chest. Had they been visible in her half-buttoned shirt the entire time?!
She pulled her shirt shut, her cheeks burning as she looked around with a
panicked expression, seeing staring eyes in the walls. The buttons were
torn now in her panic and there would be no closing it now. She would have
to hold it like this if she didn't want people to oggle her breasts.
What was she thinking?! Her breasts?! Her breasts?! She looked again,
opening the shirt a fraction of an inch, her eyes screwed shut as if
trying to will what she'd seen to have been just a dream. But even before
she opened her eyes and again saw those little budding breasts, she knew
that it wasn't a dream. She could feel them now that she thought about it,
their miniscule but obvious weight on her chest, the strange shift of
gravity they caused on her now-smaller frame, and the feeling the rough
fabric rubbing against her sensitive nipples, which were engorged and rock
hard from the cool air and the attention.
Almost as if on some unheard cue, her pants finally slipped off her
slender waist. She stumbled to try and catch them, but failed. Another
sudden, terrifying thought came unbidden to her mind and she gulped down
her panicked breath, looking down to her crotch.
There was no bulge in her boxers.
Even if the door hadn't opened just then, letting in a blast of pure sound
and a club patron, George wouldn't have had the strength to check whether
his member was missing. The man who entered was obviously more than a
little tipsy and stumbled into the bathroom blithely for a moment before
seeing George. He blinked comically and turned, checking the sign on the
still-open door.
"Hey, 's the men's room lady," he slurred, wavering a bit in his spot. But
he smiled in drunken companionship as he staggered into the room. "But you
can stay if you want. I jes' need ta bleed the lizzerd."
That seemed to cause the reality of the situation to hit George like a ton
of bricks. More than the nubbish breasts, more than the hint of nothing in
his crotch, having someone say out loud, call him a her, it was as if she
had been struck with irrevocable proof of the transformation. And it felt
like she'd been sucker punched all over again.
But still she looked. She couldn't help it. Call it morbid curiosity, call
it a desire to deny the obvious. She pulled the front of her boxers
forward as soon as the drunken man had stumbled past her to the urinal.
She was hoping, praying that she would see something that couldn't
possibly be there. It was as if seeing would reverse the horrible reality
of it all. She hoped by looking, it would undo what she and everyone else
in the club had seen. As if her penis would be there.
But it wasn't.
In her boxers was only a curly carpet of public hair. She didn't see her
rather sizable member, she didn't see her testicles. She was almost
certain she caught sight of a pair of lips hiding a long slit...
She let her boxers snap against her slim waist and stumbled back dizzily,
nearly falling. It was difficult to breathe, as if she had too much breath
and not enough throat. The room seemed to be spinning around her.
She was a woman.
"Hey, you alright?" the man slurred, hardly sounding too concerned as he
turned from the urnial to face her with his penis hanging out. Thank God
he had at least finished "bleedin the lizzerd." Or maybe he hadn't even
started, it was hard to tell. His question was marred somewhat by the
deep, rumbling belch that, even in her shocked state, George could smell
from across the bathroom.
He watched her, wavering on the spot, as the former man, equally unsteady
on her feet, could only stare in horror at him before shrieking, "I don't
need your help!" But there was more than an edge of panic in her voice.
She was no longer in control, no longer the cock of the walk. No, now she
realized she was a hen among cocks. And she did not care for it one bit.
She turned on the spot, stumbling on her pants and nearly toppling over
before stooping to scoop them up. She had to hold them to her waist as she
made her way for the door. However, just as when she'd tried to enter the
bathroom, she found the door blocked by a man trying to enter. This time,
the man was not so forgiving.
The door did not budge for a moment and George ran her shoulder into it in
a panicked attempt to get out of the bathroom. Her plan backfired,
however, as, with a rather casual push, the burly, thuggish man threw her
back into the bathroom. He looked slightly put out by having the door push
against him and looked around with a surly air. Like George, he looked the
type that would not back down from such an unspoken challenge, and he
hadn't. Nor did he appear to be willing to claim victory even now. He
looked like he was willing to continue the match with fists, if need be.
George was not what he expected and, for a moment, he seemed to have to
decide whether she was a girl or a boy. But there was no denying the small
breasts beneath her open shirt. He seemed almost more angry that it was a
girl and he couldn't punch her.
"The hell lady?" the man muttered, clearly a bit drunk, but not quite so
far gone as the bathroom's only other inhabitant, who was still watching
George with rather blurry concern and his penis hanging out.
The man looked from George, on the ground with her titties hanging out, to
the man with his member hanging out, and seemed to put two and two
together to get five. Grinning sleezily, he looked up to the other, "Hey
man, she with you? You mind sharing the wealth?" he asked, reaching down
to unzip his own pants.
"Wha--?" the drunk man staggered a bit. "Her? Dunno her at all. Jes' in
here all feelin' herself an' I'm jes' tryin' ta take a leak."
He suddenly began to pee unceremoniously on the tile of the bathroom as
George and the newcomer watched in awe at his complete and utter
inebriation.
"Oop, there he goes." The drunkard spun around and clumsily aimed himself
at the urinal, no longer engaged in the conversation, if he ever was at
all.
"Then I guess you're here by yourself," the newcomer said, unlatching his
belt aside and unbuttoning his pants. "Waiting for someone? Or just yours
truly?"
George watched in horror as the man unleashed his sizable member and let
it hang out in front of him. Math still not being her strong suit, she
still managed to find her own answer to two plus two one more time and
realize just what this man had in mind for her.
This seemed to give her drive and she shoved her way to her feet, pushing
the man back with a combination of panicked strength and surprise. Far
from being angry, however, he just laughed and watched her go.
"I'll be right here if you change your mind, honey!" he called out. He did
not pursuing her, merely watched her go, holding onto his member lewdly,
either because he hadn't really intended to force himself on her or
because he felt like she wasn't worth pursuing.
George shoved past another man heading to the bathroom, not stopping to
see how he reacted to her. Suddenly, Dance Berry, a place that had always
been her turf, had always seemed comfortable and safe, was foreign
territory. Hostile territory. Every look she got felt like burning embers
on her skin, every fleeting comment she heard some sort of jeering remark,
a threat against her sexually.
George pushed, squeezed, forced her way out of Dance Berry. The club was a
place she knew intimately, inside and out. She'd visited with her father,
she'd come alone, she'd come with girls. She'd seen every dark little
corner and even had sex in most of them. But those days were over, she
felt with a stinging in her eyes. She would no longer be the conqueror.
She would be the conquest. She tried to tell herself that this was
preposterous, that she was still George Worthington. She still owned this
place.
But the huge bodies around her, magnified by her own feeling of smallness
and fear of being so weak, told her otherwise. She felt like everyone was
staring at her hungrily and, for the first time, she fled from Dance Berry
in terror, swearing she heard the jeering laughter of the usurpers as the
king fled.
For the third time that night, she ran into someone. This time, there was
no door to gird her from the blow, and there was no give in the body into
which she collided. She scarcely halted, trying once again to scramble to
her feet so she could complete her frantic flight, escape this place that
had once been her kingdom but was now a lion's den of discomfort and
terror. She looked up to see who had blocked her exit and, at that moment,
all will to escape, indeed all will to move, fled her.
Little of the man who was standing in the doorway to Dance Berry was
visible, but there was something resonant, something otherworldly about
him. It might have been his clothes. While he wore a finely tailored suit
of the deepest midnight blue, it was worn underneath a thick cloak of
equally fine, equally deep blue material that George could not identify.
It was so dark that it seemed to draw the eye into it to become lost
forever. He wore a matching wide-brimmed fedora that he kept low on his
head even when the attendant, who tried pointedly not to look at George,
attempted to take from him. The hat was worn in such a way that it
obscured most of his features, and whet parts of his face were not covered
by the brim seemed to hide behind an unnatural shadow.
The man waved the you male attendant off and he simply shrugged and
returned to his little closet, muttering something under his breath about
Gus letting in another kid. It seemed almost like the stranger dismissed
the attendant so he could focus solely on George, who was transfixed by
something in his bearing.
A deep, resonating sniff sounded in the awkward wordlessness, audible even
over the muted thumping of the music behind them.
"I smell the stench of magic on you," the stranger said. George could do
naught but stare, but as she regained some of her faculties, she tried to
crane her neck to see under the low brim of his hat. She was almost
certain she saw cold, gray skin beneath, but tried to convince herself
that it was a trick of the light. "HER magic. Tell me," he continued as he
stooped down in front of her, "did you see Melinda Rousseau tonight?"
George didn't know this name. She'd met many Melindas, of course, even
slept with one, but none with the last name Rousseau (though, to be
perfectly honest, she couldn't recall any of the last names of her
conquests). Somehow, however, she felt her head nodding as a wave, a
tingling sensation ran through her. It made the hairs on the back of her
neck stand up and, with everything else that had happened tonight, made
her feel a strange, sickening sense of violation.
The man held out his hand. "Come with me, George Worthington," he said,
nay, intoned in an imperious voice. "I would like to ask you some
questions. Please me with the answers and I may return what has been
stolen from you."
George stared at the man with a dazed expression, feeling her senses numb,
becoming feeble the longer she was in his presence. She nodded again,
slower, more deliberately this time, and wrapped her smaller, softer hands
in his. She did not take notice of the clammy coolness of his hand, nor
the deep gray hue. All she knew was that he was going to give her back
what had been taken from her and, moreover, she got the strangest feeling
that he would be the key to revenge.
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