Betting On Green In Vegas: A Queen In The Deck free porn video

Dr. Bruce Banner/The Hulk are copyright to Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. The She-Hulk is copyright to Stan Lee and John Buscema. Both characters are property of Marvel Comics, the Walt Disney Corporation and their associated partners and license holders. Characters depicted here are the property of the author, and are fan creations. Betting on Green in Vegas: A Queen in the Deck In the lobby of a small office, not far from the colour and loud bustling of downtown Las Vegas, a vending machine bleeped twice, rumbled in its pregnancy and then let clatter down a chilled bottle of soda. Its icy plastic so plucked from the vending tray by the slender hand of a young, prim looking brunette who regarded it for a brief moment before trotting back along a certain corridor, up two flights of stairs and back towards her waiting office - and its solitary occupant. An ordinary Thursday of warmth, dampened by rain which drew some of the smothering heat from the desert air, the young woman who's heeled steps filled the dim quiet of the journey remarked to herself - never openly - that it had been an ordinary day given the most curious of twists when Mr. Marcel Chasey had come in for another of his scheduled sessions. And indeed, as seemingly ordinary as the day had promised to be, living in this town never failed to bare out any number of bizarre surprises, and most often when you least believed or suspected them to jump on you. A thought passing as her face softened into that familiar conceit of the professional, her steps to the back of the corridor were brief and then the door snapped shut with a bump of metal - the title "Dr. Claudia Bannerman - Therapeutic Psychologist" stamped on the glazed glass. Once inside, she proffered a polite smile to the young man lying on a nearby couch - not far from a comfortable recliner where she would again take up - and made forward to pour him a small cup of the sparkling liquid. Taking a long sip, he thanked her and she set the bottle aside after pouring herself a glass; her thoughts coolly in want of something a bit sharper or stronger, given the account she had already heard from the attractive, if more unremarkable man now settling back into the fold of the couch. Setting the glass aside as she took up her board again - furtive scrawls and notes hidden from him distracted view - before the session got up and going. Eyeing him with an inclined look, she took a moment and then asked him to start from the beginning, again. And indeed, she would need a moment or two to ponder and digest the quixotic tale that had, seemingly, brought this young businessman to her door a few times, but only now baring out the odd truth of what he believed. And truly, what he believed would take some getting used to, and all the more so if she was to make some sense - therapeutic or otherwise - of what she was being told. In the words of her old dissertation supervisor, back at San Diego State, "Listen Claudia, they don't seem like it at all, but underneath - oh boy!" And for better or worse, "oh boy" was going to be quite the issue, for sometime. In her ten years as a therapist and psychologist, Dr. Bannerman had worked in many places and for many institutions and authorities too. Graduating, she has spent a brief but sharp time doing some work for the state in both analysis and care, and then a number of short stints for certain business or commercial interests - indeed, a few of the latter postings confirming her interest more so in therapeutic analysis, and the sorts of often charged, remarkable characters you might get in Malibu, Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles. Learning more often than not that the fastest wheels grind the most sparks - something she had learned when out to lunch with a colleague, over a few too many drinks - it came with the knowledge that getting to know people sometimes meant stepping into their world - hand in hand - and for whatever outcome that they might be steered towards. And, as she would soon figure out, that little fact would come to be a quaint reality more times than she would have liked. Indeed, an executive who believed that his collection of baseball cards were telling the future or that one man who believed that his wife was trying to drive him to divorce. With balloons. And that instance where a respectable and open minded studio manager revealed a curious, if now troubling, fetish for lettuce. These were just a few of the notable highlights before she packed up and left California behind, heading out to Las Vegas of Nevada with maybe a guilty spark of romanticism - and indeed, eager for the compelling, driven work she had come to know of there. And in all, over the three years of her employment with this particular firm, she would not be disappointed at the often vivid crop of personalities and issues which had made their to and from her office - sometimes in the better of spirits, sometimes less, but all having bore out their issues to the world of her waiting, patient therapy. And all in all - gamblers, alcoholics, addicts of every kind, abusers and users, philanderers and fornicators, messed up childhoods and old ages rude attitudes, the fanciful flights of suburbia and the sometimes messy lives that played out under the glamour and color of the strip's wanton lights. Delusions, preclusions, denial and dancing percussion; myopia, phobia, obsession, transgression and vexation. Claudia had seen them all, in her brief time, and in some many forms and shades too, as can be said. But taking on Mr. Marcel Chasey - a successful, wealthy and accomplished young businessman who formed well in her imagination of well formed blonde manhood... A world of glinting speculation and cynical pondering hadn't prepared her for the bizarre, strangely intense secrets he would unveil come that third, long session. Indeed, an episode of the old "X- Files" or "Twilight Zone" would have had to work hard in its heyday to close the gap on what Marcel calmly, if dimly, told her from that couch. Dr. Bannerman listening with tightening eyes, though passive expression. Delusions of grandeur, power fantasies and gender bending episodes... Indeed... occasioned transformations into a big green amazon who, it was suggested, was some sort of urban legend - the fabled big and green and mean Ms. Tyra Greene... She sighed under her breath... Pen clipping and bittng at the paper in brisk, furtive strokes as she took down her cold impressions. This was going to be a long afternoon, as the man closed his eyes and recounted the tale. The story unfolded that Marcel, some years before finding success in business, tech and wider markets, had once been an intern who - after a challenging application - had won the intimate favour of a certain tech innovator, and which had started him on a very curious path. Invited - or maybe indulged - as the case could have been, he oversaw an experiment in a particular lab of the company; an advanced suite which required observation and supervision of technology dealing with Gamma radiation. The energy involved dangerous and unpredictable, at least given their experimental flirtations with it, Marcel's superiors had approved that night's experiment and with him at the helm, in all. A night to remember, no less, but one that seemed almost prosaic in its destined disaster - at least to the silent, watching therapist, as she downed another glass of soda. Crackling lightning, sheets of rain and sometimes uncanny readings from monitors and computers all portending Marcel's destiny towards the green, mean amazonian... Still, in details that he could not divulge - even here - something went wrong and, in a fit of pained terror and mayhem, he had been engulfed by that same Gamma energy that had once seemed so safely contained. Time passed, and Marcel, of course, survived - a miraculous thing for his doctors - and devilish luck for the company lawyers - which saw him emerge from the debacle a far wealthier man than he had been, and with a swell of recommendations to many different companies. And Mr. Chasey, for his part, discreet in his recollection of events that night - or at least nothing the media or the courts would linger too heavily on. Marcel had returned to college - himself a graduate of San Diego - and had gone onto many successful years with Nevada's own Plateau Technologies. All seemed well... and yet... The narrative tripping, Claudia perked an eye - his voice seeming to linger on some unsung thing; trying to put into words that which previously had never dared the light of day, or respectable discussion. She gently probed his reticence and then he carried on, albeit lacking the confidence of his former, and no doubt, well rehearsed history of success. Some years into his career - despite cause for the contrary - Marcel had begun to lack in his relationships, and it dragged on the man's confidence and self regard for some time. Indeed, so many potentially promising encounters, flings and other escapades which had either not gone as planned, or had been wholly unsuccessful from the beginning of things, in all. That had changed - or at least he had thought so - when he met Sally Janette Winston. A college graduate and peppy, clipped tech commentator climbing the ranks remarkably quickly at her company, he had met her at conference in Carson City and they did seem to mingle on good terms, before returning to their common home in Las Vegas. The relationship going at a pace, Marcel had his hopes and indeed, tried not to pin the relief of his frustrations on trying to make this work. This was a prudent thing as, now too often the case, what might have been came apart one night at dinner; the couple's encounter at a fine restaurant, shadowed by a few famed hotels, glowing for a time until it fizzled out. And then exploded in Marcel's face. Indeed, to this very day, he couldn't fathom why this had happened, but Sally had seemed... disjointed on the night, if that could be the right word. Preoccupied with some scandal or sensation rolling down the ever bright face of her phone, from her social media, any question or comment was batted aside with a tight look; the young woman occasionally given to mumbling something under her breath with every new bit of bad news. Dinner had been served and drinks poured when it finally happened. Marcel taking a sip before gently remarking on her mood and fixation on her phone when she coolly turned the phone off, stared at him and then stood up - her hand quick as she dumped the contents of his still hot plate into his lap. Dropping the glass with a cry as he struggled with pained embarrassment, she snatched up her phone, loudly quoted her favourite poem, and the splashed him with her wine. Leaving him with a wet face, hot pained crotch and a cry of being a "measly, blue balled, little man" she would not entertain any attempts to stop her before they parted ways. The still angry young woman heard to shout a political slogan or two as she passed down the street besides the restaurant, and then faded into the city night. Marcel was left amid a flutter of furtive looks, startled staff and the knowledge that she - if there was any relief from this situation - was definitely a return to the factory case, as someone had once said. And yet, despite his best intentions to get home, and dull the evening with a good drink and maybe something more, that departure from the restaurant, the ride home and his own flustered, angry return to his apartment was just the beginning. A threshold he would only begin to appreciate some hours later, as the night rolled on. The man's words softened and slowed again - Claudia eyeing him from just over the rim of her glasses; a furtive glance to the cup in her hand again and back to her notes. She thought to prompt him again, but he continued - resting one hand on his belt before carrying on... He was back at the restaurant again. Sally had just toppled his meal onto his lap and that heavy, soaking heat bore down on his thighs and tender crotch. Pulling away as he ran to the restroom, he half tumbled into the sterile, bright white and locked the door behind him. Dashing into a stall, he pulled wads of tissue free to hurriedly dab and wipe at his now damp, wetly discoloured pants before something occurred to him - something that made him slow and then stop; the damp tissues falling from his hand as he stopped and stared. The heat remained, but had died to something more... indefinite - an inner, deeper warmth that seemed tender with every movement. And more... the familiar gathering under his zipper, the swell of his familiar manhood, was gone. The fabric drawn and flat over where his tumid crotch should be. He gave a chocked gasp and began to pull at his belt, pants and then zipper before they gave way; the fabric flopping down to reveal the even more stark horror of a man's briefs conspicuous in their lack of a that bulge between the thighs. Ripping down the band, he seemed to freeze - staring with wide eyes at the half veiled, remarkably big and green enclave: the seat of that tender warmth all along as he struggled with his embarrassed pain. He wheezed, but his voice sounded wrong. Something tickled his ears and shoulders, and his hands were suddenly green and then - he blinked. He blinked again, and finally found himself looking up at his apartment ceiling and the lazy shadows cast by the wooden fan above. His heart having gained, he dabbed his forehead and found it moist - his weird dream no doubt the mixture of that bitch's issues tonight and maybe one too many Heineken beers, as their glassy green crowded on the table in front of him. His hands his own, these same manly shapes found that other manly shape bulging his crotch as he looked down and a quick, dull tug found it as it should be. Loosening his collar, he swore and then went to get a refreshment. And maybe a pain killer too. He had to shake of the anxiety of that dream and his racing thoughts; the god awful tension than still weighed so heavily on him too. Returning from the kitchen moments later, he swallowed two such pills and washed them down with water before taking up on the couch again and closed his eyes. The racing heart and tension started to lift a little, but he couldn't seem to get over it as he wanted - indeed, it was an odd dream and despite its nonsense, he couldn't seem to place the haunting that ensued from it. Listening to the TV for a while, he mused on maybe getting some fast food delivered, though let himself fall into the reverie as his heart slowed and his thoughts wandered. Listening to dull pedantry of the commercials for what seemed like such a long time, he let womanly words ramble over him - they didn't seem to make sense and yet she continued. "Blue! Blue balls got you down, mister. Matchless? Dateless? Bitches getting to you? Then you need Gamma! For the bitch inside who doesn't wanna' hide! Who needs blue, when you can go big, mean and green! Try today!" He snapped awake and stared at just what the hell he was listening to -finding instead nothing of the sort that he feared, but rather some commercial for toothpaste, and certainly not given to any of the words or tone that he had heard in his daydream. Clearly it was the booze. Or the dream. Or that fucked up date or the pills, or... At this he was suddenly sized by something: a great groaning throb of mingled things that made him clutch his stomach and almost throw back into the cushions of the couch. A second such convulsion following, he groaned before staggering up - his phone falling back onto the couch as he staggered to the bathroom, his passage knocking over a stack of cards that he had briefly amused himself with before settling on television - a flutter of kings, jacks, aces and vengeful queens spilling on the floor as his moan passed. Baffled in his wave of affliction, he struggled inside; the door clattering shut on the roomy, gleaming white and he leaned heavily as he gathered his pained breath. Trudging to the toilet, he flipped back the lid and scrambled for his belt as it came loose, followed by awkward tugging as his zipper and then waist band was yanked down. His manhood freed he gave a pained groan as he loosed a stream into the bowl - Marcel wondering if this was some kind of hitherto unknown infection or bowel problem. With a few last spurts, the stream dried up and he was left breathing hard - blinking incomprehension followed by a strangely warm throbbing deep in his gonads. It was as he peered down that his eyes went wide and he could do little - knotted in a strange tension as he watched that familiar shape pluck and pucker at it turned first a shade and then a deeper green. The shade swallowing his sack, it travelled into the root of his crotch before spreading up his shaft with a remarkable tightness. For a long moment, the bizarre sight lingered there before his wide blue eyes and then the storm came thundering down, as it did. An insidious pressure seeming to shrink and tug at first one, and then the second ball as they were rolled and constricted before being pulled back by a writhing deep in his hips: his best efforts soon rewarded with an airy lack of anything. The instinct biting, he gasped and growled as he clutched his green member, but that too had begun its journey - feeling the thing shrink and wither until it slithered from his grip and was lost to the writhing, stretching, aching and puckering green between his empty thighs. Shivering and shaking, he could do little but swing and clutch at his thighs before a final throb allowed him to look down and find the unique, horror of a big, muscular and uniquely green womanhood. At this sight, he snapped back with a guttural gasp and caught himself in the nearby mirror - the solitary seeming witness to this bizarre scene and found that his blue gaze, wide with shock, was now a staring, strange green... Claudia arched an eyebrow as she peered over her papers - scrawling one large word over the pad and circling it with exclamations. "Hulk... pussy?" she quietly intoned, recalling back his own commentary. Marcel, who had stilled for a moment in his running narration, gestured for a moment, before finally nodding in resignation. She glanced at her words again, before glancing back. "Big, green, hulk... pussy?" He absently nodded from his spot on the long couch. She nodded and he continued... He screamed and turned, but his body rebelled - a pained pressure growling in his stomach which kicked out his legs and brought his down on the cold tiles with a thud. Amid the pain and fear, his anger gave way to a wheeling, thudding fist on the walls and floor - his reward for this being to watch his hand, now shoot threw with green veins, begin to grow green; the change reforming and yet swelling the shape into an ever bigger size that held a feminine suggestion to his crazed mind. The change not satisfied he gasped and sputtered as the transforming green wound its way up his arm: growing, swelling and refining as muscle distended into the great and yet feminine - and outrageous in its strength as it collided with the wall and dug out a hole as if it was the most rotten of wood. The tearing and popping of seams that followed left him with a great, muscular green and womanly arm out of proportion to his form, and given all the more relief under the light above. Letting the great shape flop to his side, he tried to gather his senses - now much like the fresh debris, dashed on the floor. He would try, but only in vain... Weakly scrambling as he did, he couldn't resist the next on rush of change - dimly refusing to accept his growing, feminizing hulk out as the affliction seemed to reach up from under his newly minted, muscular womanhood and seep into the bottom of his spine. Groaning, a flourish of first pale and then deepening green seeped out from that recess: his sides harkening to this call as they were enveloped and then spread ever wider and rounder as his once toned rump twitched, ached and then distended in time with his blossoming hips. The process birthing wide hips and a great green rump which shrunk his protesting boxers as they peeled over the wide green cheeks on the cool floor. Meekly trying to grasp or clutch his rebelling green contours, his thighs and lower legs soon followed suit with their upward neighbours, the dangling fabric of his pants peeling and tearing in the struggle: Marcel doing little better as his mind clawed for understanding with the sight of his stretching, distending green lengths. Noting their appallingly powerful femininity, the tight flexing and uttering that followed marked the growth of his feet - the barely man slapping one changing foot against the wall in some attempt to relieve the affects; and then only to find it growing ever bigger and ever greener in its womanly shape as its spread over the cold tiles. The defeat of his will there marked as that same foot cracked the tiles and then plunged through the wall - Marcel pulling it back to find the green, dusty foot unmarred. The other mirrored its counterpart in change, and he knew that this fever dream had only one inevitable course: imagining the green spreading up his spine as it seeded the rest of him with this gamma or cursed or whatever power. Clutching at the wall, he had little more time to ponder this as his back groaned and his torso began to build in size, while that same green moulded those parts a new. The rumbling and throbbing of his already tight stomach saw green begin to rise and spread there as new muscle stirred, ached and then spread into the wider valley of his womanly hips below - tightening and pressing those essential contours with new green muscle. Clutching and scrabbling over the iron hard abs that the power was now squeezing from his ever bigger and wider stomach, this valley of steely green folds was soon dulled as the still manly, pale arm that pressed against them flinched and ached - Marcel watching as those tell tale green veins swelled bright and jade started to spread. Feeling it in his shoulder he grunted as his seemed to swell and tighten; the arm below taking to the same as it was remade into a muscular womanly green, while the shirt atop popped and peeled - the fabric rent loudly when his waving arm accidentally flexed and found an ever bigger, stony bicep making tatters of his sleeve. Two big green and lady like hands now clambering and grasping at everything and nothing now, the gamma green pressures were reaching into his chest and despite his febrile murmurings and angry whispers, his resistance failed before it started. Peering down at his broad heaving chest - his once finely cut hair feeling shaggy as it started to tickle his neck - the treacherous green surged into his chest and he felt the odd plucking of his nipple into new tenderness. And, despite all the mental railing in the world, he watched as the flesh around it turned a minty green, puckered and then the muscle behind wobbled and flexed. In a matter of moments, it then distended: rounder and bigger and rounder and bigger until a fine, pale green bosom flared into a big, forest green breast: the once loosened shirt, pulled free at the start of this escapade, ever more malformed now as the green nipple ground against the fabric before escaping free into the cool air of the bathroom. The shape heaving on his chest brought only a long hard stare as even the deepening black of his roots went unnoticed, as was the ever longer and unkempt dark curls which washed his back and cheeks. Nor indeed, the smoothing of his features and plumping, darkening green of his lips... As inevitable as it was, the enormity - mental or otherwise - of his new bosoms wasn't diminished; and more so, even as he slapped one green, feminine hand over his other now jostling, puckering pectoral, the stirring beneath the wide green palm and fabric couldn't be denied. Moments later as he moaned in a voice and pain now all too mingled, the shape swelled, and swelled and expanded beyond his grip as it too made itself full, and green and heavy - his jump of pleasure met with the last splitting of his shirt's back and the popping of the shoulder seams as green eyes looked down to find large and proud, emerald bosoms. The guttural androgyny that met this cut him oddly more that what was just below, and the squeezing of green fingers found his Adam's apple now gone and his throat deepening into a smooth long shade, like the rest of him. Clamping a hand to a green temple as the last lighter shades were swamped by a deep, wild swirl of black locks, his blush of green spread - its touch tightening and remaking his face like a tough clay. Cheeks rose and a jaw widened in a newly feminine make. A strong nose following suit in new posture as the green washed his forehead; the itch of long eye lashes as the sluggish throbbing of his face forced a loud cry of startlingly rich, husky womanhood before the green woman rolled back in a faint and then slumped to the side. Indeed, their last murky thoughts of not wanting to hulk out... of not wanting to be this... not wanting to be a she-hulk... But it was true... he wasn't a she-hulk... He wasn't a she-hulk... She was the hulk... And if she was... was... then... She... The last murmurs following her down into a dimming twilight of the mind, a bystander to the scene would have remarked on the ragged She-Hulk, so confined in the seemingly shrunken bathroom, on the floor, and the dim, maybe imagined, look of satisfaction on her broad jade face, amid the bangs and curls... The great green woman stirring amid the rags and strips of once flattering manhood, large green hands reached for the side of the bathtub; the plastic creaking and steel groaning in gentle protest as she rose to her knees - a long, wild veil of black locks shading her face from the light. The mingled, chaotic haze of the change settling, the woman who slowly came to herself found that - despite the terrors, incredible sensations and the overthrowing of her manhood, she was feeling more relaxed and relieved in than in so many years passed. Indeed, maybe since the accident... Truly, if that is what it meant to be Mr. Marcel Chasey, then maybe this great, green hulk-out was just the tonic for the bother. And none too soon too: after a night, or a month, or a year, like this maybe busting out of his this life - his life - was just what was needed. And if she was filling some panties, then so be it - he seriously needed more fun, more frolicking and a decidedly feminine touch in life. And maybe not from one of his failed hot dates either... She loosened a loud groan and indulged an absent minded smirk as she shook the wild locks from her face and let green eyes peer about - finding the room remarkably shrunken and bearing a few cracks and craters from the spasms of her mind shaking transformation. Indifferent, she took a little time to draw to her full height - marking the squeeze of Marcel's underwear in places, while being remarkably flat in front - and made to leave. Feeling that being cramped spoke way to much to their life, until this remarkable point. And especially when she was now so much more; and more so, when the fun potential of her hulking condition began to conjure a smile already... The bathroom door swinging back heavily, the large and feminine green feet that met the carpet lingered a long moment before turning back for the lounge - the towering, hard bodied amazon nonchalantly trotting back into the larger room; a long sigh soon inspiring a stretch of her green form, before she suddenly realized and stopped - lest she be clipped in the arm by the mumbling fan above. With an irritated grunt she ran those same hands through her stormy cascade of black locks and went to recline; padding around until she let herself fall on the couch with a notable grown from the furniture beneath her amazonian weight. Her thoughts a colored jumble of intention and release, they were briefly piqued by something and she cocked up one long leg and the powerful, shapely foot at its end. Smirking, she reached and peeled a solitary card from her green sole and held it in the light. Lingering there for a time, the newly greened she-hulk found a queen. Indeed, a stern, black clad Queen of Spades. She smirked and rolled the card between her fingers before slipping it between her lips. It was after a long moment that an idea slowly, but surely came to the mind that had once been Marcel Chasey's, though now she wasn't so... and the surety of that was beginning to delight her, for some odd reason. Indeed, it had been a sour evening, and the guy she had been had been was a tad too used to getting the sour end of the bite... so, turning this sulk out into a hulk out seemed oddly apt for the evening. And truly, going Gamma green after having to deal with a surly red face and too blue balls? That was all too good for the occasion... But, as it was then, so it was now - and Mr. Marcel Chasey just wouldn't cut it for this mean, green babe; and especially if she was going to be doing any chasing herself. It was time to parcel Marcel for the night, and Ms. Greene would be the one to do it. Yes. And given how everything had been such an onerous fight to get here... Yes. Tyra. She was Tyra Greene. And she gave a smirking laugh as one hand fluttered over her wide, iron abs to her bosoms. Still, even if she was green, she needed to get keener and got up - a fun little idea ringing between her green ears as the ragged amazon trod to the back of the apartment and its waiting fire escape. Marcel's shirt a fluttering rag about her bosom deep form and his briefs moulded to a wide rump and swell thighs, Tyra was out into the night; clambering up the metal heights until dashing across the roof and vaulting over the drop - sailing over and out into the night with a loud whoop... Sally Janette Winston was getting ready for bed after furiously spinning her latest blog for the morning - her expression as bitter as a dollop of old milk. Rattling the familiar board with eager fingers, she put the finishing touches on her disbelieving dalliance with yet another uncouth, unappreciative man when the door rang. Stilled for a moment, she combed a lock back and pondered who it could be. At this, she bitterly sighed, rolled her eyes and trotted to the door: intent and bent on giving Marcel another burning scoop of her mind. Already angry and soon to rant, she yanked the door back after the locks came free and stopped - the pressure and force suddenly popping like a cheap balloon as she stopped and stared. Large, shapely green feet leading to long legs and a womanly, remarkably muscular form topped with such bosoms. Powerful shoulders and strong arms, and yet her gaze travelled up still further to the smouldering, green beauty crowed with long wild lashed of black hair. And deep green eyes that smouldered in some cool intent. The green amazon pressed a hand to the frame - the wood creaking - as she leaned in close with a glowering smirk, and for the first time in years since college, Sally felt herself quite at a loss to make a comment. Indeed, the ragged she- hulk was intent on that now as she loomed over the smaller woman. With one finger she traced the contours of Sally's thinly veiled bosoms, then her shallow shoulders, her jaw, her cheek and finally her nose with a light tap. "Boo, little bitch..." At this, Sally might have tried to murmur something before she fell back - knocking over a coat stand as she peeled over in a faint. Looming over the mess in front of her, the new Tyra simply laughed and then strode into the apartment; mischief written loudly and plainly on her green face. Looking about, she soon plucked up the woman's phone and quickly set it to take a flurry of self snap shots: the snapping of the light met with a myriad of revealing, provocative and imposing poses about the apartment itself. Contented with her big green revenge, at the cost of Marcel's achy breaky blue balls and this little dame's conceit, the she- hulk bid the girl a mocking good night, dropped the phone on her, and made her exit: the window at the end of the corridor plunging to the alley below, as she whistled contentedly. Waltzing with a loud indifference onto the nearest thoroughfare, Tyra had other things on her mind - for now and later - but one of the first would be peeling of these tattered, misbegotten reminders of Marcel, and have some long needed fun doing it too. It isn't easy being green, she chirped to herself with a hearty laugh and so she should indulge herself, when she could... and starting now... He awoke to the sound of a fire engine - its wail calling up from a deep sleep of wild dreams as it passed through the urban valley below, and out into the bustling yonder. Blinking, he didn't find his pillow, but instead the recess of a large deck chair under an open sky - the horizon framed by the walls of his apartment rooftop and the distant towers and blocks beyond. Wondering if this was some half waking hallucination, such a thought was bulldozed by sharp recollection of panicked illness, affliction and strange, green changes... and then, he looked down. Finding his manly form draped in the very much oversized, lapping remains of a woman's black dress, he could feel the chaff and pinch of similarly ill fitting lingerie beneath - the duck of his head finding the yawning cups and bra as he yanked them open; a necklace set wide on that same chest and the dangle of earrings further declaring his betrayed masculinity. Hands shifting found the ring of an oversized bracelet on one wrist and the other hand nearly knocked over a half empty glass of something, with his old cocktail mixer nearby. Eyes wide again, the summit of his angst was finally found sticking out his feet beyond the drooping hem of the skirt: lifting them up to find, clear in the grey morning air, those familiar shapes entangled in the straps of two hugely oversized, steel heeled sandals. His own feet brought to impotence as the indelibly feminine shapes flapped about, the sheer size of their feminine evidence brought him to a wail that grew louder and louder, across the empty rooftops... Indeed, the sound only coming to an end when the now, seemingly restored blonde man made a dash for the stairs - the spectacle all the worse as those nefarious heels did, of course, give way just as he got to the door. The gasping, whining shape of the man collapsing as something else - tangled and knotted - let go under that long dress and caught his legs to drag him down. Landing with a sore thud, a mingling of swearing protest was cut off as he turned and found those manly feet, ensnared in those huge heels, and now entangled in a pair of massive and keenly green thong panties... The shout grew to a broad scream as he struggled up again and at last found the sheltering shadows of the stairs, down which he hurried in his reeling fright - dignity and composure as loose as the amazon sized apparel that now hung from him. Back in the present, in the therapist's office, Dr. Bannerman stopped scribbling for a moment and quietly eyed the man as he dully gestured in the air - his words working themselves to a finish of remembered shock before he was quiet again. "Heels?" The man on the couch hesitantly nodded with a half seen, sheepish frown. "Yeah. Black... and so big... with five inch heels... steel ones... fuck..." His murmured words tinged with dulled exasperation, and so they went on... And so, as she sat back and he drew to a final quiet, that was the beginning of the fabled "Tyra Green" - "The She-Hulk of Las Vegas"... She clicked her pen and put aside her notes, careful to cover them lest he spot one or two unflattering observations on his "gamma powered, gender bending transformations" or some such impression. Indeed, this would be something for her to mull over - and maybe not before she had a small something to drink, beforehand. And indeed, there would be more to chew over once she tried to get to the bottom of this. But as for "Ms. Greene" - who could tell, just yet. But she was sure that no big green gal was out and about. Be there tall tales, be there wild fables, Las Vegas was want to tell many a thing like that, but she had no patience for stranger, wild talk of green amazons come to haunt the mind of Gamma irradiated men. If that. There were tales, and there were fables, she'd once been told, over a drink - but, Tyra Greene wasn't one of them. Still... come what may, as she watched the man compose himself, she smiled and concluded that a good bit of progress had been made - in at least as far as he was willing to detail these... episodic delusions and other schisms, she mused. Rising, she returned to her desk to pen him in for his next session and shook his hand before he left - Claudia remarking inwardly that he cut a fine figure, if it wasn't for this problem, with his good build, crop of blonde hair and green eyes. Or was it blue. Wasn't it blue? Quickly making his way out of a side door from the building, he trotted back to his car - the beep of the alarm switching off before Marcel, tie pulled free, ducked in and locked the door. Sitting back, he was silent for a long, bitter moment before he tried to say something; his lips working before he rubbed his face and looked for something, mumbling about meds or a tranquilizers, before he caught himself in the rear view mirror. He blinked, face tightening, and green eyes stared back. With a dull start of shock, he tried to look about before he was seized by a tightened churning from within - a spasm which saw him clutch the steering wheel as his body rolled. Watching with a mind rumbling, he gasped and groaned as he felt his skin prickle and suit tighten in places, while beginning to flag in others. And despite his best mental efforts, that greening power again finding his manhood as the once sizable contours popped and pulsed before shrinking back into the threshold of an already growing, greening and womanly sex. His grunts and half aware protests soon drowning in the sounds of tearing popping, rending and splitting, Marcel had a last image of himself in the mirror as his face pulsed and squeezed; the gamma green spreading over his cheeks and nose like a bizarre blush and his hair tossed about his shaking shoulders - once blonde, still a little brown and more and more black as his voice finally broke... A little while later, the fine model of car in a lonely corner of the parking lot stopped shaking and jostling. Loosening large, but feminine hands from a slightly bent steering wheel, a husky voice filled the car with a smouldering sigh. She smirked as a realization came to her. A long, shapely power of a leg emerged from the driver's door, amid the dangling tatters and shreds of leather that had once been a man's expensive business shoes. The remains collecting themselves for a moment as she stretched, large green feet found the warm damp of paving refreshing before setting off, back to the offices before her... Claudia was turned to her desk when the door rattled and then creaked as it opened - the therapist dimly pulling her ear phones down from her recording to dully reprove those coming in, unannounced. Her conceit was brief before she got a an eyeful of tattered, hulking green bosoms, then powerful arms twisted her around again - eyes wide and uncomprehending - before one of those same green hands reached deep into the back of Claudia's waist band and then sharply pulled up: the resultant wide hem of green panties and loud squawk from the once prim psychologist bringing a long awaited smile to deep green lips. The smaller woman's form half stunned and breathless, Tyra turned her around and smiled. Indeed, as she green amazon coyly leered, she just had to break the ice - and how. Then, as the blushing Claudia stared on, her glasses tumbled away as Ms. Greene closed in a deep and long kiss. Finally relenting in a mingle of surprise, embarrassment and guilty pleasure, Claudia pulled free as she made a little sense of this... Indeed, regardless of her own impressions, it was going to be a longer session that she first thought. And truly, it would seem that Ms. Tyra Greene had a lot on her mind... Oh boy... Fin.