Shy Beyond Belief
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Unworthy Of Belief free porn video
UNWORTHY OF BELIEF
by Crazy Baron
DISCLAIMERS
This work may be distributed to forums where it can be read free of
charge, provided that the author gives his explicit permission and that
the text is not altered. Please note that this story is intended for
mature readers only. The people and incidents depicted herein are
completely fictional.
THE STORY
"Excuse me. Is it okay if I sit here?"
The voice is that of an aging man and it returns me to the present. I
look up. He is standing there by the table with a glass of beer in his
hand. A ruddy, wrinkly face, a big nose, silvery hair and a long beard.
Two perceptive, lively green eyes; they almost seem like they belong to
someone much younger than this fellow who is likely in his late sixties
or maybe seventies. Dress him in a red fur coat, a black belt and
trousers, and you've got the Santa Claus from the classic Coca-Cola
advert.
"Yeah, sure," I say in a laid-back manner. I'd rather be alone and enjoy
my beer in private but there is no reason to make a fuss over this. "Go
right ahead."
"Thanks, buddy," he says and sits down opposite to me so we can talk
comfortably. He takes a swig of his drink and puts the glass on the
table. "Been a while since I last set foot here. It's nice to see the
damn virus hasn't killed every business in town just yet."
"Uh-huh."
In passing, I wonder who this guy is. I don't recall seeing him before.
He stands out in his own way, even in a place like this that is
frequented by all kinds of folk, and I would probably remember him.
"So," he opens the conversation. "You write."
"What makes you think that?"
"I know it."
Even though he doesn't come across as one of the irascible, potentially
aggressive types that can at times be found populating the tables of this
bar, it's probably best to humor him and act courteously. "I dabble," I
admit. "Mainly short stories that stay in the drawer forever--or actually
the hard drive of my computer, but it's the same thing. I'm nowhere near
good enough to write prose for a living."
"But you do write."
"You could say that, from a technical point of view."
He tastes his beer again, and I take a sip of mine as well. This evening
is shaping up to be more interesting and entertaining than usual, my
distinct sense of foreboding aside.
"I've read some of your stuff," he remarks. I raise my eyebrows in
surprise, but before I can ask him to clarify, he goes on, "To be frank,
it was your choice of topic that caught my eye. You see, you write about
people who get transformed into another sex. I've got to say it's kind of
unusual, even in this day and age."
Shivers run down my spine. He's right, to be sure, but how the hell can
he know about that? I have always published every one of my stories under
a pen name and taken every precaution I could think of to keep myself
anonymous. And now, I meet a random man who appears out of nowhere, comes
to sit at my table with a pint in his hand and casually informs me he
knows all about my hobby! Was I really so careless that anyone could
track me down? Or has he broken into my computer? How? And why? What does
he stand to gain?
Chances are I have totally failed to cover up my consternation and alarm.
Nevertheless, I try to bluff my way out of the situation. "Look," I say
with a plainly faked mild chuckle, "I have to confess you lost me. I'm
not---"
"I don't care," he interrupts in the same relaxed tone. It is more as
though he's simply correcting a factual mistake by me than arguing in
earnest. "I'm not going to judge you. It's a free country, and if you get
your kicks by thinking up a man who puts on a magical costume and turns
into a hot chick, it's all good."
My desperate gambit didn't work. The man obviously has the upper hand and
I have to play my cards as best I can, without making a scene and
embarrassing myself.
"Okay," I cave in and flash him a polite but joyless grin, "I've done a
couple of pieces in my time that revolve around the things you mentioned.
That said, I'd very much like to know how you came to the conclusion it
was me who wrote them and how you found me. I never put my real name on
anything that's not connected to my professional work."
"You're worried you screwed up and posted your personal info by
accident," he observes in a sympathetic voice. "Take it easy, buddy.
That's not what happened. Your secret's safe with me."
"Well, how did you find me then?"
"I won't go into that," he says bluntly. "It'd take too long to explain,
plus it's not important anyway."
"I'm kind of starting to feel I'm at a disadvantage here."
"Don't sweat it, Tom. May I call you Tom?"
Without realizing it, I clench my jaw. "Would it make any difference if I
told you no?"
"Good point, Tom."
"So, what should I call you?"
"My name's one of the unimportant things," he replies with a grin. There
is something smug in that and I'm irritated by it. "We can do without
that. By the way, I see you named the hero of one of your stories after
yourself."
"Kind of. It's just that nobody calls me Tom."
"It's the same name in any case. So--'Really Weird Happenings', right?
That was the title of the story. You had a bunch of pretty neat ideas,
but a lot of the stuff in it didn't make any sense. The guy's in one
place, doing something, and then he's suddenly somewhere else and
everything gets reset. There are no clear consequences to what he does.
That's damn confusing."
"It wasn't supposed to be a cut-and-dried thing," I defend myself. He has
hit a sensitive spot, my pride and vanity. For an instant, I forget the
eerie circumstances of our conversation and go on the offensive. "It's
about an experience you can't properly describe in words. You have to
read it more than once to appreciate the depth."
"Whatever you say. It comes down to matters of taste, and I'm only
telling you how it made me feel. I can't speak for anyone else."
"Fine. I understand."
"You probably don't realize how glad I am to see you're passionate about
your writing. That's how it should be. You should always put your heart
and soul into what you do and try to get better at it. Aim higher, always
keep aiming higher."
This smacks of a platitude to me, no matter how true it basically is. To
show that I agree with him, I nod and mutter something in the
affirmative. Besides, he did pay me a compliment, and I'm not one to
overlook them. It's not like I'm constantly showered with praise in my
life.
"Which brings us to the reason why I wanted to get ahold of you," he
continues, and a secretive little smile finds its way onto his lips. "I
want you to write my story. Not to brag, but I happen to feel I deserve
my fifteen minutes of fame."
Another surprise, and a major one at that. I come to the brink of
blurting out that I don't write about real people, period, but
fortunately I'm too stunned for the moment to say anything. I merely
stare at the man, waiting for an explanation. None is forthcoming, and I
have no choice but to collect myself and do my best to carry on the
conversation.
"Your story?" I ask. "As in a biography?"
"You make it sound so official," he chortles and tastes his beer. "I just
got this picture of a huge leatherback tome collecting dust on a shelf in
the Library of Congress or somewhere. No, that's precisely what I don't
want. I want a nice little story you can actually read without wasting a
year of your life on it, a piece that tells people I existed and what
kind of a guy you might've thought I was if you ran into me on the
street. That sort of thing, short and sweet. You know what I'm getting
at?"
"I think I do. The only problem is I'm not sure I'm the right guy for the
job."
"I know you are. Remember, I've read your stuff online. Write a story
like that, but so that it's about me and not some imaginary type in a
Neverland."
"An intriguing proposition," I remark and grin again to keep my
hesitation and confusion from showing. In all honesty, I'm not very keen
on the idea. For one thing, I need as much freedom as possible when I
write. What little creativity I have gets stifled fast if someone is
breathing down my neck, constantly telling me what to do and what not to
do, and I would have to worry about pleasing him first and foremost
instead of doing a piece that I enjoy. I get my share of that in my day
job. Then there's the subject himself. Has he in fact done anything
interesting in his life, aside from discovering who I am? I have nothing
to lose by asking a few discreet questions, and it's not too late yet (in
theory) for me to back out.
"Have you... approached anyone else about this?" I inquire.
"Yeah," he says and leans back on his chair. "A couple of professional
writers. One was a novelist and another a journalist. A third did a bit
of both to put the bread on his table, if I recall."
"What did they say?"
"Oh, they turned it down, every one of them," he sighs. "When they heard
what I had in mind, they thought it was laughable."
"They told that to your face?"
"Not straight away. They were kind of interested at first because they
were under the impression it was going to be a fantasy novel, but when I
said the story was real from start to finish, as in... What's the term
for it?"
"Non-fiction?"
"Yeah, non-fiction. It's not a damn fairytale, and I made that clear.
That's when they pulled out. One told me the whole thing was, quote,
unworthy of belief, unquote. It was too outlandish for them, and they
didn't want to touch it with a ten-foot pole. They were afraid for their
reputations, I guess, and didn't want their names on it."
"Okay, so... Why is that? What's so incredible about your story that they
declined?"
"You see, Tom," he says and clears his throat, "I have this... ability.
I'm not sure what you'd call it; magic, maybe, or whatever. I call it
just that, an ability. I can change a person. I only have to concentrate
on them hard, see them in my mind, and I can will their body to become
different. Their height, their looks, skin color, weight, age, clothes,
you name it. Everything I think of changes in a second or two. Even their
sex. That's the best part for me, actually. I like big changes, and
changing someone's sex along with the rest of what they are makes it a
big deal for them." He stops and waits for my response.
To describe my situation as awkward would be a huge understatement. What
can you say to a claim like that? It's insane, of course, and I no longer
wonder in the slightest why the writers he approached turned him down.
But how should I handle this?
There are a couple of possibilities. The man could be one of the wily and
salty old-timer patrons who chat up strangers, tell them tall tales and
then laugh to themselves if they can get the other person to swallow
their yarns. On the other hand, he could be genuinely delusional, a
mental patient who ought to be receiving treatment in a ward. If I tell
him to knock it off and save his nonsense for someone else, he could get
angry at me, but if I go along, I'll make a fool out of myself and
perhaps also do him a huge disservice if he seriously believes his own
story.
I decide to go for a compromise. I'll balance between the two extremes,
let him know in polite terms that I'm not convinced but that I'm not
going to turn this into a matter of principle. If he thinks he is a
wizard with magical powers walking among us mortals, then I'm personally
fine with that, and it's not my problem anyway.
Right. Here goes.
"That's... pretty far out. I don't mean to be rude, but if you sincerely
want me to believe that, you're asking for quite a lot."
"I know," he says simply. "It really is strange, no argument there. What
would it take to convince you I'm not trying to pull your leg?"
"A demonstration might be a good start."
"Spoken like a scientist," he laughs. "Yeah, I can do that. See that guy
over there?"
His stubby finger is pointing, unobtrusively, somewhere behind me and to
my left. I turn my head slowly, trying not to let my interest show, and
see a man about to go into the bathroom. He doesn't stand out in any
particular way: he's in his mid-20s, I think, an average-looking guy with
a wide forehead, a thin nose, short dark brown hair, cheeks and chin
covered in a stubble that shows he has not shaved since yesterday. He is
wearing black jeans, a red hoodie and sneakers. I spot what looks like a
part of a black tattoo on the back of his neck. The guy grabs the door
handle, steps into the bathroom and disappears from my view.
"I see him. What happens now?"
"Wait till he comes out," my new friend says with a grin. "Don't worry;
it won't take long."
I don't know what to expect so I keep my eyes on the old man at first.
Will he recite a gibberish spell in some made-up language, or is he going
to perform weird hand movements when he summons his mana? No, nothing of
the kind. He closes his eyes and sits quietly, and that's it. He
obviously doesn't believe in putting on a dramatic show for the people he
tries to convince of his magical abilities. Quietly a little
disappointed, I turn to look at the door of men's bathroom again.
The seconds tick by. I listen for any unusual sounds coming through the
wall, but there is just too much noise around me. I guess I have no
alternative but to wait.
A bout of self-consciousness hits me. If this is a joke, which is at
least as likely as the man being certifiably nuts, I must look like a
total idiot right now. Chances are the man and his friends (if he has any
and they are here tonight) are silently laughing at me behind my back. I
have to tone it down and not appear overly interested. I assume a casual,
nonchalant expression and smile at the man, but this gesture goes to
waste since his eyes are still closed.
The door opens again but more slowly than usual. I can't resist the urge
to look--and what I see takes me by surprise, no matter how well I have
tried to prepare myself for something of that sort.
A woman, perhaps about the same age as the man my alleged wizard friend
told me to watch, steps cautiously out of the bathroom. With a frightened
expression on her pretty, heart-shaped face and her blue eyes all but
bulging out of their sockets, as though she fears an attacker will pounce
on her at any moment, she looks around herself and begins to make her way
slowly towards the main door that leads out to the street. She has long,
straight honey blond hair and plenty of makeup on, I note, pink lipstick
and dark mascara in particular. Her body is conspicuously curvy and
plump; I wouldn't call her outright fat, but she is definitely not
underweight either. Her positively humongous breasts are only barely held
in check by her skimpy white top, and her figure is rounded out by her
wide hips and large bottom that stretch out the fabric of her skinny
jeans.
She has a pair of stiletto-heeled black boots on, and she sways slightly
unsteadily on them as she walks, carrying a black handbag on her right
shoulder. If anything, her teetering movements only serve to draw even
more attention to her plentiful assets. I catch myself staring at the
sight, along with the vast majority of the other male patrons present.
However, she makes it to the door without incident, pushes it open and
slinks out of the bar. A look of relief flashes across her features just
before I lose sight of her.
"Okay, there it was," my acquaintance says after the woman has made her
exit. He can't keep a wide, triumphant smile away from his face. "What do
you think, Tom?"
"Wow," I reply and return his smile with a grin to hide my puzzlement.
"That's impressive."
"Thanks! I don't get any recognition for my skills that often."
"Can you only turn men into women?"
"No," he says. "I can do it the other way around too, but I've got to
confess I'm partial to feminine beauty. I want to add that to the world
whenever I have the chance."
"What's going to happen to him?"
"What do you mean?"
"To the guy, if he really became that woman who walked out of here a
minute ago. Will he change back at some point, or is the transformation
final?"
The man wets his throat again before he gives me his answer. "I can
reverse a change, but mostly I leave them in their brand new forms for
good. She's better off that way, and she'll come to accept who she is
now. Trust me, I know it. She'll be fine."
"If you say so."
I'm at a loss of words. I can't honestly say I'm suddenly convinced of
his supernatural powers, even though the show was admittedly
entertaining. The so-called transformation itself would have been
ridiculously easy to fake. All he needed was two willing accomplices and
some way to signal them when to put things in motion.
The man has guessed my thoughts and smiles again, with a mischievous
sparkle in his eyes. "You're not buying it, are you, Tom?"
"To tell you the truth," I say, "not entirely. You could've recruited a
man and a woman before you chatted me up, told her to go to the bathroom
and wait, and then have the man enter and her come out. The guy could be
hiding in there now."
"You can go in and check the stalls for yourself if you want. There's no
one there."
"Let's say he jumped out of the window."
"The window's way too small for a grown person to fit through."
"Okay, maybe you're right. I don't remember what size it is."
"But you don't believe anyway?"
"It's a huge leap for me to go from witnessing what looks like a
practical joke to proclaiming that magic exists. Critical thinking and
all that."
"You saw that very thing in action yourself."
"I didn't. I only saw a man going into the bathroom and a woman coming
out a little later. It's not enough to prove the issue one way or the
other."
"Alright, buddy," the man laughs. "Suppose I did it again but arranged it
so that you could watch the transformation. What would you say then?"
"I don't know," I reply and raise the corners of my mouth into a subtle
smile, to soften the impact of my words on him. "I'd have to be there
first."
"But I do," the man claims. "I know what you'd say. You'd insist it was a
stage magician's trick, some kind of... Sleight of hand. Smoke and
mirrors. Even if you could see the guy's body change, his dick and balls
get sucked into his crotch and turn into a pussy, his tits and hair grow
and his face morph, you still wouldn't believe."
"Maybe I would," I counter. He's essentially correct, of course, but his
overly confident and slightly teasing tone nevertheless irks me a little.
"It's impossible to tell, but getting to witness the whole thing up close
and in person would do wonders for the credibility of your story."
"That's perfectly doable, Tom. We only need to find a test subject who
won't run away. Or, I could go one better and do you. What do you say to
that?"
"Do me? As in transform me into a woman?"
"Oh yeah. You're no different from the bathroom guy when it comes to my
ability. Let's see now--what should you be like? You're not that old, but
the first thing I'd do is shave a few years off of you to let you enjoy
being young again. Something around twenty or twenty-five, that's what
I'd go for. Anyway, what else? I could make you a redhead. Or how's a
racial change sound? Hell, it might be right up your alley if you're into
that progress and sensitivity thing. You could be a black girl too, and a
gorgeous one to boot."
"Okay, knock it off," I say and pretend to be amused. A distinct feeling
of unease is beginning to creep up on me, in spite of my skepticism. "You
sold me."
"No, I didn't," he argues in the same sly tone. "You're only hedging your
bets, just in case. 'What if the nutty old geezer's for real and he turns
me into a girl?' you think. 'Better not take that chance!'"
"I would believe if you did that to me, no question about it."
"I say you wouldn't, buddy, not even then. You'd think it was nothing but
a weird dream or that your mind's gone. You'd come up with an explanation
and hang onto it, no matter what. I'm not sure you believe I'm actually
sitting here, talking to you."
"Are you?"
"I feel I am and I know I am, but I can't prove it to you so I might as
well not be. It's a matter of faith, and everything boils down to that in
the end."
"Not everything. Science doesn't work that way."
"It does. If you think the whole world is something that's only inside
your head, all those theories and formulas and whatever don't have to
mean squat. They're the way things seem to work, but how can you know if
what you see is the truth? What if there's nothing out there but your own
imagination?"
"You're taking this to an absurd level."
"And why not? Isn't that what this is all about? Life's absurd. It
shouldn't even exist, but it does. My ability shouldn't exist, but it
does. You can accept them for what they are or decide they're not real
and be done with it."
"We can argue this back and forth until we're blue in the face but that
won't do us any good. We can't build our lives around some far-fetched
philosophical hypothesis. I know I exist and I know you exist, but I'm
not that sure about magic. That's where I draw the line."
"You could just as well draw it somewhere else."
As fascinating as this topic is, I feel it's time to pull the
conversation back down to earth. I have had a long day and I'm not in the
mood to have an all-out, hours long intellectual debate with the man.
"I'll say this much," I respond and raise my glass. "If you don't
actually exist, you're by far the most interesting non-entity I've ever
had a beer with."
"I'll drink to that," he laughs.
I glance at the wall clock and see it's getting late. If I want to get
any real work done tomorrow, and God knows I have to unless I'm prepared
to start looking for a new job, I had better call it a night. The man has
no objections, and we empty our glasses over the next half an hour. We
talk about perfectly mundane things. Magic, transformations and the
philosophy of reality are conspicuously absent from our chat.
We leave the bar together. I walk out the door first and the man follows
me. The sun is setting and the weather-beaten facades of the city
buildings around us bathe in golden red light. Right at this moment, they
are about as beautiful and idyllic as they will ever be.
"Thanks for the company," I say to him and hesitate whether or not to
offer him my hand for a parting shake. He simply smiles.
"I'll walk with you for a minute," he says, "if you don't mind."
"Sure, it's okay."
We head off in the general direction of my apartment. I keep up an easy
pace, and he walks by my side. I wonder if he intends to accompany me all
the way there. I don't have a proper spare bed if he wants to stay
overnight, and even if I did, I'm not entirely prepared to invite him to
my home just like that. We have spent less than an hour talking to each
other, but I have learned next to nothing, aside from the fact that he
has some strange powers (allegedly) and habits (definitely). I still
don't know who and what he actually is.
"There's one more thing," he says in a rather subdued, somber tone. "I
don't have too much time left."
"What do you mean?"
"By the looks of it, I won't be around for any more than two or three
years, and then it's the final curtain for this boy. That's one big
reason why I decided to look you up and not wait anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I comment. "What's the problem?"
"I've seen a few doctors," he replies, "but they couldn't find anything
wrong with my body. I'm pretty certain it has got to be the ability. A
mortal human is not supposed to have a thing like that, and it's making
me age faster than I otherwise would. Every time I change someone I lose
days or weeks of my life."
"Jeez," I say, sincerely distraught for him. "That's terrible."
"Depends. I've had a blast with the ability, I tell you, and I wouldn't
trade it for anything. I'll keep using it as long as I live, and when I
kick the bucket, be it tomorrow or the day after that or a year from now,
I know I'll go with a smile on my face. Nobody can ask for more."
There is another pause. I try to take in what he has said and suddenly
realize this latest revelation has done much more to bolster his
credibility and trustworthiness in my eyes than the supposed
metamorphosis--or practical joke--in the bar. Whether or not he really
transformed anyone there, the old man is almost definitely dying in
actuality and wanted to confide in me.
"Remember what I told you," he reiterates. "I want you to write that
story you promised. You don't have to believe in what I've been telling
you. Just get it done while I'm still alive, that's everything I'm asking
for."
"I will."
"And if you don't, buddy, I'll have to do to you what I did to that guy
back there."
"Have a little faith in me," I say with a friendly, reassuring chuckle.
His threat sounded playful rather than dead serious to me. "I'll start it
first thing tomorrow."
"You'd better."
I turn my head to tell him that he should stop worrying about such a
trivial affair, but before I can, I already sense there is no one there
anymore. Nonetheless, I'm shocked to see nothing but empty air beside me,
exactly where the man is supposed to be. He has disappeared completely. I
scan the street with my eyes but see no trace of him. Even an athlete in
their prime physical condition couldn't run off that fast, and this guy
was overweight and in deteriorating health, by his own admission. I
haven't had any more than two pints, so alcohol can't be clouding my
perception to any noteworthy degree.
A shiver passes down my spine. The man has teleported away.
Imagine that!
My brain doesn't waste time in coming up with rationalizations, albeit
unlikely ones. Maybe the man was never really there, except in my mind;
or maybe he was with me but veered quickly in the opposite direction
without me noticing even while he was talking and I simply happened to be
looking the other way. Not that I truly accept either explanation, but
once I get home and think about this incident some more, they will make
perfect sense and I can put the whole thing behind me.
There is one odd detail, however. I raise my left arm to check the time
and I catch a glimpse of my little finger. It's definitely different in
that it looks smaller and finer than it usually does. I don't have large
hands or bulky fingers to begin with, but the finger is nonetheless
plainly out of place in company of the other ones. I turn the palm of the
hand away from me. Christ, the nail of the little finger is coated with
bright red polish! And not only that: it's a great deal longer than it
used to be, and its edge is shaped carefully to form a neat, symmetrical
little arc.
I blink, twist my wrist, flex the finger--to absolutely no avail. It
stays stubbornly the same. It doesn't feel unusual in any way but my eyes
can't be lying that badly. I touch it with the fingers of my right hand.
Yes, the polished long nail is there, and the conclusion is evident. I
have a woman's little finger in my left hand.
"I guess I really have to write that story," I say quietly to myself,
somehow knowing that the strange man can hear me even now.
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