PerfectMatch - Part 2

by: Scipio Africanus



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It was almost midnight when we finally pulled up in front of Mimi's building. My building, I reminded myself with a shudder. As I climbed out of the limo, the rich man handed me "my" things. "Purse, keys, and mobile phone," he said, tucking the latter two into the former. All three were cheap-looking and garish, bedazzled with various combinations of sequins, faux leather and false gemstones. Notably absent from the collection was any kind of driver's license, passport, or other form of identification. "Keep that phone on your person; someone on my staff will contact you when it is time to meet Xavier. You start work at Donny's tomorrow; the address is in your phone. Your apartment is here, unit 4B." He paused, looking me up and down with disdain he didn't bother to conceal. "Lord, but my son has deplorable taste in women." I stood there dumbly, shivering in evening chill as he pulled the door shut and slid away into the night, leaving me alone, helpless, and, thanks to all the vodka I'd imbibed in the limo, quite drunk. I'm not sure how long I was out there, slumped against the curb, sobbing in the light rain. I almost expected someone to come by, to explain it was all a misunderstanding, a joke gone too far. That or I'd simply close my eyes and never wake up. But no one came, and sniffling aside, I didn't die either. Eventually, I got up and made my dripping way up into the apartment building. What else was I to do? ------------------ I was stirred from my torpor when, as I stepped into the dim fourth- floor apartment, I realized with a start that I was not alone. A TV flickered in the background, and glaring at me from a reclined position on the pastel-pink couch was a gorgeous, slender brunette in yoga pants and little else. She huffed in annoyance. "There you are!" she said. "Finally. God, he said you'd be here nearly an hour ago. Where have you been? I have work in the morning, you know. We both do, actually." I took a step backward, glancing helplessly between the key in my hand and the slender brunette lecturing me. "I... I think I made a mistake," I muttered lamely. "I, uh, I thought this was my apartment, I must have--" The brunette rolled her eyes. "No, unfortunately, you didn't make a mistake. You're Mimi, right? I'm Kristen. Your roommate." I looked dubiously around the tiny apartment. It hardly looked big enough for one person, never mind two. Kristen followed my gaze. "Yeah," she said. "I'm not keen on sharing either. This has been my apartment for the past eight months. But so long as our mutual benefactor is paying most of the bills, it's his call." She patted the couch next to her. "Have a seat," she said. "We should talk." Wobbling a little on the way over, I did as she bid me. As I got close, she crinkled her nose. "God, are you drunk?" Slamming my knee into the coffee table on the way down, I simply winced, and nodded helplessly. Fortunately, she didn't press the point. "Look," she said, "I was actually making progress with Xavier. But, whatever. Daddy Rich says you're the new hot thing, that's fine with me so long as he keeps footing the bills. So how do you want to do this? You want me to break things off, or do you want to play homewrecker?" "I... I don't...--" I stammered. I was overwhelmed. This was all too much to process, and my head was already swimming from the booze. "I don't understand," I murmured lamely. "Wow, you're really as slow as he said, aren't you? Look, let me break it down for you..." Slowly, and with more than a little condescension, she explained that she'd been approached by Xavier's father several months ago and offered a deal to become the man's informant on his son's activities. He'd pay for her rent, pay off her debts, and get her little sister the scholarships she needed to study at a top university, and in return, she'd keep tabs on Xavier's social circle, try to minimize his public scandals, and if possible, win his affections. According to her, she'd been doing a pretty good job at the first two tasks, but despite looking like a model--and, in fact, actually working as one from time to time--she had never managed to get playboy Xavier to consider her more than an eager booty-call. "I mean, I was still probably his favorite," she added defensively. "But there was always something he claimed he couldn't deal with 'long term'. Either my hair was wrong, or my boobs were too small, or I made him feel stupid, or..." She paused, looking incredulously at my buxom, blonde body and naturally vacant expression. "God, did he order you out of a fucking catalogue?" She shook her head. I cringed; she didn't say it, but I knew what she saw. What everyone would see in me, from now on. I focused on not throwing up my vodka. "Never mind," she said. "Look, Barbie doll, whatever the reasons, I apparently wasn't good enough for the guy's prick son, and Daddy Rich thinks you will be. So I'm supposed to introduce you, get you situated, whatever you need. All you have to do is get the west coast's most notorious playboy to settle down into a committed relationship." She laughed. "Good fucking luck, Barbie doll." -------------- When I awoke the next morning, my head was pounding. For a brief, beautiful moment, this was distracting enough that I actually forgot all about PerfectMatch, Xavier, and my predicament. But only for a moment. The heavy, shifting weight of my chest as I slid out of bed soon brought everything crashing back into focus. Or as close to "focus" as my neural inhibitors would allow, I reminded myself with a shudder. And, to top it off, Kristen was already scolding me. "I said get up, Barbie doll," she said with annoyance. "And set your own alarm tomorrow. I'm your roommate, not your butler." Eventually, with a little more prodding, I stumbled into the bathroom, leaving a trail of the night's exfoliated body glitter covering the sheets behind me. Staring into the mirror, I was a mess. Still in yesterday's clothes, my long blonde-and-pink hair was a tangled mane, half plastered to my face and half exploding outward. Kristen came up behind me, watching over my shoulder. "Yikes," she said. "You are a hot mess." She was right, though with an emphasis on "hot;" with my with my made- to-order physiology, disheveled I just looked trashier than usual, not any less sexual. Seeing my distress, Kristen's expression softened slightly. "Here," she said reluctantly, "You take a shower, get cleaned up. I'll make us some breakfast, okay? Just this once. Don't get used to it." She sighed softly as she closed the door. Left alone, I went through the motions of showering, mostly in a daze. Truth be told, washing as a girl wasn't that different, mechanically, from my normal sower routine. That's not to say there weren't novel experiences, but the pounding of my head was enough to forestall any thoughts of more serious self-exploration. Besides, with a night's worth of glitter stuck to every surface of my body, I barely had time to actually clean, never mind go spelunking. When I emerged, head still drubbing but temporarily glitter-free, I saw Kristen was sitting on the couch eating an omelet in front of the TV. There was already a second plate, with a second omelet, sitting beside hers on the coffee table. She looked at me oddly as I sat down. "Don't you want to fix your makeup?" she asked. Of course, that wasn't possible, since thanks to PerfectMatch, the cheap-looking, permanently smudged eyeliner was an immutable part of my face from now on. I got the impression, however, that if Xavier's father had avoided mentioning the nature of my change to Kristen, he probably wouldn't be pleased if I spilled the beans myself. Besides, I wasn't sure yet I even wanted her to know the truth about me. I barely knew her, omelet or no. "I... can't," I answered lamely, declining to elaborate. She looked at me incredulously, but didn't push the issue, and the two of us ate in silence, while a reality show about fashion models buzzed from the TV. I tried to ignore it, on male principle, but couldn't help smiling along with Kristen when one of the meanest girls got called out on her bitchy behavior. It turns out seeing a jerk get their comeuppance is sweet even on trashy reality TV. Kirsten noticed my gloom crack, and shot me a smile. It wasn't a "moment" between us exactly, but it didn't feel awful, either. Eventually, the eggs were finished, and following her lead, I pldodded back to the bedroom to get dressed. As promised, my section of the apartment had been furnished for me before I arrived, and apparently that included a wardrobe full of neon G-strings and ultra-pushup bras. It was all I could do not to vomit again. Fortunately, once underwear was handled--or ignored, in this case, as there was no way I was wearing one of those bras--I wasn't required to craft an ensemble myself this morning. Kristen had laid out a spare Donny's Tavern uniform for me while I was in the shower. The outfit consisted of an extremely stretchy green t-shirt, small white shorts, and a little black half-apron. The shirt and shorts were tight-fitting and obviously designed to show off the waitress's figures, but coverage- wise they were still a big step up from the tube top ensemble I'd been stuffed into last night, and I put them on without too much reluctance. Next, I moved on to search Mimi's footwear collection for a pair of shoes I could actually manage. But, before I got far, the top of my chest had begun to itch and burn. Too late, I remembered the doctor's note about clothing allergies. The T-shirt was a V-neck, but evidently didn't swoop deeply enough for my genetic modifications. And, as promised, it BURNED. Frantically, I tore the shirt away, gasping as the relief rushed over me like a wave. The burning red rash faded quickly, but tests proved it all quickly returned if the cloth of the shirt was pressed against the top of my chest for long. As I stared helplessly at the garment, still entirely topless, Kristen knocked impatiently at the door. "Are you ready yet?" she asked. "We need to get going if we're going to catch the red line." I tossed her a noncommittal reply as I frantically looked for a solution. However, focusing my mind like that was already starting to make my head hurt. Problem solving was getting harder and harder since last night. Thinking about THAT problem just made my head hurt even more, and I quickly shook it away. Focus. One problem at a time. Eventually my gaze fell upon a pair of nail scissors on the top of the dresser. Good enough. Working quickly, I tore into the shirt with the scissors, cutting a deeper neckline with the tiny blades. It was just a slit, really, but when the stretchy fabric was pulled over my ample chest, it widened into a deep V that revealed a massive amount of cleavage--enough skin, ultimately, to avoid triggering my allergy. I was also forced to tie the bottom edge of the shirt up above my belly button to avoid a similar problem with cloth covering my stomach, but fortunately no actual cutting was required there. Finally, my clothes were slutty enough for my new condition. When I emerged, Kristen raised an eyebrow at my modifications to the uniform. Again, I had no explanation I could give her. I blushed helplessly. "For the mission, I'm sure," she said flatly, leading us out of the apartment. "The mission," I muttered, "right. As if all this wasn't enough on its own." Fortunately, Donny's Tavern wasn't far, and on the bus it didn't take much longer than ten minutes to get there. We both attracted our share of looks in our form-fitting uniforms, but even next to the stunning Kristen it was obvious my sluttified ensemble attracted most of the open ogling and all of the crude, shouted propositions. Helpless to stop it, I just gritted my teeth, kept my eyes down, and focused on not thinking about any one topic long enough to hurt my artificially ditzy head. Meanwhile, I realized two things on that bus ride. First, that my impulsive decision to stick up for my manhood by not wearing a bra might not, in fact, have been the best choice for preserving my dignity. Without restraint, every bump in the road sent my massive, unrestrained boobs wobbling like... well, like a massive pair of unrestrained boobs. Second, I realized that I was seriously parched. I'd had water in the bathroom and a glass of orange juice with breakfast, but neither had been alcoholic, and to my new body, that meant they didn't count. I needed a stiff drink, for more reasons than one. ------------ When we arrived at the tavern, Kristen introduced me to the rest of the staff. I saw to my small relief that I wasn't the only one to have made slight modifications to the uniform; a couple of the other girls had cut similar slits in their necklines in pursuit of bigger tips, though none showed quite as much flesh as mine. "So, you're the new girl," said a new voice, not altogether friendly. "That's right," said Kristen smoothly. "This is my roommate, Mimi. Mimi, meet Jeanette." Jeanette was a short woman, a few years older than the rest of the girls and trying desperately not to look it, with the most serious case of "Bitchy Resting Face" I'd ever seen. I hated her immediately. "I'm the shift leader," she announced as if declaiming a royal title. "And your roommate here should have talked to me instead of going over my head to get you on the payroll." "You're not in charge of staffing, Jeanette," said Kristen. "Dominic does that himself." Jeanette's already terse smile thinned further. "I know who's a good fit for my team. Dominic relies on my judgment." "Well, sorry, then," said Kristen "Next time, I'll ask you. Okay?" Jeanette huffed, but nodded, satisfied for the moment. Once she left, Kristen looked to me. "So that's it, really," said Kirsten as she finished explaining my duties. "Take the drink orders from the tables, bring them to the bar, bring the drinks back to the tables. Nothing too hard." I nodded absently. I'd been a doctoral candidate, after all--I was confident I could handle a few drink orders. I was wrong. ------------- "I need a Bronze Aztec and a Bloody Monkey" I said hurriedly. I was already running behind. "You mean a Brass Monkey and a Bloody Aztec?" asked the girl at the bar, Annie. Or was it Angie? When I tried to focus on the distinction, my neural inhibitor headache flared painfully and I quickly dropped the issue. It wasn't important, and I needed to save all the concentration I could muster for the drinks. "Uh, yes, that," I told Annie/Angie, glancing nervously at the growing clamor from my section. While the other areas of the bar were relatively calm, in my assigned domain nearly every table had several hands raised, snapping or beckoning. My head was starting to buzz constantly now. Even basic tasks like remembering names made my temples spike with pain, and thoughts kept slipping out of my head unless I focused intently. It was taking all my concentration just to remember one or two drinks--even the ones without crazy names would slip away by the time I reached the bar unless I repeated them to myself the whole way there. Kristen did her best to help, but she had her own tables to tend, and there wasn't much she could do for me anyway. Already, the other waitresses were talking. Even as I walked away with the Monkey thing and the Aztec whatever, I heard Annie/Angie whispering to her friend behind the bar. "...girl is like, literally dumb as bricks." "I know, right? And did you see what she did to her uniform? So trashy. Why does Kristen even..." I didn't have time to stay and listen to their jabs, however, as I focused on bringing the drinks back as quickly as I could. Apart from being woefully behind, I'd found that if I got the new drinks back quickly enough, there would sometimes be enough liquor leftover at the bottom of some of the finished glasses that I could duck out and stave off the oppressive thirst a little longer by finishing them off in the kitchen. That behavior earned me its own set of disgusted comments from the other girls, but until I learned to start packing a flask, I didn't have much choice. I was halfway through serving a new table when I felt a sudden pinprick in the small of my back, and my world got even more messed up. The last of my PerfectMatch "enhancements" had finally kicked in. My heart went wild as a rush of chemical cocktail flooded my system. Instantly, my thoughts twisted. The drink order I'd just taken fled from my diminished mind, and suddenly I was thinking about that morning, in the shower. The warm water, rushing across my breasts, between my legs... God, why hadn't I taken advantage of that moment? A headache? That was a stupid excuse. I had a headache now. People were watching now. That didn't matter. How could that matter? I looked down at my soft, glittering cleavage, and I nearly choked. I was SO FUCKING HOT. My palms tingled as I felt my face flush. I stumbled as, without warning, my whole body shivered with lust. I felt my pulse, pounding in my chest, in my ears... and down below. There, deep inside, I throbbed. I could feel the thrump of every heartbeat, the warm, wet yearning waxing with each beat. On my skin, every breeze, every shift of hair, every tickle was electric. Stumbling against a table, I gasped for air. "It's the PT-141!" some distant part of my mind screamed. "It's not real!" I didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the throbbing, the yearning, the toe-curling electric zaps running-- "Miss?" demanded a voice, apparently for a third or fourth time. "I said I wanted a--" I ignored him, or her, or whoever. I couldn't stay here. Not like this. I could barely see, I could barely stand. I pressed my thighs together, shivering uncontrollably as my shorts pulled, rubbed against me. I gasped again, nearly doubled over on the nearest table. Distantly, I heard shocked exclamations as a plate clattered to the floor. None of that mattered. I turned and rushed, stumbling, to the bathroom. Every step sent more tingles up my spine, prompted more gasps, as I struggled desperately to focus. I threw open the door, collapsing against the sinks. I stared into the mirror. A wild blonde slut stared back at me, her huge, glittering cleavage heaving with breathless passion. Her plump red lips hung open; gasping, pleading, yearning. The ravenous look in her glassy blue eyes begged for sex. Screamed for it. And through the fog of my cloudy bimbo brain, one truth cut through with perfect clarity. That pleading whore was me. I only looked for an instant, but it was far more than I could handle. Mimi's gasping reflection filling my head, I tore into the nearest stall as my tiny hands found their own, frantic way into my shorts. My fingers were drenched in an instant. Mindless, I roamed deeper, my spine shanking and curling uncontrollably. The throbbing there was my true pulse now--the heart in my chest a forgotten echo. I tingled and shook as my legs spasmed, thumping against the walls of the stall. It ached and pulsed and it yearned like nothing ever had. I moaned softly with every touch. My toes curled and my breasts heaved, pushing out and up, heavy and full and yearning for something to press against. I gasped. Someone else gasped. I snapped open my eyes. I'd never bothered to close the stall door, and staring at me was--Bill? Bob? Tom? Johnny? My head throbbed and I quickly gave up--from my section of tables. Behind him was a bank of urinals. Of course. In my blind haste I'd gone to the same bathroom I'd gone to all my life--the men's room. And I wasn't alone. The man struggled to regain his composure. "Do you, uh... want some help there?" he managed to choke out in what was obviously his best attempt to be smooth. Given the sight that I must have been, what he managed was, in retrospect, damned impressive, but I hardly even registered what he said. I had more pressing issues. Like getting the hell out of there. "Oh fuuuuuck" I moaned, rising. It took all my effort, and my hand never left my shorts, but I managed to rise, meaning to push my way past him and continue in the relative safety of the women's bathroom. But when I pressed against him, he wasn't pushed aside. He obviously misinterpreted my intent, and hesitantly put his arms around me as I struggled to slide past. Once there, breasts pressed against his chest, his hands running down my arms, I lost the will to continue pushing past. My knees shook and my body shivered and I fell against him, grinding my crotch, roaming hand and all, against his hips. Part of my mind protested, distantly, but my body wanted to curl up around something, to relax and open wide and squeeze tight all at once. And he was right there. So with a moan, I rolled my eyes back and did just that. By now he'd regained a little confidence, and he took the lead. I let him do as he would, my mind little more than a haze. He squeezed and pulled and rubbed in mostly the wrong places, but he didn't seem to object to me tending to myself either, so it didn't matter. At some point I ended up on my knees, my hair in his fist, as he pulled my head back and forth over his member in what had to be the sloppiest blowjob known to man. My mouth yielded passively to him as I worked my own fingers ever deeper down where it mattered. Apparently that was good enough, because a couple of minutes later he withdrew, and I felt the sticky remnants of his completion sliding down my throat. And as soon as I swallowed, the haze lifted. The world snapped back into focus. And the shame hit me like a rockslide. My arousal didn't disappear; my chest was still heaving uncontrollably, the pulse in my nethers still felt like the center of my being. But I suddenly regained enough mental clarity to appreciate the notion that I was finger-fucking myself in middle of the men's room while wordlessly blowing random customers. And to realize how incredibly degrading that was. ...even if it did feel phenomenal. My companion, now spent, was awkwardly trying to start helping out inside my shorts, and part of me was still sorely tempted to let him, but I'd regained enough sense of self to resist, if barely. Reluctantly, I slapped his hand away. "I... have to go," I mumbled, finally pushing past him at last. "Wait," he called. I ignored him. "Wait!" he said again, "Can I at least have your number, or...?" That's all I heard before I stepped back out into the bar proper. My clothes and hair were a mess, and from the murmurs as I walked past, I could tell that most of the other wait staff at least had a pretty good idea of what had happened in the bathroom. I shook my head. It didn't matter. Still struggling to keep myself under control, I resumed taking care of my tables. This was, surprisingly, much easier despite the arousal. With my head mostly cleared, I was able to catch up pretty quickly. Thinking too hard still gave me a headache, but simple stuff like names and drink orders were once again within my grasp. As was a basic understanding of my situation. It was the blowjob, I realized. That itself was a bit of a shockan hour ago I wouldnt have had the brain power to make the connection. But now, with my artificial needs temporarily sated, my mind was flickering back to life. Semen disables the neural inhibitors, the doctor had said. And I'd just gotten a fix. Unfortunately, I also realized with rising dread that my new sense of clarity wouldnt last. I wasnt sure how long it would take, but my newfound intellect would eventually fade again; the doctor had been adamant that the liberating effect of the semen would be temporary. 'Motivation' he'd said. Motivation to be the insatiable whore Xavier wanted, or else lose myself forever in senseless haze. But for now I could think, and that meant I could plan. At least until the effects wore off and I slowly became a hopeless moron again. And so, biting back the pain, think I did. As I continued to wait tables, I hatched my escape plan. And for the first time since I'd walked into that clinic, I felt another feeling. I felt hope.

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