Vanishing Point Ch. 03 page 1

Thursday, Again

When she awoke, she was on the floor, her limbs a tangled heap and her body rank with the stale scent of sweat and sex. Propping herself up on one arm, she wiped a matted strand of hair from her eyes. She squinted and blinked, the glare of the morning light contracting her pupils into tiny pinpricks in a vain attempt to compensate for the unbearable brilliance of the sun's yellow energy.

She turned her head to see where she was. A computer screen glowed on the table above her. There was a single window open on the screen.

"One signed off at 00:19.19." it said at the bottom, beneath the words, "Remember, I created you."

Am I still Jean? She furrowed her brow as she tried to focus her thoughts. Yes, I think so. At least I still remember her – or her body. She surveyed the damage from last night. God, I stink! The sticky, cum-smeared vibe was dead again, and hiding under the ugly little table where she had stood it on end before impaling herself.

She sprawled on her back on the floor with her limbs flung wide, staring at the ceiling. I've got to get going. Going, going... where, dammit? Her head lolled to one side, while her gaze wandered about the room, searching for a clue.

The red circle on the calendar hanging lopsidedly on the side of the refrigerator pulsed with angry malevolence, staring back at her reproachfully and taunting her with its heavy, wide outline. All of the little day-rectangles to above and to the left of the circled number 12 had been crossed off.

Today... what is today? Jean rolled over and up onto her knees. She was going to have to get up and drag herself across the room to where the calendar waited, so she could decipher the scrawled squiggle of text beneath the red-encircled 12. But as she sat up and tried to stand, the yellow sunstain on the carpet flared into an even greater brilliance as the morning sun emerged from behind a disorganized and unkempt bit of cloud. It outlined her body and...

Oh my god! My hair! Jean shrieked and tore at her scalp. How could it have grown like that? So much, just overnight? She pulled at the matted burgundy-red tresses that grazed her cheekbones. I can't... it isn't possible. What am I going to DO?!?

Then she remembered. At last, she had remembered something important about a time prior to the tiny slice of time she inhabited and soiled with her presence. It's Thursday. My appointment. I've got to get it cut. Today. It's today. She staggered towards the kitchen to interrogate the clock. '9:15' stared back at her, before silently flipping her off and turning into 9:16. I've got to be there by ten o'clock! Oh god, oh god. Hurry, girl. Hurry!

Jean exploded into a frenzy of frantic movement. She sprinted for the shower, to scrub the residue from last night from her flesh. And to shave. She definitely had to shave her legs and her cunt. This delightfully firm and well-defined cuntflesh that her body had somehow acquired.

Seventeen minutes and one small nick on her labia later, she was in the bedroom, dragging a brush through her hair and trying to decide what to wear. Would it be this 'Fantasies can come true' two-sizes-too-small top, or that one.? And which of the identical little spandex skirts?

Five more minutes and she was dressed, her only two articles of clothing besides her shoes, tugged into position. And then she was rappelling down the seemingly endless flights of stairs. She clutched the invitation from Fantasia in her hand as she burst out onto the street. She would barely have enough time to get there, if she understood the directions.

Jean ran. She dodged and weaved through the slow-moving people on the sidewalk, mostly missing them and only crashing into one man hard enough to dislodge him from his feet. But she ran on, her feet propelled faster by his trailing hail of epithets and by the knowledge that she wasn't going to make it there in time.

Please god, let me be there by ten... please. This is my last chance...

Into the Void

Jean was so out of breath when she reached the unremarkable brownstone building that she sat on the worn stone steps outside the entrance for several minutes before she could summon the energy to climb the stairs to enter the place where Fantasia lurked, hidden from view. It was 9:58 when she pulled herself up using the wrought iron railing and went inside.

The hushed silence, with the dark, polished wood paneling and the gleaming marble floor, was a marked contrast to the unkempt disorder of the apartment warren where Jean eked out her existence. The air was suffused with a faint scent of lavender, which made the quiet splendor of this place seem welcoming and inviting, trumping the otherwise-intimidating elegance of the place.

Without even thinking about it, Jean climbed slowly up the stairs to the second floor. The hint of lavender grew stronger as did her anticipation as she rose, step by step. Nineteen in all, she counted.

Jean trembled slightly as the luminous, back-lit frosted glass pane in the door at the top of the stairs rose up into sight in front of her. The triad of naked women etched into the glass was beautiful, and they seemed to make eye contact with her, beckoning her onwards to grasp the heavy brass doorknob and cross the threshold, into Fantasia.

Jean ran her fingers through her hair, trying to rearrange it and to settle her nerves before she acceded to the whispered desire of the three figures on the glass. It had grown longer, her hair, even since she had sprinted here in a blind panic only minutes ago.

But now she was safe. Everything would be made right. Of that, she was sure. Though whether Jean was safe, too, wherever her spirit had gone when it had faded away from this body, was something she could not guess.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

"Good morning," the slender reed of a girl said from behind her translucent glass desk. . "It is ten o'clock, and you are here. Wait, please, and I will get you some tea."

"Yes. Tea. Please. I would really love a cup of tea," Jean replied. There wasn't a single thing in the world right now that she desired more than a cup of hot tea.

The Oriental girl floated to her feet and pirouetted on her spike-heeled sandals, and vanished through the screened doorway behind her desk.

Jean was mesmerized by the beauty and the ballet dancer grace of the receptionist. Her delicate features and her long, jet-black hair were the perfect complement to her clingy little red silk chemise that covered - but did nothing to hide - the soft, rounded curves of her body. And the gleaming silver dragons that encircled her neck and wrists provided the perfect sensual complement to the girl's nipple rings that were so clearly all she wore beneath the crimson silks.

Everything was falling into place now. The tea. Being here. Feeling so welcomed and safe, and... The fact that the girl had not even asked her name or that there wasn't another soul stirring in the hushed silence of the salon did not even stir a thought. Jean fidgeted with her hair and licked her lips in anticipation of the eagerly awaited tea.

When the girl knelt in front of Jean and held the translucent porcelain cup with the tendrils of aromatic vapor rising from the ambered surface, she bowed her head and held the tea in her outstretched hands, and waited.

Jean's fingertips burned as she grasped the handleless cup. She held it close to her lips and breathed in the bitter and sweet scent, while she felt the heat reflect off her face and travel up her fingers into her arms. The ceremony of tea, and the symbolism it represented, was something her body understood, even if her mind had no knowledge of what it was.

Jean drank, sipping at first, and then thirstily draining the cup.

Only then did the kneeling girl move. She floated to her feet and extended her hand. "Close your eyes, and follow me. It is time now."

Out of Time and Space

She opened her eyes. The late afternoon sun illuminated her face, and made her squint and hold up her hand as a shield from its fierce, yellow glare. She looked slowly to her left, and then to her right, her head moving as if mounted on ball-bearings. Moving anything more than that was going to hurt too much.

Her entire body throbbed with a cacophony of little spasms and aches and pinpricks of sensation. It felt as if she had been scrubbed and buffed and honed and smoothed over the entirety of her body. Everywhere, that is, except for her breasts, and the triangle of flesh between her legs. Her breasts were not murmuring their pain – they were screaming it out. And her clit was broadcasting an insane babble of shrieks.

Her head rotated downwards to see if they were still there – her breasts – and to try and understand what had happened to them to make them hurt so badly. Their presence was plain to see, their contours completely mappable through the clingy white spandex of her little white camisole top

But there was more. Oh god, there was more...

The outlines of the metal rings at the apex of the prurient cones of her breastflesh were obscenely large, and clearly visible to the world. And, oh god, did they hurt... She gaped at how she had been transformed. Her nipples were hard and distended and throbbing with a dull roar that seemed to increase its decibel level with every breath she took.

She hadn't have these before....had she? The pain alone told her that her flesh had been lanced with what must have been a nail-sized needle only moments before. Her body involuntarily spasmed at the imprinted memory of what had been done to her, even though she had no remembrance of it.

And her clit... Oh god, I'm on fire...

She looked around again, to see if anyone was watching her.

There was.

Across the low swale in front of the bench where she sat in the park – in the park??? How did I get here? Before, I was... damn, where was I? – was a young woman with a forest of tiny, sharp black spikes of hair sprouting from her nearly bald head. Her heavily gelled hair couldn't have been more than an inch in length. The girl was staring at Jean with a direct, intense gaze while her fingers disappeared in and out of her pussy. She had her skirt pulled up and her legs splayed apart as she fucked herself with a primal intensity.

And she was staring at her. Her – Jean. She grasped at the name and clung to it.

Jean instinctively lifted up her arms to cover her breasts in a vain attempt at modesty and at diverting the girl's attention from her newly ringed nipples. Her forearms brushing against her tits made her wince. Without even looking, she knew – gawd, I can feel it there, so fucking huge – that her clit had been pierced and threaded with an equally heavy metal ring.

Irrationally, the only thought that swam to the surface of her pain-roiled consciousness was, Are they silver? Or gold? I do hope they're silver. I want silver. The dragons are silver. She had no idea what the dragons represented or where she had seen them or why they were important, but she knew they were silver and that her new rings simply had to match the dragons.

Seeing that there was no one else nearby in the park and with her courage strengthened by the lewd act being performed right in front of her, Jean lifted up her skirt and spread her legs.

Thank you, yes. Silver. Thank you...

She touched the ring with her fingertip. She shuddered at the pain in her flesh and the searingly heated metal. Silver. Her clit stood up, flushed and full and puffy, with little droplets of dried blood where the metal disappeared into her engorged, fleshy-red pillar of flame.

My clit... not even the hood. Oh, god, right in my clit. I can't even imagine... How could this have been done to her? Where? When? It was all so incomprehensible. Jean looked again at the spike-haired girl on the bench. But she was gone, her small form disappearing down the graveled path, moving unsteadily over the uneven ground in her spike-heeled sandals.

Just before she vanished behind a thicket of shrubbery where the path doglegged to the left, the girl paused and turned back to look at Jean. As she made eye contact with Jean, she touched her nipples and her cunt, rubbing it through the tight black fabric of her microskirt until her mouth flared into an "O" shape. Then she ran her fingers through the nearly-shorn blanket of black spikes on her head – and disappeared around the curve in the path.

Going to eXtremes

Jean slut-walked into Club eXtreme, gathering a bouquet of leering , hungry gazes and a couple of non-accidental ass-gropes from the men standing in line waiting to pay their cover charge as she waltzed past them. She breezed past the eager, jostling men who waited impatiently for the bored, ancient man at the cash register to check their IDs, recite the club rules to each of them, and then stamp the backs of their hands to mark them as having paid and as being patrons in good standing who would never, ever cop a feel from a dancer or give her his phone number or proposition her or any of a dozen other sins.

The bouncer, standing to one side, was measuring the girth of the men's wallets and visually frisking the rowdier-looking ones for contraband. He paused in his clinical dissection of the lined-up men and opened the velvet rope and waved Jean forward, as men in line lobbed catcalls and come-ons towards her.

"Hey, baby, see you inside!"

"You're gonna dance for me, sugar. All night long!"

Jean turned around and lifted her arms up and stretched them towards the ceiling, and then ran her fingers through her gelled spikes of hair. "Sorry, boys, I don't dance. I'm only here to look," she purred. Damn, she was in love with her metal now, and the way her new nipple rings were like fucking magnets on her chest and the way they drew every man's and woman's eyes towards her tits beneath her white, painted-on top; with her "Fantasies can come true" theme serving as an additional come-on to complement her new jewelry.

The first several days she'd barely survived, the pain in her nipples and more so in her clit requiring a steady parade of pain pills. They had appeared, like magic, the next morning on her nightstand. But now, she was ready for some fun. And something told her that she would find it, and maybe more of herself, here.

The who and where and how of her lewd silver adornments was still lost in the fog that shrouded her every waking hour. And the most important question – why??? – had been examined with a brief burst of interest before it had been discarded as being both unanswerable and irrelevant to her present existence.

She stood in the doorway to the main room, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The air was heavy with smoke and the scent of alcohol and perfume and pussy, and the fillings in her teeth seemed to vibrate with the ear-splittingly loud heavy-metal music. Club eXtreme was not a place for the sheltered or the faint-hearted. This was a place where the chorus of 'sex, drugs and rock-and-roll' was the sodden, shouted-to-the-rafters official anthem sung while waving a soaking wet t-shirt stripped off a dancer's all-over-tanned body.

Oh, yeah. I'm going to like it here, Jean breathed. The air itself was intoxicating. She breathed deeply, and entered the maelstrom.

A small stage dominated the center of the room. On it, a tall, slender, raven-haired temptress writhed and fucked the brass pole with her naked, clean-shaven pussy while she spanked her ass and moaned. The girl looked at Jean and licked her lips while she played with her nipples and the little barbell that pierced her clit-hood.

Mmm, I like you, too, sweetheart, Jean telegraphed back with her freshly moistened lips breaking into a small smile.

Jean threaded her way through the milling and nearly naked dancers and the shooter girl with her tray of fluorescent test tubes of glowing concoctions and sidled along the back wall towards the bar. She wanted something to shield her for the time it would take for her to get a feel for the sexual tempo of this place, and for her to decide how she was going to satisfy the hunger that gnawed at her insides.

The girl on stage finished her third-of-three number with her legs spread wide while she leaned back against the pole, her body riding up and down the brass shaft like an elevator car while she splayed her labia apart and finger-fucked herself and showed the men who crowded around her every wet, pink fold of flesh. It was almost gynecological what she was doing, but the setting and the alcohol and the sheer wantonness of it made them go wild. If the bouncers hadn't been circling the perimeter of the room like anxious lions, the girl would have been dragged off the stage and fucked right there.

As soon as Jean eased her ass up onto the one empty barstool, an Amaretto and cream appeared in front of her. She looked up, startled, to see who had bought her a drink so quickly as the opening act in his undoubtedly well-scripted and choreographed seduction. But while there were plenty of men milling about near the bar, switching their gaze back and forth between the writhing stripper on stage and Jean's ass and legs perched on the tall stool, none of them seemed ready to stake his claim to the drink that had magically appeared in front of her.

She must have looked completely bewildered by the absence of an immediate follow-up, because the green-haired fuckling behind the bar who didn't seem old enough to sling drinks, much less legally fornicate, grinned at her.

"Hello, Jean, darling. Where've you been keeping yourself?" the bartender asked. "And I love the new hair. It's so very hot. Different and exotic-looking, really. You look like you belong in a porn film, girl," she teased. "Is that where you got it done?" she asked, pointing at the logo emblazoned across Jean's tits.

"Um, yeah," Jean said. "It's too long, still. I need it cut shorter. It's growing so fast now." She didn't mention her newly enhanced lips and how much she wanted to kiss this emerald-hued poptart right now.

"Well, I don't know about that," the bartender replied. "I like it the way it is. Just enough to grab and hold on to, and to drag you off into a corner so you can be ravaged."

"I think I'd like that – the ravaging part," Jean said, her cunt spasming as she forced her face to remain a bland mask of calm. "And would you be doing the ravaging?"

"Alice, another Corona. And a Jaeger-shot for yourself, babe," a man in a torn, black t-shirt at the other end of the bar sang out.

The now-named Alice fuck-licked a finger into her mouth and proceeded to use it to make an obscene gesture in the man's direction before she fished a bottle from the cooler. "I'm out of limes. Do you want the special, instead?" she asked.

"Alice, darling, everything about you is special. I'll take whatever you've got," was his fervent reply. "And man, do I ever want to bang your sweet ass every which way from Sunday."

"All right, then, Alice's Special. 'Cause you're so nice and all. And for the Jaeger. Mine first, though."

Alice filled a shot glass and proceeded to tilt her head back and dribble the amber liquid into her mouth. "Mmmm, good," she purred, between tongue licks to sweep up the droplets that landed on her lips. "All right now, here's your Special, Bobby."

Alice twisted the cap off the bottle and then, to Jean's amazement, she slid it under her brief excuse for a skirt and she fucked it for a dozen strokes before she sauntered to the end of the bar and set it down in front of the astonished young man.

"Here you go, darling. Is that special enough?" she asked as she gently set the beer bottle down on the bar in front of her awestruck customer.
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