Chapter 18: Lauren's Story

OK. I know I'm cute. I'm sick of fucking cute.

I grew up convinced God had a sense of humor and he spent much of that time laughing at me. My name is Lauren Townsend, and I am currently a living legend at Carson High School. Quite a climb for the little runt who just wanted to climb trees, play football, get dirty in general and skin my knees -- but who was too little to play. Too tiny to mix with big, clumsy boys. God had to make me tiny -- tiny and cute.

And not just pat-me-on-the-head cute -- I had to be little angel cute. Everyone's-so-afraid-I-might-break cute. Dress me in pink and lace cute. They might have put me on a shelf if I didn't have to piss or shit occasionally. Thank God I wasn't home schooled. And thank God for recess.

When we threw on our gym clothes and played kickball, dodge ball or soccer, I got a chance to show my stuff. Guys always seemed to find it funny to see a little girl fire a kickball at someone's head like a heat-seeking missle. Hell, it was funny, and fun.

But one day, when they broke out the tumbling mats, I found my thing. It had running full-speed, it had tumbling as if you were out of control, and it had the big look-at-me finish. Both boys and girls dressed the same, so I didn't have to look like a dainty thing. It was awesome.

So naturally, my parents hated the idea of my going into gymnastics full-time. But a funny thing happened -- they saw the other little-bitty gymnasts and met their parents. We were all just about alike!

In their eyes, at least.

Some of them really were little angels, of course. But those of us who'd rather be playing ball and climbing trees found each other soon enough. One of them -- a girl from a school across town -- told me that I was a born cheerleader.

"Fuck that," I said, but thought about it for a second. "Really? Me, a cheerleader?"

"Damn right," she said, handing me her cigarette as we talked in the privacy of the delivery bay of the arena that was hosting our particular competition. I remembered her name was Melissa Tate; I met her again a few years later at the Sunny Tropic contest and had great reunion sex with her.

But that's another story. It might even be a better one, but tough shit.

"Have you seen the way cheerleaders -- especially the little ones -- get tossed around and grabbed?" she was telling me. "You're so little, they could throw you through the roof!"

So that was settled. I was athletic; I was "cute." Most importantly, I was fearless. It also gave me an excuse to start hanging out with other fearless girls. While I still being mommy and daddy's little angel, I learned to smoke a couple of different things, I got comfortable with sunning myself topless and lost my cherry to a perky, freckled blonde cheerleader with her mother's strap-on. I tried, in general, to be as "unsweet" as I could be around my peers.

Luckily for me, my dad loved cop and gangster movies -- and so did I! Of course, there was no way in hell my mom would ever let me watch The Godfather or Scarface, but Dad gave a nod and a wink and let me "smuggle" them into my room. Sometimes I'd even swap out those DVDs with some of the gawdawful Hannah Montana shit some aunt gave me that I knew Mom would never touch, and on some rare occasions after helping me with my homework, Dad would stay and watch with me. It was totally cool that he laid on my bed with me; my dad never tried any kind of sexual advance, so I was feeling a little conflicted when Master had me seduce my dad later on.

After the Sunny Tropic contest and all the changes that came with it, Dad kept coming to my room, but we never watched movies anymore. I missed that more than I loved getting his dick down my throat. So I watched them alone -- something Michael (okay, Master) did not know about and could not take away from me.

And, fuck yes, I picked up on the vocabulary. My classmates were amused and horrified when I let a Joe Pesci quote go at someone or something. But Mommy's little angel never let it slip at home. Most of the boys in my class weren't allowed to watch those movies yet, so I took the approach that I would cheer for them, but not socialize with them. I wanted an adult relationship -- a 25-year-old car and gun nut was my dream date.

One thing I knew for sure is that a stoner like Michael Wright had no place in my life; if anyone was truly Mr. Wrong, it was Wright. He had the long hair that seemed to be part of the stoner dress code, his pale skin had never seen the sun and he often had what I heard called in a movie the 1,000-yard stare. The fact that he spoke to me at all irritated me; the only reason I ever spoke to him at all was because his sisters were all pretty cool and always had an extra cigarette for a girl. In fact, when Marie rubbed the inside of my thigh one day while we were whispering secrets, I kissed my first girl.

But after successfully ignoring me for 16 years, Michael all of a sudden was trying real hard, at first, to be nice to me, and when he mentioned that he'd be rooting for me in the Sunny Tropic contest, I thought, Fuckin' A! I can do this.

Yeah, I appreciated it. It helped embolden me to do what I did in private, anyway -- show off.

His sister Marie and his awesome girlfriend Candice, both cheerleaders and way more popular than me, helped me pick out a dress that my parents would approve -- and another that they'd hate that I'd really wear. The latter could not be correctly worn with any kind of traditional bra and would show any panty lines. The fact that a half-dozen cheerleaders were entering this thing kept me from sweating it. We found a way to make the dress work without the kid going commando. That was the final time I ever worried about wearing underwear, as I recall.

What I mainly remember about that night – that I can actually repeat – was that Candice looked so hot, but then so did Ms. G -- Miss Mathews -- our cheerleading coach, and so did Michael's oldest sister Kelly and all of the college girls, biker chicks and local sluts.

What was I doing here? I asked myself. But the answer quickly came: Girl, you're having the time of your life.

It was a blast to meet girls who used the same words as me, and the pre-tournament banquet was amazing and awesome -- what I remember of it. There was something potent in the punch, because I passed out in the middle of the introductions. I remember hearing my name and not much else.

When I was able to clear my head, it stuck me how fucking good these women looked -- all of them! I could not wait to get up close and personal with almost any of them, especially my old ballet buddy, Melissa. But then Michael sought me out, and that was that.

Kissing him, having him stroke my pussy like he was born to do me, my sucking his cock and swallowing all of his sweet, sweet cum -- it all felt perfectly normal. Normal -- even thought I was pretty sure I'd never considered doing any of that stuff before or had anyone do it to me. But I could not remember when it was anything other than normal to love him. And all of a sudden, Miss Mathews was just as friendly -- and I returned the favor!

We all had rooms in the vast hotel, and I never wore a stitch of clothing all weekend except when I was on the stage. I wore a short kimono-style robe to the interview, and the judges didn't even react when I flashed them!

Enjoying all of the sex available at the contest made me realize that -- Michael and (eventually) my father aside -- I needed only women to scratch my itch. But I now had a strong desire to keep cheering, even though I was ready to move past being the rag doll thrown to the ceiling. Boys meant less and less to me by the day it seemed. I understood that Michael was my Master and that transcended sex. School remained a big priority and my grades stayed strong -- but, of course, that wasn't enough to please my mom, whose favorite new hobby was sending me back into my room to change my skimpy clothes.

Then Michael told me what I was missing in my life.

"Boobs," he said, one night when we were practicing spinning. That's me on his dick, as you might know.

"Fuck you. My boobs are fine – Master," I replied, even as I noted that his twin sisters – his twin, naked little sisters, who were helping me pull off this particular sexual stunt – had each sprouted a cup size or more since their summer trip to the Caribbean.

"I mean major boobs, way beyond normal," he replied. "The kind that make you famous. The kind we're developing in the Caymans."

"The kind that we're rocking right now!" Brittany said. Fuck, maybe it was Brianna.

"Dr. Lou!" I shouted. "I love her! We made friends during the contest. I'm so happy she got her dream to be a doctor. If she does them, I'm all in. Or they are!"

Michael did not have to explain anything to me any longer, but his growing attraction to me was something I had long wondered about. After all, he was surrounded by all of these ungodly beauties – including his mom, for crying out loud.

Turns out that, during his stoner days, a glimpse of your truly in a pair of well-fitting jeans gave the boy a nocturnal emission – which, face it girls, is the highest complement a man can pay you. But the more he knew me, the better he liked me! (Sometimes I wonder if I had been there at the right moment instead of Candice -- but, no.)

Watching Melissa and I get together a couple of times, where we were maybe showing off a little on what we knew and could do to each other, made Michael desire me even more. My parents ended up washing their hands of me (daddy really didn't, but our sex sessions dwindled away), my mom was so ashamed that her little angel had fallen that she took down her wall of pretty pictures. But I didn't care; I was moving into the Wright compound and fitting right in.

Then came my big day. Boobs! Li'l ol' me was set to become Big Ol' Me. Lou had been trained by the best, but I was as anxious as I was eager. Thankfully, they put me to sleep.

I woke up feeling like a big animal was sitting on my chest. It took a few blurry seconds to realize it was my chest! They were huge, as promised, so big that I could barely reach around one, much less two.

But for the time being, they were swathed in supporting wraps to restrict movement so that the sealed passages that pumped all that string and stuff into my chest healed. My back and shoulders had been sore for weeks due to the intensive work I'd put into building up those muscles, and now my front was matching my back in the soreness department. It wasn't really pain, I guess, as long as I didn't move.