Mister Superstar Part 1

Chapter 1
superstar1 - Seduction

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Chapter Description: In the dressing room of her idol, a young teenage girl gets far more than she bargained for.

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By Way of a Forward

So I know this story is already available at "The Changing Mirror," but I’m trying for a migration of all my AR/AP related work back to their original and rightful home. Nothing against CM, this is just where I wrote and posted most of those tales, but the only reason they’re not present here was back when I wrote them many, many years ago, I was an angry teenager full of piss and vinegar who confused throwing a tantrum with taking a moral stand. But that’s an old story…

…a new story, and also my crafty little hidden agenda for posting this now, is that I’m in trouble. The life or death kind of trouble. A year ago this October, my fiancé and I were just winding down from celebrating finishing moving her into my apartment by looking online at houses in the area that we could afford. I’m getting up there in years, and we both agreed we wanted kids, a family, hell, maybe even a picket fence. The wedding was less than a month away and we were both eager to get started on the whole rest of our lives. After about an hour we’d hot listed a few we wanted to go see, I powered down the computer, and we had our goodnight dance (she was too shy to dance in public, so I said that was fine as long as she would dance with me in private--which became our own little ritual of the goodnight dance) and we laid down and fell asleep talking in each other’s arms.

We were still in each other’s arms when I awoke the next morning. The next thing I noticed was she was very cold. Like ice. Cold…and stiff. She wouldn’t wake up. She couldn’t. She was gone. I already knew it as I fumbled over my cell phone keys to dial 911. Later they would tell me it was a brain aneurism. And that was the end of our story.

Needless to say this past year I’ve been a wreck. Alone in an apartment too expensive for a single income, especially when my income slowly petered out as I found myself unable to write since she died. Plus what was coming in in royalties went largely to the liquor store within walking distance of my place. I’m sorry, by the way, for the story series I promised you all last December, I think it was. I was in a state of manic delirium and came here in search of a better time in my life, and you all were wonderful, but it just wasn’t in me to back up the lofty project I’d outlined, so I faded back into the shadows.

Fast forward past eleven hospitalizations in the psych ward, and now I find myself in a small white room at an Assisted Living facility…and I love it. I have my cat and my books and I’ve started writing again. Most of all, for the first time in years, I’m having my medications closely monitored and managed. As a thirty-seven year old full blown manic depressive that is so crucial. Bipolar and a long list of other ailments, from severe anxiety disorder to chronic insomnia, all the way to the problems caused from being medicated since I was eleven, like my tell-tale hands that shake so badly I can’t even use a mouse and keyboard without my prescriptions, and I can’t leave out the catastrophic damage to my long and short term memory caused by the thirty seven sessions of ECT (shock treatments) forced on me by the good doctors at the state hospital in New Jersey and my sister who, back then in 2007, had power of attorney over me (the sessions would have continued if I hadn’t managed to secretly produce a fetish hypnosis recording that brought in just enough money to hop a plane back to my home in Utah). I’ve come a long way since then, but from time to time I’ll still be talking on the phone with my mom and I’ll ask to speak to my dad…he passed away in 1999, but every time she has to remind me of that, it’s like losing him all over again.

But back to the positive and onto the point… This place has been the best thing for me. It’s saved my life, but a far greater feat, it’s made me feel that life was worth living. The problem is, I’ve eaten through all my savings and have only just recovered enough to start earning again. And because I was so out of it I let my prescription insurance lapse, I have a thousand dollar bill due to the pharmacy and thirty dollars to pay or they cut off my eight so very essential prescriptions. I’ve remedied the insurance problem, so future bills will actually be sane amounts that I can cover. And I’m working on several projects, that if I somehow miraculously finish in time may produce the necessary funds…but it’s going to be close.

I turned to my friends and family on Facebook for help and was not surprised when my Mormon relatives shunned me, but my friends, most of whom I met through the University of Utah philosophy department…philosophers, ethicists, many of whom went on to practice law, write book, teach as tenured professors with three houses and five vacation spots a year…these are people who I drank with, who I took care of when they drank to much or dated the wrong girl/guy, girls I slept with and loved and who said they loved me back, I taught their classes for them when they needed to be somewhere else or just didn’t feel like doing it, I was there for them through divorce and illness…and not one of them sent even a single dollar.

So, hurt, I posted on their Facebook club page, "Whose more moral, philosophers or fiction writers/readers?" followed by something similar to what I’ve written here. Obviously, you’re under no obligation to involve yourself in any of this in any way. But I did spend nearly a decade writing free fiction here and on other sites. I even included in the original posts that any site could publish my work on their page, provided their sites were 100% free. If you’ve enjoyed my work over the years, or you enjoy the following work now, or you’re just a good person and you can spare a few bucks, please stop by https://www.gofundme.com/endingtobeginning (or if you want the full multimedia "presentation" of the story I originally posted to my Facebook page then start at https://sway.com/geuJpVHh0Fpwqb7l) and donate in the name of fiction writers and fans everywhere. Or, if you prefer privacy, you can e-mail me at xF1ctcionZer0x@gmail.com and let me know how much you’d like to contribute and I will send you an invoice with the name of my small writing business, F1ction Zer0, on it that can be paid using PayPal or a credit card. Believe me when I say that every dollar makes a difference and will be most appreciated. If I make it through this, I do intend to repay my any debts owed in the form of new fiction for everyone.

Sorry for taking up everyone’s time with this. Now get back to reading about older people getting younger and younger people getting older!

Cheers,

Tainted Sins

AKA, Steven Harris

superstar1 by tainted sins

“I think there’s more comfort to be had from seeing beautiful women on the

cinema screen than in any prayer I know. Well, perhaps not comfort.

Distraction.”

- From Clive Barker’s “Coldheart Canyon”

“Hey, you, are you trying to be mean?”

- Marilyn Manson

PARENTAL ADVISORY

EXPLICIT CONTENT

*mister superstar*

tainted sins

1. seduction

vegas, some hotel room

Michelle, or AngelChrist as her friends called her, sat, legs crossed, in an

expensive looking antique chair tapping her long fingernails rhythmically

against the wooden armrests somewhere near the top of a major Las Vegas

casino-"He’s rented the whole floor out," one of her friends had told her. And

the room was empty so it must be true, she thought. No sign of his usual circus

of porn stars, devoted followers and band mates he normally paraded around with

in public. Just the two security guards standing beyond the now locked door.

Her whole body felt tense. She couldn’t relax in this shitty chair. She felt

like she might break it or something, and her wearing only a black corset and a

pair of panties with his name written across the back-that’s how she’d gotten

his attention. Only sixteen, but he never asked, and she never said. She

clicked her six inch heels together.

She was sweating under the arms.

"Stay cool," she told herself, glancing at the light under the bathroom door

where he had vanished over a half hour ago.

"Yeah," she said and looked down at the two magnificent, pale white globes of

flesh that caused even the guys at school who called her a ’goth goblin freak’

to do so with an erection bulging in their blue jeans.

She remembered that and smiled, and slowly licked her black lips, the source of

her newfound confidence heaving within the confines of the tightly bound corset.

"Yeah, you’re so cool. Super cool."

The bathroom door opened.

And there he was. Mister Superstar (just Mister to his friends). His dark

industrial tunes and offensive lyrics had taken the nation by storm over a year

ago. Despite countless attempts to ban or shut down his concerts by various

religious and parental organizations, he was still on tour.

"What was that?" he said.

She had to be cool. She stood up, taking the time to slowly adjust the black

panties-the panties baring his name-that had been riding up her crack. Snapping

the elastic back in place against her exposed thigh, she stared at him as if

bored.

"I said I was just about to leave."

"Oh?" He looked at the door. "Go ahead."

Shit. She’d blown it.

"I guess I could stay a little longer." She shrugged.

He sneered and walked to the bar, his back to her. "Downstairs you said you’d

do anything I told you. Anything. Were you lying?"

She pictured him grabbing her, tearing her panties off, throwing her on the bed.

"No."

His hand lingered over the bottles, rows and rows of them like jars of candy.

"Do you want…something to drink?"

"Tequila."

He poured a shot of it and drank it himself, then grabbed a carton of milk from

a small metal fridge and filled a glass.

"Here," he said as he walked back over to her, stopping only a foot away,

holding it out. "Drink this instead."

She looked at it, confused. Was this a joke? Was he making fun of her?

"That wasn’t what I had in mind," she whispered back to him, coyly eyeing the

bed.

"What you had in mind?" He glared at her-those dark, deep eyes from the cover

of his album.

She took the glass. She drank it. Gulped it down in fact.

He ran his hand over her body, like he had with the liquor bottles. His fingers

were electricity. She moaned ("like a hardcore slut," she thought), unaware of

the milk-mustache she now boasted.

She had a garter belt, too, that held up fishnet stockings.

He touched her leg.

"You look ridiculous," he said.

And her heart shattered inside her chest.

"I think you should feel ridiculous too," he continued and took a step back from

her, looking her up and down.

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision as she stared at him hurt and

wide-eyed: "Suck on your thumb and pee your panties."

"What?"

“You said you’d do anything…”

“But I-“

"There comes a time in every young girl’s life when she helplessly wets herself.

She doesn’t want to, but it happens. Usually in a supermarket or a mall. One

hand tugging at her Mommy’s skirt, the other pressed firmly against her crotch

as she desperately proclaims that she ’can’t hold it any longer.’ That stain on

her pants spreading.

"I want that to be you. I want you to have a cute little accident in those cute

little panties."

Silence.

Seconds passed.

"Fuck that!” she said, finally, and turned for the door.

He grabbed her and forced her back around, holding her close, hands clutching

her bare shoulders painfully; his fierce eyes inches from hers.

"Is that what you want? Fuck that? Do you really want to leave this place,

this world you’ve only heard about from your headphones? Crawl back to whatever

suburban shithole you came from? Kiss your Mom on the cheek? Say your prayers?

Maybe pump out a few puppies in the years to come and join the PTA?"

Michelle considered it.

Then she reached up and pulled his hands off her shoulders. When she got to the

door she turned around and said, "Fuck you!" and gave him the finger.

When she opened the door, two giants in security guard uniforms stared down at

her-she’d forgotten about them.

"She’s been rude," was all Superstar gave by way of an explanation. "She thinks

she can leave."

Michelle screamed when the two brutes grabbed her, but either no one was

listening or no one cared. They forced her back into the room, they slammed the

door behind them. She kicked, she clawed with her fingernails, but she was like

a rag doll to them, and they easily dragged her across the room and forced her

back down in the antique chair, one of them covering her mouth with his big ape

hand.

Despite all her struggles, the chair didn’t break.

Superstar appeared between them, holding one of his stage props: a small

metallic helmet that looked like a miniaturized version of the rabbit-ear TV

antennas from the 1950’s. She’d seen some of his performers wearing them in the

bootleg concert footage she had hidden in her room at home.

He brushed streaks of black hair from his narrow face, then leaned over to

secure the device to her head with a leather strap that buckled under the chin.

"In this bullshit world, where no one is anything anymore but the pills in their

pocket that come in every color of the rainbow, nothing means anything-except

your word."

The device was fastened, but she thought she could easily slip out of it if she

could get her hands free. The strap had a lot of give, enough for her to open

and close her mouth.

He continued: "You said you’d do anything." He leaned forward to touch

something on the side of the helmet. "And you will."

"Kiss my a-“

He flicked a switch, and she froze.

A shrill electronic whine, like two microphones brought too close together,

hummed, buzzed hissed inside her skull. She couldn’t move, she could hardly

think with the deafening feedback.

Then he spoke again, and his voice came through with crystal clarity.

"I’ve just opened a frequency to the deepest region of your subconscious."

He nodded to the two guards and they let go of her and backed away. She heard a

door slam. They were gone.

"The part of you that makes you you."

She thought she might try to do something, to say something, but amidst the

static, and his own booming voice echoing inside her head in place of her own

thoughts, she couldn’t concentrate, she forgot a new idea, a new desire as soon

as it formed-lost to the noise.

“The part of you that makes you willful, for example. The desperate need to

always act, always look cool-even if it’s against the wishes of the man you

worship…”

He chewed on his lower lip. “I like that part, actually. I think I’ll keep

it.”

Then he leaned slowly forward, his silk shirt brushing against her cheek-the

smell of sweat and smoke-his lips pressing against her ear, his hot breath, as

he whispered, “And if that’s the part I like, what do you think I’ll take away?”

“Fu…fu…fu…fu,” she stuttered incoherently.

“Fuck me? Yes, I know. But I don’t blame you-it’s AngelChrist, isn’t it?

Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Michelle Anderson.”

He nodded. “I don’t blame you Michelle Anderson. Swearing is a defense

mechanism. You’ve heard that at least once or twice from a family therapist,

haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a defense mechanism. But it doesn’t seem to be

working very well, does it Michelle?”

“No.”

“No indeed. That’s because you’re lashing out. You’re hostile. It’s important

to express your feelings, but you’re not letting anybody in. You need to learn

how to ask for help again. Isn’t that what they told you, Michelle?”

“Yes.”

“So I think-“ he paused to adjust his shirt sleeve “-I think you could use a

little more therapy before I allow you to return to that suburban shithole you

seem so eager to get back to. Don’t you agree, Michelle?”

“No…p…ple…please…”

“Answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a ‘yes or no’ question, Michelle. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, as I said, swearing’s out. We need to find something else,

Michelle. So I want you to think back to when you were younger-how old are you

now?”

“Sixteen.”

“I want you to think back to when you were just a little girl. Back when your

Mommy still picked out your clothes for you. What did you do then, Michelle,

when you got scared or angry or upset?”

“I screamed and hit people.”

“No, go further back, Michelle. Back to when you were still a bed wetter. You

did have that problem for a while, didn’t you Michelle?”

She struggled: “Y-Yes.”

“Yes,” he continued eagerly. “And what would you do then, Michelle? When you

were frustrated? Instead of swearing, what did you do waking up to a cold

little bottom in a pair of wet panties and soaked sheets?”

She fought. She wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t! She did: “I cried and sucked

my thumb.”

“Yes!” he answered her with relish. “And from now on, for the rest of your

life, you’re stuck there. Like a skipping record. All of the self-discipline

you’ve gained over the years towards controlling that instinct is gone, and will

never be relearned. Whenever you feel like swearing, whenever you feel the

least bit upset, you’ll cry like a baby and helplessly suck your thumb.”

His voice echoed; bounced around on the inside of her skull a thousand times

over. She had to fight it. Everything else so far had been trivial. But she

would not allow this to happen!

Allow what to happen?

She tried to concentrate…

…self-discipline…stuck there…gone…helplessly…baby…helplessly…

She threw herself up against the mindless repetition of words, thoughts, that

weren’t her own. She fought, one last fight, and then, with a sharp pain in her

chest, she heard a deep resonant cracking sound: it was her will.

“There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The world came back to her in a blink. He had reached over and switched the

helmet off. Her thoughts returned. She was herself again!

She felt hurt, upset-most of all, pissed off for how he had violated her. She

glared up at him with hateful eyes; she would scream at him, claw at his throat,

but no. It was like standing in quicksand. All that rage-that struggle-and no

footing.

“I…I…” she muttered.

“Yes?” he coaxed.

“I…I want…” Her eyes felt like glass.

“Yes, Michelle? Go on. What do you want?”

She couldn’t hold it back any longer: “I…I waaaaaaaant myyyyyyyyy Mommmmmy!”

she wailed, and began sobbing uncontrollably-long, deep howls of anguish, like a

rebuked toddler in a toy store.

She was mortified, humiliated, but she couldn’t help it. She tried to stop, but

all of her inner-strength, her willpower, was gone. Vanished completely. She

felt totally weak and empty inside, and all she could do about it was sit there

and cry into her cleavage-she felt like the biggest dork ass on the planet.

That thing, that helmet she wore couldn’t be real could it? But then, why

couldn’t she stop crying like a stupid little baby?

“There, there,” Superstar said, and held a silk handkerchief against her nose.

“Blow.”

She blew.

“You shouldn’t get yourself all worked up like that,” he said, and set the

wadded up handkerchief down on the table next to her.

“H-how did you do this to me?” she asked between sobs. And then, to her horror,

stuck her thumb between her two full, blackly painted lips.

He had to speak over the loud slurping noises she was making, and the occasional

sniffle: “Does it really matter? What’s done is done.”

“You have to change me back!” she mumbled over the fleshy digit jammed firmly in

her mouth. She couldn’t believe it, but sucking her thumb was actually starting

to make her feel better. It was comforting. How embarrassing!

Superstar laughed. “Back? It’s a little premature to be thinking about that.

We’re far from finished.”

Her heart stopped.

“Come into the bathroom with me, Michelle. There’s something I want to show

you.”

She shot a panicked glance at the front door.

He nodded. “They’re still out there. But if you prefer to keep doing this the

hard way, by all means, give it a try.”

Ten minutes ago she would have, she knew. But now she just started tearing up

again, and began sucking on her thumb more frantically. She told herself to

just be cool. Super cool, remember? But it was hard to be cool when you had

become such a helpless crybaby.

She didn’t say anything. She just stood up and followed him into the bathroom.

It was big. Huge mirrors covered almost every inch of the place, even the door

he shut behind them. Complimentary shampoos, conditioners, soaps and lotions

were all unopened by the large sink with the gold faucet, and a bathtub that

looked like it could comfortably hold four people sat beneath a row of perfectly

folded, crisp white towels hanging on a rack.

There was also a shower with a sliding door, the kind you could almost

see-through. The toilet was in a second room beyond that, and had it’s own

door.

“Get in,” he said, and pointed to the shower.

That’s when she noticed something strange about it.

The entire ceiling above it, and part of the walls were covered in a strange

gold wrapping that looked like aluminum foil. There were also several circular

metal plates placed on the inside of the glass and across the tiling, and a long

black wire ran along the ceiling and down to an odd silver box of dials and

buttons that hung on a wall just outside the shower door.

“Go on,” he said.

She pried her thumb from her mouth long enough to ask: “What’s it going to do

to me?”

“Must we continue to do this the hard way, Michelle?” he replied coldly,

glancing at the helmet she still wore.

She shook her head, and stepped inside the shower.

He shut the door behind her, and she heard a clicking sound immediately after.

They must have installed some sort of lock as well. She was trapped.

“To answer your question,” he called from beyond the door-she could just make

out his dark outline, and the sharp corners of his pale face. “It’s a little

impromptu machine we’ve had with us for the bulk of the tour. Fits easily on

the bus, and works with most hotel showers.”

He laughed.

“But what does it-“

“Do? I’m afraid we’re still back at the beginning, Michelle. You still owe me.

Do you remember what I told you to do? You’re sucking your thumb now-you will

be for the rest of your life, I imagine-but there’s still one more thing. Do

you remember?”

She remembered.

“And this machine,” he said, “will help us solve that little problem. You see

it allows me to change a person’s age to any number I want-one body part at a

time.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. Brainwashing she could almost half believe, at

least until she came up with a better explanation. But this was just plain

ridiculous.

She pulled her thumb out of her mouth. She felt better.

“You’re an idiot!” she called back to him. “You’re a joke.”

Silence.

And then: “How old were you when you were still a bed wetter, Michelle?” He

paused. “No, I think we’re going to have to go younger than that. Tell me, how

would you like to have the vagina of an infant? Of a six month old?”

She saw him moving from beyond the glass. Pressing buttons, turning dials.

A low dull hum ran through the walls; it got very warm and the harsh scent of

ozone filled the air.

“This isn’t scaring me!” she yelled, but looked down at her panties all the

same.

This was bullshit. Nothing was happening.

She was wetting herself.

She couldn’t believe it! She couldn’t even feel herself doing it. She just

felt a warmth suddenly spreading down there, and a wetness. She looked and saw

pee running down her beautiful teenage legs, ruining her stockings. She

couldn’t clench at all, couldn’t even try to hold it back, she had absolutely no

control.

All she could do was stand there stupidly, watching herself pee her own panties.

As she did, she placed her thumb back in her mouth and started to cry.

From beyond the glass: “I told you,” he said. “Anything I want.”

She knew she had stopped only because she saw the urine was no longer running

down the drain. She could start pissing herself again at anytime, she realized,

and she would have no idea. Which could only mean one thing…

She stared down at her soaked panties-her ass was quickly becoming cold, the

heat had vanished.

“Take them off,” he suggested, as if he’d read her mind. “Have a look.”

More brainwashing, she told herself. It had to be. After all, she was still

wearing the helmet. It was just a trick.

Yes, that was it. Brainwashing. Or drugs. He had probably just drugged that

milk he had given her-the stupid helmet, the stupid shower didn’t do anything.

It was something that would where off, something that could be fixed when she

got home.

She closed her eyes, pulled her thumb from her mouth with an audible pop, then

bent over and yanked her wet panties down to her ankles. When she straightened

back out, she opened her eyes.

She didn’t have any pubic hair. It had vanished.

Smooth as a baby’s bottom-the phrase took on new meaning.

And it was so small! She stared down at her once beautiful teenage pussy-the

kind that had ached for sex, for a big hard cock-and saw a toddler’s ridiculous

privates (no, an infant’s!) in its place.

Her bare, curved, feminine ass was freezing. Goose pimples ran up and down her

perfect legs as she shivered, and stunk of her own piss. And she was a joke! A

human-sized joke standing there half naked in some fucked up shower.

She started to cry again. Her eyes swollen, mascara streaking her cheeks.

“I’m going to kill you!” she screamed, and then she put her thumb back in her

mouth.

“Come, come, Michelle,” he said. “Look on the bright side. You’ve finally done

what I asked, and now we can move on to the punishment.”

“What?!”

“The punishment for breaking your promise.” He chuckled. “You didn’t really

believe I’d let you off with just a warning, did you? After you’ve been so

rude?”

“Please…” was all she could manage to say.

“Tell me, Michelle, how old is your Mother?”

She balked.

“I have ways of finding out, you know.”

“Thirty-four, I think.”

“’Sometimes I wish you were more mature,’ she ever say that to you, Michelle?”

“I guess.”

“Well, what say we beat her by, ohh, say ten years?”

He started turning dials again, pressing buttons.

“You can’t do this to me!” she shrieked.

“Well then,” he said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”

The room became warm again. She stopped shivering.

It was her breasts, she realized. Suddenly they were pressing tight against the

corset. They hurt.

“No!” she gasped in horror. He wouldn’t!

“Ow!” she screamed as her cleavage swelled painfully against the tightly bound

undergarment.

She reached around and struggled to unlace the back. By some miracle she

managed to do it, and the top popped off, leaving her bare-breasted but free of

the pain at least.

Her boobs were at the height of their glory. Somewhere in their twenties.

Large, and firm, and completely oversized for a body that had not yet grown into

them.

But, like all things, that didn’t last.

They lost their perkiness. It faded away, as did definition. They gained a

little weight, lush, fatty weight as they passed into their thirties. Her

nipples became full, they looked like aging flowers-sweet, cute, but not hot and

sexy like they used to be.

Her breasts began to sag. They looked tired, they looked like her Mom’s-they

looked older than her Mom’s. They were older than her Mom’s. Like any

middle-aged woman, who had maybe gained a few too many pounds over the years.

She’d been in the locker rooms at the public swimming pool. She’d seen them.

She could join the PTA, like he’d said.

“How does it feel to have the tits of a forty-four year old, Michelle?”

“Let me out of here!”

She banged her fists against the glass, her naked breasts flopping about wildly

as she did. She tugged at the door, it wouldn’t budge.

Superstar shook his head. She saw him.

“Some people never learn,” he muttered and reached for the dials.

“No!”

“The legs and hips of a twelve year old. The voice of a five year old.”

She felt her throat tighten.

“Please no!” she squealed, sounding just like a little girl.

Her fishnets, that had once clung tightly to her thighs and calves, wrinkled and

hung pathetically on her now scrawny legs. She lost several inches in height.

Her hips and ass flattened boyishly, and the garter belt lost its grip on her

skinny waist and fell, taking the stockings down with it to rest around her

ankles along with her panties.

She stood there naked. Nothing but six inch heels; huge on her now twelve year

old feet.

“I’m a freak!” She peed herself again. She sucked her thumb.

“Don’t be so judgmental,” he said. The lock clicked, and he slid the door open.

He looked her up and down. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“But I’m… But I’m…” She couldn’t help but sob.

“Shh, shh,” he cooed. “There now. Why don’t you step outside and lets have a

look, hmm?”

It was difficult to walk, to even stand. Her skinny, 7th grade legs were weak

and could barely support her sixteen year old upper-half, let alone her massive

forty-four year old boobs.

Still, she stepped out of the shower. Out of her high heels and onto the cold

tiled floor of the bathroom with her bare feet. She saw herself naked,

reflected all over the walls, and she could only cry harder.

She looked absolutely ridiculous. And to make it worse, she wanted to rebel.

She wanted to scream, to cuss, to take her fingernails and stick them right in

his stupid throat. But she could only stand there crying instead. She couldn’t

help herself.

She waddled past him. She headed for the door.

“Michelle,” he said from behind her. “We’re not finished yet.”

She turned back in shock to look at him, and that’s when he reached up and

flicked the helmet back on.

The feedback. That long, shrill maddening whine. She couldn’t think. She

tried to think. She forgot what she was doing.

“What are your interests, Michelle? What do you like to do with your friends?

Answer me.”

“We hang out at Denny’s a lot. We smoke pot when we can, and drink when we can

sneak into a club-we have fake IDs-or if there’s a cool party going on.

Sometimes we go to movies if nothing’s happening. Or hang out in the basement

at my house and talk and watch TV.”

“What are your favorite subjects in school?”

“I like math, but I don’t tell any of my friends that. Band’s pretty cool too.

I play the piano. I sing a little too, but only in the shower.”

“And what do you want to do when you grow up, Michelle? What do you want to

be?”

“I want to be in a band. A singer. Or maybe just the keyboardist to start out

with. My Mom wants me to go to college, and maybe I’ll do that too.”

“Go back into the other room, Michelle.”

She did. She walked dully, like a robot. He followed her in.

“Kneel down on the floor and lean over the bed so that your ass is sticking up

in the air.”

She did. Her full breasts pressed against the mattress like a couple of

pillows, her knees rubbed against the carpet and burned as she struggled to get

into the commanded position.

“Good. Now I want you to start spanking yourself, Michelle. Over and over

until I tell you to stop. And every time hand meets cheeks, one of your

interests, your pleasures, your ambitions is going to vanish and be replaced by

the simple desire to spank your own bare ass.”

She heard herself grunt. She struggled with this. His voice was throbbing in

her veins. Her arm lifted up, and quivered, frozen in midair.

Then she brought it down on her backside with a loud swat. And she didn’t stop

there. She spanked her flat twelve year old ass over and over again, feeling

her motivation to do anything else in life evaporate piece by piece.

Superstar stepped away. She couldn’t see where he went; she couldn’t

concentrate long enough to care. She just stayed where she was and kept

spanking herself-her head felt funny.

After a few minutes, or a few hours (it was hard to keep track of time), he

returned. By then her poor little rear felt red and swollen; it must look like

a cherry, she thought, a big bright red cherry-but the feedback, the helmet,

continued to whine and soon she forgot what she had been thinking about.

“Stop,” he said.

She did.

“Now for the final touch.”

She waited with her bare ass in the air.

“From now on, for the rest of your life, you’ll dress appropriately for the

varying ages of your body. Get up and go over to the dresser.”

She stood up and walked over to the wooden dresser with the brass handles.

“Open the second drawer from the top, on the left.”

She pulled it open and looked inside.

“The diapers are for your little baby pussy. Put them on.”

They were a large pair of pampers. They crinkled as she pulled them up between

her legs, but they fit perfectly on her narrow waist; she secured the tabs on

each side.

“The blue jeans, white socks and tennis shoes match your bottom half nicely.

Put them on.”

She pulled the pants on first. They almost fit, but she had trouble getting

them over the large, bulky diaper. And when she finally did, and got them

buttoned up, it was obvious by the bulge, and all the noise they made when she

moved, what she was wearing underneath.

She bent over to put her socks and shoes on next, and it sounded like someone

was crumpling newspapers.

“Now the bra.”

It was huge-like a tent-and white, and it looked like something her Grandmother

would wear.

“Trust me,” he added. “You’ll need the support.”

She slipped it on over her shoulders and found, with dismay, that it was

comfortably firm. She fumbled with the large clasp behind it, having to stretch

the straps. When she got it, she discovered that the undergarment gave her

chest a relieving lift, and her back, which had started to ache, began to feel a

little better too.

“And to go with your cute little voice, the shirt.”

It was a tight little T (skintight, she discovered when she struggled to get it

on-fumbling with the helmet as she did), white, with a yellow ducky wearing a

bib and sucking on a bottle. It clung to her body, looking like it might rip at

any moment, her bellybutton poking out beneath; the outline of her Grandma bra

was flawless.

She felt dazed. She couldn’t think. So much was happening.

And then he reached over and flicked the switch off. He unbuckled the strap and

removed the helmet.

It didn’t matter anymore. She was completely humiliated.

“This can’t be me!” she sobbed, staring down at herself. “This can’t be me!”

He shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I look like an idiot!”

He shrugged again.

“Everything seems dull and uninteresting. All I want to do is bend over and

spank my own ass!”

“A small price to pay to become a living, breathing work of art.”

“That’s what you call this?!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Mike. Rob,” Superstar called to the front door.

It opened, and the two gorillas that had manhandled her earlier walked in the

room.

“Yeah?” one of them asked.

“I’m through with this one. Have her ejected from the hotel immediately.”

“You got it.”

“You can’t!” she screamed. “You can’t! You can’t!”

They grabbed her and she started to cry again. As they were dragging her from

the room, the last time he saw her, she was sucking her thumb.

* * *

A few minutes later…

Superstar lounged on the couch while his drummer, Styx, paced the room

restlessly. So far, they had both remained silent.

“You still use this old shit?” Styx asked. He was holding the helmet;

occasionally tossing it in the air and catching it. “Fuck Mister, this

technology has been dated for months.” The drummer peaked in the other room.

“And the shower thing, too? Christ.”

Superstar glanced at the chair the girl had been sitting in. “There’s something

to be said for…antiquities.”

Styx set the helmet down on the bar. “We doing anything tonight?”

Superstar nodded. “Get everyone together. Everyone.”

“What the fuck for?”

“We’re taking this hotel. Zero Hour in fifteen minutes.”

Styx stared at him, mouth gaping. Then he said one word:

“Cool.”

 

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