Dreams at the Weis House, Part 2
I'd stopped making diary entries for nearly two weeks after my encounter with Ergrod. I'd struggled through the days, finding solace dealing with work stuff, then found myself unable to focus on anything in the evening. Half-remembered dreams filled my head the first few nights: The feeling of power and pleasure as I danced in front of a crowd and took the strip club manager's cock into me followed by the horror of being mounted and taken like an animal by the inhuman thing. I didn't return to the Weis house for a while as I couldn't face the place where I'd been raped.
After a week I felt a bit better and my curiosity returned. I found myself looking for more spells I could cast and information about Ergrod or his kind in the book. The thought of casting more magic was an addiction I needed to feed, and the tiny spells I could cast in my bedroom seemed unsatisfactory.
It was another dream that convinced me to return to the old house: I walked through the house, but it had been cleaned and restored into a wonderful Victorian mansion. I looked like I had at the club with my magically enhanced body, but wore an elaborate dress and tiara. And I saw Ergrod, or a thing like him, as two of the strange creatures wore formal servant's outfits and seemed anxious to fulfill any need I had as I walked around the now beautiful home. The dream ended as I found myself stripping, with one servant's aid, and laying on a huge canopy bed in the master bedroom waiting for someone to enter and pleasure me.
I'd decided to risk the Weis house. Despite my concerns, I felt like magic was somehow easier or stronger there and I'd need it for the next spells I'd cast. Perhaps if I avoided visiting at night I'd be safe, and the book had several spells that promised protection. I'd begun enchanting several charms I'd acquired for my bracelet: A token resembling a cracked egg was enchanted and promised to protect the wearer from pregnancies. A blue wizard's hat promised protection from undesired magic used against me, although the text warned that powerful practitioners could batter through my defenses given time. A band-aid token seemed perfect for a charm that promised protection against minor scrapes, wounds, or infection. The last seemed appropriate if I was spending time in the old house.
Creating these charms gave me a small sense of power and satisfaction, but I craved more. I studied the book whenever I could, and began putting together a scrying device it suggested. The components were simple: I'd need pure salt, preferring fine crystals over large, easily obtained from the store for a few bills from my stripper roll I'd earned earlier. A large lens sat upon the salt. For that I'd bought a broken telescope from the thrift store, disassembling to to scavenge a lens perhaps four inches across that I thought would do. The whole thing just needed a bowl to hold it in, and cheap grocery store plastic bowl filled that need. It wasn't the prettiest, but it did the job.
Scrying added a new avenue of research. My initial efforts ended quickly as I lost focus, but I found I could use the lens to enter a dream-state and fly around. I could pass through walls like a spirit and travel rapidly in the dream-state. I could do this in the evening and see the luminous forms of my parents as I invisibly flew through the walls of the house. I caught them having sex once: They glowed like the sun and seemed to merge as I watched. One day I even tried it from the bathroom at work, noting my boss's dim reddish glow and Jake's ugly-tinted glow as he sat at his desk. I couldn't confirm, but I had a feeling Jake had some unhealthy desires in his head. I'd heard comments that he'd been heard yelling at his wife, and people pitied the poor woman.
Watching my boss via the lens gave me another brilliant idea: I knew Mr. Jameson was a widower, his wife having passed several years ago. Everyone said the older man had been reluctant to date. His birthday was coming up soon, and I saw an opportunity. My coworkers would almost certainly take him to a nearby bar after work. I couldn't join them since I was only 19, but I'd discovered a modified version of the shape-changing spell that had turned me into Carol that would give him the gift he deserved.
I need to say that I wasn't sexually attracted to Mr. Jameson. He wasn't ugly or anything, but old enough to be my grandfather! I'd had idle thoughts about him once or twice, I admit: He was strong and compassionate, and had always treated me with respect. I had no interest in him, but if I could turn into his dream girl for a night maybe I'd leave him with a happy memory.
This spell was more complex than the previous, but more powerful. I'd had to collect something from him, a surprisingly easy task as I moved his office trash can out to the hall so the cleaners could get to it. This allowed me to grab some hair he'd cleaned from his comb. I'd prepared an egg like before, although this one required more time and even flakes of gold I'd made by buying some old jewelry and filing it down. I giggled at the egg: It wasn't just an egg hidden in a cabinet, but it looked like a stalker shrine to Bob Jameson, manager of the SSSA. A photo clipped from a newspaper article was taped to the egg-holder surrounded by a loop of his hair in a tiny baggie.. A small bottle, wrapped in copper (a suggested method from the book to keep the potion potent) sat next to it, waiting for it's time.
My parents were out of town again, which made the plan even easier. I'd brought the potion with me, keeping it hidden in a tiny plastic bottle in my bag until it was time to change. I waved as my coworkers at the office filed out to head to Jerry's Pub down the street, then bundled myself up against the cold and walked to a nearby bookstore that had something I needed: A loose policy on security and a large handicapped bathroom I could borrow. I twas a wet, rainy evening, but at least it wasn't snowing.
The modified spell solved a few issues from my previous outing, as it promised it would include clothes and other details to make the illusion work. I had read and re-read the warnings attached to this spell: if this magic was used for reasons other than helping another, it could have unexpected side effects. I was just giving my boss a well-deserved good time, so I felt my reasons were pure. Also, this spell had a twenty-four hour maximum duration, but would end quicker if the egg was crushed.
I locked the bathroom door feeling my excitement grow. I didn't know much about Mr. Jameson and wondered what kind of fantasy I'd be shaped into. He'd been overseas in the military decades before, so perhaps an Asian hottie or some cute European farm-girl. Maybe a tall, sexy, black woman or a hot Latina. Maybe an old fantasy from his youth, and I'd look like Marilyn Monroe or some old flame he remembered from the sixties or seventies. My early scrying suggested he was safe enough based on the auras I saw, so I assumed he'd harbor no dangerous fantasies that would drive us to harm each other.
I downed the potion.
The change felt different from when I had become Carol previously. My whole body seemed to swell and change, stretching my work clothes. I felt massive jugs swell in front of me, stretching my work shirt far beyond its limits. I looked down, noticing my hands seemed swollen as well, and noticed a drooping line of extra flesh along my arms as I held my tits out. I felt them pull in as my clothes changed: I frowned as my new tits seemed to retract as I felt my bra change to something more substantial to hold these boulders in place. It seemed this new shape needed the support. I tasted my lips, noticing I was wearing lipstick, and ran my hands down my sides. I was rounded all over. My knees hurt: a tiny almost unnoticed pain in each, with a larger pain in the right knee.
I looked at the mirror and saw an old woman staring back at me. This was Jameson's fantasy? My breath caught in my throat: I had no interest in the older man, but this body definitely did. The mere thought of him caused my thick thighs to press together in a futile attempt to ease my arousal. I fanned myself, falling back to sit on the lid of the toilet. I felt a curious sensation as my broad ass actually extended over the seat, falling off a bit on both sides.
It took a moment for me to recover. I took stock: I was a bit shorter at perhaps 5' 4" in heels and had to be around two hundred pounds. They word 'matronly' came to mind, as I was simply rounded all over the place, from my thick legs to my chubby, friendly face. My hair was an elaborate tied-up mass kept in place by a multitude of hair pins that framed my heavily made-up face. Were I dressed differently I'd look like I should be baking cookies for the the grandkids, but my transformed outfit looked like I was dressed for a night out. The long red dress flattered my bust and ass, even as it showed generous cleavage with it's share of wrinkles and spots. I checked my phone, and found I needed reading glasses, but thankfully those were in my suddenly larger purse. I checked my wallet and even with the glasses my driver's license seemed wavy and vague: I was pretty sure this was the magic trying to make this 'me' fit into the reality, and would be enough to fool anyone who checked my ID.
Not that anyone really checked the ID of women over sixty.
I sashayed out, wrapping myself in a old-looking coat that had replaced my own coat and carrying the brown leather overnight bag that had replaced by pink backpack. I had a date at Jerry's!
I'd packed the bag back into my car (which looked different: The color was different and the plates seemed as hard to read as my driver's license!) and stowed my coat after parking so I'd have my hands free.
It was a Friday night and predictably the bar was crowded. I had no trouble finding the work party: I swore I could smell Bob over the countless other smells, and nearly dropped to my knees upon hearing his distinctive laugh ring out. I forced myself to back off and order a drink from the bar. I wanted to jump him right here, but I didn't think his fantasy would go quite that route and no one would know me as this old woman. My newest self like Manhattans, which I sipped as I considered how to involve myself in the work party.
It was easier than I thought: Alice, who handled the reception desk and was probably half a decade older than I currently appeared, was already half in the bag and stumbled over. She wrapped an arm around me and slurred out that there was a guy at the nearby table that thought I was cute.
I'd clearly owe Alice a thank-you Monday morning. I smiled and coyly asked a few questions, confirming my suitor was the handsome grey-haired gentleman I was lusting over.
I found myself hustled over to the table and pushed in to a seat next to Bob. I felt a tightness from my loins as I inhaled his scent and found my chubby wrinkled hand stroking the leg of his jeans.
He asked me my name and I paused for a moment, then replied with a smile, "Cynthia."
It was a mistake: It was my given name, but no one had ever called me that except for a few teachers. I hated it and thought it sounded like some stuck-up bitch who had no need to every work at anything. Even when my parents were mad at me, they called me Cindy. But now I was Cynthia, a sixty-something grey haired lady in a too-tight red-dress getting all hot and bothered about the guy next to her.
I'd felt uninhibited as Carol when I'd walked into a strip club with a purpose, willing to be so much more wild than my normally reserved self. Cynthia was different: it was like I was a back seat driver in my own head. After my initial desperate leap to the name Cynthia the answers came easy: I was a sixty-four year old widow with three kids and four grandkids. I lived in a small town near Chicago and was in the middle of a long drive to see them. I'd decided to get dressed up and enjoy myself for the evening instead of a boring night in a hotel room.
Talking with Mr. Jameson, or Bob as he'd been introduced, was as easy as drinking. Both of us had the expected pains of a couple our age, and couldn't help but briefly wander into a conversation about medical details I'd hoped to avoid for at least fourty years. My earlier pain was from a bad knee I'd had surgery on, but it usually felt better, except when it rained. Much like Bob's arm he'd broken as a child that still hurt when the weather changed quickly.
The gang from work filtered out but Bob and Cynthia had eyes only for each other. We shared our music tastes finding more common ground as Jake left, then Alice and George had departed. Finally Carlos, Marcus, and Mike decided we deserved some privacy and closed out the tab, leaving us all alone. It wasn't late, perhaps eight o'clock.
I tentatively hinted, "I had considered driving a bit further tonight, but I'm really not sure I should be driving this far. There's a fog out tonight. And I don't have a room reserved."
His hand rubbed my thigh, sending a bolt up my spine. He left a generous tip for the waitress as walked ourselves into the night: His gallant refusal to simply take me to a cheap motel and fuck me like a cheap whore was only turning me on more. I tried a few tacts to indicate my almost painful interest in feeling his cock enter me, and finally a suggestion of "a quieter place to talk and have a cup of coffee" resulted in me driving my small hatchback behind his old pickup to head to his house.
I'd never seen Mr. Jameson's house, but he had an old rambler outside town. It was foggy and I felt cold and nervous as we drove. I was able to push my arousal away and focus on the taillights ahead of me as I drove, whimpering as every bump stimulated me. Was I getting too deep into my role as Cynthia? I thought about making a sudden turn qnd disappearing down a side road to end the date but I felt like we'd both be left unsatisfied if I slipped away into the night.
I arrived at his house and turned into the driveway, parking under a large carport adjacent to the house. I waddled my chubby body over to the house, some instinct causing me to grab my overnight bag. I'd replaced my coat, which Bob took as I entered, hanging it on a hook just inside the door. His house was comfortable but worn, and I smiled as I stood in the living room looking at the artifacts of his long life with his deceased wife. Cynthia resembled her a bit, perhaps a bit shorter and definitely with larger tits, but we could probably have passed for sisters.
I discretely placed my bag behind a chair as I considered how little I knew about old-people hook-ups. We sat on the couch and sipped at the coffee he made us, continuing to talk about music, movies, and even books he'd read. Knowledge poured into me: Cynthia seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of 70s music and movies and loved discussing both. I'd kicked off my heels, rubbing my sore feet with pink-painted toes to match the polish I'd discovered on my fingernails.
I wrapped my arm around his broad back and was gratified when he turned to look at me, then moved in for a kiss. His lips against mine made my fat hips wriggle with pleasure. I felt warm and suggested moving to the bedroom. We fumbled down the hall arm in arm, past the bedrooms he'd raised children in and found ourselves laughing as we fell on to the thick quilt that covered the king-sized bed.
He paused, and I worried I'd somehow offended him, "You're the first since, well..."
I smiled shyly, "I know. It's tough, isn't it. But they'd want... They'd want us to be happy."
We returned to fondling and kissing, then I turned and asked him to unzip the red dress I wore. I shivered as I felt it loosen under his strong hands, and he helped me pull the garment over my head. I stood before him in nothing but my underwear. I feared rejection, but could see nothing in his eyes. A bulge in his pants suggested he was still interested despite my generous form.
His hands began wandering over me, toughing the simple skin-colored bra and panties I wore. I smiled again, "I need a moment before, you know..."
I stood, smiling as I strode to the living room to recover my bag. He'd taken a turn in the bathroom, and graciously opened the door for me. I found myself in the bathroom under the harsh yellow light looking at my nearly-naked form. I wiggled the panties down, looking at the neatly trimmed circle of grey pubic hair that surrounded a hungry slit surrounded by thick, meaty thighs. I was even shorter since I'd kicked my shoes off while we drank coffee. I felt tired and sore compared to my normal self. I felt old.
I let my hair down, revealing an impressive waterfall of silver-grey hair that nearly reached my pale, saggy ass. I brushed my slit, stifling a moan as more pleasure shot through my body, my mind filled with the thoughts of ecstasy to come.
Next I unlatched the bra, my short stubby fingers expertly undoing the half-dozen hooks that kept my fat, drooping tits contained. They dropped, riding low on my rib cage as I looked at my enlarged nipples, nearly the size of thumbs. My tits looked huge and ached for Bob's touch.
I used the toilet, finding myself at a strange impasse. Cynthia clearly wanted to give herself to the man waiting just past the bathroom door, but I was nervous. This was so different from what I'd expected when I'd prepared the potion. I'd assumed I'd be some sort of supermodel and could give Bob a quick fuck he'd never forget and move on, but Cynthia seemed the product of a desire for a more meaningful connection I couldn't provide. I hefted my huge jugs and contemplated my next move, but Cynthia took over and drove me to grab a fluffy white bathrobe from my overnight bag to cover myself before exiting the bathroom.
My outfit change obviously pleased him, and I could clearly see his cock as a mouth-watering bulge in his white underwear. He'd stripped his pants, but I found myself unbuttoning his work shirt, my tongue cutely sticking out one corner of my mouth. He pushed the robe open and began groping my huge tits, drawing a series of satisfied whimpers from my lips. I was bigger than Carol and enjoyed the feel of their weight against my belly. I pushed his shirt back, kissing his grey-hair chest, and fell onto him on the bed.
I pulled his briefs down, then let him stand to finish removing them. I rolled over, laying on the bed and opening my chubby legs wide. He touched me first with a hand. his palm resting against my mound causing another wriggle of pleasure from my well-padded hips. His teasing continued as he rubbed my legs. I let out a deep guttural moan as he finally pushed his way into me, finding my orifice well-lubricated and hungry for his manhood. I was surprised at his stamina as he gave me two orgasms that caused my eyes to roll back into my head before finally finishing himself with a triumphant grunt of pleasure. We took turns in the bathroom to clean ourselves, and I found he'd prepared a place for me to sleep under the covers next to him. I had planned to make my exit but was unable to resist, my mind fogged with the pleasure his presence elicited in me. Cynthia graciously accepted, while I schemed how to leave.
I woke in the middle of the night as he returned from a nocturnal trip to the bathroom. I felt more capable of thought and considered my next steps. I couldn't just sneak out now or he'd take it personally. I had to find a natural reason to end our liaison. I had a ticking clock: If I wasn't able to make a gracious exit by around 5:00 the next evening Bob would find not the older woman he'd had a wonderful night with but his teenage intern, and I couldn't see any way to get out of that mess. I stared at the ceiling in horror at the thought of Cynthia lustily riding Bob, then changing to Cindy mid-stroke.