Ch 3: Blessed Be the Ties That Bind

I was starting to wonder what kind of dream this was, and how cruel it would be to go back to being an only child. Maybe it was a bit of a pity-party thing, but…I love my sister, and I’m just learning that I wasn’t just a tease to her, I was mean. I hoped I got to change things, even if it were all a dream; I’m kind of standoffish, but I imagine I’m fun once you get to know me. I never thought of myself as being out-and-out mean. How weird was this, I want to beat up the mean girl that upset my little sister, except…not only am I now her big sister, not her big brother, but it turns out I’m the mean girl that upset my little sister.

“You know I’m just mean to you because I’m so jealous of you, right?”

“What are you talking about, JoJo? You’re everything Mom and Dad every wanted in a girl, and—“

“No, no, no, don’t make it about me; we’re talking about you here. Come here…” I let her go, and she did the same. I dropped a couple of inches to the floor, and I giggled. My little sister was so big, she picked me up when she hugged me, and she has an inferiority complex? Okay, as long as this lasts, my mission is to make this girl the sassiest, super-hot girl that she is. I “pulled” her around the sink so that we were both in front of the mirror. I had to lean way into it to see, until L.L. pushed me back, reached across me, to the far corner of the counter-top, got my contacts case, and put it in my hand

I grinned, side-hugged her, rinsed my hands and put in my contacts. Weird; I never remembered putting in contacts in my dreams before. This was turning out to be pretty intricate. I noticed that my case was a sunny yellow, and — a-ha! —L.L. had those fancy wear-‘em-a-week-at-a-time-for-astigmatism ones. You know, those ones for an “active lifestyle”, which seemed to be the definition of the girl. Anyway, now that I could see, I looked in the mirror, and was stunned.

I got why L.L. would have a complex being my sister; she was cute, but I was a hottie.

Okay, maybe I was a little biased where the topic was concerned, but I was seriously good-looking. Light golden-brown skin, oval-shaped face and medium-full lips. Nose still Negroid-flat, but small enough to be called “pert”, topaz eyes and black hair maybe two inches long, laying thick and flat on my head in half-inch ringlets. I looked kind of like a mix of my mom and dad, my dad’s sister “Aunt Ruth,” and a bit of my mom’s “Cousin Tina,” especially in the coloring. My breasts seemed big enough to fill a good C-cup bra; since I didn’t have one on, they were about the size of softballs in width, and maybe two inches in thickness on my chest. «Like little Eggo’s®, but without the waffle-pattern. How poetic; I might be the “smallest” woman in our family.» I looked at L.L. in the mirror…who was looking at me. I smiled, pushed myself up on the sink counter, and leaned my head on her shoulder. «OMG, I have Mom’s dimples; I am so cute, I’m dangerous.» As I was hopping down, I used the reflection from the mirror in the door well behind us to check out…our “assets”.

Leaning on the counter had let me see enough definition through the thick nightshirt, to show that my butt was all right; I had hips, and I am black, so I’m not a total pancake ass; L.L.’ s butt, though had started with great potential, and all that running she did hadn’t hurt it. «She must do a lot of sprinting and weight-training, too.» I could feel a little frown sprout on my face, as I could see that my body would’ve been fine for gymnastics, if I’d ever gotten into it, but L.L. probably did some kind of sports year-long just to keep all of that from going to fat…I sighed, saying, “God, your butt is great.” I’ve always been a butt-man, and apparently, I was at least a butt-girl. Suddenly, I giggled again; I think I figured out why JoJo was so mean to L.L.; her butt was fabulous, and the meaner JoJo got to her, the more L.L. worked out, making it a vicious circle, one whose resentment was really biting JoJo in the butt! I laughed at me being the “butt” of my own joke, and how “old-JoJo” had worked to encourage what bugged her most.

“…you like my butt?” L.L. said skeptically. I just looked at her in the mirror…and raised one eyebrow. «I didn’t know I could do that…I wonder if I have to pluck those eyebrows…» L.L. was giving me that “you’re being strange” look again…and I started smiling. «Heh-heh, you have no idea how “strange” you’re gonna think I am. And, I’ll make you like it, too! » “Yes, I like your butt, you’ve worked hard for it, and it shows. Of course, I don’t love it as much as all the boys do, but I know quality when I see it.” L.L. snorted and nudged me with her elbow; I had to put my hand on the wall to keep from whacking it from the force. I just grinned more at my super-strong sister.

“They just look at me because they know I’m your sister,” L.L. scoffed.

Now I snorted. “They just look at you because you’re stacked like a plate of pancakes.” I rolled my eyes. She got a glint in hers. “No, you’re the one with the pancake ass…”

I made my mouth gape open, as if I could be mad at her. It helped me not to look like I was still grinning from ear-to-ear. “You did not just call me a pancake-ass!” I gave L.L. a playful swat on her fanny. Well I tried; she and her crazy athlete’s body just swung those awesome hips right out of the way…and right back over to “bump” me. I gave her a semi-serious whack…ow! It was like spanking the counter top; that damn butt was all muscle, not fair, not fair!

“Is that as hard as those puny muscles can hit?” she taunted, then poked me in the ribs. I let out a sharp “Eep!”; it seems I was ticklish there. She poked me again, and I “Eep!”’ed again. I poked her ribs…nothing. I tried her stomach…rock-hard abs, but no ticklish spot. I squelched the spike of envy I felt as touched those abs; «She worked her butt off for…well, I guess she worked her butt out for those abs, really. So, where is she ticklish, where? » I tried her hip joints, and — bingo! I was back in the contest!

“Truce,” L.L. offered, after getting me on both sides of my ribs. I used my smaller frame to advantage, crouching down to keep my traitorous ribs away from her, while giving her hips a few last good pokes before generously accepting her offer: “…okay, truce.” Both crouching, fingers wiggling like gunslingers, we then stood up straight — a shorter one who shall remain nameless, trying to stand a little straighter —and hugged again, my arms beside her breasts, and temple on her cheek bone. I felt such love for this sister-I’d-never-had, I wondered if I’d ever wake up, and a big part of me hoped I never would.

A minute or two of quiet, calming hugging later, L.L. asked a totally out-of-the-blue question: “JoJo, are you okay?” I felt a twinge of something, like she meant her question literally, not just as a turn of phrase. Not sure what the significance was, I just ignored it and murmured towards her ear, “I’ve never felt better.”

She shifted subtly, moving her arms down to trap mine against her ribs, and laced her fingers together behind my back. I could barely touch her back muscles, and she could likely just physically muscle my arms farther in and stop even that much touch; I was trapped, deliberately, and it sounded like L.L. was about to be serious again. I started to feel a little uneasy; serious meant referring to how we’d used to be, and I didn’t know anything about how we’d “used to be”; from my perspective, there was no “used to be” because I’ve never been in this situation before today. Her breasts were weighed heavily on the top of my chest; they were D’s, but her pecs gave them extra “oomph”, which my smaller (of course!) ones lacked. Mine were even more “pancakey” than my derriere. “…or not.” I lamely finished.

Ch 2: We Shall Overcome

I flicked the switch, did a little dance as I hiked up the nightshirt, and sat on the pot. Whew, I had a lot of pee to get rid of…

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. “What’s up with the door slam, JoJo?” JoJo? Hmm, I must still be dreaming, because:

1)      I’m getting called “JoJo”;

2)      Someone’s using what sounds like a higher-pitched version of my own voice …or maybe younger…to do it;

3)       The whole “I’m a girl” thing.

Putting on my best nonchalant voice, I explained, “Sorry, I just woke up and really had to pee. Nothing to see here…”, then I giggled. I covered my mouth with both hands; that giggle was definitely a hysterical one. «Why wasn’t I waking up, wasn’t getting questioned by someone with your own voice shock-you-awake weird enough? »

I hoped I didn’t wake up in a puddle from peeing in my sleep; maybe I’m sleep-peeing, while I’m at it. I tried to remember if I’d “tucked” myself to pee “hands-free” while sitting down, somewhat hesitant to check it directly…okay, no “tally whacker” there, but plenty of pee. I grabbed some toilet paper with my other hand, to wipe off my now damp hand, in addition to my finally-drained “nethers”. Then a couple more knocks and a girl’s voice saying “Coming in” changed up the equation.

The door opened, and while I got a two-second glance at what looked like a maybe thirteen-year-old version of…normal me…at the door, a huge Amazon of a girl walked in. I could tell she was big—and that I was not—because when I stood up, not bothering to flush, I noticed that I was about an inch or so shorter than the boy-who-looked-almost-like-I-did-five-years-ago, and the both of us were at least four inches shorter than this other girl. She almost didn’t even look like a girl; not just because she was so tall, but because she had the muscles and curves to match the height.

“Cool, you can remind her about taking you to practice yourself, L.L.,” the boy said, yawning. “I’m gonna get some more sleep, maybe pee later when it isn’t so noisy out here…nice to have you home, JoJo, even if college didn’t teach you how to close a door right.” He turned around and plodded back his room, apparently the left of the three open bedroom doors. Being delayed a couple of seconds letting “L.L.” by me to use the pot as well, I only caught a glimpse of a poster of a robot/plane thing on the wall next to the window, and some bunch of clothes scattered on the floor, before he quickly, but quietly, closed his door.

 I remembered that room more as “the room that we kept our books and old magazines in, that was supposed to one day be Dad’s den,” but obviously it wasn’t that, now. I gave a little head shake, and thought to myself, «Well, three bedrooms for three kids, that makes a lot more sense than just one kid, but still…»

Centered  and roughly four-and-a-half feet up on the door, was a hand-sized ceramic tile, with “B-4” printed, or rather painted, in four-inch high blue letters. I could see what looked like similar tiles on the other bedroom doors, but using pink letters instead of blue. Sure enough, mine said “JoJo”; I couldn’t see L.L.’s, though—convenient that I didn’t have to —but, I figured that it was just part of the dream. The peeing part bothered me, but everything else seemed too unreal; between peeing in a dream and feeling an empty bladder, and being a girl, I’ll take the dream-pee; waking up with soggy sheets isn’t impossible, and who knows, maybe I’ll need to pee later, and that’ll wake me.

As I stood in front of the sink-and-mirror to wash my hands, I went back to eyeballing the sullen girl, currently doing what I had, but doing it much more impressively in a pink tank top and a pair of blue panties, currently at her ankles. Her complexion was maybe a little darker than my “real” complexion. Her breasts were easily D’s, maybe even DD’s, and she had the shoulders and hips to make them look almost proportional. She was in phenomenal shape, sleek and powerful, without bulging – well, not any more than she ought to, I mean. Her face was almost exactly like Mom’s, but with a little of Dad’s length in it to keep her head from looking like a bowling ball on top of a tank. She wore her hair more like Mom does (did? I just now thought that maybe Mom and Dad’s looks might have changed, too…); wavy from relaxing treatment, long enough to frame her face, but not so long that it would take too much time to take care of, like it was as long as she could have it, without interfering with her sports stuff. Wondering what kind of practice she had, I thought about checking out her room…but of course I didn’t have my contacts in.

Suppressing a yawn myself, I wiped my hands, and prompted, “Practice?”

 “Yeah,” L.L. explained, as she finished, and flushed. “It’s choir and cross-country today, so I’ll be giving my lungs a good workout.” I stepped back to let her wash her hands if she wanted; instead, she just stood on the far side of the sink. Fascinated by having a sister— a beautiful and athletic sister, to boot— I just moved back to the sink, and leaned across the corner towards her. She got a funny look on her face and leaned back into the toilet tank.

I asked “What’s wrong?” Simultaneously, she asked, “What’s wrong with you?” Figuring it was because I was crowding her, I answered, “I can’t see, I don’t have my contacts in yet.”

“So why are you grinning at me like you want to bite me?”

I reached up and felt my face; yep, I was grinning like a loon. I can’t help it; I’m definitely one of those “wear your heart on your sleeve” types. I’d be a horrible poker player, if I ever tried it, I’m sure. Right now, I was so proud of this sister of mine, I could contain it. I didn’t want to bite her, but I sure wouldn’t mind kissing her so much she needed a towel. It seems that I was not acting as nonchalantly about her accomplishments as she was used to. That’s too bad, because until I could see how much of a pain I was to her, or her to me, I wanted to be her best friend…a sister!

 «Maybe that’s why I was a girl, ‘cause I’d always wanted a sister; my “imaginary friend” was a girl, and even when I wasn’t trying to be romantic, I liked hanging around them, even from an early age because I really like girls and always have. I like doing things with guys too, of course, but it’s more because whatever we’re doing is fun; girls are fun all by themselves. I’ve wondered what I’d look like as a girl, and now I’d find out. I also wondered if my tastes would change because I was one. I sure hoped it wouldn’t change so much that I didn’t appreciate my sister, though. »

I reached out and grabbed her right hand in both of mine. We were both shaking, but I was just excited while she was either scared of me or really angry. Her expression didn’t help, but I don’t think I cared. I tried to pull her hand to me, but just wound up pulling myself closer to her. “Have I told you how proud of you I am?”

“What are you playing at, JoJo? You’ve never been ‘proud of me’ and you know it!” L.L. seethed. Well, that remark wiped that grin off my face, replacing it with horror. “You can’t really think that, can you?” This was ridiculous; I think my dream-me was kind of a bitch…not impossible, but not nice to know. “No,” I protested, “Come here….” Feeling like a child, I reached up and put my palm on her cheek, which she flinched at and shrugged off. I kept at it and put my hand behind her head, snaked my other arm behind her waist, and hugged her. She stiffened at first, and for a moment it felt like she was going to just physically rip me off of her, but I held on, saying nothing, just hugging. After a few seconds, she stopped bristling; a little more time and she sagged, and hugged me back. Gingerly, at first, but the longer I held her, she figured I was asking for a real hug, and gave me one back, hard.  I think if it weren’t for her huge breasts, she could have broken some ribs. It was the best hug I’ve ever had. 

Ch 1: I Had a Dream…

Dread and darkness, I was filled with dread. I’d committed some horrible Sin, and the shame of it permeated my body, and my soul. Now, I was somewhere in the Outer Darkness, and the Angel of Vengeance was Watching, waiting for some sign of disrespect from me, in order to swing that huge flaming Sword, and give me the punishment I deserved. In desperation, I prayed: «Please, God, I know I’ve Failed you, I’ve been horrible, but I don’t want to die, not just yet, please, you’re a God of Mercy, as well as a God of Justice. Please, I know I don’t deserve Mercy, but I Need it, please…»

And then I woke up.

For a good five minutes, I kept Very Still, still feeling the horrid wave of dread and fear from the dream. Plus, I felt like that Angel might still be hanging around, waiting for one last chance to Teach me a Lesson. I hardly dared to breathe, I was so scared. After the five, the dream seemed done, and just that - a dream. I still felt unsettled, like something was wrong, but I felt that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to result in my head being chopped off, or someone else finding my eighteen-year-old body, dead from a heart attack. I opened my eyes – no Sword of Flame, just a nightstand with a lamp, a clock —reading 6:43 a.m. — and some plain white wall beyond it. I tried to see as far over my shoulder, without moving my head; still no angels, and no feeling of anyone lurking, even though there was still a feeling of something…not right. I peered around, just moving my head, but saw nothing but room…well, kind of. My eyesight’s pretty bad without glasses or contacts, so I just saw room-sized blur. It looked comforting, and felt comfortable, to be by myself.

I’d barely noticed what looked like a white shirt and blue shorts on the desk chair next to the bed, when I noticed a few things that were giving me that “there’s still something wrong” feeling I had. To start, I had a thick flannel nightshirt on, which was odd, but not too bad. It felt kind of snuggly good, actually, where I hadn’t warmed up the sheets. It was kind of a weird choice for sleeping in my own bed, though. I hadn’t worn a nightshirt to bed since I was twelve, except for sleepovers or summer camp. My mom still wore one when it wasn’t too hot, so I guess it made sense for me to have one as well; I just couldn’t figure out why I was wearing one. Plus, being six feet tall and two hundred pounds, I need something more like a flannel robe than a shirt…which was odd, since it felt like a normal-sized shirt. If anything, I felt like I was smaller. The more unsettling issue I had was this: I needed to pee, pretty urgently. As annoying as it was, it was quickly overshadowed by the blatant impossibility that I did not have my normal “equipment” to take care of the issue. As a reflex, whenever I wake up needing to pee, I give a flex of my pubococcyx, or PC muscle. My reflex was intact…but that seemed the only part of it that was. Well, I still had a PC muscle, but it was flexing alone.

I catapult-roused from bed, and noticed more things:

1. I was in my “old room”, in the house I grew up while my parents were still married, instead of the apartment my mom and I lived in, and have for a couple of years;
2. The mirror showed something odd:
1. Because I was in my old room, my furniture was arranged for it, instead of for the apartment bedroom, nearly half its size;
2. My old room had my dresser/mirror on the wall opposite to my bed, to reflect light from the window; because the apartment was so small, my dresser was normally underneath the window, but the mirror itself sat in my closet.
3. Now, I said my eyesight is bad, but it’s still good enough with colors. For example, while all of the furniture was dark brown walnut, the room itself seemed decorated in various shades of white, tan and gold. The room’s décor seemed to also extend to me; I noticed that I was not only a girl, but apparently a white girl, or a “café au lait” in skin tone.

I gasped, blinked…and did not wake from the dream-within-a-dream, as I expected. However, I still really needed to pee. I probably would have sat there, or gotten closer to my dresser mirror if it were not for my now one-sphincter-short bladder. As it was, I still wasted a good minute or two trying to make sense of how getting a second chance involved being female, before by bladder informed me that in some things, there were no second chances. I leaped up, bolted for the door, flung it open, leaped the three feet into the bathroom and slammed the door. Ooh, I probably shouldn’t have slammed the door that loud, but did I mention I really needed to pee?

I Give you "The Gift"

I read a webcomic called Misfile, and frequent the fan forum for it, where I stumbled over the writings of the talented Russ Gold. Russ wrote an interesting webfic called "Take a Lemon" which, while not derived from Misfile, has a Gender Bender theme. One of Russ' reader fans had stylistic issues with Russ' story choices, and wrote his own version, Scrabbled.

They both inspired me to do my own version, which I have entitled "The Gift." I offer it here for your perusal and amusement.

Old Ones' Cattle Call

Just reminiscing looking at my library, and L Neil Smith's "Forge of the Elders" caught my eye - a fun book, about aliens spying on Earth...aliens that actually came from Earth!

Well, as part of the fun, the action leaves off with the American Apparatchiki (the US has, in another irresistable imitation of European impulses, decades too late, become a Socialist republic) politically and economically compromised, and possibly preparing to start yet another revolution in "the land of the free". It reminded me of a bunch of dumb, silly word plays on the idea of a cabal of behind-the-scenes cultists led by an effective Eldritch Abomination. Then I realized how silly it was of me to think of all this, and not put it on my blog, which after all, exists more to hold things like this, than for you to read and enjoy it....

So, here is my list of punny story titles involving mind-crushing Ancient Horrors.

First off, the idea I got for a sequel to "Forge of the Elders", where the Americans subvert the stock market so that "Mister Thoggosh" can control the World Economy -- "Margin Call of Cthulhu"
Or if Mister Thoggosh just gives his opinion of the Socialist State to the people: "Cat Call of Cthulhu".
Maybe he'll take over the telecom system, then it'd be "Phone Call of Cthulhu!"
If he doesn't take it over, but just disrupts its effectiveness, it'd be "Crank Call of Cthulhu"
What if Mister Thoggosh ran a bar? Then we'd certainly have the "Last Call of Cthulhu"
He could restore the planet's avian population using a "Bird Call of Cthulhu".

Oh, and we can't forget that suggestive blog title, now can we?
If Mister Thoggosh takes over Hollywood (or Bollywood, if the former isn't devoted enough to propaganda to have survived), he can open auditions in a "Cattle Call of Cthulhu"!

Yeah, it's corny...I'm glad you read this far, though, thanks! ;)

Racist Pigs

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

It's both amusing and horrific - the very forces against which our current Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace are waged, were empowered by our leaders, in the name of fighting the prior PWfPP (notice how no one uses the phrase "freedom fighter" any more). It's sad how, thoroughly demoralized by caving in to moral pressure from every hooligan with a grudge, those of our "greatest generation" - you know, the ones that helped bring Hitler and Stalin to power, then had to turn the US into a Fascist war camp (with our own concentration camps!) in order to fight...Fascism!

Also, isn't it weird, how every time a Republican or other "conservative" objects to the forceful shoving of US society further in the direction of socialism, they are always accused of being racist? As if these people weren't complaining about the socialist policies for the past sixty years? As if their political opponents weren't themselves racist in approving of policies they would never agree to enact...if some white male were pushing it? Remember, Clinton was more popular for "acting black" than he ever was for his socialist policies.

It just seems to me, that the US, government and society, are doing some gigantic reenactment of the Titanic, and fighting over how the deck chairs are being placed, and steering farther north and away from safe harbor, while the whole ship is sinking.

Time to break out the life preservers...

A Perspective on Self-Foolery

It is an interesting comment on the state of the human heart, that a person who has a personally effective religious experience is said to have "found God" even though by all rights, God is not the one who was lost.