Ashley Price, Abundantly Blessed Spooky Girl

The world snaps back into existence with you still in the middle of your last-ditch effort to stop your mother from drinking your sorcerous breast milk. Namely, chucking the plastic DVD case of Face Taker at her like a throwing star in the vain hope that you can somehow shatter the bottle. It was a bad idea, yes, and a stupid one, but don't feel too bad. No one ever expects a parent to start guzzling down their bewitched titty cream, so it isn't as if you'd had a contingency in place. And besides, the simple fact that the case and your mother have both apparently vanished means that no harm came from your misguided attempts at home entertainment based ninjutsu.

Or perhaps more accurately it is you who has vanished, because you are absolutely not in your aunt's pool house anymore.

The floor is all exposed black oak, perfectly matched by dark Victorian patterned wallpaper and elegant mulberry-colored drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows framing the bed. And what a fucking bed! Having shared a particularly uncomfortable futon with your mother for the past year might make you a bit of a soft mark, but one look at that king-sized with its thick black duvet, luxurious plum-colored pillows and ostentatiously carved headboard and you're in love. You reach out to touch the linens and can't help shivering in bliss; it'd be like sleeping in a spooky pudding.

You look around and goggle, a new delight at every turn. One wall is filled to the rafters with records, the plush leather armchair and intensely expensive looking turntable sweetly inviting you to sink in and destroy your eardrums like the musicians intended. A cracked door reveals an attached bath with a massive clawfoot bathtub and more candles than you thought had been produced by mankind. You push open the big sliding doors that probably once led to a walk-in closet but now house a full goddamn piano atop an imitation bearskin rug. Christ but is that a decorating power-move.

And as you continue to gawp at your sumptuous surroundings, it doesn't escape you that you've spotted more than a few things that are yours. Those are your boots set down by the door frame. That creased cover could only make that your copy of Wuthering Heights on the bedside table. That's your bookbag dropped next to the fuck is that a full-on FIREPLACE?!

This is your room. You have a pretty good guess on the 'How', but as for the five W's you have no fucking idea.

Look, this is the single greatest room you've ever been in, and you never want to leave it. But you've gotta get out of here. You've got to look for your mom, who for all you know exploded to power the magic that made this room or some other freaky shit. You've gotta......

You've gotta take a closer look at yourself in that mirror, because something is definitely off. And yes, that's even accepting "Is A Girl" as the baseline now.

Inching cautiously towards your reflection in the ornate dressing mirror, you start with the obvious and easy-ish to explain. Namely, you've been slipped into a vintage Bauhaus shirt. Okay, so that's fine; "Bela Legosi's Dead" is sick as hell, and you wear that Banshees shirt too often anyway. After that things get a bit less easy to swallow, because as far as you can tell your body is actually shifting in real time. Sort of? You're the same girl that you were before, but before your astonished eyes you see that girl transform into what can only be called a profoundly well cared for version of herself.

Your delicately pale skin is softly lustrous and immaculate; you could probably cure someone else's acne by pressing your forehead against theirs. Your teeth are straighter and whiter than any you've seen outside of a cartoon or something. You lift up your shirt a bit to press your fingers into your stomach, finding your previously normal tummy to be that combination of sleek and toned that could only be the providence of magic, a benevolent God or some sort of latent mutant ability. Are those goddamn abs forming?!

You manage to wrench your eyes away from your sculpted physique just in time to witness the final changes to your visage, already changed once today and shifting even further away from Boy You. You stare dumbly into the face of the same pleasantly tomboyish girl you'd become, but with so many minute changes and baseline improvements that she's become something far more.

You were cute before, but now? Fucking Christ. You'd better watch out, because you look like Freddie Prinze, Jr is about to walk in here, put some glasses on you, then take them off and declare you Beautiful.

You're so distracted by your face that the growing heat in your chest creeps up on you unnoticed. It isn't until your nipples begin to throb and that heat blossoms into actual physical pressure that you look down and are presented with the rare sight of your own breasts growing inexorably larger, plumping out fatter and rounder with every passing moment. Your hands shoot up to cup the undersides of your swelling boobs, which are rapidly passing the strata of 'big' and into the rarefied air of 'fucking big'. More and more of your taut belly is exposed by your over-taxed shirt's **** attempts to find room for the tits that are already overflowing your petite hands.

Before too long they completely spill from your grasp, wobbling prodigiously about your slender chest. The growth has begun slowing when the neck of your shirt abruptly splits down the middle into a makeshift v-neck, enough gorgeous milky cleavage mushrooming between 'BAU' and 'HAUS' to bring Bela Legosi the fuck back to life and then kill him all over again.

You're left starting dumbfounded at the reflection of an otherwise elfin goth girl with maybe the biggest rack you've ever seen, ponderously round and weighty yet counterbalanced by a delightfully youthful pertness. You're on the right side of being a big-boobed girl rather than big boobs with a girl attached, but not by all that much. Almost as a final flourish, the bra that you definitely need at this point pops merrily into your hands, black and lacy with cups that to your eyes are astonishingly huge.

All this, you wonder as you stare into your long line of temptingly deep cleavage, and you didn't even drink the fucking milk. You have to find your mom and you have to get a handle on this, because you don't know how many life-upending alterations you can take.

......but first you're going to put this bra on, because these tits are fucking heavy.