Stay with Megan

Megan lay there in the dark, empty classroom for what felt like hours. She was terrified. Left in paralysis, clueless as to what had been written on her, wondering if she’d ever be able to move again, endlessly frustrated that she let such a powerful tool slip through her fingers. Even worse, she had delivered it to one of the cruelest minds in the school.

One thing was certain, Stacey hadn’t fixed her. It felt as though two sleeping dogs sat sloping off each side of her chest, the discomforting weight only exceeded by the foreignness of the sensation. That bitch, she screamed internally, wondering if anyone would hear her scream externally again. Compared to being locked in her own body, big boobs didn’t seem that bad. But if they were still growing, she’d be immobile all the same. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the weight on her chest wasn’t growing heavier.

Weirdly enough, Megan took hope from how much pleasure Stacey seemed to take in devising her scribbles across her body and feet. Surely, the bitch wouldn’t spend so long excitedly plotting permanently paralysing someone. This couldn’t be Megan’s fate, surely not.

And then, suddenly, all at once Megan spasmed and roared to life!

She kicked and swiped, gasped and squeaked in relief. Grateful for a second chance at autonomy. Such was the torment that she almost felt grateful to Stacey! Her captor’s mercy was immediately dubious when Megan’s attempt to stand triggered memories of gym class, being **** to do crunches with a medicine ball. She wasn’t able with one, now she had two.

When her body got to her bare feet, she remembered the next crisis: Stacey’s penmanship.

She awkwardly bent to get a look at her foot, first over her shoulder and kicking her heel up, but the writing was too small, she grabbed her foot and leaned forwards but her boobs were either in the way or throwing her balance off. Eventually, sitting in a chair, she could get a decent look at the soles of her feet.

Although the writing was big enough to read, Megan still squinted in confusion. There was a sense of dread in her stomach, but she couldn’t place why. The feeling that Stacey had outsmarted her maybe. The reason being that Megan could only see unintelligible symbols, if you could call them that. Had Stacey really wasted such a golden opportunity childishly doodling on Megan’s feet? Did the symbols mean anything? If they were drawings, they weren’t very good. On one foot were tall lines like a city skyline, interspersed with creatures half their size. On the other foot, a much longer sequence like a tapestry, but with spaces. Maybe it was Stacey just messing with her? Wanting her to drive herself crazy with her own fears while she wrote nothing at all?

With an exhausted smile, she sighed

“thank my tits!”

She froze solid, this time voluntarily.

“My tits?”

“My tits are not what I want to say”

“My tits are fucking tits. My fucking tits!”

Then she remembered. She hefted a breast in each hand and peered under, only to feel that same foreboding reaction in her stomach. There in big black ink: more nonsense.

It was then that Megan, dazed, still holding a boob in each hand, slowly span scanning the walls of the classroom with increasing panic. When she finally turned, a tear in her eye, to see more alien symbols on the board, Megan wailed:

“My tits can’t read!”