You've just given yourself a new voice mail greeting

"No, not my voice mail greeting!" you exclaim, jolting upwards with enough **** to tip the bucket. For a long moment you balance precariously on two wheels, your feet and hands flailing in the air. Then the bucket tips, spilling oil, water, and you on to the floor.

With a gasp you land tit-first on the ground, your improbably firm and large mammaries crushing into the cold tile floor, followed by the rest of your slender body.

After a long dazed moment of feeling the oil soak into your front you roll over with a groan, followed by a few unladylike words as you feel the oily water saturate your hair and the back of your clothes.

"Dammit," you mutter, bringing a long-nailed hand to your eyes. Rubbing at the cum with oily hands proves a mistake, only serving to smear your make-up and spread the sperm around your face.

A moment later you stare at the hand. The phone. Where is the phone? With a groan you roll back over, your disproportionately large breasts squishing beneath you again. Spotting a slim dark shape you lunge forward, bouncing atop those babies that conveniently went from an A-cup to a D-cup over the course of a California summer, just enough to beat-out your chief rival, who'd tormented you for years about how small you were. Co-incidentally your lips achieved a nice plumpness the boys promptly - to your irritation - labelled cock-sucking lips.

"What? Why aren't you showing anything? Turn on!" you tell the machine, but apparently it has no idea who you are as it stubbornly disobeys your order and remains black and silent. Turning it over, like maybe there's a wind-up key on the other side that you'd somehow missed up until now, you can't figure out why it won't turn on. You press every button twice, hold them for several seconds, but it remains black. Dimly it occurs to you that maybe the water pouring onto it had something to do with its non-responsive state.

"Well that's a relief. At least then it won't play the message," you tell yourself, and spend fifteen long seconds trying to get to your feet. Your heels don't help, but thanks to years of dance training your your agile (and flexible) ballerina-like body finds its balance, weathering several attempts by your shoes to make a break for it.

"Unless..." you frown, staring down at the phone. "Nah. The phone's dead. How could anyone hear the message on it, even if it is my voice mail message."

You ponder the puzzle, trying to recall how phone messages work, but draw a blank. Maybe you should grab one of the nerds. There's bound to be some around. Frowning, you come up with a vague recollection of empty spaces wandering through the school - well, not empty spaces, but your mind quickly diagnosed the person as being unworthy of your attention and simply deleted them from memory and notice.

"Wait a minute!" you try to snap your fingers, achieving a whooshing sound, and your long, slim body wobbles uncertainly as you try to make it to the door. "I can use someone else's phone to call mine and listen to the message if it's there. Brilliant!"

Smiling at the thought you reach toward the door, then stop, looking down at yourself.

"Disgusting. I'd never live it down if anyone saw me like this, and my room-mate," you shudder at the thought.

Facing a dilemma of what to do first you decide...