AUTHOR'S NOTE: - This story is a left-handed tribute of
(translation - outright theft from) the incomparable 'Callahan'
stories by Mr. Spider Robinson. If you have not had the pleasure
of reading any of this series, than, not only will you not get
some of the 'in' jokes in this story, but you are a depraved -
oh, excuse me, DEPRIVED individual.
(Now that my ranting is done with, on with the story...)
It was Punday at Houlihan's.
Not that puns aren't welcome any time - they are. But this was the official Punday, the one on which the best - or worst - pun of the night got their bar tab for the night paid by Matt Houlihan himself. Of course, it also generated a lot of money, what with the oh-so-confident contenders drinking like fish, sure of their own abilities to win.
Like me. I was nursing a Perrier, because I had already dropped nearly a C-note on Houlihan's finest Scotch before running out of worth-while materiel. It was worth the price of admission to hear old Doc Oxford-English in full form again, though. He'd been a little off during the past month or so (which was why I thought I had a chance in the first place), but he was in full gallop tonight. He was nearing the end of a long, convoluted story about a scientist who travels back in time to establish an education fund to send his two boys through medical school - thus creating a pair o' docs.
There was a universal groan of dismayed approval - or approved dismay - and good old Doc took his bows, challenging someone to top that. There was some hemming and hawing over which lamb would be next to the slaughter, so I decided to splurge and order a beer from Houlihan.
Turning, I found the red-haired son of the sod down at the other end of the bar, subtly shouting for attention with his eyebrows.
Casually, I picked up my glass and strolled towards the end of the bar. There was no doubt as to why Matt's bushy eyebrows were doing the fandango. Under the wonderful diversion that Doc had unwittingly created, the young woman wad slipped in, unseen by anyone but Matt, and parked herself at the end stool and set to work seriously depleting a large bottle of Matt's foulest Scotch.
As I approached, I looked her over. I'm a long tall drink of water myself, but the young lady in question must have topped me by a good two inches, not including her four inch heels. She had legs that went all the way up, and then some, and a barely-there waist. She was slim all over, with a small, firm bust, without appearing awkward or gangly. She was dressed to the nines - or maybe even the tens - in a 'little black dress' so simply elegant and elegantly simple that it must have cost the better part of a G-spot.
She had a face that a fashion model would have paid a fortune for - high cheeks, full mouth, pert nose, and the largest, darkest, most expressive eyes I have ever seen. I think 'Doe- eyed' was coined to define this woman's eyes.
And right now, they were the eyes of Bambi after her mother died. I slid onto the stool beside her.
"Hi." Said I, feeling my way into the conversation. I was trying for the sort of trustworthiness that the late Jimmy Stewart seemed to exude.
"Not yet." She said in a voice utterly devoid of emotion, a flatness that almost hid her Aussie twang.
It being Punday, my brain was already in 'double meaning' mode, so I caught that one on the first take. It appeared that this was going to be a little tougher.
"They say Misery loves Company. Care for some?" I tried, trying to balance humor and sympathy.
"Whatever."
Another bi-syllable response. A conversation could last all night at this rate. The only problem was, it didn't look like she would. I tried one last circumspect method.
"I'm Jack Bonestender. And you are...?" I said, sliding in the stool beside her.
"Not Interested." She said, refilling her glass.
Hmm. I sighed. Wincing, I pulled out my wallet. "A bottle of the Shennessy's, Matt" I said, seeing the better part of another hundred heading into Matt's till.
He brought the bottle, blowing the dust from it. Which was an affectation - he put the dust on the bottles himself when he uncrated them. Still, it was the finest 14 year old Scotch to be had, and with each bottle's label being hand made, the dust kind of fit in, and Matt was always big on the dramatics.
He's also big in other ways. He slid the bottle and glass over to me - then repeated the motion with my C-note, giving a slow, serious wink. I nodded slightly.
The woman was about to pour yet another refill, and I had to act fast. Now, I'm not all that fast, but I am damned quick, so I got the Shennessy into her glass before she could pour more of her Scotch in.
Even that didn't work. Without so much as a facial tic, she poured her Scotch in too, filling the water glass she was using to the brim. I winced.
"All right." I said, a trifle loud, and mentally winced at the subtle change in the sound of the Harpsichord in the corner. "I guess it's worth a headache. What's the problem lady?"
She was going to ignore me again - but, out of nowhere, Slow Freddie appeared, hovering behind me, looking deceptively placid.
"Dis guy bodderin ya, miss?" Freddie asked in a voice that seemed to come from his size fourteen boots, echo around in his massive barrel chest for awhile, then finally emerge from below the disreputable mass that he called a mustache.
Now, she might ignore me - but nobody ignores Slow Freddie. Freddie was nicknamed 'slow' for the same reason bald guys are called 'Curly' - Freddie was so massive that it seemed more likely that Mount Everest would get up and walk away then Freddie would. Yet, Freddie was so damned fast, that nobody actually ever saw him move. He was in one place, you blinked - and he was somewhere else.
So, the woman blinked blearily and looked up. "Does it matter?"
Freddie sounded apologetic. "Fraid so, miz. See, if he isn't, den everting's okay-dokey. But, if he is, I gotta clobber him upside de head a coupla dozen times, den chuck him out on his ear." He shrugged. "It's policy here, and Jack knows it. Sumbidy aks a snoopy question, I gotta rough him up, see?"
Freddie's accent is so perfectly Brooklyn, the New York Tourism Agency has to pay him royalties whenever anyone else uses it. It took the Aussie several seconds to work that one out.
Finally, to my great relief, she sighed. "Hell, no - he's not bothering me. If he really wants to hear the story, why the hell not? What does it matter?"
I had to work hard not to recoil from that bitterness. At this close range, it was palatable, like Mustard Gas.
"My name's Sheila - Sheila Bodecia. I am - or was trying to be - a model in New York." She snorted. "But, I was 'too perfect' - too slender, too tall, too leggy..." She trailed off, downing another Scotch - the Shennesy's I noticed. I took the pause to gulp my own.
"Then, out of a job, I go home - and my fiance is waiting with some news." She said, angrily. "He'd 'tried really hard' because he loves me - but he's always had an obsession with big tits - owns a ton of those Magazines - and he just can't live married to a wife that's 'as flat as a board'." She gestured down at her own, A-cup endowments. "So, no job, no income, no place to live, and no boyfriend." She took another slug of Scotch, and I matched her, wracking my brains for something to say. I could see the others doing the same.
Surprisingly, it was Freddie's contra-baritone that sounded - hesitantly.
"Uh - miz? Maybes I can help."
Everyone turned to look at him in surprise.
Embarrassed, he shifted his unlovely mug to Matt. "I... uh, Ise been holdin' out on youse guys, Matt."
"Oh?" Matt asked, bushy red brows climbing.
"Yeah." Freddie said, pointing to the cheap Scotch in front of Sheila. "Watch dis."
We all stared at the bottle - which, suddenly, wasn't there. Confused the crowd looked around, and spotted the bottle half- way down the bar.
I keep it quiet, but I like reading Sci-Fi, so I was probably the first one to get it.
"Teleportation!" I yelped.
"Yeah." Freddie admitted, shame-faced. "Dat's how I moves so fast, see?"
rooba, Rooba, ROOBA!
After the group quieted down and stopped gaping at Freddie, I snuck a quick look at Sheila. Us regulars of Houlihan's were used to things like this, but I wanted to see how she'd handle it.
After that much Scotch, it barely fazed her. "So?" she asked. "How's that help?"
"Well..." Freddie said, slowly. "If somebody don't mind loosin' some weight I could, kinda, put that weight in yer, uh, hooters." Freddie said, delicately.
Sheila's jaw dropped.
Doc Oxford-English pushed his way to the fore-front. "I, for one, would be most willing to donate," he said jovially, patting his impressive paunch.
Doc was fat. Not Big-Boned (Doc said euphemisms were for the 'differently brained'), and one of those cheerful fat men you hear about. But, for a good cause, like this, he was willing.
"You... you really mean it?" Sheila asked, hesitantly.
Freddie nodded. "Sure. And, I figures dat wid bigger, um, knockers, den maybe you can get a job in dose mags dat yer boyfriend likes. I hears dey pay good."
Sheila blinked. "Please...?" she asked in a small voice.
Freddie's face twisted as he concentrated, and all us watching had to decide what to watch - her bosom, or Doc's waist. Eighty percent - including all the guys - settled on Sheila's tits.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, the silk covering her small bust began to ripple, pushed out from behind.
The rippling didn't last long. Sheila gasped as the sheer fabric drew taut over her tits which were definitely growing. I may not be an expert, but they must have been a healthy C-cup at this point, the black silk drawn tight over her firm tits, and her nipples, which were also swelling in size, rapidly becoming erect - which was extremely noticeable, since she wasn't wearing a bra.
Her tits continued to swell, and her hands flew to them. The sensation must have been pleasurable, as she closed her eyes and moaned softly.
By now, the fabric was straining to contain her DD-cup endowments. The pressure was forcing the masses upwards, and the hint of cleavage that had shown originally was now a chasm as her breasts began to spill over the top of her dress.
But the pressure was building, and only so much could go over the top. Sheila's gasps of pleasure were interspersed with ones of pain as the pressure built, and she tried to pull the top of the dress down, but the fabric was too taut to move.
Then, with a soft sound, the seams on the side of the dress began to go. Starting under each armpit, the thread began to stretch, revealing strips of milky white flesh.
Then, with double 'twangs', the over-stressed thread gave way - and the dress burst apart like somebody had stuffed C-4 down it.
Instantly, her new EEE-cup tits dropped slightly as the constraining fabric fell way. They jiggled slightly, but remained amazingly firm despite their size. Her nipples, as long and thick as my thumbs, thrust proudly from her small, dark aureole - until her hands covered them, hiding them from sight.
And still they grew. She had to stretch her arms further to continue playing with her nipples as her massive, spherical tits swelled under her hands. They passed FFF and GGG, heading deeper into the alphabet.
I think I was the first to notice the other changes. How I pulled my eyes from her expanding chest, I'll never know, but I found myself watching her slowly sitting differently on the stool as her ass became fuller, retaining it's firmness to become a perfect 'teardrop' shape.
I also saw her lips becoming fuller, softer, more sensual...
...and since my eyes were looking in that general direction, they slid downwards...
Her tits were now, literally, sitting on her lap. They'd lost some of that spherical perfection, but were still amazingly firm, considering that she had to be something like an MMM-cup by now. Her nipples seemed to have fallen behind, having only reached the thickness and length of the neck of a beer-bottle.
"Stop...." a voice wheezed. There was no reaction from anyone else, but I blinked and looked around...
...at Doc Oxford-English.
He was desperately trying to hold up his pants with both hands. He was slimmer than I had ever seen him, actually on the slender side - and getting slimmer every second...
Without a second thought I kicked Freddie in the shin, and he snapped out of the trance - as did everyone else as Sheila's immense tits finally came to rest at an unbelievable VVVV-cup, looking like two immense, flesh-colored garbage bags full of feather pillows hanging from her chest. She blinked, and looked down at her vast expanse of tit-flesh in surprise.
Quickly Doc was guided to a stool. He was staring at Sheila in shocked amazement. "My God! I must have lost a hundred and fifty pounds - and it's all right... there!" He pointed at Sheila's immense new tits.
"Not all..." I said, and pointed out the other changes to her body. She was staring at herself in amazement in the mirror behind the bar.
"I'm sorry." Freddie said. "I guess I kinda overdid it."
"No..." Sheila breathed, sliding her hands over the silky, creamy skin of her imagination-defying tits. "I love them..."
Then she tried to stand. And failed completely. She had weighed one twenty, tops, when she came in - and now was easily twice that. Her musculature wasn't made for moving that weight about.
She began to cry. "You bastard!" She sobbed at Freddie. "You gave my what I wanted - and it's useless!"
"Wait, wait!" Freddie pleaded. "Gimme a sec." And he closed his eyes and concentrated.
Everybody watched breathlessly.
Slowly, Freddie's massive musculature began to diminish. At the same time, Sheila's began to change - but only in selected places.
Her black nylons began to writhe as the legs under it began to change. Her long, slender legs began to become more shapely as they gained muscle mass and tone without becoming any less feminine. In fact, they became - at least to me - even sexier, acquiring the toned, shapely look that I call 'dancer's legs'.
Since her dress hung around her waist, we could also see the muscles of her back expanding, to allow her to move her massive new tits around. Her ass became even fuller and firmer as more muscle was added under the delightful padding of her ass.
Minutes later, a depleted Freddie relaxed with a smile, and Sheila rose from the stool, causing her shredded dress to slide down around her feet.
She was a sexual vision. Long, shapely, sexy legs led up to womanly hips that supported a firm, shapely ass before it narrowed into an amazingly slender waist.
That waist was in the shadow of her immense new tits. Freddie had added more muscle behind them, as well, and they had once more become nearly spherical, defying gravity - and the imagination - as they thrust proudly from her chest, her immense nipples topping them.
"My God..." she whispered, looking her mirror image over with a stunned smile. Turning she pressed herself against Freddie, having to crush her enormous tits against his chest to get close enough to kiss him in gratitude.
"Yer welcome." Freddie said, blushing furiously. From the look in some of the female patron's eyes, I thought he might be busy 'shifting' weight for a bit.
We managed to find something for Sheila to wear home - a pair of track pants and, on anyone else, a baggy sweatshirt. On her, it barely covered her thick, long nipples.
She bought a round for the house, and stayed for about an hour to dance with some of the guys who asked. Matt had to dig up some 'slow' songs, as everybody wanted to dance 'cheek-to- cheek' with her. Not that that was possible - it was chest to chest, which was kind of the idea in the first place.
Promising to come back soon, she jiggled and swayed out to her car - and then kept her promise by jiggling and swaying back in.
It seems that she won't be driving until she can earn enough money for a custom-made car...
As Slow Freddie gave her a lift home, Doc Oxford-English - also dressed in donated clothes that would fit his now positively trim figure - mused out loud.
"What do you thinks the odds of that were?" He asked to the room at large. "Her, with her particular problem, happening to pick this place - and Freddie having a talent to help. It's one of the weirder ones, even for this place."
There was a murmur of agreement - and a light-bulb went on in my head.
"Oh, I don't know," I replied airily. "I thought the whole thing was one of the more logical things that's happened in this place."
Doc Oxford-English was the one that bit, God bless his moribund heart. "Oh? How so?" He asked warily.
Putting my heart and soul into nailing an Aussie accent, I replied. "Well, mates, where else but a bar would a gal go for a BE'er?"
There was a second's shocked silence, then a collective moan went up, and I became the target for every peanut, pretzel and liquid within arm's reach.
But I didn't have to pay my bar tab that night.