CONTENT WARNING: The text below is, by its intent, explicit in nature. It is unrated and for mature audiences only. This is neither intended nor suitable for any minors, nor adults that do not want to be exposed to descriptions of non-realistic sexual intercourse in a fantasy setting. It is your own choice and responsibility if you continue reading. 

I’ll break it down for those hard of understanding:

Non-realistic — The things described herein do not work in the real world. Not At All! And by that, I mean “not at all”. Just like you can’t turn a frog into a prince, there’s no way to turn the plain maid into a big-chested princess by blowing her up. You’ll just end up with pieces of dead plain maid all over the room. So, don’t even for a second think about it. I can’t believe I’m actually writing this. It’s like having to say, “hey, you know, broomsticks don’t really fly, so you better not grab one and jump out the window, m’kay?” Are there really people that stupid out there? Gosh, I hope I never meet one of those.

Sexual intercourse — Two or more people of the same or different sex and legal age, doing teh nastay together. Ask yourself, and be honest: Do You Want To Read About That? Should you read about that? Are you legally entitled to read that? If “No”, then What Are You Doing Here? 

Fantasy setting — Far, far away in a mirror universe. Faery tale. Magic. Wizardry. Totally made up. Out of this world. In other words, restating the obvious: Do Not Try This At Home!

Connie’s Weed, Part 1 — Blooming Bosoms

by

Paul Gerard (a pen name)

Biology student Cornelia “Connie” Prince rediscovers an old secret, and Marge, her feisty kinda-sorta BFF, soon learns that the shy, bookish girl carries quite a lot of baggage…

First Draft, started October 2008

Spellchecked: mostly by computer.

Proof-reading: kindly provided by Apple (not the company!)

Obscure musical reference:

“Your poison / running through my veins …” — Alice Cooper, Poison

Altaerna – a world, where the laws of reality may become mere guidelines at any given time, where magic and machinery are intertwined, where all those things creeping in the shadows of fantasy may step forward onto the mind’s stage.

Apart from that, it’s not so different from ours. This story unfolds in a time close to our own.

Chapter 1: Prelude

The subdued clearing of a female throat reverberated through the silence in the tall biology hall of the university’s museum and made the attendant at the desk raise his head. The girl’s posture was as meek and uneasy as her voice sounded.

“Uh, Mister, sorry, didn’t want to disturb you, but don’t you think that showcase is too small for the plant over there? It seems pretty fragile, and I was just wondering…”

He measured up the nervous young woman in the worn jeans and oversized sweater that hung like a wet blanket on her slim and tall frame. She obviously had strayed from the small flock of students gathering around the new exhibit. He sighed, lifted his considerable weight from his office chair, and followed her over. Even a cursory glance revealed that the glass box and its contents hadn’t changed since his shift had started. He looked at the girl with a total lack of comprehension.

“I’m sorry? It’s got plenty room.”

“But the blossom is all but squeezed against the glass, there, don’t you see?” she insisted uneasily, clutching her notepad to the vague possibility of breasts on her chest while brushing her long, straight, ash-blond hair from her face.

“Blossom? What bloss—” He stooped to check again, but moments later straightened up and looked at the whole group of twenty-something students. “Oh right. Har har. Miss, aren’t you too old to pull a childish trick like that? Seriously.” He shook his head and walked back to his desk, muttering under his breath.

“What the hell, Connie?” Pearl slapped the back of the gal’s head with her flat hand and sent Cornelia’s strawy, blond hair flying. “You high or what? Gosh, you’re such an embarrassment! Get yourself a pair of glasses, blind mole.” She angrily readjusted her clothes around her own impressive rack. The sudden move and subsequent swinging had caused undue wrinkles in the cloth and disturbed her flawless appearance, and that was something she tolerated about just as well as being seen with embarrassing people.

“But it’s — wait, you can’t see it either?”

“You can’t see it either?” the curvy, tall brunette mocked her while she reflexively pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her palm clean of any traces of nerd she might’ve caught from Connie. She leaned in and hissed, “See what? That stupid weed? If I didn’t need these last few points to make it, I wouldn’t be bumming around here at all! Some of us have to work hard to earn their grades and don’t have time to play pranks, you dweeb!”

The other girls hesitated but for a moment, then they slowly sided with their undeclared leader and cast equally annoyed glances at Connie. Even Marge, the closest thing to a best friend that she had, just shrugged and shook her head. Connie gulped, then she put her arms akimbo and straightened up, spitting the words of her frustration boiling over straight into Pearl’s shocked face:

“Yeah, right. That’s rich, coming from someone whose weekly coiffeur bill could pay my groceries for a whole month, you arrogant, self-righteous bitch! I’ve earned my marks, I don’t get them because daddy’s a big donor! I’m not the one with a personal career coach or a cozy board member seat waiting in daddy’s company! I’m not the one who just plays the student in between executive breakfast and dinner party! You know you’ll make the grade, it’s just a matter of A or B, right? Would it kill you if for once you’d be less than perfect?” She grabbed the sleeve of Pearl’s twin set. “Ooh, I’m so sorry for being an eyesore to you. Not! Look at you! You’re the only one here whose duds cost more than the tuition fee! You think I’m an embarrassment? Well, I get sick every time I see you in another of your ‘street chic girl student’ performances!”

At least that’s what Connie wished she’d said and done, later on, in the solitude of her bed. In reality, she once again did what she did best: she blushed and fell silent. 

When the study group left the room, she looked back over her shoulder. There it was, a fragile stem carrying a flower with bright white, almost glowing petals. She saw it, plain as day.

“Connie! Hey, Connie! Over here! Hurry up!”

Marge waited by the tall wooden doors in the museum’s lobby and waved to her. The rest of the group had dispersed already. The short raven laid her arm around Connie’s narrow shoulders, gave her a quick shake and smiled.

“You okay? Haven’t seen Popular Pearl snap into instant asshat mode like that for quite a while. Then again, you gotta admit you’ve been acting a little weird in there.”

A shy smile crept on Connie’s face. Marge’s blunt talk always managed to lighten her mood.

“I didn’t act weird. I guess she was envious,” was her mumbled reply.

Marge laughed. “Suuuure. Lemme check where you’ve got an advantage: Money? Errrt. Smashing looks? Errrt. Car? Horse? House? Rich daddy? Ert. Errt. Errrt. Errrrt. Brains? Ding! Hey, score one, but she’s got hooters where you’ve got straight A’s, so: Errrt. Sorry, Connie. No rich bitch society darling cookie for you. You’re stuck with me. 

“Oh come on, could be worse. Want me to punch her on the nose next time I see her? I could totally deck her for you.”

“Marge! This isn’t Kindergarten any more. She’d probably sue your ass off. You can’t afford any more trouble with the law, and you know it.”

As they stepped outside into the chilly spring air and walked down the large marble steps towards the park, Marge pulled up the reluctant zipper on her old leather jacket. Chrome studs and sewn-on badges with obscure band names covered that last remainder of her high school punk chick days. She was two years older than Connie, yet they had finished high school together. Marge’s considerable record of misconduct had something to do with that. How exactly the odd day-and-night couple had ended up being friends, none of them could say. It had started a few years ago when Connie the mousy, bookish beanstalk earned a little pocket money by giving extra lessons for failing students. One of them was a round-faced, spike-haired, spunky raven with an attitude, with too much eye shadow, too little cloth and too much leather to her clothes and too loud a taste in music. The girl wasn’t stupid, Connie quickly learned, she just got bored too fast. They gradually had hooked up, one complementing the other’s defects. Connie, literate, shy and the type of blonde destined to end up as the non-sexy librarian, with her gray hair in a bun and sharing her overly tidy flat with a bunch of cats, always looked up to Marge, envying the girl’s up-’n-at-it demeanor while vicariously enjoying the things Marge did for real, like boys, booze, and partying. And Marge had finally found someone she could patronize, and who tried to talk some sense into her when more threatened to become too much.

They had survived high school, and, for whatever reasons, they ended up with an overlapping schedule of courses at the same university. Now they were in their second year, and, predictably, it was Marge failing all over again and Connie being there for the rescue. Connie hadn’t managed a lot of socializing with any of the other students, sticking to her books and raking in the A+’s instead. Marge, on the other hand, hung around with the easy crowd. On the few occasions where Marge had coaxed Connie into joining their regular bar-hopping, it was Connie who ended up either as the designated driver or the awkward, quiet wallflower, or both.

Connie secretly suspected that Marge saw studying as nothing more than an annoying thing that came as the price for the fun-filled weekends. Marge could easily afford her lifestyle because her parents lived under the delusion that their dog-collar-and-eyeshadow-wearing daughter was some kind of rebellious prodigy, and their purses made sure their brat had a small but nice rented condo of her own. They still sent Connie a paycheck for tutoring Marge, too, and it really helped to keep her above the waterline. Her tiny kitchen, bed- and bathroom flat at the nearby student’s hostel would’ve comfortably fit into Marge’s living room.

Connie stopped Marge, pushing her flat hand against her friend’s slight paunch. Even though Marge still worked out and kept in shape, she had no inclination to overly chasten herself. Her body had moved towards “somewhat curved”.

“Hey, watch it. Don’t step into that mess of berries.”

“Thanks, didn’t notice at —”

Marge looked down, then raised her head again and stared at her friend.

“— Hey, what are you talking about?”

“Oh come on,” sighed Connie. “I don’t need that now. It was bad enough that Pearl made me feel like a freak, don’t rub it in!”

“Popular Pearl? Forget about her. There are what, a couple o’ thousand students at this university? At least half of them are worse freaks than you, you’re not standing out. But seriously, Earth to Connie. What. Are. You. Talking. About?”

Connie knelt down, grabbed a handful of the pearly white berries and cupped the little pile in her palm. “Here! Gods, have you gone blind or what?” She picked a soft, plump one with thumb and forefinger and held it in front of Marge’s face.

Her study mate had the uneasy frozen smile of someone recognizing sudden lunacy in their counterpart. “Connie? Are you practicing for a pantomime? Come on, you’re supposed to be the sane one. You’re starting to worry me. What berries?”

Connie’s stomach shrunk to a ball of ice. “S—seriously? Here, hold out your hand, tell me you can feel that.” She dropped them into Marge’s palm. One or two rolled over the edge of her hand and fell to the ground.

“Feel? I don’t feel a thing!”

Connie grabbed her hand and forced it close. Gelatinous glowing ooze squeezed out between Marge’s fingers. 

“Uh-huh? You feel that, don’t you?”

Marge opened her hand. Her palm was now dripping with the luminiferous juice, but she showed no sign of noticing it. She didn’t even wipe it off. Instead, she put her hands to her hips and stained her denims with glowing drops and lumps that slowly crawled down over the fabric. Connie just stared in disbelief. Marge shook her head.

“Sorry, should I play along or what? You’ve got to tell me if you’re practicing method acting, girl. It’s unnerving if you don’t let me in on the joke. Hey, listen, Danny’s going to pick me up at seven.” She winked and rocked her hips back and forth. “He’s ripe now, I’m a-gonna do some serious Unnh-unnh tonight, y’know? So, could we move our catch-up learning to this afternoon now, you’ve got time for the biolo—”

“It’s no joke!” howled Connie, grabbed another handful of the berries and mashed them into Marge’s face. Backing away, Marge coughed and flailed at her. Stooping and wiping her face, she spat out.

“A-hah!” Connie triumphantly declared. “Now you—”

“You crazy piece of shit!” hollered Marge and slapped her hard. Connie stumbled to the floor. “That’s too much! Are you completely mad now? Feeding me dirt?! Calm down and snap out of it, or I’ll call your family and tell them that the finals have you going bonkers! Fine, I’m going to study alone, you nutcase! Your fault if I flunk again!”

“No, Marge, I—,” Connie began, holding her throbbing cheek, but her friend already stomped away. A few passers-by in the distance looked in her direction. She clambered to her feet, trembling in shock at Marge’s outburst and embarrassment over the scene she had caused.

Am I seeing things? Am I really going nuts? But they’re — they’re real! They’re all around here, they’ve fallen from that bush.

She reached out for the branches, but they withered and melted into dispersing wisps of fog at the touch of her hand. Berries rained down, suddenly devoid of support. 

Oh gods, I’m hallucinating!

Panic grabbed her. Her breath raced, and her fingers started to tingle.

Calm down. Calm down! Don’t freak! Don’t faint! Don’t make more of a scene! Breathe into something.

She threw frantic glances around, pressing her splayed cold fingers on her mouth.

Plastic bag, anything —

Chapter 2: The Mystery

“Marge, listen to me.”

Connie leaned against the door frame and stooped towards the grill of the inter phone. Her fingers fidgeted with her coat’s zipper. The reply from the cheap speaker was distorted, both by electronics and by quite some residual anger in Marge’s voice.

“Unless you came to apologize, I’m not listening!”

“Marge, please. I’m sorry, all right? I shouldn’t have rubbed your face into those … oh please, let me in. I’ve got something you’ve just got to take a look at! Come on, you’re the only one I can talk to.”

A short delay. A stagy sigh followed, then the line went dead with a click, and moments later, the lock buzzed. Connie pushed the door open.

Marge waited in the kitchen. Connie couldn’t believe her eyes. On the floor, over the walls, on the table and the sink — Marge’s hand and foot prints were everywhere. It was painfully obvious that she was not able to see the pale, fading glow.

What am I? What kind of freak am I? Connie wondered. She hesitated.

“All right, what is it?” barked Marge. “Danny totally didn’t deliver yesterday, so I’m kinda pissed off for starters!”

Connie shrunk and blushed, but then she pulled herself together and dropped a small, taut plastic bag on the table. It rolled over, and something like marbles moved under the thin foil.

“Here.”

“O—kay. A bag. Wow. Underwhelmed. What’s that, you want to make some stupid joke about how you’ve got your marbles back? What now?”

“Open it, and look inside. Reach inside.”

Marge’s eyes narrowed.

“If that’s another one of your silly tricks, Connie, I swear I’ll slap you so hard, you’ll—”

“Just do it,” and, after a sigh, Connie added with a desperate look on her face, “please?”

Marge untied the string around the plastic pouch and looked inside. Empty. Empty, but still taut. She hesitated. Then she turned it upside down and watched as it spilled something over the table, because it grew flatter and wrinkled. And then she dropped it on the table and turned pale when the light bag came to a rest above the table and hung in mid-air.

Or rather, on the heap of berries that she couldn’t see.

“Oh gods. You — you were right. There is something on the table. Those berries again? And you c—can see them?”

She turned so pale that her face against the white wall behind her seemed almost as transparent as the berries on the table. 

“You stuffed a handful in my mouth! They’re not poisonous, are they?”

Connie gulped. “I — I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?! Great! Why?!”

Connie held her hand over her mouth and whispered, shuddering inside, “Because that was yesterday, and you’re s—still alive.”

Marge mutely moved her jaw a few times, then she rolled her eyes, her eyelids fluttered shut and she collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Connie barely managed to catch her in time. The weight of her friend’s limp body dragged her down to the floor as well, but at least she turned their fall into a more gentle roll. They ended up with Marge’s heavy, warm weight pinning Connie to the floor and Marge’s head resting on Connie’s flat bosom. The motionless, half-opened lips stuck to the first sliver of skin showing above Connie’s neckline. A thin trickle of Marge’s warm saliva wormed down the tiny mound of Connie’s left breast. She shivered and hesitated before she applied the often-ingrained First Aid routines to her friend.

“Marge? You okay? Keep calm. I’ve got you.”

The boyish girl blinked and struggled to her elbows. Connie knelt by her legs and held her ankles and her feet in a raised position in her lap. Marge reached for her head and rubbed her throbbing temples.

“I — yes, I think I’m okay. Did I just faint — obviously.” She took a deep breath. “That’s just too weird. What — are you crying?”

Connie sniffed. “Yeah. I’m just so glad that — now at least I can show those things are real and that I’m not delirious.”

They sat across the table with the floating bag between them.

Marge shook her head. “A plant that people can’t see. I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, it’s sort of an invisible plant. And kinda rare. Who’d notice it?”

“No, no, no. They showed it at the museum. So someone noticed.”

“No, I don’t think so. Didn’t you read the sign? Durability of seeds? I checked. They had it there because they found those seeds in a wooden box from some seventeen-hundred-umpteen expedition. Then they threw it out onto a heap of old industrial slag from the excavation for the new building, and it was supposed to end up in a landfill. There was some delay with that, so the heap stayed here, and come last spring, they sprouted, and only then someone noticed. Maybe those plants, they somehow — I don’t know. They might’ve sucked up something from the earth, and it worked like fertilizer.”

“Okay, so you want to play this like a private biology tutoring or what? You even dragged books along?”

Connie shook her head. “No. Those books — see what I found at the library.”

She dragged a tome from her backpack. “Plants in old drawings, page seventy-five. The rare glowpetal, extinct. Extinct, my ass!”

Marge smirked. “Ooh, Connie! I don’t think I ever heard you curse aloud like that before. Oh come on, don’t blush now!”

“R—right.” Connie gulped and needed a few seconds until she was back up to speed. 

“A—as I said, that’s exactly how I see that weed. And, see, this one—,” she flipped open another earmarked book and handed it to her friend, tapping on another drawing. Marge cocked her head.

“Rare flatleaf. Like the glowpetal, but without the stem and the — gosh, that’s the plant from the museum!”

Connie nodded. “So that’s how you see it.”

“Yeah, me and the rest of the world, obviously. So this book was by someone who had eyes like yours, and that one—”

“Don’t laugh now, but I think that’s some kind of magical plant.”

Marge didn’t exactly laugh. Rather, she cackled and whinnied, almost toppling with her chair as she threw her head in her neck. Connie crossed her arms and looked away petulantly.

“Yeah, har-de-har. How funny.”

“Oh come on! A,” Marge drew little quotation marks in the air with her fingers and lowered her voice, “maaaagical plant.” She tapped her index finger against Connie’s forehead. “This day and age? Miss Einstein, I told ya, you need to finally get rid of all of those unicorns and rainbows posters in your bedroom! You’ve been sleeping through your history classes? The closest thing to magic was the free-energy gold rush of the early 1800’s, and all of that went belly-up big time by 1870 because it got depleted and rare and nobody could afford it any m…”

Connie virtually saw how Marge hatched some idea. She had been on the receiving end of Marge’s ideas enough times already, so she cocked her eyebrow. 

“Marge, what are you thinking about? You’ve got that look again.”

“Heeey — that plant, maybe it’s distilling this weird old-time power? Oh wow, you know what they did with the stuff, back then? Think ‘airship’ instead of ‘car’. Wouldn’t that be cool? If we get that going, it would be the science project of the century! Marge and Connie, the rediscoverers of limitless green energy! Instant cum laude and stuff!”

“What? Marge, you nuts?! Nobody’s been doing anything with that stuff for a hundred years! We don’t even know what, or how, or, or —”

“Yeah, wait, wait —”

Marge jumped to her feet and paced up and down the room. “So, berries are like seeds, right? So if you bury them, you get new plants. I mean, could we start a secret plantation with that stuff on the table?”

“Uh, yes, maybe. Kinda. No. No!” Connie swiveled in her chair. “Marge! I’ve not forgotten the incident with your homegrown weed, okay? And this stuff here is — what if it explodes above a critical mass? This is serious! You think I want to end this close to juvenile hall again?! I’m not going to build a kitchen-table magimachine that could wipe out—”

“Oh come on! Pretty please?” begged Marge, bent down from behind over her sitting friend, wrapped her arms around Connie’s shoulders and rocked her gently. “Nobody can see it but you! I need you for this to work! I won’t ask you to smoke that weed, okay? Let’s just give it a try. The bush you saw didn’t explode either, did it? So it can’t be all that dangerous, or we’d be seeing things go boom every other day.” She ruffled Connie’s hair. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Chapter 3: The Plantation

A few weeks later.

The plantation came along nicely. They had set up three rows of earth in a secluded clearing, and from each of the berries buried in there had sprouted a batch of leaves. Visible only to Connie, a thin stem now rose from the center. The flowers had already lost most of their petals, and the first signs of developing fruits showed on the panicles. Connie had, just once, tried to make the ethereal flowers somehow perceptible to Marge, by draping cloth over them and by spray-painting. It didn’t work. The berries had some substance to them, but the stems and the flowers crumbled and faded the moment something other than air touched them. They sank down and immediately melted away into nothingness, leaving behind the root and its circle of flat, round leaves.

The call came on a lazy Sunday morning like any other. Connie rolled around and fumbled for her cell phone that laid buried under the sultry romance novel she had spent the better part of the last night with. Sunlight shone through her bedroom’s blinds, and she blinked. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper.

“Connie. Who’s there. Go away,” she yawned.

Marge’s voice on the phone was agitated. She seemed close to tears. “You’ve got to come over! Hurry! He’s — that bastard! But — and — and then — I don’t know how, but — this is — it’s so weird — oh my — now they — why?!” The stutters descended into wails and gargled sobbing.

Click. The line went dead.

Connie immediate called her back. After half a minute of ringing, Marge’s pre-recorded “Hi, I’m busy. Please leave a message!” twittered cheerfully from the speaker. By then, Connie already had her shoes on and grabbed for her coat.

She parked her beat-up, rusty, third-hand car a block away and walked the rest of the way, nervously trying to look inconspicuous.

Slow. Slow! It’s all perfectly harmless. Nothing to see.

With her heart racing and her fingers trembling, she pressed the doorbell button. Moments later, a click and faint electrical hissing from the speaker indicated someone at the other end had picked up but remained mute.

“Marge? It’s me! Connie! Come on, open the door!”

It’s all normal. I’m just a girl standing at a door, talking to the entry phone.

She checked around again. Did that guy over at the red traffic light just — no.

Stop that! she chided herself. You’re going nuts. Nobody knows about the plantation. Marge’s just having one of her boyfriend fits. Yes, that’s it. Just boy trouble. Just feed her some chocolate cake and listen to her whine for a while.

“Marge—! Come-on-come-on-come-on! Are you there?”

No reply, again. But after a few seconds, the door lock went buzzz.

She ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. The door of Marge’s flat was ajar, and the one to the bedroom gaped open, too. Connie found her friend curled up in her futon-style bed, wrapped in the sheets, sobbing quietly. All she could see of Marge was a mess of black hair and trembling shoulders. A few crumpled, soggy hankies laid strewn over the floor.

Boyfriend. Phew!

Connie exhaled quietly, sat down on the edge of the mattress and extended her hand.

“Don’t touch me!” came the muffled yelp from the blankets.

Connie recoiled. “Marge, I—”

“It’s all your fault," slurred Marge.

“My —?! What’s my fault?” Connie bowed closer. “Phew! You’ve spent the night out again? Marge, that’s not okay. You promised to cut back, but you smell like a distillery. Oh come on, what happened?”

“This!” yelled Marge, sat bolt upright in her bed and threw off the sheets. “Your crazy plants did that! See them? Huh?!”

Connie recoiled and gulped. Marge had always had a sporty figure, and her breasts had been below the proverbial handful, nice and firm, not exactly of the abundant kind. Granted, she had put on a little weight since she took up studying, but it hadn’t gone to her chest. She hadn’t jiggled.

Hadn’t.

Now, after she sat up so quickly, the taut orbs — melons! — on her chest kept on bouncing with heavy, pumped volume, their perpendicular motions too light to be natural. Connie could barely tear her gaze away from them. Marge kept on saying things. Connie didn’t care. She just stared. Her punky, rebellious, flat friend hat turned into the kind of thing fetishes were born from. Over night.

Then Connie noticed it. There was a faint, barely noticeable sheen to Marge’s skin, the same kind of vague luminance Connie saw in the plants.

“Wait, let me close the blinds!” Connie interrupted the ramble she hadn’t listened to anyway, mesmerized by those breasts. As the room grew dark, she could hardly believe what she saw.

“Marge, you’re — you’re glowing all over!”

“What? Where?” Marge rubbed over her arms, frantically, bringing more jumping motion into her breasts. In the dark, the glow gave her an ethereal, ghostlike appearance.

Connie grabbed her friend’s wrists. “All over! Stop scratching, it’s coming from inside. Calm down. What did you do?”

“Yesterday, I drove out to water the plants, and I — I must’ve accidentally gotten some of the stuff on my hands and then on my dinner! I must’ve eaten it! I didn’t see it! I can’t see it! And today, I wake up with those! And they are so — so big! And it’s too late!”

She hefted her sizable breasts. Connie pulled up the blinds again.

“No, leave them down! Don’t look at my face,” Marge yelped.

Of course Connie had to look now. She brushed back the black wool of her friend’s hair, and Marge didn’t protest. For a moment, Connie thought she even felt her friend lean in to her soothing touch.

Marge’s eyes were swollen and red, and streaks of black mascara ran over her cheeks. And then suddenly Marge collapsed on her bed and started sobbing again, before she burst out:

“Danny! That bastard dumped me! For Pearl, that rich bitch! Sends me a fuckin’ text message ‘Sorry, wasn’t meant to be.’ Dunno what I did then. Had a drink too many, I guess. I only remember seeing him with that cunt, getting all snugly and making out in her Porsche outside the diner! I hate her! Hatehatehate!” She slammed her fist into the mattress. “Oh heavens, if I only had her figure, I’d get back at him! I’d show him what he missed out on! Hell, I’d fuck through the whole football team and send him the pictures!”

“Well, maybe your wish came true! I mean, your breasts are much better than hers now—,” stammered Connie.

Marge jumped up and pointed at herself.

“Better? That’s better?! Are you blind? Maybe it’s bigger, but that’s all! It’s not like I have her figure, right? Now I look like an inflated, desperate, silicone freak! Yeah, maybe if I had her narrow waist and saucy hips and real boobs, not those — those fakies, then —”

The glow on her body faded.

“What did you just do?” gasped Connie, chasing the vivid image of Supersexymarge from her mind.

“Nothing! I said I w—www—what is that?!” Marge clutched her stomach. “Oh gods, my belly’s cramping up! Maybe it’s poison after all—nnnggghh!” She stooped and dropped to her knees, groaning through clenched teeth while she threw her head back. Tendons showed all over her neck.

Connie backed away, very slowly, until she ran into a shelf. Clutching the raw wood of the cheap contraption in her back, she gulped and stared. 

“Maybe not…,” she whispered.

Right before her eyes, Marge’s body changed. The inflated orbs grew just soft enough to sag slightly into the mind-blowing cross of youthful firmness and abundant maternal voluptuousness. Her nipples vibrated bigger by half an inch, and the areolae spilled out and domed slightly to match their proportions to the dark thimbles in their center. Marge’s waist shrunk. Not by much, but as simultaneously her hips slowly widened, she approached an hourglass shape predisposed to elicit envy in all but the luckiest few of women. Her panties creaked, and the thin strip of its waistline slowly wandered up over Marge’s rounding hips. The cloth stretched as far as it could, and then its width shrunk while the textile descended into the chasm between Marge’s labia as they puffed up.

Panting and groaning, Marge dropped on her back, slowly moving her legs. Her body trembled in spasms as her muscles fought against themselves. The barely noticeable paunch on her belly melted from the inside, and Marge’s skin was sucked onto a set of shapely abs, like a blank piece of plastic being vacuum-molded over a perfect cast hidden underneath.

Marge raised her head, her face covered with sweat. “It’s — stopping now,” she panted and rolled on her stomach, struggling to her hands and knees. Her panties were but an almost overwhelmed piece of string trapped between her firm buttocks, and Connie caught a prime view of them.

The dizziness of adrenalin made the room swim before Connie’s eyes, and she uttered with trembling lips, “The g—glow’s all used up. Marge, you’ve got to look at yourself. You got a mirror?”

Marge spun around on her tiptoes, swayed her hips and shook her shoulders.

“Just try and beat that, Pearl! Danny, who needs you? Now I can get any boy I want!” She giggled. “Huh, Connie?” She raised her hands and cocked her head, gyrating her hips before she grabbed her rear with both hands and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror Connie was holding up. “Gods, what a prime piece of ass, too! I guess now I can crack nuts between those! So, mirror, mirror, who’s the hot bod around now?”

Connie gulped, but her mouth remained dry. “You are. Oh my, you’re absolutely hot! But how are we going to explain that?”

“We? We don’t!” laughed Marge as she reached for one of her bras. “I’ll just slowly reveal it over the next few weeks and claim I’ve been working out like mad. I’ll stick with baggy sweaters for the time being, and then — uh!”

She grunted as she finally managed to close the clasp of her bra and shifted it around to put her breasts into the cups.

“Dammit, I’ve put on some muscle around the ribs, too. And my jugs, they’ve grown bigger again! Look how firm they still are! What is that now, double-D? A big double-D maybe?”

Connie shook her head and stared mutely. The cups didn’t even fit halfway over the bulging flesh. Marge undid her bra and threw it on her bed.

“No way. Shit, I’ll need to go shopping. Right, hand me the red sweater behind you, okay? That at least—,” her voice got muffled as she slid it over her head, “—got to fit, right? — Nnggh! Oh come on!”

She struggled to get the large garment over her breasts. Her round orbs were clearly visible, stretching the sweater and making it look more like a layer of red paint over her chest than a loose-fitting piece of clothing.

“Huuuuhhhrrrnnngh,” moaned Marge, and her legs twitched as she pulled the sweater into place. “Oh fuck, I—I think I just came a little, from the touch alone! Damn, those shot glass nipples are touchy as hell! That’s almost too much of good thing!” she groaned as she hefted her breasts trough the rough wool, admired her shapely figure in the mirror again and half-closed her eyes. Her voice trembled a little when she added, “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. But I better not grow again, or I won’t be able to come up with a believable ruse.”

“Well, as long as you wash your hands after you come in from the garden, and not wish around…”

“Yeah, so, you want to go bra shopping with me, this afternoon?”

“No, I, uh, I still need to do some more homework. See you!”

Once Connie was outside the appartment, she leant against the wall and caught her breath.

Those breasts. That ass! I need to get me some of that, too! 

Chapter: Field Experiments

Connie stared at the cup with the mashed-up first harvest of the berries. The liquid, almost as weightless as air and more than liquid, akin to quicksilver without weight, slowly spun inside and cast a flickering, whirling light. She downed it with a single gulp. It tasted of … nothing.

She looked at her trembling fingers. Together with the blood pumping frantically through her veins, the ethereal white glow now rushed along her arms into her hands, on into her fingertips, dragging faint heat in its wake. It flooded her eyes through the spider’s web of capillaries and her vision filled with a dull permanent glow that didn’t go away even as she closed her eyelids. It was the most annoying thing she’d ever witnessed. As she opened her eyes again, the glow on her arms had begun to spread outwards from the mesh of her veins all through her skin. Something had changed. Connie couldn’t put her finger on it, but the world seemed — closer. She blinked, and sparkles flashed briefly before her eyes. She turned her head, and halos and rainbows danced around every edge, only to settle down and fade moments later. The next blink did away with the annoying lightshow, and Connie wasn’t sure if it had ever been real at all or just in her mind. She took a deep breath and held it in. 

Right, here goes. Supermodel.

Nothing.

Maybe need to speak it aloud? And be a little more specific — Marge changed only when she said ‘hips and waist,’ and not just ‘figure’...

She looked around the little clearing. Nobody in hearing range, she hoped. Nevertheless, she only whispered:

“Supermodel. Longer legs, a beautiful face, tits like waterm—, uh, no, big like cantaloupes, and a firm ass.”

Not even a shiver.

Connie bit her lip and reached for her bag, grabbed the bottle with the clear liquid in it and unscrewed the cap.

Phase two, then. Marge was still more than just a little tipsy when she changed.

She sniffed at the opening and drew a face. 

Urrgh. Yuck. People drink this for fun?

The cheap booze burned in her throat, and she couldn’t bring herself to swallow more than just a mouthful. Heaving and coughing, she dropped the bottle and clutched her aching stomach. 

Connie shied away from drinking for a reason: She knew she was a lightweight. That one big gulp took only a few minutes to kick in, and things suddenly became so obvious. Transforming into a sex goddess? Pshaw! Of course she could do that! She swayed a little as she rose to her toetips, arched her back, raised her voice and declared uninhibitedly, “Annnow, I gonna be so hot, everybody willanna — will wanna fffuck withmmme. Tits! Ass! Legs! Hips! The ever-ready dripping snatch of Venus! I want it all!”

Birds took to the air, scared away by Connie’s outburst. The flapping of their wings quickly faded in the distance. She splayed her arms wide and thrust her chest to the sky. The world spun around her. Dizzy and staggering, she fell to her knees, knocking the bottle over. The vodka gurgled out as it rolled away, causing the only sound in the silence of the forest. After a few moments, Connie’s outstretched arms and shoulders started to ache.

And that was it. Nothing happened. She bent over, fell to her hands and knees and curled up, her face red with embarrassment and disappointment. Soon, tears ran down her burning cheeks.

Over her wailing and sobbing, she didn’t hear the small engine of the beat-up motorbike, or the approaching footsteps.

“Connie? Are you alright? What happened? What are you doing?”

Marge stepped out of the bushes and, in an offbeat gesture for the often blunt young woman, laid her arms around her kneeling friend’s heaving shoulders. Connie raised her head to her, tears still streaming over her face in alcohol-fueled self-pity. Marge wrinkled her nose when she smelled the cheap booze on Connie’s breath.

“Connie! How much did you drink? You know you can’t stomach anything stronger than tea.”

“Shooo—sho whaddd? Whashit to you, boob queen, huh? Eve’yfffin’s so fuckin’ unfair! It doeshn—doesn’t work on me! Youww—you’ve just skimmed a few berries and you’re Mrs. Hot, and me? Lookit me! I dishco—covered it, I’ve made an ass of myshlf—myself in public, and I got nothing!” She clenched her fists. “I’ve swallowed so much, I should be able to fart rainbows if I as much as think about it.”

Marge struggled out of her leather jacket and stood in silence for a few moments, straightening her sweater before she musingly replied, “Maybe that’s why you can see the berries? You might be immune to it. Like, like a super hero? Maybe that’s your special power!” She gently shook Connie’s shoulders. “Hey, sweetie, come on, get up. You’ve got super powers. Be happy!”

“Yeah, great! Powers.” Connie drew a face and blew a lip fart. “As if, I can lift my hand and declare grow! Only it doesn’t work.” She struggled to her feet and turned away before she pulled at her neckline and took a checking glance into it, just in case. “Nnnnope. Doeshn’t. Shome power that is, Marge.”

Silence, then a deep exhale and the rustle of clothes.

“Marge?”

A moan followed, one of those moans. It cut right through the fog in Connie’s head. She swiveled to her friend.

“Marge?!”

The girl clutched her breasts, staring at Connie while her eyes opened wide. To the sound of slowly rending seams, her fingers spread apart. “Connie,” panted Marge, her sudden influx of lust quickly turning into fear, “stop it! Please! I didn’t mean to mock you! Stop it! I’m still growing! That’s too big! Too heavy!”

Connie staggered back and shook her head.

“I wasn’t aiming for you! I want my own—”

Marge dropped to her knees, clutching her swelling breasts. “Connie! Oh gods, Connie, they’re blowing up! I’ll burst! Make them stop!”

Her new heavy-duty bra gave in with a snap, followed by Marge’s painful yelp as its straps whipped against the bulging flesh of her mammaries.

“Connieeeee! I’m growing too big! I can’t — I’m turning into a freak! Conniieeee!”

“All right!” She waved in Marge’s direction, unsure of what to do. “Uh — shhdop! Stop it! Breasts, I command you to stop!”

Crrrreeeeeaaak.

“Not working! Unnnghh! Oh please! Try harder!”

The loops of the knitted sweater spread wider. Marge’s skin began to show through the distended fabric. Like the late-comer to a party, her nipples now swelled larger, trying to catch up on her breasts’ head start. They popped up into two strawberry bumps. With a snap, they broke through the wool that quickly distended into an overflowing fishnet top.

“It’s not stopping! Please, do something!”

“M—maybe if I — can I touch them?” stammered Connie.

“Hurry and do it! Oh gods, I’m burning up from the inside! I’m stretching so taut, it stings! Connie, please!”

With trembling hands and her fingers splayed, Connie knelt down and touched the heaving soccer balls. She exhaled loudly. The round masses of Marge’s flesh felt awesome. Swollen, somewhat taut, and yet soft enough to bulge out between her fingers. And they grew, unrelentingly, their skin shuddering and distending eagerly into the palms of her hands. Connie’s breath quickened. Marge’s bloat did the same.

Marge grabbed her wrists and struggled to push Connie’s hands away.

“Let go! It’s not working! They’re only growing faster!” she gasped.

“No! Wait! Maybe if I squeeze them—”

Connie dug her fingers into the sensitive orbs as they outgrew pumpkin size. The only response was a sudden jump in size, and not for the smaller. Runs appeared and crisscrossed all over the fabric as it neared its limits. Connie jerked back, fell from her haunches on her rear and lost her grip. Marge yelped, stooping under her udders’ increasing weight, and began to sob.

“What are you doing to me? It’s only gotten worse! Oh heavens, why? Why?!”

Connie gulped. Her face burned red with embarrassment. She struggled for words, and then she blurted out in a stuttering confession: “M—maybe because I don’t really want it to stop.”

Marge stared at her, wide-eyed. Her jaw moved silently as she gasped for air, and then she screamed: “Connie! Are you mad? I’m blowing up! I’m turning into all boobs! Stop it!”

“Marge, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I can’t do a thing about it! I just need to see how you burst out of your clothes! Oh gods, just seeing you stretch that sweater over your chest this morning has made me horny as hell! I know I shouldn’t, but I must see how you swell out of your garb. I promise, I’ll wish you smaller afterwards. But right now, I must — I —”

“Connie! Oh please, have mercy! You don’t know how that feels! I’m tearing apart! I can’t stand it! It’s so tight! It stings! It’s like my breasts are filling with boiling water! It’s gushing into me! I’ll burst!”

Connie bit her lips. You’ve got power over it.

She stood up and stared down on Marge, how she kneeled before her, her hands groping frantically at her breasts. At breasts that grew and bloated more with every passing moment. Her eyes, full of panic and fear, begged mutely. Yet all Connie could think about was, that cleavage! It’s swelled out almost as far as her thighs! The sweater’s just tatters! It’s about to give!

Connie gulped, and then she shook her head, with sudden unflinching determination in her gaze, and took a step backwards. She stared at the skin that slowly rose out of the remains of Marge’s neckline.

“I’m sorry! I won’t stop it now.” She raised her hands and clenched them into fists. “Grow — grow faster! Yes! Grow bigger! Bigger! Much bigger!”

The expansion gained speed. The silent clearing filled with faint sounds of stretching, of ripping fabric, of bubbling liquid and groaning tissue. Marge’s face contorted. Veins and sinews appeared on her neck as she grimaced and panted:

“What? Oh please, don’t—we’ve been friends all the years—why do you—listen, I’m sorry I caused you all that trouble that one time with the weed, I never—”

You’ve got power.

The booze in her system made Connie brave. She leaned over, pointed at her friend’s head and giggled, “Marge, be quiet. You like it, do you hear? You want to swell really big. The bigger the better. It turns you on. And don’t worry, you won’t burst, ever, no matter how big you get.”

As if Connie had flipped a switch in Marge’s head, her friend’s panicky voice turned into a hoarse moan that seemed to go on for an eternity. When it finished, she inhaled deeply and purred with a raunchiness that sent shivers down Connie’s spine, “Ooooh, so that’s it?” She licked her full lips. “Little Connie wants her monster tits friend to be a bouncy boob bimbo? Little Connie wants to hug two big milky hooters? Little Connie wants to get suckled by some of that?” Marge slapped her arms hard into the quivering, bouncing mass of her boobs. “Little Connie wants to jump around on a boob bed? Rrrrawwwrrr. Come here, girl, let me show you what it feels like to be bigger than big. Come on, sit on my breasts. Crawl on them! Feel them grow and stretch under you! And then let me bury my face between your thighs and eat you out.”

Marge stared at Connie, her eyes now burning with feral desire. She dug her fingers into her straining hemline and pulled. The cloth rent with a clear, high screech, and the orbs spilled out, dragging her the rest of the way down to the floor. They rebounded and needed quite some time to find their weighty, sloshing rest. Marge knelt on the floor, her arms halfway around the round masses, corralling them as well as she could. Her efforts grew vainer with every quiver and stretching pulse, and she slowly rose from her haunches to her knees to keep on top of her growing bosom.

Connie bit her tongue to fight her dry mouth. Her breath quickened and came in spasms of arousal. And with a delighted yelp, she threw herself at the trembling, round beanbag chairs of milk glands that her friend offered.

She rested on her stomach on the flattened cushion of throbbing tissue that was Marge’s left boob, holding the nervous nipple between her thighs. Marge’s spherical pillow of warm glandular mass served as a shared comfortable rest for their forward-slanted bodies as their lips met and their tongues united in a fierce, untamed kiss. With their arms interlocked, they devoured each other with a passion. Connie quickly learned that a slight squeeze with her legs against the rough teat easily pushed Marge over the edge into a rampant climax, and she gave her friend a chain of gushing orgasms, drinking the moans and gasps straight from her gaping mouth.

After an especially strong squeeze, warm wetness trickled down Connie’s legs. Marge’s face contorted in ecstasy, and her eyelids fluttered shut in time of her mouth turning into a gaping O. She humped against her own breast, again and again, and the warmth on the skin of Connie’s legs spread rapidly as creamy milk gushed and sprayed from the ducts in Marge’s nipple and soaked Connie’s trousers.

“Oh yes! Milk me! More! More! Drink from me!” Marge groaned, bouncing into her own breast like humping a giant rubber ball.

The sweat made Marge’s skin slippery, and the milk spraying with each of her ecstatic bumps into the pair of each almost one and a half yards across balls of her breasts didn’t help. Connie lost her grip and slipped down the orb, landing with her crotch right on the protruding can-sized nipple. Marge yelped in delight and shuddered backwards. The move yanked the rough protrusion out of Connie’s clutch, and the amateur witch stumbled and fell on her back in front of the towering pair of orbs. She clambered away, but the ground was a morass, drenched with milk. She only pushed lumps of soaked earth around instead of crawling to safety.

Marge noticed the attempted retreat of her friend, disappeared behind her breasts as she knelt down to add more batch, and smacked her lips.

“Tsk-tsk. Nuh-uh, flat tits can’t just run away now. You want it, you’ll get it. Let’s play some more, darling!”

She jumped up, throwing herself at her breasts. The two orbs lurched towards Connie, rolled over her legs and pinned her to the ground. Marge struggled to keep her balance. Spread-legged, she held her one breast with both arms, the one breast that had Connie buried under it. Marge groaned. Jolts of delight surged through her body with every push and prod and punch as her helpless catch tried in vain to break free.

“Marge! Get off me! Let me go!” came Connie’s muffled voice out from under the giant breast.

Marge didn’t listen. Well, she listened, but a mean streak wandered over her face. 

“I said drink from me!” she hissed.

Marge grabbed her boob with both hands and pushed and pulled at the almost immobile orb. The undulating movements rubbed the can-sized nipple over Connie’s face, again and again. Connie punched and shoved with her hands and feet against the soft, yielding sphere pinning her down, but its tensile skin just absorbed all of her struggling movements. Instead of giving her air to breathe, each push expressed more of the warm milk. She swallowed, coughed, spat and gargled helplessly.

I—I must shrink her! She’s gone mad! She’ll drown me! Shrink! How do I — a balloon. Imagine a balloon. And now I let go of the nozzle — 

Marge froze and gasped for air. Connie’s eyes grew big. And so did the nipple right in front of her. It opened up, stretching and changing into a hollow, thin-walled five inch tube, opening a pipe right into the heart of the sponge of distended milk ducts inside the tent-sized breasts. 

Oh nooooo—

The last thing Connie saw was something white jumping out at her. She raised her arms to shield her face, and then the warm, arm-thick jet splashed all over her face. She sank into a quickly growing bubble of milk forming under Marge’s mammoth breast.

She didn’t hear Marge’s panting and moaning. She only heard the gargling and bubbling of the dozens of gallons of milk being expressed at once and rushing against her, until finally the pressure in the trapped milk bubble lifted Marge’s spending boob up and broke the seal. On the crescent of the white wave, Connie washed out from underneath the orb. The liberated surge carried her and sent her tumbling away like caught in the crosshairs of a water gun. 

Connie coughed and wheezed, lying in a white puddle on the soaked forest floor. The gushes had subsided, finally. She staggered to her feet and clambered to her delirious friend. Marge’s limp body slowly descended, resting on her deflating breasts, and still a rich stream of milk bubbled out beneath her flattened cleavage. Seeing the cushions of skin as they contracted and disappeared under the girl’s torso unsettled Connie, even though Marge still quivered with delight, enjoying every twitch and contracting ripple that ran through her chest.

Marge shook her head and sent sweatdrops flying from her spiky hair. Panting, she pushed herself up on her hands and feet, her now melon-sized gland bags swaying and spraying, and finally she settled on her haunches. Both she and Connie got a good glimpse at her dangling breasts as the orbs lifted themselves off Marge’s thighs in their shrinking skin and crawled higher on her chest. They assumed their old-new firm shape, slightly undershot their size and bounced back in a cartoony, rubbery way. Her skin shone golden in a sun ray that pierced the forest twilight. What remained of Marge’s clothing was in tatters, soaked in mud and milk and sprinkled with old fir needles.

Connie stooped, grabbed her friend’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Marge? You hear me? You okay?”

The dripping young woman nodded, still stunned and dazed, slowly feeling up her breasts. Her hands barely fit around one at a time. “Mmmh. Sort of. Was that real? Did you really—?”

“I don’t know! Maybe? It’s all a blur. I mean, look around! Everything is soaked! What do you remember?”

Marge narrowed her eyes and jumped at her.

“All of it! You blew me up like a damned rubber fuck toy! You drunken bitch!”

“Marge, I—,” wailed Connie, backing away and cowering down in expectation of a punch or a slap. Instead, the bare-breasted girl licked her lips, grabbed Connie’s shoulders with both hands and grinned, pulling her tight for a fierce hug, passionately kissing her cheeks. 

“Oh Connie! That was totally rad! The best rush I ever had! You think you can do it again? Only bigger? More? And, can you do my ass, too? Like, a huge, round, fat ass? Oh please, please, once more! I’ll make out with you for as long as you want, just blow me up again!”

“What? No!” Connie raised her arms in defense and stuttered, “Marge, no! I — I need to think about what all that means! I — let’s just wait a day or two, okay? I—I gotta get sober, can’t think like that. Gods, I’m all wasted. I’ll drive you — no, you drive, here, take my car keys, gotta get you home now, you can’t ride your bike with your clothes soaked and torn like tha—mmmgff!”

Marge shut her up with another fierce kiss that went on quite a while until their lips parted with a smack. The black-haired young woman poked the tip of Connie’s nose and smiled.

“What would I do without you, Miss Sensible, eh?”

To Be Continued in Connie’s Weed, Part 2: Standing On The Bosoms Of Giants

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