"Heather's Metamorphosis" Chapter 1: Morning

The last vestiges. A flickering of images caught on the precipice between asleep and awake. A man in smoke filled room. A sense of excitement. Trepidation. A window. The man’s face wasn’t visible. He was hidden in the shadows.

“Care for another drink, dear?”

She was floating. Sitting, but floating. An orange jacket, hanging on a hook. Outside the window, a street. Cars passing by. Trees. But high up, on the top floor of some skyscraper. There were others in the room. But she didn’t know any of them. She held a glass in her hand, and took a sip.

A warmth filled her body, her stomach, her cheeks, her chest. A racing heart. She was aware. She knew this was dangerous. But she took another sip, as she surrendered herself to the waves of heat that rolled from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. And then, she floated down, through the floorboards.

———

Heather’s eyes fluttered open. A dryness filled her mouth as she felt the first pangs of sharpness behind her forehead. Sunlight streamed through the blinds of her bedroom window, landing on sapphire irises. She winced and turned her head away. What time was it?

Darkness again as Heather tried to piece together the night before. We went out. Karaoke at the Tavern. Shots. Were there shots? There were shots. There shouldn’t have been shots. 

She opened and closed her mouth with a gummy chewing noise. God, I’m thirsty. But just a moment longer.

The bright sun penetrated Heather’s eyelids. The reddish glow, combined with the hangover, was blinding. Laying an arm over her eyes, she grasped at filaments of the night’s end. She hadn’t driven her car home, had she? She wasn’t that stupid. Did she get dropped off? Maybe an Uber. 

A smattering of recollections began to parade through her mind. It was Kathryn’s, her best friend’s, birthday party, so they went to the Tavern: same place they always went for cheap drinks and the company of their fellow regulars. Bethany was there. Her other friend, Kyle. 

Bumping into Matthew… unngh… it was the first time Heather had seen him since they broke up. Scratch that — it was less of a breakup than a long-form ghosting... 

Bethany went home with the bartender. She usually went home with somebody. 

There was that obnoxious guy who wouldn’t leave Heather and Kathryn alone. Heather felt confused for a moment... something in her brain told her that he was the man she had just been dreaming about. An orange shirt, or sweater… She couldn’t recall his face or any other distinguishable features from what few snapshots her mind still retained, but she knew — reluctantly — that it was him. But he wasn’t even cute, or interesting, or funny, or anything, she thought. He was kinda… weird. Why the hell would I dream about him?

A staccato buzz from her nightstand brought back one more memory. Brunch… Never promise to do something when you’re drunk that you know you won’t want to do the next day. Teach you to keep your stupid mouth shut…

Heather stretched her body, attempting to replace some of the lost flexibility. She felt a slickness between her upper thighs, a remnant from the dream she wished she would have stayed in just a little while longer. Even through her headache and the mixed feelings of her arousal having been inadvertently caused by the creepy guy from the bar, she managed a small smile — if she was going to be hungover all day, at least it started off on a good note. She squeezed her legs together tightly as she reached her toes toward the foot of her bed, earning one last jolt of pleasure. She promised herself that she would finish what the dream had started, later. 

Stretching her arms to the side, she breathed deeply, and took note of a weight pressing down on her chest in return. 

“Oliver…” Heather said in a weak, mildly irritated voice. “Get off.” It was chilly in her apartment. She hardly noticed under her thick, down-filled comforter, but when winter started to arrive in full force, her cat would frequently find refuge on top of her. All the better to sap as much of her body heat as possible. 

Groping for her phone, Heather dared not take her head off the pillow. Not until she knew that looking at her phone screen wouldn’t send her into migraine mode. “Oliver. Cat. Seriously. Off.” She repeated as she clicked the home button.

Opening her eyes for the second time that morning, Heather squinted at the illuminated screen suspended over her face. As her vision adjusted, she saw the time — 12:17 p.m. There was no way she was going to make brunch, but she had a feeling that her friends would understand. This wasn’t the first time she would stand them up, and considering how hard they (she) had partied last night, they had probably already taken bets on whether or not she would be a no-show.

Below, the opening lines of three text messages illuminated the screen. 

Kathryn - 11:27 a.m.

Call when you get this. Some crazy shit happened last night and you...

Nice. Kat found herself some action. Hopefully not with creepy dude, but as much of a hot mess as she could sometimes be, Kat wasn’t really the type to get blackout and stupid. Like your’s truly.

Kyle - 11:38 a.m.

Hey, bitch. We’re here at Sunshine. There’s a wait, but were grabbing…

God bless you Kyle, and your liver of a 23-year-old. How the hell do you get up and still manage to be the organizer? C’est la vie, my good friend, but I think you already know not to save a chair for me. 

Kathryn - 12:15 p.m.

Seriously, where are you? Call me!!!

Ugh! Calm down! Aren’t you the one who poured those last few drinks down my throat? Kathryn could, however, get pissy when she was on the mend. Heather promised herself that she would hit her up when she got some coffee in her system. And water! Her mouth felt like licking a brick. 

Replacing her phone on the nightstand, Heather prepared to crane herself out of bed. A little annoyed at her fat, lethargic cat, she hoisted herself up onto her elbows, hoping to roll him off of her.

“You lazy little brat, it’s time to —”

Semi-reclined, Heather looked down and saw… nothing. Her cat, standing in the doorway, gave a quick meow, hoping that this upwelling of activity meant it was about to be fed. And still, gazing down at the white duvet that covered her whole body below her bare shoulders, she felt a weight — a distinct force pressing down onto her ribcage.

But it wasn’t only a weight. It was a feeling that was more difficult to describe; almost as if a part of her body that she was more-than familiar with had shifted to a location that was... unfamiliar. 

For a short moment, Heather froze. She didn’t know why, or how, but something felt… different. It wasn’t the hangover, she was sure of that, and in that instant, her attention had shifted from her splitting forehead to a deeper discomfort; a tightness in her stomach and an electric sensitivity at the end of each nerve. The same feeling people describe as having when they see ghosts: a body on high-alert because it has experienced something it can’t quite explain with any sense of logic.

When she stirred again, this time using her right arm to lift her body higher into a sitting position, she did so gingerly, unsure of how to interpret the sensation she was experiencing. Her eyes widened as she felt the weight shift from the sides of her torso toward the center of her soft stomach. A smooth, heavy warmth brushed inward.

Heather glanced down at the knuckles of her left hand, which had turned white. Her fingers were tightly clenched around the top of the comforter. She registered a painful stiffness in her hand, but it was barely noticeable compared to the far more subtle sensation that had accompanied the unfamiliar movement under the sheets. She felt her nipples harden as they drug across the inside of the duvet — the amber-colored tips of her breasts had always been sensitive, but not nearly so much as they were now. What set alarm bells going off in her mind was the fact that something like sitting up didn’t typically cause her nipples to drag across anything. Her pert breasts were barely C cups, and…

Now fully sitting up, she swung her right hand from its propping position behind her and instinctively moved to cup her breast in her palm. But when she made contact, still over the fluffy comforter, its handful was nowhere to be found; instead, she found herself groping flesh that felt as if it was just below her collarbone. 

Heather’s breathing stopped as a lump began to form in her throat. She began to trace her hand down the covered slope of… If she were to have traced a fingertip from her collarbone to her nipple, she would have been pointing to the usual spot — at the level of her chest. But the same journey, now with her entire hand, was running down the length of her entire upper body, downward and outward, with all of the same sensations.

She knew her nipples. She loved tweaking them and flicking them during those nights alone, when she needed a little extra help getting to sleep. She knew every sensation they could emit, from the light, soothing brush of a silk camisole to the shocks of pleasure she would receive when they found their way into the mouth of someone who spent the night worshiping her. 

By the time her hand made contact with this sensitive circle of flesh, Heather’s bated breath turned into an inability to breathe. With the tips of her first three fingers, she was able to locate her right nipple — and was shocked to discover that her pinky finger crested against her thigh.

This isn’t right. This is still a dream. I’m still dreaming. Heather bit the inside of her cheek, hard, hoping that the pain would wake her up. But she knew that having such a logical thought was not something one typically has in a dream. She tasted iron from the inside of her stinging cheek. 

Lightheaded, either from the hangover, the dehydration, the confusion of the moment, or the fact that she had been holding her breath for far too long, Heather confronted the impossible suspicion that had been welling in her mind. With both hands, she threw the comforter from her naked body to find two enormous teardrops of flesh suspended from her chest — a colossal pair of creamy, blemish-free breasts that rested heavily atop her upper thighs, the tips of her nipples barely visible over the horizon of each distended orb. 

“Oh… my…” the words came out as barely a whisper. “What the… fuck...!”

She rested her hands atop each breast, making certain that this, that she, was real, and trying not to be distracted by the reflexive warmth this tactile sensation emanated throughout her body.

And then, after a moment of stunned silence, Heather covered her mouth with her hands and let out a stifled yell. 

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[The next chapter will be posted in one week, exclusively on the "Heather's Metamorphosis" tier. See the next post for a poll, where YOU will decide what happens to Heather in the following chapter. Thanks! :-D]