The Cleansing
Read the story[Take this story and make it visceral and brutally sexy.] The city is a sprawling circuit board of cold light, a thousand feet below my throne. I am on the phone, my voice a low, dismissive purr. “Portia, love, just sign the pre-nup. My lawyers have it covered.” My fiancée. A porcelain doll from a bloodline so old it’s fossilized. My life is a fortress of glass and steel, and this office is the keep where I count my conquests. The door opens. It’s Sherry. The new girl from the cleaning service. A whisper of a person, with pink hair like a wound and a body so flat-chested it’s almost an insult under a tight black silk blouse. An A-cup on a generous day. She places a glass of water on my mahogany desk, her eyes deferential, utterly vacant. I don’t acknowledge her. She is part of the furniture. I take a sip of the water. It’s sterile, tasteless. I hang up on Portia mid-sentence. The change begins not in me, but in her. A low hum fills the air, a resonant frequency that seems to vibrate up from the marble floor. I watch, mesmerized, as Sherry’s body undergoes a violent, supernatural metamorphosis. It starts in her chest. A subtle swelling, like dough proofing at a thousand times its normal speed. The black silk of her blouse, which hung loosely on her frame moments ago, pulls taut. Her eyebrows, once straight and noncommittal, arch high on her forehead, carving her face into a mask of shocked, dawning power. The swelling accelerates, becoming a grotesque, beautiful eruption. The fabric groans, a sound of pure animal distress. The first button, straining at its threads, fires off like a bullet and skitters across the polished floor. Then another, and another, until the blouse is a ruin of torn silk. Her breasts don’t just grow; they blossom. They surge from an A-cup to a D, then a G, then a J, their ascent a stratospheric rocket launch of pure, unadulterated sexual status. They are heavy, round, impossibly perfect, spilling from the wreckage of her shirt like a divine, terrifying offering. They settle, colossal and magnificent, a 34KKK monument to her newfound, god-like prowess. She has gone from invisible to a walking avatar of fertility and lust in the space of a single, thundering heartbeat. My mind recoils, but my body does not. Unseen, hidden cameras are feeding my betrayal to a dark screen. A seismograph of my heart jackhammers into a frantic, jagged peak. A thermal imaging display paints my groin with an explosive bloom of white-hot heat as blood