A Splash of Change

Welcome to the Hothouse, Clod-r-us. Hope you, and everyone else, can enjoy your welcome cap!

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The bar throbbed, a single sweaty organism of bass, booze, and bodies pressed too close together. Mikah felt her strawberry-blonde hair sticking to her neck. Her simple black tank top and jeans felt modest in this obscene orchestra of g-strings and clapping cheeks. She was trying to flag down the bartender when a heavy-set man next to her, gesturing wildly while telling a story, swung his arm back. His elbow caught his glass, sending a dark, syrupy arc of rum punch straight at her. Time seemed to slow as the crimson-black liquid left the cup. It didn’t splash against her chest as she expected. Instead, the bulk of it rained down directly onto her head, soaking the crown of her fine hair. “Whoa, shit! My bad!” the man, Jamal, exclaimed, turning towards her. But Mikah couldn’t process his apology. Where the sticky liquid touched her scalp, an effervescent heat bubbled to life. Her hands flew towards her head in a panic.

“Wh-what the…?” she gasped, her fingers brushing against her own hair and recoiling. It felt alien. The silky, feathery texture was gone, replaced by something coarser, thicker, and blacker. Terrified and confused, she watched her soft, strawberry-blonde strands writhe. They twisted, coiling in on themselves, the light color being chemically leached away and instantly replaced by a deep, glossy espresso black. Within seconds, her loose hair was gone, violently re-woven and settling into a cascade of heavy locs that tumbled past her shoulders. Aninvoluntary sound escaped her throat, half-whimper, half-moan. “Nnngghh…” The electric sensation poured down from her hairline to her her face like a warm mask. A grinding pressure settled on the bridge of her nose, molding it. She felt the delicate cartilage soften, drastically widening and flattening. Her thin lips, kissed by a stray drip of the punch, began to throb with a delightful, bee-stung pulse, swelling from within until they protruded from her mouth. “Mmmphh… ohhh, god…” she groaned, the words thick and slushy on her new lips. Her voice was already changing, a developing huskiness vibrating in her throat. The next changes came quicker, the initial fear smothered under waves of illicit pleasure. The sticky rivulets of rum punch that had soaked her black tank top now burned against her skin--not just on the surface, but deep beneath it. A searing heat radiated from the damp fabric, sinking into her flesh. She looked down, breath hitching, as her pale, freckled chest darkened first, the pigment spreading in uneven patches. The color deepened: tan, then golden, then bronze, then settling into a dark brown. Mikah gasped as the heat reached her breasts. The sweaty, sticky flesh there swelled, straining against her damp tank top. She could feel every inch of growth, the weight pulling at her, sagging heavily in the cups of her bra, the straps digging into her shoulders and back because of the mammary fat accumulating at an insane pace. Her nipples ached, stiffening under the fabric, and she felt them grow. She cupped her tits in futile modesty as her nipples swelled into thumb-sized palms behind her brown-skinned palms. “Ahhh… fuck… it feels so…” Her own thoughts were scattering. She had... a degree? A long-distance... boyfriend... somewhere? Fuck. She can’t remember. She rubbed her temples, willing her mind to recall anything when she she suddenly felt her clothes tighten. “What the f-fuck...” she breathed, as the denim of her jeans felt restrictive. She looked down and saw her thighs bloom inside the wide pant legs, the material looking like it was shrink wrapping onto her fattening thighs. “MMmmnn, too... tight...” The fabric strained, then frayed, then tore, the material melting away until she was clad in a pair of denim cutoffs that clung to the exaggerated curves of her fleshy hips. Her whole posture was shifting, her spine arching to accommodate a fuller, rounder backside that pushed against the barely-there shorts. At the same time, her black tank top constricted, the neckline plunging as if pulled down by invisible hands. An intense, aching weight blossomed in her chest. Her breasts, which were now full orbs that strained against the thin cotton, jiggled with every shuddering breath that racked her body. “Ohhh… oh, wow… Mmmm…” she moaned, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. Beneath the physical cataclysm, her mind was being mercilessly rewritten. Mikah’s memories that she desperately tried to hold on to became brittle and distant. In their place, a new history flooded in. Memories of hot summer nights like this one, laughing with her cousin Jamal. The feel of her auntie’s hands deftly twisting these very locs. The sweet, familiar taste of this exact rum punch on her lips. The name ‘Mikah’ was a foreign, ridiculous sound. She was… she was…

Mikaylah. The name landed in her new mind with the force of absolute truth. The final tremor passed. Mikaylah’s eyes fluttered open. The fear was gone, replaced by a smoldering confidence. She looked up at Jamal, who was staring, his jaw hanging open, the empty cup still dangling from his fingers. “Damn, Mikaylah,” he finally breathed, his unfocusing then focusing on his cousin he so accidentally drenched a few moments ago . “I am so, so sorry, cuz. You good?”

A grin spread across Mikaylah's plump lips. She ran her tongue over them, savoring the new shape. She rolled her shoulders, enjoying the heavy, satisfying bounce of her new breasts against her chest. “Better’n good, J,” she purred, wiping off stray droplets with her cocoa-brown hands before taking a finger and tasting the remnants of punch there. She felt her nose widen further, just a fraction. And her already ample cleavage rise a little bit more. She looked at her hands, seeing the skin there darken to a luscious dark chocolate. She took a step closer, swaying her hips, her body moving with a fluid grace she’d possessed her entire life. Mikaylah pressed forward, letting her dark brown chest brush against the bartender who was clearing the used glasses. “In fact… why don’t you make it up to me and buy yo’ favorite cuzzin anotha’ drank? Night’s jus‘ gettin’ started.”