SRU: A Higher Power -3- Mousepad

Carl could not believe his luck. The fabled Spells-R-Us store, right in his own mall!

SRU: The Mousepad

by Lainie Lee


I do not own the SRU universe, I am just borrowing it. The Spell-R-Us store and wizard were created by Bill Hart.



SRU: The Mousepad

by Lainie Lee

Carl could not believe his luck. The fabled Spells-R-Us store, right in his own mall! He'd read about this shop on Fictionmania, his favorite website. Not that he had ever told anyone in his real world life about his fondness for gender-bending fiction of the sort found on Fictionmania. Stories where unsuspecting young men got turned into ravishingly beautiful young women who promptly went out and got themselves ravished to a fare-thee-well.

No, in real life, Carl was much too sexually repressed to admit anything of the sort. But on the internet, late at night, after reading and re-reading a few of his favorite Ficitonmania stories, well, Carl virtually became another person. And some of his most favorite stories, the ones that got him really hot, had been placed in the universe created by Bill Hart where an old wizard ran a strange little curio shop that moved from mall to mall.

But Spells-R-Us? Here? In real life? He must be dreaming, the store couldn't really exist could it? Magic wasn't real, was it? He took off his glasses and cleaned them and put them back on and looked again. The store was still there, the cheap mannequin in the French Maid costume dripping costume jewelry and the little music boxes and pinking shears and manicure sets scattered around her feet. And those high heels she was wearing! They must be eight inches high!

Carl felt a hard-on growing in his jeans. Did he dare go in? He looked away from the store and looked back, simultaneously afraid that the store would vanish and that it would not. He vibrated with his anxiety. If he went in the wizard would sell him something that would change his life, probably forever, in ways he felt sure he could almost predict. The hard-on was getting quite painful as he turned away from the store again.

He walked away, irresolute, indecisive, uncommitted.

I should be committed, he thought, as he sat in the food court later, drinking a double latte. I must be crazy to think that Spell-R-Us could possibly be real. The hard-on had faded slowly. Damn rebel dick, though Carl. What, you want to commit suicide, if I go in there I can probably say good bye to you forever. But the hard-on was definitely coming back.

Carl sighed, there was just no reasoning with a prick. I'll go back and the store will be gone, he told himself. He stood and began a meandering path to where he had seen the Spell-R-Us store. Or it will be a perfectly ordinary real store with a perfectly ordinary reason to call itself Spell-R- Us. New Age gifts or kinky sex toys or.... Medallions, potions, magic figurines, costumes that won't come off....

His dick now hard as a rock, Carl walked painfully back to where he expected, no, dreaded, to find the magic shop. Could anyone in the mall tell that he had a hard-on? Well, people don't normally go around examining the crotches of middle-aged nerds to see if they are getting erections because of frustrated transgender fantasies coming to life. But Carl wasn't sure, that last lady had certainly given him an odd look. He blushed inwardly and squirmed and invisible squirm.

Turning again, h headed out of the mall without looking to see if the special shop was really in the little corner where he had seen it earlier. He would go home and forget about this. It wasn't like he was one of those transsexual people who planned to have their cocks cut off with a knife or even a real tranvestite. Sure, he had tried on his mother's bra when he was a teenager but he had read that most boys try that at least once.

No, he hadn't worn women's clothes in years, not since a frat party in college for one of those silly drag dance routines. For one thing, he looked ridiculous dressed as a girl. He stood 6'4" with broad, rounded shoulders and a pot gut from a life in front of a keyboard eating Fritos and swilling Pepsi. His hair had receded and he had taken to wearing a little moustache and scraggly goatee, as much to avoid shaving as to reaffirm his masculinity. If he gained six more pounds he would weigh 300.

He paused with his hands on the push bar of the exit door. The hard-on was gone, his inventory of his physical shortcomings had quelled that. He was 37, not quite a virgin after a ludicrous encounter with a Tijuana prostitute back in the eighties but he hadn't even had a _date_ in almost four years.

Not much of a man, he told himself. I'm a virtual transsexual, a digital transvestite. He frequently signed on to chat lines as Carla, or Carlotta or Charlotte, some feminine version of his name. And there he had hot, passionate, cybersex with anyone who could spare fifteen minutes of electronic lust.

An accomplished one-handed typist, sometimes he did this five or six times a night, his stamina for this sort of sex surprising him. He went through a lot of Kleenex but he came a good healthy wad, at least the first time, and still climaxed time after time. Sometimes, he swore, more than one climax per encounter. Like a real woman.

He had tried having cybersex as a male but it was dull, disappointing, even painful when his wanking hand produced only friction and not frissons. He hated having to fake an orgasm on the keyboard for his partner. And it worried him that the woman he was digitally shagging might be another man. That made him feel -- queer. It didn't bother him to take it in the virtual ass from someone claiming to be a man, or someone claiming to be a woman wielding a two-foot long dildo, as long as he, Carl, was claiming to be a woman.

Well, it bothered him, but not while he was doing it. And so, he lived, online, as a cybernympho, a virtual bimbo an electronic Fanny Hill.

How had he got back in to the mall? And there was the storefront, with it's tackily arcane lettering spelling out the logo he loved. Spells-R-Us.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Well, it took you damn long enough," snarled the wizard. "I've a good mind to send you home without selling you anything, Carl."

Of course the wizard knew his name. "Uh, sorry, sorry, I'm sort of scared and well, am I dreaming?"

"No, you're a goddamned character in a short story on Fictionmania, and you know as well as I do that you aren't dreaming. Here," he handed Carl a paper bag.

"Uh, what's this?"

"It's what you came here for, now beat it. I have to get the shop packed up. I'm re-opening in downtown Reno tomorrow night." The wizard began packing bottles labeled Miracle-Titty-Gro into a carton on the floor.

Carl clutched the bag, his fingers spasming, his voice broken, his face sweaty and cold. "W-what do I owe you?" he managed to squeak.

"Oh, right." The wizard frowned. "I have to charge something for the magic to work, don't I? Ah, give me whatever you've got in your left pants pocket and we'll call it even."

Carl checked. "All I've got is a Sugar-Free Orange Spice Ricola Throat Lozenge." He held it out.

The wizard coughed experimentally and clutched at his throat. "Gimme," he said. He popped the medicated candy into his mouth without unwrapping it then deftly spit out the paper. "Beat it, now, don't make me tell you again," he warned.

Carl left quickly, it is very dangerous to anger wizards.

"Oh, shit, oh, fuck, oh, piss, oh, hell," he sang a little mantra all the way home. "Oh, cocksucker, motherfucker, goddammit to hell!" What had he done? What was going to happen to him? What had the wizard sold him and what would it do to him? His prick was stiff again, the hard-on demanding at least part-time attention and Carl drove mostly one-handed, ran two stop signs and barely missed the fence post as he turned into the drive of his apartment building.

The front of his pants had a wet spot as he staggered upstairs. Inside his cluttered studio flat, he finally opened the paper bag and took out his magical treasure. It was a foamed rubber rectangle with rounded corners about nine by ten inches. One side was black, like a wetsuit, the other had a picture of a cartoony, big-busted blonde wearing next to nothing. Big dangly earrings, long artificial nails, a corset and impossibly high heels. She had one hand in her mouth and one at her shaved crotch and the look in her eyes said she was just about to come from the job she was doing on herself.

Carl had often imagined looking just like such an over-endowed, over-sexed bimbo as he played his cyberfuck games. Now, his loins ached as he contemplated the object he held. "A mousepad?" he whispered. Would this object somehow transform him into the nympho of his virtual self?

His groin ached. How was he suppose to use this? Well, duh! It was a mousepad, its use was obvious. He plunked himself down at the computer screen and, without thinking it through, without pausing to consider what might or might not happen, he replaced his old Bullwinkle mouse pad with the new one.

Then he stopped, shivering, shaking as a climactic, orgasmic, shudder racked his body and caused him to spurt a good two-ouncer into his jeans. He was vaguely surprised to discover himself to still be -- himself -- after that one. Turning into a girl ought to feel that good, oughtn't it?

What the hell was he doing!? He pushed himself away from the desk and almost turned the chair upside down getting away from the computer. Gasping, he staggered to his little kitchenette and contemplated his face in the mirror on the back of the door to the tiny bathroom. Fat, nearly forty, bearded, bespectacled, Carl. Still himself.

"Shit!"

But what did he want? Did he really want to be turned into a bimbo, a slut, a whore, a nymphomaniac who only thought of where she was going to get her next cock and into which orifice? Well?

Manfully his dick tried to get hard again but it was too soon for the delicate bio-hydraulics of his erectile tissue, too soon after that last soul-satisfying, self-shattering, orgasmic, cataclysm-in-his- pants.

This is supposed to be a short story, he reminded himself. I've got to get on with it, make up my mind, decide what I really want, figure out what I'm going to do.

He drank a glass of water.

If I turn the computer on and put a mouse on that pad it is going to turn me into the woman in the picture. Maybe forever. Sometimes the wizard gave things that could be used more than once, things where the magic wore off after a bit but could be reactivated. Actually, a mousepad would seem to be ideal for such a reusable magic talisman.

Carl calmed down a bit. That would be pretty cool. He could use the mousepad when he went on line as Carlotta, the uninhibited party girl who would fuck anything; one of her cyber-lovers had been a pony! Carl blushed remembering that one. Must have been hell, typing with hooves.

No, wait.

He was getting reality and virtuality confused but maybe he could use the mousepad to actually turn himself into a girl when he was pretending to be one online. Yeah, that would be great.

If it would be so great, why wasn't he getting a hard-on again? Not even trying to, the little wad of flesh at his groin was completely uninterested.

But let him think for just a moment, just a flash of consideration, a fleck of reflection on the idea of being _stuck_ as Carlotta, _trapped_ in the body of a bimbo, _living_ the _rest_ of his --her-- life as a slut -- agh! Now, he'd done it, hard as a rock again, painfully hard after two other recent explosions.

"You suicidal little sonofabitch," he accused his penis.

The wizard had given him a piece of magic that would permanently transform him into the girl he wanted to be; he knew it, deep down where his id lurked and yammered in the darkness, where desires are palpable and reason is a higher function yet to be evolved; he knew it. Use that mousepad and he could say goodbye to his dick and balls. He'd have a sweet, wet little cunny, hungering to be filled by any cock that came along.

"Why am I such a perverted little wretch?" he whimpered. Because he wanted it, he wanted the magic to take him and stretch him and compress him and mold him, mind and body.

He caressed his chest where little fat pockets imitated womanly breasts. Sometimes he played with them, with his typing hand, while his wanking hand brought himself to climax and he murmured _to_ Carlotta, and _as_ Carlotta, loved and lover, all complete in one self.

He imagined it. Imagined the rush as the magic took hold, shrinking him. His muscles would melt away, not that he was any great mass of masculine power, but Carlotta was girlishly weak, helpless to resist anyone if they wanted to force her into an act not of her choosing. Not that she would balk at much of anything. His waist would shrink, and shrink even more as the magic transformed his clothing into Carlotta's corset, squeezing him, compressing him. How narrow was her waist? Nineteen inches, seventeen, fifteen, for God's sake?

How had he got back over here staring at the cartoon on the goddamned mousepad again? And those jugs! Breasts, hooters, mammaries, cantaloupes, what the heck is bigger than cantaloupes? Watermelons? He imagined the blossoming of such massive milk factories on his masculine chest. Were his nipples getting hard now, fer chrissake? He moaned.

I'm sitting here at the computer! I'm out of control! His hands trembling, he flicked the switch on his power strip and the gateway to virtual space revved up, going through its digital checklist. In a moment, the mouse would begin to be operational.

How will I make a living, he wondered. Carlotta is damn near illiterate, she sure as shit won't be able to write code for a living. He remembered telling someone online that "she" had repeated the fifth grade so many times they put a brass plaque on "her" chair.

"I'm thirsty!" he shouted spontaneously and leapt to his feet, heading for the kitchenette's tiny refrigerator and one of his cans of Pepsi-Cola. Everything is going to be different, he said sipping his cola and imagining the magic changes rippling down his body.

The urethra at the tip of his dong would move down as the tube of flesh shrank and curved. His balls would pull themselves up into his abdominal cavity and migrate up near his kidneys to become ovaries. He had done a lot of reading on the physiology of sex. His scrotum would split open and a vagina deepen into a womb, while his penis continued to shrink until it was just a nub, a clit at the top of his little slitch. Twitch. Twat. Cunt, cunny, pussy, monkey, _girl-thing_.

He breathed in, inhaling a bubble of carbonation, then, bursting into a coughing fit. He wondered if he could figure out a way to pound himself on the back as he staggered around, coughing and choking before finally getting control of himself. Boy, now there is a hell of a way to get rid of a hard-on, he thought, wiping his eyes.

The monocular eye of his computer accused him of neglect from across the room. Cyclops and Noman, all-in-one. A vulva in chips clothing, God, I can't take the punishment! He snorted, clearing the last of the sputum and phlegm out of his breathing passages.

"Waddamigonnadooo!" He wanted to howl, but kept it muted for fear of what the neighbors would think. Carlotta, his cyberself was a slut, a bimbo, a nymphomaniac. She wouldn't even be able to make a living as a whore for giving it away!

"I'm gonna die! I'm gonna have a heart-attack and fucking _die_ before I'll sit in that damned chair!" What man really wants his fantasy handed to him on a platter? "He sold me a magic transformation for a _coughdrop_!? On a mousepad! It can't be real! Can't be!" He realized he was crying, sobbing, weeping -- like a woman.

Staggering he made his way to his bed, right beside the computer desk but psychologically millions of miles away. Collapsing, muttering, moaning, shivering, exhausted, defeated, depressed and soon, asleep.

Hours later, he woke to see the still accusing screen of his personal daemon, the screensaver had blinked off and the sudden flood of light filled the room. What had made the screensaver exit? Confused, at first he couldn't fathom it at all, lost still in a edges of a dream in which he had been run through the halls of his old high school, naked and pneumaticlly female and pursued by the entire football team, once the mortal enemies of all nerd-dom.

But the glowing screen brought it all back to him, the mall, the shop, the wizard, the purcahse. Terrified, he watched the cursor move across the busy-ness of his desktop background, cavorting Bunnies around the Playboy mansion Pool. Was the mousepad moving the mouse on its own?

The cursor moved toward his internet phone icon and he heard the click of the mouse. He almost jumped out of his skin but nothing really happened until, moments later, the face of the SRU wizard formed in the herky-jerky movement of a low bandwidth webcam. "What the hell are you doing lying in bed, Carl? It's almost midnight!" The wizard grimaced and pointed at the hourglass on his wrist in six frames per second it looked really kind of funny and Carl smiled in spite of himself.

"Midnight?" he murmured the question.

"The witching hour! You have to be using the mousepad at midnight for it to take effect. Now get your ass up and get into this chair."

"You mean it wouldn't have done anything if I had used it this afternoon? How come you never tell anyone everything about the things you sell?" But he began to move, sitting up and rubbing his face and eyes.

The wizard snorted. "Ever hear of dramatic tension? Get over here."

"How come you can see me? I don't have a webcam." Carl stood and staggered to the computer desk. Taking his seat he suddenly recoiled from the mousepad as if he had seen a snake.

"Like I need a webcam. You are such a wuss!" the wizard accused. "Put your hand on the mouse!"

"No!" Carl whimpered. "I'm afraid!"

"You don't want to become the woman of your cyber-dreams?" asked the wizard, sweetly.

Max Headroom, that was who the wizard was moving like, not like a real webcam but like that cartoony character from the old British sci-fi show. Carl's thoughts veered, anything but think about what he was actually doing, putting his hand on the mouse. "Well, I do, I mean, No! No, I don't! At least, not forever!" He tried to pull his hand back but he couldn't move it.

"Who said anything about forever?" The wizard smiled.

"Nobody," admitted Carl. "But there are 128 stories about you on Fictionmania, I think I know your sense of humor."

"131 now, counting this one. Drat," complained the wizard. "I shouldn't have made that deal with Mindy."

"W-what deal?" asked Carl. He tried to keep his hand very still and glanced at the clock nervously, it wasn't accurate, actually showing the time as a minute or two after midnight.

"I promised Mindy to sell something to every one of my Fictionmania fans if she would display the resulting stories. But it isn't working out well, you're my first and you aren't co-operating," the old man glared from the computer screen.

"Why me? Why did you pick me first!" Carl tried to keep the whine out of his voice.

"Your name is Carl Aals? Right?" said the wizard, patiently.

"Uh, oh, yeah." He nodded, getting it.

"So, if you don't get with the program, nobody else gets their transformation either, 'cause I ain't got time to talk everyone into doing what they really want to do in the first place."

"C-can I make a deal with you?" asked Carl. Involuntarily, his hand twitched.

"Hah! You moved the mouse! You're using the mousepad! I've got you!" the wizard cried in triumph.

"No-o-o!" Carl almost fainted. "N-no-o! Wait! Wait, wait, wait, please woncha!?"

The wizard seemed to have a cramp in his moustache or maybe it was just the jerkiness of the Real Player video. "What kind of deal? Huh? I already made this mousepad just for you. Doesn't the broad-ass bimbo look just like what you imagined her looking?"

"Yes. B-but, I'll starve to death if you turn me into HER, she hasn't got enough brains to come in from the cold!"

"But that's what you want," the wizard pointed out. "Deep down, right where it matters, right where it hooks into the pleasure center of your brain. A beautiful, brainless nympho is exactly what you _really_ want to be."

Carl cursed under his breath. His traitorous dick was getting hard again. "A-a person can want something and know that it isn't a good thing to have. I mean, fantasies are supposed to be fantasies, aren't they? If, if you make them real they aren't fantasies anymore and, and," he realized that his logic was breaking down. "Oh, shit."

He closed his eyes and trembled. "Just don't make me too stupid to live!"

The wizard chuckled. "So you are saying that what you really get off on is pretending to be a brainless nymphomaniac bimbo with a body like a wet dream?"

"Uh," Carl dithered. His mouse hand was also his wanking hand and the need to jerk off was so strong that it paralyzed him since he couldn't let go of the mouse or lift it from the pad. Stealthily, he dropped his typing hand into his lap. This would almost be a first.

"I asked you a question," the wizard reminded him.

"Uh," Carl stammered again. "Yeah, I guess so, I like my fantasy being a fantasy, I mean, I would really like to experience it b-but permanently? The reason it excites me so much is _because_ it is so scary." His hand stroked the tumescence in his trousers, his pants were already stiff there from the last ejaculations he hadn't cleaned up after.

"Click!" said the wizard. Or did he? Had the sound come from the mouse?

A surge seemed to come from the hand resting on the mousepad, a magical energy that traveled faster than thought or desire. Certainly faster than Carl's typing hand trying to stand in for his wanking hand.

The fingers changed first, long nails growing out as the bones became more slender and the skin softer. The nails first blushed and then turned bright red as they reached the queenly length of two inches past the ends of the fingers.

Traveling up the arm, the magic melted the rough curly hair into smooth flesh, the muscle and bone changing at the same time from manly, if nerdy, meatiness to delicate feminine grace. Funny elbow that bent the wrong way, smooth cylindrical upper arm with hardly a hint of a bicep, soft shoulder that was still squarer than it had been; it all happened in an instant but Carl still had plenty of time to watch.

The magic jumped to his feet he realized, his now tiny, arched feet in their impossible platform sandals with the itsy-bitsy, perfect little ruby-tipped toes. Then his smooth hairless ankles, shins, rounded calves, dimpled knees, led up to long shapely thighs with the only real muscle his new body would ever have; enough muscle to clasp a lover tightly between them. He felt his ass pillow under him, soft and round; it would jiggle with every step he would take, "like Jello on springs."

The wizard watched with interest from the computer screen as the magic leapt now to Carl's head. The thinning brown thatch blossomed into goldenrod curls, falling down behind him, past the roundness of his ass, almost reaching the floor. Smooth forehead, arched brows, shell-like ears dangling hoops heavy enough to be real gold and at least six inches across. Tip-tilted nose below cornflower blue eyes hiding behind sable lashes and periwinkle lids. A big delicious mouth with plump ruby lips opened and Carl murmured, "Fuck!" his voice breaking upward in the middle of the word as the racing magic turned his thick Guntherish neck into a delicate Hepburnian column, his nerdy croak into a bimbo trill.

Down his chest and his other arm the magic still flowed, breast swelling, larger and larger, did any alphabet have enough letters to confine them in cups? Bigger and bigger, bigger than his new head, heavy enough to sway his back if it weren't for the rigidity of the corset forming around his tiny waist and the support of the built-in demi-cups. Carl felt his back arch and stiffen and the muscles of his trunk wither away, he'd never even be able to sit up now without his pretty prison.

He gasped as the corset constricted his diaphragm, forcing him to breathe by expanding the already impressive proportions of his very mammalian chest. His waist shrank to the tiniest measure possible for function, a mere thirteen inches with a three-inch verticality like the stem of a cocktail glass. Carl cringed to hear the gasp come out as a giggle, the magic had touched his mind already and he knew that his intellect would shrink at least as much as his waist. "Feelth funny," he said in his new, sugary, soprano lisp.

Down the trunk past the straitened waist and the swelling of the loins, and down the typing-cum- wanking arm toward the last tower, the citadel of his masculinity, the magic cataract of transformation poured and flowed. His naked hips widening to match his thighs and rounded ass, Carl tried one last time to grasp the passion root, the stiff pink carrot that had given him so much pleasure in his life.

But it shrank away from his fingers with their long daggerish, blood-red nails, leaving only one last drop of male love-fluid on the fingertips of a hand that would never type again, not with those nails. The piss-hole slid down the shaft even as the shaft melted away, leaving only the nubbin of the clitty above the cleft left by the receding testes and the splitting of the ballsack. Inside other changes completed the transformation, the balls became egg-heavy ovaries and the new vagina opened onto the new babybed. It had never been Carl's fantasy to get pregnant but it was certainly possible now for Carlotta.

"I'm me!" she whispered.

"Cogent if circular," observed the wizard from the computer screen.

"Waddaya, 'thpeck, I'm not too bright, y'know," she dimpled at him and giggled then got distracted investigating the bit of Carl-cum still clinging to her fingers. "Ooo, tasty," she lisped around her finger.

The fluid seemed to electrify her, the nipples showing above the corset-cups erecting like rosy- brown sunflowers seeking Apollo loins. Her little twat swelled with blood and the miniature prick of her clitoris crinkled and twitched above a flood of girl-juices. "I am tho damn horny!" she said, sounding awed but pleased.

"Of course you are, dear," the wizard muttered. He seemed to be consulting a list just out of sight of the non-existent web cam.

Carlotta giggled as she worked one hand almost entirely into the cleft at the center of her being. "Um, ooo, um." With the other hand she teased her nipples, her lips and played with the hoops in her ears. "I need to cum, oh, I need to cum," she whimpered. "Oh, I'll never be able to cum enough!"

The wizard smiled slightly as he made a mark on a sheet of paper. "Having fun, Carl?"

"Uh huh," she gasped. Then, breaking character for just a moment, "Thanks, I guess. Oh! Oh! O- o-oh!" She shuddered, orgasming as she contemplated a lifetime of pretending, being forced by the magic to pretend to being a brainless, nymphomaniac, blonde while still retaining enough mind to keep herself safe and enough memory of being Carl to make it still sweeter. "I-I wasn't expecting an ending quite like this. "

"Oh, this isn't the end," said the old man. "One down, and maybe a million or so to go." He looked up, smiling at some wizardly thought. "Better not wait up for me, Steve."

The End?



If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos!
Click the Thumbs Up! button below to leave the author a kudos:
up
65 users have voted.

And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks. 
This story is 4892 words long.