(not sure if you'll like this, but...)
Noticing the time, and how long it would take her to get ready so quietly she absent mindedly said "I wish i was ready and already at the Spiked Pit" while she applied her makeup. Dispite being a Goth, she was only 16...and the Spiked Pit was a club that catered to the cities rather large Goth underground. With no alcohol allowed, it was just a place to dance and hangout. Still, the club had its unpleasant underbelly.
She was usually rather understated in her appearance, and her outfit consisted of a simple black skirt, ripped t-shirt, pale foundation and dark makeup, plus a few accessories like her ankh earrings and crucifix necklace...
...but the world wavered about her...and as it reformed, she felt...off. Part of it was the waves of muted pleasure echoing from the rythmic pumping in her vagina, and continuing through her...somehow dull and senseless breasts and mouth. Her eyes were closed, and she felt...mud-witted and stupid. Like she was trying to think through a fog that wasn't connected with the ham-handed groping of her alien breasts or the toxic, novocaine-like deadness of her mouth. She opened her eyes, and saw the graffiti-scrawled walls of a tiny room...occupied by a dirty toilet. A restroom stall, she guessed. It was hard to see clearly though, as something was wrong with her vision - everything was foggy and softly defined - and the tiny room kept being jarred out of focus by the action of the thrusting...thrusting...thrusting...
Then...it ended, and something liquid filled her lower quarters. She gasped and moaned while the person behind her went "Guh, oh...oh fuck..." as he stopped doing the thing he'd been doing. She was a virgin, and though she'd given a guy a blowjob once, she'd never actually gone all the way with anyone. She was a Goth, but she was also an excellent student who had plans in her life. After highschool would come collage art classes, and finally a career as an illustrator. She had a great eye for visuals, and though her tastes ran to the dark, she knew she was good at what she did. What had never been on the plan was being some cum-dumpster for a guys desires. She'd never let her boyfriend even see her vage, much less stick his dick there.
But as she sank to her knees in the toilet stall, the fuzzy man behind her tosed two bills at her feet and said "Thanks, Daz...that was great..." before he left.
Daz.
Where'd she heard that name?
She stood up, and unconsiously snatched the two dollars (she had to hold then close to her face to see that they were both 20's) from the floor, pulling down her skirt which had been hiked to her waist. She felt...slow and confused as she left the stall and saw an indistinct shape in the mirror.
Daz.
Daz?
The name Daz floated up through the soup of memory and booze (Had she been drinking? Was she drunk? She felt like she was.), and she rememberd a sad, unpleasant woman from the club. A highschool dropout in her early 20's who hungout at the Spiked Pit. She was old enough to buy beers at the package store for the losers who'd give her a few bucks to do it, and in Zoes opinion she was a walking, talking object lesson. A morality play that had started with being the cool, bad girl in highschool...and ended here, where she sucked dick for money in the mens stalls of the Spiked Pit.
Daz.
Oh...my...g-
She blinked - everything was still a blurry fog - and fumbled about her neck for the glasses that Daz wore. The black, plastic, rhinestone-encrusted catseye frames that she wore on a beaded chain about her neck. As she fumbled for them, her hands slapped and shoved about a pair of dead, senseless orbs...and Zoe moaned in horror. Daz (whose real name was Daisy, but who was never called that) had taken the money her parents had tucked away for collage and driven to Mexico...and when she returned...she'd obviously blown it on bargan basement surgery. Face and lips (dead lips...stuffed with collagen and pushed into a fat, fake trout pout) and breasts blown up like baloons. All rubber and plastic and...and...
...she was feeling them. Those fake, plastic globes.. attatched to her own chest!
She found her glasses (NOT HER GLASSES) and got them on her face, though she almost poked her eye out with her nails. She remembered that Daz wore these stupid-looking, 2-inch long, black acrylic talons decorated with gold ankh-symbols and pentagrams, and a squeal of panic burst from her throat. She got the glasses on...
The girl in the mirror wasn't Daz, it was Zoe. It was a parallel-univers version of Zoe, where she'd made the same mistakes as Daz. It was Zoes face, but caked with thick, faux-goth makeup and a pair of collagen-warped, Patricia Caputo-like lips. They were gross...
(NO! They were perfect! She LOVED them, and they were perfect!)
...and didn't quite distract from the somewhat lumpy nose (aquired from a punch delivered by a drunken client)...but as bad as the grossly swollen (perfect and sexy) lips were, the breasts were a hundred times worse. Breasts? That was too organic a term for them. These wern't breasts. Breasts are something the nature give you. Daz had swapped her collage tuition money for a set of back-breaking 38-KKK's that she flaunted like she was proud of them.
Zoe looked at the Zoe-Daz fusion before her. The black, 6-inch heels...ripped fishnet stockings...crotchless panties...short, black leather skirt and gold, chain-link belt...black haltertop from which her (oh so perfect) gross breasts wobbled and bounced. Her hair was thick, dyed black and spun into a beehive...
She was Daz. Daisy Merlin. SHE'D been the one to drink and smoke...to swap sex for money...to dress like a goth tramp. SHE'D dropped out of school after flunking out of the 9th grade...driven to Mexico with her tuition money...paid some guy (Doctor Gomez, she remembered) to do THIS to her face and breasts. SHE was the one the losers paid to buy them beer. SHE was the drunk, chain-smoking tramp who her friends sneared at when they saw her taking another guy into the mens room. SHE was the produst of her mothers pre-marital daliance. At the age of 16, her mother had pushed Daisy (Daz) into the world, and had just never been able to handle her. Once the quiet, shy Jon came into this world, she'd ignored her first daughter, and when the perfect, gracefull Missy had popped out...Daz had been further pushed into the background. She'd run with a bad crowd, gotten in trouble at school, fought with her parents at every turn. Now, the only reason the 21-year old Daz was still living at home was because of guilt. Her mother and father now blamed themselves for their daughters mistakes, and so they let her crash in her old room.
Her. Daz SHE was Daz.
HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED?
The Humiliation Stone - always pleased to twist a wish into an impossible pretzel - had taken her words "I wish i was ready and already at the Spiked Pit" and given her the life and history of the Pits most notorious patron. The boozing, Goth-whore Daz Harper. Except now, there had never been a Daz Harper...and her life had been given to Zoe Merlin. As Daisy 'Daz' Merlin, she had lived life in Daz Harpers shoes. She'd made all her mistakes, and now occupied the same position in life. Daz had been notorious for always dressing in her goth-slut outfits, and almost always being at the Spiked Pit.
She couldn't let this happen! Daz (she'd had a different name before, but...it had vanished from her mind) wouldn't let this be how she ended up! She snatched up her purse (a black number on a gold chain that buldged with crumpled bills, condoms, a pack of cigarettes and a vial of coke to keep her focused) adjusted her (perfetly wonderful) breasts and her glasses (she'd always worn glasses, hadn't she? She needed them she knew...because without them she was practicly blind), fussed with her hair (she'd worn her hair in a beehive since dropping out of school, and loved the look) then strutted from the bathroom. Her mind still felt foggy, and somehow...she knew she was drunk...and a little high. She looked down at the stone in her hand, and wondered how she could have done this to herself. After all, she'd only said...well...she couldn't remember. She was way to drunk. It was...a nice feeling. A swampy, cloudy feeling in her head that blocked out all her regrets...
She had to get home. She had to get home, sleep this funk off, and try to fix this. The stone obviously worked, and if she could remember what she'd said wrong, she could wish her life back to normal.
As she was leaving though, she saw her bestfriend Athena and stopped. Maybe she could gat her to help? Tell her what she'd done...and see if she could help her.
Athena was shocked to se that waste of a person Daz stumbling through the club straight toward her, and most suprising of all...say "Hey, 'thena...I need yer hep wish sumpthin'..." before pausing, letting out a burp that smelled like gin and pot, and finishing "I need...yer help, 'thena. I foun' thish rock, an' it gives me wishes...but I fucked up an' wished I wuz Daz or sumpthin'...an' I gotta get help..."
Athena wasn't in the mood to listen to this losers rambling, booze-influenced stories. She rolled her eyes and turned away from Daz, which got on the drunk womans nerves. After all, Athena was her best friend!
"Hey, bitch..." she slurred, reaching for Athenas arm. "...don' you fuckin' turn away from me! I said I need yer help, yuh cunt-licker!"
Athena pulled away, which caused Daz to sink her hands into her hair and start pulling. Athena screamed, and the bouncer came and ejected Daz out through the back door. Furious with the situation, and her friends refusal to help (Daz was unable to process that anything she was doing could be wrong) she went around front and keyed Athenas car, before the cold night air sobered her a bit. What the fuck was she doing? It was like she had no self control, and she suddenly remembered that the original Daz didn't look quite like this, or act nearly this unstable. Though her mind was dulled by booze, drugs and lack of education, she put together that she hadn't really become Daz...rather, she'd become what she'd always imagined Daz was like. What her subconsious mind had twisted her perception of Daz into. She'd always dismissed the older girl as a drunken, slutty goth poser...and now, that's what she was.
She had to get back home.
Daz slipped the rock into her purse, and started walking. After all, she couldn't expect Athena to give her a lift now. While walking, her hips and butt wiggling because of the high heels, a car pulled up and the driver said "Hey, babe. Need a lift someplace?"
Daz smiled, and leaned over...her fake tits unconsciously shoved into the guys face. "Yeah, thanks hun."
"So how much?" he asked, his eyes flicking from her boobs to her face.
Daz wanted to puke, or tell the guy to go fuck himself, but...swinging around a pair of tits this big wascausing her back to ache, and her ankles were throbing because of the exagerated heels. And besides...she really wanted to get home.
"Forty bucks fer a fuck, twenny bucks fer a BJ." she said, quoting her standard price "An' you gotta gimmie a lift sumplace. It ain't far. I jus' need tah get home."
A few minutes later, and they were pulled off the road, and Daz had her thick, pouty lips wrapped about the mans cock...feling those impossible, fake lips as they slid up and down was...awesome! Had she thought they were ugly? Well, what the fuck had she known? Her lips, thick and fat and fake as plastic, felt GREAT slidin' up an' down this guys dick. Granted, her lips were largely insensitive and they were so thick it was hard for her to pronounce some words, but that was a small price to pay for the AWESOME feeling of her collagen-enhanced suction pump as she went up an' down...and rolled her tongue around his dick. Her three tongue studs swirled about the guys shaft, and as he grunted and moaned...she felt so proud. She was good at this. She as genuinely good at this. Finally he came in her mouth, which she swallowed before licking the shaft like a real pro. The guy handed her a Jackson, and she tusked it into her cleavage.
Later, having used her key to get into the house, she stumbled to her room...and found all her art supplies were gone, replaced with a selection of well-used sex toays and stacks of dog-eared porn mags. She buried her face in her hands, crying over the loos of the one real talent she'd had. She fumbled about for a pen and paper, and tried to workout some kind of drawing...but couldn't manage anything better than stick figures. She couldn't draw anymore. She was nolonger an artist.
She removed the stone from her purse, as well as a cigarette. She lit it, and loved the taste at once. It was a habit she'd picked up when she was 12, and now she was a pack a day smoker.
She hated (loved) what she'd become, but most of all...she hated the loss of her artistic talents. Maybe she could wish for them back?
But she knew...that if she did...she'd regret it. The stone had twisted her into Daz, and if she wanted to paint and draw again...it would twist her wish in some horrible way.
Jon. The stone was his, and maybe...he could help her. She rose and wiggled to his door, opening it and shaking his till he woke. When he blinked his eyes, he frowned and said with an exasperated sigh "Daz? What the heck are you doing in my room?"
She licked her (beautiful) lips, fussed with her glasses and her beehive, and couldn't think of what to say. Finally, she slurred "I...uh, took yer fuckin' ston, an' shit...an' I used it, and I feel fuckin' awesome..." she shook her head, then tried again "I got me sum great, big tits, an' everythin's jus' fine..." she hissed, then bit her lower lip. "I love my big tits, Jon! I fuck fer miney, an' it's all th' bes' thin' ever!": before bursting into tears and throwing the stone at Jons feet, and ran from the room crying.
Jon wayched Daz scurry into her room, and soon heard the hum of a vibrator, and the pungent smell of her bong. He felt bad about all the stupid mistakes his sister had made in her life, and wondered if he could help her with his wishing stone. Then he remembered what his little sister Missy had said, and decided he should wait. He guessed that Daz had fucked something up with her wishing, and was too ashamed (and drunk) to tell him about it.
