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Introduction:

A doormat gets a gift and takes control of her own fate...and her body.

Mallory Smith's watch beeped, which meant it was 5:00 and she had had enough abuse for one day.

She locked down her computer, grabbed her purse and keys, and practically ran out the door. She thought she heard something behind her, a comment from someone (whether boss or coworker she couldn't tell), but she had learned long ago that work stopped at 5, and so did she.

This was always a race. Every day, Mallory superficially tolerated the work environment of Longman Integrity Securities and Trust, but as soon as the day was over, she knew that she would be fighting the urge to cry all the way home, and since she only lived about 4 blocks over, she would be running the whole way there. So far, no matter how mistreated she had been, she had always managed to make it in the door, throw her stuff on her dining room table, and throw herself face down on the couch before the tears would begin flowing.

Today would be the first time it didn't.

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You see, gentle reader, Mallory is very talented, educated, and compassionate, but she has a greater problem: people walk all over her. In particular, men seem to identify her vulnerability almost immediately, which results in a great deal of pain for her.

Take Mallory's boss, Larry 'Lon' Longman. The man is a walking stereotype of the male chauvinist who finds any opportunity to turn his female subordinates into sexual harassment suits - although he has so far managed to intimidate all of these women into either shutting up for simple monetary benefits like bonuses (or even jewelry) or leaving the company to avoid the danger of one more lewd comment, one more intentionally misplaced physical contact.

Living in an economically depressed area, however, Mallory knows that she can't be too picky about work, especially when it seems like CPAs are a dime a dozen. She's low on the totem pole, metaphorically speaking, and she's still working off student loans from a couple of years at the University of Texas. Quitting is far less pleasant an option than she wishes it were.

Today, she knows that she won't be able to take anymore.

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"Hey sweetheart, you're coming to lunch with me."

When Mallory's expression changed into a mixture of horror and disgust, Lon Longman quickly added, "A working lunch. I need to talk to you about the, um, Fiskman account."

Mallory knew that the Fiskman account was one she barely ever touched - a low-maintenance, low-risk, low-yield account that was never going to be in danger of sinking unless the whole economy went down the toilet first. The whole thing stank of ulterior motives.

"Okay," she sighed, "let me grab my stuff."

"Great," he replied with a grin, "we can take my Beemer."

It was at least a nice car, Mallory thought as they drove to whatever restaurant Lon decided would be fitting. Lon was too much of a jerk to deserve it all, of course, although being a jerk somehow doesn't make it impossible to have nice things. The universe, Mallory was finally starting to realize, is very seldom aligned like it ought to be.

Lon pulled into a driveway, and Mallory noticed that they were in a residential district - a nice, suburban development.

Sensing Mallory's growing anxiety, Lon said quickly, "Come on in with me for a moment, I've got to grab a few things before we head to lunch."

Her reaction could be described less as fear or dread and than dèjá vu.

They walked up the brick sidewalk, and as Lon opened the door for her, Mallory was taken aback at the opulence. Now the incongruence was even more shocking: not only did Longman not deserve any of the wealth he had apparently accrued, but the sheer amount of wealth he seemed to have did not seem possible to have gained through his business. His house, which opened immediately to a grand room bedecked in marble and gilding of various sorts, seemed far too grandiose even for a man like Longman who obviously prided himself on his ability to flaunt his wealth.

She hadn’t seen his shit-eating grin as he watched her gaze upon his palatial home, since he quickly put on his best poker face. “Hey, I’ve gotta go grab a few papers for the account from my office. Could you go grab me my briefcase from the far room at the end of the hall? It’s on your right.”

She nodded semi-vacantly and walked in that direction. It was only after she opened the door, flipped on the light, and walked a few feet into what was clearly a spare bedroom that she realized Longman wouldn’t have needed his briefcase: it had already been in his car when they had come over.

The light flipped off, and a coarse hand stifled her cries roughly, while another grabbed the waistband of her skirt and yanked it to the floor in one sharp motion. Mallory’s heart rate accelerated rapidly, especially after feeling something firm — and growing — against her ass.

The rest of what happened should be fairly obvious by now — panties torn, Mallory thrown onto the bed, and so forth — and we think it a bit gratuitous to mention any more specifics. (And for those of you hoping for a rape fantasy, we feel compelled not to oblige you any further.)

At any rate, what happened afterwards is far more important to our story — and to Mallory.

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What she heard when she began to regain consciousness sounded like the loudest white noise she had ever heard in her life.

Mallory blinked, but the darkness continued. Something was clearly different about her surroundings, and as she pondered this, she tried to remember where she had been — and then quickly tried to forget.

“Have you finally had enough of being walked all over?” A multi-layered voice from the darkness boomed forth.

Mallory’s head spun; she knew what the voice meant, but she wasn’t sure how anyone would know that without personal experience. Who was this?

As if on cue, the voice replied, “Who we are is unimportant. We simply want to help you with your...problem.”
“The problem,” the voice (or perhaps voices) continued in unison, “is that you are too easily shaped, remolded, altered. You are like a sheet of gold: beautiful but easily beaten and bent into whatever shape anyone else desires. Eventually, though, you will break, and then you will be of no use to anyone. We think that would be a shame.”

Mallory’s bones tingled, and she felt perspiration rising from every pore, but she still had no reply.

“So here is your chance to take advantage of your — how do you say? — flexibility. We hereby grant you the ability to reshape yourself as you see fit — in body only, of course, although you already have the ability to reshape your mind. When you master this, then we may allow you to take control of further abilities.

“Don’t squander this opportunity, Ms. Smith. This is the chance for you to change your life, just as you know you have wanted to. We look forward to seeing your transformation.”

Mallory finally found a breath to speak with, but she had no more time to exhale than the white noise intensified and encapsulated her mind.

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“Hey miss, this is your stop. I can’t carry you inside.”

Mallory blinked, moving from her side to a sitting position in the back seat of the taxi where she had evidently been deposited. Her purse was sitting beside her, unzipped partially but seemingly intact otherwise. She blinked a few more times and asked what should have been an unthinkable question: “Do I owe you anything?”

The tanned cabbie held up a fistful of bills. “Nah, your buddy back there has me covered for the next few hours.”

Mallory sighed, opening the door and sliding out of the cab onto her feet (but only barely). The cabbie waited for a moment, as if the stop wasn’t right, and when Mallory continued to stumble toward the door of her apartment, he gave up and sped off down the street.

The door creaked open, and Mallory dropped her purse a foot from the door, hoping that it was closed enough to keep the contents inside. She looked down to check and noticed the corner of an envelope sticking out. She was almost afraid to look.

She crouched down and grabbed the corner, unzipping the purse an inch to remove the envelope. With almost mechanical precision — the product of years of office work — she ripped the envelope open with the long nail of her right index finger and pulled out a small sheet of paper, which simply read:

Hope you had a nice lunch — but if you try to tell anyone about this, you’re fucking dead. I know you’re a smart girl, so keep that pretty head of yours intact and keep your trap shut. -LL

She crumpled the paper and threw it across the room in no particular direction. After having seen Lon Longman’s house, she doubted that she would have any chance at getting him with the authorities.

With a quick turn, Mallory spun around toward the door and hit it with the bottom of her clenched fist. As she hung her head in exasperation, a glint of light hit her eye, causing her to blink reflexively. She backed up a step and traced its path to her purse, where she saw a small piece of metal. She picked up and weighed it in her hand — probably tin, she thought — before she took it in two hands and twisted forcefully.

She frowned for a second, pondering the contorted metal. She knew what it signified, but she didn’t know it meant. Throwing it back onto her purse, she headed for her bedroom.

Breathing deeply, Mallory started removing her clothes, thinking that a shower was absolutely necessary to feel human again. Tossing the now-tainted clothes into a hamper, she walked toward the adjoining bathroom, stalling for a moment at the full-length mirror.

Mallory’s eyes surveyed her reflection, and her expression turned fierce. “You ugly bitch!” she screamed at the mirror. “What kind of a fucking person lets herself get fucked around like that by everyone? You’re a goddamn weakling, you piece of shit!”

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, she felt her flesh tingle, especially in her arms, legs, and abdomen. She tensed, and sighing, she started to turn back toward the bathroom.

What was that in her reflection? Were her eyes deceiving her, or did she notice more definition in her muscles? Mallory flexed her biceps and was amazed to actually see the muscle tense into a distinguishable shape.

What had that voice told her? She would be able to reshape her body?

All her life, Mallory had had a very odd body image. She had never been incredibly displeased with her body — she had been able to remain slim with only a moderate amount of attention to her diet and exercise; she had never really disliked her strawberry blond hair, which always managed to remain decently straight even in the worst humidity; and her tits were a modest but pert 36B — but every time some shitbag like Lon Longman used and discarded her, she wished it weren’t hers. Consequently, the thought of altering her body was intoxicatingly tempting.

How do I do this? Mallory thought. Do I just imagine the changes?

She concentrated on her breasts in the mirror, and sure enough, they began to grow as she stared, and a grin matched the growth as she realized the gift she had been given.

“Thank you, whoever the fuck you are,” she mused quietly, and then she turned her attention back to her body. Within a few minutes, she had made the desired modifications: a few minor facial changes (mostly to her nose — she didn’t know a woman in existence who wouldn’t change that even slightly), a thinning of her hips, a firming and slight expansion of her ass, a slight darkening of her skin, and the removal of the vast majority of her body hair (which simply disappeared like she had never had it).

Mallory gazed at her new body almost lustfully: this was beautiful. She decided to take advantage of it and practically ran into the shower. Almost immediately, she began to feel her new body, and almost as quickly she had a thought — if she could modify her body, then surely she could make it possible to achieve an orgasm, something she had never done. (In reality, Mallory’s problems were probably more psychological than physiological, but physical changes wouldn’t hurt in this case.)

Unsure of how to modify her body to make this happen, Mallory imagined her G-spot and increased its size, but she knew in an instant that size wouldn’t make the difference: she needed responsiveness. Visualizing both her G-spot and her clitoris, she increased the number of nerve endings in both, particularly in the latter. She reached a finger down to her clit and was rewarded with a jolt of pleasure at the barest touch. The touch then became a firm caress, and soon Mallory had her soaped-up loofah in her crotch, rubbing away. Within two minutes, she had come at least three times.

Mallory let her head rest against a wall of the shower and contemplated how much better this would make her life. But she knew that people like Lon Longman would still have it out for her, and this newly modified body would only make it worse. She needed a way to protect herself.

No, she had strengthened muscles, she considered. If Longman tried to make another pass at her, she would be able to fight him off. She didn’t need protection: she needed a way to even the score. She wanted revenge.

But what could she possibly do to Longman that would even the score? She couldn’t possibly fuck him; for one, he’d already done that, and he would enjoy it anyway.

Another smile grew on her newly-minted face — and so did another newly-grown organ.

Yes, she could fuck him, as she took hold of her brand-new, 10” long, 2” thick, bulbous, burning hot cock. As she began to stroke it fiercely (but not too fiercely, as she quickly found it too difficult to maintain the speed with which she had attacked her now-vanished clit), she grinned evilly, and when she hit her climax, spraying thick globs of ejaculate all over her shower wall, she shouted, “Your ass is mine, Longman!”

Breathing heavily, Mallory imagined a clit again, and the enormous phallus between her legs shrank back into the feminine nub that she had so recently brought herself to orgasm with. It would require some planning, she thought, but she knew that she could get her revenge

And it would be sweet revenge indeed.

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