Connie's Weed Pt. 01

"Don't laugh now, but I think that's some kind of magical plant."

Marge didn't exactly laugh. Rather, she cackled and whinnied, almost toppling with her chair as she threw her head in her neck. Connie crossed her arms and looked away petulantly.

"Yeah, har-de-har. How funny."

"Oh come on! A," Marge drew little quotation marks in the air with her fingers and lowered her voice, "maaaagical plant." She tapped her index finger against Connie's forehead. "This day and age? Miss Einstein, I told ya, you need to finally get rid of all of those unicorns and rainbows posters in your bedroom! You've been sleeping through your history classes? The closest thing to magic was the free-energy gold rush of the early 1800's, and all of that went belly-up big time by 1870 because it got depleted and rare and nobody could afford it any m..."

Connie virtually saw how Marge hatched some idea. She had been on the receiving end of Marge's ideas enough times already, so she cocked her eyebrow.

"Marge, what are you thinking about? You've got that look again."

"Heeey — that plant, maybe it's distilling this weird old-time power? Oh wow, you know what they did with the stuff, back then? Think 'airship' instead of 'car'. Wouldn't that be cool? If we get that going, it would be the science project of the century! Marge and Connie, the rediscoverers of limitless green energy! Instant cum laude and stuff!"

"What? Marge, you nuts?! Nobody's been doing anything with that stuff for a hundred years! We don't even know what, or how, or, or —"

"Yeah, wait, wait —"

Marge jumped to her feet and paced up and down the room. "So, berries are like seeds, right? So if you bury them, you get new plants. I mean, could we start a secret plantation with that stuff on the table?"

"Uh, yes, maybe. Kinda. No. No!" Connie swiveled in her chair. "Marge! I've not forgotten the incident with your homegrown weed, okay? And this stuff here is — what if it explodes above a critical mass? This is serious! You think I want to end this close to juvenile hall again?! I'm not going to build a kitchen-table magimachine that could wipe out—"

"Oh come on! Pretty please?" begged Marge, bent down from behind over her sitting friend, wrapped her arms around Connie's shoulders and rocked her gently. "Nobody can see it but you! I need you for this to work! I won't ask you to smoke that weed, okay? Let's just give it a try. The bush you saw didn't explode either, did it? So it can't be all that dangerous, or we'd be seeing things go boom every other day." She ruffled Connie's hair. "What's the worst that could happen?"

~~~

Chapter 3: The Plantation

~~~

A few weeks later.

The plantation came along nicely. They had set up three rows of earth in a secluded clearing, and from each of the berries buried in there had sprouted a batch of leaves. Visible only to Connie, a thin stem now rose from the center. The flowers had already lost most of their petals, and the first signs of developing fruits showed on the panicles. Connie had, just once, tried to make the ethereal flowers somehow perceptible to Marge, by draping cloth over them and by spray-painting. It didn't work. The berries had some substance to them, but the stems and the flowers crumbled and faded the moment something other than air touched them. They sank down and immediately melted away into nothingness, leaving behind the root and its circle of flat, round leaves.

~~~

The call came on a lazy Sunday morning like any other. Connie rolled around and fumbled for her cell phone that laid buried under the sultry romance novel she had spent the better part of the last night with. Sunlight shone through her bedroom's blinds, and she blinked. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper.

"Connie. Who's there. Go away," she yawned.

Marge's voice on the phone was agitated. She seemed close to tears. "You've got to come over! Hurry! He's — that bastard! But — and — and then — I don't know how, but — this is — it's so weird — oh my — now they — why?!" The stutters descended into wails and gargled sobbing.

Click. The line went dead.

Connie immediate called her back. After half a minute of ringing, Marge's pre-recorded "Hi, I'm busy. Please leave a message!" twittered cheerfully from the speaker. By then, Connie already had her shoes on and grabbed for her coat.

~~~

She parked her beat-up, rusty, third-hand car a block away and walked the rest of the way, nervously trying to look inconspicuous.

Slow. Slow! It's all perfectly harmless. Nothing to see.

With her heart racing and her fingers trembling, she pressed the doorbell button. Moments later, a click and faint electrical hissing from the speaker indicated someone at the other end had picked up but remained mute.

"Marge? It's me! Connie! Come on, open the door!"

It's all normal. I'm just a girl standing at a door, talking to the entry phone.

She checked around again. Did that guy over at the red traffic light just — no.

Stop that! she chided herself. You're going nuts. Nobody knows about the plantation. Marge's just having one of her boyfriend fits. Yes, that's it. Just boy trouble. Just feed her some chocolate cake and listen to her whine for a while.

"Marge—! Come-on-come-on-come-on! Are you there?"

No reply, again. But after a few seconds, the door lock went buzzz.

~~~

She ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. The door of Marge's flat was ajar, and the one to the bedroom gaped open, too. Connie found her friend curled up in her futon-style bed, wrapped in the sheets, sobbing quietly. All she could see of Marge was a mess of black hair and trembling shoulders. A few crumpled, soggy hankies laid strewn over the floor.

Boyfriend. Phew!

Connie exhaled quietly, sat down on the edge of the mattress and extended her hand.

"Don't touch me!" came the muffled yelp from the blankets.

Connie recoiled. "Marge, I—"

"It's all your fault," slurred Marge.

"My —?! What's my fault?" Connie bowed closer. "Phew! You've spent the night out again? Marge, that's not okay. You promised to cut back, but you smell like a distillery. Oh come on, what happened?"

"This!" yelled Marge, sat bolt upright in her bed and threw off the sheets. "Your crazy plants did that! See them? Huh?!"

Connie recoiled and gulped. Marge had always had a sporty figure, and her breasts had been below the proverbial handful, nice and firm, not exactly of the abundant kind. Granted, she had put on a little weight since she took up studying, but it hadn't gone to her chest. She hadn't jiggled.

Hadn't.

Now, after she sat up so quickly, the taut orbs — melons! — on her chest kept on bouncing with heavy, pumped volume, their perpendicular motions too light to be natural. Connie could barely tear her gaze away from them. Marge kept on saying things. Connie didn't care. She just stared. Her punky, rebellious, flat friend hat turned into the kind of thing fetishes were born from. Over night.

Then Connie noticed it. There was a faint, barely noticeable sheen to Marge's skin, the same kind of vague luminance Connie saw in the plants.

"Wait, let me close the blinds!" Connie interrupted the ramble she hadn't listened to anyway, mesmerized by those breasts. As the room grew dark, she could hardly believe what she saw.

"Marge, you're — you're glowing all over!"

"What? Where?" Marge rubbed over her arms, frantically, bringing more jumping motion into her breasts. In the dark, the glow gave her an ethereal, ghostlike appearance.

Connie grabbed her friend's wrists. "All over! Stop scratching, it's coming from inside. Calm down. What did you do?"

"Yesterday, I drove out to water the plants, and I — I must've accidentally gotten some of the stuff on my hands and then on my dinner! I must've eaten it! I didn't see it! I can't see it! And today, I wake up with those! And they are so — so big! And it's too late!"

She hefted her sizable breasts. Connie pulled up the blinds again.

"No, leave them down! Don't look at my face," Marge yelped.

Of course Connie had to look now. She brushed back the black wool of her friend's hair, and Marge didn't protest. For a moment, Connie thought she even felt her friend lean in to her soothing touch.

Marge's eyes were swollen and red, and streaks of black mascara ran over her cheeks. And then suddenly Marge collapsed on her bed and started sobbing again, before she burst out:

"Danny! That bastard dumped me! For Pearl, that rich bitch! Sends me a fuckin' text message 'Sorry, wasn't meant to be.' Dunno what I did then. Had a drink too many, I guess. I only remember seeing him with that cunt, getting all snugly and making out in her Porsche outside the diner! I hate her! Hatehatehate!" She slammed her fist into the mattress. "Oh heavens, if I only had her figure, I'd get back at him! I'd show him what he missed out on! Hell, I'd fuck through the whole football team and send him the pictures!"

"Well, maybe your wish came true! I mean, your breasts are much better than hers now—," stammered Connie.

Marge jumped up and pointed at herself.

"Better? That's better?! Are you blind? Maybe it's bigger, but that's all! It's not like I have her figure, right? Now I look like an inflated, desperate, silicone freak! Yeah, maybe if I had her narrow waist and saucy hips and real boobs, not those — those fakies, then —"

The glow on her body faded.

"What did you just do?" gasped Connie, chasing the vivid image of Supersexymarge from her mind.

"Nothing! I said I w—www—what is that?!" Marge clutched her stomach. "Oh gods, my belly's cramping up! Maybe it's poison after all—nnnggghh!" She stooped and dropped to her knees, groaning through clenched teeth while she threw her head back. Tendons showed all over her neck.

Connie backed away, very slowly, until she ran into a shelf. Clutching the raw wood of the cheap contraption in her back, she gulped and stared.

"Maybe not...," she whispered.

Right before her eyes, Marge's body changed. The inflated orbs grew just soft enough to sag slightly into the mind-blowing cross of youthful firmness and abundant maternal voluptuousness. Her nipples vibrated bigger by half an inch, and the areolae spilled out and domed slightly to match their proportions to the dark thimbles in their center. Marge's waist shrunk. Not by much, but as simultaneously her hips slowly widened, she approached an hourglass shape predisposed to elicit envy in all but the luckiest few of women. Her panties creaked, and the thin strip of its waistline slowly wandered up over Marge's rounding hips. The cloth stretched as far as it could, and then its width shrunk while the textile descended into the chasm between Marge's labia as they puffed up.

Panting and groaning, Marge dropped on her back, slowly moving her legs. Her body trembled in spasms as her muscles fought against themselves. The barely noticeable paunch on her belly melted from the inside, and Marge's skin was sucked onto a set of shapely abs, like a blank piece of plastic being vacuum-molded over a perfect cast hidden underneath.

Marge raised her head, her face covered with sweat. "It's — stopping now," she panted and rolled on her stomach, struggling to her hands and knees. Her panties were but an almost overwhelmed piece of string trapped between her firm buttocks, and Connie caught a prime view of them.

The dizziness of adrenalin made the room swim before Connie's eyes, and she uttered with trembling lips, "The g—glow's all used up. Marge, you've got to look at yourself. You got a mirror?"

~~~

Marge spun around on her tiptoes, swayed her hips and shook her shoulders.

"Just try and beat that, Pearl! Danny, who needs you? Now I can get any boy I want!" She giggled. "Huh, Connie?" She raised her hands and cocked her head, gyrating her hips before she grabbed her rear with both hands and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror Connie was holding up. "Gods, what a prime piece of ass, too! I guess now I can crack nuts between those! So, mirror, mirror, who's the hot bod around now?"

Connie gulped, but her mouth remained dry. "You are. Oh my, you're absolutely hot! But how are we going to explain that?"

"We? We don't!" laughed Marge as she reached for one of her bras. "I'll just slowly reveal it over the next few weeks and claim I've been working out like mad. I'll stick with baggy sweaters for the time being, and then — uh!"

She grunted as she finally managed to close the clasp of her bra and shifted it around to put her breasts into the cups.

"Dammit, I've put on some muscle around the ribs, too. And my jugs, they've grown bigger again! Look how firm they still are! What is that now, double-D? A big double-D maybe?"

Connie shook her head and stared mutely. The cups didn't even fit halfway over the bulging flesh. Marge undid her bra and threw it on her bed.

"No way. Shit, I'll need to go shopping. Right, hand me the red sweater behind you, okay? That at least—," her voice got muffled as she slid it over her head, "—got to fit, right? — Nnggh! Oh come on!"

She struggled to get the large garment over her breasts. Her round orbs were clearly visible, stretching the sweater and making it look more like a layer of red paint over her chest than a loose-fitting piece of clothing.

"Huuuuhhhrrrnnngh," moaned Marge, and her legs twitched as she pulled the sweater into place. "Oh fuck, I—I think I just came a little, from the touch alone! Damn, those shot glass nipples are touchy as hell! That's almost too much of a good thing!" she groaned as she hefted her breasts trough the rough wool, admired her shapely figure in the mirror again and half-closed her eyes. Her voice trembled a little when she added, "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But I better not grow again, or I won't be able to come up with a believable ruse."

"Well, as long as you wash your hands after you come in from the garden, and not wish around..."

"Yeah, so, you want to go bra shopping with me, this afternoon?"

"No, I, uh, I still need to do some more homework. See you!"

Once Connie was outside the appartment, she leant against the wall and caught her breath.

Those breasts. That ass! I need to get me some of that, too!

~~~

Chapter 4: Field Experiments

~~~

Connie stared at the cup with the mashed-up first harvest of the berries. The liquid, almost as weightless as air and more than liquid, akin to quicksilver without weight, slowly spun inside and cast a flickering, whirling light. She downed it with a single gulp. It tasted of ... nothing.

She looked at her trembling fingers. Together with the blood pumping frantically through her veins, the ethereal white glow now rushed along her arms into her hands, on into her fingertips, dragging faint heat in its wake. It flooded her eyes through the spider's web of capillaries and her vision filled with a dull permanent glow that didn't go away even as she closed her eyelids. It was the most annoying thing she'd ever witnessed. As she opened her eyes again, the glow on her arms had begun to spread outwards from the mesh of her veins all through her skin. Something had changed. Connie couldn't put her finger on it, but the world seemed — closer. She blinked, and sparkles flashed briefly before her eyes. She turned her head, and halos and rainbows danced around every edge, only to settle down and fade moments later. The next blink did away with the annoying lightshow, and Connie wasn't sure if it had ever been real at all or just in her mind. She took a deep breath and held it in.

Right, here goes. Supermodel.

Nothing.

Maybe need to speak it aloud? And be a little more specific — Marge changed only when she said 'hips and waist,' and not just 'figure'...

She looked around the little clearing. Nobody in hearing range, she hoped. Nevertheless, she only whispered:

"Supermodel. Longer legs, a beautiful face, tits like waterm—, uh, no, big like cantaloupes, and a firm ass."

Not even a shiver.

Connie bit her lip and reached for her bag, grabbed the bottle with the clear liquid in it and unscrewed the cap.

Phase two, then. Marge was still more than just a little tipsy when she changed.

She sniffed at the opening and drew a face.

Urrgh. Yuck. People drink this for fun?

The cheap booze burned in her throat, and she couldn't bring herself to swallow more than just a mouthful. Heaving and coughing, she dropped the bottle and clutched her aching stomach.

Connie shied away from drinking for a reason: She knew she was a lightweight. That one big gulp took only a few minutes to kick in, and things suddenly became so obvious. Transforming into a sex goddess? Pshaw! Of course she could do that! She swayed a little as she rose to her toetips, arched her back, raised her voice and declared uninhibitedly, "Annnow, I gonna be so hot, everybody willanna — will wanna fffuck withmmme. Tits! Ass! Legs! Hips! The ever-ready dripping snatch of Venus! I want it all!"

Birds took to the air, scared away by Connie's outburst. The flapping of their wings quickly faded in the distance. She splayed her arms wide and thrust her chest to the sky. The world spun around her. Dizzy and staggering, she fell to her knees, knocking the bottle over. The vodka gurgled out as it rolled away, causing the only sound in the silence of the forest. After a few moments, Connie's outstretched arms and shoulders started to ache.

And that was it. Nothing happened. She bent over, fell to her hands and knees and curled up, her face red with embarrassment and disappointment. Soon, tears ran down her burning cheeks.

~~~

Over her wailing and sobbing, she didn't hear the small engine of the beat-up motorbike, or the approaching footsteps.

"Connie? Are you alright? What happened? What are you doing?"

Marge stepped out of the bushes and, in an offbeat gesture for the often blunt young woman, laid her arms around her kneeling friend's heaving shoulders. Connie raised her head to her, tears still streaming over her face in alcohol-fueled self-pity. Marge wrinkled her nose when she smelled the cheap booze on Connie's breath.

"Connie! How much did you drink? You know you can't stomach anything stronger than tea."

"Shooo—sho whaddd? Whashit to you, boob queen, huh? Eve'yfffin's so fuckin' unfair! It doeshn—doesn't work on me! Youww—you've just skimmed a few berries and you're Mrs. Hot, and me? Lookit me! I dishco—covered it, I've made an ass of myshlf—myself in public, and I got nothing!" She clenched her fists. "I've swallowed so much, I should be able to fart rainbows if I as much as think about it."

Marge struggled out of her leather jacket and stood in silence for a few moments, straightening her sweater before she musingly replied, "Maybe that's why you can see the berries? You might be immune to it. Like, like a super hero? Maybe that's your special power!" She gently shook Connie's shoulders. "Hey, sweetie, come on, get up. You've got super powers. Be happy!"

"Yeah, great! Powers." Connie drew a face and blew a lip fart. "As if, I can lift my hand and declare grow! Only it doesn't work." She struggled to her feet and turned away before she pulled at her neckline and took a checking glance into it, just in case. "Nnnnope. Doeshn't. Shome power that is, Marge."