They are Mine

You know those girls? The hot ones. The too hot ones. The ones you see in malls and on beaches who never give anyone a second glance? The ones that are too hot to be movie stars. The ones who are too hot to approach - yet when you do, drunk at a bar or dared by your friends, she says she has a boyfriend?

I am that boyfriend. Those girls are mine.

Keep your hands off them.

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Once you might have had a chance. Once those girls were ordinary girls. Most of them were just on that edge - not beautiful enough to warrant attention, but not so plain as to build on other talents. Not bright enough to dismiss beauty as a sham. Once these were the girls who wanted to be beautiful. Wanted to be looked at as you look at them now.

Throughout the ages I have sought out these girls. I have had my many girlfriends gauge the looks each woman gives them. Always envy, but how much? When she finds one she approaches her, invites her. My girlfriends offer her time in their presence. It doesn't matter the excuse. The ones I seek will always drop everything. Soon they will drop their lives.

After she is sure, my girlfriends will take her with them. Sometimes a runaway, sometimes an assistant. She will bring the girl to me, into the great hall where she kneels before my throne. She will be surprised, shocked, by the women, as beautiful as her mentor in every color and range of beauty scattered naked around me. She will swallow in disgust at their open moans of pleasure - as they entertain themselves, but never an eye straying too far from my need.

She will look disgusted but still she will kneel.

Then I offer it to her. None have refused for we pick those we offer well. I offer her that she might be like them. In ages past I told them I was a god, a spirit, a magician - the devil when the mood strikes. These days I tell them I am a scientist, and with my technologies I can shape her body any way I desire. She will ask at what price - plastic surgeries always come at a price she will think. In ages past she will expect the devil to ask a price.

When I tell her she will consider only a moment. Somewhere deep inside every woman knows. Since there have been humans I have been bending them to my will. Somehow that has translated, some instinct, some key in their genes tells them this is the only way it can be. Serve me. Pleasure me. Become nothing more than base instinct to serve under my command - and you shall be beautiful.

She will consider only a moment. Then she will agree.

It is the price I pay to change them that I must take them still plane. I come down from my throne and tell the girl I will sample her. In ages past I told the truth, that in taking her I unleashed my desires on her body, changing her forever - but girls now never believe. Instead I turn her, two girls on either side already undressing her. Each woman knowing my desires - what stays and what goes. Each woman parting her legs and quickening between. Expert fingers play against this poor plain girl's need, like a master musician caressing a viola, low moans leave the girl's throat as she dampens to a waterfall. Ready.

Yet they are never truly ready. My kind are large. Women remember this too. Always seeking by instinct for one our shape and size, never truly finding it. As I move to enter her eyes will go wide, and she'll look back. My harem will hold her as her body shrinks away. The dampness will be less, and as I slide in she will always cry out, a wordless moan half pleasure half pain. The rituals of virginity a mere reenactment of this.

Plain though she may be I will take pleasure in what I do. I collect women as others collect art or old wines, yet it is I who make them - an artist taking his brush to canvas, a vintner with each girl no more than the grapes I begin with, sticky and sweet. Each stroke grows easier as I probe into her - into who she is. I take her, and the beauty of her soul and I draw it together into her womb. When her soul meets mine, where life meets life, she will change, wracking shudders taking her whole body. Nothing grows or shrinks. Nothing seems to change - yet when she turns to face me. I gasp every time. She will never be the beauty I expected. She will be the beauty I did not expect - perfect in her imperfection, every inch of her body coming together to make her beautiful.

She will turn. "Master" on her lips. She has sold her soul for beauty - and beauty is her soul.

She is mine.

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So when you see those girls. The unspeakably hot ones. When you see them on the beaches or the malls. Do not think they lie when they say they are taken. They are mine, and I do not take trespassers kindly.

If you are a woman. Approach them. They will know what you seek.

If you will sell your soul for beauty.

If you will be mine.