MISC: Super Stomach Girl #2 - Transformation

[Jerry]

Super Stomach Girl #2 - Transformation

by Jerry Shaw

Damn!

Damn! Damn!

DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!

I was trapped again, by the same gang as last week, again. And they 
were going to beat me up, again.

And it was my own stupid fault.

AGAIN!

I woke up to the sound of that crazy alarm clock telling me that it was 
Monday morning, in a very annoying voice, the alarm clock my co-workers 
had bought for me as a joke my last birthday. It said, "WAKE UP! It's 
Monday! Time to go to work!" so loudly that I thought it could actually 
wake the dead. And right now, that was a good thing, and appropriate.

"Wow!" I thought at first. "That was some nightmare..." Then I realized 
I was wearing those same clothes. But now, they were white and covered 
my whole body. And the boots were gone, leaving me with bare feet. So 
the whole thing had been real, not a dream after all as I hoped.

I dragged myself into the bathroom, and encountered my first problem of 
the day. I was completely covered in dirt, grime and sweat from my 
night run in the desert. But how I could get this thing off was a 
mystery. How does one get out of a skin-tight outfit with no zipper, 
snaps or any other way of opening it up? So I did the only think I 
could think of, I went into the shower with it on. At least I could 
wash it off a little, to at least clean the dirt off of it, and to 
clean the sweat and grime out of my hands and feet, and especially out 
of my hair, which by now had matted down into almost a helmet.

I was about half way through a good lather when I got a sudden idea, 
and slapped myself for not thinking about it earlier. I reached up 
around my neck, and grabbing the edge of the tight-fitting fabric, 
stretched it out. It stretched with little effort, as I had hoped. Then 
I just peeled it off, sliding it down my body and off each arm and leg. 
It slid easily over my body, just like my body was greased (due to the 
sweat no doubt). And of course, to put it on, I would only need to step 
into the neck hole and slide it up my body again, sort of like putting 
on a really stretchy set of pantyhose. I took the suit off and just 
threw it into the corner of the bathtub. At least the hot water 
streaming out from the showerhead would clean it a little, at least 
until I could do my washing.

And then I noticed the bullseye on my stomach. It was still there, 
painted on in perfect circles. Last night, the suit had a large hole 
over my stomach, showing off the bullseye. This morning, the suit had 
none, as if the hole had healed itself overnight. But at least I could 
wash off the paint, or at least that's what I thought. So for the next 
half an hour I washed and scrubbed my stomach. But it didn't come off. 
I eventually tried a scrub brush that had successfully removed wax from 
my floor, and that didn't help. I even resorted to a scouring pad that 
I had used to scrape the paint off a window, and that didn't work. I 
tried all kinds of cleaners, even turpentine and acetone that would 
dissolve the strongest paints, and those didn't work either. Nothing 
worked. Eventually I stopped trying, the rest of my stomach almost as 
red as the bullseye. It didn't look like a tattoo, but whatever the 
alien had used, it had penetrated well into my skin.

And of course, being a girl, I thought about what I would look like on 
the beach. I'd never be able to wear a bikini again, maybe no kind of 
bathing suit at all. And all kinds of shear clothing would be off 
limits as well. Oh well, at least I was alive. So I guess the bullseye 
was a small sacrifice in return.

I finished my shower and got out. I rung out the suit and threw it over 
the shower curtain bar to let it dry out, and proceeded to towel off. 
My stomach was still red (at least the part around my bullseye), but 
surprisingly not sore. I know with all the effort I had put into 
scrubbing, it should have been rubbed raw by now.

After I dried my hair and body, I felt the suit to see how much longer 
it would take to dry. It was completely dry already. Whatever alien 
fabric it was made from, it shed water like, like ... I don't know what 
it was like. It most certainly wasn't like anything I had ever seen or 
heard of before. 

Back in my room I tried it on. I pulled it on over my body, and as 
easily it had slid off, it slid on again, without any effort at all. It 
still felt like it was painted on, it was so thin. But it blocked the 
light completely. It even hid any signs of my bullseye.

I investigated where the stomach hole had been, pulling on it lightly. 
Suddenly it tore, opening up just like it had the previous night. Well, 
it didn't really tear. A hole just appeared in it, a hole that hadn't 
been there before. I found that by pulling on it, I could make the hole 
larger or smaller, and it kept its shape on my body. On a whim, I 
pulled the back like I had done on the front. It "tore" into two pieces, 
into an upper and lower half. And as I pulled the parts back together, 
the suit re-formed, the halves joining back together to form a seamless 
garment.

I spent the next hour or so playing with the suit, forming it into all 
sorts of apparel, T-shirts, panties, leggings, sweat pants, bikinis, 
socks, leotards, whatever. And whatever shape I pushed it, pulled it or 
stretched it into, it kept that shape, glued to me. And it magically 
stitched itself back together whenever I overlapped parts of it again.

I completely lost track of time I was having so much fun. So much so 
that I was already late for work when I next looked at the clock. So 
hurriedly pulling the suit into a T-shirt, a pair of panties and a pair 
of socks, and pulling on a blouse and short skirt over it, I grabbed my 
purse and left to catch my bus, not even stopping for breakfast.

It was on the late bus to work that I got my next shock, only one of 
many that day. I was sitting there on the bus seat, alone since all the 
real workers were already at work, idly listening to the radio of the 
youth sitting across the aisle from me, wondering what I would tell my 
boss about being out, when the announcer in passing mentioned the date. 
It took a couple seconds to sink in, and I didn't believe it when I 
heard it.

I jumped up and grabbed the arm of the boy, startling him I'm sure. 
"What's the date today?" It took several tries before he told me, and 
I'm sure he thought I was crazy when he finally did, but he confirmed 
what I had thought I'd heard. It was Monday, the Monday only four days 
after that Thursday, the Thursday I had died. The alien had healed me 
completely, from dead to completely healthy, in the span of just one 
weekend.

So maybe I still had a job after all.

I got to work a couple hours late. Sheepishly going to the supervisor's 
office, I was greeted with, "So, how's your stomach?"

That panicked me. I froze. I knew I had been alone when I had been 
attacked, and I didn't think I had seen anyone else while my stomach 
was being worked over. So I had no idea how anyone else could have 
heard about my stomach. I had all I could do not to break out and just 
run away. So I froze, a thousand different things going through my mind.

"Your stomach. Your doctor called me last Friday saying you were having 
stomach problems and would be taking off for a couple days. Funny, he 
had a strange metallic sounding voice. Oh, and I filled out your 
timecard for you last week and put you down for sickleave on Friday."

The alien! He had somehow gotten the phone number of work and had the 
foresight of calling in sick for me. He really was very intelligent. Or 
very organized.

"I'm OK now. I just had a little pain in my stomach ..." Yeah, it had 
been ripped open with those jagged knife-claws, and my innards had been 
torn out and shredded to pieces. Oh, and I had died. "... but I'm fine 
now. Did anything interesting happen last week?" I asked with a forced 
straight face, trying to keep from laughing at my own personal joke. 
And after I got the rundown on the Friday gossip I missed, I turned and 
went back to my desk.

Not having any assignments in any other part of the building, the desk 
was piled high with loose-leaf chicken scratchings the engineers liked 
to call a document, all for me to translate from gibberish to a 
coherent, well thought out specification. In other words, it was just 
like almost any other day. Or at least I thought so.

It was a slow day. The chickens had scratched less on this pile of 
papers than usual. Which meant the typing was all mechanical, looking 
at sheet after sheet of paper, typing it in without having to look at 
the keyboard. I could type at well over a hundred words per minute, so 
I got a lot of that type of stuff to type up.

And after a while, you can actually start to make sense of what you're 
typing, and can correct the spelling of a lot of the long, technical 
words on the fly (and I had an advantage in this department). But it is 
boring. I was so tired after my long night in the desert that several 
times I almost fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. (Gee, I guess 
dying will do that to you.) So I loaded up on the free, very strong 
coffee that the company provided, sometimes chain-drinking cup after 
cup of the stuff. Of course, this led to frequent potty breaks. And 
those breaks showed up another small problem.

My suit T-shirt was getting a mind of its own. It started to creep up 
my stomach. At almost every break I would have to pull it back down, so 
it would cover the red bullseye painted there. That would be all that I 
needed, to have one of the other girls see that tattooed on my stomach. 
The gossip spread fast enough as it was. I could only imagine what that 
seeing that would do. So I kept pulling it down, finally pushing it 
under my skirt and cinching the belt real tight, almost painfully so, 
tight around my stomach. That finally kept it in place.

The day went long. At five o'clock, I was more than ready to go home, 
to get on that bus and go back home, to my dinner perhaps, but to my 
bed for sure.

I got on the bus hoping the coffee would last until I got home, but 
already feeling the caffeine buzz in my head starting to quiet down. It 
wasn't until the bus was pulling away from my stop, leaving me there, 
that I realized it wasn't really my stop. I had done it again. I had 
slept through my stop. But fortunately this time I had missed it by 
only a couple blocks. I was several blocks from where that girl-gang 
had attacked me last Thursday, so I thought it was safe to walk back. 
But of course I hadn't gotten more than half a block when the same gang 
of girls walked out of the alley directly in front of me. Yes, it was 
one of those days.

"Well, what have we got here? It looks like her sister."

Of course! They had torn me to shreds and killed me last week. So they 
obviously wouldn't think I was the same person. Also, that alien 
liposuction that had removed all my fat, coupled with the tummy tuck he 
did, made my stomach broader, flatter and more defined. So, what else 
could they think except that I was my sister.

"We're gonna do to you what we did to her. We'll see if sisters are 
really alike. Inside as well as out."

You know, having your stomach ripped out and dying really makes you 
jaded. After all, where could you go from there but up? So the thought 
of that pounding I had taken, and the thought of the same pounding 
being repeated, really didn't bother me as much as it should have. I 
resigned myself to my fate.

"You first, Darcy," said the leader. And the same two girls grabbed my 
arms, and stretching them out, slammed me up against the alley wall. 
And the same girl, Darcy, reached around behind her and pulled out that 
same pair of brass knuckles. And she punched me the same way.

Darcy pulled back her brass-knuckled fist and let fly directly into the 
middle of my stomach. I was glad that I hadn't have that last cup of 
coffee I had thought about drinking before leaving work, or it would 
have ended up spread all over my feet. But as it was, I just turned 
deathly sick, and probably as white as a sheet. So smiling, she punched 
me again, harder this time, but in the same place.

Her punch buried itself deep into my stomach. I'm sure those brass 
knuckles would have made me another bellybutton if they hadn't landed 
precisely there already. That second punch landed with much more of a 
thud. Last Thursday, the punches had made more of a slapping sound. 
Today, they penetrated a lot more, and hurt a lot more. I attributed 
this to the lack of that half inch of fat that the alien had been so 
kind as to remove from my stomach. It let me feel all the pain of those 
punches, with no padding to soften them. And of course, my broader, 
flatter stomach offered a better target for them to land.

Darcy pulled back her heavily weighted fist for a third stomach punch, 
and I tightened up what little muscles I had down there. As I said, I 
went to the gym just to keep my weight down. I never ever thought about 
building up any muscles. And my stomach showed it. It was flat and 
broad, flatter and broader than ever thanks to the alien. But there was 
no muscle to help cushion that next punch, none of the outer protective 
shield for the organs within. So I steeled myself for the punch, and 
for the pain it would bring. But it didn't come.

Half way through Darcy's punch, the leader had grabbed her arm strongly, 
stopping it a full foot from my vulnerable stomach.

"What do we have here?" she said. "Darcy, pull off her blouse and skirt. 
Girls, you have to see this!" And I knew exactly what she was talking 
about.

I felt it a little during that first punch, and more so during the 
second punch. That first punch had pulled my T-shirt out from where it 
had been tightly tucked under my belt. With the second punch, I had 
felt it ride up on my stomach even further. Once released, the alien T-
shirt had re-asserted its independence and withdrawn back upward, as it 
had been trying to do all day.

So as Darcy ripped away my blouse, popping all the buttons (at this 
rate, I really needed to buy all my clothes with snaps instead of 
buttons), I knew what they saw.

"She's got a bullseye tattooed on her stomach. See, she's just giving 
us a good target. So Darcy, let's see if you can get it in the 100 
point circle."

This time, Darcy's punch wasn't stopped. Her punch plowed into my 
stomach right in the middle of the bullseye, right in my navel. 
"Whuuf," was all I could say. The pain from that punch was like a 
sledgehammer (appropriately enough).

And the second punch in the same spot was worse, causing my whole body 
to shudder. It drove deep into the middle of my stomach. I could feel 
my intestines being forced aside, moving to either side to make room 
for her weighted fist, to let it sink in deeper. But of course the 
muscles directly in the line of the punch, and all the ones overlaying 
them, couldn't move, and were crushed. And of course, the nerve endings 
there were still fully functional. In fact they appeared to have been 
sensitized by all the abuse that had been heaped on them in the last 
few days and the last few punches. And maybe even the alien 
improvements had helped them to feel the punches even more.

But of course, all this was just an interesting set of thoughts, ones 
that weren't going through my mind. Instead, I was only thinking about 
the pain of the punch as it rapidly spread throughout my whole stomach, 
my whole body.

Darcy kept punching away, digging deeper and deeper into my stomach 
with every punch. They were doing some real damage, as every punch sent 
pulses of pain surging throughout my body.

One, two, one, two in perfect, continuous, cadence, with my body 
reacting to each blow, jerking and dancing and weaving like a puppet in 
the hands of a drunken puppeteer. And each blow did more damage, hurt 
more, caused more pain than the last. With each blow, a sudden stab of 
pain spread out from the middle of my stomach, out to every corner of 
my body, out to my very soul. The pain was excruciating, each punch 
more intense than the last, until I even wished for the death I knew 
would be the eventual outcome of that night.

The punches must have been doing more damage than I had thought. 
Eventually, the pain settled down into a dull thudding thing, getting 
duller with every punch. Maybe my stomach was getting used to the awful 
torture it was receiving. Or maybe it was becoming numb from the pain, 
my tortured nerve endings finally rejecting the stimuli they were 
receiving. Or maybe I was just starting to pass out.

Or, maybe this was the calm I had heard overcomes people just before 
they die.

In any case, it had the effect of clearing my mind, if only a bit.

"You've had your fun Darcy. Now let's finish her off before someone 
sees us. Let me finish her off like I did her sister," and the leader 
reached around behind her and pulled out those chrome-plated knuckle-
knives. The ones she had used on my stomach the last time. The ones she 
had ripped my stomach open with. The ones she had killed me with.

A calm came over me. I saw those barbed fingers of death, but wasn't 
afraid. I knew I wouldn't survive this second attack. There would be no 
alien to resurrect me, to heal my wounds. Not this time.

The leader drew back her fist like a boxer about to throw the final KO 
punch of a fight against an opponent whose body was spent. An opponent 
who no longer had the strength to fight back, or even to defend herself, 
her arms hanging limply at her sides. An opponent who didn't even have 
the strength to look up to see her own demise, approaching like a 
freight train, plowing into her at a hundred miles an hour, getting 
crushed beneath its wheels.

Her fist drove forward like that freight train, straight toward my 
stomach, right at the center of the bullseye. I felt the longer, center 
knife dig deep into my navel, going right into that cute little innie 
of a navel that could be so straight and thin when I laid on the beach 
stretching out on my back, as straight and thin as if a knife blade had 
cut it there in my stomach.

The pain had been dying down. But now, it jumped back up, beyond 
anything I had felt before. There was only the pain. I didn't hear the 
knives ripping deep into my stomach. I didn't hear them ripping again 
as they withdrew, ripping all my insides out, letting them hang out in 
the cool, refreshing, evening breeze, dripping blood and gore all over 
the alley, my legs, my shoes. I didn't hear this because of the 
grunting of the leader as she punched with all her might into my 
stomach. I didn't hear this because the pain blocked out everything 
else.

I didn't hear this because it didn't happen.

"WHAT THE ...!!"

It took me more than an instant to recover. But the look on the 
leader's face was not to be believed. In another reality, it would have 
been called comical. She was standing there looking, her eyes wide open, 
wider than an anime character, her mouth hanging open, wider than a Tex 
Avery cartoon character. It would have been comical if I wasn't still 
in so much pain. I followed her eyes downward. My stomach was red from 
all the abuse it had taken that night. But it was still there. There 
was no gore, no blood, no cuts, no signs at all that I had just been 
knifed deep in the stomach. No signs except for three small, red 
indentations where the knuckle-knives had just been withdrawn (the 
fourth indentation being deep within my bellybutton, of course). And 
even these faded as I watched.

The leader recovered rapidly after that. I could see her temper rising. 
She turned a bright red, again reminding me of an anime character. I 
could see the others of her gang trying to hold back a smile, a smile 
probably more of scorn or contempt than humor. And she saw that too. 
And that made her madder than ever.

With a loud growl that reminded me of that wounded grizzly bear I had 
seen that one time when I went hunting with my father, she attacked my 
stomach in earnest, throwing punch after punch, grunting and panting 
like a bull as each one landed. Each punch dug deeper and deeper into 
my stomach, until I could feel the sharp points impacting against my 
backbone. But though they went in deeper and deeper, they hurt less and 
less. Maybe my stomach was getting numb from the abuse it as taking. 
That was the only explanation I could come up with at the time. And of 
course all these punches did no more damage than her first one. There 
were no ripped guts, no deep gashes, no cuts. In fact, there were no 
indications at all that the razor-sharp knuckle-knives had even touched 
my delicate, vulnerable stomach.

As each successive punch landed, it hurt less and less. I found that I 
could even tighten my stomach a little, and deflect the punches, a 
little at least. Other things happened as each punch landed. My mind 
started to clear. My stomach started to feel better, with a  tingling 
that started at my navel, at the center of the bullseye, and started to 
spread out, in concentric rings, to the rest of my body, to my mind 
again. And as the punches continued, my whole body gained strength. Not 
only my stomach but all the muscles of my body tensed and were filled 
with a strength, a strength I hadn't felt since high school when I was 
at the peak of my physical fitness. I hadn't felt so invigorated in 
years.

Then it happened. One punch, I was standing there, my stomach absorbing 
more punishment that I had ever imagined possible, then there was a 
flash of light.

All my senses were amplified. I could see the sweat on her face, see it 
streaming from each pore. I could hear her raspy breathing, the sound 
she made as she tensed for the next punch, the sound of a cat softly 
padding down an alley three blocks away. I could feel the wind softly 
blowing against my bare stomach, the roughness of the hands of one of 
the girls holding me, the feeling of each grain of sand in the concrete 
that made up the wall against my back. I could taste the salt that blew 
through the air from the old salt flats fifty miles outside of town. I 
could smell the sweat on the leader, the smell of the sweat on each of 
the others of the gang, the smell of a hint of perfume on a prostitute 
a half a mile away as she negotiated with a customer over prices and 
services.

All these and more. 

I lowered my arms to my side easily, essentially ignoring the two 
strong women who were holding me. It was like children trying to stop a 
strongman. And just as futile.

I looked down at my stomach just as the leader delivered her next punch. 
I must give credit to the maker of her chrome knuckle-knives. They were 
completely stopped by my steel-hard stomach muscles, yet didn't shatter 
or even bend. Even the tips of the blades stayed pointed, though I did 
notice they looked a little duller. But the leader was in such a rage 
that she didn't even notice that her punches were now meeting a set of 
muscles like concrete, as if I wasn't there and she was punching the 
wall behind me. And she also didn't notice that my white T-shirt and 
panties, the only things they had left me wearing, had merged and 
become one, and had turned bright red, just like they had been when I 
had awakened in the desert. The suit had now become a costume, one with 
a bare stomach, one that prominently displayed the red bullseye there, 
accentuating it, making it draw the eye (and fist, I would find out) of 
all who saw it.

But enough of this. With lightning speed, I reached down and grabbed 
the leader's hand just as she was pulling it back from her latest 
futile attempt to punch a hole in my stomach. She yanked back, and 
jerked her hand out of mine. That surprised me. I had thought I had 
much more power than she did. I certainly felt like I did. But she had 
jerked her hand from mine easily, though it had taken quite a bit of 
her strength to do so, I noticed. So maybe I didn't have the super 
power I thought I had. Maybe it took a little more than a red suit (and 
maybe I should get a cape), to be a superhero. Maybe.

She attacked me again, aiming at my face, but first dropping the 
knuckles. So I covered up. She was so much better than I was at a fight 
of course (especially since I had never actually BEEN in a fight). So 
as I protected my head, she went for my open stomach. I grimaced as the 
punch landed, until I realized there was no effect. It didn't hurt. I 
barely felt it. So, confident in at least this superiority, and seeing 
she had left herself open, I threw a strong, fast punch to her head, 
landing squarely on her jaw. Her head jerked back, but only to avoid 
the punch. Though I had hit her jaw, landing with all my might, I had 
done little damage, about as much as I would have in my non-super form. 
So we continued to spar, me keeping my guard high to protect my head, 
she going for my stomach and me countering mostly ineffectively to her 
head.

We sparred a while like this, neither one of us gaining any major 
advantage. What's the use of being a superhero, I thought, if one can't 
finish off one's opponent with a single punch?

Finally, I had my chance. I ducked one of her punches, and went for her 
stomach, the first time I had any chance at that target. I landed what 
seemed like a fairly solid punch, though much less solid than the ones 
she had been landing on mine. But the effect was most satisfying. That 
single punch lifted her off the ground completely and threw her back 20 
feet, slamming her loudly against a set of three garbage cans on the 
other side of the alley. She didn't get up. She was out cold.

The other girls in the gang who had been watching, cheering the leader 
on, went dead silent. So now I turned to them, as they attacked 
simultaneously. I put them all away with stomach punches. The last one 
I played with a little, letting her punch my stomach several times 
before I bellypunched her too. I really liked the blast of breath she 
let out as my fist sank deeply into her upper abs, a breath that held 
the distinct scent of rotted meat. I even got in a second punch to her 
muscles as she flew through the air on her way to the same set of 
garbage cans as her leader.

Before she passed out, she looked at me with blurry eyes and said, 
"Super stomach, girl!"

And as suddenly as my powers had appeared, they disappeared. My suit 
stayed, and I presume I didn't look any different to anyone else, but I 
knew. I lost all my super powers, especially my super-strength. Not 
being an idiot (well, not any more than I already had been that day), I 
took that opportunity to leave. I grabbed my blouse and skirt, and 
quickly pulling them on (to hide the red suit more than for modesty), I 
walked briskly home.

I walked home thinking. So, I was a super hero. My super powers were 
that I had heightened senses, a terrific punch, as long as it was to 
someone's stomach, and an invulnerable stomach of my own. And all it 
required to change into my alter ego was to have my stomach punched, 
kicked and kneed into oblivion. And I would feel every one of those 
punches, kicks and knees, at least until my transformation. "Super 
Stomach Girl," she had said. Yes, that sounded good enough, and 
descriptively accurate.

"So this is the start of an interesting time, one where the end is 
still unknown," I thought as I walked back to my apartment, the old 
Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times" racing through my 
head. Yes, an interesting time indeed.

Epilog:

On the top of a nearby building a dark, lithe figure looked down and 
muttered, "So, another adversary has appeared. And a strong one, at 
that. This will make things more interesting in this town."

A few blocks away, a solitary figure looked intently at a solid wall of 
monitors. Swift fingers raced over the keyboard, and one of them 
replayed the scene of the alley fight, as another monitor followed the 
slim, dark figure as it glided across the rooftops and out of sight, 
and a third followed the girl in the red suit as she walked away. "Yes, 
things will be interesting indeed," the voyeur said.

Copyright 2006 Jerry Shaw