By Ellie Dauber © 2018
Ever wonder what happened to Harvey Weinstein?
* * * * *
Any resemblance to a real world situation is deliberate.
Eshet manifested herself just outside the elevator doors on the penthouse level of the hotel. She hummed a wordless tune, a 3000 year-old melody, as she stood in place, getting used to the body that she had created for her purposes. Still humming, she walked down the hall to a wide set of doors that a small metal plaque proclaimed was the entrance to the Blue Diamond Suite. She took a breath and knocked twice on the door.
“Yes?” A slender man with a bemused look on his face, opened the door just enough to look at her.
He saw a short blonde, about nineteen years old, her hair tied in two long ponytails by bright green ribbons. She wore a pale green dress that clung to her lush figure and stopped well above her knees. The sweetheart neckline revealed the tops of her breasts and the cleavage between them. Her face… ‘Hell, with a body like that,’ he thought, ‘who gave a damn about her face?’ Even as nice as this girl’s face was, especially those full, juicy-looking, cocksucker lips.
“Hi,” she said in a high, very chipper voice. “I’m… ah, I’m Marley Weber.” The name was carefully chosen, the identity carefully crafted. “I got a message that Mr. Weinberg wanted to see me.”
The door swung open. “Mr. Weinberg is in his office.” The man pointed to a half-closed door at the other end of the living room of the suite. “In there.” He walked past the woman and out into the hall. He waited until she had stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. He took the “Do Not Disturb” sign out of his jacket pocket and slipped it into the electronic key slot on the door. Then he strolled towards the elevator. Marley and Weinberg were alone in the suite.
“Hello.” Marley walked cautiously across the room. “Mr. Weinberg?”
A raspy voice came through the door in front of her. “Miss Weber?”
“Yes, sir… Marley Weber.”
“Come in, my dear.”
She moved to the door, pushed it open, and walked through. “H-Hello, Mr. Weinberg.”
Arnie Weinberg rose from his chair. He was a heavyset man of some sixty-five years. His grey hair was cut very short, barely longer than his perpetual two-day beard. His face was as fleshy as the rest of him with beady gray eyes, a bulbous nose, and narrow lips. As far as she could see, all he wore was a dark green robe, trimmed in gold, the logo of his film production company, Weinstar, embroidered on the breast pocket.
“I’m very happy to meet you, Miss Weber.” He extended a hand. “One of my scouts caught you in that production of Fallon’s Follies over in the Hauser Center, and he was very favorably impressed.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He was slow to release her hand.
“Call me Arnie.” He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts and her hips. “And I’ll call you Marley, if I may. I look forward to working with you for a long time, and I hope that we can be… friends.” He ran his tongue quickly across his upper lip, as he settled back into his bulk back into the plush, dark brown chair.
“I’d like that, sir… Arnie.” She tried not to smile in triumph. The Follies was a poorly written student production, and the part that Marley Weber had played involved a single of dialog, after which her dress was ripped away. After posing lewdly for a moment, the girl ran offstage screaming. The only impressive thing about the part was the tear-away dress and the Victoria’s Secrets underwear she wore beneath it.
And the very female body revealed. It seemed that the tales about Weinberg were true.
“Come now… Marla, sit down and we’ll talk.”
She didn’t correct him about her name – no sense annoying the “great man.” She just looked around the room. There was no other chair beside the one he was in. “Sit down where, Arnie?”
“Right here.” He patted his lap. “It’ll be more… personal.”
She blushed. “N-No, sir… Arnie. It… It wouldn’t be right.”
“You know, Marla, one of the things I judge an actress on is how well she takes direction. If she – if you – can’t follow even the simplest of directions, then I’m afraid that I have no place for you in my next movie.”
“Yes, I thought you might do well as Amy Adams’ younger sister. It’s a small role, but a vital one.” He paused for effect. “Just the sort of showcase a promising new talent like yourself could use to make her mark.”
“That would be fantastic. Thank you; thank yoou so very much,”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re not the only girl being considered. I asked you to come here to show me why you should get the part… how much you want it.”
“A lot… I want it a whole lot; more than I ever wanted anything!” Her burst of enthusiasm was so strong that even she believed it. Almost.
“Prove it.” Weinberg shifted in his chair. He reached down and opened his robe. He was naked. His pale bloated flesh, his large, hairy belly, seemed to fill the chair. He glanced down at his member lying flaccid between his legs. Then he looked directly, imperiously, at the girl. “Jack me off, and the part is yours.”
“Girl, are you deaf or stupid… or both? If you want that part— or any part in any movie my company makes, you will get over here and use those delicate fingers of yours to jack me off.” He chuckled. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to use that sweet mouth of your to do it.”
Marley lowered her head, not in shame as Weinberg happily thought, but to hide her broad, triumphant smile. “As you wish,” she said softly.
She walked over to the man, mumbling in a language few had ever heard, and no male had ever spoken. Her fingers wrapped around his member. To his surprise, he became hard almost at once. He felt a silky, warm pleasure as her hand began to stroke. His entire body was tingling in arousal. But then the feeling in his maleness seemed to fade. In moments, he couldn’t feel the force of his erection or the touch of her hand.
“What the hell?” He looked down. She was still holding him, but his penis no longer looked like it was flesh. There was a plastic sheen to it, a light pink plastic sheen.
She saw that he was watching her. She looked up at him and smiled. Her expression was wild, almost feral, and when… how had her teeth been sharpened to points? With a cry of animal joy, she pulled her hand away. As she raised it over her head, he could see that she was still holding the rubber dildo his member had become.
“Oh… G-d!” He looked down at his groin in panic. Nothing. At least, nothing that should have been there. Instead of “Little Arnie” and the family jewels, he saw a pair of feminine “lips” surrounding a slit and partly hidden by a patch of blonde hair. “What the hell did you do to me?”
Marley’s voice was suddenly firm, commanding. “Silence, foul dog!” Her image shimmered out of focus -- better than the best CGI he had ever seen -- and when this was finished, the blonde teenybopper in a pale green dress was replaced by a tall, regal woman, a queen or high priestess, in blood red robes, her scarlet hair streaming down her back, her face contorted in anger with piercing ice blue eyes. “And behold as your form changes to better match the fate that will be yours.”
Weinberg tried to object, but found that he could not speak… could not move.
But he could see. He watched as layers – years – of flab melted away. In moments, he went from grotesquely obese to merely fat to – Good Lord! – to actually slender. He hadn’t had a body this thin since he was a young man producing rock concerts back in Buffalo in the 1970s. He felt younger, too. All those little aches that he’d grown used to in the past few years were suddenly gone. If this was his fate, like that bitch said, he could happily live with it – provided he got his dick back, of course.
But the changes continued.
His body hair vanished, except for that blonde patch at his groin. At the same time, his pale, white skin darkened to a healthy-looking bronzed tan. His waist narrowed even as his hips grew wide. His butt now seemed to be resting on a soft, but firm pillow. His scrawny legs were fuller, now, and curved, coltish and feminine. His feet were smaller, as well, with – somehow – a bright pink polish on his toenails.
A moment later, something grew on his chest, blocking his view; breasts, large and round, with dark pink nipples that were extended, stiff with the excitement – the horror of what was happening to him. He was smaller, too, his narrow shoulders and slender arms lost in the folds of his robe, the sleeves long enough to hide his now dainty hands. Invisible hands seemed to be shifting the muscles of his face, and he felt the pull of much longer hair.
“Behold what you have become,” the woman commanded.
Arnie felt compelled to rise from the chair. A mirror was set in a frame a few feet away. Sometimes, he liked to watch himself with one of “his” girls. “What the --” The words stuck in his throat. His deep baritone rumble was now a high, cheery soprano.
He recognized the image at once. “You… I-I look the way you looked when you came in.” He stared accusingly at the witch that had transformed him.
“No, this is the way you look,” she replied in triumph, ‘now and forever.”
Arnie stared at his – his? – reflection in the mirror. He saw the blonde… Marla… Marley; she was naked, her high, 38-C breasts in full display, along with her narrow waist and wide hips. He turned – why? – and saw a delightful teardrop ass with long, well-curved legs that went, as somebody had said all the way down.
Then his… no, she sighed, her body was obscured by that same CGI shimmering. It faded quickly. Now her body was clothed, that same revealing green dress, sandals with a two-inch heels, a face made up with mascara and eye shadow, lipstick the same pink as her finger and toe nails, and her hair in twin braids.
“Who are you?” she asked incredulous from her transformation.
“I am Eshet, the eternal female spirit; in this case, the female spirit of vengeance.” The being smiled. “And who are you, my dear?”
“You know who I am.”
“Yes, but do you?”
“Of course I do. I’m Mar – I’m Mar… Mar-Ley!” She spit out the name, angry, but, then, surrendering. “Marley We… Weber.”
“Indeed, you are. And you’re late for work, aren’t you?”
The words spilled out of her. “Uh huhn, and Bert…” Who the hell was Bert? Someone she didn’t want to anger. “He hates that.” She grabbed for the purse that was now resting on her arm and ran for the door without another word. And, of certain, not a word of protest.
When Marley ran into “The Blue Note” jazz club, she discovered that she had “run” into a complete life: job, friends, a small apartment a few blocks from her job, even a boyfriend with whom she had been intimate -- delightfully intimate, to her inner horror.
Right now, she was working the Friday evening shift at the club.
“Marley,” Billie, the bartender called, “The wings are up for table eight!”
Marley Weber stood up from the bar stool she’d been resting on, while she waited for the order. She walked slowly over to where Billy was standing. After a month, she still wasn’t completely used to the five-inch heels that were part of the costume of a waitress at “The Blue Note.”
The rest of that costume was a pair of smoky, thigh-high stockings and a lacy, sheer green teddy. The panty of the teddy was barely wider than a g-string in front with a thong in back that slipped easily between her ass cheeks. It looked, especially under the colored lights of the room, as if she was nude below – and above – the waist.
She picked up her tray, a pitcher of beer and three glasses and a large serving of wings with ranch dressing. It was heavy, and she walked carefully, the heels giving a most inviting sway to her hips as she walked.
The men at her table had watched that walk. “Here you go, guys,” she said, setting the food down; bending over the table to put her breasts on display. “You want anything else, you just let me know.”
“Thanks, Sugar,” one man, a beefy-looking man in a Johnny Walker t-shirt, said. “And here’s something for your trouble.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and folded it twice. Before she could stop him, he stuck the bill down the front of her teddy, shifting his hand to grasp her breast for a moment before he pulled it out. “Keep the change,” he told her.
Before she could straighten up and walk away, a second man reached over and pinched her butt. “Nice and ripe,” he said with a laugh, running his hand along the curve of it and making her shiver.
When she got back to the bar, she fished out the money and handed it to Billy. He smiled at her and kissed the bill before he rang up the register. He put in the twenty, but he took out six singles that went into the “Tip Jar” to be divided by all the waitresses at the end of the evening.
Marley sat down to wait for the next customer for one of her tables. She sat gingerly. That bastard’s pinch had hurt! Still she sat, perched invitingly on the high bar stool. For a special fee, waitresses were also available for lap dances in a private room. No sex – at least, none on site during the girl’s shift. After the shift; well, that was between the girl and the John – the customer. So was any money that might change hands.
Alice, one of the other waitresses was sitting there as well, listening to the radio, an all-news channel she liked. The story, of all things, was about the recent sale of the Weinstar Corporation. Billie came over to tell her to turn it down. “Big Joe” Briggs, the trumpeter and his jazz band were about to start their set.
“I wonder what ever happened to that guy,” Alice mused over “Big Joe’s trumpet. “What was his name… Weinstein? I didn’t hear anything about him going to jail or anything.”
Billie shrugged. “He didn’t go to jail; that’s for sure, a big shot like him. Probably grabbed a ton of money and ran away. He’s living the life of luxury now… wine, women, and song, you can be sure of that.”
“I don’t know,” Marley said, the magic actually let a bit of irony into her voice. “Wine, women, and song, ain’t necessarily that great,”
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