Chapter #19Little Girl Lost by: imaj   Breeanna bounces into the changing room, her eyes shining and her skin slick with sweat. She does an odd little hop and skip before staggering you with a hug that is far more crushing than a nineteen year old should be able to manage. “Best gig ever Marji,” she sighs, using your ample bosom like a pillow. Her Australian accent is if anything stronger than your own. “They love it.”
“Course they do sweetie, they love yah” you say, gently squeezing her back. “Now let’s getcha on my chair and I’ll do yahr hair for the next set.”
Breeanna dances into the makeup chair in front of the mirrors, giggling as you spin her round. She bops in place until you rest your hands on her shoulders. Then you connect to Eldibria and bathe her in its power. A little top up of euphoria to keep her going to the end of the evening. “Gonna be so good,” she gently hums to herself as you let down the girlish pigtails in her hair. A careful couple of wipes of her face removes most of the glittery pink makeup the real Marjory applied earlier.
Then you get to work on Breeanna’s next look. Her hair, you tie into a high ponytail. Vivid red lipstick gets painted across her mouth. Then you rim her eyes with heavy mascara and eyeliner. It’s a much more mature look, bordering on sultry. When you grab the red plasticky catsuit from the rack of clothes and bring it over, you’re not only pushing the look past that border, but over the horizon to boot.
“Still not sure about this,” says Breeanna, nerves creeping into her voice. No, you can’t imagine the handful of parents that have been dragged to the show by their daughters will be happy about this set either.
“Trust me sweetie,” you reply, smoothing her mood over with a liberal dose of Eldibria. “Yahr gonna look so hawt.” Her face goes bright red as she blushes.
“It’s not like the early days,” replies Breeanna, a touch wistfully. She takes the catsuit from you tentatively, feeling the odd material. Without any second thoughts, she starts undressing in front of you. You barely give her any notice - Marjory’s seen it all before. “Just yah and me and church hall full of old biddies.”
“Gotcha that slot on the telly though, didn’t it,” you laugh, helping Breeanna fit into her outfit. “Breathe in real deep sweetie,” you add before zipping her up. Then you slowly spin her round, critically examining her. You smooth out a couple of wrinkles. Satisfied, you break into a wide grin, using one last touch of Eldibria to emphasise it. “Go knock ‘em dead!”
You watch as Breeanna bounces out the room, feeling a little touch of Marjory-jealousy at her youth. As she exits, one of the other hangers-on appears at the doorway to the dressing room, holding it open. Jon Wright, the man from the record company and Breeanna’s manager.
“Got a minute Marji,” he asks, in that oh so smug English accent of his. You try to stop your bottom lip from quivering.
You can only nod, and the slimeball eases himself into the room. There is a snick at the door as he locks it. Then Jon walks slowly round behind you. You shudder and gasp in anticipation as he lays one hand on your shoulder. Then the other hand slips round your belly and into the waistband of your jeans. You mumble under your breath.
“What was that,” asks Jon smoothly. You can’t see it, but you just know there’s a sneer on his face.
“I said, I fucking want it so bad,” you growl, shocked at the ease with which your new body is turned on.
Before you even realise it, your jeans and panties are in a puddle on the floor round your ankles. You hear the sound of a zip, then the sensation of something pressing against your thighs. Breathing hard, Jon spins you round and bends you over the counter by the mirrors. Your hair falls forward over your face and all you can see is little cracks of the mirror through a fake blonde curtain. Then you grunt in pain as he roughly penetrates you. What follows is raw and mechanistic. The experience is carelessly unconcerned with your feelings and about as erotic as flatpack furniture assembly instructions. Insert tab P into slot V. Repeat.
Then it’s over. There’s the odd sensation when he withdraws his cock that you’ve never gotten used to, no matter how many women you’ve been. The sound of the zip again, expensive shoes clacking on the floor, the lock being turned and the door opening and closing. Jon doesn’t say a word as he leaves.
“Come back and finish me off, yah useless pom fucker,” you mutter under your breath as you awkwardly lever yourself up from the counter.
As you tidy up the mess, pulling back on your jeans, your mind races as you try to factor in what just happened. You have plans for Breeanna, but now you’ll have to figure out what to do with Jon too.
*****
The concert finished half an hour ago. There was no encore.
The change in the atmosphere of the dressing room is almost impossible to believe. The enthusiasm you so carefully nurtured earlier is gone. In the makeup chair, Breeanna sits with her head in her hands. Her hair is down now, a complete mess, and her long blonde locks cover her face. There is no mistaking the faint sobbing sound she makes though.
Jon Wright and a uniformed police officer stand near the door, talking so quietly that you can’t make out the words. The policeman is making notes on a small pad-like device, his eyes occasionally going glassy as he focuses on the data glasses he’s wearing. You can’t help but glance nervously at the blinking light of his body camera, but that’s a Marjory reaction rather than a Will Prescott one.
Jon murmurs one last thing into the officer’s ear, patting him on the shoulder and then ushering him out of the room. As the cop leaves, Jon turns to face you and Breeanna. “This is going to be all over the news tomorrow,” he explains, his voice calm and matter of fact. “Take some time Breeanna. We can cancel tomorrow’s show if it comes to it”
You pat Breeanna’s shoulder reassuringly, carefully concealing your surprise at Jon’s unexpectedly considerate offer. It won’t do, it won’t do at all, but what you say is: “I’m here for yah sweetie.”
Jon gives you a slight nod, a tacit acknowledgement wherever his and Marjory’s relationship stands, they both want to support Breeanna. You nod in return, expressing Marjory’s thanks.
But you aren’t Marjory.
As Jon walks out, you rest another hand on Breeanna’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry sweetie, they’re going to find that little girl. It’ll be alright, yah’ll see.”
The kind words are completely at odds with the Eldibrian stream of despair you weave over Breeanna.
To stop reminiscing, attend to Fi's reports in "A Short Hop" 
 You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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