- Oh shit ... This ... This is not good ... This is not very good ... Yes, this is just a disaster!
Harry stared in disbelief at the place that had had a strange shop yesterday called Mr. Thomson's Magic Shop. There was not a hint of this store, or that there had ever been anything like this here. Instead of a shop, there was now just an entrance to an ordinary residential building.
With trembling hands, Harry once again, not without difficulty because of his long nails, took out his phone from this small women's purse and once again dropped the phone call from the subscriber "big daddy". He bit his lip with his teeth, tasting the lipstick that he had smeared for so long on this strange morning, and looked down again at the large crevice of his large cleavage.
Harry liked the huge breasts, but now they were part of his body and it was at the same time strange, humiliating and uncomfortable. It was a heavy heavy weight of soft tender breasts with silicone, which he felt like a foreign body and did not know because of the silicone or because he had never had such boobs before.
Finally, another message came from the same subscriber and Harry finally decided to read them, although he had no intention of doing this at all. He thought that when he returned to this store, the old man would return his body back to him and he could again be himself, Harry Stevenson, a 15-year-old boy and return to his parents.
In the message from the "big daddy" there were threats and that he was expecting "Daddy's girl" in the evening at 19 o'clock. Harry understood almost nothing from this message, but the logic suggested only bad scenarios.
Yesterday in this store he took a stone of wishes from this old man and, in the company of his classmates, wished, partly realizing that this was a joke, that he would like to have the life of a porn star. It was a bold desire, but he wanted to win an argument from his friend, who said that acting in porn is bad and Harry proved to him that every woman would actually dream of such a job, and even he.
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