Bad Management

So, despite having a whole load of unfinished stories, I spent today writing an entirely new one instead. Oh well, at least I finished this one. Any comments would be greatly appreciated.

Be warned, this story includes breast, butt and penis expansion and some pretty outrageous proportions. Also a little bit of rapeage. Ten points to the first poster who correctly identifies the origin of the band's name without just googling it.

Enjoy!

Bad Management

Violet was feeling horny. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that; Violet was almost always horny, especially when she played music. The warm flood of vibrations from her bass coarsed right through her, and never failed to make her feel that little more sensual.

But right now the feeling gripped her even more intensely than usual and she almost found herself wishing to ditch her bass, rush offstage, grab the first sizable object she could find and fuck herself silly with it. Almost. But how could she abandon such a beautiful instrument as the one she was holding right now? The huge, meaty, cream-coloured Rickenbacker had been a gift from the band's new manager, Martha. It was a wrench to give up her dilapidated old bass - the one she'd been playing for nine years now, ever since she was thirteen - but Martha had insisted that the whole band switch to better instruments and sound equipment.

They certainly had sounded better on this tour. And what a tour it had been so far! Sugar 'n Spikes' previous manager had managed to score them a couple of bookings per month last year, whilst almost overnight Martha had got them snaking over the whole of the UK, playing almost every single night for a month. One week into the tour and Violet was already exhausted, but the band meant too much to her to ever consider stopping. She just hoped the other girls felt the same.

They finished their set spectacularly - the closing chord was just as energetic and powerful as the opening one had been. As soon as Violet had caught her breath she rushed backstage and dived into a toilet cubicle.

It was a far from salubrious surrounding in which to spend a little quality time with herself, but by now she was so pent-up that she simply didn't notice. All she could think about was the deep, throbbing, gnawing need to cum. She quickly unbuttoned her tight, black trousers (the band's uniform consisted of a skintight black layer topped with brightly coloured waistcoats and military-style peaked hats... none of them could remember whose stupid idea the uniform was, but that was the look they were stuck with, at least until the next album) and immediately slipped a hand down between her legs.

She gasped. She gaped. She had a penis.

And it was then that she concluded she was simply dreaming. She had had dreams like this before, though admittedly none were anywhere near as vivid as this one. She'd often dreamt about herself equipped with a big, rock-hard piece of manhood with which to