A Transfer of Size

Chapter 6: A Goddess by Morning

The first thing she noticed was the ceiling. The popcorn texture seemed closer, the cracks in the plaster more defined. Kristen opened her eyes to a gray dawn leaking around the blinds. She felt… enormous. Not fat, but densely, impossibly substantial. The bed beneath her seemed smaller, a child’s bed. She sat up, and the motion was smooth, powered by a new, effortless strength in her limbs.

She swung her legs out and stood in one fluid motion. The floor was farther away. She took two steps to the full-length mirror, her head nearly brushing the doorframe she used to duck under.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. A magnificent, terrifying stranger.

She had gained at least three more inches of height. Her silhouette was elongated, willowy yet solid. Her shoulders were broader, her collarbones more pronounced. But it was her breasts that dominated the reflection. They were massive. Heavy, full mounds that swelled from her chest in perfect, gravity-defying arcs. They were still perky, the nipples a darker pink, large and erect against the cool morning air. They looked like something sculpted, each one easily a size F, their weight palpable in the way they moved with her slightest breath. She cupped them, her hands barely containing the soft, dense flesh. A low, possessive hum vibrated in her throat. She was a goddess. Forged in the secret fire of his diminishment.

She turned, admiring the new taper of her waist, the fuller swell of her hips and ass. Power wasn’t an idea anymore; it was her skeleton, her musculature, her very skin.

Behind her, James was a shapeless lump under the comforter. The pathetic, sobbing creature from the night before. A surge of impatience, sharp and clean, cut through her. The reveal couldn’t wait.

She strode to the bed, grabbed the edge of the duvet, and tore it back in one swift, violent motion.

James flinched awake, blinking in the thin light. He was curled on his side, wearing only his torn boxers. He looked shrunken, dwarfed by the mattress. His eyes, puffy and red-rimmed, found her. They traveled up. And up. They stuck on the monumental curve of her breasts, barely contained by her thin sleep shirt, then snapped to her face, now so much higher than his.

His mouth opened. No sound came out. It was the look of a man witnessing a natural disaster that wore his wife’s face.

“Good morning,” Kristen said, her voice deeper, a resonant alto that filled the room. She planted her hands on her hips. “Take those off.” She nodded at his boxers.

He stared, uncomprehending.

“Now,” she said, the word cracking like a whip.

His hands trembled as they hooked into the elastic waistband. He shuffled awkwardly, pushing the fabric down over his hips, his legs. He kicked them off the side of the bed. He lay there, naked, exposed, trying instinctively to curl in on himself.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “On your back. Legs apart. Let me see what three pills bought us.”

A choked sob escaped him, but he obeyed. He was the puppet. She held all the strings. He slowly unfurled, presenting himself. His body was still tall, still broad-shouldered, but it seemed hollow, like a suit of armor with no knight inside. And between his legs…

Kristen leaned forward, peering down with academic curiosity.

Where his cock had been was now a smooth, hairless mound. Protruding from it was a tiny, pink nub. No more than an inch long. The thickness of her pinky finger. It was utterly flaccid, a soft, insignificant button of flesh. There were no testicles to speak of, just a tight, empty sac.

A sound bubbled up in Kristen’s chest. It started as a disbelieving chuckle, then grew, morphing into full, rolling laughter. It wasn’t cruel laughter; it was the pure, unfiltered laughter of absolute, undeniable victory. It echoed off the walls, a bright, terrible sound.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. “Look at it! It’s a little clit! A perfect, tiny little baby clit!” She pointed, her laughter subsiding into breathless giggles. “I told you! I fucking told you it would be a pearl!”

James’s face crumpled. He turned his head away, fresh tears leaking into the pillow. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but there was no fight in it. Only a bottomless, silent shame.

Kristen’s mirth faded, replaced by a cool, examining focus. She walked to her dresser, rummaged in a jewelry box, and returned with a thin silver necklace. She dangled it next to his tiny, soft shaft. The chain was longer.

“See?” she whispered, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “My necklace is bigger than your dick now.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she snapped.

He opened his eyes, the misery in them so complete it was almost beautiful.

“I want you to get hard for me,” she commanded, her tone conversational. “I want to see your little pinky get stiff. Can it even do that anymore?”

He shook his head, a minute, hopeless movement. “I… I don’t think so,” he whispered, his voice ravaged.

“Try,” she said. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs, her massive breasts hovering just above his chest. She reached down and took the minuscule nub between her thumb and forefinger. She began to rub it, a brisk, clinical motion. “Think of me. Think of my big, beautiful tits. Think of my tight pussy that you’ll never fill again.”

He whimpered. The flesh between her fingers remained stubbornly soft, inert. A biological surrender.

“Useless,” she sighed, releasing it. She shifted her weight, settling her full, hot center directly onto that insignificant mound. She was already wet, a slick heat that soaked his skin. She began to grind against him, not for her pleasure, but for the spectacle of it. “This is all you’re good for now. A little bump for me to rub my cunt on. A glorified vibrator nub.”

She rode the tiny, soft protrusion, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes locked on his horrified face. Her breasts swayed heavily with the rhythm. She moaned, a theatrical, exaggerated sound. “Oh, yeah, baby… fuck me with your huge cock… it’s so deep…”

The grotesque parody of sex broke him. A raw, animal noise was torn from his throat. He bucked beneath her, not in passion, but in a spasm of total anguish. “Stop… please, Kristen, please stop…”

She stopped grinding. She leaned down, her face inches from his. Her scent, musky and powerful, enveloped him. “Why should I? You’re my husband. This is my conjugal right.” She smiled. “But since you asked so nicely…” She swung a leg over and knelt beside his head. “You can use your tongue. That still works, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She lowered herself onto his face, guiding his head with a firm hand in his hair. “Eat. And you’d better make me come. Or you’ll spend the day locked in the closet, thinking about your one-inch wonder.”

He did. His tongue was desperate, fervent, a last bastion of utility. He lapped and probed at her with a frantic energy, trying to lose himself in the service, to find some shred of purpose. Kristen braced her hands on the headboard, looking down the powerful line of her own body, watching the top of his head move between her powerful thighs. The sensation was good, but distant. The real thrill was in the ownership, in the absolute certainty of her control.

She came with a series of sharp, shuddering gasps, grinding herself against his mouth until he was slick with her. Then she stood, towering over him once more, leaving him gasping, his face glistening.

She looked at the nightstand. At the two empty glasses from the night before. The ritual was established. It was law.

“Tonight,” she said, walking toward the bathroom, her stride long and confident, “we do two more. Each.” She paused at the door, glancing back at his broken form on the bed. “I wonder what one centimeter looks like. I’ll need a ruler with finer increments.”

She closed the bathroom door, leaving him in the silent, sunlit room. James lay perfectly still. The taste of her was on his lips. The reality of his body was a hollow, screaming void between his legs. He heard the shower turn on, the sound of her humming a tuneless, victorious song.

He did not move. He simply stared at the ceiling, which now seemed a continent away, and felt the last flicker of the man he had been gutter out and die.

He lay there until the water stopped, until he heard the slick sound of her towel on skin. The closet door opened and closed. Drawers slid. He finally moved, his limbs stiff with dread, to pull on a pair of sweatpants. They hung loose on his hips. The fabric where his groin should have been was flat, disturbingly empty. He shuffled into the living room, a ghost in his own home.

The day passed in a haze of silent degradation. He tried to eat toast. The crumbs tasted like dust. He watched her move through the apartment, a magnificent, alien creature rearranging the furniture to suit her new height. She hummed. She smiled to herself, a private, gloating curve of her lips. Every time she passed him, her shadow fell over him like a pall.

In the late afternoon, she went to the kitchen. He heard the tap run. The familiar, dread-laden sound of glasses filling. His stomach clenched. He didn’t need to look to know. The ritual was inevitable, the sacrament of his erasure.

She emerged holding two glasses of water. They looked identical, clear and cool. She set them down on the kitchen table with a soft, final click. “Sit,” she said, not looking at him.

He sank into a chair, his hands limp in his lap.

She remained standing, looming. She placed a palm on the table, leaning over him. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, her voice conversational. “Why drag this out? Why be subtle?” She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “I decided to do four each. Just for good measure.”

His blood turned to ice. Four. A triple dose had left him with a nub. His mind couldn’t even calculate what four would do. Annihilation. “Kristen, no,” he whispered, the plea automatic and useless.

“That’s not how you speak to me,” she said softly. She pushed his glass across the table until it touched his knuckles. Condensation beaded on the rim. “Drink it.”

He stared at the water. It looked innocuous. Deadly. “Please.”

“Drink it,” she repeated, her voice hardening into a blade. “Or I will hold your nose and pour it down your fucking throat.”

His hand shook as he picked up the glass. It felt impossibly heavy. He looked up at her, searching for any trace of the woman he’d married, the girl with the poetry notebooks and the bright laugh. He saw only a cool, towering sovereign. He brought the glass to his lips. The water was tasteless. It felt like drinking liquid nitrogen, a cold that spread through his gut and promised frostbite from the inside out. He drained it.

“Good boy,” she purred. She picked up her own glass, held his gaze, and drank hers down in several long, deliberate swallows. She slammed the empty glass down, a triumphant punctuation. “Now we wait.”

The effect began within the hour. It wasn’t a gradual tide this time; it was a riptide, a violent, cellular upheaval.

He was sitting on the couch, staring at a blank television screen, when he felt it. A searing, pins-and-needles pain, not in his limbs, but concentrated in the flat, empty space between his legs. It was a burning, sucking sensation, a vortex of disappearance. He gasped, doubling over, his hands flying to his groin.

Through the pain, he felt it. The tiny, soft nub—the last pathetic remnant—was retreating. It was being pulled inward, sucked back into his body like a turtle’s head into its shell. The flesh around it puckered, tightened. The smooth mound grew even flatter. He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweatpants, his fingers clumsy with terror.

Across the room, Kristen stood up from the armchair. A low, guttural groan of pleasure escaped her. She arched her back, her hands going to her lower spine. A series of audible pops, like cracking knuckles, echoed in the quiet room. She was growing. Not slowly, but in visible, shuddering increments.

James managed to yank his pants down. He looked.

Where the pink nub had been, there was now only a small, vertical slit. Like a closed, hairless mouth. Around it, the last loose remnants of his scrotum were being drawn up, smoothed, absorbed into his perineum until there was only seamless, blank skin. It was neutered. A doll’s anatomy. A choked, dry heave wracked his body, but nothing came up.

Kristen groaned again, the sound rich with satisfaction. She kicked off her slippers. She was already taller than the doorframe; now she grew past the top of it. Her head brushed the ceiling. The hem of her sweater rode up, exposing a stretch of taut, elongated stomach. Her breasts, already monstrously large, swelled further beneath the fabric. They became ponderous, breathtaking globes, their weight making the sweater sag and strain at the seams. The nipples, visible even through the thick knit, darkened and enlarged.

She walked toward him, each step a seismic event in the small room. The floorboards creaked in protest under her new, dense weight. She stopped in front of the couch where he sat, paralyzed, his pants around his ankles, his naked, smooth groin exposed.

He was sitting down. His head was now level with her midsection. He stared directly at the overwhelming swell of her abdomen, at the daunting curve of her hips. He slowly, helplessly tilted his head back. His gaze traveled up the vast landscape of her sweater, over the staggering, mountainous topography of her breasts, and finally up to her face, which was now nearly touching the ceiling. She looked down the long, powerful line of her nose at him. The perspective was vertiginous. He was a child at the foot of a giant.

She looked down at his lap, at the smooth, featureless proof of his oblivion. A wide, unhurried smile spread across her face. She placed her hands under her own breathtaking breasts, hefting their impossible weight in a vulgar, triumphant display.

“Say hello,” she commanded, her voice a deep, amused rumble from on high, “to your new god.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration that bent the very light in the room. Her smile was a curved blade. He stared up at her, at the vast, triumphant impossibility of her, and something inside him finally snapped. Not into anger, but into a silent, granular dissolution. He was dust at her feet.

As she stood there above him, admiring the staggering lines of her new height and the heavy, glorious weight of her breasts, a strange sensation began to unspool in her groin. It wasn't pain. It was a deep, internal pressure, a profound and thrilling fullness that made her gasp. It felt like a spring, coiled for eons, finally being released.

Her sweatpants, already tight across her new hips, suddenly strained against a new, urgent bulk. She looked down, her breath catching. A thick, flesh-colored shape was visibly tenting the grey cotton, growing longer and more defined by the second. The sensation was intensely, shockingly pleasurable; a riotous nerve awakening that shot lightning up her spine. She watched, hypnotized, as the fabric stretched to its limit, outlining a substantial, rising curve.

With a frantic yank, she tore the waistband of her sweatpants down. Her own cock sprang free, fully formed and already half-hard. It was a deep, flushed pink, thick and veined, swaying heavily between her powerful thighs. It kept growing, lengthening, thickening, a living sculpture of stolen masculinity. It didn't stop until it was a little more than ten inches long, a heavy, formidable tool that jutted out from her body, crowned with a slick, ruddy head.

She let out a sound—a wild, hysterical laugh that echoed off the too-close ceiling. The laugh was part terror, part ecstatic revelation. She wrapped her fingers around the base of it. The skin was hot and silken, pulsing with her heartbeat. It was utterly, bewilderingly hers. She gave it an experimental stroke. A jolt of pleasure, raw and direct, bolted through her.

James made a noise like a stepped-on animal. He had followed her gaze, his eyes wide with a horror so complete it seemed to erase him. He stared at the massive penis now jutting from his wife’s body, then down at the smooth, blank nothingness between his own legs. His mouth worked, but only a dry click emerged.

“Look,” she breathed, her voice ragged with wonder and malice. She took a step closer, her new cock bobbing with the movement. It brushed against his knee. He flinched as if scalded. “Look what you gave me. All of it. Every last fucking inch.”

She gripped herself fully, pumping her fist slowly along the impressive length. A drop of clear fluid welled at the tip. “It’s so hard already. Can you feel how hard it is?” She leaned down, though she barely needed to bend, and smeared the pre-come across his blanched cheek. “That’s yours. That’s what’s left of you on my skin.”

He was trembling, a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with cold. “What are you?” he whispered.

“I’m what you wanted,” she said, straightening up to her full, impossible height. “A wife. A goddess. And now,” she looked down at the rigid proof, a cruel smirk twisting her lips, “a better husband than you ever were.” She let the words settle over him like ash. “Get on your knees.”

His body moved before his mind could protest, a puppet whose strings were permanently slack. He slid from the couch onto the floor, the rough carpet scraping his knees. The top of his head now came to the level of her navel. He was eye-level with her cock. It loomed before him, monolithic, smelling faintly of her musk and something new, something aggressively male.

“Open,” she commanded.

Tears blurred his vision. He opened his mouth.

She didn’t guide herself gently. She slapped the broad, smooth head against his lips, then pushed forward. The sheer size of it stifled his gasp. He choked instantly, his throat rebelling as the wide tip pressed against the back of his mouth. She cupped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, and pushed deeper.

“Relax your throat,” she growled, her tone conversational despite the violent intrusion. “You took mine well enough when you had your big dick. Now take yours back.”

He gagged, saliva dripping down his chin. His eyes streamed. She began to fuck his face with short, relentless thrusts, not allowing him to adjust. The sensation for her was blinding, a dual-channel feedback of dominance and raw physical thrill. She could feel the tight, wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the convulsive flutter of his gag reflex. She watched her own magnificent cock disappear between his lips, a sight so perverse it made her moan.

“That’s it,” she hissed, her hips finding a rhythm. “Suck your god’s cock. Swallow it all.”

He tried. His jaw ached, his throat burned, his mind screamed. But his body, trained now to absolute obedience, forced itself to comply. He hollowed his cheeks, attempting to mimic what he once enjoyed. The taste was alien, salty and bitter. She groaned above him, her hands tightening in his hair.

She pulled out suddenly, slick and glistening, leaving him coughing and gasping for air. “On the bed. On your back. Now.”

He crawled, a broken animal, onto the rumpled sheets. She followed, her shadow engulfing him. She stood at the edge of the mattress, looking down at his prone form. With one hand, she gripped her cock, aiming it. With the other, she parted her own labia, now nestled at the base of her new shaft, glistening with arousal.

“You want to see something funny?” she asked, her voice dripping with vicious glee. She lowered herself, not onto him, but over him. She positioned the head of her cock at his shrunken, smooth groin. There was no entrance, only the faint, closed slit. “This is where you’d go in. If there was anything left to go in with.”

She pressed forward. The blunt, wide head of her penis pressed against the blank skin of his pelvis, dimpling it. He cried out, a sharp sound of humiliation and shock.

“You’re fucking me with your little nothing,” she laughed, grinding herself against him. The friction was strange, maddening for her, a dry, dominant rutting. “You’re just a flesh pillow. A cum target.”

She spat into her hand, slicked her length, and resumed the mockery. She rutted against his pelvic bone, her heavy balls slapping against his thighs. The sight of her massive, functioning cock sliding over his smooth, neutered flesh was the most emasculating image possible. He turned his face into the pillow, but she grabbed his chin, forcing him to watch.

“Look at it,” she demanded, her thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Watch your own dick fuck you. Watch it claim you.”

The slap of skin, her ragged breaths, his choked sobs filled the room. She felt her orgasm building, a tidal wave of power and perverse pleasure. She released his face and braced both hands on the headboard, the wood creaking under her strength. She drove against him with a final, brutal series of thrusts.

With a raw, guttural shout, she came. Thick, hot stripes of semen shot from her, painting his flat stomach, his hairless pelvis, his thighs in violent, pearlescent ropes. She shook with the force of it, her vision blurring at the edges. She collapsed forward, her hands landing on either side of his head, her spent cock lying heavy and wet across his defiled stomach.

She panted, looking into his utterly vacant eyes. She leaned down, her sweat dripping onto his face, and kissed him. It was a deep, possessive kiss, tasting of salt and her own triumph.

When she pulled back, she smiled. It was a tender, horrible smile. “You made such a mess of yourself,” she whispered, tracing a finger through the come on his belly. She brought the finger to his lips, smearing it across them. “Clean it up. Every drop.”

He did. He licked her seed from his own skin with the numb efficiency of a machine, his eyes dead and fixed on the ceiling where a single crack now ran the length of the plaster, mirroring the one she had just put through their world. She watched him, her monstrous new body humming with satisfaction, and knew this was only the beginning. The power wasn't just in her now. It was her. And it was hungry.