Chapter 6: No Rest for the Wicked
The thick silence of Arthur’s unconsciousness was shattered by a wet gurgle. His own. He choked, sputtering, as something hot and viscous flooded his mouth and throat. He opened bleary eyes to a blur of latex-pink skin, the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume laced with something sulfurous, and the sight of Sasha’s massive, heaving breasts inches from his face. Her tail thumped rhythmically against the splintered wood of the ruined bed beside them.
He was still on his back amidst the wreckage. Sasha knelt over him, her unnaturally smooth hand fisted painfully tight in his hair, forcing his head back. Her other hand was shoving his flaccid, slimy cock deeper between her cleavage, grinding it against the slick valley with brutal efficiency. Saliva and something else – thick, phlegmy – dripped from her puffy lips onto his forehead.
"Wakey-fuckin'-wakey, Sleeping Shitstain!" she rasped, her voice raw. She released his hair only to grab his jaw, forcing his mouth wider. "Thought you were done? Fuck off. You're just gettin' started." With a grunt, she lifted herself slightly, then slammed her hips down, impaling her throat onto his cock with brutal force.
Arthur gagged, his body convulsing. It wasn't arousal; it was pure, panicked suffocation. Her throat muscles clamped down, a pulsing, obscene pressure, as she began pistoning her head up and down. Glurk. Schlllp. Glurk. The sounds were vile, wet gulps, punctuated by her choked moans and the frantic slapping of her free hand against his thigh. Her horns scraped against his pelvis. Her vacant eyes watered, streaming black-tinged tears that mixed with drool dripping onto his balls.
"TAKE IT!" she screamed around his shaft, the vibrations making him whimper. "SHOVE IT DOWN, YOU PATHETIC WORM! MAKE YOUR SLAG CHOKE!" She pulled her own horns violently, yanking her head further down onto him with each thrust, her neck muscles straining grotesquely. "BREED MY THROAT! FILL MY FUCKING GUTS!"
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world narrowed to the suffocating heat, the brutal friction, the smell of her, the sound of her choking on him. Shame, terror, and a horrifying, involuntary spark of sensation warred. He felt the awful pressure build again, unstoppable this time, triggered by sheer physiological overload. A weak groan escaped his strangled throat.
Sasha felt it. Her eyes widened, manic delight replacing the watery vacancy. She shoved down harder, taking him impossibly deep, her nose buried in his pubic hair. She held there, vibrating, her throat working frantically. Arthur bucked once, a final, desperate spasm, and emptied what little he had left deep into her gullet with a strangled cry.
She pulled off with a gasp, a thick rope of viscous fluid connecting her lips to his tip before snapping. She swallowed noisily, a satisfied grin spreading across her smeared mouth. "That's it, pet," she panted, giving his limp cock a condescending pat. "Little dribble for Mummy." Then her eyes rolled back slightly, and she slumped forward, her horns thudding onto his chest as she passed out mid-leer. Beneath her, Arthur was already gone, darkness swallowing him whole.
Silence. Thick, broken only by their ragged breathing and the relentless drip… drip… drip… of the broken sink tap from the kitchenette. Dust motes danced in the weak light filtering through the grimy window.
Sasha stirred first. Not with a groan, but with a low, predatory hum that vibrated through the shattered bed frame. Her tail twitched like a cat sensing prey. She pushed herself up, shaking her head, sending stiff blonde hair flying. Her gaze, instantly alert and burning with renewed, restless hunger, scanned the cramped, destroyed bedroom. It skipped over Arthur's unconscious form as if he were discarded packaging.
Her nostrils flared. She tilted her head, listening intently past the dripping tap, past Arthur's shallow breaths. A slow, terrifying smile stretched her plastic features. "Ooh," she purred, the sound utterly devoid of warmth. "Neighbour."
She slithered off the wreckage, moving with unsettling grace despite her cartoonish proportions. She paused only to give Arthur's bare foot a dismissive kick. "Guard the fort, pissant." Then she was gone, padding naked and shameless through the carnage of the living room, stepping over broken electronics and sodden paperbacks without a glance.
The peeling wallpaper of the dim hallway felt colder. Sasha paused outside apartment 3B. A faded, embroidered 'Home Sweet Home' sign hung slightly crooked on the door. She pressed her ear to the cheap wood. Inside, faint sounds: the clink of a teacup, the low murmur of a radio playing easy listening.
Sasha’s grin widened, showing too many sharp little teeth. She didn't knock. She simply turned the handle. The flimsy lock snapped with a sound like a dry twig. Gable – prim, grey-haired, owner of seven cats and a collection of porcelain shepherdesses – looked up from her knitting, teacup frozen halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened in shock, then utter disbelief at the naked, impossibly proportioned, horned demon filling her doorway.
"Evenin', luv!" Sasha chirped, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind her with a backheel. Her tail snaked out, coiling possessively around a nearby standing lamp. "Bit nippy out. Fancy a cuppa?"
"W-what? Who are you? Get out!" Gable shrieked, scrambling to her feet, knocking her knitting basket over. Yarn rolled across the threadbare rug. "I'm calling the police!"
Sasha ignored her. She stalked forward, her movements liquid and dangerous. The cozy, cat-hair-dusted apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic. "Police? Nah. They're busy. Besides," Sasha’s voice dropped to a sibilant whisper, thick with ancient power, "you ain't gonna remember dialing." Her eyes locked onto Ms. Gable’s. They weren't vacant anymore. They were deep, swirling pits of impossible violet light. Gable’s protests died in her throat. Her eyes glazed over, reflecting the unnatural violet. She stood rigid, trembling.
"Right then, Doris," Sasha cooed, circling the frozen woman like a shark. "Let's see what you're hiding under all that tweed, eh? Bet you're a right filthy minx under the surface. Bet you dream of being used. Proper used." She ran a taloned finger down Ms. Gable’s cheek. Where it touched, the skin seemed to ripple.
"Release it," Sasha breathed, her voice resonating in the small room. The violet light in her eyes flared, pulsing. "All that pent-up frumpiness. All that boring. Let it out." Gable’s body jerked. A gasp tore from her lips, not of fear, but of… release? Her grey hair began to bleed colour, turning a brassy, synthetic platinum blonde, lengthening and stiffening like Sasha’s. Her frame, thin and frail, seemed to swell. Shoulders broadened. Hips ballooned outwards with a series of sickening pops and cracks, the fabric of her sensible skirt straining, then splitting at the seams, revealing flesh that expanded like overfilled balloons, forming a grotesque, shelf-like backside. Her modest blouse exploded outwards as her chest surged forward, breasts swelling impossibly, each one dwarfing her head, unnaturally round and firm, stretching the tattered silk to its limits.
Her face shifted. Wrinkles smoothed into plasticine perfection, lips inflating to obscene, glossy pillows, cheekbones rising sharply. A small pair of nubby horns pushed through the brassy blonde hair. A thin tail, tipped with a spade, whipped out from the ruins of her skirt.
The violet light faded from Sasha’s eyes. She stepped back, hands on her own meaty hips, surveying her handiwork with a smirk. "There we go. Proper slag material."
The thing that was once Ms. Gable blinked. Her new, vacant blue eyes scanned the room, then fixed on Sasha. A slow, lewd grin spread across her inflated lips. She reached up and squeezed her own massive breasts, moaning with a voice now raspy and thick. "Fuuuuck yeah. Who's a dirty bitch?"
Sasha laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "You are, slag! Now," she pointed a talon towards the hallway, towards Arthur's destroyed flat. "There's a pathetic little librarian next door. Just woke up, probably. Needs breaking in proper. You," she grabbed one of the new bimbo's enormous breasts, squeezing hard, "are gonna help me drown him in pussy juice. Make him forget his own bloody name."
The transformed neighbor’s grin widened, showing unnervingly white teeth. She rubbed her gigantic ass against the edge of her overturned armchair, a low moan rumbling in her chest. "Lead the way, sis. Gonna make that bookworm squeal."
Sasha grabbed a handful of the new bimbo's absurd backside, giving it a hard smack that echoed in the small room. "Atta girl, Doris. Or whatever your slag name is now. Let’s wreck him." She turned, tail lashing, and kicked open the already splintered door to the hallway. The two impossibly proportioned figures, one pink and one newly blonde, stepped out, leaving the cozy apartment reeking of sulfur and spilled tea, heading back towards Arthur’s darkness, leaving behind only shattered porcelain and terrified, hiding cats. The flickering bulb in Arthur’s hallway caught the gleam of their horns as they approached his open door.