Chapter 18: Empty
The chemical-lavender air of the bedroom felt stale and lifeless after the humid, metallic breath of Brenda’s back room. Donna closed the front door softly, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet house. Her body still hummed with the deep, residual ache of Brenda’s invasion, a phantom fullness that made her walk with a slight, careful waddle. She expected to hear the television, or the shuffle of Clark’s feet, but there was only silence.
“Clark?”
She moved through the dim living room into their bedroom. The bed was empty, the sheets tossed back from this morning. On his pillow, a single sheet of notebook paper was folded in half. She picked it up, her fingers leaving faint smudges on the blue lines.
Donna – It went down. Finally. Around 11. Just… shrank back to almost normal. It’s sore, but it’s soft. Had to go in, backlog from being out all week. Don’t wait up. Order food. – Clark
She read it twice. The words ‘almost normal’ felt like a punch to the gut. The glorious, terrifying abnormality of him was receding. The monument she had created was crumbling. The hollowness inside her, briefly stifled by Brenda’s arm, yawned wide again, a cavernous need.
She crumpled the note and dropped it. Her cunt, stretched and sensitive, gave a sympathetic, empty throb. She put a hand between her legs, feeling the swollen lips through her jeans, the prominent nub of her clit pressing against the denim seam. An inch long. A permanent, fleshy souvenir of her recklessness.
She needed to feel something. Not a memory. Not an ache. Something now.
She went to the closet, moving past hung shirts to the crochet bag on the floor. She pushed it aside and pulled out the heavy, silicone dildo. Ten inches of flesh-toned rubber, veined and crowned with a bulbous head. It had been her secret savior for years, a reliable brute that made her eyes roll back. She held it now. It felt ludicrously light. Insignificant.
“Pathetic,” she whispered to the empty room.
She didn’t bother undressing fully. Just unbuttoned her jeans, shoved them and her underwear down to her ankles, and sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. The air cooled her exposed skin. With her free hand, she rubbed her clit through her auburn curls. It was already stiff, eager, sending electric jolts through her lower belly. But the sensation was a flicker compared to the void it connected to.
She guided the tip of the dildo to her opening. It was slick from her arousal, from the lingering lube Brenda had used. She pushed.
It slid in without a hint of resistance.
Donna froze, frowning. There was no stretching burn, no delicious fight of her muscles yielding. It was like inserting a finger. She pushed further, watching the rubber vanish into her body. She felt it inside, a distant, trivial pressure. No depth, no claiming fullness. She shoved harder, until the suction-cup base met her flesh with a soft plop. Her vaginal opening, stretched far beyond its original design, sealed around the base without a gap. It wasn’t being filled; it was being politely occupied.
A laugh, sharp and hollow, escaped her. She clenched her internal muscles, the ones that used to grip this toy with milking intensity. She felt a faint ripple around the silicone, a ghost of a squeeze.
Frustration twisted into a hot, desperate anger. She left the dildo buried inside her, a meaningless plug, and leaned over to the nightstand. The bottle of cream was there, half-gone, the label smudged. Her hands didn’t shake as she unscrewed the cap. The faint, wrong perfume smell wafted out.
“More,” she murmured, not to the room, but to her own mutating flesh.
She used two fingers to scoop out a reserved glob. It was cool, thick as ointment. She spread it directly onto her enlarged clit, coating the rigid, sensitive shaft from root to tip, working it in with rough, circular strokes. The effect wasn’t instant, but a warmth began to bloom, a deep, subcutaneous awakening. The nerve endings, already hyper-alert, started to sing a sharper, more urgent song.
She lay back, denim binding her ankles, the dildo a mere occupant inside her sex. She began to masturbate in earnest, her fingers focused solely on her clit. She used the cream as lubricant, sliding her thumb and forefinger around the extended nub, pulling and rubbing with a filthy, rhythmic intensity.
“Yeah, you like that, you big, fat clit,” she grunted, her hips beginning to rock, driving the useless dildo an inch deeper, then letting it slide back. The action did nothing for her internally, but the motion, the obscenity of it, fueled her. “Grew this for that huge cock, didn’t you? To get rubbed raw by it. To feel it split you open.”
Her breathing grew ragged. The cream’s heat intensified, a building inferno localized in that one swollen piece of flesh. It felt like her clit was pulsing, growing even harder, thicker under her ministrations. She imagined it was Clark’s monstrous cockhead, and she was jerking him off, her fingers tight around its impossible girth.
She clenched her cunt hard around the buried dildo, trying to simulate the crushing tightness she’d felt with Clark, with Brenda. The silicone gave a little, a pathetic imitation of resistance. The dissonance—the intense, focused fire on her clit versus the vacant emptiness inside—drove her to a frenzied peak.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she chanted, not a plea but a command to the phantom in her mind. Her back arched, her free hand clawing at the sheets. The orgasm, when it hit, was a sharp, localized detonation. It wasn’t the full-body quake his penetration caused. It was a violent, seizing spasm centered on her clit, a white-hot wire of pleasure that burned through the nerves and left a throbbing, oversensitive ache in its wake. She cried out, a short, guttural sound, as her juices soaked the sheets beneath her.
She lay there, panting, her clit throbbing like an angry heartbeat. The heat from the cream wasn’t fading. It was settling in, a permanent new warmth.
Slowly, she sat up. With a grimace of disgust, she reached down, hooked a finger around the base of the dildo, and pulled. It slid out with a wet, sucking pop, offering no more resistance coming out than it had going in. She tossed it onto the floor where it landed with a soft thud.
She looked at the bottle of cream on the nightstand. Then she looked down at her body, at the space between her legs that now demanded an obscene scale to feel anything at all.
Clark’s cock had softened. It had gone ‘almost normal.’ The thought filled her with a panic more profound than any fear of his size had ever caused.
Was he was reverting? And she was here, chemically burning her sex into a new, hungry shape, a shape that would never be satisfied by ‘almost normal’ again.
She picked up the bottle. She stared at the oily, pearlescent gel inside. Brenda’s warning was a faint echo. Tom’s face, the secret betrayal, was a blurred snapshot. All that was solid, real, was this need, and this substance that promised to feed it.
Her decision was calm, clinical. The next step was obvious. If his cock could soften, it could be hardened again. And if her own hunger had grown this vast, then the tool to feed it must grow larger still.
She capped the bottle and placed it carefully back on the nightstand. She would wait for him. She would be ready. And this time, she wouldn’t dab. She would slather. She would coat him until no semblance of the man she married remained, only the magnificent, filling instrument she required.