Chapter 5: The Morning Aftermath
Donna swam up from a deep, exhausted sleep, pulled by a persistent, rhythmic pressure against her thigh. Her mind fumbled for context—a dream, perhaps, something from the frantic, sweating hours before dawn. But the pressure was real. Solid. Insistent.
She opened her eyes. The room was bathed in the sickly gold of first light, filtering through the half-drawn curtains and clinging to the dust in the air. The scent hit her first: sweat, the faint lavender from their washed sheets, and underneath it, something new. Metallic, like a copper penny left on the tongue, with a sickly-sweet overtone that reminded her of burnt sugar.
Clark was on his side, facing away from her. But his hips were pumping in a slow, unconscious grind against the back of her leg. Even in the dim light, she could see the pronounced, rigid line of his erection straining against the twisted sheet. His skin, where her own was pressed against it, radiated a dry, unnatural heat, like pavement that had baked all day in the sun.
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. He was still hard.
She shifted slightly, trying to ease away from the contact. The movement made him groan in his sleep, a low, needy sound. His hand groped back, clumsy in sleep, and found the curve of her hip, pulling her firmly against him. The heat was searing.
The heat was searing. It felt less like skin and more like a kiln-fired ceramic against her. Brenda’s warning, that the changes might be permanent, echoed in the sleepy, panicked chambers of her mind.
She carefully lifted the damp sheet, her breath catching in the dry morning air. There it was, pulsing with a faint, visible heartbeat she’d never noticed before. Her eyes traced its length, the familiar landscape now seemingly… revised.
Was it truly larger, or was she just desperately willing it to be? The mind could paint miracles onto barren canvas, especially after a night like last night’s frantic, endless collision. She needed proof, a measurement without a ruler, just the honest truth of her own hand.
She reached out, her fingers tentative in the silent room. The instant her hand closed around him, Clark let out a soft, shuddering sigh in his sleep. His skin was alarmingly hot, but the shape was undeniably different.
She gauged the familiar feel of him against her palm, the span of her fingers. There was a new, fractional heft, a slight but undeniable increase in girth that her practiced grip could not deny. A tiny, victorious thrill shot through her, immediately followed by a colder, slithering dread.
“Clark,” she whispered, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Honey, wake up.”
“Mmm?” He stirred, his hips pushing instinctively into her hand. “Donna? What’s…” He blinked, groggy and disoriented. A slow, tired smile spread across his face. “Well, hello there. To what do I owe this… enthusiastic wake-up call?”
“You were poking me,” she said, forcing a light, playful tone. “In your sleep. All night, basically.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all. He stretched, the sheet falling away completely. “God, I feel… really warm. You feel that?”
“I do.” She kept her hand where it was, her thumb moving in a slow circle. The evidence was solid in her grasp. It was real. The change, however slight, was real. Brenda’s unmarked tube glinted in her memory, a phantom from the cluttered vanity.
“Feel like I ran a marathon in my sleep,” he groaned, but his eyes were on her, dark and interested. The permanence of it, the fact that she had altered him without his knowledge, sat like a stone in her gut. She pushed the feeling down, deep beneath the warm, thrilling proof in her hand.
“Maybe you did,” she said, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. The metallic, burnt-sugar scent was on his skin. It was in the sheets. It was in the air they were both now breathing.
It was in the air they were both now breathing.
“I’m not complaining,” Clark said, his voice still rough with sleep. He glanced down at her hand, still resting on him, and his tired smile widened. “This is a definite improvement over my usual 6 a.m. alarm clock.”
“Just trying to keep up with you,” Donna whispered, her mind racing. The evidence was literally in her hand, warm and vital. The plan had worked, but it hadn’t stopped. It was continuing. A flicker of fear was smothered by a hotter, more compelling wave of pure, greedy curiosity.
She shifted then, applying gentle pressure. “Lie back.”
“Bossy this morning,” he chuckled, but he obliged, sinking into the pillows with a contented groan. He closed his eyes, a man perfectly happy to be guided. The trust in that simple act made her throat tighten for a second. She pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the mechanics, on the potential.
Donna moved over him, the morning light painting her skin in pale gold. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties, slid them down, and tossed them toward the foot of the bed. The air was cool on her skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from his body beneath her.
She positioned herself, one knee on either side of his hips. He was watching her now, eyes heavy-lidded but focused, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. His touch was still so familiar, even as everything else felt suddenly, electrically new.
She reached between them, guided him, and then slowly, slowly, lowered herself. There was a brief, catching resistance, then a smooth, slick slide. She gasped, her head tipping back. The sensation was immediate and profound—a fuller, more perfect stretch that made her nerves sing.
She was profoundly, surprisingly wet, her body responding eagerly to the mere idea of what was happening. As she took him completely, settling into a deep, seated position, her internal muscles fluttered, adjusting. Her eyes flew open, locking with Clark’s.
He felt different. Not just warm. Undeniably larger. The increase wasn’t monstrous, but it was decisive—a clear, physical truth her body couldn’t lie about. The memory of the gel’s chemical tingle inside her last night was now this: a breathtaking, palpable result.
“God, Donna,” Clark breathed, his hands tightening on her hips. “You feel… incredible.”
She began to move, a slow, rolling rise and fall, her hands braced on his chest. “You do, too,” she managed, the words barely a sigh. Every lift, every sinking fall confirmed it. Her mind, detached and calculating even now, was already spinning forward. If this was what two applications did, what would another do? The glossy, unmarked tube hidden behind the hairdryer called to her, a promise etched in plastic.
She rode him with a focused, rhythmic intensity, her gaze fixed on the ceiling where a hairline crack in the paint seemed to have grown longer overnight. Each movement was a test, a measurement. The faint, coppery scent was stronger now, mingling with their own salt.
His breathing grew ragged, his hips meeting hers with growing force. Her own breath hitched, pleasure building in a tight coil, but it was almost secondary. The primary sensation was one of triumph, a thrilling, clandestine victory. She had done this. She had changed the fundamental geometry of their marriage, and he was moaning her name, utterly oblivious, believing it was all him.
As his rhythm began to fracture, as he gasped her name and shuddered beneath her, Donna’s own climax arrived, sharp and bright. But her final, shuddering thought was of the bathroom cabinet, and the next dose waiting there.