Chapter 4: The Bull in the Bedroom
The low thrum of conversation in The Horn & Hoof felt like flies buzzing against Samantha’s skin. Aged beef, seared fat, and something metallic – blood, she realized, inhaling deeply – saturated the air. Her eyes were glued to the plate before her. The ribeye, charred dark on the edges, wept a dark, viscous juice that pooled like liquid garnet around the rare, cool center. Each crimson droplet shimmered in the dim, antler-chandelier light.
"Sam? Earth to Samantha?" Mark’s voice sliced through the thick haze in her mind. He waved a hand slightly in front of her face, concern etching lines beside his eyes deeper than usual. "You’ve been staring at that steak like it’s about to solve world hunger. You okay? You barely touched your salad."
She blinked, forcing her gaze upwards. Mark looked handsome, sharp in the crisp white shirt he’d insisted on for this ‘nice dinner out’. But the angles of his jaw, the clean line of his collar, seemed distant, irrelevant. Her attention snagged on the waiter across the room, his tight black pants straining over powerful thighs as he bent to clear a table. For a dizzying second, the fabric tore in her mind’s eye, replaced by thick, dark hide. A monstrous bulge swelled obscenely beneath it, tenting the ruined cloth, the heavy, veined shape unmistakable. She felt a hot gush between her own legs, slickness soaking her thighs, and a simultaneous, sharp pressure deep in her swollen breasts. A faint, sweet scent, ghostly but distinct – warm milk – seemed to rise from her own cleavage.
"Yeah," she rasped, her voice thick. She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. The silk camisole beneath her blouse felt suddenly abrasive against her nipples, engorged and sensitive. "Yeah, fine. Just... thinking about work. A design... complex." She forced a brittle smile. "The steak looks incredible." Like raw muscle. Like strength.
Mark frowned, pushing his own half-eaten filet aside. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You sure? You seem... elsewhere. And you’ve been... restless." His gaze flickered down towards her lap for a split second, where her hand had been unconsciously kneading the solid flesh of her thigh through her dress. She’d gained noticeable weight there, too, curves becoming dense, almost bovine. "You’ve been different lately. Quieter. Distracted. And your... your chest?" He trailed off, cheeks flushing slightly. "It’s definitely... fuller. Are you...?"
Fuller? A hot wave of possessiveness mixed with arousal washed over her. Mine. Heavy. Needing. "Just hormones, maybe," she lied, the words tasting like ash. She squeezed her thighs together hard under the table, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through her core and making her swollen breasts throb with renewed intensity. She swore she felt a warm dampness spreading on the silk cups of her bra. Leaking. But a glance down showed only the expensive silk blouse, pristine. Not yet. Soon.
The waiter reappeared, a silhouette of efficient grace. "More wine? Dessert menu?" His eyes, dark and liquid, met Samantha’s. Again, the flicker: brown eyes becoming deep, bovine pools. His polite smile twisting into something knowing, primal. The phantom scent of hay and animal musk overwhelming the steakhouse smells.
"Just the check, please," Mark said firmly, his eyes fixed on Samantha, the worry deeper now.
"Of course, sir." The waiter’s voice was smooth, but Samantha heard the lowing beneath it. She watched his retreat, the powerful roll of his hips, the tautness of his buttocks beneath the black fabric. Perfect. Strong. Able. A fresh pulse of wetness soaked her panties. Her nipples prickled, demanding attention, demanding release.
Back in her apartment, the sanctuary felt charged, oppressive. The lingering scent of lavender from days-old candles was buried under the phantom aroma of the steakhouse, of blood and musk. Mark dropped his keys on the counter with a clatter. "Sam, seriously. Talk to me. What’s going on? You barely spoke all night. You looked like you were in a trance. And you kept... rubbing yourself under the table."
Samantha turned away, pretending to fuss with the kettle. Her breasts felt like lead weights, the ache a constant, deep thrum. The Bull’s Pride, hidden in her bedside drawer, pulsed in her awareness like a second heartbeat. It worked on me. It filled me. Made me... this. A terrifying, exhilarating idea bloomed, vivid and obscene. What if it could fill him too? Shape him? Make him understand? Make him... mine. Like I belong to... it.
Her mind flashed to Mark, not as he was now, but softened. Rounder. Heavy breasts swelling under his shirt. A docile confusion in his eyes. The sheer wrongness of it sent a bolt of electric arousal through her, so intense she gripped the counter edge.
"Just tired, Mark," she managed, her voice trembling only slightly. "Long week. Maybe... maybe a nightcap? Something warm?" She gestured vaguely towards the liquor cabinet. "That Scotch you like?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Maybe. One. But we are talking about this, Sam." He kicked off his shoes, padding towards the living room, exhaustion in his shoulders.
This was it. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Moving quickly, silently, she slipped into the bedroom. The drawer slid open. The Bull’s Pride lay there, massive, ridged, smelling faintly of silicone and her own sex. Beside it lay the small velvet pouch she’d found hidden in the dildo’s original packaging – a fine, iridescent powder the color of moonlight on milk. The shopkeeper’s knowing wink. "For deepening the connection, my dear. For sharing the... burden." She hadn’t dared touch it before. Now, her fingers trembled as she scooped a tiny mound onto a folded piece of paper.
Back in the kitchen, her hands shook as she poured two fingers of amber Scotch into a heavy tumbler. Mark was settled on the sofa, eyes closed, head back. She glanced at him – the strong line of his throat, the flat plane of his chest beneath his shirt, the masculine angle of his jaw. Soon. Different.
With a held breath, she tipped the shimmering powder into his glass. It swirled, dissolved instantly, leaving the Scotch looking deceptively pure. She poured her own glass, neat. Nothing for me. I don’t need it. I’m already changing.
"Here," she said, her voice unnaturally bright. She handed him the glass. The scent of the Scotch was strong, masking any trace of the powder.
He took it without opening his eyes. "Thanks." He took a slow sip, grimacing slightly at the burn. "Strong stuff."
She perched beside him, sipping her own drink, watching him like prey. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She saw the moment it hit. A slight flutter of his eyelids. A softening of the tension in his shoulders, replaced by a sudden, slack confusion. His grip on the glass loosened slightly. He frowned, blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear fog.
"Sam...?" he mumbled, his voice thick, slow. "Feel... weird. Heavy." He shifted, his movements clumsy. His hand went to his chest, rubbing absently. "Kind of... tingling?"
Yes. The word echoed silently in Samantha’s skull. Tingle. Soften. Fill. She set her glass down. Her own breasts throbbed in response to his confusion, a fresh wave of warmth spreading beneath her bra. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a husky whisper heavy with faux concern and burgeoning need. "Just relax, baby. Let it happen. Doesn’t it feel... interesting?" Her gaze dropped pointedly, hungrily, to the front of his trousers. "Something else feeling heavy down there?" The question hung in the air, laced with a terrifying promise as the strange powder worked its slow, insidious magic, blurring the lines of his body and her own terrifying desires.