Chapter 3: The Bimbo's First Orgasm
The sound of her own breathing, high and sharp in the quiet room, was a metronome counting down to something she could no longer name. The voyeur in the mirror was gone. Now there was only the spread of damp flannel under her knees, the hard press of her joints, the sprawling, overheated map of her body as its only navigator. Her hands, smeared with evidence from her own deep exploration, hovered shaking over the lush, terrifying terrain she’d created.
One hand slid back to her breast, a gravitational pull she couldn’t resist. Her fingers found the rigid nipple, twisted. The jolt made her head rock back on her neck, a sound like a wounded animal breaking from her plumped lips.
The other hand descended on a wet, direct path down the concave valley of her belly. Each throb from her chest had an answering beat lower down, a demanding, hollow pulse. She cupped the hot mound of flesh, feeling the split, the parting weight of her labia, thick and obscenely soft against her palm. She was drenched. Her own wetness coated her fingers immediately, a shocking, cool film.Language was gone. Complex thought was a door slammed shut. There was only the flood of nerve-endings lighting up. She traced a single fingertip along the slick, swollen seam.Contact. It was like brushing a live wire. Her whole body jerked, a spasm that rocked her heavy chest. A strangled “Ah!” escaped, more a gasp than a word.
She repeated it, firmer this time. She pressed the pad of her middle finger into the folds, encountering the swollen, peanut-sized nub of her clit immediately, not hidden but aggressively present. It was so engorged, so sensitive it felt like raw electricity itself. She circled it, a tight, deliberate motion. The reward was instant, a flash of white behind her doll-wide eyes, her knees almost giving out, all power focusing into the humming wire of her spine. “God—oh fuck—” the words tumbled out, empty and perfect.
Feedback loop complete. Hand touches cunt. Cunt screams for more. Less air. More pressure.
Her single finger was an insult. She needed to be filled, to feel the monstrous, stretched-out hollow inside her packed, violated.
She spread her knees wider, the new bulk of her thighs and ass shifting with the movement, a heavy sound of skin on cloth. She angled herself so the bedside lamp threw light directly on the spot where her hand met her pussy. She needed to see it. She needed to watch. She brought her other hand down to assist. Clumsily, her first two fingers of her right hand aligned with the puffy, glistening lips. She pushed.
Her new body opened for her like it had been designed to, offering a slick, burning welcome. The initial penetration sent a violent shudder, a pang of glorious, sacrilegious invasion, right up her center. Her inner muscles clenched, a reflexive grip on the intruding digits. She bottomed out quickly; the internal capacity the program had promised was no joke.
Not enough.
She pulled them out slowly, the drag against her slick inner walls a torture of pure sensation, and thrust them back in, driving deeper, a hard, choked grunt accompanying the movement. In, out. The filthy, wet sound filled the room, a rhythmic squelching that made her empty head spin with delight. "This... oh my god, this... so... big... feels so fucking much..."
Her left hand abandoned her breast, dropped to where her fingers were pistoning in and out of the drenched, gaping hole. Her thumb sought the frantic nodule of her clit again and ground down. Circles became hard, blunt pressure.
The separate sensations—the deep, stretching fuck of her own hand, the bright, demanding abuse on her clit—magnified each other, a circuit connected. Her tempo became frantic. The colossal, jiggling weight of her front was a chaotic orchestra conductor for each sharp thrust. Her new hips, powerful and bred for accommodating much bigger intrusions, churned into the air, seeking a partner that wasn't there.
She needed a mouth on them. A whole fucking tongue. A cock. Anything.
"Fuck me," she panted to no one, her own strident, now-familiar voice a soundtrack to the violent, wet slaps of her hand against her flesh. "Fucking...need... aaah! More, I need..."
Her own pleading spurred her. She was sweat-slicked, mindless, a captive in this twisted pyramid. Breath came in ragged bursts. A pressure began to build, radiant and hot, deep in her cavern, spreading like a crown of heated oil at the base of her scalp. Everything retreated to a pinprick focus: the drag of skin on dripping skin, the relentless clenching, the discordant, two-socket pleading of her pussy for something fuller. Her soaked fingers would not suffice.
Her soaked fingers would not suffice.
It was pure hydraulic logic. She needed more length, more thickness, more weight. The screeching demand in her cells eroded her remaining reason in a single, powerful thought.A man.