Chapter 16: The Price of Pleasure
The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:18 AM. David was a warm, snoring bulk beside her, one arm thrown across his face. Eleanor lay utterly still, staring at the ceiling. A deep, insistent throb pulsed between her legs. It was not the pleasant aftershock of sex. It was a demand.
It had been there when she finally slept, a low-grade fever in her cunt. It was there now, sharper.
She slid out from under the sheets. The cool morning air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. Her breasts felt heavy, swung low and full as she stood. She padded, naked, to the ensuite bathroom, closing the door quietly before flicking on the vanity light.
The light was cruel and bright. It showed everything.
She faced the mirror. Her short brown hair was damp with sweat at the temples. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were wide, almost startled. She looked down at her own body.
Her breasts. They were bigger. Noticeably. The soft swell of them was heavier, the pale skin stretched tauter. Her areolas, once a light pink, were now a darkened, the nipples pebbled and prominent even in the warm room. They ached with a dull, heavy sensitivity.
But that was not the focus.
The real pull was lower. That relentless, hungry throb.
She turned slightly, one hand braced on the cool marble countertop. She looked over her shoulder into the mirror, trying to see the curve of her ass, the back of her thighs. She looked… fuller. Softer. The weight gain she’d lamented for months seemed to have redistributed overnight, settling in her hips, the swell of her belly, the roundness of her backside. It was not fat. It was… readiness.
With a shallow breath, she brought her other hand down. She parted her legs, bending her knees slightly. Her fingers touched her inner thigh, then moved inward through the coarse, dark curls.
She was already soaked. Her fingertips came away slick and shining.
Using two fingers, she gently pulled the outer lips of her sex apart and leaned closer to the mirror, angling her hips.
Her breath hitched.
The anatomy was familiar, yet alien. Her vaginal opening, usually a neat, nestled slit, was visibly swollen, the inner lips puffy and dark. But surrounding it, radiating outward like some fleshy, wet flower, were new folds of tissue. They were a glistening, deep pink, slick with her own fluids, layered and intricate. They seemed to pulse in time with the throbbing ache. When she applied the slightest pressure beside her entrance, the new flesh yielded, soft and impossibly deep, revealing more hidden, slick crevices.
“What the fuck,” she whispered to her reflection. Her voice sounded thin.
The pill bottle sat by the faucet. The little white tablet she’d taken yesterday. This was the reawakening. A biological riot.
A fresh, seeping trickle of wetness escaped her, tracing a warm path down her inner thigh. The throbbing intensified, sharpening into a blunt, needy ache. It was an emptiness no previous desire had ever mimicked. It felt cavernous.
She needed to be filled. The memory of the strap-on, of David, of being stretched and fucked and used, flashed behind her eyes with painful clarity. It hadn’t been enough. It had only teased this new, hungrier anatomy.
Almost against her will, her slick fingers drifted from exploring to seeking. She pressed two fingertips against her swollen entrance. It gave way with shocking ease, swallowing her knuckles without resistance. She was so open, so impossibly soft and wet inside. She curled her fingers, seeking a spot, any spot, to quell the ache.
It was useless. The friction was pleasant, a shallow relief, but it was like scratching a fire. The ache was deeper, in a place her fingers couldn’t reach. In those new, mysterious folds. In the very core of her.
A low, frustrated groan escaped her. She pulled her fingers out, a thick string of clear fluid connecting her hand to her sex. She was making a mess. The throbbing was now a pounding, a second heartbeat centered in her cunt.
She needed more.
The bathroom was a cage. Eleanor turned off the light and slipped out into the dark hallway, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. The living room was cast in deep blues from the pre-dawn windows, the shapes of furniture lurking like silent beasts. Her eyes went immediately to the couch.
It was there, a darker shape against the dark leather. The strap-on.
The harness was a tangled heap on the cushion. The dildo itself, black silicone, lay beside it, gleaming dully with a residual slickness she knew was her own. The memory of it, of Carol’s thrusts, of David’s stunned face, washed over her with a fresh wave of wetness between her legs. Her new flesh seemed to clench around nothing.
“Fuck it,” she breathed into the quiet, her voice raw.
She didn’t bother with the harness. Her cunt was dripping, a slow, steady leak of desperation. She picked up the dildo. It was warm, heavier than she remembered, substantial. The silicone had a slight give. She knelt on the rug before the couch, her knees pressing into the dense pile.
One hand went between her legs again, smearing her copious wetness over herself, coating her swollen lips, her throbbing clit, the strange new petals of her sex. She was so slick her fingers made soft, obscene sounds. With her other hand, she brought the blunt, rounded head of the toy to her entrance.
It pressed against her, a firm, foreign pressure. Her body yielded instantly.
Eleanor let out a shuddering sigh, her head dropping forward. She pushed her hips back, meeting the intrusion. The thick tip stretched her wide, a familiar and yet completely new sensation. The aching void inside her seemed to gasp open.
She pushed, and the silicone slid into her with terrifying ease.
“Oh, god.” It was a prayer and a curse.
Inch after lengthy, solid inch disappeared into her. She fucked herself onto it slowly, unceremoniously, her hand steady, her breathing ragged. It filled the shallow, familiar channel and then kept going, pressing into depths untouched by David, depths Mark had only guessed at. It reached a place that made her spine arch and her toes curl against the rug.
It was deeper than she remembered from yesterday.
A guttural moan was torn from her throat. She was impaled, speared open on this fake cock, and it felt more real than any touch in years. The fullness was a brutal relief. She rocked her hips, taking another half-inch, then another, until the base of the toy met her soaked, spread flesh. She was stuffed to the hilt.
Her body clenched around the foreign object, muscles fluttering in a wave of shocked, overwhelming pleasure. She was so full she felt lightheaded. A thin string of saliva escaped her open mouth and dripped onto the rug below.
She stayed there, motionless for a long moment, just feeling the profound stretch, the ache finally satiated in the most primal way. Then, with a sharp, hungry intake of breath, she began to move.