Chapter 19: Making the Impossible Possible
David’s orgasm hit him like a seizure. A raw, guttural shout tore from his throat, his back arching off the couch, fingers digging into Eleanor’s hips hard enough to bruise. She felt it—the frantic, rhythmic pulsing deep inside her, the hot, liquid surge of his release flooding her transformed cunt. It was a familiar sensation, one that had, for years, signaled the end. A brief, pathetic spasm followed by softening, followed by retreat.
She clenched around him, milking the last of it, a flicker of that old, cold disappointment settling in her gut. So quick. Always so quick.
But then she felt it.
Instead of wilting, the thick shaft buried inside her twitched. Not in post-climax contraction, but in a fresh, aggressive throb. It hardened further, a disturbing, stone-like rigidity that made her gasp. She looked down at his face. His eyes were wide, not with satiation, but with a kind of panicked astonishment. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath came in sharp, ragged pants.
“David?”
“It’s… it’s not stopping,” he whispered, his voice strained. “It’s like… a cramp. A full-body cramp.”
He was still inside her, completely hard, as if he hadn’t come at all. The pill. It was in his bloodstream now, a dark blue catalyst racing through him. Eleanor’s disappointment evaporated, replaced by a fierce, primal glee. A smile spread across her face, wide and unnerving.
“It’s working,” she breathed. She began to move again, a slow, experimental grind. He hissed, his eyes screwing shut. “It’s really working.”
She picked up the pace, riding him with renewed, savage enthusiasm. Her own neglected need roared back, amplified by the sheer novelty of a cock that didn’t quit. The wet, slapping sounds resumed, louder now, more obscene. Her new folds, swollen and sensitive, rubbed against his pubic bone with every thrust, sending electric jolts through her core.
“Fuck me,” she chanted, her head thrown back. “Fuck me with that hard cock. Don’t you dare get soft. Don’t you fucking dare.”
His hands, which had been clinging to her, now began to move. They slid up her body, rough and possessive, groping her enlarged breasts, squeezing the heavy flesh until she cried out. It wasn’t a caress. It was an assessment. A claiming.
“I can feel it,” he muttered, his voice lower, stranger. “Every ridge. Every fucking part of you. It’s like I’m mapping you.”
He thrust upwards, meeting her downward stroke with jarring force. The couch groaned in protest. Eleanor moaned, long and loud, the sensation overwhelming. She was so close. The coiling tension in her belly was a live wire.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her rhythm fracturing into erratic, desperate bucks. “David, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he growled. His eyes were open now, fixed on her. They looked sharper, hungrier. “Squirt all over this cock. Let me feel it.”
The command, so filthy and direct, pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a seismic convulsion that locked her muscles and stole her voice in a silent scream. Her cunt clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic waves, gushing a fresh flood of slickness that made the already slippery mess between them downright sodden. She shuddered, collapsing forward onto his chest, spent and trembling.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. The air reeked of sex and sweat and something else—a sharp, chemical tang that might have been their own changing chemistry.
Then, beneath her, she felt him. Still iron-hard. Still buried to the hilt. Unmoved by her climax.
“Keep going,” she whispered into his shoulder, her voice hoarse.
He didn’t need telling. His hands gripped her ass, fingers splaying over the curves, and he began to move her. He was setting the pace now, a steady, relentless roll of his hips that dragged his cock through her oversensitive, clutching depths. The stimulation was immediate, almost painful in its intensity so soon after her peak. A thin, wounded sound escaped her lips.
“You feel that?” he asked, his mouth against her ear. There was a note in his voice she hadn’t heard in years, maybe ever. A dark, focused intensity. “You feel how hard I am? It’s like the blood can’t leave. It won’t leave.”
He flipped her onto her back with a strength that was startling. The lamplight haloed his head. His face was flushed, his jaw tight. He looked like David, but the composition was wrong—the set of his shoulders, the gleam in his eye. He pushed her legs back, spreading her wide, and stared at the glistening, swollen mess of her. He ran a thumb through the slickness, gathering it, then pushed two fingers back inside her alongside his cock.
The stretch was exquisite, maddening. She cried out.
“So deep,” he murmured, almost to himself. He was moving again, fucking her with that same unflagging, mechanical rhythm. “And you’re so fucking wet. It’s dripping down your ass crack.”
The vulgarity, coming from his mouth, was more arousing than any sweet nothing. This was the obliteration she’d wanted. The death of polite David. The birth of this.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. The pleasure was building again, a different kind—deeper, slower, more insistent. It was fed by his endless stamina, by the sheer absurdity of it. He’d already come. She’d already come. And yet here they were, fucking like animals in the dying afternoon light, with no end in sight.
His breathing was becoming more ragged, but not from fatigue. From a building pressure. His thrusts grew harder, less controlled. “Ellie,” he grunted. “Something’s… it’s different.”
“What?” she panted. “What’s different?”
“I think…” He drove into her, his body shuddering. “I think I’m going to come again.”
The claim was absurd. His body had already emptied itself inside her, a full, pumping release that should have left him spent. Yet the tension coiling at the base of his spine was undeniable, a burning pressure building with each brutal thrust. It felt chemical, industrial—a system override.
“You can’t,” Eleanor breathed, but her eyes were wild with hope.
“Watch me.”
It wasn’t a gentle cresting. It was a fault line slipping. His hips stuttered, then slammed into her with a final, jarring force. A choked, ragged sound tore from him, part agony, part surrender. Inside her, the now-familiar pulse began again, but stronger, a deep, throbbing expulsion. Another hot flood, just as copious as the first, joined the existing mess within her, a viscous overflow that seeped out around the still-solid girth of him.
He shuddered violently, his forehead dropping to her collarbone. The warmth of his second release spread through her belly. She could feel the liquid weight of it.
He was panting, dripping sweat onto her chest. But his cock, buried to the hilt, remained rigid. It twitched again, a languid, full beat against her inner walls. He lifted his head. His gaze was glassy, unfocused, but then it sharpened, drifting down to her chest. Her nipples were hard, dark peaks against the pale, heavy swell of her breasts—larger now, permanently changed by Dr. Thorne’s regimen.
Without a word, David lowered his mouth. He didn’t kiss the skin around it. He took the entire areola and swollen nipple between his lips, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the stiffened tip. A jolt of pure, sharp sensation shot straight to her clit. She gasped, her back arching.
“Still hard,” he mumbled against her flesh, the words vibrating through her. He began to move again, a slow, grinding roll of his hips, his mouth working her breast with a rough, hungry suction. “Taste different too. Salty. Metallic.”
“The pills,” she managed to say, her hands tangling in his hair, holding him to her. “It’s the pills in me. In you.”
He switched to the other breast, his suction greedy, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. The dual assault was overwhelming—the deep, persistent fullness below, the sharp, claiming ache above. Her cunt, swollen and hypersensitive, clenched around him in erratic flutters. She was raw, overstimulated, but the pleasure was a live wire, frayed and sparking.
“Can’t stop fucking you,” he grunted, his pace incrementally quickening. The wet, squelching sounds were obscenely loud. “My brain is screaming to stop. My body won’t listen. It just wants this hole.”
He released her nipple with a wet pop, his eyes finding hers. A strand of saliva connected his lip to her glistening skin. “You did this. You and that fucking doctor.”
“Yes,” she hissed, lifting her hips to meet his, glorying in the sore, stretched feeling. “And you took it. You swallowed it for me.”
He drove into her, a punishing rhythm now, fueled by a strange, relentless energy. The room was a portrait of ruin—discarded clothes, the orange pill bottle on its side on the floor, the couch cushions stained dark with their sweat. The chemical tang in the air was stronger, mixing with the musk of sex.
Eleanor watched his face, a mask of concentrated effort. This wasn’t the kind, distant professor. This was a man possessed by a biological imperative she had engineered. The power of it was more intoxicating than any orgasm. He was hers, in the most fundamental, broken way imaginable.
He fucked her like that for a long time, his breath sawing in and out, his movements becoming almost automatic. The sun moved across the floor. The lamp seemed dimmer. Still, he didn’t soften. He was a machine stuck in gear, pistoning into her slick, used body, his mouth occasionally returning to bite and suck at her breasts, her neck, her shoulders.
“David,” she whispered finally, her voice scraped raw. Her own body was trembling from sustained, low-grade arousal, a constant hum just shy of another peak. “David, look at me.”
He slowed, his gaze lifting. It was hollow, haunted. The physical need was undeniable, but the man behind it was drowning.
“Do you want to stop?” she asked, though she knew the answer. She needed to hear him say it.
His hips kept their slow, circular grind. He swallowed. “I don’t think I can.”