Chapter 33: Desperate Search
The bedroom smelled of her own desperation. That acrid, metallic tang—like blood and lightning—clung to the back of her throat. Eleanor’s hands shook as she upended her purse onto the rumpled duvet. Wallet, keys, a tube of lipstick she hadn’t worn in months. No orange plastic vial. No blue cylinder.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
She stalked to the bathroom, her bare feet slapping on the hardwood. The cabinet door squeaked in protest as she yanked it open. Bottles of ibuprofen, half-empty allergy medication, David’s shaving cream. Nothing. The mirrored door showed her a wild-eyed woman, her short brown hair mussed, her new breasts heavy and swollen beneath her thin t-shirt. Her nipples were permanently hard now, little pebbles rasping against the cotton. Between her legs, a fresh pulse of wetness made her thighs stick together. She was a faucet that couldn’t be turned off, but she wanted more.
In a sudden realization, Eleanor remembers she’d left them at Carol’s. In the chaotic, sticky aftermath on that couch, she’d just… left. She’d driven home in a daze, her cunt tender and dripping, her mind replaying the feel of Carol’s cock—fucking Carol’s cock—swelling inside her. Now, the absence of the pills was a physical ache. What if Carol had taken more? What if Mark had? The thought of them, right now, tangled up without her, experimenting with her chemistry, sent a violent, jealous throb through her engorged labia. A slick, hot trickle escaped, tracing a path down her inner thigh.
The bedroom door opened. David stood there, silhouetted by the hall light, still in his work pants and wrinkled shirt. He looked tired, ordinary, a satellite drifting outside her new, feverish orbit. His eyes took in the ransacked room, the purse contents strewn across the bed.
“Eleanor? What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” The word was too sharp. She forced a breath, tried to smooth her voice. “I can’t find… my… headache pills.”
He just stared. He knew. Of course he knew. The air between them was thick with everything unsaid: her constant state of arousal, the unexplained, extravagant wet spots on the sheets, the way her body had reshaped itself into something she didn’t fully recognize. He’d taken the blue pill himself. He’d had his fun—multiple, shuddering orgasms that left him breathless and smiling, if not feeling a bit abused the next day. But his body hadn’t changed. Not like hers. Not like Carol’s. A flicker of something—resentment? pity?—crossed his face.
“They’re not here,” he said softly, stepping into the room. “You left them over there, didn’t you?” He didn’t say at Carol and Mark’s, but the name hung in the ozone-tinged air.
Eleanor’s composure cracked. “I need them, David.” Her voice broke. “It’s not just being horny, it’s… it’s amazing. I want more.”
He came closer, and she could smell the faint starch of his shirt, the mundane scent of his day. It clashed violently with the animal musk rising from her own skin. He reached out, tentatively, and cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. The simple, familiar gesture was agony. She flinched.
“This isn’t you, Ellie,” he murmured.
“It is now.” She grabbed his wrist, pressing his palm against her breast. His eyes widened at the heat, the impossible fullness. “Feel that? That’s me. This?” She guided his other hand down, under the hem of her t-shirt, past the waistband of her panties, through the coarse curls to the slick, elaborate folds beneath. They parted for his fingers like a wet, complicated flower. She was so engorged, so outwardly swollen, his fingertips immediately sank into soft, dripping flesh. “This is me now. It doesn’t go back.”
A shudder went through him. His breathing hitched. The blue pill had rewired his stamina, but not his desire. And her body, in its terrifying new state, was a siren song. His cock, predictably, began to thicken against his zipper.
“See?” she whispered, a triumphant, bitter edge to her voice. “You still want it. Even like this.”
“I want you,” he insisted, but his fingers were exploring, tracing the new ridges, the deep, slippery crevices her transformation had carved. He was fascinated and appalled. His index finger slipped inside her effortlessly, and she gasped, her hips bucking forward. She was so loose, so profoundly open, his finger was nothing. A tease.
She needed the real thing, the hard, claiming fullness she remembered from the blue pill’s effect on him. Her own slippery folds swallowed his finger to the knuckle with a wet, sucking sound that made his breath catch. “More,” she demanded, her voice rough, and she fumbled with his pants with desperate, clumsy hands.
She shoved his trousers and boxers past his hips, and his cock sprang free, already fully erect, thick and hot in her hand. It was the same as always, but the memory of how he’d fucked her after taking the blue pill—the relentless, patient endurance—flooded her mind. “You can still go for hours, can’t you?” she whispered, her tongue tracing the shell of his ear. “Tell me you still can.”
He didn’t answer with words. He pushed her back onto the disordered bed, her purse contents scattering to the floor. The sickly lamplight carved the new, heavy curves of her body as he knelt between her thighs. He looked at her exposed cunt, the elaborate, glistening petals of it, and a low groan escaped him. “Christ, Ellie. Look at you.”
“Don’t look. Fuck.” She arched her back, offering herself, and guided him to her entrance. The broad head of his cock pressed against her impossibly slick, parted flesh. There was no resistance, only a slow, melting surrender as he pushed forward. Her body opened for him like a mouth, swallowing him inch by inch in a single, seamless glide. A gush of warm fluid escaped around the joining, soaking the sheets beneath them. “Yes. God, yes. Just like that.”
He was buried to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against her swollen outer lips. The sensation was obscenely deep. Her internal muscles, transformed and hungry, rippled around his shaft in a slow, milking pulse. “Fuck,” he gasped, his control slipping. He began to move, a slow withdrawal followed by a hard, driving return. Each thrust elicited a wet, slapping sound and another hot rush from her core. Her concerns about Carol, about the missing pills, dissolved into the pure, animal rhythm of his hips. Carol could have the fucking pills. Carol could have anything. This was hers.
“Harder,” she snarled, clawing at his shoulders. “Don’t you dare get soft. Don’t you fucking dare.” He obeyed, his pace turning frantic, piston-like. The bedframe knocked a dull tattoo against the wall. Her world narrowed to the raw, grinding friction, the slap of skin, the guttural sounds torn from his throat. Her revamped cunt clamped down on him in waves, each contraction squeezing another jet of her fluid around his pounding cock. She felt her orgasm building not as a peak, but as a continuous, rising tide.
“I’m coming,” he warned, his rhythm faltering.
“Again,” she panted, locking her ankles around his back. “You’ll come again. You can. I know you can.” His climax hit him, a sharp, shuddering release she felt internally as a hot, pulsing rush. But he didn’t soften. The blue pill’s chemistry held him rigid inside her, even as he gasped through the aftershocks. A ragged, triumphant laugh broke from her. She rolled her hips, taking over, riding him through his sensitivity until his groans turned back into need. “See? Told you. My turn.”
Her own release crashed over her, a convulsive, mind-emptying storm. Her cunt clenched and spasmed around his still-hard cock, gushing so profusely the sounds were obscenely aquatic. She screamed, a raw, unattractive sound, into the hollow of his shoulder. Wave after wave followed, each less distinct than the last, until she was just a shuddering vessel, blissfully hollowed out, impaled on her husband’s enduring flesh. For a long time, there was only the smell of sex and their labored breathing, and the distant, unimportant echo of a world where pills were lost and friends betrayed. Here, now, with him still lodged thick inside her, it was enough. It was everything.