Chapter 11: The Interview
The incense smoke curled like lazy serpents in the slanting afternoon light. Golden shafts pierced the dust motes dancing above the mismatched armchairs where Seren, Quinn, and Lyra lounged. Ilda’s pencil hovered, forgotten, over her open notebook. Her throat felt tight, dry. The room seemed to hum with the fan’s effort and the unspoken electricity of their shared confession. Like waking up in someone else's perfect fantasy. The words hung in the vanilla-scented air.
Ilda swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. Her blue eyes flickered between them, absorbing the tableau. Seren, long fingers resting loosely near the soft drape of fabric over her lap, her dark braids tucked neatly behind her ears, face a mask of calm analysis. Quinn, utterly relaxed, one hand idly tracing the pronounced curve of her sweatpants where the goo-filled weight of her prosthetic scrotum rested, a small, proud smile playing on her lips. And Lyra, sprawling back, her pink hair fanned out, one hand lightly cupping her enormous, milk-glistening breast. A thin, glistening trail leaked from her thumb-sized nipple, tracing a path down the intricate, colorful tattoo on her soft stomach before soaking into the waistband of her tiny shorts.
"It's... profound," Ilda finally managed, her voice husky. She lowered the notebook to her lap. "That shared sensation. That sense of... liberation within limitation?"
Seren nodded, her gaze sharpening on Ilda. "Liberation from expectation. The societal script, the internal pressure. The constant performance anxiety." A pale finger tapped the armrest. "It evaporates. What remains is sensation. Texture. Temperature. The intimacy of touch without the focus on a singular, rigid goal." She glanced down at her own lap, utterly still beneath thin cotton. "It becomes about the journey, not a predetermined destination dictated by physiology."
Quinn chuckled, a warm, rich sound. She deliberately squeezed the bulge in her sweats, making the cool, shifting contents ripple visibly. "Exactly! Look at this thing!" She grinned, unashamed. "Useless for the old purposes? Sure. But it feels fascinating. Heavy. Cool. And the way it moves..." She trailed off, wiggling slightly. "It’s mine. It’s unique. And honestly? People look. They speculate. It’s power of a different kind. Confidence isn't just about hardness, Ilda. It's about owning what you are."
Lyra sighed, a low sound of pure contentment. She pressed gently against her breast, coaxing another bead of milk that swelled at the tip of her dark nipple before dripping onto her skin. The scent of warm milk mingled with the incense. "It’s like… all the static fades," she murmured, her voice thick with a languid sensuality. "Before, so much of my headspace was about chasing that peak, that tension. Now? The peak is everywhere. In the slide of silk against my skin. In the taste of a strawberry. In the ache of my breasts when I think about Seren’s clever fingers or the softness of Mara’s mouth." She met Ilda’s gaze, her eyes half-lidded. "It’s a constant hum, Ilda. A low, beautiful thrum that makes everything feel… more. Especially touch. Oh god, touch." She shivered visibly.
Ilda felt a flush creep up her neck. Mara’s name, spoken in that context, sent a jolt through her. She pictured her girlfriend’s focused expression, kneeling before them days before. The worshipful attention to Quinn’s synthetic scrotum, the delicate exploration of Seren’s unresponsive length… and Seren’s cool explanation: ‘I trained her to crave limp cocks specifically.’ The memory made Ilda’s own large, but perpetually bottom-leaning cock twitch almost imperceptibly against the soft fabric of her skirt. Her thighs felt damp.
"Seren," Ilda asked, forcing her voice level, "this… training Mara. Conditioning her focus. How deliberate was it? Was it purely technical?" She needed to understand the mechanics, the science behind the desire that now seemed to possess her partner.
Seren adjusted her glasses, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. "Partially. Operant conditioning works. Positive reinforcement for attention given to flaccid states. But it was also about reframing." She steepled her fingers. "Mara associated softness with failure, with inadequacy – her own and others'. I helped her dissociate that. Helped her find the aesthetic, the tactile pleasure in submission to stillness. The erotic potential in patience. In serving a form that won’t use her in the traditional sense, only receive." She paused. "It unlocked something profound in her. A different kind of hunger."
Ilda nodded, scribbling a few fragmented notes without really seeing them. A different kind of hunger. Was that what Mara felt when she looked at her? A desire for the very lack she possessed? The thought was dizzying. Her own large cock felt heavy, almost burdensome. The fantasy she’d been circling – the deliberate surrender of function, the embrace of impotence – surged forward, vivid and terrifying. To be like them. To be the object of that specific craving.
The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged. Quinn idly traced patterns on her thigh. Lyra let another trickle of milk trace the ink on her belly. Seren watched Ilda, her expression unreadable.
"I should go," Ilda said abruptly, standing up. Her notebook slipped, pages fluttering. She fumbled to catch it. "Thank you. Really. This was… illuminating."
"Anytime, Ilda," Quinn smiled warmly. "Come watch me dance sometime. The confidence? It translates."
"Stay curious," Seren offered quietly.
Lyra just hummed, her eyes drifting shut, lost in the hum of her own heightened senses.
The walk back to her apartment felt surreal. The city sounds – traffic, distant laughter, the clatter of a cafe – seemed filtered through a haze. All Ilda could see were the images burned into her mind: Quinn’s proud fondling of her useless bulge, Lyra’s milk tracing the contours of her art, Seren’s detached gesture towards her permanent softness. And Mara, kneeling, utterly devoted to limp, impossible cocks.
Inside her own quiet space, the familiar scent of Mara’s sandalwood soap lingering faintly, Ilda leaned back against the closed door. Her breathing sounded loud. She slid a hand under her skirt, fingers brushing the soft, thick length of her own cock. It stirred slightly at the touch, a phantom reflex. But it wasn’t hardness she sought. Not now.
She imagined it soft. Permanently soft. Heavy and still, like Quinn’s bulge. Unresponsive, like Seren’s. Just there. A weight. A focus. An object of devotion for Mara’s newly trained hunger. The fantasy was intensely vivid, shamefully arousing. She pressed her palm flat against the flaccid shaft, not stroking, just feeling its presence. Its potential uselessness. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Could she? Should she? The idea felt like stepping off a cliff into a warm, enveloping void.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the inert flesh beneath her hand, willing away any hint of rigidity, imagining it as limp, as accepting as Seren’s. Arousal coiled low in her belly, sharp and unfamiliar, detached from the usual goal. It was the arousal of surrender. Of becoming the fantasy.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. She fished it out. A message from Mara:
> Thinking about you. Thinking about them. Your voice while you asked questions… it did things. Can I come over? Just to… be?
Ilda stared at the words. Thinking about them. She knew exactly what Mara meant. The roommates. Their state. Their perfection. Her thumb hovered over the screen. The phantom ache of her imagined impotence intensified, a delicious, terrifying emptiness. She pictured Mara kneeling again, but this time before her. Before her own new, impossible softness. Craving it. Worshiping it.
Just to… be.
Her finger trembled slightly as she tapped out the reply:
> Yes. Come. Please. I’m… thinking about it too.
The apartment door clicked open barely ten minutes later. Mara stood there, breathing hard like she’d run the stairs, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dark with unspoken intensity. The familiar scent of sandalwood clung to her skin, stronger now, mixed with the faint, metallic tang of city air. She didn’t speak. Just stepped inside, the door shutting softly behind her, her gaze locking onto Ilda’s with a hunger that stole Ilda’s breath.
Ilda leaned back against the wall, feeling its cool solidity against her spine. Mara crossed the small space in two strides, her hands finding Ilda’s face, pulling her into a kiss that was less affection and more desperate confirmation. Lips crushed together, teeth clicking, tongues searching. Mara’s smaller frame pressed against her, trembling. Her hands slid down Ilda’s neck, over her collarbones, finally coming to rest, trembling, on the soft swell of Ilda’s breasts beneath her blouse. "Tell me," Mara gasped against her mouth, breaking the kiss only to suck Ilda’s lower lip. "Tell me what you’re thinking. Exactly."
The heat of Mara’s body, the frantic energy vibrating through her, ignited Ilda’s own simmering tension. She tilted Mara’s chin up, forcing eye contact. The sheer need reflected there, raw and focused, mirrored the fantasy solidifying in her own mind. "Them," Ilda breathed, her voice thick. "Seren. Quinn. Lyra. That… state." She swallowed, fingers tracing the line of Mara’s jaw. "How they own it. Seren’s calm acceptance. Quinn’s pride in her… uselessness. Lyra’s constant, liquid hum." She paused, her thumb brushing Mara’s bottom lip. "And you. Kneeling. Devoted." Her gaze dropped pointedly to Mara’s lap, then back up, locking eyes. "Devoted to what can’t use you."
Mara shivered violently, a low whine escaping her. Her fingers tightened on Ilda’s hips, pulling their bodies flush. The unmistakable, soft swell of Ilda’s large cock pressed against her belly through their clothes. "I dreamt about it," Mara confessed, her voice barely a rasp. "After Seren’s place. Kneeling… but before you. Your legs. The weight of it. Soft. Really soft. Not just… flaccid. Permanently." She leaned in, nuzzling the base of Ilda’s throat, inhaling deeply. "Heavy. Still. Mine to serve. Mine to worship. Knowing it would never get hard. Never need anything but… me. Just my attention." She looked up, eyes blazing. "That thought… it makes me ache, Ilda. Like nothing else ever has."
The directness, the articulation of Ilda’s own nascent, terrifying desire, was like a spark hitting dry tinder. Arousal, sharp and dizzying, flooded Ilda, centered low in her pelvis but detached entirely from the familiar urge for friction or release. It was the heat of surrender. Of becoming the object. She cupped Mara’s face again. "What if…" The words felt huge, dangerous. "What if it wasn't just a fantasy? What if…" Her gaze dropped again to where her own softness pressed against Mara. "What if I made it… permanent?"
Mara stilled. Utterly. Her breath hitched. "Permanent?"
"Soft," Ilda clarified, her voice gaining strength, conviction blooming alongside the heat. "Like Quinn’s bulge is permanent. Like Seren’s limpness. Silicone. Injections. Keeping the size… the weight… but locking it in that state." She traced the outline of her own cock through her skirt with Mara’s finger. "Forever soft. Utterly receptive. Incapable of anything… but being adored."
A choked sob escaped Mara. Not sorrow. Ecstatic release. She dropped to her knees right there in the entryway, hands sliding up Ilda’s thighs, bunching the skirt fabric. Her face pressed against the soft mound, rubbing, nuzzling. "Yes. Oh god, yes." The word was a prayer. "Let me worship this. Only this. Forever."
Ilda’s fingers tangled in Mara’s hair, not forcing, just anchoring. The feel of Mara’s fervent adoration against her flaccid flesh, the sheer power in being desired precisely for her proposed impotence, was intoxicating. "And you?" Ilda asked, her voice trembling slightly. Her hand drifted down, fingertips brushing over the outline of Mara’s own small, average cock straining against her trousers. "If I become this… this object to be served… where does your need fit?"
Mara looked up, tears shining on her cheeks, but her expression was fiercely determined. "Take it," she whispered, pressing a kiss against the fabric over Ilda’s softness. "Take my cock away. All of it." Her hand covered Ilda’s where it rested over her bulge. "Castration. Like Lyra chose. Leave me with just… this." She pressed Ilda’s hand flat against her pubic mound. "Empty. Needy. Wanting only to serve you. To kneel before your perfect, impossible softness. To be perpetually denied… perpetually devoted." Her voice dropped to a husk. "Your eunuch."
The word hung, stark and ancient, yet perfectly fitting their modern, twisted fantasy. No trace of shame in Mara’s eyes. Just pure, unadulterated longing. The symmetry of it slammed into Ilda: her own large, beautiful, useless cock, a permanent altar. Mara, stripped of her own, existing only to adore it. The ultimate denial. The ultimate service. She pictured it: Mara, smooth between the legs, kneeling, her mouth hovering near Ilda’s heavy, silicone-softened flesh. The ache in her own belly intensified, a molten core of yearning.
"We do it," Ilda breathed, the decision settling like a stone in still water, final and right. Her fingers tightened in Mara’s hair. "We find the doctors. You get castrated. I get the injections. We become… this."
Mara surged up, capturing Ilda’s mouth again, this kiss fierce with triumph and shared, terrifying purpose. Her hand slid up under Ilda’s skirt, fingers seeking the impossibly soft column beneath her panties, not to stimulate, but to claim, to worship the future state already existing in her mind. "Yes," she murmured against Ilda’s lips, her voice thick with desire. "We become perfect." Her tongue traced Ilda’s lip. "Show me again. Show me yours. Before it changes." Her fingers pressed gently, reverently, against the flaccid flesh. "Let me practice… worshipping what it will be."