Chapter 14: Morning Devotion
The smell hit her first. Copper, salt, and beneath it, the sweet-rot scent of spent passion. Evie’s eyes opened to the unforgiving gray light of morning leaking around their cheap blinds. Clare was already awake, propped on an elbow, staring at Evie’s chest.
Her fingers were there, tracing the swollen curve of a breast with clinical detachment. “Fuck,” Clare whispered, not to Evie, but to the phenomenon itself. “They’re even bigger. Overnight.”
Evie looked down. Her modest B-cups were gone. In their place was a pronounced, heavy fullness that strained against her own skin. The areolae were darker, wider. A deep, dull ache throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She tried to sit up, and the movement sent a jolt of sensation through her—the weight of her new flesh, the persistent, gnawing hardness between her legs that had not subsided with sleep. The cock lay thick and heavy against her thigh, a foreign limb that refused to soften.
“It doesn’t go away,” Evie said, her voice raspy with sleep and dread.
“I know.” Clare’s hand slid from Evie’s breast down her stomach, her fingers walking over the ridges of muscle that hadn’t been there a week ago, coming to rest on the base of the shaft. She didn’t stroke it, just held it, like gauging the heft of a weapon. “I can feel it. Even now. I feel… open. Sore in a good way.” Her blue eyes lifted to meet Evie’s. There was no playfulness in them now, only a hungry calculation. “How does it feel?”
“It feels… like it needs to be inside something,” Evie admitted, the truth of it a vulgar stone in her throat. The urge was a low, constant pressure, an itch in her core that demanded scratching.
Clare’s expression shifted, that familiar, determined set of her jaw returning. She threw the covers back. The cool air on Evie’s feverish skin was a shock. Clare moved with purpose, swinging her legs over Evie’s hips, straddling her. She loomed above, a silhouette against the dull window, her own body a landscape of curves and shadows Evie knew by heart, yet now seen through a new, distorted lens.
“Then put it in me,” Clare said, her voice low. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an instruction.
She didn’t wait. Reaching between them, she took Evie’s cock in her hand, her grip firm. The touch sent a bolt of electric need straight up Evie’s spine. Clare guided the broad, slick head to her entrance, which was still damp from the night’s exertions. She positioned it, took a sharp, preparatory breath, and sank down.
It was easier this time. Her body, changed by the violation, accepted the invasion with a wet, yielding gasp. But it was no less extreme. Evie watched, hypnotized, as Clare impaled herself, taking the full, monstrous length in a slow, relentless descent. A choked scream tore from Clare’s lips, part agony, part triumph.
“Oh god, oh fuck, Evie,” she gasped, fully seated, her body stretched to a breathtaking obscenity around the girth. She leaned forward, her hands braced on Evie’s shoulders, her breasts hanging, nipples hardened into tight points. “It’s so deep. I can feel you in my fucking throat.”
The sensation of being enveloped, of that incredible, impossible tightness, short-circuited Evie’s higher brain. Something animal and raw took over. Her hands, which had been lying limply at her sides, came up and gripped Clare’s hips. Her fingers dug into the flesh, holding her in place. A sound came from her own throat, a growl that didn’t seem like her own.
“I’m going to break you open,” Evie heard herself say, the voice rougher, darker, devoid of its usual softness.
Before Clare could respond, Evie pistoned her hips upward. It was a brutal, grinding thrust, seeking not just pleasure but obliteration. Clare’s scream dissolved into a guttural moan, her head snapping back. Evie did it again. And again. The rhythm was not loving; it was punitive, a drive to bury herself so completely they’d fuse.
The wet, slapping sounds of their joining filled the room, a crude percussion to their gasps. Clare’s internal muscles fluttered and clenched in a frantic, automatic response, each spasm milking the rigid shaft. She was sopping, a mixture of her own arousal and the leftover lube making a slick mess between them, dripping onto Evie’s abdomen.
“Yes! Just like that!” Clare cried, her professional composure shattered into pure filth. “Fuck your worthless cunt! Use it! God, your cock is a monster, it’s splitting me in half!” Her words spurred Evie on, feeding the dark thing that had taken root inside her.
Evie’s world narrowed to the feeling of hot, silken vise around her, the sight of Clare’s face contorted in rapture, the smell of sex and sweat and this new, metallic tang that was her. She felt a pressure building at the base of her spine, a tidal wave of sensation that had nothing to do with any orgasm she’d ever known. It was deeper, more seismic.
Clare’s hands flew to her own breasts, squeezing and pinching her nipples with rough urgency. “I’m coming!” she shrieked, the declaration raw and ragged. Her body locked, her back arching into a rigid curve as her orgasm ripped through her. Her cunt convulsed, a series of violent, gripping spasms that clamped down on Evie’s cock like a fist.
That was the trigger.
The wave inside Evie crested and broke. It wasn’t an ejaculation—there was no release of fluid she could feel. Instead, it was a pure, seismic shock of pleasure, a full-body convulsion that locked every muscle. Her vision whited out. A roar, raw and unbidden, erupted from her chest as she hammered up into Clare one last, grinding time, holding herself deep as the violence of the sensation tore through her.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, panting heap. Clare slumped forward, her weight on Evie’s chest, her breathing sobs. Evie’s cock, still impossibly, unnaturally hard, remained buried inside her, a coupling that felt less like sex and more like a permanent, swollen weld.
Minutes bled into one another. The only sound was their slowing breath and the faint, wet sound of Clare’s body trying to accommodate the intrusion. Finally, Clare pushed herself up. She dismounted with a slow, wet slide, and the aftermath was visibly different. More open. More used.
She sat back on her heels, looking down at herself, then at Evie. Her gaze was frank, assessing. She reached to the nightstand, grabbed a half-empty water glass, and took a long swallow. She offered it to Evie.
Evie took it, her hand trembling. The water was tepid, but it cleared the coppery taste from her mouth. She handed the glass back, her eyes avoiding Clare’s, instead looking past her to the mirrored closet doors across the room.
The reflection staring back was a stranger. A woman with disheveled pink hair, glasses askew, and a torso that was now top-heavy with pronounced, swollen breasts. And below the waist, jutting from a thatch of dark hair, a thick, veined cock, still erect, glistening with the evidence of their violence.
It wasn’t going away. It was, if anything, more pronounced. More real.
Clare followed her gaze to the mirror. She saw the horror dawning on Evie’s face. She leaned close, her breath hot in Evie’s ear, her voice a bare whisper.
“We’re out of lube,” she said.