Chapter 10: Calling
The steam from the shower hung in the bathroom like a phantom, clinging to the mirror and beading on the chrome. Ellie stood on the bathmat, water sluicing off her in rivulets, and for a long moment she just stared at the blurred outline of herself in the fogged glass.
She reached out, hesitating, then wiped a palm across the cold surface.
The woman who looked back was a stranger. Her auburn hair was dark and wet, clinging to her neck and shoulders. But it was her body that held her gaze, captive and disbelieving. Her breasts, always modest, now swelled heavy and full in her palms when she lifted them, testing their weight. They were easily a cup size larger, the nipples a deeper pink, pebbled and sensitive against her cool fingers. Her hands slid down her sides, over the subtle, definite flare of her hips. The bones felt the same, but the flesh was richer, the curve from waist to thigh more pronounced. It was as if her silhouette had been redrawn by a bolder, more sensual hand.
“Christ,” she whispered, the word swallowed by the humid air.
It wasn’t grotesque. It was lush. A ripe, physical audacity that made her skin hum with a new kind of awareness. The hot water had soothed the internal ache into a persistent throb, a hollow echo that seemed to originate from the very center of her new shape. She was hungry in a way food could never touch.
She toweled off slowly, the rough cotton catching on every new curve. The soft, worn fabric of her robe felt different, straining across her chest, hanging differently from her shoulders. She tied the belt and padded, barefoot, into the bedroom.
The Hummingbird was on the nightstand.
It had grown. Not much, but enough. It was thicker, more formidable, its length a deliberate promise against the velvet pillowcase she’d absurdly laid it on. The subtle veins pulsed with a slow, amethyst light. The hum was a physical presence in the room, a bass note she felt in her teeth.
It was waiting.
The empty feeling between her legs clenched, a sharp, wet pulse of pure need.
“No,” she said aloud, her voice shaky. “Not yet. That’s enough.”
She turned away, fussing with the blinds, straightening a stack of books. She picked up her phone, stared at Mark’s text about terrible tea. A normal invitation. A lifeline. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
A deep, resonant throb emanated from the nightstand, vibrating through the wood. The hollow ache in her core answered, a slick, warm response that made her thighs press together. She bit her lip until she tasted copper.
“Fuck you,” she breathed, not sure if she was talking to the artifact or to herself.
She put the phone down. Her fingers went to the knot of her robe. She undid it slowly. The fabric fell open. The cool air kissed her naked skin, her heavy breasts, the thatch of copper curls below. She didn’t look at the mirror now. She looked at The Hummingbird.
It seemed to darken, the colors deepening to a bruise-like purple, the hum intensifying to a hungry whine.
She crawled onto the bed, the silk cool beneath her knees. She didn’t lay back. She knelt before it, as if at an altar. Her hand closed around it. It was warm, almost body-temperature, and it throbbed in her grip like a living thing. The new girth filled her hand completely.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice a raw thread.
It pulsed. The message was not in words, but in a wave of pure, desperate sensation that crashed up from her own cunt—a vivid, filthy fantasy of being filled, of being stretched to the brink, of being fucked hard and deep by something that knew every secret, shameful corner of her hunger.
She whimpered. Spit was inadequate. She lifted it, her own defiance a fleeting spark, and lowered her mouth. She licked the broad, plush tip, then took it past her lips. It wasn’t like sucking a cock; it was like worshipping a god. The taste was clean, like rain on stone, and the hum traveled into her jaw, her skull. She bobbed her head, taking as much of the impossible thickness as she could, saliva slicking her chin. She fucked her own face with it, her eyes closed, a low moan vibrating against it.
But it wasn’t enough. The real emptiness was lower, a yawning, desperate void.
She pulled her mouth off with a wet pop, gasping. She was dripping now, her own slickness coating her inner thighs. She didn’t bother with preamble. One hand braced on the nightstand, the other guided the blunt, huge head of The Hummingbird to her opening.
It felt different. Not just bigger, but knowing. The plush, spongy tip nudged her, then dipped, just slightly, into her soaked slit. A jolt, white-hot and brutal, shot through her. She cried out.
“Oh God… oh, you fucking thing…”
She pushed.
Her body, still sore from before, resisted for a heartbeat—a fierce, burning stretch that made her see stars. Then something gave, and the thick crown popped inside, seating itself with a terrible, perfect pressure. The stretch was monumental. She could feel every ridge, every vein, a detailed, exquisite invasion. She stayed there, impaled on just the tip, shaking, sweat beading between her breasts.
The Hummingbird didn’t wait. A deep, internal vibration began, not the surface buzz of before, but a rhythmic thrumming that seemed to massage her deepest walls, her G-spot, her cervix. It was a demanding, intelligent pulse. More.
“Okay,” she sobbed. “Okay, fuck, alright…”
She sank down.
It was a slow, devastating descent. Her cunt stretched and burned, accommodating the incredible girth, milking it with pulses of her own muscles. She felt fuller than she’d ever been in her life, stuffed to the point of pain, but the pain was laced with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on violence. She took it all, until the base, now wider and shaped like a shallow knot, pressed firmly against her swollen outer lips.
She was full. Devastatingly, completely full.
The Hummingbird began to move.
Not just vibrate. It fucking moved. A slow, deliberate withdrawal, dragging every exquisite ridge against her clutching inner walls, then a relentless, pushing thrust back home. It set a rhythm, deep and punishing. It was fucking her. She was just the vessel.
“Yes!” The word was torn from her. She collapsed onto her elbows, her ass in the air, taking it. Each thrust rocked her entire body. The slap of the base against her flesh was a wet, obscene counter-rhythm. The sound filled the room—her ragged screams, the slick, frantic sounds of penetration, the low, omnipotent hum.
It picked up speed. The thrusts became harder, faster. It was destroying her, rewriting her. The pressure built, a coil tightening in her belly, in her clit, everywhere. It wasn’t a single point of pleasure; it was a whole-body annihilation.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come, you fucking monster, I’m gonna—”
The orgasm hit like a seismic event. It wasn’t a wave; it was a structural collapse. Her vision whited out. Her cunt clamped down in violent, rhythmic spasms around the immense intruder, milking it, trying to fuse with it. Electricity shot down her legs, up her spine. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that held no words, only pure, animal release.
The Hummingbird rode her through it, thrusting through the violent contractions, prolonging the agony and the ecstasy until she was sobbing, oversensitive, shattered.
Only then did it still. The hum softened to a purr. It slowly, tenderly, withdrew from her ravaged, trembling body.
She collapsed onto her side, a boneless heap. She was gaping open, wetness pouring out of her onto the silk. She felt ruined. Reborn.
On the nightstand, her phone lit up. A call. Mark.
She stared at the vibrating screen, at the friendly, normal name. The contrast was so vast it was laughable. Her body hummed with the aftershocks of a supernatural fucking. Her cunt felt used and glorious.
With a trembling, slick hand, she answered.
“Hello?” Her voice was hoarse, wrecked.
“Ellie? Hey, it’s Mark. You sound… are you alright?”
She looked at The Hummingbird, glistening and quiet beside her. A slow, secret smile touched her ruined lips.
“Yeah,” she breathed, her eyes closing. “I’m… really good, actually.”