Chapter 13: The Impossible Stretch
The streetlamp’s sickly glow bled through the curtain weave, striping the floorboards, the rumpled bed, the thing in her hands. Ellie sat cross-legged in the center of the rug, naked. The air smelled of her, of copper, of the static that lifted the fine hairs on her arms.
The Hummingbird lay across her palms. It was cool now, inert-seeming, but she knew better. It was listening. Waiting for her will.
Her body was a map of its desires. The permanent part of her lips, the slick sheen, the prominent, throbbing bud of her clit—all its work. She traced the new, drastic curve of it, the weight substantial. Last night’s final size. A benchmark.
“More,” she whispered to the quiet room.
Nothing happened.
She closed her eyes, not asking, but commanding. She conjured the feeling of catastrophic fullness, the white-ringed stretch, the breathless pressure against deep, internal walls. She fed that image into her palms, into the warm material against her skin.
A ripple.
She opened her eyes. The obsidian surface shimmered, not reflecting light, but emitting a dull, inner heat. A pulse traveled its length, a wave of muscular contraction. Then it began to swell.
It was a slow, inexorable inflation. The middle thickened first, bulging outward, the veins of crimson within glowing like hot wires. The girth in her hands expanded, pushing against her fingers, forcing them wider. It surpassed the width of her grip, then the width of a mug. The flared head distended, becoming obscenely broad, a polished mushroom cap of terrifying diameter.
“Yes,” she breathed, her own excitement a fresh trickle down her thigh. “Like that. More.”
It lengthened. An inch. Then two. It pushed past ten inches, eleven, the tip curving slightly upward. It was no longer a toy. It was an implement. A brutal, beautiful instrument of penetration.
Her cunt wept in sympathetic anticipation, clenching around the memory of last time. The space between her legs felt achingly vacant, a hungry mouth. Her altered anatomy seemed to pulse in time with the toy’s growth.
When it stopped, it was a monstrous thing. Nearly a foot long, thicker than her wrist, the head a wide, threatening dome. It felt alien in her hands, a density that seemed to warp gravity around it. The hum was back, a sub-audible vibration that resonated in her teeth.
She didn’t hesitate. This was the pact.
Shifting on the rug, she lay back, propping herself on her elbows. She spread her legs, presenting herself to it. The parted lips glistened, openly inviting. Her engorged clit stood rigid, impossibly sensitive. She guided the bulbous head to her entrance. The sheer scale of it was laughable, insane. Her body could not. It would tear.
It touched her.
A shock of electric recognition jolted through her. Her slickness coated the broad crown. She applied pressure, a testing push. The resistance was immediate, a wall of her own flesh refusing the impossible.
“Open,” she gritted out, pushing harder.
A burning ring of protest. A sharp, bright pain. She gasped, her knuckles white on the shaft. This was different. This was violation by choice. She was forcing herself onto it, demanding her body obey her new will, not its old limitations.
With a desperate, guttural moan, she rocked her hips forward, driving herself down.
The flared head began to breach her.
The stretch was beyond anything. It was a splitting, a ripping sensation that blurred the line between pleasure and damage. Her vision speckled with white dots. A high, thin sound escaped her, part scream, part song. The head popped past the tight ring of muscle with a wet, tearing crunch that was not a metaphor. She felt a hot trickle—blood or juice, she didn’t know—mingling with the flood of her arousal.
“Fuck! Oh, God, it’s in, it’s in, it’s fucking in!”
She was impaled on the crown alone, stretched wider than she’d ever thought possible. The burning ache was monumental. She panted, drooling onto her chest, her body shuddering with the shock of it. The Hummingbird pulsed warmly in her grip, a comforting, encouraging throb.
“Now,” she slurred, her mind fraying at the edges. “Grow. Inside me. Do it.”
It obeyed.
The expansion was internal this time. A slow, relentless swelling inside her. The already impossible stretch intensified. Her cunt was a taut, screaming sheath around the growing mass. It filled her, pressed up into her, claimed spaces that had no name. The pressure on her cervix was a deep, uterine thumbprint. The ache in her clit was a secondary fire, radiating through her pelvis.
She was being remade in real time. Hollowed out and refilled.
“Bigger,” she choked out, her voice broken. “Make me take it all.”
The Hummingbird swelled further. The stretch became punitive, transformative. A sharp, burning pain laced the pleasure, the two inextricably fused. She felt her inner walls thin, accommodate, reshape. The toy was no longer inside her; it was defining the very space she contained. Her hips were jackknifed off the rug, her spine a desperate, painful arch. The sounds she made were guttural, devoid of language, pure animal response to an impossible stimulus.
When it finished growing, she was full in a way that bordered on dissolution. She was nothing but a vessel, a skin stretched around a core of humming, heated obsidian. Breath was a forgotten concept. She was a thing of gasps and tremors.
Slowly, it began to move. Not thrusts. It was too big for that. It was a subtle, grinding rotation, a slight piston motion of an inch back and forth. That small movement, within the cathedral space it had carved, was enough. It dragged over every nerve ending, massaged deep internal spots that sparked like live wires. The friction on her brutalized outer lips and tortured clit was a constant, devastating burn.
Her orgasm approached not as a wave, but as a total systemic collapse. It started in her toes, a tensing that swept up her legs, seized her belly, clenched around the invading monolith, and exploded behind her eyes as a silent, white void. There was no pleasure, only obliterating release. Her body bucked, helpless, milked the unyielding shaft in a series of weak, convulsive flutters.
It sucked at her again. That subtle, hungry drain. Drinking the aftershocks, the dregs of her sensation.
Drinking the aftershocks, the dregs of her sensation. A profound stillness settled over the room, broken only by Ellie’s ragged breathing and the low, contented hum of the thing inside her. She felt scooped out, hollowed, a blissed-out shell wrapped around a core of vibrating stone.
“Jesus fuck,” she slurred, the words tacky on her dry tongue.
She went limp, her hips sinking back to the rug, the monstrous weight of The Hummingbird still seated deep within her. It felt permanent. Her cunt ached with a deep, bruised fullness that was almost comfortable now, a testament to what she’d endured and conquered. She traced a trembling finger over her lower belly, half expecting to feel the outline of it through her skin.
A lazy, sated smile touched her lips. She’d done it. She’d taken it all.
Then it twitched.
Not a pulse. A distinct, internal spasm, like a muscle flexing. The smile died on her face. Her eyes, which had drifted shut, snapped open. “No,” she whispered. “No, that’s enough. You’re done.”
It ignored her. The growth this time was not a slow swelling. It was an aggressive, relentless push.
Inside the already overfilled channel, the girth expanded. A fresh, tearing burn lanced through her. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound. “Stop! It’s too much!” Her hands flew to the base where it met her flesh, as if she could physically hold it back.
It was like trying to contain a rising pipe. The thick shaft distended further, stretching her wider, pressing outward against the limits of her pelvis. The deep, uterine pressure became a sharp, cramping stab. Her mind, fogged with post-orgasmic haze, cleared into a blade-sharp panic. This was beyond her. This would break her.
“Please,” she sobbed, her nails digging into her own skin.
The Hummingbird hummed louder, a sound that vibrated up through her bones. The growth continued, a centimeter, then another, of brutal, additional circumference. The pain was a white-hot wire pulled tight through her core. She felt her inner tissues strain, thin, make a terrible, silent accommodation. A new, impossible tautness settled in, a feeling of being stuffed beyond all capacity.
And yet, her cunt, slick and torn, did not split. It adapted. It wept a mixture of her juices and a thin, clear lubricant she’d never produced before, easing the impossible stretch. The violent cramping melted into a deep, radiating fullness that touched something primal in her hindbrain.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, the protest morphing into something else.
As the toy thickened inside her, a corresponding heat blossomed at her apex. Her clit, already prominent and sensitive, began to throb in time with the internal expansion. It wasn’t just engorging; it was growing. She could feel it lengthening, thickening against her pubic bone, pushing out from its hood in a way that was both alien and fiercely, obscenely exciting.
She looked down, her breath catching.
The little bud was gone. In its place was a proper shaft, firm and eager, perhaps two inches long and as thick as her thumb. It stood rigid, a tiny, mirrored counterpart to the invasion splitting her open below. A fresh, shocking bolt of pleasure-pain shot from its tip directly to the root of the toy inside her.
“What is… what are you doing to me?” Her voice was a wrecked whisper.
The toy answered by growing longer.
A fresh, searing stretch tore through her, so violent Ellie’s vision flickered. “Fuck, fuck, stop!” she screamed, her hands slapping uselessly at the base buried in her weeping cunt. But it wasn’t stopping. It was advancing, an inexorable invasion deeper into her core, the already monstrous length pushing past where she thought her body ended.
She braced for the expected, brutal impact against her cervix, the hard nudge that would make her gasp. It never came. Instead, a strange, slippery pressure bloomed deep within her pelvis, a sensation of being opened somewhere new, somewhere wrong. The Hummingbird’s tip slid past the entrance to her womb with a sick, wet pop and kept going. “What… what is that?” she panted, her voice thin with terror and awe.
It was tunneling into a space she hadn’t known existed. A hot, tight pocket behind everything. The feeling was one of profound, internal rearranging, her organs shifting to accommodate this new, impossible length. The stretch was no longer just in her vagina; it was a deep, internal distension that made her feel swollen from the inside out. A low, continuous moan leaked from her lips. “How far… how deep are you?”
She had no idea. It had been a foot long before. Now? It felt endless. The humming intensified, vibrating through her newly discovered depths, a resonant frequency that made her bones feel loose. The pain, sharp and bright at first, was melting, dissolving under a tsunami of raw, neural pleasure. Her new cocklet throbbed in frantic sympathy, a bead of clear fluid welling at its tip.
“Oh god, it’s… it’s in my fucking guts,” she whimpered, the obscenity sounding holy in the charged air.
Her whole lower body was a taut, sensitive map of its presence. Every slight vibration traveled up the newly explored channel, buzzing against her sacrum, tickling her spine. She was fuller than she’d ever been, physically complete in a way that bordered on grotesque. Her stomach, when she looked down, was slightly rounded, taut with the volume of it.
The Hummingbird began a gentle, undulating pulse, a peristaltic massage deep in that secret pocket. It wasn’t thrusting. It was claiming. Occupying. Ellie’s hips rolled of their own volition, a weak, grinding motion against the rug, seeking more pressure, more of that deep, wrong friction. Her hand, trembling, found her new little shaft. She gasped at the contact, her fingers curling around its warm, solid weight.
She jerked herself off, her fist moving in a clumsy, frantic rhythm. It was so sensitive, every stroke sending electric jolts straight down into the root of the invasion. The dual stimulation—the deep, internal fullness and the external tug on her clit—coiled a spring in her belly. Tighter. Tighter.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come again,” she choked out, her words slurring. “You fucking thing… you’re gonna make me come from my fucking soul.”
The orgasm didn’t crash over her. It unfolded from that deep, invaded pocket. It was a hot, liquid expansion that flooded her pelvis, then her limbs, leaving her boneless and shaking. She cried out, a sound stripped of all language, as her cunt convulsed in helpless, milking spasms around the immense length. Her new shaft twitched in her fist, pulsing, a short, sharp burst of wetness joining the mess on her stomach.
For a long moment, there was only the hum and the sound of her ragged breath.
Then, it began to shrink.
It was a sudden, shocking deflation. The unbearable pressure in her deep pocket eased, then vanished. The immense girth within her canal diminished, slipping back, retreating from that secret place with a soft, internal slurp. She felt emptier by the second, a cavern being abandoned.
With a final, wet squelch, the entire thing plopped out of her ruined entrance and landed heavily on her thigh.
Ellie lay sprawled, gasping. She felt hollowed, used, gloriously fucked-out. She turned her head, looking at the thing beside her.
Her breath hitched. It was bigger. Significantly bigger. Thicker, longer, its surface shimmering with a fresh, slick coat of her fluids. It was larger now, lying on her leg, than it had been when she first pushed its impossible head inside her minutes ago. Her mind recoiled, trying to comprehend the physics, the anatomy. It had been even larger inside her.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, her voice wrecked.
She reached a trembling hand and touched it. It was warm. Alive. Satiated. It hummed softly, a contented purr. She looked down at her own body, at the slick, stretched mess between her legs, at the engorged clit still half-hard against her belly. A slow, dazed smile spread across her face.
Tomorrow was Saturday. No work.
She had all weekend to see what else it could do.