Chapter 48: Recovery
The water beat down, scalding her shoulders, sluicing the dried milk and sweat and other fluids from her skin in greyish rivulets. Steam clouded the glass doors, turning the bathroom into a vague, warm cocoon. Ellie braced her hands against the tiles, head bowed, letting the heat pummel the ache from her muscles.
It felt like a dream. A filthy, extraordinary dream.
She lifted her head, wiped a clearing in the foggy glass with her palm. Her reflection was a ghost in the steam, but the changes were solid, undeniable. Her breasts, once modest, now hung full and heavy, the nipples dark and puffy, sensitive even to the spray. She cupped one, her fingers unable to encompass it. The weight was foreign. Arousing.
Her gaze traveled down.
The cock, her cock, hung thick and semi-flaccid against her thigh. Ten inches of pale, veined flesh. It had retracted from its monstrous, fourteen-inch peak, but it was still an impossibility. Below it, resting heavily in the crease of her thigh, was the new, profound weight of her testicles. They were the size of plums, a tender, hairless sac that felt both incredibly vulnerable and powerfully potent.
Evidence, she thought. Not a dream. Cassandra’s screams, the taste of milk, the feeling of bottomless depth giving way around her—all of it was real. The Hummingbird, currently a silent, carved lump on the sink, had made it real.
A slow, curious heat began to uncoil in her gut, separate from the shower’s warmth. It was a magnetic pull, centered on the alien weight between her legs. The memory of power, of filling Cassandra, of those heavy balls slapping skin… it wasn’t a memory. It was a live wire.
Her hand, of its own volition, slipped down from her breast. Her fingers traced the length of her cock. The skin was silken, hypersensitive. At her touch, it twitched, beginning to swell, to thicken and rise. It was so fucking responsive. A shiver, equal parts terror and want, raced up her spine.
She wrapped her hand around the base. It was already half-hard, filling her grip with solid, promising heat. She began to stroke, a slow, experimental slide. Precum, clear and slick, beaded instantly at the slit, mixing with the shower water.
Her other hand found her breast again, fingers pinching and rolling the swollen nipple. The dual sensation was electric. A sharp, sweet pain in her nipple shot directly to her cock, making it jump in her hand. She gasped, her stroke becoming firmer, faster.
This was different. Masturbation before had been a clitoris, small and focused. This was an event. This was fistfuls of flesh, a heft that demanded a brutal rhythm. She turned, bracing her back against the cool tiles, her legs parting. The water cascaded over her shoulders, between her breasts, down over her pumping fist.
She imagined it was Cassandra’s cunt. Not the gentle fantasy of before, but the ruined, milk-slicked reality of it. The memory of that impossibly tight, grasping heat. The look on Cassandra’s face when she’d felt the new balls form.
“Fuck,” Ellie whispered into the steam, her voice ragged.
Her hips began to thrust into her own grip, a shallow, hungry piston. The head of her cock, now fully engorged and purple, emerged from her fist with each upward stroke, bumping against her lower belly. The pleasure wasn’t just in her cock; it radiated from the deep, tender ache in her balls. They drew up tight, a heavy, clenching anticipation.
She slid her hand from her breast down over her stomach, through the wet thatch of auburn hair, to the place beneath her cock. Her original opening, now a relaxed, gaping circle from so much use, felt empty. Ignored. But the new, profound sensitivity was all in the shaft, in the sac.
She focused there. Her thumb rubbed over the frenulum, a spot of lightning. Her strokes became punishing, her fist a tight, wet tunnel. The slap of skin was loud in the tiled room, echoing over the drumming water. Her breath came in sharp, open-mouthed pants, fogging the air.
“Gonna come,” she grunted, the words animal, unfamiliar in her own mouth. “Gonna fucking blast it.”
The orgasm didn’t crest. It detonated.
It started in her balls—a deep, seismic clench, a sensation of terrible pressure seeking release. Then the first eruption tore from her. A thick, pearlescent rope of cum shot across the shower, slapping against the glass door with a sound like wet paint. Her body jerked with the force of it.
The second jet followed, then a third. She kept stroking, milking herself, watching in stunned fascination as her own seed, in quantities she’d never imagined, painted streaks across the steamy glass. It was a torrent. It splattered the tiles, swirled in the water at her feet. Her balls clenched and unclenched, pumping, until the final, weak dribble seeped from her still-hard cock.
She slumped against the wall, spent, shuddering. Her cock remained rigid, throbbing in her slack hand, utterly unsatisfied. The heat in her gut still simmered.
The evidence was on the wall. In the heavy, persistent erection. In the tender weight between her legs.
A loud, impatient knocking shattered the steam-heavy silence. It wasn’t the gentle tap of a neighbor. It was a firm, authoritative bang-bang-bang on her apartment’s front door.
Ellie froze. Her heart, which had been hammering from orgasm, seized with a new, cold rhythm. The water suddenly felt too loud. She fumbled, turning it off.
Dripping, she listened. Another series of knocks. Sharper.
“Ellie? It’s Cassandra.”
Her eyes darted to the fogged, cum-streaked glass of the shower, to her own massive, dripping reflection. To the where The Hummingbird lay quiet.
How did she even know where I live?
But the knocking came again. “Ellie, I know you’re in there. I can hear the water.”
The demand in his voice sent a strange, new current through her—not fear, but a cool, assessing defiance. She looked down at the weapon between her legs, still hard, still demanding. She looked at the mess she’d made, the proof of a power he could never comprehend.
A slow, unfamiliar smile touched her lips. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Just a minute!” she called out, her voice miraculously steady.
She reached for a towel, her movements deliberate, no longer frantic. The game had changed. The world on the other side of the door was the dream now. This, the water, the weight, the relentless hunger—this was her reality.
This, the water, the weight, the relentless hunger—this was her reality. The pounding on the door was just an interruption.
She wrapped the towel around her body, tucking the end between her breasts. It was laughable. The terrycloth strained across her swollen breasts, the deep valley between them exposed. The lower hem hit mid-thigh, doing nothing to conceal the thick outline of her still-hard cock. It pushed against the fabric, creating a blatant, damp tent.
She stepped from the shower onto the bath mat, leaving wet footprints. The mirror was mostly fogged, but she wiped a broad swath clear with her forearm. The woman who looked back was a stranger, and yet, profoundly familiar. Her auburn hair was dark and wet, clinging to her neck and shoulders. Her face was flushed, her eyes holding a dark, knowing light that had never been there before. The towel was a pathetic flag of a conquered country, barely containing the bounty of her new territory. Her large, milk-heavy breasts swelled over the top, nipples peeking. And below, the clear, rigid line of her cock, poking out from beneath the hem, glistening with a last bead of water or cum.
Ellie smiled. It wasn’t the shy, hesitant smile of the librarian. It was a slow, spreading grin of pure possession. Her former self—the woman in cardigans who blushed at dirty jokes—was completely behind her. That woman was ashes. This creature of weight and hunger and leaking, fucking power was what remained. This is who she is now, unashamed, and a fucking sexpot.
Another knock rattled the door.
“I’m coming!” she called back, her voice laced with a mockery of patience she didn’t feel.
She didn’t retuck the towel. She didn’t try to adjust or hide. She walked from the bathroom into the short hallway, the air cool on her damp skin. With each step, her cock swung heavily, a pendulum of intent. At the apartment door, she paused. She took a deep breath, smelling her own scent, the shower steam, the lingering primal odor of sex and milk that seemed baked into her skin now.
Then she let the towel fall to the floor.
It pooled around her feet, a damp puddle of beige. She stood completely naked, water trickling down her spine, her large breasts hanging free, her cock jutting out, thick and ready. She reached out, flipped the deadbolt, and pulled the door open.