Chapter 9: The Claiming
The walk home was a slow, careful negotiation. Every sidewalk crack threatened to upend her. The memory of Mark’s searching look, the way his eyes had dipped to her strained blouse, pulsed in time with the low, persistent hum still radiating from her core. The Hummingbird had settled, but it was present, a warm, heavy weight that shifted inside her with each step, a constant reminder of what she’d done in the sterile library bathroom.
Her own body felt foreign. The new, tender weight in her bra chafed against the cotton. Her slacks, once comfortably loose, now felt tight across the hips and thighs, the fabric whispering against sensitized skin. She felt expanded, fuller, as if the artifact’s influence had stretched her very shape.
Her apartment door clicked shut, a sound of profound relief. She dropped her bag, toeing off her sensible shoes. The quiet of the empty rooms was a balm. She needed it out. Now. The pleasure in the stall had been cataclysmic, but the aftermath felt like possession.
In her bedroom, the late afternoon light bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled silk of her unmade bed. The smell of her lavender laundry detergent clung to the sheets, but beneath it was something else, a metallic, ozone tang that seemed to follow The Hummingbird.
She didn’t bother with the lamp. She lay back on the cool sheets, the silk whispering under her. Her fingers trembled as she unfastened her slacks, pushed them and her underwear down. The air against her damp skin raised goosebumps. She took a deep, steadying breath, fingers finding the intricate, vibrant base of the artifact where it met her body. It was warm, almost hot to the touch, and it pulsed faintly, a slow, internal heartbeat.
“Okay,” she whispered to the empty room, to herself, to it. “Time to go.”
She wrapped her fingers around the base, expecting the usual, slightly resistant slide.
It didn’t budge.
She tightened her grip, wiggled gently. Nothing. A cold trickle of fear cut through the post-orgasmic haze. She pulled, a firm, steady pressure.
Instead of sliding free, The Hummingbird seemed to tighten. A sudden, powerful suction gripped her from the inside, locking it in place. The sensation was unmistakable and terrifying—a deep, internal clamp that made her gasp. The low hum spiraled into a sharper vibration, not of pleasure, but of warning, or possession.
“No,” she breathed, panic flaring. She braced one foot against the headboard, the carved wood digging into her heel. She pulled again, muscles in her arm and abdomen corded with strain. A sharp, stretching pain lanced through her. The artifact wasn’t just stuck; it was holding on, its internal ridges flaring wide as anchors.
Sweat beaded on her temple. This was absurd. This was impossible. A sob of frustration and fear caught in her throat. She pulled until her shoulder burned, her breath coming in ragged pants. The suction held, a relentless, intimate vacuum.
“Let go,” she growled through clenched teeth, yanking with a savage, desperate strength she didn’t know she had.
There was a sickening, wet, internal pop.
The suction broke.
The release was so sudden she cried out, sprawling back onto the bed as the artifact, now slick and glistening, came free in her hand. The feeling of emptiness was immediate and profound, a hollow, aching echo of the fullness that had been there moments before. She felt sore, stretched, used.
She lay there, panting, the cool air a shock against her overheated skin. After a moment, she forced herself to look.
The Hummingbird in her hand was… different. It was no longer just the vibrant, carved artifact she’d found in the library. It was longer, thicker, its contours more defined, more blatantly, classically phallic. The intricate, abstract patterns seemed to have smoothed and reshaped into something more reminiscent of veins and subtle, tantalizing ridges. It was still warm, pulsing with a slow, latent energy in her palm. As she watched, the very tip seemed to soften, the material becoming plush and ruddy, the rest of it firming into a more substantial, imposing shape. It had molded itself, she realized. It had taken the shape of the exact, maximum stretch she had just endured, and then refined it.
It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.
A shudder ran through her, part revulsion, part awe. She set it carefully on the nightstand, where it lay glistening in the dim light, a monument to her own hidden capacity. The aching emptiness inside her began to morph into a different kind of throb, a lonely, physical yearning that echoed the hollow feeling.
Her phone buzzed on the floor, tumbling from her discarded cardigan. She leaned over, wincing at the pull in her abdomen, and fished it out.
A text from Mark. Just checking in. Sushi gone rogue?
She stared at the message, at the little glowing screen. Her body felt like a crime scene. Her bedroom smelled of sex and static. And here was Mark, with his kind eyes and quiet bookstore and normal, human concern.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She typed, deleted, typed again.
All good, she finally sent. Just needed to lie down. Thanks, Mark.
She didn’t add that she was lying down naked, aching, staring at a self-shaping idol of her own pleasure that had just vacuum-locked itself inside her. She didn’t say that her body had changed, that her breasts still felt heavy and unfamiliar in their new proportion. She didn’t say she was more scared, and more alive, than she’d ever been.
Another buzz. Okay. Well, my offer for a calming cup of terrible tea at the shop still stands. Anytime.
She placed the phone face down on her chest, over her pounding heart. She looked from the dark screen to the artifact on the nightstand. It seemed to drink the faint light in the room. The hollow ache within her deepened, a quiet, physical plea.
Her fingers, of their own volition, trailed down her stomach, through the damp thatch of curls, and dipped into the sore, open emptiness. A sharp gasp caught in the quiet room. The tenderness was a bright, hot point, but beneath it, as her own touch circled the stretched, sensitive flesh, a new current sparked. A treacherous, hungry little flicker.
Her eyes drifted back to The Hummingbird. It hummed, soft and low, a siren song only she could hear.