Chapter 7: The Morning After Shame
Consciousness returned as a slow, sick tide. Jack became aware of the mattress first, its silken give beneath him. Then the ache—a deep, muscular soreness that wrapped his ribs and throbbed in his hips. He opened his eyes to the dim, cavernous bedroom. The carved spirals on the headboard seemed to swim in the low light of a single candle.
He was himself. His own body: lean, flat-chested, the familiar weight of his cock against his thigh. Relief, swift and dizzying, washed through him. It had been a nightmare. A terrible, extended—
He moved his arm and the silk sheet slipped. Purple bruises bloomed on his bicep, the clear imprint of fingers. On his pectoral, a ring of bite marks, already darkening. The memories didn’t return as narrative, but as shattered sensory flashes: the cold marble against his knees, the stretch, the screaming fullness, the sound of his own voice begging in a high, alien pitch.
“Good morning, hero.”
His head snapped to the side. Selena was already awake, propped on one elbow beside him, the black sheet pooled around her waist. Her violet eyes were clear, awake, predatory. Between her fingers, the silver chain of the locket swung slowly, a hypnotic pendulum.
“You slept like the dead. Or the thoroughly used.” Her smile was a slash of red in the gloom. “Ready for round two?”
Panic, pure and electric, galvanized him. He scrambled back, his body protesting with every sore muscle, and tumbled off the far side of the bed. He hit the thick rug with a thud, his back to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the sleeping city. He was up in a crouch, a fighter’s stance, every instinct screaming run.
She didn’t rise. She simply watched him, the smile lingering. Her other hand came up, fingers closing around the locket itself. The click of the clasp opening was deafening in the quiet room.
“Let’s skip the foreplay,” she purred, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to slither across the space between them. “Bimbo time.”
The command hit him like a live wire to the spine. His body seized, back arching painfully off the rug. A guttural cry was torn from his throat—a man’s cry—but it choked off midway, strangled by the wave of transformation.
It was faster this time. More efficient. His body knew the template now.
The soreness in his muscles melted into a pervasive softness. The definition in his arms smoothed away, the flesh becoming plush, yielding. His pectorals shuddered, the tissue swelling outwards, pushing up into heavy, rounded weights that settled on his chest with a familiar, sensitive ache. His nipples puckered into wide, rosy circles, pebbling instantly in the cool air.
His waist cinched inward, a violent rearrangement of ribs and flesh, while his hips flared, bone and fat redistributing to create a drastic, cartoonish curve. The ache in his groin was the worst—a searing, internal wrenching. He looked down, watching in helpless horror as his cock, half-hard from adrenaline, twitched and then began to shrink, retreating back into his body. The skin folded, sealed, and then parted again, leaving behind a slick, pink fold, already glistening with a betraying wetness.
His face was last. The stubborn line of his jaw dissolved into softness. His features blurred and re-knit into the heart-shaped, vacant prettiness of Lustra. Platinum blonde hair cascaded over his—her—shoulders.
The world shifted focus, going soft at the edges. Deep thought felt like trying to hold water in a sieve.
“Please, no,” she groaned, but the voice was all wrong—a breathy, high-pitched whine.
Selena finally moved, sliding off the bed with panther-like grace. She hadn’t dressed. The black harness was still buckled around her hips, the dark silicone cock jutting proudly. She crossed the room, her shadow falling over Lustra’s crumpled, transformed form.
“Up,” she commanded, nudging Lustra’s thigh with a bare foot. “On the bed. On your back.”
Lustra’s body complied before her mind could form a protest. She clambered onto the high mattress, the heavy sway of her new breasts a disorienting sensation. She lay back, sinking into the silk, her wide blue eyes staring at the ceiling shadows.
Selena climbed over her, a knee on either side of Lustra’s spread thighs. She didn’t kneel. She loomed. One hand braced on the headboard beside Lustra’s head, the other positioned the blunt, slick head of the strap-on at Lustra’s entrance.
“You remember this, don’t you?” Selena whispered, her violet eyes locking onto Lustra’s glazed blues.
A flash: marble, pain, ecstasy. “Y-yes, Mistress.”
“You remember how much you needed it. How empty you felt without it.”
Lustra nodded, a needy sound catching in her throat. The heat between her legs was an insistent, pulsing void.
Selena didn’t push. She applied pressure. “What are you?”
“I’m… I’m Lustra.”
“And what are you for?”
“For… for you to fuck,” Lustra gasped, the crude words sparking a fresh gush of wetness.
“Exactly.”
With a single, relentless thrust of her hips, Selena sheathed herself to the hilt.
Lustra’s back bowed off the bed, a shrill scream tearing from her throat. It was too much, too fast—a brutal invasion that ignited every raw nerve. The stretch was burning, breathtaking. Then, the burning melted, transmuting into a deep, coring fullness that started a throbbing pulse right in her core.
Selena set a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust a deliberate, powerful piston-stroke that drove Lustra up the bed. The headboard tapped a sporadic rhythm against the wall. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of flesh, the squelch of penetration, Lustra’s ragged, high-pitched pleas.
“Yes!Ah! Fuck! Right there!”
“You take it so well,” Selena grunted, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow. “Like this stupid cunt was made for it. Maybe it was.”
Lustra’s hands flew to her own breasts, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching the nipples. The pain-pleasure feedback loop sent sparks behind her eyes. Her mind was a radio tuned to static, blaring only sensation. She was a vessel being filled, a toy being used, and the simplicity of it was a relief so profound it felt like sanity.
“Gonna cum, Mistress! This dumb bitch is gonna cum!” she babbled.
“Do it,” Selena commanded, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, aimed with precision. “Cum on my strap. Show me what a slut you are.”
The orgasm ripped through Lustra with catastrophic force. It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. Her whole body locked, her back arched in a taut curve, and a raw, guttural scream was torn from her as her cunt clamped and fluttered around the invading length. Her vision whited out, pleasure short-circuiting every last coherent synapse.
Selena fucked her through it, through the violent spasms, never slowing. Lustra’s screams dissolved into sobs, then into mindless, hungry moans as a second peak, sharper than the first, began to build almost immediately.
In the electric haze of overstimulation, for a fraction of a second, a clear thought flashed: Jack. My name is Jack. It was a lighthouse beam in a hurricane. It brought with it a wave of crushing despair, of loss so profound it felt like dying.
Then Selena leaned down, her lips brushing Lustra’s ear, her words cutting through the static. “You belong to me. Nothing else exists.”
The thought of Jack shattered. The despair was swallowed by the next crashing wave of physical ecstasy. Lustra’s hands fell from her breasts to claw at the silk sheets, her body convulsing under Selena’s relentless pace. She was cumming again, her mind emptying itself completely, leaving only the perfect, blessed void of obedience and sensation. The last recognizable piece of Jack Harrison dissolved, not with a scream, but with a breathy, satisfied sigh lost in the wet, rhythmic noise of her own use.