Chapter 5: Onbjectified
The Chamber did not ask for a shape this time. It asked for a function. The grey mist congealed around Lucia, not reshaping, but reducing. It was a distillation, a paring away of everything that was not purpose.
The question she’d carried in from the subway was simple: What is it to be a thing used?
Her consciousness didn’t fade. It compressed. It folded in on itself, becoming dense, singular, and incredibly alert. The world resolved not through eyes, but through a seamless, 360-degree tactile awareness. She was smooth. Heavy. Cold at first, then warming to the ambient temperature of the room. She had a flared base. A tapered, bulbous body. She was made of something that felt like polished obsidian, yet yielded ever so slightly to pressure.
She was a plug.
A sentient, perfectly formed butt plug, lying inert on the now-solid mercury floor of the chamber.
The door hissed open. Light—softer Lounge light—spilled in. Mira’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a simple, dark silk robe, belted at the waist. Her violet eyes scanned the empty chamber, then lowered to the object on the floor.
A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She didn’t seem surprised.
“Ambitious,” Mira murmured, her voice a low hum that Lucia felt through her very material. “Reductive. To be the instrument, not the hand that wields it. A day of profound simplicity.”
Mira stepped inside, the robe whispering against her legs. She knelt, her presence looming like a mountain range from Lucia’s limited perspective. Mira’s fingers, cool and deliberate, closed around her. Lucia felt the unique topography of Mira’s fingerprints, the firm pressure of her grip. It was the first touch, and it was absolute.
“Let’s see what the world feels like from the inside out,” Mira said, not to anyone, just stating an intention.
She stood, carrying Lucia to a plush chaise lounge in an alcove off the main Lounge. The air here smelled of her—sandalwood and vanilla and something unmistakably female. Mira undid the belt of her robe, letting it fall open. She didn’t remove it; she simply turned, bent over the back of the chaise, presenting herself.
From Lucia’s vantage point, suspended in Mira’s hand, the view was monumental. The pale, perfect hemispheres of Mira’s ass, the shadowed cleft between them, and at its base, the dark, furrowed pucker of her asshole, clenched tight.
Mira reached back with her other hand, spreading herself. Lucia felt a droplet of cool lubricant splash onto her tapered tip. Then, the alignment.
The pressure was instant, profound, and utterly encompassing. The smooth, resistant ring of Mira’s sphincter pressed against Lucia’s tip. Mira let out a soft, controlled breath, and pushed back.
Lucia’s world became a slow, inexorable invasion. The tight muscle stretched, gripping her widest point with a breathtaking, burning intensity. She was being swallowed. The sensation was not pain; for Lucia, it was a total, radial embrace, a claiming so intimate it bordered on metaphysical. She felt every microscopic ridge, every pulse of blood in the surrounding tissue, the impossible heat of Mira’s inner channel welcoming her deeper.
With a final, wet pop, she was seated fully. The flared base rested snug against the outer ring, a seal. Everything changed.
Lucia’s universe was now the interior of Mira’s rectum. It was dark, hot, and pulsingly alive. She was encased in soft, muscular velvet, a constant, kneading pressure that held her in a vise of living flesh. She could feel the deep, rhythmic throb of Mira’s heartbeat from within. She could sense the shift of internal organs, the faint gurgle of digestion far above—not as sound, but as vibration through the walls of her prison.
Mira stood up, pulled her robe closed, and re-tied the belt. Lucia felt the muscles in Mira’s abdomen contract, felt the subtle tug and release as she moved. She was inside. Truly, completely inside.
“Comfortable?” Mira asked, her voice now a deep, internal rumble that passed through flesh and crystal before reaching Lucia’s awareness.
Lucia tried to speak, but had no mouth. Instead, she directed a thought, a focused pulse of her consciousness. It’s… absolute.
Mira chuckled, the vibration a delicious tremor around Lucia. “Good. Now, we go about our day. I have meetings. You have… perspective.”
The day was a revelation in constraint. Lucia experienced the world as a series of internal pressures. The subtle clench as Mira sat in a leather chair across from a nervous, wealthy applicant. The deeper, involuntary squeeze when Mira grew annoyed with a client’s tedious demands. The slow, rhythmic pulses that Lucia eventually understood were Mira’s own hidden arousal, a secret they now shared completely.
Hours passed in a warm, dark tide. Then, a shift. A new tension. Lucia felt Mira’s heartbeat quicken. Heard, through the muffled filter of the body, the deep timbre of a man’s voice. Felt Mira’s posture change, the muscles in her lower back tightening.
They were in Mira’s private quarters. The ambiance was quieter. The air smelled of sex and anticipation.
“You’ve been patient,” the man’s voice said. Karn. Lucia recognized his psychic signature, a low, volcanic thrum.
“I’ve had company,” Mira replied, her voice a teasing slide.
Karn’s laugh was a soft gust. “Do I get to meet them?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Lucia felt Mira being guided backwards, onto a bed. Felt the weight of Karn settling over her. Then, the most bizarre and exhilarating sensation yet. Through the thin, muscular wall separating her dark cavity from the one adjacent, Lucia felt the blunt, fat head of Karn’s cock press against Mira’s vagina.
She felt it through Mira’s flesh.
The pressure was indirect but unmistakable—a massive presence seeking entry in the chamber next door. Mira was wet; Lucia could feel the slick heat radiating through the tissue. Then, the invasion.
Karn pushed inside.
From Lucia’s unique vantage, buried in Mira’s ass, it was like an earthquake. The slow, stretching fill of Mira’s cunt was a distant dilation that translated into a profound compression of Lucia’s own space. The walls of her rectum tightened, crammed suddenly closer as Mira’s vagina was utterly distended by the thick cock.
Oh, fuck, Lucia thought, the sensation overwhelming.
Karn began to fuck her. Slow, deep, measured strokes. Each time he withdrew, the pressure on Lucia lessened slightly. Each time he plunged back in to the hilt, Lucia was crushed deliciously in the resulting squeeze, the muscular walls hugging her obsidian form with desperate intensity.
She felt everything. The scrape of Karn’s pubic bone against Mira’s clit. The deep, guttural groans that vibrated through Mira’s core. The precise moment Mira’s inner muscles fluttered and clutched at the invading cock—a flutter Lucia felt as a sympathetic, rhythmic spasm around her own form.
Mira was being fucked, and Lucia was being fucked by the fuck.
The sounds were muffled but clear: the wet, slapping rhythm of skin on skin, Karn’s muttered obscenities, Mira’s sharp, bitten-off cries that she could no longer fully contain.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Karn grunted, his pace increasing. “Tighter than usual. Like you’re clenching down on me with everything you’ve got.”
“I am,” Mira gasped, and Lucia felt a conscious, powerful contraction around her, a squeeze meant for Lucia’s benefit. It was a secret conversation within the act. Do you feel that? the squeeze said. This is for you, too.
The double stimulation—the direct physical fuck and the secret, interior one—was driving Mira wild. Lucia could feel the build like a gathering storm. The tissues grew hotter, the muscles more frantic. Karn’s thrusts became punishing, brutal pistons.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he snarled. “Gonna pump your cunt full of come.”
That was it. The promise triggered the cascade. Mira’s orgasm ripped through her, and Lucia was at the epicenter. The violent, clamping pulses of Mira’s cunt around Karn’s cock were mirrored perfectly by convulsions in her ass, a brutal, milking series of contractions that threatened to compress Lucia into dust. She was pulverized by pleasure, a passive participant utterly owned by another’s climax.
She felt Karn’s own release, a hot, sudden flood that seemed to expand the space next to her, followed by the throbbing pulse of his cock as he emptied himself deep into Mira’s womb.
The tremors subsided. The weight lifted. Heavy breathing filled the room.
After a time, Mira rose and went to a bathroom. Lucia felt the cool air of the room, then the warmer, steamy air of the shower. Mira didn’t remove her. She simply stood under the spray, washing the sweat and sex from her outer skin.
Later, dressed in a fresh robe, Mira returned to the Transformation Chamber. She withdrew Lucia with the same deliberate care she’d used to insert her. The reverse journey—the slow, stretching exit, the final release into the cool air—was a rebirth.
Mira placed the obsidian plug on the floor of the chamber and stepped back. The mist rose.
Lucia expanded. Flesh and bone and nerve and hair reassembled, but the memory of compression, of being a tool, of feeling a world through a single, intense point of contact, was seared into her. She stood naked on the mercury floor, back in her raven-haired form, trembling.
Mira watched, her expression unreadable. “Perspective?”
Lucia met her eyes. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. “It’s not simplicity. It’s purity. To have your entire existence be a response to another’s need. To be… a condition of their pleasure.”
Mira nodded. “And now?”
Lucia looked down at her own hands, flexing her fingers. They felt clumsy, oversized, full of unnecessary potential. The chamber hummed, a question hanging in the ozone-thick air.
The hunger was back, but it had been inverted. She had been the object. Now, she craved not just to wield, but to contain. To be the space where things happened. The theatre, not the actor. The bed, not the lover.
She looked past Mira, into the shifting bioluminescence of the wall. The chamber was waiting. It had shown her how to be small, and hard, and single-purpose.
Now she wanted to be vast, and soft, and endless.
Without a word, she turned and walked back into the swirling grey mist. The door sealed shut behind her, cutting off the outside world once more. Inside, the mist curled around her, not asking for a shape or a function this time, but for a scale.
The mist pressed against her skin, not as a solvent but as an interrogator. It seeped into her pores, reading the memory of profound containment, the echo of being a polished stone buried in living velvet. It whispered a single word into the marrow of her bones: Vastness.
But Lucia’s will, hardened by reduction, pushed back. Not vastness. Proximity. Intimacy turned inside out. She didn’t want to be a room. She wanted to be the lock and the key, simultaneously. The means of entry and the entry itself.
She focused on her face, on the memory of her long, violating tongue, on the human mouth’s crude limitations. The mist coiled in agreement.
It started at her lips. A tingling, then a deep, subcutaneous warmth. The flesh there softened, losing its distinct border. The tingling became a low burn, a reorganization of cells that felt less like transformation and more like a careful, biological unraveling. Her lips thickened, swelling with a rush of blood and new neural pathways, parting from the center not horizontally, but vertically.
The seam split smoothly, painlessly. It lengthened, an inch, then two, tracing down from what was once the center of her Cupid’s bow. The inner tissue of her mouth, her palate, her gums, all dissolved and reconfigured themselves with a wet, internal sound. Cartilage shaped itself. Nerve endings clustered, dense and expectant.
Where her mouth had been, a perfect vulva now bloomed on the lower half of her face.
Full, pouting labia majora, the same pale shade as her skin, framed a deeper, pinker slit. Within, the inner labia glistened, delicate and intricate. At the apex, where her philtrum had been, a small, erect clitoris nestled. Her throat had become a vaginal canal, deep and ready, ending in a nascent cervix.
She raised her hands, fingers trembling, and touched it. The sensation was electric and bizarrely direct. It was her face, but the nerves reported not the blunt pressure of a cheek, but the exquisite, specific sensitivity of a cunt. She probed the opening, and her finger slipped into the warm, tight channel of her own throat. A low moan vibrated up from her chest, the sound emerging oddly, filtered through her nasal passages.
She understood. She stepped towards the chamber door.
It opened. The Lounge light fell upon her new visage. Mira was there, leaning against a quartz column, as if waiting. Her violet eyes tracked down from Lucia’s eyes, past her nose, to the new anatomy below it. A slow blink. A minute tilt of the head. No shock, only deep, appraising comprehension.
“Well,” Mira breathed, a smile playing on her own, still-conventional lips. “That’s a direct statement.”
Lucia tried to speak, but without a mouth, only a wet, breathy sigh came out, the air whistling slightly through her new folds.
Mira pushed off the column. “Give me a moment. Don’t move.” She turned and walked briskly, not toward another part of the Lounge, but directly into the shimmering wall beside Lucia’s own chamber. It accepted her, and she vanished.
The wait was seconds, maybe a minute. The wall shimmered again, and Mira stepped back out.
She had removed her robe. Her body was unchanged from the waist up, from the waist down. But between her legs, where her own sex had been, now jutted a massive, formidable cock.
It was thick, shockingly so, a column of flushed flesh that curved slightly upward. The veins stood in bold relief, pumping. The head was a broad, smooth dome, already weeping a clear bead of fluid. It was a perfect, brutal counterpart to Lucia’s new vulnerability.
Mira stroked it once, a casual, proprietary gesture. “You wanted proximity,” she said, her voice unchanged. “Symbiosis. Let’s see how close we can get.”
She walked forward until she stood directly before Lucia. The head of her cock hovered inches from the vertical slit on Lucia’s face. The smell of them mixed—Mira’s clean musk, Lucia’s new, coppery-sweet arousal.
“You’ll have to do the work,” Mira said, her hands coming to rest on Lucia’s shoulders. “It’s your mouth.”
Lucia’s hands came up to grip Mira’s hips. She leaned forward, aligning her face. The feeling was surreal, obscene, thrilling. She guided the broad, slick crown to her new labia. The contact was a bolt of pure sensation, zipping from her face directly to her core. She gasped, the sound nasal and strained.
She pushed her face forward.
The head of Mira’s cock parted her new folds, spreading them wide. The pressure was immense, a stretching fullness that consumed her entire perceptual field. There was no tongue now, just this blunt, magnificent invasion of a cavity that had, moments ago, been her throat. She took it deeper, feeling the ridge of the corona catch and then pop past her inner muscles.
“Fuck,” Mira hissed, her fingers tightening on Lucia’s shoulders. “Oh, that’s… tight. It’s like a real cunt. A perfect, tight, face cunt.”
Lucia pushed until her nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base of Mira’s cock. She was fully impaled. She was giving a blow job with a pussy. The thickness filled her utterly, a solid, stretching presence that she felt in her sinuses, behind her eyes. She began to move.
Pulling her face back, she slid until just the tip remained lodged inside, then plunged forward again. The rhythm was awkward, whole-bodied, deeply primal. Each forward thrust mashed her nose and cheeks against Mira’s pelvis. Each withdrawal made her new lips cling wetly to the shaft.
“Yeah, like that,” Mira groaned, her hips starting to meet the motions. “Use that pretty face. Fuck yourself on it.”
The wet, slapping sounds were filthy and intimate. Lucia’s world narrowed to the slide of flesh in flesh, the pounding of her own heart in her ears, the musky scent filling her nostrils. She could taste Mira’s pre-come, a salty, clean flavor seeping onto the receptors in her transformed canal. She could feel every pulse, every throb of the massive cock stretching the passage that was her throat.
It was the inverse of the subway, of the stranger’s ass. She was the vessel again, but actively. She was fucking herself onto the instrument, her entire head a sex organ. The duality was maddening, glorious. She was giving head and getting fucked in the face, all in one impossible, slick action.
Mira’s control broke. She took over, her hands cupping the back of Lucia’s head, not gently. She began to fuck Lucia’s face-pussy in earnest, short, deep, punishing drives.
“Take it, you fucking wonder,” Mira grunted, her breath coming in sharp bursts. “Your whole head is just a hole for my cock. That’s all you are right now. A beautiful, filthy hole.”
The degradation was electric. Lucia’s body, her real cunt between her legs, was dripping, aching, empty. All her pleasure was concentrated in her face, in the brutal, perfect friction Mira was pistoning into it. She felt the build, not in her groin, but in her jaw, her cheeks, a climax approaching from a place that had never known one.
Mira’s pace became erratic, frantic. “Gonna come. Gonna fill that throat-cunt. You want that? You want me to pump your pretty face full of come?”
Lucia could only manage a guttural, nasal hum, a vibration that travelled down the cock in her mouth. It was answer enough.
With a choked shout, Mira slammed in to the hilt and held. Lucia felt the hot, sudden eruption deep inside the channel of her face. Jet after jet of come spurted against her nascent cervix, flooding the transformed space, a warm, thick torrent that had nowhere to go but down. She swallowed instinctively, gulping at it, the taste flooding her senses.
Mira shuddered through the final pulses, then slowly pulled out. The cock, slick and spent, slipped free with a wet, obscene noise.
Lucia slumped back on her heels, breathing hard through her nose. Mira’s release was a warm pool inside her head, a bizarre, internal fullness. She raised a hand to her face, her fingers touching the sensitive, well-used lips. They were swollen, thoroughly fucked.
Mira looked down at her, a sheen of sweat on her skin. She softened, the massive cock beginning to retract, flesh flowing and reshaping back to its original state between her legs.
“Proximity,” Mira said, the word a soft exhalation.
Lucia, her face a satisfied, dripping mess, could only nod. The hunger, for now, was silent. It had been fed in a way so peculiar, so complete, that it had forgotten how to speak.