Chapter 3: Desperate Need and Primal Feeding
The silence in the wake of the orgasm was absolute, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Tracy felt boneless, a puppet with cut strings, draped over Dwayne’s smaller, shuddering form. The violent pleasure was receding, leaving a hollow, buzzing quiet in its place.
Dwayne’s mouth had gone slack against her, his cheek wet with her milk and her sweat. A low, desperate whimper escaped him, the sound of a man who’d just been dismantled. The damp patch on the front of his jeans was large, warm against her thigh. He hadn’t even touched himself.
Tracy pushed herself up, her arms trembling. She looked down at him. His eyes were closed, his face pale beneath his scruff. He looked wrecked, used. A fresh, cold shame wormed its way through her post-coital haze.
“Dwayne.”
He didn’t open his eyes. His breath hitched.
She rolled off the couch, her legs unsteady. Her breasts, heavy and spent, hung low, droplets still beading at the tips. She stumbled to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and braced herself against the sink. Her reflection was a shock. Her lips were swollen. Her dreads were a wild mane. A faint, purplish bloom of a bruise was forming on her neck. And her eyes… they held a feral gleam that looked nothing like her. Her brow ridge, more pronounced now, cast deeper shadows.
She heard a thump from the living room. She rushed back out.
Dwayne was on his feet, swaying, trying to tuck his shirt back in with clumsy fingers. He wouldn’t look at her.
“Talk to me,” she said, her voice raspy.
“What is there to say?” His words were thick. “You fucked my face and I came in my pants like a teenager because you… because your milk…” He finally looked up, his expression a shattered mosaic of confusion and awe. “It’s like it rewires my brain. It goes down my throat and everything just… whites out. It’s not even pleasure. It’s surrender.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” He cut her off, waving a hand. “I know you didn’t. That’s the fucked up part. You’re not doing it on purpose. It’s just what you are now. A drug with a pulse.” He ran a hand over his face, then examined his palm, his fingers. “And I’m shrinking. I can feel it. A lightness in my bones. My joints feel… loose.”
The clinical part of her mind, the practical Whale-Mart stocker, latched onto the data. “A transfer of mass. Or energy. A conservation principle.” She uttered the words, but they felt absurd.
“Great. So you’re turning into a goddess and I’m your fucking fuel pellet.” He let out a shaky laugh, devoid of humor. “What happens when I run out? Do I just vanish?”
The question hung in the stale air. Tracy had no answer.
The itch under her skin returned, not as desire this time, but as a raw, neurological static. Her muscles twitched. She felt too big for the room again, a pressure building in her long bones. She clenched her fists, her new knuckles pronounced and strong.
“I can’t stand still,” she growled, more to herself than to him. She began to pace, a caged predator. Each step was longer, more fluid. Her head nearly brushed the ceiling fan. “It’s buzzing. Everywhere. Like my nerves are being stripped and re-soldered.”
Dwayne watched her, the fear in his eyes mingling with a dawning, terrible fascination. “What does it want you to do?”
“Move. Test. Push.” On her third pass by the heavy oak coffee table, the static flared into a command. Without breaking stride, she kicked it.
It wasn’t a shuffle. It was a violent, lateral thrust of her leg, piston-fast.
The solid wood table, laden with remote controls and old magazines, shot across the room as if made of balsa. It smashed into the opposite wall with a thunderous crack, one leg snapping off, sending debris skittering across the floor.
Silence. Dust motes danced in the slats of light from the blinds.
Tracy stood breathing heavily, looking at the wreckage. No strain. No pull in her hip. Just effortless, terrifying power. The buzzing in her bones subsided, replaced by a smug, deep hum of satisfaction.
“Holy shit,” Dwayne whispered.
The sound of his voice, the shock in it, snapped something. The static returned, redirected, coalescing into a sharp, targeting impulse. It wasn’t about an object. It was about him. The program wanted to test this new strength on something. On someone.
Her gaze locked onto him. He saw the shift, the predatory focus, and took a step back.
“Tracy.”
She crossed the room in two strides. The distance felt trivial. He raised his hands, a placating gesture, but she was already upon him. Her hands, so large now, circled his biceps. She didn’t squeeze. She just lifted.
He came off the floor, his feet dangling. He was a solid, muscular man, but in her grasp, he felt like a child. A gasp tore from his lips.
“Put me down. Tracy, stop.”
The buzzing sang a triumphant note. This was right. This was the test. To handle, to control. She held him there, at eye level, watching the shock and disbelief contort his features. His weight was nothing. She could toss him through her cheap drywall without effort.
A different heat kindled in her gut, watching his helplessness. The sexual frenzy was gone, burned away. This was colder, more possessive. A dominance that was cellular.
She needed him closer. To feel the contrast.
With one hand still gripping his arm, her other hand snaked into his hair. Her fingers tangled in the coarse curls. She pulled.
He cried out, a sharp, pained sound. “Fuck! That hurts!”
She pulled harder, not to hurt him, but to feel the resistance, to feel his life tethered to her grasp. His body stretched, his toes pointing toward the floor. She held him there, suspended between her grip on his arm and her fist in his hair, a human tension bridge. A low groan vibrated in his throat. His eyes were squeezed shut.
The angle opened him up to her. His neck, taut and vulnerable. The hard line of his jaw. The pulse hammering in his throat. The program approved. This was a position of utility. Of access.
The memory of the milk’s effect, the way it drained her pressure and unraveled him, flickered. It was a system that worked. A needed release.
Still holding him aloft, she dipped her head. She didn’t kiss him. She bypassed his mouth and latched onto the corded muscle of his neck, just above his collarbone. She sucked, hard, not a love bite, but a claiming. The skin grew hot and dark under her mouth. He shuddered, a full-body spasm.
She released his arm, trusting the anchor of his hair to keep him upright. Her now-free hand went to the button of his jeans. He was still half-hard from his earlier, untouched climax. She popped the button, yanked the zipper down, and shoved her hand inside. His cock was hot, silky, springing into her palm. He was fully hard again in seconds, a visceral response to the pain and the sheer, overwhelming physicality of her.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked out, his hands finding her shoulders, not to push her away, but to hold on.
She worked him with rough, efficient strokes, her grip tight. Her mouth still worked at his neck, leaving a brutal mark. This wasn’t foreplay. It was consumption. She was measuring his reactions, the way his hips jerked into her fist, the way his breath sobbed when she tightened her pull on his hair.
The pressure in her breasts had returned, a dull, familiar throb. The program connected the dots. Release the pressure. Assert dominance. Consolidate the change.
She let go of his cock, ignoring his groan of protest. Still holding him by the hair, she lowered him, not gently, until his mouth was level with her chest.
“Do it,” she commanded, her voice guttural.
He didn’t hesitate this time. He opened his mouth, took the dark, offered nipple inside, and suckled.
The relief was instant, profound. The sweet, heavy milk let down, flowing into him. She felt the transfer, not as a metaphor, but as a tangible current. A warmth leaving her, a slight, gravitational increase in his density in her grasp. His swallowing was frantic, greedy. His own hips began to jerk again, seeking friction in the empty air.
Tracy watched, a detached architect. She saw his knees go weak. She adjusted her pull on his hair to keep him upright. With her other hand, she reached back between his legs, cupped his balls, and squeezed, just enough to make him gasp around her nipple.
He came again, a hot, sudden rush against her jeans where she was still dressed. His body convulsed, his suckling turning desperate, almost angry, as the orgasm ripped through him. She held him through it, milk flowing, until he was spent, his mouth going slack, his whole body hanging from the fist in his hair.
She released him.
He dropped to his knees on the carpet, coughing, milk trickling from the corner of his mouth. He braced himself on his hands, head hanging, breathing in ragged gulps.
Tracy looked down at the top of his head. The difference was staggering. Before the quarry, he’d been taller. Now, kneeling, he was a dwarf before her. She felt colossal. Invincible. The buzzing was gone, replaced by a deep, granite calm. The program was satisfied. For now.
She turned and walked to the shattered coffee table. She righted it, snapped the broken leg off completely, and set the three-legged piece of furniture back in its approximate place. The action was effortless, mundane.
From the floor, Dwayne spoke, his voice a broken thing. “What are you becoming?”
Tracy stared at her hands, then out the window at the first grey hints of dawn. The reflection in the glass showed a towering, broad-shouldered silhouette, a crest of wild hair, the outline of a form that was no longer human, but was becoming something… else.
“I don’t know,” she said, and for the first time, the fear was gone from her voice. It was pure, cold curiosity. “But we’re done waiting to find out. Get up. We’re going hunting for that light.”