Chapter 11: Two Cocks and a Fist
The car filled with the sound of Logan's bones rearranging themselves.
It wasn't a pleasant noise. It was wet and grinding, like someone twisting a joint the wrong way, and underneath it came a low, guttural moan that didn't sound like anything human. Samantha kept one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, her fingers digging into the muscle as if she could hold him together through sheer force of will.
"Almost there," she said. "Almost there, baby. Just hold on."
Logan couldn't answer. His jaw had already begun to shift, the teeth grinding against each other as his face softened into something rounder, prettier, the stubble vanishing like frost under a morning sun. His hips cracked wide, sending a bolt of pain-pleasure up his spine, and he felt his cock shrink inside the cage—not smaller, exactly, but less important. A decoration. An afterthought.
The real change happened lower.
His ass clenched around the plug, and then—with a wet, obscene pop—pushed it out entirely. The plug landed on the leather seat between his thighs, slick and glistening, and Logan let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan. His hole gaped, empty and hungry, clenching around nothing.
"Fuck," Samantha breathed. "Already?"
"Need—" The word came out wrong. Higher. Softer. "Need something inside me. Please. Please, Samantha, I need—"
"I know what you need." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled on his thigh. "We're almost there. Five more minutes."
Logan curled in on himself, his knees drawing up toward his chest. The sundress rode up around his waist, exposing his caged cock and his gaping, desperate hole. He didn't care. He couldn't care. The transformation had stripped away everything except want.
His chest ached. He looked down and watched his nipples darken, the areolas spreading, the tissue beneath swelling into soft, sensitive mounds. Not breasts, exactly—not yet—but something close. Something that would fit perfectly in a hand, or a mouth.
"Beautiful," Samantha murmured. "You're so fucking beautiful."
The car pulled into a parking lot. Logan was dimly aware of gravel crunching under tires, of a dark building looming against the night sky, of Samantha cutting the engine and coming around to his side of the car.
"Can you walk?"
He nodded. He could walk. He could do anything, as long as it ended with something inside him.
The air outside was cool, but it didn't touch the fire under his skin. Samantha helped him out of the car and led him toward a steel door with a single red bulb burning above it. The door opened before they reached it.
A woman stood in the doorway. Tall, muscular, with close-cropped gray hair and a face that had seen everything and judged none of it. She wore leather from head to toe, and her eyes swept over Logan with professional assessment.
"This the were-whore?"
"Yes," Samantha said. "I'm Samantha. We spoke on the phone."
"I remember." The woman stepped aside. "I'm Vera. I run this place. Come in."
The interior of The Bastille was all dark corridors and flickering lights, the walls lined with doors that Logan couldn't see past. The air smelled of leather and sweat and something else—something warm and animal that made his hole clench with anticipation.
"Changing room's to the left," Vera said. "Play rooms are down the hall. We've got room seven reserved for you. Private. Fully equipped."
"Thank you." Samantha's hand tightened on Logan's waist. "We appreciate this."
"We don't get many were-whore here." Vera's smile was thin and knowing. "Most of them can't afford the fees. But we waive them for special cases."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch." Vera turned and began walking down the corridor. "Just make sure he doesn't damage the equipment. The sling alone cost three grand."
The changing room was small and spare—two lockers, a bench, and a full-length mirror that Logan avoided looking into. He could feel the transformation completing itself, his body settling into its new shape. The need in his ass had become a roar, an endless empty ache that demanded to be filled.
Samantha stripped off her clothes and changed into black leather pants and a harness that crisscrossed her chest. Logan watched her, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"You're so beautiful," he said. His voice was soft and high and completely unlike his own. "Please. Please, can we go?"
"Not yet." Samantha crossed to him and took his chin in her hand. "I need to see you first."
She turned him toward the mirror.
Logan looked.
The person staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. His face had softened, his jaw rounding, his lips swelling into something pink and pouty. His eyes were huge and dark, framed by lashes that seemed to have tripled in length. His chest had swelled into two perfect handfuls, the nipples hard and prominent. His waist had cinched inward, his hips flaring out, his ass—god, his ass—had become a soft, round cushion of flesh that seemed to exist purely for the purpose of being fucked.
The cage still locked his cock. It looked smaller now, more ornamental, a pretty little thing nestled between his thighs.
"You're gorgeous," Samantha said. "You know that? You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."
"Please." Logan's voice cracked. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
Samantha grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the changing room, down the corridor, past doors that seemed to pulse with muffled sound—moans, cries, the crack of leather against skin. Logan stumbled after her, bare feet slapping against the cold concrete floor, his empty hole clenching with every step.
Room seven was at the end of the hall. Samantha pushed open the door and led him inside.
The room was bathed in red light. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in shades of blood and shadow. A leather sling dominated the center of the room, suspended from a metal frame by chains that glinted in the dim light. Along the walls hung implements—floggers, paddles, ropes, things Logan didn't have names for.
And in the corner, two men.
They were already naked. Already hard. One was tall and lean, with tattooed arms and a shaved head. The other was shorter, stockier, with a thick beard and a chest like a barrel. They stood side by side, watching Logan with eyes that held nothing but hunger.
"These are Steven and Cole," Samantha said. "They're members here. They volunteered to help."
Logan couldn't speak. His mouth was dry. His hole was wet.
Samantha led him to the sling and helped him climb in. The leather was cool against his back, and the chains creaked as he settled into position. She lifted his legs, one at a time, and hooked them into the straps, leaving him spread wide, his caged cock pointing at the ceiling, his hole exposed and vulnerable.
"Comfortable?"
He nodded. It was a lie. He was burning alive.
Samantha turned to the men. "You know the rules?"
"Don't damage the goods," Steven said. His voice was low and rough.
"Don't come on his face," Cole added. "He doesn't want that."
"Good." Samantha picked up a bottle of lube from a side table and squirted a generous amount into her palm. "Then let's begin."
She started with her fingers.
One slid in easily—Logan's hole was so wet, so ready, that it welcomed her like an old friend. Two made him gasp. Three made him moan. By the time she had four buried inside him, he was writhing in the sling, his hips bucking, his mouth open in a silent scream.
"Please," he gasped. "Please, more, I need—"
"I know what you need." Samantha withdrew her hand and squirted more lube onto her fingers. "Steven. Cole. Get in position."
The men moved. Steven positioned himself at Logan's head, his cock already leaking. Cole stood between Logan's spread legs, his thick dick bobbing inches from Logan's hole.
"Open wide," Steven said.
Logan opened his mouth, and Steven fed him his cock.
It was long and thin, and it slid down Logan's throat with almost no resistance. He gagged once, twice, then relaxed his jaw and let it happen. Steven groaned above him, his hips rocking, his hands finding Logan's new breasts and squeezing.
"Fuck," Steven muttered. "Fuck, these tits are perfect."
Logan couldn't answer. His mouth was full. His throat was full. And then Cole pushed into his ass, and he was full everywhere.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. Cole was thick—thicker than anyone Logan had taken before, thicker than the plug, thicker than Duke. His hole burned, stretched wide, and he loved it. He loved every inch of the pain, every second of the invasion.
"God," Cole grunted. "This hole is fucking incredible. It's like it was made for this."
Samantha laughed. "It was. Trust me."
She moved to the side of the sling and reached between Logan's legs. Her fingers found his rim, already stretched around Cole's cock, and she began to work lube into the edges.
"Just relax," she murmured. "Just breathe. You're doing so good."
Logan tried to relax. He tried to breathe. But Cole was fucking him now, slow and deep, and Steven was fucking his throat, and the pleasure was building in his core like a tidal wave.
"More," he gasped around Steven's cock. "Please, more—"
Samantha answered by pressing two fingers against his rim, right next to Cole's shaft. Logan's eyes flew open. He looked down and saw her hand, saw her fingers pushing into him alongside Cole's cock.
"Fuck," he screamed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"That's it," Samantha said. "That's it, baby. Take it."
She pushed deeper. Her fingers slid past his rim, past Cole's shaft, into the hot, tight space beyond. Logan felt himself stretching, opening, becoming something more than he'd ever been.
"More," he begged. "Please, more, I can take it—"
Samantha added another finger. Then another. Her hand was inside him now, her knuckles pressing against his prostate, and Logan couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.
"Beautiful," Samantha whispered. "You're so fucking beautiful. Look at you. Look at how much you can take."
Cole was still fucking him, short, sharp thrusts that made Logan's whole body shake. Steven was still in his mouth, his balls slapping against Logan's chin. And Samantha—Samantha was fisting him.
Her hand was all the way in.
Logan felt her fingers curl inside him, felt her thumb press against his rim from the outside, felt his body stretch around her wrist in a way that should have been impossible. The pressure was immense. The pleasure was beyond anything he'd ever experienced.
"Come," Samantha commanded. "Come for me, baby. Show them what you are."
And Logan came.
The orgasm ripped through him without warning, a dry, shuddering climax that had nothing to do with his caged cock and everything to do with his ass. His hole clenched around Samantha's hand and Cole's cock, milking them both, and he screamed—a high, keening wail that echoed off the walls of the playroom.
"Good boy," Samantha murmured. "Good fucking boy."
But she didn't stop. She didn't pull her hand out. She just kept moving, working her fingers against his prostate, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until Logan was sobbing, begging, completely undone.
"Please," he gasped. "Please, I can't—"
"You can." Samantha's voice was hard. "And you will. These men aren't done with you yet."
Steven came first. He pulled out of Logan's mouth and stroked himself once, twice, and then he was coming, thick ropes of semen splashing across Logan's face, his tits, his open mouth. Logan swallowed what he could and let the rest drip down his chin.
Cole came second. His thrusts became erratic, desperate, and then he was buried deep inside Logan, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into the stretched, ruined hole.
"Fuck," Cole grunted. "Fuck, that's good."
And still Samantha didn't stop.
"Don't you dare pull out," she told Cole. "Stay right where you are."
She worked her hand free, slowly, carefully, and Logan felt every inch of the withdrawal. His hole gaped, empty and aching, and then Cole was pushing back in, and Samantha was adding her fingers again, and the cycle began anew.
"Again," she said. "Come for me again."
Logan didn't think he could. He was exhausted, wrung out, his body nothing but a vessel for pleasure. But Samantha knew what she was doing. Her fingers found his prostate again, and Cole was fucking him again, and Steven was leaning down to suck on his nipples, and the pleasure built and built and built until—
He came again. Harder this time. His whole body convulsing, his hole clamping down on Cole's cock and Samantha's hand, his mind going blank and white and empty.
When he finally came back to himself, he was lying in the sling, alone. Cole and Steven were in the corner, pulling on their clothes. Samantha stood beside him, wiping her hands with a towel.
"How do you feel?"
"Like I died," Logan whispered. "Like I died and went to heaven."
Samantha laughed. "The night's not over yet. You've got six more days of this."
"Six more days?"
"Six more days." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "And I'm going to make sure you remember every single one."
Logan closed his eyes. His hole was still gaping, still empty. In a few minutes, someone would fill it again. And then someone else. And then someone else.
He couldn't wait.
He couldn't wait.
His hole gaped like a wound, wet and wanting, clenching around nothing but air. The sling creaked as he shifted his weight, and the chains sang their rusted song against the metal frame. Semen pooled in the hollow of his throat, and he could taste Cole's salt on his tongue, could feel Steven's drying on his tits.
Samantha watched him from the side of the room. She'd shed her harness at some point, and her leather pants hung low on her hips. Sweat gleamed on her collarbone, and her auburn curls had escaped their ponytail to frame her face in a wild halo.
"You're not done," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," Logan whispered. "I'm not."
Cole and Steven had retreated to the corner, dressing in silence. Steven pulled on his jeans and didn't look back. Cole hesitated at the door, his hand on the frame, his eyes lingering on Logan's spread legs.
"If you need anything else," Cole started.
"We don't." Samantha's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Thank you for your service. You can go."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Logan lay in the sling, his chest heaving, his caged cock twitching uselessly against his belly. The transformation still burned under his skin, keeping him hard, keeping him hungry. His nipples ached where Steven had sucked them. His throat felt raw from being fucked.
Samantha crossed the room slowly.
She stopped between his spread legs and looked down at him. Her eyes were dark, darker than he'd ever seen them, and something in her expression had shifted. Something predatory. Something that made his hole clench with fresh need.
"You did so good," she said. "Taking both of them. Taking my hand. You were perfect."
"Thank you."
"But we're not finished."
She knelt between his legs and reached for the lube. The bottle was half-empty now, but there was still enough. She squirted a thick stream into her palm and worked it between her fingers, coating her hand until it gleamed under the red light.
"I want to try something," she said.
"What?"
"Something I read about." She pressed two fingers against his rim. "Something for were-whore who can take more than they should."
Logan's breath caught. His hole swallowed her fingers eagerly, and he felt the familiar stretch, the familiar burn. But this was different. Her hand was different. There was intent behind it now, a purpose that went beyond simple pleasure.
Samantha worked her fingers in to the knuckles, then past them. Her thumb pressed against his perineum, and her other hand braced against his thigh.
"Relax," she said. "This is going to feel strange."
"What is?"
"Just breathe."
She pushed deeper. Her hand slid past his rim, past the ring of muscle that had already been stretched by Cole's cock and her previous fist. Logan felt his body open, felt the impossible pressure of her knuckles pressing against his inner walls.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Samantha—"
"Shh.Just breathe."
She was in to the wrist now. Her fingers curled inside him, finding his prostate, pressing against it with deliberate precision. Logan's vision blurred. His hips bucked against the sling, and the chains rattled overhead.
"Good," Samantha murmured. "Good girl."
The word hit him like a slap. Girl. She'd never called him that before. He'd been baby, he'd been honey, he'd been good boy. But never girl.
"Say it again," he breathed.
"What?"
"Call me that again."
Samantha's eyes narrowed. She pulled her hand back slightly, then pushed it in again, deeper this time. Her knuckles pressed against something inside him that made his whole body shudder.
"Good girl," she said. "My good fucking girl."
Logan came.
It was dry, the cage denying him any release, but the orgasm ripped through him anyway. His hole clamped down on Samantha's hand, milking her fingers, and he screamed—a high, broken sound that echoed off the padded walls.
But Samantha didn't stop.
She pulled her hand back and pushed it in again. Then again.Then again. Each thrust was harder than the last, a rhythmic punching motion that drove the air from Logan's lungs.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, what are you—"
"Punch fisting," Samantha said. "I read about it. It's supposed to make were-whore come until they can't think straight."
"I can't—I already—"
"You can. You will."
She punched into him again, and Logan's body responded before his mind could catch up. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashed over him and dragged him under.
He came a second time.
His whole body shook, his legs straining against the straps, his hands clawing at the leather beneath him. The cage kept his cock soft, but his ass was on fire, clenching and unclenching around Samantha's fist like a second heartbeat.
"Again," Samantha commanded.
"I can't—"
"Again."
She punched into him, harder this time. Her knuckles hit his prostate like a battering ram, and Logan screamed. The sound was raw, animal, completely unlike anything he'd ever made before.
He came a third time.
The orgasm was brutal. His vision went white, then black, then white again. His body convulsed in the sling, chains clanking, leather creaking. He was dimly aware of Samantha's voice, low and steady, telling him he was beautiful, telling him he was perfect, telling him to let go.
He came a fourth time.
By then, he was nothing but sensation. A vessel.A hole. His mind had floated somewhere far away, and all that remained was the endless pulse of pleasure and the steady rhythm of Samantha's fist.
When she finally pulled out, he felt the loss like an amputation. His hole gaped, empty and twitching, and he let out a small, pitiful sound.
Samantha wiped her hand on a towel and leaned over him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright.
"Still with me?"
"Yeah." His voice was hoarse. "Yeah, I'm here."
She kissed him. Soft and slow, her tongue sliding against his, and he tasted himself on her lips. Lube and sweat and something richer underneath.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
She pulled back and looked at him. Her gaze traveled down his body—his swollen tits, his caged cock, his gaping hole—and something in her expression softened.
"You're beautiful," she said. "You know that?"
"I know." He looked down at himself, at the body that wasn't his and was. At the soft curves and the hard cage and the wet, ruined hole. "I feel beautiful."
"You are."
He was buzzing. The transformation still hummed under his skin, keeping him hard, keeping him hungry, but there was something else now. Something new. He looked at his tits, swollen and pink, and thought about how good it had felt when Steven sucked them. He thought about the word Samantha had used.Girl. She'd called him a girl, and it had felt right. It had felt more than right.
"Samantha."
"What?"
He hesitated. The words were there, waiting, but saying them felt like a leap off a cliff. He'd already jumped so many times. What was one more?
"Can you use feminine pronouns?"
Samantha blinked."What?"
"For me. When I'm like this." He gestured at his body, at the curves and the softness. "Can you call me she? Her?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Her hand found his and squeezed.
"You want that?"
"I think so." His voice was small. "It feels...right. When you called me girl. It felt right."
Samantha smiled. It was a real smile, warm and full of love, and it made his chest ache.
"Then I'll call you she," she said. "My beautiful girl."
Logan's eyes stung. "Thank you."
"Thank you for telling me."
She kissed him again, and this time it was softer. Reverent. Her hands cupped his face, and she kissed him like he was something precious.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
"I love you," she said. "All of you. Every version."
"I love you too."
She reached down and pressed her fingers against his hole. He was still gaping, still open, and she slid three fingers in with no resistance at all.
"Still hungry?" she asked.
"Always."
"Good."
She pulled her hand back. Then, with a single, smooth motion, she shoved her fist back inside.
Logan—no, she—screamed.
The stretch was immediate, overwhelming, but she welcomed it. Her hole swallowed Samantha's hand like it had been made for this, like it had been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"That's it," Samantha murmured. "That's my good girl."
She began to move. Slow at first, then faster. Her fist punched into Logan's hole with a rhythm that felt almost musical, and Logan's body responded like an instrument.
She didn't know how many times she came. Three?Four? More? Each orgasm bled into the next, a continuous wave of pleasure that never crested and never broke.
And through it all, Samantha kept talking.
"You're perfect," she said. "You're beautiful. You're my whole world."
"Please—"
"Shh. I've got you."
"I need—"
"I know what you need."
She fucked her with her fist until Logan's voice gave out, until her body was limp and trembling, until there was nothing left but the endless pulse of pleasure and the steady rhythm of Samantha's hand.
When it was over, Samantha pulled out and climbed into the sling beside her. The leather creaked under their combined weight, and the chains swayed gently overhead.
Logan lay there, panting, her hole gaping and empty, her body covered in sweat and come and lube. She felt like a battlefield. She felt like a work of art.
"How do you feel?" Samantha asked.
Logan considered the question. Her body ached. Her throat was raw. Her caged cock strained uselessly against its confines, still desperate for a release it would never find.
"I feel like a goddess," she said. "A filthy, beautiful goddess."
Samantha laughed. "You are."
"I want to do this again tomorrow."
"We will."
"And the day after."
"We will."
"And every day until the transformation ends."
Samantha turned her head and looked at her. Her auburn curls were plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed, and she was the most beautiful thing Logan had ever seen.
"Every day," Samantha promised. "And every month after that."
Logan closed her eyes. The red light burned through her lids, painting the darkness in shades of blood and shadow. She could hear the distant sound of other play rooms, other moans, other scenes. The Bastille was alive around her, a breathing, pulsing creature that understood what she was.
She'd been afraid of the transformation for so long. She'd been terrified of losing herself, of becoming something she didn't recognize. But now, lying in a leather sling with her wife's hand still slick with lube, she realized she hadn't lost anything.
She'd found something.
She'd found her.
The transformation hummed under her skin, still hungry, still wanting. In a few hours, someone else would come through that door—Vera had promised to send in volunteers—and she would spread her legs again and take whatever they offered.
But for now, she was content to lie here. To let Samantha stroke her hair. To listen to the chains sing their song.
She had six more days.
Six more days to be filled.
Six more days to be fucked.
Six more days to be her.
And when the transformation was over—when she went back to being Logan, with his flat chest and his soft cock—she would remember this. She would remember what it felt like to be a goddess. She would remember what it felt like to be she.
And she would wait.
Patiently.
For the next full moon.