Chapter 38: The Tuck Test
The steam from the shower clung to the vast bathroom mirror, blurring Anya’s reflection into a ghost of red hair and pale skin. She wiped a hand through the condensation, clearing a swath that showed the problem in stark, humid detail. Draped over her left hand was a tiny, electric blue bikini bottom. In her right, she held the evidence of her new reality.
Her clit, a bloated, pink worm of flesh, hung heavily between her thighs. Twenty-five centimeters. The doctor had said it might grow, that the tissue was stabilizing, but knowing it was coming didn’t make the sight of it any less surreal. It felt alien, a length of sensitive, needy flesh that had a mind of its own.
“Okay, think,” she muttered to her foggy reflection. The bikini was a liability. There was no way that thin strip of spandex could contain this. It would create a obvious, lumpy bulge at best, or worse, the tip might peek out the side like some strange, fleshy escape artist.
An idea, reckless and born of immediate necessity, flickered in her mind. Her pussy was naturally cavernous, a loose, welcoming space she rarely found pleasure in. But it was space. Available space.
She took the pink length in her hand, the skin impossibly soft and warm. With a focused frown, she began to coil it, tucking the fleshy rope back into her own body. It was a bizarre, intimate origami. The sensation was not unpleasant, just deeply strange—a full, internal pressure that was entirely new. She fed the last of the pink flesh inside until nothing remained visible on the outside but her smooth, labia-less slit.
She quickly pulled the blue bikini bottom up. It fit. No strange bulges, no tell-tale outlines. She turned side to side, checking her profile in the mirror. Nothing. A perfect disguise.
A giddy laugh bubbled out of her. “Genius.”
The triumph lasted about ten seconds. Then, a subtle, insistent throbbing began deep inside her. The coiled flesh, pressed and confined, was waking up. The more she moved, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the more it seemed to shift and settle, sending little jolts of sensation through her core. It was distracting. Maddening, even.
The doorbell chimed, echoing through the apartment. Tiff. Right on time.
She grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her waist as a makeshift skirt, and padded out to the living room. She unlocked the door to find Tiff leaning against the frame, a familiar, easy smirk on her face.
“Took you long enough. Masturbating again?” Tiff teased, stepping inside. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, dropped to the towel. “Or are you just practicing for a pool party?”
“Something like that,” Anya said, her voice a little too high. She could feel the coiled weight inside her with every step, a secret she was physically carrying.
Tiff flopped onto the sofa, sprawling with a casual grace. “So. Claire’s latest video. ‘The Unbreakable’. You see it?”
Anya nodded, leaning against the kitchen counter, putting some distance between them. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. It’s… intense.”
“Intense is one word for it,” Tiff said, her smirk fading into something more contemplative. “They’re calling her a pioneer. An artist. Can you believe it? After what they did to her on that fucking show, now they’re giving her awards for taking a paddle to the balls.” She shook her head, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—not quite jealousy, but a restless recognition. “It’s a weird world.”
“Says the girl with a micro-penis who owns a porn star,” Anya shot back, trying to keep it light. The throbbing inside her was becoming a steady, pulsing ache. She shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t exist.
Tiff’s gaze narrowed. “You okay? You’re fidgeting like you’ve got ants in your pants. Or, you know, not in your pants.” She gestured to the towel.
“It’s nothing. My… thing. It grew again. The doctor said it would.” Anya sighed, giving in. “It’s twenty-five centimeters now, Tiff. I look like I’m hiding a cocktail sausage in my bikini.”
Tiff let out a short, sharp laugh. “No way. Let me see.”
“It’s not a show-and-tell.”
“Come on, we’ve seen everything each other has. And lost,” Tiff added, her tone softening. She patted the spot next to her on the couch. “Seriously. What’s up?”
Reluctantly, Anya walked over and sat down, the movement causing a distinct, internal squelch. She kept the towel tightly wrapped. “I figured out how to hide it. I just… tucked it all back in. Inside.”
Tiff blinked. “You stuffed your giant clit into your loose pussy.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. And it worked! The swimsuit fits. But now… it feels really weird. It’s like… it’s waking up in there.”
“Of course it’s waking up, you idiot. You’ve got the most sensitive part of your body crammed into a warm, tight space. It’s basically a non-stop clitoral massage.” Tiff shook her head, a wry smile playing on her lips. “You’re gonna be a mess in ten minutes.”
As if on cue, a powerful, deep thrum of pleasure-pain radiated from Anya’s core, so strong it made her gasp and press her thighs together. “Oh, god. It’s already happening.”
Tiff watched her, the playful glint returning to her eyes. “You know, this is a very you solution. Completely solves the visual problem while creating a much bigger, wetter, more distracting physical one.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Can you feel it pulsing?”
Anya could only nod, her breath hitching. The coiled flesh seemed to be unspooling on its own, shifting and rubbing against inner walls that were never meant for this kind of stimulation. It was overwhelming, a constant, building pressure that was short-circuiting her ability to think.
Tiff reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of the towel over Anya’s mound. “You’re not going to make it to any pool party, Red. You’re not even going to make it off this couch.”
The truth of it crashed down on Anya along with another wave of sensation. She was trapped, not by the bikini, but by her own reckless, ingenious solution. The hidden thing was now in control, and all she could do was feel it, a live wire tucked inside her, sparking and demanding attention.
She let her head fall back against the couch, a soft moan escaping her lips as the first real, undeniable tremor of an approaching orgasm started deep within the confines of her own body. Tiff’s low, knowing laugh was the last coherent thing she heard.
Anya’s world narrowed to the geography of her own body. Every microscopic shift of fabric against the towel, every beat of her pulse, was magnified into a seismic event deep within her pelvis. The careful tucking job was unraveling, not in a loose physical sense, but biologically, the coiled flesh inside her stirring with a lazy, undeniable intention. It was like trying to hold back a sneeze that started in her groin.
Tiff’s grin widened, a predatory flash of white. “See? I told you. That thing’s got a mind of its own now.” She didn’t touch Anya again, just watched, fascinated, as Anya’s knuckles turned white gripping the couch cushion. “It’s not just pulsing, is it? It’s…untucking itself.”
A full-body shudder was Anya’s only answer. The sensation was beyond anything she’d experienced from frantic, external rubbing. This was a deep, internal uncoiling, a slow-motion eruption that rubbed against hypersensitive inner walls with every centimeter it reclaimed. Her breath hitched, coming in short, sharp gasps. “Oh, god… it’s… I can feel it…”
“Just let it happen,” Tiff murmured, her voice a low, hypnotic thrum. “Bet it feels like it’s touching places you didn’t even know you had. Kinda brilliant, really. Your hiding spot turned into the ultimate masturbation tool.”
The description was obscenely accurate. The friction was creating a feedback loop of pleasure, each movement of the emerging flesh triggering a fresh wave of sensation that made it move more. Anya’s back arched off the couch, a low moan tearing from her throat as the very tip of her clit finally slid free, supersensitive and exposed to the air. The relief was instantaneous and devastating.
The orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It was a silent, white-hot shockwave that locked her muscles and stole the air from her lungs. Her vision grayed at the edges, the room dissolving into a pinpoint of pure, physical sensation. It was a deep, rolling convulsion that seemed to originate from the very core of her being, a finale of trembling exhaustion that left her drenched in a cold sweat, utterly spent.
Several minutes later, awareness trickled back. The towel was soaked. She was slumped against the cushions, limbs leaden. Tiff was still there, sipping a glass of water she’d fetched from the kitchen, a look of profound amusement on her face.
“So,” Tiff said, setting the glass down with a soft click. “Swimsuit shopping tomorrow?”
“Swimsuit shopping tomorrow?” Tiff asked, her voice laced with a smirk that Anya could feel without even opening her eyes.
Anya just groaned, the sound muffled by the couch cushion. Every muscle felt like liquid, her mind blissfully empty except for the fading echoes of the convulsion that had wracked her body. She finally peeled her eyes open, the world coming back into fuzzy focus. Tiff was leaning forward to grab her water glass from the coffee table, and the movement made her loose tank top gap slightly.
Anya’s gaze, still hazy, landed on Tiff’s chest. Her breasts were undeniably massive and heavy, looking even fuller than usual. A memory, distant and pastoral, cut through the post-orgasmic fog: waking up at dawn in her grandparents’ barn, the warm, sweet smell of fresh milk filling the air.
“Hey, Tiff?” Anya’s voice was hoarse. She pushed herself up on wobbly elbows. “My stomach is literally screaming at me. I skipped breakfast for that… experiment.”
Tiff raised an eyebrow. “And that’s my problem because…?”
“Your tits look ridiculously full,” Anya stated, her farm-girl practicality overriding any sense of taboo. “Can I milk you? For my cereal. I’m starving.”
Tiff burst out laughing, a sharp, genuine sound. “You are unbelievable. You just had the world-shakingest orgasm of your life and your first thought is breakfast?”
“A body’s got needs,” Anya shrugged, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across her face. “And you’ve got the supplies. Come on, you know I’m good at it. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
Shaking her head in amused disbelief, Tiff stood up. “Fine. But only because you look so pathetic. And because I’m curious.” She walked toward the kitchen, her movements causing a distinct, heavy sway. “Get a bowl, farm girl.”
Anya practically sprang off the couch, the lingering tremors in her legs forgotten in pursuit of this new, weird goal. She fetched a small ceramic bowl from the cupboard and placed it on the sleek kitchen counter. Tiff hoisted herself up to sit beside it, leaning back on her hands and presenting her chest with a theatrical sigh.
“Don’t get any on the floor,” Tiff warned, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Anya’s hands, once used on the udders of Holsteins, found their familiar rhythm. She cupped the heavy, warm flesh, her thumbs and fingers applying a precise, practiced pressure. Tiff let out a soft, surprised gasp, her head lolling back. It was a deeply intimate, strangely domestic scene.
A few firm, pulling squeezes was all it took. A thin, bluish-white stream arced neatly into the center of the bowl, followed by another. The sound was a soft, rhythmic ping against the ceramic. The rich, slightly sweet scent of warm milk filled the space between them, mingling with the residual humidity from the bathroom.
“See?” Anya murmured, focused on her task. “Proficient.”
“Don’t get a big head about it,” Tiff breathed, her body relaxing into the familiar sensation. She watched, mesmerized, as the bowl slowly filled with the liquid that her own, modified body had produced. “It’s just… efficient.”
In a few minutes, Anya had collected a generous serving. She gave one last, gentle squeeze and patted Tiff’s knee. “All done. Thanks.”
She turned to the cupboard to get her cereal, leaving Tiff sitting on the counter, adjusting her top and watching her best friend with a fond, bewildered shake of her head. Anya poured the grains into the bowl, followed by the fresh, warm milk from Tiff’s breasts, the entire situation feeling both utterly absurd and completely normal.
The cereal crackled as the warm, rich milk flooded the bowl. Anya took a hesitant bite, then her eyes widened. “Whoa.” She swallowed, staring at the bowl with newfound respect. “Tiff, this is… legitimately amazing.”
Tiff slid off the counter, landing with a soft thud. “Told you it was good. My doctor said the hormonal cocktail that… well, you know, also supercharged the mammary glands. It’s like whole milk, but better.”
“Better? This is the best milk I’ve ever had,” Anya said through a full mouth, already shoveling in another spoonful. The creamy, slightly sweet flavor was utterly unique, a world away from the cartoned stuff she usually bought. “We could sell this. We’d be millionaires.”