Chapter 2: The Forbidden Drawer
The hum in her bones wouldn’t stop. It was a low-frequency current, a ceaseless vibration that seemed to center in the new weight on her chest and the hollow ache between her legs. Leonard—the consciousness that still clung to that name—stood in the master bathroom, the door locked, staring at the stranger in the mirror.
His face was still his, albeit softer, the jawline less defined, the skin suspiciously smooth. But beneath the chin, the collar of his button-down shirt strained against a pronounced, rounded swell. With trembling fingers, he unbuttoned it, one plastic button after another. The fabric fell open.
A choked sound, half sob, half moan, leaked from his throat.
Two full, pale breasts spilled into view. They were heavy, with large, dark pink areolas and nipples that stood erect, hypersensitive to the brush of the air. He cupped one. The sensation was electric, a direct line of fire to his groin. His cock, still undeniably there, twitched against his fly, thick and needy.
“No,” he whispered to his reflection. “This is… this is illness. A tumor. Something.”
But the warm, slick feeling of want pooling in his gut told another story. The ritual’s words echoed. Restoring vital essences. It hadn’t restored. It had replaced. It had excavated a hunger he never knew he could house.
His eyes darted to the birchwood dresser against the wall. Sarah’s dresser. The top drawer was slightly ajar. He knew what was inside. Socks, scarves, and in the back, tucked behind a sachet of dried lavender, the things she almost never wore anymore. The things he’d bought for her on anniversaries, hoping to see a spark, only to be met with a kind smile and a “It’s lovely, Leo,” before it was consigned to the drawer.
He was across the room before his rational mind could veto the impulse. He yanked the drawer open. The scent of lavender and cedar washed over him, almost masking the coppery scent of his own arousal. He shoved aside woolen socks, his movements frantic. His fingers brushed something silky.
He pulled it out. A babydoll nightie, sheer black lace over a mist of black nylon, with tiny satin straps. The matching thong was a scrap of fabric, a mere promise of coverage. He held them up. The lace scratched faintly against his calloused engineer’s hands, a sensation that made his new nipples tighten viciously.
What are you doing? This is insane.
But the thrumming in his body was a command. The empty, aching feeling inside him screamed to be filled, and the shameful, glittering fantasy of being seen like this, of being taken like this, overrode every shred of dignity.
He tore off his remaining clothes. His erection sprang free, bobbing, a vein throbbing along its length. He was leaking steadily now, a clear bead welling at the tip. He ignored it. He fumbled with the babydoll, his hands uncoordinated. He got it over his head, the lace catching on his ears. He pulled it down.
The effect was surreal, grotesque. The silky nylon draped over the foreign curves of his breasts, making them look even larger, the dark nipples visibly pebbled beneath the sheer fabric. The hem brushed the top of his thighs. His cock jutted out obscenely from beneath the lace, an absurd counterpoint to the feminine garment.
Then the thong. He stepped into it, pulling the flimsy straps up his legs. The sensation of the narrow strip of fabric sliding between his ass cheeks made him gasp. It settled against him, a whisper of constraint. He looked in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
The image stole his breath.
A man’s head—his head—perched atop a body that was curving into something lush and female. The black lace clung and hinted. His breasts swayed slightly with his rapid breaths. His cock, trapped against his stomach by the thin waistband of the thong, was fully hard, angry red, glistening.
A wave of nausea warred with a tsunami of lust. The lust won. It surged up, burning away the last fragments of Leonard Webb.
His hand moved of its own accord, wrapping around his shaft. The touch was electric. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. He began to stroke, his fist gliding easily over the slickness of his own pre-cum. But it felt wrong. Inadequate. The fantasy wasn’t about his own hand.
He turned, presenting his back to the mirror, then looked over his shoulder. He saw the thong disappearing into the cleft of his ass. He imagined hands grabbing his new hips, pulling him back. He imagined something thicker, harder than his own cock pushing against that flimsy fabric, tearing it aside, forcing its way into the tight, clenching heat he now possessed.
“Fuck,” he panted, the word filthy and raw in the quiet room. “Oh god, fuck me.”
His strokes became punishing, frantic. His other hand groped back, fingers scrabbling to push the thong aside. He found the new, furled entrance beneath his balls. It was wet, impossibly wet, just from the fantasy. He pressed a finger against it, and a shock of pure, undiluted pleasure-pain made his legs buckle. He caught himself on the dresser.
He was grunting now, animal sounds. He shoved a finger inside himself. The tightness was exquisite, a gripping, hot channel begging to be stretched. He fucked himself with his own finger, his other hand a blur on his cock.
“Need it,” he snarled at his reflection, spit stringing from his lip. “Need to be filled. Crammed full. Fucking ruin me.”
The climax built not from his cock but from that deep, hollow place inside. It roared up, a detonation that tore through his spine. His back arched violently. His cock jerked, and thick, hot ropes of cum shot out, splattering the mirror, the dresser, the front of the black lace babydoll. At the same time, his ass clenched viscously around his buried finger, a series of pulsing, internal spasms that wrung a shattered, guttural cry from his throat.
He collapsed against the dresser, panting, sweating, covered in his own spend. The pleasure was beyond anything he’d ever experienced—a total-body obliteration. For a few seconds, there was only static and bliss.
Then the door handle jiggled.
“Leo?” Sarah’s voice, muffled by the wood, thick with sleep. “You okay in there? I heard a… a thump.”
Panic, cold and sobering, doused him. He yanked his finger free, wincing at the sensitivity. He stared at the mess on the mirror, the stain on the lace.
“Fine!” he called, his voice cracking. “Dropped my… toothbrush. Go back to sleep.”
“You’ve been in there forever.” The handle turned again. The lock held. “Are you sick?”
“No. Just… just a minute.”
He scrambled, a frenzy of shame. He grabbed a hand towel, wiping frantically at the mirror, at the dresser. He tried to wipe the cum from the lace, but it just smeared. He was trapped. He couldn’t walk out like this. The evidence was on his body.
“Leo, open the door. Now you’re worrying me.” Her voice was awake, concerned, edging toward insistence.
Desperate, he ripped the babydoll off over his head, tearing one of the fragile straps. He balled it and the thong together with the soiled towel and shoved them deep into the bathroom trash bin under used tissues and empty toothpaste boxes. He grabbed his discarded button-down shirt, fumbling it on, not bothering with the buttons, just holding it closed over his stained, bare chest and his now-softening cock.
He took one last, wild look in the cleaned mirror. His hair was disheveled, his lips swollen, his eyes wide with panic and residual ecstasy. He looked utterly debauched.
He unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
Sarah stood there in her robe, her face soft with sleep and concern. The hall light behind her haloed her hair. For a moment, he saw the young woman he’d married, and a love so profound it felt like grief washed over him.
“See? Fine,” he said, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in clay.
Her eyes scanned his face, then dipped. He clutched the shirt tighter. Her gaze fixed on the top, where the straining fabric gaped between the buttons he hadn’t fastened. Her expression shifted from concern to confusion, then to a slow, dawning horror.
“Leo,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Your… your chest.”