Chapter 8: The Unexpected Guest
The door swung open without a knock.
Skye stumbled in, the heel of her hand slick against the woodgrain, a half-empty bottle of pinot noir dangling from her fingers. She was already tipsy, a warm flush painting her chest, her thoughts loose and lazy after a long stream. The words died on her lips.
Her eyes, glassy from wine, scanned the room and stuck.
Ronnie was on the bed, legs splayed, her body a landscape of exhausted sweat. Her abdomen was visibly, softly distended. And between her thighs—Skye’s brain stuttered, trying to process the sheer geometry of it. A dark, fleshy column, thick as a forearm, emerged from a stretched, glistening ring of Ronnie’s flesh. It was fused there, a grotesque and permanent-looking graft. The tip was a broad, flared mushroom of a head, beaded with moisture.
Bree stood beside the bed, her silk robe open, holding a glass vial under that same tip. She was collecting a thick, white strand of fluid with the focus of a geologist tapping a rare mineral.
“What the actual fuck,” Skye breathed, the words barely audible.
The sound made Bree jerk her head up. Ronnie turned her head slowly, a drugged, heavy movement.
Skye’s eyes traveled from the monstrous cock to Bree’s face, then to the vial. The reality refused to align. This wasn’t a toy. The way it pulsed, faintly, with a slow internal rhythm… the way the heavy sac beneath it, like overripe fruit, shifted with Ronnie’s shallow breath…
“Is that…?” Skye stepped closer, the wine forgotten. Her bare feet were silent on the plush rug. The dim light caught the sheer fabric of her camisole, outlining the tremendous, pendulous weight of her breasts, the dark circles of her areolae, the pronounced points of her nipples. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s evolving,” Bree said, her voice clipped with scientific fervor. She didn’t stop her collection. “The morphology is stabilizing into an equine form. Ronnie here is providing the necessary… containment field.”
“It’s stuck in me,” Ronnie mumbled, a weird pride coloring her exhausted tone. “Can’t get it out.”
Skye moved closer, drawn like a magnet. The musky, sweet-metallic scent in the air filled her nostrils. It was the same scent that had always clung to the dildo, but now it was deeper, richer, alive. Her own body responded before her mind could caution her. A familiar, heavy warmth pooled low in her belly. Between her legs, in the damp confines of her shorts, she felt the distinct, thickening swell of her clit, engorging, pushing against the fabric.
Her nipples tightened into hard, aching points, scraping against the sheer nylon of her top.
“Jesus, Ronnie,” Skye whispered, her voice husky. She wasn’t disgusted. She was mesmerized. Her cam-girl brain, always framing the next shot, saw the angles, the obscene beauty of it. The sheer scale. “How does it… feel?”
Ronnie let out a shaky laugh. “Like I’m gonna split in half. And like nothing else matters.” Her hand drifted down, fingers tracing the stretched skin of her outer labia, not in pain, but in possession. “It’s mine.”
Bree finally capped the vial, holding it up to the light. The fluid inside glowed faintly, opalescent. “It’s not just yours. It’s a catalyst. The secretory fluid has transformative properties. Look.” She gestured at Ronnie’s chest.
Skye looked. Ronnie’s breasts, always massive, seemed somehow… lower. Fuller. The dark, thumb-sized nipples were longer, more pronounced, the areolae darker and wider.
“I tasted a sample,” Bree continued, her eyes locking on Skye’s. “A minute later, my nipples thickened by approximately eight percent. It responds to focus. To desire.”
Skye’s hand rose unconsciously to her own chest, cupping the overwhelming soft weight. Her secret, constant wish echoed in her skull: bigger, heavier, more. And deeper down, the other, stranger want. For the little nub between her legs to be more, to be solid, to be…
Her gaze fell back to the huge, living cock. To Mae.
Inside her prison of flesh and sensation, Mae was reeling. Skye’s presence was a new tide of input. The sheer, overwhelming visual of Skye’s body—the breasts that hung past her elbows, the pronounced swell in her shorts—triggered a deep, reflexive echo within Mae’s trapped consciousness. It was an amplifying feedback loop of secret admiration and raw, twisted lust.
A fresh bead of precum welled from Mae’s slit, rolling down the broad curve of her glans.
Skye watched it fall. She licked her lips.
“Don’t,” Bree warned, but it was too late.
Skye reached out. Not for the vial. Her fingers, with their chipped glitter nail polish, touched the warm, slick skin of the shaft. It was fever-hot. She felt a strong, slow throb beneath her fingertips, a heartbeat that wasn’t a heartbeat.
A jolt, electric and sweet, shot up her arm.
“Oh,” she gasped. Her back arched slightly. In her shorts, the swelling intensified, a pressing, urgent fullness that made her shift her stance. Her clit wasn’t just swollen now; it felt dense, like a thick knot of flesh. The sensation was alien and incredibly exciting.
“It’s connected,” Bree observed, her notebook suddenly in hand again, her pen flying. “Direct dermal contact also induces a response. Subject Skye shows immediate physiological arousal, focused in the genital region. Hypothesis: the transformation vector may differ based on the host’s primary psychic fixation.”
“What does that mean?” Skye panted, her hand still resting on the hot, veined flesh. She didn’t remove it.
“It means if you’re thinking about your tits, it’ll affect your tits,” Ronnie slurred from the bed, her eyes closed. “If you’re thinking about your dick, it’ll give you a dick.”
Skye’s breath hitched. Her darkest, most private fantasy, spoken aloud in Ronnie’s wrecked voice. Her fingers curled slightly against Mae’s shaft.
Mae felt the touch, the focused, desirous attention from this new woman. Skye’s want was different from Ronnie’s hungry domination or Bree’s clinical greed. It was a yearning, an envy. It echoed in the chamber of Mae’s own forbidden fetish. The reaction was instinctive, autonomic.
Another pulse. A thicker flow of precum, this one tinged with the barest milky opacity, seeped out. It dripped onto Ronnie’s stomach. Skye licks it up.
But Skye’s touch seemed to pull the change, to direct it. The warmth in Skye’s own groin intensified, a gathering, tightening pressure. She looked down at herself. The fabric of her shorts was tented, distinctly. Not just a swollen nub. A defined, rounded bulge.
“No way,” she whispered, her other hand moving to press against herself. There was resistance. A solid, core-deep throb answered her internal touch.
Bree was beside her in an instant, peering down. “Fascinating. Androgen-focused morphic shift. Possibly a full phallic construction, given sufficient exposure and psychic imprinting.”
“You’re talking about me growing a dick,” Skye said, her voice a mix of horror and thrilling awe. She looked from the massive thing attached to Ronnie to the growing bulge in her own shorts. “A real one.”
“A real one fueled by whatever that is,” Bree said, nodding at Mae. “We need to test the interaction. Ronnie’s saturated. She’s hit a plateau. But you…” She looked at Skye, eyes gleaming. “You’re a fresh substrate. Primed.”
Skye understood. The cam girl in her saw the ultimate taboo, the irreversible change. The woman in her felt the desperate, hungry pull. She looked at Ronnie, impaled and transformed. She looked at Bree, the mad scientist holding a vial of potential. She looked at the majestic, terrible cock.
She made a decision.
With a determined sigh, Skye hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and pushed them down, letting them pool at her feet. The air, already thick, seemed to grow heavier.
There, nestled in her dark curls, was the evidence. Her clit was no longer just a large nub. It was a proper, emerging shaft, already two inches of stiff, ruddy flesh, topped with a tiny, dripping slit. It pulsed visibly.
“Okay,” Skye said, her voice shaking only slightly. She reached for the wine bottle she’d set on the nightstand, took a long, fortifying swallow. “So how does this work? Do I just… grab it?”
Ronnie opened one eye. “It’s not that simple, Skye. It gets inside you. And then it stays.”
“I don’t want it inside me,” Skye said, her gaze fixed on Mae’s throbbing length. “Not like that.” Her newly forming cock gave another eager twitch. “I want what it has.”
She stepped forward, her bare knees bumping against the edge of the mattress. Her hand left Mae’s shaft and wrapped, tentatively, around her own new growth. The sensation was startling, intense, wholly different. A low moan escaped her.
Bree watched, vial forgotten, her analytical mind racing ahead to the implications of a secondary subject, a different desire-pathway. The control group was collapsing. The experiment was exploding.
And Mae, bound and mute, felt the collective wanting of three women focused on her, through her. It was a vortex of demand. Ronnie’s possessive fullness, Bree’s greedy curiosity, Skye’s envious yearning. They pulled at the latent power within her, drawing it up from some deep, untapped well.
The heavy balls beneath Ronnie tightened. The massive shaft gave a slow, undeniable twist, a movement that was entirely its own.
It was beginning. Again.
Skye is going to drink so much cum!