Chapter 19: The Nullo's Confidence
Golden afternoon light slanted through the dusty apartment windows, painting warm stripes across the cluttered living room. Incense smoke coiled lazily from a brass holder on the bookshelf, its heavy sandalwood scent layering over the faint, lingering tang of antiseptic that still clung to Anya. She lay sprawled diagonally across the worn velvet couch, gloriously nude, bathed in the amber glow. One hand rested possessively on her lower abdomen, slender fingers tracing the precise line of her new scar – a faint, slightly raised ridge just below her navel, still pink at the edges but healing cleanly. Its smoothness, its nothingness, sent a familiar, dark thrill through her.
The other hand was busy. It roamed the plush expanse of July’s thigh, clad only in thin cotton shorts. July sat propped against the armrest, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, framing a face softened by contentment. Her E-cups strained against a sheer black camisole, rising and falling with slow breaths. Her legs were spread just enough, her posture languid, inviting. Anya’s hand slid higher, fingertips grazing the delicate, flaccid curve nestled beneath the cotton fabric.
"Still shrinking, huh?" Anya murmured, her voice a low rasp, her thumb rubbing a slow circle over the soft bulge. July sighed, a sound of pure pleasure, her green eyes heavy-lidded as she watched Anya’s exploration. Her own scrotum, an utterly empty pouch, nestled beneath the shaft like deflated shadows beneath the shorts.
"Mmm. Like a shy little mushroom after the rain," July breathed, a lazy grin playing on her lips. "Just gets tinier and softer. I barely feel it most days now. Especially not... compared to other things." Her gaze drifted pointedly down Anya’s body to her scar.
Anya’s answering smile was wide, predatory. She pushed herself up slightly, shifting her weight. Her C-cup breasts swayed, the light catching the intricate ink spiraling over her shoulders and down her back. Without preamble, she dipped her head between July’s thighs. Her tongue, quick and practiced, darted out, finding the shape of July’s small, flaccid length through the thin fabric. She nuzzled it, the cotton dampening instantly under her warm breath and saliva, outlining the soft flesh perfectly. She sucked gently, experimentally, feeling the utter lack of rigidity, the complete yielding softness.
Then she pulled back just enough to look up. Her green eyes, identical to Riley's but alive with reckless mischief, locked onto her sister who stood nearby, observing with an expression caught between professional assessment and latent arousal. Riley leaned against the doorframe, dressed in comfortable sweats that did little to hide her own voluptuous curves. Anya’s tongue flicked out again, catching the tip of July’s soft cock through the damp cotton, her fingers still tracing her own smooth scar.
"Nullos," Anya declared, her voice muffled slightly by fabric and flesh, yet clear and defiant, "give the best head, don't we?" She grinned up at Riley, the challenge, the sheer ownership in her statement hanging thick in the incense-laden air. She sucked again, harder this time, a wet, obscene sound punctuating her claim.
Riley huffed a soft, almost amused breath, pushing away from the doorframe. "Modesty’s never been your strong suit, sis. Especially not now." She moved closer, her gaze dropping to Anya’s lower abdomen. "Let me check the incision. How’s the pain?"
Anya released July’s cock with a soft pop, leaving a dark wet spot on the cotton. She flopped back fully onto the couch, stretching like a satisfied cat, her new smoothness on full display. "Stings a bit. Like a sunburn on my... well, where it was. Mostly just feels... strange. Empty in a good way. Heavy weights gone." She tapped the scar again. "Feels right."
Riley knelt beside the couch with effortless grace, her surgeon's fingers surprisingly gentle as they palpated the area around the suture line. Her touch was cool, clinical, yet Anya shivered. "Healing beautifully," Riley murmured, her green eyes scanning the skin intently. "No sign of infection. Minimal swelling. You were made for this, Anya. The skin took the tension perfectly." Her thumb brushed the faint ridge, a touch that felt oddly intimate despite – or perhaps because of – its medical purpose. "Smooth." She said it softly, almost reverently.
"Told you," July purred from above, her hand drifting down to stroke Anya’s scarlet hair. "The ultimate power bottom upgrade. No distractions. All focus... elsewhere." Her gaze drifted meaningfully towards her own lap, then back to Riley.
Anya caught Riley’s wrist as the doctor moved to pull away. "See?" she insisted, guiding Riley’s fingers back to her scar, pressing them flat against the smooth plane. "Perfect, right? Better than the butterfly?" She nodded towards the shadow box now mounted on the wall above the stereo – the dark, preserved clitoris forming the body, the pinned labia like fleshy wings, a macabre, fascinating trophy. "That’s just art. This..." She pressed Riley's hand harder against her, "...this is function. This is freedom."
Riley’s breath hitched slightly. Her fingers remained, pressed against the warm skin, feeling the subtle ridge beneath. Her gaze flickered from the smoothness beneath her hand to the grotesque butterfly, then to Anya’s triumphant, vulnerable face, and finally to July’s knowing, teasing eyes watching her. The air hummed, thick with incense and unspoken tension. The fan whirred, pushing the heavy scent around them.
"Freedom," Riley echoed, her voice lower now, rougher. She didn’t remove her hand. Instead, her other hand drifted unconsciously to the waistband of her own sweats, fingers dipping beneath the elastic. The familiar, heavy looseness between her own legs was a constant presence, a counterpoint to Anya’s new emptiness. She felt the familiar, internal tug, the lax tissues shifting easily. Seeing Anya so confidently display her nullification, feeling that smooth scar, watching July's quiet enjoyment... it stirred the deep, demanding ache within her own modified body.
July saw it. That slight shift in Riley’s posture, the dilation of her pupils, the way her fingers lingered beneath her waistband. "Looks like someone else could use some... attention," July murmured, her voice a dark velvet caress. "Your turn to relax, Doc? Let that beautiful prolapse breathe? It’s practically begging for it."
Riley didn’t answer immediately. She finally withdrew her hand from Anya’s scar, leaving a faint imprint on the skin. Her cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment, but with the rising heat of her own need. She stood, her movements less controlled than usual. Her green eyes, dark with arousal now, held July’s gaze. Then, slowly, deliberately, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sweats and pushed them down over her hips, letting them pool around her ankles. She stepped out of them, standing nude before them.
Her E-cup breasts were magnificent, tipped with hard, dusky nipples. But all eyes were drawn lower. As expected, the constant stretching, the insistent emptiness Riley craved, meant her vulva offered no resistance. The hairless, swollen lips hung low and heavy, already parted. A thick, glistening burgundy knot – her engorged clit – pushed out prominently. And below it, a soft, deep pink bloom of inner tissue had already begun to ease its way out, drawn by gravity and the sudden release of pressure. A subtle, undeniable prolapse, slick and vulnerable.
She stood there, breathing slightly faster, the flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, her gaze fixed on July, waiting. The fan’s drone seemed louder. The scent of arousal, rich and musky, mingled with the sandalwood, thick and undeniable in the golden light. Anya watched, rapt, her hand absently stroking her scar, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face as Riley surrendered to the demanding looseness of her own body. The air crackled, heavy with the weight of transformation and the sharp, shared hunger rising between the three of them.