An Idea

Her thighs closed around your head like a vice, and the world narrowed to the taste of her. Slick. Musky. Thick on your tongue in a way that made your dick throb against the worn wool rug. You'd been inside this woman a hundred times, but you'd never had her like this—never had her *demanding* it, her hand fisted in your hair with enough force to make your scalp sting, grinding her cunt against your mouth like you were nothing but a tool for her pleasure.

"That's it," she moaned, and her voice came from somewhere above you, distant and godlike. "Worship me like the goddess I am."

You obeyed. You had no choice—not because she held you there, though she did, her thighs strong enough now to crush your skull if she wanted—but because some part of you had stopped wanting a choice. Your tongue found her clit and she gasped, her hips bucking forward, and you felt her hand tighten in your hair, pulling you deeper into the slick heat of her.

She tasted different than she used to. You couldn't name it, couldn't place the shift, but there was something electric beneath the familiar musk, something that made your mouth water and your dick ache. You lapped at her clit, slow and deliberate, and she rewarded you with a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her thighs and into your skull.

"Fuck," she breathed. "You're getting better at this."

You wanted to answer, wanted to tell her that she was the one who'd changed, that her body had become something you couldn't resist, but her thighs clamped around your ears and your words died in your throat. All you could do was lick, and suck, and worship.

The lamp on the nightstand cast her shadow across you, a giantess of light and muscle, and you watched her stomach flex as she rode your face. Her simple black bra was still on, the straps cutting lines into her skin, and her matching panties were somewhere on the floor—you'd heard them tear when she'd pushed you down. She'd been rough about it, impatient, like she couldn't wait another second to have your mouth on her.

"Use your tongue," she commanded, and you felt the words more than heard them, her cunt pressing against your lips. "Fucking *use* it."

You flattened your tongue and dragged it up the length of her, from the base of her clit to the tip, and she shuddered above you. Her grip on your hair loosened, just for a moment, and you felt her fingers stroke through the strands before tightening again, pulling you back into her.

"That's it," she said, softer now, almost reverent. "Just like that."

You lost track of time. The world became her—her taste, her smell, the wet sound of your mouth on her cunt, the way her thighs trembled against your cheeks. You sucked her clit into your mouth and she cried out, her hips grinding against your face, and you felt her body begin to tense, her muscles coiling like a spring.

"I'm close," she gasped, and her hand fisted in your hair, pulling you so deep you could barely breathe. "Don't you dare stop."

You didn't. You couldn't. You sucked and licked and devoured her, and when she came, it wasn't a gentle wave—it was a flood. Her juices filled your mouth, hot and tasting of something you couldn't name, and she held you there, her thighs locked around your head, her body shuddering through wave after wave of release.

You swallowed. You had no choice—she wouldn't let you pull away, and the taste of her was so overwhelming, so *right*, that you didn't want to. You drank her down, every drop, and when she finally released you, her hand sliding from your hair, you gasped for air like a man surfacing from deep water.

She sat back on your chest, her weight pressing you into the rug, and looked down at you. Her skin glistened in the lamplight, her chest heaving with the aftermath of her orgasm, and her eyes—those warm brown eyes you'd fallen in love with—held something you'd never seen before.

"Good boy," she said, and the words sent a jolt through you, your dick twitching against her thigh.

You wanted to speak, wanted to say something, but your mouth was full of the taste of her and your brain was still trying to catch up. You just stared up at her, this woman who'd grown a foot and a half in two days, who'd become something you barely recognized, and you felt your own body begin to respond.

And then you felt something else.

It started in your chest, a warmth that spread outward, and you realized with a start that you felt... *different*. Lighter. Your muscles seemed to hum with an energy you'd never felt before, and your dick—your dick was *harder* than it had ever been, straining against your thigh like it was trying to reach her, and yet it somehow looked… smaller? it was only slight, maybe a loss of a centimetre, you couldn’t tell, for all you knew you were just imagining things.

Carrie noticed your muscles shift. Of course she noticed. She was sitting on your chest, after all, and she felt the change as much as you did.

Her eyes widened, just for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across her face.

"Interesting," she said, and the word was soft, almost to herself.

She shifted off you, moving to kneel beside you on the rug, and her hand drifted down to your chest, tracing the lines of your muscles. You looked down at yourself, and you could have sworn your arms looked thinner than they had an hour ago. Your abs felt less defined. Your whole body felt like it had been remade, changed, improved?

"What's happening to me?" you asked, and your voice came out softer than you expected, lighter.

Carrie didn't answer. She just smiled, that knowing, hungry smile, and her hand drifted lower, tracing the line of your hip before wrapping around your dick.

You gasped. Her hand was huge now, her fingers wrapping around your shaft with room to spare, and when she stroked you, slow and deliberate, you felt your hips buck into her grip.

"You feel different," she said, and there was wonder in her voice. "Softer."

"I feel—" You cut yourself off, not sure how to finish the sentence. You felt *more*. More than you'd ever been, in every way.

Carrie's smile widened, and she leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Good," she said. "I want you to feel good."

But there was something in her eyes, something you couldn't quite read, and as she looked down at you, her hand still wrapped around your dick, you felt a shiver run down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

She was thinking about something. Something she wasn't telling you.

And for the first time since she'd revealed her secret, you wondered what else she was capable of.

The dildo lay on the nightstand where she'd left it, and your eyes drifted to it as Carrie's thumb traced the head of your dick. It looked bigger than you remembered—longer, thicker, more *veined*—and you frowned, trying to remember if it had always looked like that.

Carrie followed your gaze, and her smile turned secretive.

"You noticed," she said, and her voice was soft, almost a purr. "Good."

"What does that mean?" you asked, but she didn't answer. She just leaned down and pressed her lips to yours, and you tasted yourself on her tongue, and the question died in your throat.

Something was changing. Something was happening inside you, inside her, inside this room. And as Carrie pulled back and looked down at you, her hand still stroking your dick, you had the feeling that you were standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

She was going to grow. She was going to get bigger, stronger, more powerful. And you—

You had no idea what she had in store for you.

But as she smiled down at you, her fingers tightening around your shaft, you knew one thing for certain.

You would follow her anywhere.

Her hand kept stroking you, slow and deliberate, but her eyes had drifted to the nightstand. To the dildo that looked nothing like the one she'd pulled from the drawer earlier—that one had been thick, sure, but manageable. This one looked like it could split you in half, veins bulging along its length like tree roots, and you watched Carrie's lips part as she studied it.

"It grew," you said, and your voice still sounded wrong in your ears, deeper, like someone else was speaking through you. "When you came. It actually grew."

Carrie's hand stilled on your dick, and she looked at you with those warm brown eyes that had somehow become ancient, knowing. "I think I did that," she said, and there was no surprise in her voice—just discovery, like she'd finally found the edge of a map she'd been tracing her whole life. "I think I made it bigger. Without even trying."

Your brain tried to catch up. She'd grown from swallowing cum. The dildo had grown from her touching it. And you—you'd eaten her out, swallowed her cum, and now your arms looked thinner, your voice had raised an octave. The pattern didn’t make sense.

"What does that mean?" you asked again, and this time the question wasn't about the dildo. It was about everything. About the warmth still spreading through your chest, about the way your body hummed, about the fact that you had just thought about a dildo splitting yourself in half.

Carrie's smile widened, and she leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear. "It means I'm not done changing," she said, and her voice was a purr, low and hungry. "And neither are you."

She sat back, and her hand left your dick, and you felt the absence like a physical loss. She crawled off you, moving across the rug on her hands and knees, and you watched her—the way her back muscles shifted under her skin, the way her ass swayed, the way she seemed to fill the room even as she moved through it. She reached the nightstand and picked up the dildo, weighing it in her hand like it was nothing, and turned back to face you.

"But first," she said, and her voice was light, almost playful, "I want to see what you can do with that new body of yours."

She tossed the dildo aside and crawled back toward you, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight, and you felt your dick twitch against your thigh, harder than it had ever been, ready for whatever she had in store.