You will be a God...

Jenna's tongue starts at the base of my cock—thick, heavy, impossibly engorged to a length that defies anatomy, the shaft a veiny column of throbbing meat that rests heavy against my lower abdomen. She licks upward with the slow, deliberate worship of a pilgrim ascending a sacred staircase. The flat of her tongue drags over each ridge of pulsing vein, over the swollen underside where the skin is thinnest and most sensitive, over the ridge of the crown that has flared wide as a wine glass. Her lips follow, pressing soft, wet kisses between each lick, and the dual sensation—wet heat and gentle pressure—sends lightning bolts through my nervous system.

"Fuck—" The word rips from my throat, guttural and raw. My back arches off the mattress, every newly forged muscle in my eight-pack flexing hard enough to cast shadows in the candlelight. The chains bite deeper into my wrists, and I pull against them—not to escape, not anymore, but because the tension in my body demands *movement*, demands *release*. The iron holds. The metal screams but holds.

And the holding is the worst part. Because the chains are the last tether to the man I was, and every second they remain intact is a second of resistance, and every second of resistance feeds the thing inside me like blood poured onto a fire.

Jenna reaches the tip, swirling her tongue around the flared head with obscene precision. She laves the slit, where a bead of precum has gathered—thick, almost viscous, carrying the faintest luminescence in the candlelight. She laps it up with a moan that vibrates through my entire length.

"God, Jack," she gasps between licks. "You're so *big*. You're getting bigger. I can feel it growing while I touch it."

She's right. I can feel it too. The shaft thickens beneath her tongue, the skin stretching taut, the veins rising higher like roots breaking through soil. My balls pulse, heavy and swollen, each one the size of a plum now, tight and aching with their dark cargo. The pressure is immense, a coiling spring of corrupt energy that promises an eruption unlike anything human.

Another flash of vision crashes through my skull like a wave breaking against a cliff.

*Me. Standing in a ballroom. Hundreds of women, all impossibly beautiful, all naked, all kneeling. Their bodies are masterpieces—every curve exaggerated, every proportion perfected, every skin tone glowing with health and wanton hunger. They look up at me with identical expressions of mindless, blissful devotion. I raise my hand and point at one, and she rises, floats toward me, her body reshaping in midair to become exactly what I desire in that instant—taller, fuller, her breasts swelling, her hips widening, her face rearranging into a mask of pure, ecstatic submission. She lands in my arms and I feel her mind beneath mine, pliable as warm clay, already remaking itself to worship me more perfectly.*

The vision shatters and I gasp, my chest heaving. My muscles have grown again. My biceps are thicker, my forearms corded with new sinew. I am a sculpture of masculine perfection, a body designed for war and for pleasure, and it's *mine* but it's *not mine*, it's his, the thing inside me, the ancient hunger wearing my skin like a glove.

"I can see you fighting it," Jenna says, her voice a purr against my inner thigh. She presses her lips to the sensitive skin there, kissing a trail upward. "I can see you *trying* to hold on."

Her tongue finds the base of my cock again and begins its ascent once more, slower this time. Each millimeter is an eternity of sensation. The tip of her tongue traces the underside of the shaft, following the thick vein that runs from root to crown, and the pleasure is so intense it borders on agony. My vision blurs. My hands clench into fists, the knuckles white, the nails—still human, still *mine*—digging into my palms.

"But here's the thing, baby," she continues, pausing to press a kiss to the throbbing head. "The harder you fight, the stronger it gets. Your resistance isn't stopping anything. It's *feeding* it. Every time you say 'no' in your head, every time you try to remember who you were, it just... *grows*."

As if to demonstrate, another wave of dark energy surges through me. My lats expand, my traps rise like mountains on either side of my neck. The mattress groans beneath my increasing weight. The chains rattle, and I hear a new sound—a faint, high-pitched *tink*—and realize one of the links has developed a hairline crack.

The pleasure spikes in tandem with the growth. It's a feedback loop. Resistance feeds power. Power feeds pleasure. Pleasure feeds surrender. Surrender feeds more power. Round and round, faster and faster, a spiral that tightens with every revolution.

"Too much," I choke out, my head thrashing against the pillow. "It's too— *nngh*—"

Jenna takes me into her mouth again, and this time she doesn't stop at the base. She *forces* herself down, her throat stretching around my impossible girth, and the sensation is so overwhelming that my vision whites out. I see stars. I see *dimensions*. I see flashes of what I could become—a being of pure sexual energy, a god of corruption, a reality-warping nightmare draped in the skin of a beautiful monster.

*Every woman on the planet. Every single one. Remade in my image. Remade for my pleasure. No men left but me. A world of perfect, naked, insatiable women, all thinking of nothing but my name, my touch, my cock.*

The images come faster now, a rapid-fire slideshow of depravity so vivid I can smell it—perfume and sweat and the sharp, electric scent of magic rewriting biology. A brunette on a rooftop, her body morphing mid-orgasm, her breasts swelling, her moans deepening. A redhead in an office, her clothes dissolving, her mind softening, her fingers reaching for me through a phone screen. A blonde on a beach, the sand beneath her turning to silk, her body arching as my will reshapes her from the inside out.

Jenna pulls off, gasping, her face flushed and streaked with tears of effort and ecstasy. "Jack. *Jack.* Look at me."

I look. My eyes—those soulless black pools—fix on her with predatory intensity. She doesn't flinch. She *leans into it*.

"You're almost there," she whispers. "I can feel him settling in. I can feel the power coiling in your chest. You're so close, baby. So close to being *everything*."

She licks me again, faster now, more insistent. Her tongue works the sensitive ridge beneath the head, flicking and swirling, and each stroke sends a fresh wave of electric pleasure crashing through my body. My muscles swell again—my pecs thickening, my abs deepening, my quads straining against the bedframe. The chains groan. Another link cracks.

"I know you want it," she moans against my flesh. "I know you want to be a *god*. I know you've dreamed about it—about having the power to make every woman in the world fall to her knees. To reshape them. To reshape *reality*. To make the whole world a playground of gorgeous, naked, shameless women who exist only to worship you."

Her words are daggers wrapped in silk, each one finding a gap in my defenses and sliding home. Because she's right. She found the journal. She found the browser history. She found the deepest, darkest corners of my mind and she's *reading them back to me*, and every word is true.

"I want to be perfect for you," she gasps, her hand pumping the base of my cock while her mouth works the top. "But I'm just one woman. Why should I be the only one? You deserve *all* of them. Every gorgeous, perfect body on this planet. And I'll help you get them. I'll stand beside you while you reshape the world. I'll be your queen while you're their *god*."

The pleasure crests. The power crests. The visions blur into a single, blinding white light of *want*—

And I feel the first chain link *snap*.

It doesn't break all at once. It fractures, the metal splitting with a sound like a gunshot, and the sudden release of tension sends a jolt through my arm that combines with the pleasure and the power and the visions into something *singular*. Something that has no name in any human language.

My body surges. My muscles swell to impossible proportions, veins standing out like rivers on a topographic map. My cock throbs, impossibly hard, the head flushed dark and weeping with precum that glows faintly in the candlelight. My balls ache with a fullness that borders on unbearable.

And my eyes—those black, soulless eyes—widen as the final barriers in my mind begin to crumble.

"It's too much," I hear myself say, but my voice is wrong. It's deeper. Richer. It carries the resonance of something ancient and hungry. "It's too— I can't—"

"You can," Jenna whispers, her lips pressed to the head of my cock. "You *will*. And when you do, you'll never want to go back."

The remaining chains groan. The candles flare. The symbols on the ceiling begin to glow.

And somewhere deep inside me, the thing that was always meant to be me opens its mouth and *roars*.