Grab your clothes and stumble toward the shop door — you need to get out of here NOW, before you lose yourself completely.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 11:34 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

I lunge for my clothes.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the fabric. I snatch my boxers from the pile, drag them up my legs — and freeze. They fit differently. There's less to contain. My cock — my cock — is noticeably smaller, the shaft thinner, the whole package sitting lower and less substantial against my body. The boxers that used to fit snugly now bunch with excess fabric. I shove that thought down with everything else and grab my jeans, yanking them on without bothering with the zipper. My t-shirt goes over my head and my nipples scream at the contact — still three times more sensitive, still swollen, still wrong — and I gasp but don't stop.

I'm out of the fitting room and stumbling across the shop floor before Pan has finished adjusting her blazer. My bare feet slap against the cold tile. The door — the glass door with its painted jack-o'-lantern — is twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

My thighs brush together as I walk and I nearly collapse. There's a phantom wetness between my legs — not real, there's no pussy there anymore, I have a cock, I'm male — but my body doesn't believe it. I can feel the ghost of being stretched open, the echo of Pan's massive cock filling me, and my knees buckle. I catch myself on a rack of costumes, gasping.

"Trevor."

Pan's voice is low and honeyed behind me. I don't turn around. I push off the rack and keep moving, legs unsteady, vision swimming.

"Trevor, sweetheart. Where are you going?"

"Out," I manage. My voice is hoarse. "I'm leaving. I'm done."

"Done?" A soft laugh. The click of her heels on tile, following me at a leisurely pace. "You don't even have a costume for your party, love. You came here for a reason, remember?"

Five feet from the door. I can see the street through the glass — the dark sidewalk, the amber streetlights, the real world waiting for me.

"I don't care about the party," I lie, because some part of me still cares, still wants to impress Megan, still wants to be someone worth noticing. But that part is being drowned by the screaming animal panic in my chest.

Three feet. My hand reaches for the handle.

Pan's hand closes around my wrist.

Her grip is gentle but absolute — like being held by something that could crush bone but chooses not to. She spins me around and presses me against the door, her body pinning mine, those large breasts flattening against my chest through the blazer and corset. I can feel the heat of her — the impossible heat of her — radiating through my thin t-shirt. And lower, pressing against my thigh through her skirt, I can feel it again. That thick, hard shape.

"You felt what it was like," she whispers, her lips brushing my ear. Her free hand slides down my stomach, fingers dipping below my waistband. "Don't lie to me, Trevor. Don't lie to yourself. That was the best orgasm of your entire life. Being filled. Being taken. You've never felt anything like it."

Her fingers find my cock — smaller, softer, pathetically responsive to her touch — and she strokes it once through my boxers. My hips buck forward involuntarily and a whimper escapes my lips.

"You can walk out that door," she murmurs, her amber eyes inches from mine, those slit pupils dilated with hunger. "It's not locked. I won't stop you. But you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what the next one felt like. The next costume. The next transformation. The next time you get filled until you can't think."

Her hand withdraws. She steps back, releasing my wrist, leaving me pressed against the door with my cock throbbing and my phantom pussy aching and every nerve in my body screaming at me to stay.

"The choice is yours, Trevor. Always has been."

She stands three feet away, arms crossed beneath her breasts, that knowing smirk back on her full lips. Behind her, the shop stretches into impossible depth — racks of costumes disappearing into shadows that shouldn't exist.

The door handle is cold against my back. All I have to do is turn it.