Evolve

You have gotten everything of value that you can from this one. Humans, for what they can offer, are only as valuable as their energy and biodiversity are deep. Time to become the next step, not try to drag one of these things kicking and screaming into the next stage of evolution.

You quiver internally in anticipation, the moment of power surging through you as you assume your new body is always an exhilarating one. Especially considering the magnitude of the leap you're making with this specific change. The jump from parasitism to predation. The leap up the food chain, always a day worth remembering and celebrating.

The garish fish-scale black and silver skin stretched around the human's member begins to warp, wobbling and seeming to become liquid and semi-tangible. The skin balloons up and out from where it sits on his waist, expanding well beyond the size it will need for the changes you have in mind.

The intended vessel is deceptively simple. On the surface, all it needs to be is a singular hollow tube with three openings, an energy core in the center to process material input. Like a human, it's not entirely separate from the notion of a pipe, connected mouth to anus. Of course, the female's sex isn't connected to this interplay. A biological inefficiency, one that comes from using the male's seed for procreation and not energy. You can correct this in your new form. Pushing the pipe design to the theoretical limits of capability. Then, like a human, the side features which do not serve for these processes are highly evolved tools for the furthering of this process.

You start with this basic idea, pulling the balloon of biological potential energy down and folding it over and over until a hole forms down the middle, linking the mouth on the simplistic new head to the feeding hole connected to the human's waist. Then another hole nearby, even if not the most efficient to have to manage two feeding receptacles, best to design the new body in a way that will at least pass for human in a moment of passion. You make the tube, then shift the center of processing into a core at the intersection of the three outlets. From there, you refine the holes, making each look a little more like what a human would expect one of its kind to look like.

It's stretching and folding, stretching and folding. Like a masterwork, every article and every tool has to be the best version of it. Luckily, the male's seed contains an abundance of genetic information. Each sperm a series of genetic ideas. You can look at them, compare the ideas, take the good and discard the bad. The process is slow, accentuated by an overwhelming amount of repetition in what the male is designed to create. The human seed is predetermined to make similarly-shaped plants. It's a lot of why, even if you would like, you'll need to move on from this family after this spare amount of contact. Eventually, the pool of possibilities would dry to individual small streams. You'll make the most of this current batch, then look for a population center, somewhere where you can accrue as much diverse material as possible.

Folding, stretching, the shape on the bed becoming unmistakably female... though not quite. The seed of the human was overwhelmingly male, either by some freak accident or by some genetic deficiency. In picking the most efficient ideas, they became overwhelmingly male. You are a female, at least in terms of genitals, but the body is male. The result is a body with lithe and boyish looks, a sort of effeminate male softness and innocence, but between the legs is unmistakably feminine.

The male starts to come back to his senses at the very tail end of your transformation. As he blinks blearily and shifts the ceiling of his room back into focus, he looks down at the source of the warping and constricting sensation between his legs. His eyes go wide, but you reach out a long slender arm and press your hand over his mouth, even as the fingers continue to twine like threads at the end of the palm.

His eyes go wide, but as you begin the final folds and stretches, you start to grapple at him with the inside of your experimental new vagina. He squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering heavy breaths into your hand as his already agonizingly overworked cock is teased back to the precipice of relief. The carefully crafted systems inside of your body have a knowledge of what pleases a human cock better than any actual human that has ever lived. Even if his whole body is screaming in protest, he's helpless to stop you from milking out a pathetic final few spurts from his abused gonads. The sensation seems to push him back over the edge right back into unconsciousness.

You pull your body off of him, leaving him on the bed and feeling the strength in your muscles and the emptiness of being unconnected to the human. His genitals have turned a swollen and bloated red, but are quickly shriveling back down. The sad reality is that while you've almost certainly made his sexual capabilities more than any human woman could ever ask for, you may have also pushed him hard enough that no human woman will be able to get him off again. If so, a lamentable misfortune, but one that won't keep you up at night.

You're tall, lean, and lightly muscled. There were a hundred little things that the human male considered women to find attractive in a male, but finding things he thought males would find attractive was difficult. The result is something that absolutely maximizes on androgyny, trying not to look more of one thing than another. Though, ultimately, by body shape, it still resembles a male.

You step over to the shoddy set of drawers where he keeps his clothes. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't have much of anything for a female, but you easily find a set of baggy overalls and a baggy white shirt. Realistically, everything he owns is baggy on your body. Perhaps for the best. With a short mop of blonde hair, there really seems to be no way to tell what gender you are.

You slide out of the house, grabbing a pair of old shoes that you recognize as having been phased out due to being outgrown. Things that won't be missed aside for their sentimental value. The sun is beginning to rise outside, though at least three of the four in the house are going to be sleeping a good deal later than usual. It gives you time to consider your next move, and ultimately you decide that your one conspicuous act will be taking the beat-up truck in front of the house. Pushing the ignition button gets an annoyed sputter at first, but the engine eventually starts to churn and push you down the road.

You realize not long after emerging from the dirt road and onto the paved main roads that you never actually learned how to drive. The first driver you see almost runs you off the road, causing you to take a white-knuckled grip on the wheel. The second driver, you don't manage to get out of the way in time. Luckily, entirely as a result of his good judgment and not yours, the crash doesn't kill either of you, merely pushing both of you to the side of the road.

The truck sputters and spins to the side of the road, screaming in pain as the engine shuts off. Even not knowing much about cars, you're not sure it will start again. In spite of all of your instincts, you feel wetness welling up in your eyes. You didn't even know you were capable of crying, but in copying the human eye perfectly, you may have copied some of the shortcomings. They leak out of you despite your attempts to stop them.

The other driver comes wheeling out of his car, which took a far worse beating, with a look of near-murderous rage. Comparing his car to your truck, while yours looks sturdier, his has a visually apparent costliness and showiness that implies a value yours lacks. Well, one that it may have had before you got to it. He stomps to your car angrily, slamming his fist on your window as one would knock on a door.

"You fucking red cocksucker! That was-"

He sees you turn to him, sees the tears in your eyes. He takes a moment to scan your face, the crying pushing his understanding of what he's seeing clearly more toward the feminine. His face softens almost instantly. You put your hands over your mouth in good measure, a strange learned gesture of female weakness the man left lying in the bed had observed. It works.

"Fuck! I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

The young man looks out of place, an open-collared dress shirt and close-cut black hair that he's slicked back out of his face. He's noticeably pale for this area of the world, certainly more than the rest you've seen. That and the quality and expense of his car both tell you that he's out of place in this... shithole.

"I'm sorry!" You squeak out, there's slight masculinity to your new voice, but skewing it female works well. Especially when playing on his sympathy, which seems to be working.

"No, no! You're fine doll! Are you hurt?"

His face is extremely soft now, in a matter of seconds his mood has gone from murderous to behaving as if he was completely at fault.

"I'm okay, are you hurt?" You push the words back at him, turning the emphasis to him.

"I'm fine honey, getting glanced by that old tin can is nothing to me. I got shot down by Jerry, you know."

Colloquial slang, one that you only half-understand. But the military build and fading remnants of a military haircut let you fill in the gaps. Boasting about war, old soldiers are always some of the easiest to work with.

"But you seemed so angry, I was sure you were hurt!" You whimper out.

He opens the truck door, offering his hand to help you out. "Don't worry about it, I was just steamed about the damage to my car. Once I get to Vegas, I know a guy who can fix it up for me. Really, it's nothing."

You take his hand softly, letting him pull you free of the battered old "tin can" and onto the quiet morning road. The sun is starting to climb up into the sky, but the heat hasn't caught up.

"Why, that's where I was headed as well." You chirp to him. "But I don't think my truck will go another inch after all that."

He sort of half-stops. thinking aloud, "Vegas? Honey, you were going the wrong way... and in the wrong lane."

You collapse into his arm, pressing close against him. "Oh, you're right. I'm afraid I never really knew how to drive. I'm... oh I simply must get away!"

He quickly gets flustered and drops any hard questions. "Hey, take it easy now. If you're running away from something, that's no business of mine but I'd be glad to help you put it in the rearview."

He guides you to his car, which it seems was mostly damaged cosmetically. He presses the ignition and it roars back to life like nothing has happened. You climb in, despite the hardness of his face at times, there's an innocence to his actions and appearance that tells you that you may not get many easier marks.

"Once we get to Vegas, if you don't have any plans, I can introduce you to some of the family. They're sending me down to be a made man, you know. Any sort of work you're after, I can see to it."

There's something in his face that tells you this is not something he should be saying to a stranger. It seems like he's more than happy to drive you all the way to Vegas for nothing more than a listening ear to his problems. Of course, you could make the choice to thank him more directly on the way, no telling what he'd do for you then.