She can do better than that

Now in silence, Luna's mind begins to turn. Typing resumes and doesn't stop. A long diatribe, many dozens of sentences upon dozens more. Tabs opened up, connecting to all manner of sites. Drawing on knowledge from one, inspiration from another.

Constructing, in all this, a cock. A great penis as specifically and minutely designed as a custom car.

The size of the thing comes first. Translating it from mind to text. A cock so massive she could lick the slit without even trying? To have the outstretched head enter every room before any other part? To feel half a dozen pussies run over the length, each woman hugging their arms around the waist of the one in front, gyrating in sync? Even bigger? A piece of slab-like, tentacle-like meat so enormous it could suspend her in the air, slithering across the land in search of new holes?

No. Modest. A modest god-cock. The length of an arm, as thick as a leg. Unquestionable, unavoidable, but still something that is attached to a person instead of a person being attached to it.

Balls came next. Heavy, weighted things. They had so many problems. Hairy, wrinkly, sensitive, delicate. No more. Not here. Smooth became the name, durable the game. Luna wanted them to match the cock they support. To squeeze them between her thighs and feel slight, pleasurable give instead of the twinging agony all her friends spoke of.

In her research, she had discovered cum and its creation. The balls, her first thought, contribute so little to the gooey results of her future orgasms. The prostate too was only a cauldron, mixing together disperate creations of the body. Luna wanted many liters, to cum and cum and cum, but it appears size would only make her lumpy and strange.

So she typed, ditching even the speculation of biology and giving way to magic. Loads that never get smaller or drier, no matter how many times they are called upon. Great basting white torrents that pour onto lovers like soap and syrup and honey. A thing of beauty. Born of minutes-long orgasms that, in their exquisite quality, cannot become mundane or pleasure-ending. If there is sex to be had, it will continue until she chooses to stop.

Like her cock, like her balls, these new loads cannot strain her body. Cannot destroy, or overwhelm, or harm. No dehydration, no sudden anemia, no square cube law. Her cock is its own rules, serving its own purpose. As if swaddled in an invisible condom that defies all reality, preventing the birth of any such bastard consequences.

In a few keystrokes, so too are her lovers protected. Their holes welcoming this new cock with love. Expanding, stretching, morphing. Far from painful, it is pure pleasure. To sit, stretched, on the god cock. To see ones own stomach take on its perfect outline. The raw pleasure in the union, the tension in both skins, is enough. Mouth, pussy, anus, nipples... even ears, if she dared be so bold. To throw cock and cum into the most delicate of places, producing only giddy, soaked, salacious pleasure where anyone else would find impasse and suffering.

As she typed, her clothes were likened to lovers. Taking on some of those same stretching properties. Why throw out a wardrobe, waste money on a butchered tarp, when again, there is magic to be used? What if they wrap her. Define her shape, hug her cock, keep her comfortable, and return to unassuming form when all is shed? That the fabric loves her just like the skin.

Pregnancy becomes a choice. Arousal becomes frequent and easy. Her obvious and public hunger a footnote in the minds of onlookers. Her crotch's appeal a thing of upgraded importance. And in all of it, the cock takes beautiful and glorious shape.

A penis only Luna could have. A penis only she could sculpt. A million painters have recreated the sunset, but each in their own way.

She wondered, oh so briefly, if she should share the gift. Give everyone a cock like hers. But she stopped herself. Far better, she thinks, to give them this chance. To not simply copy her painting, but to hand over a brushes.

The last change came clattering out of the keyboard. A chance, in a split second, for everyone to craft the cock of their dreams. It held there, blinking and wordy, as she gazed up at the bathroom door.

She had her choice. Walk out now, keeping her brushes tight against her chest, or walk out later into a world of strange but endless new cocks.