Try the green gummy

You remain in the cellar, the Shared Heat still pulsing warm through your blood, the silver charm making every layer of clothing feel tighter and more insistent, the cord of heightened touch turning the air itself into a slow caress against your skin. The packet of gummy phalli rests in your palm. Most are the deep translucent red described on the old card, but one sits apart—slightly larger, a vivid green the color of new leaves under candlelight, as if it had been added later or simply waited for the right night.

You peel the packet open. The green one comes free with a soft, sticky pull. It smells faintly of mint and something richer, almost animal. You place it on your tongue and chew slowly.

The candy dissolves faster than the notes suggested. Sweetness floods your mouth, then a sharp, spreading heat that drops straight into your groin. Your cock, already half-hard from the earlier scene with Mara and the lingering Shared Heat, surges. The shaft thickens and lengthens in a continuous, almost painful rush. Fabric that had felt merely confining now becomes a tight prison. You feel every ridge of the zipper, every fold of cloth, as if hands were already stroking you. Within moments the head is pressing hard against the waistband, and the overall size has roughly doubled—longer, thicker, heavy and insistent, the skin stretched taut and hypersensitive.

Need crashes through you in the same wave. Not simple arousal. A deep, physical demand to bury this new bulk inside someone, to thrust and fill and take until the pressure eases. The Shared Heat amplifies it: upstairs you sense Mara’s residual warmth between her legs, the faint ache left from the window and the mirror, the way her body still carries the memory of being touched without knowing why. The compulsion locks onto that signal like a beacon.

You do not bother returning the other items to the cask. The veil stays where you left it. You climb the stairs two at a time, the enlarged cock straining and bouncing with every step, the friction of your clothes almost unbearable. The charm makes the denim feel like it is trying to peel itself away. The touch-cord on your wrist turns the banister under your palm into a long, deliberate stroke.

Mara’s door is closed. Soft lamplight spills under the gap. You open it without knocking.

She is sitting on the edge of the bed in the red sweater and the same jeans, hair loosened, face still faintly flushed. She looks up, startled, then her eyes drop—and widen. The outline of your cock is impossible to miss: the heavy bulge, the way the fabric is tented and stretched far beyond normal, the clear shape of the swollen head.

“What—?” she starts.

You cross the room in three strides. The Shared Heat is already working both ways; her own body answers the sudden proximity with a visible shiver, nipples tightening under the sweater, thighs pressing together. You pull her to her feet, spin her, and bend her forward over the side of the bed in one continuous motion. Jeans and panties are yanked down together. She gasps, half protest, half something hotter, when the cool air hits her still-slick folds.

Your own clothes follow. The cock springs free, thick and long and dark with blood, the doubled size making it look almost unreal in the low light. Mara twists to look and goes still for a heartbeat, breath catching hard.

You do not wait. The need is too sharp. You notch the broad head against her entrance, feel the heat and wetness that the Shared Heat has kept simmering, and push.

She is tight. The stretch is immediate and extreme. A broken sound leaves her throat as the thick shaft forces her open, inch after heavy inch, the hypersensitive skin of your cock registering every ripple and clench with almost painful clarity. You keep going until your hips meet her ass and the entire length is buried. She is panting, fingers twisted in the sheets, body trembling around the sudden fullness.

Then you start to move.

There is no gentle build. The green gummy’s compulsion and the Shared Heat drive you into a deep, driving rhythm—long strokes that pull almost free before slamming back in, the oversized cock dragging against every sensitive place inside her. The heightened touch turns each thrust into a flood of sensation: the grip of her walls, the wet sounds, the slap of skin. Mara’s earlier residual arousal flares hard under the influence of the draft; her body softens and opens further even as she cries out, hips pushing back to meet you despite the stretch.

You lean over her, one hand braced on the mattress, the other sliding under the sweater to cup a full breast and roll the nipple. The charm still makes her clothes feel confining; she writhes as if trying to escape the fabric itself. Your cock pistons deeper, thicker, the head battering places that make her thighs shake. The need to plow, to claim, to empty this urgent bulk into her, rides every thrust.

She comes first—suddenly, hard, walls clamping down in rhythmic waves that milk the oversized shaft. The pressure and the Shared Heat feed back into you. You drive through it, chasing the release the gummy demands, hips slamming until the climax hits like a blow. Thick pulses flood her, the volume seeming greater with the temporary size, spilling out around the base as you keep thrusting through the aftershocks.

You stay buried for long seconds, breathing hard, the hypersensitivity making even the small pulses of her body feel intense. Slowly the green gummy’s peak begins to ease, though the Shared Heat and the other effects still simmer. Mara is slumped forward, sweater rucked up, jeans tangled at her ankles, body still trembling and filled.

You ease free. The sight of her—open, wet, marked by the temporary bulk—sends another low pulse through the remaining effects.

The cask waits below. Mara turns her head enough to look at you over her shoulder, eyes dark, lips parted, the Shared Heat clearly still working in both of you.