Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jenna’s phone was vibrating on the coffee table like a beetle trapped on its back, but she ignored it, eyes glued to the television where a rerun of some ancient crime procedural flickered across the screen. The air in her apartment was thick with the buttery scent of microwave popcorn, a bowl of which she had already excavated to its greasy depths. Outside, Manhattan’s horns and sirens played their usual symphony, but inside her little fortress of exposed brick and fraying secondhand couch, the city felt far away, and Jenna could almost pretend she was alone in the world.

She curled her feet under her, a blanket tangled just above her knees. The show was in the middle of a slow-motion car chase—an impossibly clean sedan weaving through LA traffic, the kind of sequence that made her want to scoff aloud. Actors always looked so composed behind the wheel, and Jenna had to clench her jaw to keep from sucking her teeth at the inauthenticity. Maybe she should be watching something smarter, something with subtitles and capital-I Importance, but tonight the junk food felt right, like a familiar old wound she couldn’t stop touching.

The phone buzzed again. This time Jenna reached for it, cradling it in her palm like something dangerous. Emma’s name lit up with a little cartoon ghost floating next to it, the contact photo they’d set together after a bottle and a half of prosecco and a long night of DMs. Jenna swiped to answer, thumb trembling slightly from the residual caffeine jitters and, maybe, the anticipation.

“Hey, Em,” Jenna said, her voice scratchy from a day of silence.

“Jenna!” Emma’s voice carried a freshness, like spearmint, even over the digital lag. “Did you die? I thought you might have died. Or run off to join a cult. Tell me the truth, was it one of those cults with the blue shoes?”

Jenna snorted. “If I joined a cult, you’d be my first recruit. Also, I look terrible in blue.”

Emma’s laughter was a little fizz through the speaker. “Good. Because you’re needed in the real world. I need you to tell me I’m not losing my mind.”

“Depends. Are you hallucinating, or just an existential meltdown?” Jenna asked. She set the popcorn aside, tucking her knees to her chest. The blanket felt cold where her leg had slipped out.

“Neither. Or both, maybe. Look, remember that conversation we had last time, while filming Wednesday? About… you know.” Emma paused, waiting for Jenna to fill in the blank, but Jenna just grinned at the ceiling and let it hang—she knew when her friend was teasing out a secret. “About the thing,” Emma pressed.

***

Jenna’s memory leapt, unspooling through the haze of late nights and nervous laughter. The day had been an endless parade of takes under cold spotlights, no sleep, coffee so black it tasted like battery acid. In their private dressing room, Emma had sprawled across two armchairs, one bare thigh resting on Jenna’s denim-clad knee as if they’d always touched like this. The friendship between them had bloomed quite fast, like it was something bound to happen.

She’d been fiddling with the silver skull ring on her finger, twisting it round and round until the skin beneath it was red and raw. “Do you ever feel,” Emma had said, “like you pour so much of yourself into a character that it starts to feel real?” Her eyes hadn’t moved from the script, but Jenna could feel their weight, the question pressing at her like a slow bruise.

“Like, you’re supposed to fade out of it after wrap, but instead it’s like the girl you were playing moved in and started rearranging the furniture in your head?” Jenna had said, remembering the way Emma’s lips curled around her straw, the way she kept glancing at Jenna’s hands. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Yeah, exactly that!” Emma jumped in her seat, “I can almost feel like I’ve known her all my life. I could even say which type of boy she’d like.”

Jenna grinned, rolling her eyes. “Please. You say that as if you didn’t already have a spreadsheet of her turn-ons and kinks. I bet you’ve analyzed every time she’s gotten wet in the script, cross-referenced it with the phases of the moon, and made a mood board.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but the words hovered in the air, more real than she’d intended. Jenna could feel her own cheeks heat, a faint itch traveling up from her collarbone. She didn’t know why saying it like that made her pulse tick up, only that it did, and that she wanted Emma to notice.

“Okay, rude, but actually, yes,” Emma said. “That’s literally method acting, Jen. If you want to play a werewolf teen with authenticity, you have to know if she’s a missionary girl or a doggy girl.”

Jenna let out a bark of laughter, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “You are such a perv.”

Emma’s voice lowered conspiratorially, like she was about to confess something dark and holy. “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it? About Wednesday?”

Jenna rolled her eyes, but the image hung inside Jenna’s mind: Wednesday Addams, in full monochrome regalia, standing at the lip of the dormitory bed, undressing Enid with a gaze so flat and hungry it somehow made Jenna’s scalp tingle all the way down her backbone.

She could almost see it: Enid, all color and soft fuzz and desperate, frantic energy, backing her into a corner and not even realizing she was the one being hunted. Wednesday would move like a chess piece, deliberate, mechanical, but every so often—Jenna shivered, recalling the way she herself sometimes caught Emma staring—there’d be a flicker, a tell, the tiniest slippage of something molten behind all that black velvet.

God, she’d thought about it. She’d thought about it enough times that she no longer blushed, just rolled her eyes at herself and leaned into the burn until it felt like old news.

“Fine,” she said, stretching her legs and feeling the cold air lick at her knees, “I have considered the implications of Wednesday Addams’ sexual practices. I admit it. I’m a pervert. Are you happy?”

Emma’s laughter stuttered and dropped an octave. “Honestly? Kind of. Because now I don’t feel like a complete fucking weirdo for keeping a journal for hers.” A moment’s hush passed between them, the kind that usually signaled a pivot to safer ground; instead, Emma doubled down. “You want to hear some of the more… intricate entries?”

Jenna was nodding before she had time to veto. “Hit me.”

Emma sat up in her own chair and cleared her throat. “Okay, so, Enid. We all know she’s secretly a switch, right? But—get this—in my notes, she discovers her most powerful kink only after an accidental prolapse during a particularly athletic night with Wednesday. Don’t ask how I know this, but apparently wolves can get, um, very enthusiastic.”

A laugh stuttered out of Jenna, the kind that threatened to turn into a cough. “Jesus Christ, Em. Prolapse? That’s what you’re thinking of?”

“Don’t kink shame, it’s a safe space,” Emma shot back, laughter in her words. “Also, Wednesday’s into it. Meticulously so. Like she’s got a Leuchtturm notebook just for recording Enid’s sphincter circumference over time.”

Jenna nearly dropped the ring, the mental image so absurd it shorted out any retort. She tried to pull herself back together, mouth opening to volley back with something even more deranged, but Emma plowed ahead like a car with cut brakes.

“I’m serious, Jen. I have notes. Wednesday probably alphabetizes her sex tools. I bet she does, like, weekly inventory on Enid’s ass. And when she gets bored, she’s all, ‘Let’s see if we can get something else to come out.’”

Jenna pressed her palm to her eyes, torn between horror and a giddy, electric surge in her chest. Her mind spidered immediately to anatomy class, diagrams of the female pelvis, organs rendered in soft pastels. She knew what Emma was fishing for, but she wanted to play along, to make her work for it.

“Oh please,” Jenna said, dropping her hand, “if Wednesday’s going for gold, she’s going to want uterine, not just rectal. You’re thinking too small.”

A beat of silence, then Emma gasped, delighted. “You absolute degenerate.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t think of it,” Jenna shot back. “Wednesday doesn’t half-ass anything. Full-ass or nothing.”

Emma was giggling uncontrollably now, the sound high and bright and, for some reason, it made Jenna’s stomach tumble in a way she hadn’t felt in months. “You’re as bad as me,” Emma said. “Worse, even.”

Jenna grinned, picking at a scab on her knuckle. “Tell me you haven’t mapped out every possible perversion for these two. Do not lie to me, Em.”

A dramatic sigh from Emma. “Fine, since it’s confession hour. I have, uh, a document. Well. Series of documents.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “There’s one where Enid’s kink is, like, getting fucked by animals. Real ones, not dildos.”

Jenna almost choked. “Like…?”

“Like zoophillia, okay? A whole pack of wolves using her as a cumrag. It’s a whole subgenre, Jen. A weirdly popular one, actually.” Emma’s tone was half-defensive, half gleeful, as if she was daring Jenna to judge her.

Jenna was silent, trying to process whether she was more disturbed or impressed. Her mind conjured images in grainy, American Werewolf in London filter—Enid panting and rutting, Wednesday’s flat gaze watching with anthropological interest. “That’s so fucked,” Jenna said, and heard herself sounding almost awed.

Jenna could already sense where this was going, the shape of Emma’s fantasy unfurling in the pit of her stomach like a nest of snakes. She tried to play it cool, but her brain was running a mile a minute, assembling images quicker than she could tamp them down.

“I mean, if we’re really going wild,” Jenna said, trying to steady her voice, “Wednesday would probably bypass all the basic holes, you know? She’d get bored fast. She’d… I don’t know, try to see if she could fist her own peehole. Or something.”

There was a sharp inhale from Emma, then a pause, as if she was letting the image ferment. Jenna pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and waited. The silence wasn’t awkward, exactly—it was more like a dare.

“Oh my god,” Emma finally said, voice reverent. “That’s next-level. Like, sounding, but… major league.”

“I think that’s just called being a maniac,” Jenna replied, but she was grinning now, the image taking shape in vivid, anatomical detail. She pictured black gloves, surgical lubricant, the kind of methodical intensity that probably ran in the Addams family. It was so over-the-top, so cartoonishly extreme, it almost circled back to being innocent again.

Emma was quiet for a second, and Jenna could hear something in the background—maybe a dog barking, or someone changing the scenery. Then: “You know, there’s actually this one thing about horses, but I don’t want to scare you off.”

Jenna snorted. “I literally just said ‘pee hole fisting’ in a dressing room that has paper thin walls. Try me.”

Emma’s giggle was a little softer this time, a hiccup of nerves in it. “Okay, so. There’s this fetish where people fuck horses. There’s some videos in real life, but the real deal is on hentai and some short stories. My god Jenna, I’ve even seen some where the dick is so big that it enters in one hole and plops out the other.“

Jenna stared at the wall, brain doing a rubbery slow-motion replay of the sentence. She tried to picture it: the physics, the logistics, the absolute horror. But also, the spectacle. “Jesus,” she said, “that’s not even sex, that’s a medical anomaly.”

“Right?” Emma said, delight painted all across her face. “At first, I’m like, no way, that’s too much. But then—”

“You kept searching,” Jenna finished for her, fighting a grin. “You sick fuck.”

The laughter fizzled, replaced by a hush: Jenna’s heart thumping dull and regular in her chest, a perverse little curiosity uncoiling in her belly. She tongued the inside of her cheek, unsure if she wanted to keep up the bit or admit that her mind had already gone several steps further than horses. She let her head tilt back, strands of hair catching on the static of her sweatshirt.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s pretty good, but do I get to one-up you?”

Emma’s inhale was sharp enough for Jenna to hear it, even through the cheap phone speaker. “Please, one-up me. That’s literally the dream.”

Jenna returned to playing with her ring, trying to sound casual. “I found this hentai once in a frenzy search, it was about… ovary play.”

The pause on the conversation was like a dropped pin. Jenna looked at Emma sideways, one finger pressed to her lips, eyebrows knitted and mouth half-open, a constellation of thoughts blinking behind her eyes.

“Ovary play,” Emma repeated, very cautious. “Like…?”

“Well, I already said that thing about uterine prolapse, right? So in this doujinshi the chick had one and her boyfriend wanted her to go further, so he opened her cervix and looked inside, then he put his fingers in her fallopian tubes and took her ovaries out” Jenna could feel her own voice getting wilder, part of her knowing she should be ashamed, but the other part—maybe the bigger part—thrilled at the sound of Emma not interrupting, not laughing, just waiting.

“I think you’re supposed to stop way before you reach the fallopian tubes,” Emma said, but there was a note of awe in her voice.

“Yeah, but you know how the Internet is, full of all kinds of weird things, and people seem to like it. After finishing that doujinshi I tried to look for more, to see if it was popular or something, you know. It’s quite niche, but there are some good works.” She quickly realized what she just said and immediately corrected herself, “I-if you like that, of course!”

Emma’s voice was softer now, a little breathless. “You’re fucking deranged. I mean it as a compliment.”

Jenna grinned, emboldened. “You want something equally fucked up? I’ve got one more.”

“Oh god, what is it?” Now Emma sounded like she was huddled under her own blankets, phone pressed right to her cheek.

“Ear sex,” Jenna said, letting the words tumble out. “Like, people fucking inside the ear canal. With dicks, fingers, dildos but mostly tentacles.”

There was a silence after, the kind that used to make Jenna flinch, but now just felt like sinking into a warm bath. Then, like she couldn’t help herself, Emma started laughing, that open-throated cackle that always made Jenna want to join in, even when the joke was at her expense.

“Dude, I saw one like that,” Emma said, “I watched a whole video where a girl, uh, climaxed from ear penetration. I think her brain got tentacle’d, and it made her go all cross-eyed and drooly and happy.” Emma’s voice was tiny, rapt. “God, I love how hentai logic just lets you do whatever you want. Like, who needs bones? Who needs organs that stay inside? Just squish and stretch and… yeah. I wish I could do that. IRL.”

“Or those girls whose holes just… stretch,” Jenna went on. “Like, you ever notice how nothing ever tears or bleeds? They just snap open like chewing gum. I want to know what that’s like, actually being built for it.”

Emma hummed, “And you know they always bounce back? In real life, you sneeze too hard and you need pelvic floor therapy. In hentai, a horse cock goes in one end and comes out the other and everyone’s like, ‘Wow, that was so good, let’s do it again tomorrow.'”

Jenna grinned at the picture: Emma as a tentacle girl, or a werewolf with a detachable uterus, or even some kind of gelatinous blob. “I mean, we could try. Not the ear thing, but, like. If you ever want to see how far your ass goes, I’m game.”

They did not stop. Their conversation lasted past midnight, into the acid hours when the world outside was reduced to lonely headlights and the metallic groan of radiators. For every escalation, every anatomical impossibility either of them could imagine, the other would volley back something new, more deranged, and soon the game had evolved from a casual riff into full-blown design. If you could rewrite the laws of biology, rebuild your body like a hentai character, what would you do?

***

Back in the present, Jenna tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, feeling the phantom heat of Emma’s words. She glanced at the popcorn bowl, empty, and thought about the night ahead. She’d never met anyone else who could take her all the way to the edge of discomfort and keep her laughing the entire time. Not even her friends from before she got famous, who’d always treated her like she was the delicate one, the one you had to protect from the world’s sharper bits. With Emma, it was like being let off the leash.

She let herself wallow in the silence for a moment, thinking about Emma. How it was always the same direction: Emma coming up with the grossest, goriest, most impossible scenario, Jenna one-upping it by a factor of ten. It was a game, but sometimes she wondered if they were both a little bit serious. The idea made her smile.

She thumbed the speaker button and laid the phone on her chest, so she could stare at the ceiling. The popcorn bowl was starting to feel sticky, and her fingers picked at old salt. She flexed her toes, listening to the phone static and the faint hum of Emma’s breath.

“Of course I remember that night,” Jenna finally said, voice half-lidded, lazy. “I remember everything. You spent thirty minutes explaining how you’d get a womb tattoo from inside.” Jenna flushed at the memory, the ghost of it prickling up the length of her spine. “There’s not a whole lot we can do with these real life bodies but to imagine and fantasize.”

Emma’s breath came in just a little sharper. “That’s the thing, I kind of… found something.” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush, “It’s like, really wild. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I need you to hear me out.”

Jenna realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled, slow. “I’m listening.”

“Okay, so I was attending a victorian and medieval themed auction for charity.”

Jenna adjusted the phone so the speaker pointed at her mouth, then propped herself up on an elbow. “A charity auction?”

“Yeah, at one of those old hotels—actual candelabras, some guy playing a harpsichord in the corner, actors in corsets and pantaloons pretending to faint. It’s so extra. Anyway, there was this booth tucked away at the end of the room. I almost missed it,” Emma continued, her voice streaming through the cheap phone speaker with a touch of static, “because I was busy trying to avoid the guy who kept telling me he collects Victorian mourning jewelry. But this booth, it was like, all black velvet and glass jars and weird old books.” There was a brief, breathy pause. “And the lady working there, she had these tattoos on her hands—like, not normal tattoo shop stuff. More like she’d been branded.”

Jenna licked salt from her fingertip, letting her mind fill in the blanks. She pictured Emma weaving through a crowd of costumed weirdos, that high-gloss energy radiating off her as she zeroed in on the one table no one else dared to touch. Typical.

Emma’s voice dropped, conspiratorial, barely more than a whisper. “Jenna, I swear to god, she knew things about me I’ve never told anyone. Like, she just looked up and went, ‘Emma, you’d be interested in this, if we take into account the conversation you had some months ago with your little friend.’” A little laugh, but there was nervousness in it, like maybe this story still unsettled her. “I was so scared I almost pissed my pants, but I bought something. You gotta come see it, Jenna, otherwise you won’t believe it.”

Jenna pressed her tongue against her teeth and tried to ignore the way her scalp tingled. “Are you fucking with me, or is this like, a real thing?” The words slid out in the slow, careful way she reserved for childhood stories her mom used to tell—cautionary tales that started with a dare and ended with somebody’s arm in a sling.

“I’m not kidding,” Emma said. “You have to see it. Come over. Please. I need… I need a second opinion. Also I ordered from that place you like, the one that does the weird purple corn juice.”

Jenna's brain ran the calculus: she had nothing tomorrow but a pile of scripts, none of which she wanted to read. Emma lived so far out of the city that the subway didn't even touch her neighborhood; her place was a three-story glass monstrosity that locals probably called "the mansion on the hill." Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around every level, reflecting the surrounding forest like a funhouse mirror. Jenna had only been there twice, both times getting lost in identical hallways before leaving with a box of leftovers and the vague sense she'd dreamed the whole night.

Jenna found herself already shuffling into her room to put on some black leggings and swap slippers for sneakers before she’d even hung up. Emma had this gravitational pull, and Jenna was hopeless at resisting it. She threw her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her bag, and gave the popcorn bowl a perfunctory rinse—enough to not look like a degenerate raccoon if she died in a crash and the PD had to inventory her apartment. She thumbed through her notifications. Three missed calls from her agent, one from her mother, two cryptic text bombs from Emma, the second just an address and a peach emoji. Jenna stared at the screen, laughing into her scarf. “Classy,” she texted back, “see you in a couple of hours.” Two seconds later a GIF pinged in reply: a cartoon wolf howling at a throbbing pink moon.

Jenna never bothered with Ubers or car services; she preferred the disappointing anonymity of her own ride. She took the elevator down four flights, ears popping, mind still processing Emma’s voice in her head—full of static and promise. The parking garage, as always, reeked of gasoline and damp cardboard. Her car—an old, battered Kia Soul the color of wet cement—sat between a Tesla and something German and angry-looking. She could buy a better car, probably fifteen better cars, but she liked this one for how little it cared about her.

She thought again about Emma, picturing her in that glass monstrosity, probably barefoot and pacing the floor, flooding her phone with TikToks and recipe fails. It was always like this—Emma made plans last minute, and Jenna went along, even when she swore she’d stay in, even when she had lines to memorize or sleep to catch up on or a dozen interviews scheduled for the next day. The Kia’s engine whined as she pushed it past the speed limit, a little thrill that made her grip the wheel tighter. She liked to think of herself as careful, but she could be reckless in these small, safe ways, ways that didn’t leave scars.

By the time the GPS told her she’d arrived, Jenna was pretty sure she’d blown out her own eardrums listening to hyperpop to keep herself awake. She parked on the shoulder of a winding drive, headlights catching on the reflective strips that lined either side. The house wasn’t visible from the gate—a brushed steel slab that looked like it belonged in a Bond villain lair—but the forest was alive with pale spring leaves, all trembling and soft in the wind. The air out here felt so clean it kind of hurt to breathe. She texted Emma a single word: “here.” Within seconds, the gate yawned open, so slowly Jenna imagined it had to be deliberate, like the house itself was rolling over to see who’d come to the door.

She inched up the drive, wheels crunching gravel, past what she remembered as an empty paddock. Now, a barn stood at the edge of the meadow, red as a blood blister against the patchy new grass. It looked too clean, too freshly built, the kind of thing a movie set designer would have signed off on but never bothered to distress. It was quite huge, probably able to accommodate several animals.

She braked next to the curb, gravel hissing under the tires, and peered through the windshield. The house squatted behind a screen of hardwoods and glass, hulking and severe in the moonlight—nothing about it said "home" for Jenna, but what mattered is that her friend liked it. The living room window glowed with a yellow, buttery warmth that felt like a dare. There was a shape moving inside. Jenna squinted. She could make out a pale arm, a sweep of brown hair, the restless bounce of Emma in motion. Of course Emma was pacing. Jenna checked her face in the rearview, wiped away the last crust of mascara, then slipped out into the chill air, the wind flattening her hair against her cheeks.

Jenna rapped once, lightly, and Emma quickly answered the door in an old band t-shirt and no pants. Her bare thighs looked like they’d been freshly scrubbed, raw-pink and clean in the porchlight. Emma’s panties were lavender, high-waisted, and so thin they were basically a suggestion. The seam was a sharp line across her ass, her legs were gym-toned and slightly goosebumped, the undersides pink from recent waxing or maybe just the brisk walk to the door. The breeze that snuck past Emma’s body smelled faintly of cherry and detergent, a half-dressed comfort. Jenna’s gaze flicked up, and for a second she forgot whatever she’d planned to say—because Emma’s tits, which had always been proportionate for her frame, now looked almost cartoonishly big. The band t-shirt, a threadbare relic from some ‘90s sadboy group, was stretched at the chest and loose everywhere else, the neckline ripped wide enough that one bra strap had slid halfway down Emma’s shoulder.

When the hell did she get those? Jenna tried to recall if Emma had ever mentioned surgery, but she would have remembered—Emma would have turned it into a running joke, a whole saga about implants with nicknames or how she was now “a literal walking hentai.” But the curve was unmistakable: she was stacked. “Nice shirt,” Jenna said, managing to keep it dry. “Or, uh, is it a shirt?” She risked a real look, gaze sliding down and back up fast as a credit card swipe.

"Like the new look?" Emma stepped back and spun, arms open, tits swaying like they were animated on a twelve-frame cycle. Jenna breathed out a laugh, forced and then real, and entered the borrowed warmth of the house. "Did you get the deluxe package? God, they'll have to assign you your own gravity well soon."

“They’re fun, right?” Emma said, tugging the shirt even lower and bending over in an exaggerated stretch, like she absolutely intended Jenna to get an eyeful. “It’s not surgery, before you ask.” God, they really were titanic. Jenna didn’t even realize she was staring until Emma made a show of cupping them, jiggling them in her palms like she was weighing oranges at a market. “Okay, I need you to focus,” Emma said, eyes sparkling. “Because this is actually about what I wanted to show you.”

Jenna lifted one brow. “You mean the boobs?” She tried to keep her voice neutral. “So if it’s not surgery, what is it—magic beans? Hormones?”

Emma’s lips pulled up, not quite a coy smile, not quite a grimace. “You’re not gonna believe me, but it’s actually relevant to what I wanted to show you.” She pulled Jenna inside, toes curling against the hardwood, and pushed the door shut with the heel of her hand. “Shoes off, please. We’re keeping the house clean for the, uh, ritual.”

Jenna snorted. “You’re doing a ritual? You joined the cult after all?”

“I’m the cult leader,” Emma fired back, voice light but eyes a touch too bright. “Come on, it’s in the kitchen.”

She herded Jenna down a hallway that was all white paint and shadow, every surface echoing with the echo of their bare footsteps. In the kitchen, a jungle of trailing pothos leaves and scatterings of spent tea bags, Emma paused to pour them each a glass of that neon-purple corn juice. She kept glancing at Jenna, like she was waiting for her to ask about the tits again, but Jenna just accepted the juice and sipped.

The taste was halfway between blueberry and burnt sugar. Jenna made a face. “Still gross as ever, thanks.”

Emma grinned, but she didn’t sit; she just hovered, cupping her own glass in two hands, the new curvature of her chest resting against the rim. A sharp exhale, then: “Okay, so, the thing at the auction? Old book. Leather, weird metal lock. Kinda looked like something out of an escape room.”

Jenna tipped her head. “You’re telling me you bought a literal spellbook.”

Emma nodded, eyes flicking up and to the side. “I bought it because the lady was creepy as hell and the book looked sick. But it’s more than that.” She set her glass down, then dipped into a tote bag that hung from a kitchen chair. “Don’t freak out.” She tugged the book free, and even at a glance, Jenna felt something off. It was a thick, brown rectangle, its cover the color of old liver, with bands of metal set into the spine. The lock was a sculpted thing, like a claw holding a marble, and the pages inside were edged in what looked way too much like dried blood. Emma set it down with a thunk.

“It came with instructions,” Emma said, quick and throaty. “Or, like, suggestions. Most of it’s in Latin and there’s a ton of footnotes. Google Translate is basically useless, but I found some app that Classical Languages students use. Half the pages are covered in anatomical drawings—like, not just human, but, uh, a lot of weird stuff. I’m pretty sure some of it is animal. Or both.”

She flipped the book open. The whiff that came off it was mothballs and old pennies, but underneath, Jenna caught something faintly sweet, like dried fruit left too long in a cupboard. Emma riffled past a handful of pages—sketched diagrams of pelvic bones, a spiral-bound column of overlapping hearts, a tangle of what looked suspiciously like canine genitalia—and landed on a spread marked by a lurid blue sticky-note.

“Here. This is the one I tried,” Emma said, and Jenna had to crane her neck to see it: a line-drawn woman, beautiful in that weird, medical-textbook way, all flat shading and sharp angles. But her chest was… impossible. Not just big, but torpedoed to the point of grotesque, nipples etched in with crosshatch so dense it looked like they’d been blasted out of the page by a shotgun. Next to it, in a spidery script, was a list of ingredients and a few lines of what was probably incantation.

Jenna looked from the sketch to Emma’s chest, then back to the book. “You’re kidding. You did this?”

Emma’s face went a little red, but she was smiling, almost proud. “It worked.” She unbuttoned the top of her shirt and pulled it wide, showing off the full curve of her left breast. "I mean, it sounds dumb, but… I read it aloud, just to see if anything would happen." She shrugged, self-mocking but not quite able to play it off. "And in a few seconds, they started growing. God, I felt so hot and tight, it totally ruined one of my shirts. I still haven't found some of the buttons that got ejected."

Jenna felt like she was about to pass out. It couldn’t be real, she had always thought that magic was only a children's play. Sure some people made card tricks and illusions, but actual magic? Everything in her head told her that this was totally impossible, yet it was Emma who was explaining to her, and her boobs looked absolutely natural. “I don’t know Em, this feels very dangerous. We can’t even know if it has some side effects. What if the price you have to pay is halving your life expectancy?”

Emma saw how her friend was starting to panic and the frightened look in her face and she rushed to calm her down. “Hey, hey, don’t worry, I told you I found an app that can translate it. I’ve read a little bit of it, in the first pages it said that this spellbook was designed to be more of a party trick and have fun.” Her tone was soothing and it worked, because Jenna had managed to stop shaking. “It also said that if any of the spells didn’t turn out how you expected, the last page had a counterspell to turn back to normal. I’be only left these on me cause I wanted to see the look in your face when you saw them, and to be honest they feel awesome.”

Jenna finally relaxed and laughed a bit at her friend’s joke, then she took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I’ve calmed down already. They really look nice, and it certainly doesn’t look like you’ll turn into a snail or something,” she said half-jokingly, still trying not to think of the worst that could happen. “So tell me, have you read any of the other spells?”

Emma’s smile was so big that it almost parted her face in half and she was jumping on the tips of her toes. “That's why I wanted you to come asap. I’ve not tried any, besides the boobs one,” she said while her little jumps made the consequences of said spell sloosh around, “I was reading a bit of it and I found one that could help us make those fantasies we talked about real.”

Now Jenna was fully interested, she always had thought that the things she imagined Wednesday and Enid doing would remain forever in her mind, and maybe in some explicit fanart. If the book helped her achieve even just one of those fetishes, it would be totally worth it. “Okay, you got me, I’m totally in. What is that spell about?” Even though she was locked in, Emma’s boobs were hard not to stare, and she didn’t make it easier making them bounce. She suddenly felt the urgency to suck on them and bite those pink nipples.

“Well, in theory this spell would make your body practically indestructible and it turns all your pain receptors into pleasure ones, though the second part is optional. I guess so people who are absolute masochists can still feel pain while not facing any of the side effects of being hurt.” Of course Emma’s hands went straight to her chest, as if the only way to hold Jenna’s attention was to keep those huge tits perpetually in motion. Every time she shifted her weight, they swayed and pressed together, making the cheap cotton of her t-shirt ride up even higher. The print was so stretched the band logo was basically illegible; one more cup size and the shirt was going to explode into confetti.

Jenna tried to focus on what Emma was saying, actually tried, but she noticed the way Emma’s upper lip glistened from the purple corn juice, how the tip of her tongue kept darting out to wet it. The words “practically indestructible” jogged something feral in her, a secret she’d never bothered to say out loud even to Emma. Indestructible. Even the phrase was a turn-on.

“So here’s the crazy part,” Emma said, drumming the book with her pinky, “I think we could try it right now, if you’re brave. Are you? Brave?”

“Yeah,” Jenna said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, I want to try.” She didn’t specify which spell. She didn’t have to. Emma closed the book with a soft thump, then looked at Jenna with a gaze so direct it almost hurt. Jenna wanted to say something clever, but her brain had shorted out, and all she could do was stare.

Emma stepped closer, the soft meat of her thigh brushing against Jenna’s leg. She didn’t break eye contact. Her hand went to the hem of Jenna’s shirt, fingers light, and Jenna shivered. Emma leaned in, close enough that Jenna could taste the sugar and juice on her breath, could see the tiny bead of sweat gathering at her hairline. She stopped, just a breath away.

Jenna lunged, the impulse volcanic, and pressed her lips to Emma’s before her mind had even registered the gap closing. She tasted purple sugar and the faint, acidic ghost of Emma’s breath, their mouths colliding with an off-kilter hunger that felt both hilarious and desperate. Emma’s body was so warm, so shockingly close, the plush of her new chest flattening against Jenna’s ribs and making it suddenly, crushingly real. Her tongue flicked out, found Emma’s, and everything after that was animal, sticky, the world reduced to the low whine of her own pulse.

Emma laughed into her mouth, the sound vibrating through their joined lips, then sucked Jenna’s lower lip between her teeth and bit, gentle, like she was testing the edge of a fruit. Her hands went to Jenna’s hips, hauling her in so their bodies pressed from shoulder to knee, a locked-together puzzle of skin and synthetic. Jenna slid her palms up Emma’s sides, fingers sneaking under the loose hem of the t-shirt, and holy shit—the bare skin was so soft, so electric under her fingertips, she almost reeled. The weight of Emma’s breasts in her hands was shocking, a perfect and impossible heft, and she squeezed experimentally, fingers digging into the yielding flesh like she was searching for proof.

The kiss broke for a second—just long enough for Jenna to gasp “God, you’re so hot,” in a voice she didn’t recognize, raw and shaky. Emma grinned, eyes glassy, and ground her chest into Jenna’s hands, making the new tits bulge around Jenna’s fingers. The areolas were bigger than fucking bottlecaps, pink and shiny and begging to be sucked. Jenna rolled one nipple between her thumb and finger, felt it harden and swell, and she just about lost her mind.

Emma made a show of arching her back, pushing herself harder into Jenna’s hands and then, with a sly, sidelong look, she slipped both hands under her own shirt and yanked it over her head. Jenna’s pulse hit something dangerous. The new boobs were glorious, but under the shirt—bare, faintly freckled, the skin almost see-through at the edges—it was even more unreal. Jenna had never seen a body transform in real time before; it was like watching a nature documentary in fast-forward. The veins around the areolae were a little darker than normal, maybe from the spell, maybe just from Emma’s heart working triple time. Jenna buried her face between them and inhaled the smell of Emma’s sweat and that corny purple juice mixing in a way that made her mouth water.

Emma’s hands found Jenna’s shoulders, then the nape of her neck, and she guided Jenna’s lips to her left nipple, her own breath shivering out the second Jenna latched on. The taste was salty, with just a hint of clean laundry and old perfume. Emma’s fingers dug in, flexed, and Jenna could feel her own scalp prickling from the pressure. She sucked, slow, at first, then harder. Emma made a noise—almost a bark—and tugged Jenna’s hair on it, nails scritching at the scalp, and for a split second Jenna thought she might black out from sheer lack of oxygen.

Then Emma pulled back, panting, and let out a laugh that was part giggle, part howl. Her hands were trembling a little, the skin of her chest flushed from collarbone to belly button. “Come on,” she said, voice low and unsteady. “We should move before we trash the kitchen. Let’s go to the living room, it’s way better for… whatever we’re about to do.”

Jenna blinked herself sane and let Emma tug her by the wrist. They careened down the hallway, Jenna’s shoulder bumping a framed print so hard it nearly clattered to the floor. The living room was cathedral-big, all glass and clean lines, an L-shaped sofa eating up one corner and a wall of TV screens flickering mutely above a fake fireplace. There was a huge window—no, a whole wall of windows—looking out over the black forest, the sky beyond a deep, soft bruise. In the center of the room, an immense shag carpet pooled like spilled milk, empty of furniture except for a single, low coffee table and a pair of enormous beanbags.

Emma went straight for the sofa and flopped, spreading her arms and legs out, her new breasts flattening sideways like melting ice cream scoops. Then she grabbed Jenna’s shirt and yanked her down next to her, giggling when the fabric nearly came off with the motion.

Emma pounced, pinning Jenna flat against the sofa with a laugh that was half-mad. It was impossible to think, to breathe even, with Emma’s plush body draped over her, the heat of her skin pressing through the thin cotton of Jenna’s own tee. She caught the wildness in Emma’s eyes—fierce, animated, twinned by the two points of her nipples, already dark and stiff, puckered in the rush of cold air and want. Emma’s thighs bracketed Jenna’s hips, straddling and trapping her, and Jenna felt her own heart spike, beating hard enough to rattle her teeth.

They were nose to nose, breaths tangling. Emma’s lips brushed her cheek, the tip of her tongue flickering just under Jenna’s jaw, hot and wet, and then she said it, right into her ear, her voice low and ragged: “I’ve been thinking about this for so fucking long. Since the day I discovered you’re as fucked up as I am. I want it so bad.” Then her teeth found Jenna’s earlobe and tugged, gentle but not shy, dragging a whimper up out of Jenna’s chest.

With one hand Emma reached down, yanked the hem of Jenna’s shirt up and over her head, leaving her in nothing but a plain sports bra she’d barely had on for an hour. The bra was black, basic, utilitarian, but it did nothing to disguise the sudden, humiliating hardness of Jenna’s own nipples, or the little crescent of bare skin under the elastic band. Emma grinned, then slid her palm under the band, right up against Jenna’s ribs, and the sensation was so immediate Jenna gasped. Skin on skin, warm and animal and real—she arched, half from reflex, half just to get more of that touch. It was only then that she realized, yes, she’d been waiting for this, all of it, every weird escalated dare and every anatomical marvel they’d ever joked about. Sometimes you find someone who fits your perversions in a way that’s almost mathematical.

Emma’s hand moved, slow and brash, up Jenna’s ribs, pausing just below the swells. She made a satisfied little hum and then, in one expert motion, slipped Jenna’s bra through her shoulders. The elastic snapped back and snapped her out of the moment for a second, but Emma’s hands were already cupping her, palms rough and sure, and Jenna’s self-consciousness whiffed out like a flame in a storm. She didn’t think about her own body much—never cared for the angles she offered up to the mirror or to the world—but under Emma’s fingers she felt like a whole new animal. Her tits were tiny next to Emma’s but Emma handled them like treasure, rolling the nipples between finger and thumb until Jenna was making noises she’d only ever heard out of herself by accident.

After a long, hot minute, Emma shifted her hips so her crotch pressed down right against Jenna’s. She was still in those high waisted panties, the thinnest thing on earth, and Jenna could feel the exact shape of Emma’s mound, hot and slick already. With every grind, every micro-movement, Emma’s breasts swayed and the motion made Jenna’s toes curl. She felt the coarse polyester of her own shorts turn slick against her skin, the press of Emma’s heat through the scraps of their underwear.

Emma’s hands didn’t waste time. She traced them down Jenna’s sides, raking her blunt fingernails across the sliver of exposed belly, then dipped until she reached the waistband of Jenna’s leggings. She played with the elastic, snapping it, tugging lightly, teasing like she was daring Jenna to object. Jenna didn’t. She couldn’t. She’d never been more present in her own body—every nerve lit, every inch of skin screaming for more.

Then Emma slid lower, her lips following the trail of her fingers, planting tiny, hot kisses down Jenna’s collarbone, sternum, then belly. She paused at the softest part, just above the navel, and Jenna felt herself suck in tight, holding the breath like a secret. Emma nuzzled there, then dipped her tongue into the hollow, making Jenna’s whole spine arc up off the couch. She was laughing now, a wild and involuntary sound; she could hear herself, breathy and high, helpless.

Emma’s hands hooked under the waistband of Jenna’s leggings and peeled them down an inch. Then another. She made a show of it, lips ghosting across the pale line of skin that was revealed, tongue flicking in time with the slow descent of the fabric. Jenna watched, head dropped back over the armrest, the whole ceiling spinning with the effort of not just unzipping, but opening up completely. She felt herself growing wetter, the sensation sticky and warm and shameless.

“Jesus,” Jenna managed, “you’re so—” but Emma cut her off by kissing hard, right on the point of her hip, then the next, then the soft mound behind the fabric. She lingered there, inhaling deeply, and Jenna felt a shiver go up her spine. Emma mouthed the line of Jenna’s panties, the heat of her breath soaking through the thin cotton.

Emma paused, both hands splayed flat on Jenna’s thighs, and looked up, eyes gleaming. She held the look, as if waiting for a sign, a nod, something. Jenna nodded. She couldn’t not.

Emma kissed her way along the waistband, then planted a dozen quick, butterfly kisses across the mound itself, never quite dipping lower. It was patient, torturous. Jenna’s brain fogged out; she couldn’t remember any line, any script—there was nothing but the animal want and the slow, burning slide of time.

Emma’s tongue teased a stripe up from one hipbone to the other, then she attacked the shaved pubis, that soft and appetising hill that Emma’s mind on fire. Jenna was trembling, completely, the anticipation sharper than anything she’d felt from a lover. Emma’s hands eased the waistband down, but instead of pulling off the panties, she just held them halfway down Jenna’s hips. The fabric was soaked. Emma pressed her nose to it, breathing in, and Jenna’s whole body answered with a pulse of heat.

“God,” Emma said, voice half-muffled by the cotton, “You’re already dripping through. You’re such whore.” She tongued the sodden patch with slow, deliberate pressure.

Jenna’s body snapped taut as a bowstring. The haze of anticipation, that wobbly suspension between pleasure and embarrassment, caved under the hot, wet certainty of Emma’s mouth. She was staring at the ceiling, and the ceiling was blurring, but her mind snapped into a moment of crystalline focus: she wanted more. She was tired of being teased. She wanted everything, right fucking now. Jenna reached down, curled her fingers into Emma’s hair, and yanked her head up.

“Stop,” she said, just short of a snarl. Emma looked up, eyes wide, lips glistening, a faint pink bead at the tip of her tongue. “I need you to eat my fucking pussy. Right now.” She said it like a command, one she’d been holding on her tongue for years.

Emma’s eyes flashed. She grinned, wolfish and wild, and said nothing, just bit her lower lip so hard a white line appeared. She dove back down, this time not stopping at Jenna’s hips, not even slowing. The leggins, panties, everything—Emma just hooked her fingers under the elastic and ripped both down in one desperate motion, leaving Jenna exposed, damp, legs trembling and spread.

The cold air bit at Jenna’s pussy for half a second before Emma’s mouth was on her, tongue flat and hot and wide, lapping up the wetness as if it was the only thing keeping her alive. Jenna gasped, back bowing, every muscle in her body tensing like a violin string. She wanted to make a joke, but all that came out was a stuttering moan, raw and involuntary.

Emma didn’t tease, didn’t play—just buried her face in, tongue flattening and scooping, lips pressing right into the folds and sucking hard enough to leave marks. Jenna had never felt anything like it. It was animal. It was worship. Emma’s hands locked tight around her thighs, pinning her hips so she couldn’t wriggle away, and every time Jenna tried to twist or close her legs, Emma just forced them wider, like she was determined to devour her whole.

Jenna’s head dropped back, eyes rolling up as she lost track of everything but the obscene, overload sensation between her legs. She could feel Emma’s nose pressing right into her mound, the slick of her own juice painting Emma’s upper lip, the heat and pressure of Emma’s tongue pushing into her in slow, determined circles. She couldn’t help it—she started bucking, grinding up against Emma’s mouth, desperate for more, for harder, for whatever Emma could give.

A low, guttural sound ripped out of Jenna’s throat, and she realized she was clawing at the cushions just to keep from floating off. Emma’s tongue was everywhere, painting up and down, swirling around her clit, then dipping back in, tongue-fucking her so deep it made Jenna’s toes curl. She couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, every stroke of Emma’s tongue adding up, building, until it felt like she had electricity instead of blood.

She was close. She’d never come this fast, never, but it was like her body had been waiting for this, for Emma, for the chaos of it. Emma’s hands, Emma’s mouth, the ridiculous way her tits pressed into Jenna’s thighs with every movement—fuck, it was like her whole body was held together by nothing but nerve endings and hope.

It built, and built, every pass of Emma’s tongue a livewire, until Jenna could hear a sound—her own voice, rising, breaking, then tearing loose. She could taste copper in her mouth, her hands locked on Emma’s hair, and she wanted, just for a second, to never stop being eaten, to dissolve into it, to just be pleasure and nothing else. She was coming, hard, and she knew it was going to be a bad one—she tried to warn Emma, but she was past words, only a grunt, a staccato “Fuck, fuck—” that ended in a shriek.

She was aware, dimly, that she was convulsing, legs locked around Emma’s shoulders, and then it hit: a sudden, catastrophic loss of control, her body seizing up and then letting go. She’d always been a squirter, and a big one, but this was something else—a cannon shot, a torrent, the gush so tangible she heard it splatter on Emma’s chin, then her neck, then the couch. Emma had the sense to pull back just in time, and Jenna watched, stunned, as her own squirt shot high, a dense, glittering arc that almost hit the ceiling before slapping down on the glass coffee table with a percussive slap.

There was a moment of silence, then Emma let out a bark of laughter, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The look she gave Jenna was half pride, half open-mouthed shock. “Jesus Christ, that’s fucking incredible,” Emma said, voice thick with awe and something else. She looked down at herself, completely drenched, and then backed up at the wet patch on the ceiling. “That had to be a solid ten feet,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t even know you could do that.”

Jenna’s chest was heaving, lungs fighting for air, her whole body pulsing with aftershocks. She let herself laugh, the sound coming out shaky and wild, and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her legs were still trembling. There was a puddle collecting in her navel, and, horrifyingly, a viscous stripe running all the way up the crease of her left tit. She felt like a ruined cathedral, gutted and hollowed and somehow more herself than she’d ever been.

She tried to say something—anything—but her throat was scorched, and her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, she just grinned up at Emma, the taste of victory so bright and sharp it made her teeth ache. “Sorry,” she managed, voice hoarse, “I should have warned you. It’s… a thing.”

Emma’s smile was pure trouble. “Don’t you dare apologize. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I watch a lot of porn,” she said, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear. The ends of it clung together, glossy with Jenna’s squirt, and Emma didn’t even bother to hide how much she liked it.

Emma, with a smirk that screamed confidence and a glint of mischief in her eyes, stood tall on the couch, straddling Jenna. She planted her left foot firmly on the cushion beside Jenna's hip and propped her right foot on the armrest above her head. Her pussy was positioned directly over Jenna's chest. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and, with a swift motion, slid them down. Emma’s thighs, toned and shadowed, framed her glistening, shaved pussy.

She began to move her hips, rolling them gently as she slid her fingers between her legs. Her voice, a sultry whisper, cut through the air. “You think you’re the only one who can make a mess?” Emma’s fingers danced over her clit, her hips grinding in sync with her touch. Jenna, mesmerized, watched as Emma’s muscles tensed and her breath hitched.

Jenna, trying to match Emma’s cockiness despite her battered voice, replied, “Bet you can’t match me.”

Emma didn’t respond with words. Instead, she intensified her movements, her fingers working faster, her hips rocking harder. Her breath came in short gasps, her body trembling with each stroke. Jenna could see the wetness dripping down Emma’s thighs, her scent filling the air.

Emma’s movements became more urgent, her fingers a blur as she chased her climax. Jenna watched, enthralled, as Emma’s body tensed, her thighs quivering with anticipation. And then, with a deep, primal moan, Emma came. Her orgasm didn’t fade; it built, a wave crashing over and over.

Jenna felt the hot spurt hit her chest. Emma’s squirt flooded Jenna’s skin, spilling down her sides, soaking the couch beneath them. It was a torrent, unending and intense, leaving Jenna gasping for breath amidst the storm of Emma’s release.

Jenna blinked, staring up at Emma’s pulsing sex, at the steady hose of squirt pouring down on her like it was a joke and the punchline was her own humiliation. Her chest glistened, her bellybutton filled up, and when she parted her lips to laugh, a bitter, salt-thick splash hit her tongue and made her cough. Emma was crowing above her, voice wild, the sound whipping off the cathedral walls and echoing back like a choir of dirty angels.

“Holy—” Jenna tried, then had to wipe her eyes. The next jet caught her in the cheek, spattering her hair, and she could feel it running warm down her neck and pooling at the base of her skull. If Jenna’s squirts were violent and strong spurts, Emma’s were a constant stream that seemed to never end, sometimes flowing stronger, sometimes weaker, but never stopping. By the time Emma let herself collapse, the couch was soaked through and their bodies clung together, slick as seals.

They just blinked at each other, both silent for a beat, then Emma started giggling, and Jenna lost it, too. It wasn’t even a sexy laugh anymore, just the pure, guttural noise of two people confronted with the scale of their own ridiculousness.

“I think you ruined the sofa,” Jenna sputtered, licking the inside of her arm, tasting the residue. She ran her hand across the sopping couch, held it up, and flicked droplets at Emma’s face. “I can’t believe I let you on my face before you took me on a date.”

Jenna tugged Emma in by the wrist, pulling her down so their bodies lined up, and for a moment, it was the warmest thing in the world—a kind of post-calamity calm. But Emma was already moving, already pawing under Jenna’s thigh, hoisting it up over her own hip so their cunts pressed together, slippy-wet, neither of them even pretending not to want more.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Emma whispered, more reverent than mocking, and she started to move her hips, grinding their bodies together. The friction was sharp, then soft, then sharp again, the pulses of pleasure coming in fast, dizzying waves. Jenna matched Emma’s rhythm, chasing the contact, the way their slick folds locked and slid, the heat building again so quickly she almost resented it for not letting her rest.

Emma’s breath came ragged, her hair clinging to her cheeks, and every time she pressed harder, her huge, impossible tits mashed against Jenna’s chest, squishing out the last of the spent girlcum like squeezing icing out of a bag. Jenna grabbed two handfuls, kneading them, then leaned up and bit at Emma’s nipple, taking it between her teeth and tugging until Emma gasped and jerked, the motion making her grind even harder.

They were rolling now, locked together, every inch of skin alive. Jenna’s body was still echoing from the last orgasm, but the new one was building, unspooling fast, and she felt herself leaking, gushing, flooding everything in reach. The air smelled sharp and animal, their sweat and juice mingling until Jenna couldn’t tell where she ended and Emma began.

Emma grabbed Jenna’s ass, hoisting her up, pinning her even tighter. “We’re gonna fuck this couch to death,” Emma said, and Jenna believed her. She was already seeing double, the edges of her vision fizzing with light, her body a single quivering nerve.

They came together, a shuddering, simultaneous crash. Jenna felt the hot gush between them, the splatter against her own thighs and belly, and for a moment, she thought she might actually pass out. The pleasure was so much it hurt, and she clung to Emma, sobbing out a laugh as the last tremors ran through her.

After a long minute, Emma flopped sideways. Jenna followed, laying half on top of her, both of them panting and boneless in the aftermath. There was a pool forming beneath their hips, threatening to run off the cushions and onto the rug, and Jenna had the thought that they’d need a wet-dry vac more than a towel.

Emma rolled up onto her knees, then with a smooth, predatory motion folded Jenna’s body in half—shoulders and head mashed against the couch cushion, hips jacked up high, legs cocked back so her feet nearly grazed her ears. For a dazed moment Jenna just blinked, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles above her while Emma’s hands scooped under her ass, hoisting her up and pinning her. The blood rushed hot and dizzy to her face. Her own brown, puffy pussy was open and exposed, the lips slick and slightly parted, and Emma just stared at it for a second, grinning like a kid at a birthday cake. Jenna felt the hungry heat of Emma’s gaze and wanted to squirm away, but Emma had her locked in, wrists pressed to the backs of her thighs.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” Emma murmured, voice muffled by the tangle of Jenna’s leg and her own hair. Emma’s eyes were locked on the mess between Jenna’s thighs, and there was something frantic about the way her hands dove in, fingers splaying Jenna open so wide it bordered on obscene. Jenna tried to say something—maybe a joke, maybe a plea—but it was lost when Emma, never one for hesitation, slid two fingers into her pussy like she was testing the limits of the world’s best stress toy. The slick was so intense that Emma’s knuckles bottomed out on the first thrust, a wet, giddy pop that made Jenna’s whole body jolt.

She couldn’t breathe. Emma’s fingers curled inside her, searching out something deep and forbidden, and when they found it—Jesus, when they found it—Jenna’s vision whited out at the edges. Emma kept going, eyes never leaving the spot where their bodies joined, the rhythmic squish of her hand so loud it drowned out everything but the ragged, animal noise in Jenna’s throat.

Jenna felt her knees being pressed back, further, practically to her ears, her ass tilting up into the air until she was perched on her own shoulders, every inch of her brown and pink center on display. Emma’s thumb rolled circles against her clit, fast and then faster, the pressure so sharp it made Jenna’s legs kick involuntarily. She could feel the tremor coming, the warning surge that usually meant a small pearl of spray, a polite spatter. But this was different. This was catastrophic.

Emma’s fingers jackhammered with brutal, perfect precision. Jenna could feel her own heartbeat rattle Emma’s fingers, the pressure inside orbiting her clit and then bursting up through her spine. Emma’s grip braced her open, bent double and helpless, and Jenna’s vision blew apart into static. The sensation built at the base of her pelvis, tripling, then quadrupling, until it felt like there was no way her body could possibly hold it.

She wanted to scream, but all that came out was a choked animal noise. Her muscles seized, then fireworks detonated behind her eyes, white-hot and unstoppable. She felt Emma’s fingers twist; the knot inside her snapped, and something primal clawed its way up through her cunt.

“FFFffffUUUuuUUuUUUCK!” She exploded. Not just a spray—this was a biblical deluge, a power washer blast that hurled itself up and over Emma’s shoulder, smacking the far window with a percussive sound that echoed across the glass. For a second, Jenna’s entire field of view flooded with tears and light; she couldn't see anything but the colored spots swimming in her vision. She heard Emma shriek—genuine, delighted, a little bit afraid—and then there was nothing but the thunder of her own squirt, a 3 seconds jet that splattered the window with a sticky patter.

Jenna’s body kept convulsing, every nerve ending liquefied, her hips jerking up even though there was nowhere left to go. The next pulse was almost worse, the force of it shoving Emma’s hand out so that the last jet went straight up, splattering the ceiling fan, which began to spin droplets out in slow, centrifugal arcs.

Jenna blasted one last squirt that, despite being weaker, hit the glass wall. Emma dropped her legs and they fell like a hammer, then she dropped next to Jenna. Eventually, Emma spoke up: “Jesus girl, we could open a carwash, I would soap the cars with my tits and you could rinse them with that power washer of a pussy you have .”

Jenna snorted, “Look who’s talking, you could fill up an olympic size pool. Is that a side effect of the spell?”

Emma peeled herself off the sofa, still slick and shining, and wiped a stray drop of squirt from her chin with the back of her hand. “Babe. It’s not a side effect,” she said, grinning like she’d just won a contest. “I’ve always been a super soaker. Since I was like, twelve.” She flumped sideways, letting her legs sprawl wide, utterly unbothered by the swamp they’d made of the expensive furniture. “The first time I ever got off, I thought I was dying. I soaked my sheets so bad I tried to hide them, changing them and acting like nothing had happened.” Emma snorted. “My mom cornered me in the hall the next morning—she was like, ‘Did you spill a jar of water on your bed?’ And I said yes, obviously, because what else was I gonna say?” There was pride in her voice, the kind of pride that didn’t care how disgusting it sounded. “I was so embarrassed I didn’t even try it again for a year. But then, you know, curiosity.”

Jenna pictured Emma at twelve, awkward, probably already tall, learning what her own body could do and being disgusted and delighted in equal measure. It made her stomach twist in an odd, tender way. A full-watt smile took over her face. “You’re a fucking prodigy,” Jenna said, more admiration than anything else.

Emma snorted, then looked down at the mess they’d made and started giggling again, a high, wild sound. “We’re gonna have to burn this whole house down,” she said. “Or at least the couch. Maybe the fan, too.” She reached up to touch her hair, found it matted to her scalp, then started laughing even harder. “Oh my god. The look on your face when you hit the window? Absolutely priceless.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand, her new boobs mashed together in a way that made Jenna’s mouth go dry all over again. “What about you, were you always a squirter or did I have that effect on you?”

Jenna cackled, caught between pride and embarrassment. “Actually, yeah. Always. The first time I did it, I was thirteen, home alone, watching some trash soft porn I had managed to find. I’d figured out, like, the basics of masturbation, but I’d been humping a pillow since the first time, but that day I wanted to try fingering.” She visualized it, her younger self, one arm locked tight around a floral throw pillow, the other hand fingering her pussy. “I got off, and then—” she snorted, “The ceiling looked like it had a leak. I was so scared I thought I was going to die dehydrated. I mopped the floor and prayed that my mom didn’t notice until it dried.”

Emma’s laugh was so loud it made Jenna’s ears ring. “Oh god, you probably looked so cute on your bed so scared not knowing what was happening.”

Jenna shrugged, then smiled. “You laugh now but I was terrified. When everything was as clean as it could be, I started looking on the web. But you know how it is, the first thing I found was porn, when I checked the tags I understood that what I did was squirting. Then I tried to be more precise and all my doubts were gone. Next time, I waited until everyone was out, and I just… let it happen.” Her cheeks went hot, but it wasn’t embarrassing. Not really. “I went to the bathroom and did it in the shower.” She thought of the next memory. “One time, when I was sixteen, I did it out a window just to see if I could hit the neighbor’s garden.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “You did not.”

“Swear to god,” Jenna said. “It was the middle of the night, nobody else was awake, and I aimed out my bedroom window. Made it across the fence, nailed it right into the tiles of his yard. Next morning my neighbor comes out and is, like, looking around, so confused. I watched from behind the curtain and almost died laughing.” She grinned, wild and reckless. “It’s always been like this. Just… a lot. I think my body decided if I wasn’t gonna have big boobs, I’d at least be able to water the whole block.”

Emma wheezed, tears leaking down her cheeks. “You’re a fucking legend,” she said, voice hoarse. “God, I wish I’d known you in high school. We’d have destroyed the bathrooms. Or, like, had contests in the locker room.” Emma wiped at the slick under her chin and glanced up at the fan, still spinning flecks of Jenna’s orgasm in lazy, rainbow arcs across the ceiling. "You ever tried to top yourself? Like, go for a personal best?"

Jenna, still boneless on the cushions, grinned and ran a wet palm up the inside of her own thigh, savoring the sticky slide. "What, like a Guinness attempt?" She wiggled her toes, making her calf flex, and watched her own skin shimmer in the lamplight. "I mean, sometimes I wondered how far it could reach, but I couldn’t do it at home, there wasn’t any room big enough, I knew I could hit the wall even before it started falling. So I tried measuring how much I could produce, I grabbed a tall glass, went to the bath and fingered myself. I practically filled it so I guess around half a liter.” Then she waited for a moment, trying to overcome the embarrassment. “Well, to be honest I did try to see how far I could do it. One night, coming from a party, I was so horny, and a little tipsy, and the neighbourhood was so silent I thought ‘Fuck it’. So I squatted in the middle of the street, rolled my dress up, supported myself with one hand and just went at it. When I climaxed it went flying and I barely managed to not scream. I regained my composure and checked how far it got. When I passed the seventh car I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. I properly measured it the next day, 20 meters Emma. I squirted 20 fucking meters.” (roughly 22 yards for imperial users)

“Fucking hell girl, the fire department should use you to put out fires”. Emma let herself fall back against the other end of the couch, arms flung wide, and for a moment just lay there, staring up at the twinkling ceiling. "I did it once. Like, really tried. Not the spray, but the volume." She rolled to her side, propped her head on her hand, and bit down on a smile. "I was fifteen? Maybe going on sixteen. Summer in Miami, fucking boiling, and my mom had set up this little inflatable pool in the backyard so I could ‘get some Vitamin D and stop being so pale.’ But I never used it, not the way it was meant for. It was just… there, a blue rubber pit, half-warm, always a little too full of leaves."

Jenna, unable to resist, sat up. Her entire ass left a wet print on the couch. "What, you tried to fill it?"

"No, I did fill it," Emma said, waggling her eyebrows. She braced up on her elbow, her tits mashed together, still shiny and faintly pink where Jenna’s teeth had left little tracks. "It started as a dare to myself—I was bored, and there was no one home, and the pool was right there. So I dragged it under the eaves, right up against the sliding glass doors. You could see into the living room, if you sat in just the right spot." Emma swept her palm in a lazy arc, painting the memory. "I brought three bottles of water with me and started jilling myself stupid. It wasn’t really deep, enough to reach your knees if you were standing. In the end I managed to completely fill it. It took me six hours and another two bottles, but I did it. Then I checked the box and it said it could hold a maximum of 70 liters." (18.5 gallons)

Jenna’s mouth fell open, but the image lit up her brain in four different ways: Emma, naked and tanned and just barely adolescent, sprawled in a kiddie pool under the June sun, flooding the air with the sharp, chlorinated scent of Gatorade and girlcum. "Okay, that’s actually incredible," Jenna said. "Did you get caught?"

Emma shook her head, grinning. "No, I timed it. I had the whole house to myself until my mom came back from work. She never even went out to the backyard—she took one look at me and said, 'You finally got some color.' If only she knew what her daughter was doing while getting tanned."

Emma grinned, eyes wild and two-thirds feral. “You got another in the tank, or did I just wring you dry?” She was already halfway up off the couch, her tits hanging gloriously unrestrained, dripping remnants of the last hour’s carnage. Jenna, still fighting the aftershocks of her orgasm, tried to push up on her elbows, but her arms trembled and her whole body wanted to stay in the soup of sweat and squirt.

“Give me a minute.” Even her voice sounded wrung out, like a rag that had been twisted one time too many, but underneath it was a dare—see how fast you can get me going again.

Emma’s grin widened into something triumphant and a little unhinged. “Nice, wait for me here, I’ll come back with a surprise.” She scrambled off the couch, bare-assed and leaving a trail of wet footprints across the hardwood floor, her cackle echoing back as she disappeared around the corner toward her bedroom. Jenna heard a thump, another cackle, then the telltale clatter of a drawer coming off its rails.

When Emma strutted back in, her right hand was hidden behind her back, her left doing a drumroll on her thigh. Jenna didn’t even try to guess—she knew it would be something ridiculous, maybe another spell or a can of lube, maybe both. Instead, Emma whipped out a double-ended dildo, the kind that looked like a science experiment gone right: at least a foot long, slick and flexible, cast of see-through pink silicone with glitter suspended inside like a snowglobe.

Jenna hooted, the laugh coming out raw. “Did you rob a sex shop for that?”

“Amazon next-day delivery,” said Emma, twirling the thing like a baton. “It’s even dishwasher safe!”

Emma leapt onto the couch, knees splaying on either side of Jenna’s hips, then wagged the toy an inch from Jenna’s nose. “You ready to get split like a wishbone?”

Jenna met her eyes, letting the silence hang for a second, then she grabbed the dildo, yanking it free of Emma’s grip with a snap that made the silicone wobble. “I’m gonna make you beg,” Jenna said, trying to be cocky, but her voice cracked halfway through. Emma didn’t call her on it; instead, she beamed, like being threatened with physical destruction was her favorite birthday present.

“Hold on,” Jenna said, “there’s no way this fits in you.”

Emma looked wounded. “You doubt my capacity? Jenna, please. I own like four bad dragon toys.” She spread her legs wider, then took the nearer end of the dildo and pressed it to her own cunt, rubbing the tip in a slow circle until it shone with slick.

Jenna’s stomach did a slow flip. The sight of the huge, glittering cock pushing up against Emma’s fat, glistening lips was obscene, but the best kind of obscene—like watching someone try to deepthroat a party balloon just to see if they could. Emma lined it up, then grunted, pushing the first couple inches inward with a sharp, tactile rippling, her lips blooming pink and glossy around the shaft as she angled the rest between them.

Jenna’s eyes couldn’t leave the entrance: the labia stretching, the way Emma’s whole body seemed to steady itself around the challenge, her brow furrowing in concentration as she fed herself more of the ridged, glitter-frosted cock. The toy was almost cartoonish, two inches in circumference at the tip, then bulbous and veiny, but Emma’s cunt was opening around it, her juices rising to coat the clear silicone in seconds. Jenna blinked, staring, unable to process how hungry Emma looked for it.

“Jesus,” Jenna said, because there was nothing else.

Emma had three quarters of it in, then with a little grunt managed another pulse, the shaft squirming all the way to the base. A thick, glossy ring of her own slick haloed out around the entry. She left it buried to the hilt, breathing hard, and locked eyes with Jenna. “Your turn,” she said, voice gone smoky.

Jenna felt her own thighs trembling, the hungry pulse at her clit suddenly a throb that demanded attention. She lined herself up with the opposite tip, wetting it in her own mouth first, tasting Emma by proxy, then leaning back just enough to jam the fat end against her own slit. The first nudge sent a shock through her, the flesh-cold silicone unexpectedly real. There wasn’t much give, even with her own wetness; it took effort, a sustained push against her own threshold, to get the tip inside. But once past the ring, she felt her walls flutter and give, the second inch sliding in with a pop. She choked on her own breath, braced her feet against the coffee table, and kept going.

Emma’s hands, trembling, helped. She hooked her fingers around the toy’s midpoint, steadying it, and with a push from below, drove more of it into both of them at once. Jenna gasped—she could feel the intrusion everywhere, pelvis to throat, nerves lighting up with a blend of too-full pressure and electric delight. She tried not to whimper, but the sound escaped anyway.

Emma was on top of her now, arching so both their pussies pressed flat together, the shared shaft locking them in frantic, slippery battle. The sensation was unbearable: every tiny thrust translated through the toy, so that when Emma rocked forward, it wasn’t just inside her, but inside Jenna, too, the back-and-forth friction making her gasp and clench. The couch was a cold, squishy mess under her ass, but Jenna couldn’t stop squirming, couldn’t stop chasing the next pulse, the next graze against her g-spot.

“Fuck, it’s hitting so deep,” Jenna choked out, and Emma just grinned, then doubled her tempo, grinding their hips together. The two of them—filthy, wild, both dripping so much it was almost criminal, wrestling for the rhythm of the thrust

harder, the ridged, jelly-like cock ramming home with each collision of their bodies. Every thrust made Jenna feel like she was being punched out of existence and remade on the next impact. The tips of her tits tingled, her scalp ached, her toes curled down.

Emma’s face was wild with it, her mouth slack, sweat jeweling her upper lip, her nipples so hard they looked like they might drill through the next thing that touched them. She kept her eyes locked on Jenna’s, the stare so intense Jenna felt something dangerous sharpening inside her. She wanted to impress her. She wanted to win.

Jenna twisted until she was facing upwards and, with the dildo still inside, began to stand up. She locked her grip around Emma’s ankles, pulling them wide and up, so that the other girl’s ass pointed straight at the ceiling and her own legs bracketed Emma’s hips from behind. The double cock inside them squelched, a wet and giddy sound, and Jenna could feel the jelly ridge throbbing with every twitch of their bodies. She grinned down at her friend, who was reduced to a gasping mess beneath her, face painted with confusion and excitement, hair splayed out like a dirty halo, mouth open and working but too delirious to put words together. Even her tits, pressed and threatening to suffocate her, heaved with every desperate breath.

Jenna hadn’t realized how much she wanted this: the raw dominance, the ability to fuck Emma senseless. She could feel the power in her thighs, the leverage in her grip, as she started to piston her own hips, thrusting into Emma with the kind of ferocity she’d never shown another person. Each hammer of the dildo punched a guttural squeal out of Emma, the sound muffled by the damp, cum-soaked cushion. Jenna could just make out the shudder of Emma’s calves, the twitch of her toes, the way her entire body arched and then collapsed with every slam.

Jenna’s own cunt was screaming, stretched to the brink, the ridged shaft jamming her g-spot so hard she could barely see straight. But all she wanted was to fuck harder, to see if Emma would break before she did. The world narrowed, tunnel vision on the wild rush of Emma’s ass bucking up against her, the slap of skin and the pistoning inside. Jenna couldn’t even feel her own hands anymore, just the ache in her biceps and a kind of melting, elastic pain in her pelvis, like she was making herself hollow for the privilege of owning Emma completely. Every thrust seemed to double back on itself and land in the base of her own brain. She was going to come again, and it was going to kill her.

Emma’s hips jerked, lost rhythm, and her eyes rolled so hard Jenna could see the whites from above. For a second the entire sofa shook with the force of her breath, then Emma shrieked, the sound raw and animal. Her whole body seized—Jenna felt it as a quake through the doubled toy, as a spasm in the soles of Emma’s feet, as a ripple in the slick where their bodies met. Then Emma sprayed, an instant flood, the stream hitting Jenna’s chest, her neck, chin, splashing everywhere. It was ridiculous, impossible, a garden hose on full blast, the pressure so high it actually forced the dildo to back out an inch before Jenna shoved it in again, just to hold on, to keep the connection.

Emma’s squirt didn’t stop. The jet pulsed, hit Jenna in the throat and face, then sheeted back down to soak their bellies and thighs. Jenna choked, coughed, and laughed all at once, tasting the sour, effervescent spray as it coated her lips and tongue and eyelids. The couch was done for, the air smelled like sex and ozone, and Jenna wanted to drown in it. She kept going, wanting to match Emma, to outdo her. The pressure inside was mad, a black hole at the base of her clit, and she pounded herself down, using Emma’s body as a brace, the shaft inside her so brutal she thought she’d break. Every thrust made her vision spark; she could barely keep her eyes open.

It happened fast, so much faster than before—her body, already primed, already half-ruined, just snapped, and every muscle in her legs and belly pulled taut as wire. She felt the warning, the desperate “stop now or you’ll explode” signal, but she ignored it and went harder, rammed the last inch home, and then she let herself go. She could feel the blast building, the heat and pressure, and at the last possible instant, she yanked the toy out of her own cunt, aiming it up, not even sure who or what it would hit.

The squirt shot out like a cannon, a geyser with nowhere to go but down, and it caught Emma full in the face. The spatter hit her right between the eyes, splashed across her open mouth, chin, even her forehead, and Emma shrieked, tried to shield herself, but got soaked even more. Jenna watched, shocked and a little proud, as the first jet was followed by a second, then a third, each one soaking Emma’s tits and neck. In the end Emma just decided to ride it until it was over and opened her mouth to collect some of the final spurs. Jenna dropped herself onto Emma and started kissing, desperate to have a share of her hot nectar.

The taste of Emma mixed with herself clung to Jenna’s tongue, salty and electric, so real it felt like a brand. They made out blindly, face and hair and neck sticky with the aftershock, hands groping at any new patch of skin they could find, neither willing to admit how spent they were. At some point, Emma rolled off, landing with a soft splat beside Jenna, and they lay there side by side, breathing in the ozone-stung air, staring at the ruined ceiling fan as it spun droplets in slow, hypnotic revolutions.

Jenna couldn’t stop laughing. Every time she caught Emma’s eye, the absurdity of what they’d just done started the giggles all over again, until her abs hurt and she was pretty sure she’d have a headache from dehydration. Emma’s hand found hers, their fingers lacing together, and they just let the silence stretch, the hum of the city outside a distant, irrelevant drone.

“So,” Emma said at last, her voice all shredded velvet, “are you still freaked out about the spell?”

Jenna snorted. “Compared to this? No. Honestly, I kind of wish it was already working. No way we’re not both dead from fluid loss.”

Emma laughed, a softer sound than before. “Could try a smaller spell first. Like, one that makes us immune to laundry stains. Or—wait—one that makes couches self-cleaning.” She squeezed Jenna’s hand, thumb rubbing in lazy circles. “Or we could just… dive in.” Emma rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. She trailed her other hand down Jenna’s left thigh, tracing the streaks of drying girlcum. “All that time we spent talking about it? All those nights—you remember them, right?”

Jenna grinned, nodding. She remembered. Every DM, every whispered dare, every time they’d tried to one-up each other with the most deranged fantasy they could imagine. “Yeah,” she said. “I remember. Okay, let’s try it. But if I turn into a tentacle monster, you have to fuck me at least once.”

Emma’s smile was a white slash in the dim room. “Deal,” she said, and kissed her again, slow and deep.

Chapter Text

Jenna sat up, body sticky with half-dried squirt and the flaking filaments of crushed velvet. Her inner thighs ached pleasantly, like the aftermath of a five-mile run. She half-expected to see the couch smoking, the upholstery still radiating with the energy of what they'd done, but it was only wet. Really, really wet. The smell—acrid, sweet, embarrassing—spilled like a puddle at their bare feet. Emma licked a glistening pearl off her wrist, yawned, and rolled to her knees.

"Can't believe," Jenna said, mopping her ribcage, "that you can still walk after that."

Emma shrugged and giggled. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes hooded, hair a sticky cloud. She looked like she'd survived a small, horny apocalypse. "It's all muscle memory," she said. Then, “gonna grab some water, want some?”

Jenna’s face instantly lit up “Yes, please!!” Emma just smiled and motioned Jenna to follow her. It took her some time to get up, and her legs felt so numb that they wobbled all the way to the kitchen. When she arrived, Emma was already crouching to get something under the sink. Jenna peeked and she saw an incredible stash of water, enough to support a family for six months. “Why the hell do you have so much water”.

Emma took two bottles, left them on the counter and signaled Jenna to take one. While her friend quenched her thirst, she started to explain herself, ”You already saw how much I squirted , didn’t you? Well, that happens every time I cum and I masturbate several times everyday. I usually do it from the porch. I prefer not to buy new furniture and deep clean the room every time I feel horny, you know? Haven’t you noticed that a patch of grass that is way taller than the rest?”

Jenna coughed, nearly spitting out her sip. “Wait, that’s—oh my god, Em, that’s not just a patch. I thought you were, like, composting out there.”

Emma winked, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Eco-friendly hydration.” She straightened, cracked her neck, and drained the rest of her bottle in a single, practiced gulp. There was something about the way she moved after sex, as if she’d been tuned to a higher frequency, all the static burned off.

Jenna followed her back to the living room, their sticky footprints marking the hardwood. She dropped onto the arm of the couch, ass still damp and legs trembling with every motion. The grimoire—its heavy, obscene presence—was carried by Emma, her heavy tits resting on top of it. They found a place that was soaked in their previous sex craze, and sat on the floor.

The book practically hummed in Emma’s hands. Jenna scooted closer, cross-legged and raw, knees tingling from the friction and her own lingering afterglow. Emma thumbed open the grimoire, the parchment thick as skin, and found a page that glared at them with the promise of excess—double columns of coiled script, a lewd illustration of something anatomical rendered in slick, red ink. Jenna squinted, mouth suddenly dry, and realized what she was looking at: a uterus, bulbous and veiny, with arrows and glyphs pointing to every conceivable entry point.

Emma recited the words under her breath at first, then again louder, vowels stretched and slurred by her still-hoarse voice. The room seemed to contract. Jenna felt a fizzing in the pit of her stomach, like the air was thickening, the molecules of their sweat and sex reassembling into invisible webs. Her skin prickled. She watched Emma’s eyes dilate, watched her lips move as if they were being puppeted by something older and meaner than either of them.

Jenna mouthed along, the syllables sour on her tongue. The air in the room got heavier with each word. It prickled at her arms, gathered behind her eyes. She waited for a thunderclap, a flash of light—anything—but all she got was Emma’s hand sliding up her thigh, nails dragging. The spell felt less like magic and more like a dare. Or a sentence.

Emma’s thumb settled just outside the rim of Jenna’s still-swollen pussy. She didn’t push in yet, just circled, humming under her breath. “Should take effect in about a minute. I’m gonna put the book away, I don’t want it to get ruined, I have a lot of plans for it.”

Jenna counted to sixty. Nothing tingled, nothing popped. Her ultra-fucked, rubber-band body didn’t feel remotely magical—just spent, tender, and noisy with the memory of Emma’s knuckles. “Did we even do it right?” she said, just as Emma was returning from the hallway, the book now locked in a steel-banded chest.

Emma shrugged, her spectacular boobs thudding against the edge of the counter. “Maybe the effect is subtle?” She grinned. “Or maybe you have to… test it.”

Jenna’s gaze settled on the water bottle on the coffee table, condensation puddling around it, and then—inevitably—traveled south to her own crotch, with its red, puffy folds and the faint, post-orgasmic sting. She’d spent years lurking on weird subreddits, seen the stretched, the gaped, the fisted. There was one threshold she’d never crossed, though. Not for lack of curiosity. “You know what’s always been a hard limit for me?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Jenna swallowed. “Urethral… stuff.”

Emma lit up, eyes wide with a cartoonish delight. “Oh, shit, yeah?” The air almost vibrated. Emma looked at her as if she was a puzzle worth solving, all the pieces laid out but none quite connected yet. “You want to see how much I can fit?” she said, a little too loud. Jenna blushed, but she nodded—slow and deliberate, like signing a contract.

Emma barely waited for confirmation. She dragged Jenna’s body across the rug into the center of the living room and peeled her friend’s thighs apart, gentle but insistent. The aftermath of their earlier chaos was written all over the floor and Jenna’s skin, but Emma dove in like it was the first time—tongue soft and slow, building up trust, circling the little pink mouth at the top of Jenna’s slit.

It didn’t hurt, not exactly. It was just weird, a new universe of sensation that took three or four passes before it even registered as pleasure. Jenna felt the tip of Emma’s tongue probe at the tight, pinhole opening, a slow back-and-forth motion that made her legs clench and her abs quiver. “You sure?” Emma whispered, voice muffled between her thighs.

“Yeah,” Jenna said, though her voice shook.

Emma upped the ante. She pressed her tongue harder, then pulled back and, with two fingers, spread Jenna’s lips with gentle but relentless force. The opening—her urethra—pulsed in time with her heartbeat, the heat of Emma’s breath making it ache and tingle. Emma’s finger, slick with spit and glistening like some obscene promise, hovered at the opening. Jenna’s breath caught. She felt the pad circle the tender ring of muscle, coaxing it, pressing lightly, then withdrawing, then pressing again until the resistance melted into a slippery, uncanny slide.

She expected pain, but what came was a full-body jolt, like the pop of a sour candy on the tongue, only the sour was pleasure and it radiated out from her core in waves that didn’t stop. Emma’s finger wormed inside, just the tip, and it felt impossibly thick—Jenna’s whole body aware of every pulse, every micro-twitch. She gasped, back arching, thighs shaking as the first knuckle vanished.

“Holy fuck,” Emma said, voice reverent. Jenna felt a flush bloom from her chest to her forehead. She wanted to hide, but Emma’s finger was inside her, and there was nowhere left to hide.

Emma started a slow rhythm, in and out, her free hand feather-light on Jenna’s mound. The friction inside her urethra was weirdly electric, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Every slow slide sent a tidal rush of need through her, the kind that made her clench her fists and grind her teeth. She wanted more. She wanted to know how much she could take.

Emma must have read her mind, because she added a second finger. Jenna’s body screamed in protest, but Emma was patient, rotating and curling and stroking until the pain fizzled out and pleasure roared back, multiplied. The stretch was delirious, and Jenna’s moans went ragged and high. Her clit throbbed, untouchable and wild, and she could feel the pressure building in her lower belly with every thrust.

“Look at you,” Emma said, and Jenna did—looked down and saw the obscene sight of two of Emma’s fingers buried up to the webbing in her. She could feel the way her own body gripped them, could see how her opening stretched, slick and pink and impossibly wide. It was disgusting and gorgeous all at once. Jenna wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

Emma twisted her wrist, pumping gentle and slow, and Jenna felt the world tilt on its axis. She was so close, teetering, the heat in her gut threatening to rip her apart. Emma’s eyes never left her face. She licked her lips, then slid a third finger in, stretching Jenna to what felt like the brink of tearing—but not quite.

Jenna screamed, half in shock, half in ecstasy. Her legs bicycle-kicked the air, and she grabbed the base of the couch as if she might float away. The pressure built and built, and then—she detonated. A white-hot explosion ripped through her, followed by a supernova of relief as a geyser of liquid shot out of her, splattering Emma’s hand, the rug, the fucking ceiling. Jenna’s vision went blurry. Her lungs rattled in her chest. It didn’t stop; another spurt, then a third, each one more powerful than the last, until she was sobbing and laughing and coming all at once, the room now a biohazard crime scene. She lay there, twitching, as it puddled around her hips and dripped off the edge of the rug, Emma keeping her hand inside, knuckle-deep and grinning maniacally.

Jenna blinked up at the ceiling, brain static, ears full of her own pulse. She tried to speak but only managed a burble. Emma withdrew her fingers, slow and gentle, and gave the gaping slit of Jenna’s urethra a final kiss before flopping onto the floor beside her.

It took Jenna a solid two minutes to regain motor control. By that point, the wet spot on the rug had spread halfway to the TV. Emma patted her head lovingly, like Jenna was a very good dog. “I hope it didn’t have sentimental value,” Jenna managed, her voice shredded.

Emma just beamed. She seemed completely unfazed by the volume or mess, which only made Jenna feel more like an amateur—some absolute novice in the face of a seasoned, unflappable squirt champion. She tried to close her legs but found the muscles wouldn’t quite cooperate.

“I think it is safe to say the spell worked,” Emma teased, but Jenna only groaned.

“Oohh yeah, it totally worked. It didn’t feel like my pussy, but also didn’t hurt at all, and I can already feel how it’s closing,” Jenna rasped. She rolled onto her side, burying her face in the crook of Emma’s arm, and let the world slow down. The aftershocks were still happening—mini quakes of pleasure, nerve endings firing off at random. Her insides felt… different. Not just stretched, but as if the spell had rearranged her plumbing in some alchemical, perverted way.

Emma suddenly stood up, making Jenna almost fall to the ground. “Wanna see why I got a barn?”, her face gleaming with excitement and… lust? Emma had found a hoodie and was wriggling into it, not bothering with panties or pants; it hung past her hips, half zipped, and she looked like a perverse college mascot.

Jenna opted for a blanket fort. She wrapped herself in a throw, knotted the ends under her armpits, and followed Emma to the back door. The sun was setting, honey-thick over the horizon, painting the world in slow-motion gold and shadow. Emma led her across the porch, past the infamous patch of freakish grass, and down a gravel path toward the barn at the edge of the property.

Jenna’s bare feet stung on the stones. The air outside made her skin tighten; the blanket offered little protection, and she shivered, more alive than she’d felt in years. By the time they reached the barn, Jenna’s toes were numb, her legs damp with dew and whatever was still slowly leaking out of her. She followed the sound of Emma’s laughter—bright, echoing off the corrugated steel of the outbuilding. At this distance, the barn didn’t look like much: just a pale gray box, slightly warped from sun and seasons. Up close, it towered, the doors at least twice as tall as Jenna, with a padlock the size of a newborn’s head.

She watched as Emma fished a key out of her hoodie’s front pocket, fingers trembling from anticipation or maybe just the cold. She shoved the key home, twisted, and the lock fell open with a thunk. When Emma pulled on the handle, both doors drifted outward like the parted jaws of a whale. It was dark inside, but not silent: something snuffled from the gloom, a deep, wet, mammalian sound.

Jenna stopped just outside, suddenly hesitant. The air was different in here—warmer, humid, loaded with a musky, peppery tang. "Okay, you haven’t told me what’s in here," she said, voice steady but her pulse hot in her neck.

Emma grinned, eyes shining. "You’ll see," she said, and disappeared into the black, leaving Jenna to hover at the threshold, the blanket still clutched around her.

There was a slap of a light switch against the wall, and then the barn came alive in a wash of sodium-yellow fluorescence. The place was cleaner than Jenna expected, given Emma’s general approach to housekeeping. There were rows of bales, neatly stacked, and a whole wall of power tools, all gleaming and hung with pathological precision. But it was the far end of the barn that drew the eye.

He stood in a stall the size of a Manhattan studio apartment, all midnight fur and nerve. For a second, Jenna’s brain refused to scale him correctly—he looked almost normal in the shadow, but as her eyes adjusted, his size multiplied, the way a monster grows once you spot it under the bed. The black horse was at least three meters at the shoulder (9.8 feet), maybe more. His mane shone blue in the light, and his head was turned toward them, one huge, watchful eye rolling with interest.

Hooves like dinner plates. A cock—Jenna’s mind hiccuped, then caught up—longer than her forearm, thick as a firehose, hanging heavy and half-sheathed like a living threat, and it wasn’t even hard.

Emma said, “He’s called Galant. I adopted him after a trip to a ranch in Kentucky. He was too much for most people. But I liked his attitude. So I had this barn built only for him on a short notice.”

Jenna’s mouth was dry again. "Adopted," she repeated. "Like, you just—what, brought him home on a plane?"

Emma snorted. "Freight truck. You cannot imagine the paperwork." She stepped forward, threw her arms around Galant’s neck as if he were a prized dog and not a nuclear reactor on four legs. The horse nuzzled her, nearly knocking the hood off her head. "He’s an absolute softie, aren’t you, baby? Jenna gawked at the horse. It felt like an optical illusion, the animal’s presence so outsized it warped the entire barn around him. She realized only then she’d been holding her breath, as if some internal alarm was warning her—too big, too much, no way, no way.

Jenna edged into the barn, the floodlights bleaching every surface with a jaundiced glow. She felt the brush of hay underfoot, the pit-sweat damp in her blanket. Galant’s head dipped, his muzzle nearly level with Jenna’s own, and she flinched at the sudden closeness. The horse’s nostrils flared, drawing in her scent—her post-coital tang, her nerves, her damp blanket skin. He exhaled a gust that fluttered her hair and left a hot, animal musk clinging to her lips.

Emma was already in the stall with him, hands gliding over the glossy expanse of Galant’s neck. She looked over her shoulder at Jenna and grinned with a fever that didn’t seem entirely human. “He likes you,” Emma said. “He’s very… intuitive.”

Jenna hovered outside the gate, pulse thudding in her wrists. “He’s, uh. Big.”

Emma, meanwhile, was absolutely delighted. She led Galant out of his stall with one hand curled around his enormous velvet muzzle, talking to him in the low, affectionate cadence usually reserved for babies and the deeply insane. The horse whickered, his breath fogging in the sodium light. Jenna edged closer, blanket still wrapped around her like a shield. The animal’s bulk radiated heat, and his eyes—huge, brown, and glassy—blinked at her like he knew every secret she’d ever tried to keep.

Emma guided the horse toward a workbench that ran along the inside of the fence, then looked around as if searching for something. “Can you snag that stool?” she asked, nodding at a low wooden block by the wall. Jenna shuffled over and grabbed it, grateful for the excuse not to think. She dragged it across the concrete, surprised by the scrape of its weight, and set it down next to the table.

Emma was already rolling up her sleeves in anticipation. She grinned over her shoulder at Jenna, looking a little deranged, and said, “Alright. You ready?”

Jenna wasn’t ready at all, but she nodded. She set the stool in front of Galant’s chest, then froze as Emma started hoisting herself up onto the workbench, using the horse’s mane for leverage. The animal didn’t even flinch. He seemed almost lazy, like a cat waiting for a sunbeam.

Emma straddled the bench with her back to the horse and patted the spot next to her. “C’mon,” she said. “I can’t do this alone.”

Jenna dropped the blanket. The barn air puckered her skin into goosebumps, but she climbed up anyway, perching on the edge of the table. The horse’s nose was right there, close enough that she could smell the sweet hay-rot of his breath, see the little flecks of dust in his fur.

Emma settled herself, then reached under the horse’s belly, hands bold and practiced as a nurse administering a shot. She cupped Galant’s sheath, giving it a slow, appraising squeeze. The horse shifted his weight, tail flicking. That cock—already huge—stirred, the pink flare of the head blossoming out as if waking up from a nap.

Jenna stared. It looked like something industrial, an object with its own weather system, veins like power lines snaking under the skin.

Emma caught her gaze and snickered. “Not what you expected, huh?” She stroked the length of Galant’s cock with both hands, coaxing it up and out until it bobbed, massive and glistening, in the cold barn air. The horse’s dick kept growing, like a time-lapse of a monstrous flower. Emma’s hands could barely wrap around the base; her fingers dug in, dimpling the velvet skin, which twitched and surged with every stroke. The flared head glistened an angry mauve, ridged and veined in a way that looked almost architectural—like a Roman column. The next minute was a blur of Emma’s practiced confidence: she hiked the hoodie up above her waist, peeled herself out of it, her huge pale tits bounced around, and let her bare ass rest on the cool wood of the bench. When she looked back at Jenna, her face was flushed and her breath came quick and shallow.

“Don’t just stare,” Emma said. “Help me out.”

Jenna’s mind stuttered, flipping through dozens of possible meanings, but her body obeyed before she could think. She hopped from the bench, wincing as her still-wet thighs slapped together, and walked around to the horse’s side. Up close, the cock was even more intimidating—nearly as thick as streetlight, the tip oozing a clear, viscous strand. The animal’s scent was overwhelming; even with the barn doors open, every breath tasted like hay, sweat, and something meaty and dark. She hovered, one hand out, then set her palm on the creature’s shaft—hot as a fever, throbbing against her skin. Galant’s cock was still swelling, still darkening, and Jenna couldn’t help but measure it against her own forearm: it was already longer, thicker, the head an almost obscene crown of purplish-black. She felt shivery, not quite fear but a kind of vertigo. Still, she reached up and stroked him, slow and gentle, letting her palm slide along the impossible length. The urethra at the tip was a fat, glistening slit, leaking a heavy thread of clear fluid.

Emma, watching her, let out a laugh that came straight from the chest. “Now you see why I had to build him his own house.” She nuzzled into Galant’s neck, then patted his shoulder. “Let’s get you comfortable, big guy.”

She led him to the fencing that partitioned the barn, the top of it a thick wooden rail at just about Emma’s chin. The horse followed with minimal encouragement, shifting his bulk with a patience that made Jenna feel like a fidgety insect. At Emma’s command—just a clipped “Up, handsome”—the horse reared back and rested his massive forelegs atop the rail. The whole barn shuddered with the impact. Galant’s cock now stood out fully, bobbing under its own weight, the veins ridged and swollen.

Emma turned to Jenna, her eyes glassy with anticipation. “You can help, you know,” she said, gesturing at the glistening shaft. Jenna’s mouth was bone-dry, but she nodded, sidling up and wrapping both hands around the base. The skin there was velvet, soft but with an underlying hardness like braided cable. The heat of it radiated into her palms, her wrists, up her arms.

She started to stroke, slow and uncertain at first. The slick precum made it easier, but the sheer girth forced her hands apart after just a few movements. Emma’s breath caught, and Jenna heard the little hitch in her throat as she watched. She wondered if Emma was getting off on the spectacle, or on her discomfort, or both.

Galant’s head dipped, his nostrils flaring. The cock twitched in Jenna’s hands, a spasm that startled her into almost letting go. She felt something else then—a pulse in her own pelvis, a tightening, as if her body was tuning itself to the same frequency as the horse. Her pussy tingled with the aftershocks of her last orgasm, felt raw and open, but with a new hunger sparking behind her clit.

Jenna’s arms trembled as she worked her palms up and down the midnight-black shaft, the heat and slickness making her lips numb with disbelief. She couldn’t gauge whether the cock was growing or she was shrinking, but every time she looked away and back, the scale seemed to shift—now reaching her collarbone, now past it, now a behemoth that could’ve had its own ZIP code.

Jenna shook her head, unable to speak. She watched Emma’s hands stroke and knead around hers, squeezing the shaft in tandem, like they were working clay on a pottery wheel. The skin pulsed beneath their grip, each throb in perfect sync with the deep bass of Galant’s breath. The urethral slit at its tip gaped, glistening, almost hypnotic in its wet, flexing hunger.

Emma’s hands glided higher. She reached for Jenna’s wrist, fingers sticky, and guided her hand upward until it bumped the flare of the glans—a broad, glossy dome that seemed to pant and pulse under their stares. “You’re fucking good at this,” Emma said, voice low and reverent. She was breathing through her mouth now, little white puffs in the barn’s cool air. “But it might need… more.”

Jenna blinked, still half in shock, as Emma sidled past her and arched up to press her breasts into the beast’s side. She propped herself on the workbench and gripped the cock’s tip in both hands, her stance wide, thighs tensed. Jenna watched as Emma lifted herself up, balancing her huge tits against the slick, veiny length, and spat a thick, glistening rope onto the head, then another. She reached for Jenna wordlessly, tugging her closer by the small of her back.

Jenna leaned in and licked a long, trembling stripe up the side. The taste was wild and grassy and stung her tongue, but she did it again, this time letting her mouth linger at the head, lapping at the wet slit. The thing had seemed to reach its apex, and what an apex: it was way bigger than Jenna herself, around 2 meters (6.5 feet) and as thick as her whole torso.

Emma stood up on the bench, bracing with both hands on Galant’s velvet barrel. Her whole body was flushed, goosebumps stippling her arms and thighs in the barn’s chilly fug. She looked at Jenna and grinned open-mouthed, not bothering to wipe the slickness from her chin or the stringy spit connecting her lower lip to the top of Galant’s cock. She threw her shoulders back, planting her feet even wider, and with a single slick movement buried her hand between her own legs. She didn’t ease in—just dunked three fingers knuckle deep into her pussy, which squelched audibly, already slopping wet from the spectacle and the lingering afterglow of the house. She pumped her hand in a tight, fast rhythm, her whole body tensing up in time with the motion, the muscles of her thighs flexing and relaxing in a kind of dance. Her other hand rubbed Galant’s cock head and scoped some of its precum. She guided the hand to her face, took a deep breath and licked some of it, then she used the musky liquid as lube for her used pussy. Jenna couldn’t believe what she was seeing, she was so jealous.

As Emma’s hand moved as a blur, she spoke up between gasps, “Hold it… for me, NGGHH! I’m gonna… squirt on it!”

Jenna braced herself, gripping the base of Galant’s cock with both hands as if anchoring a yacht in a hurricane. The shaft kicked at her palms, hot and slick, the urethral slit at the tip already drooling a runnel of clear, thick fluid down its own length. Emma’s voice was sliced up into little gasps, her breath coming in ragged fragments as she pumped her own cunt with a pace that bordered on frantic. Jenna couldn’t look away. She could smell everything—the sweet rot of hay, the ferrous tickle of barn dust in her nose, Emma’s sharp sweat, her own clinging sex funk, and above all the animal’s raw, salty musk.

Emma’s breathing came fast and sharp, matching the blur of her hand. Jenna kept her own grip steady, awed by the sight of Emma’s huge tits swinging as she jilled herself. Emma pinched her own nipple, hard, and Jenna saw her whole body lock up, the muscles in her thighs and calves going taut as iron cables.

“Get it ready!” Emma barked, voice ragged. Jenna leaned in and cupped the head, feeling it pulse against her palm. She used her other hand to slide up and down the shaft, a two-handed, twisting rhythm, and the stickiness of the precum made her fingers slip and shine. It was obscene, the way her own hands looked so tiny against it, like a kid holding the controls on a fire hydrant. The horse's cock was so alive in her grasp she almost expected it to pulse out Morse code.

Then Emma screamed—wordless, open-throated, like she was trying to cut the barn in half with her voice. Her hips bucked and her entire body seemed to compress, like she’d folded herself around her own orgasm and was trying to squeeze every ounce from it. Jenna saw the first glimmer of it: a bright bead at Emma’s slit, swelling with impossible speed, trembling, then shooting out in a wild arc that splattered right across the crown of Galant’s cock.

It didn’t come in spurts but in a single laser-straight hose, thick and unbroken, blasting from Emma’s pussy directly onto the horse’s glans. The force of it actually bounced off the head, ricocheting up and hitting Emma square on the stomach before cascading down in a shimmering tide. Emma didn’t stop, didn’t even slow—the squirt kept going, the pressure unthinkable, splashing onto Jenna’s hands and up her forearms, streaming down the horse’s shaft in glistening rivulets. It hit the concrete with a slap. It soaked Emma’s thighs, sprayed the walls, and ran off the table in a waterfall. The orgasm subsided and Emma sat on the bench, trying to recover for the main dish of tonight's debauchery. While she did that, Jenna got close to the flared head and, after some seconds of hesitation, buried her face in it. She relished in the smell, her nose directly above the slit,

feasted upon the mixture of flavours, she could taste her friend's squirt combined with the salty musk of the horse.

Jenna wiped her face on the horse cock and the whole situation proved to be too much for her brain. Her eyes rolled into her skull and a single powerful jet blasted out of her urethra, strong enough to dig a hole in the floor of hay. She only managed to stay up because she was holding on the cock like it was a life matter. Emma watched with a grin plastered on her face and began fingering her ass. Soon, she was full on fisting herself, her hole welcoming her hand like some anal whore.

Jenna barely had time to catch her breath before Emma, still red-faced and glistening, leaned in so close their foreheads almost touched. Her voice was gutted, wordless at first—a laugh, maybe, or a gasp so deep it rattled Jenna’s teeth. Then Emma’s hand was behind Jenna’s neck, pulling her into a wet, open-mouthed kiss. It tasted like war: sweet, feral, stinging with the afterburn of what they’d just done. Emma bit at Jenna’s lower lip, not hard, but decisive.

“Help me,” she said, still panting. “Guide it in. I need you to.”

Jenna processed the words through a filter of disbelief and awe. She looked at Emma’s ass, wide and strong and still twitching with aftershocks, then back at the cock—Galant’s cock, now drooling steady precum, the entire length shining in the barn’s jaundiced light. The flared tip seemed bigger than her own face.

Emma positioned herself on all fours on the table, her ass facing the monstrosity of that equine cock. Jenna hiked Emma’s ass up, both hands pressed hard into the warm muscle. The sight of Emma, splayed and open, her asshole puckered and flushed, made Jenna’s scalp tingle. She leaned in and spit, once, twice, then licked a wide stripe across Emma’s hole, tongue flattening, savoring the bitter funk and Emma’s own sweet slick. Emma moaned—a choking, desperate noise—and rocked back, grinding herself against Jenna’s face.

“God, just get it inside me,” Emma hissed.

Jenna lined the cock up. Even the smallest nudge made Emma’s sphincter pucker, the rim stretching, resisting, then caving in a little more each time. Jenna used both hands to anchor the tip against Emma’s hole, pressing slowly and deliberately, feeling the ring give way, atom by atom. Emma’s entire body shook, her calves flexing, then relaxing, then flexing again.

It was less an insertion than a tectonic shift—Emma’s ass, already open from her own fists, swallowing the flared glans of Galant’s cock with brutal finality. The rim dimpled, stretched, trembled, then yawned wide enough for Jenna to see the pale, glistening flesh inside, everything straining to accommodate the impossible width. The barn seemed to contract around the sound of Emma’s scream, high and unfiltered, vibrating in Jenna’s teeth and down into the concrete.

Jenna steadied the shaft, both palms bracing the sticky heat of it, and watched as Emma’s hole fought, gave up, and then began its slow, inexorable transit down the slick black length. Inch after inch disappeared into her, the bulge of it distending Emma’s belly in real time. Jenna couldn’t believe the elasticity, the way the skin tautened, stretching over the living battering ram of Galant’s cock. Two hands and then three would not have spanned the girth where the flare vanished inside Emma’s body, and still it pressed inward, relentlessly.

Emma’s arms had buckled. Her shoulders dug into the wooden bench, her huge tits splayed and mashed across the stained wood. Every tendon in her neck stood out like string on a marionette. Her hands scrabbled for something to grip—she found the edge of the table and held on, knuckles blanching, her entire frame wracked with the aftershocks of her own voice. The horse’s cock continued its slow, devastating progress, guided by Jenna’s hands and Galant’s own lazy thrusts.

Jenna kept both hands on the shaft, feeding it inch by impossible inch. The bulge inside Emma’s gut was instant—her belly distending, then flattening, then distending again as the cock drove in deeper. She could see the outline of it pressing under the skin, a black shadow slithering up toward Emma’s ribs. It was so obscene, so fucking beautiful, Jenna wanted to worship it. She wanted to take a picture. She wanted to be the one on all fours, impaled, ruined, made into a sleeve for this animal.

The first foot vanished inside Emma’s ass. Then the second. Jenna could see Emma’s skin go shiny, could hear the wet squelch as the cock battered past every sphincter, every curve, reshaping Emma’s insides in real time. The walls of Emma’s abdomen flexed, growing around the invader. Each pulse of the shaft made the bulge bigger, the tent of her skin now stretched so far Jenna could almost see veins mapped underneath.

Emma started to cum again, wordless, half out of her mind. It wasn’t a scream this time—just a steady, hollow moan, the sound of a body in freefall. The pressure in her belly made her pussy gush, a pink spray arcing from between her thighs to splatter the bench and Jenna’s chest and the front of the stall. It didn’t stop. Every thrust from Galant made Emma’s cunt blast another round, the fluid running in rivulets down her legs, pooling on the floor, wetting Jenna’s feet in a sticky flood. She couldn’t stand just watching. Her hands—slick, trembling, more animal now than delicate—slipped down between Emma’s quivering thighs. Jenna could barely tell where her own wrist ended and Emma’s cunt began; the whole expanse was flooded, a swamp of slickness and squirt, petals swollen and desperate. The lips were open wide, leaking clear down Emma’s thighs and across Jenna’s knuckles. The smell was heady, not sharp anymore but deep, like summer grass mixed with blood and rainwater.

Jenna spat into her palm, then curled her fingers, pushing two, then three inside. Easy—Emma was more than ready, her body taking the digits with greedy, spasming pulls. The heat inside was insane, a living furnace. Jenna’s knuckles popped through the initial resistance, and her hand sank forward to the wrist. That was the threshold, the boundary she’d always feared, but now it wasn’t fear at all—she wanted to see how much her friend could take, how much she could give.

She drove her hand deeper, fingers splayed, thumb tucked in tight. Emma’s body bucked so hard that Jenna had to pin her thigh down with her other forearm to keep from getting thrown off the bench. The walls inside Emma’s pussy clamped and fluttered around her fist, muscles fighting and then collapsing, like the tide in a rip current. Jenna felt something at the end of the tunnel—a tight, rubbery ring, resisting her knuckles. Emma’s cervix. Jenna had seen diagrams, watched porn, read horror stories and worshipped them, but the reality was raw and intoxicating. She flexed a finger, then another, rubbing gentle circles against the puckered mouth of Emma’s womb. Emma’s whole body went rigid; then she made a noise Jenna had never heard from another human, a sound so deep it shook the table and maybe the barn itself.

Jenna kept teasing the cervix, rolling her knuckles over the entrance. She wanted to see if it would open. She pressed again, softer this time, and the ring gave a little, just a micro-movement, but enough for Jenna to feel the pressure change, a sudden yielding, then the tip of her index finger slipped straight inside.

Holy fuck, she was in. Past the gates, right up into the inner sanctum. The surface was hot, alive, not like a wall but the silky, wrinkled lining of a mouth—Jenna’s finger grazed the interior, felt it twitch, then clamp down around her, like the whole thing was a living creature desperate to keep her inside. She flexed the finger, felt Emma’s womb ripple around her knuckle, and then tentatively began to circle, prodding at the tender membrane.

Emma made a guttural, animal groan, vibrating right through Jenna’s bones. The sound was desperate, like pleas and victory mashed together. Jenna risked a glance up the length of Emma’s body: she was drenched, sweat streaking her spine, her hands clawing at the bench, face mashed sideways to the wood. The horse’s cock still worked its relentless way deeper, now easily halfway inside, the black length flexing and pulsing as Galant bucked and huffed. Jenna could see her own hand, wrist-deep in Emma’s cunt, and the sight made her pussy clench with need.

She wanted more. She wanted to know what happened if she went further. With her finger still inside Emma’s womb, she curled it gently, exploring the soft, yielding walls. The lining was different here—slicker, less like muscle, more like the inner part of a lip or cheek. There was room, too, space her finger could move in, and she wondered if she could get more than the tip inside. Her knuckle followed, then the first joint, and Emma’s body reacted in a wave: her back arched, her legs shook, and her pussy squelched around Jenna’s wrist, clamping in spasms.

“Don’t stop,” Emma gasped, voice shredded. “Don’t you dare—”

Jenna pressed on, curling two fingers and pushing them both through the cervix. The opening stretched, hesitated, then gave way, and now her hand was two knuckles deep inside Emma’s uterus. The sensation was insane—heat and pressure, wet and yielding, a level of raw vulnerability that made Jenna’s head spin. She could feel the pulsing of Emma’s heartbeat through the thin wall, could sense the heavy, rhythmic thuds of Galant’s cock above, pressing down on Emma’s guts from the other side.

She flexed her fingers again, this time in a slow, milking motion, and felt Emma’s womb squeeze around them, as if trying to milk her hand. The grip was so intense Jenna thought she might lose circulation. She withdrew, then pressed forward again, pumping slow, careful, and deep. Each thrust sent a shudder along Emma’s whole body, nipples dragging wetly against the bench, her arching spine a livewire.

Galant, apparently tired of Jenna’s careful pace, lurched forward with a force that sent her staggering back into the hay, her hand slipping out of Emma’s pussy with a wet pop. The impact churned Emma’s hips hard into the edge of the bench; Jenna watched, stunned, as the flare of the horse’s cock bowled its way deeper, the swell under Emma’s skin ballooning up and up until it hit just below her sternum. A groan tore out of Emma, half-nasal, half howl, her mouth open in a rictus of pain or maybe joy or maybe something Jenna didn’t have a word for. The horse didn’t pause, just hammered again, and Emma’s stomach distended another inch, the seam of her skin so taut Jenna wondered if it’d split right there on the table.

The sounds were insane, the slap of horseflesh against Emma’s thighs, the wet suction of her obliterated asshole clinging to every withdrawal, the hiss of Emma’s breath as she tried to keep her lungs from collapsing. Jenna felt the thud of it in her own body, each thrust reverberating in her lower spine, echoing up into her jaw. She stared, mesmerized, as the bulge worked its way higher. It didn’t make sense, anatomically; it was like watching a magician thread scarves through a clenched fist, only the scarves were a living, pulsing battering ram and the fist was Emma’s entire digestive tract.

Jenna crawled closer, knuckles grinding into the straw. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the curve of Emma’s torso, the way every pump drove the bulge further up, flattening Emma’s tits against the wood until they looked cartoonish and fake. It was in her ribcage now, the head of the cock visible beneath Emma’s pale skin like an alien egg about to hatch. Emma’s voice was gone, replaced by a high, keening whimper that vibrated the barn air. Her face was mashed sideways on the table, spit and snot pooling in a sticky halo.

Galant’s hooves scrabbled on the concrete, the shudder of every movement shivering up Emma’s spine. Jenna glanced up; the animal’s eyes were rolled white, lips peeled back in something that might have been a smile, or just the animal logic of pleasure. A thick cord of drool hung from his mouth, swinging with every thrust.

Emma’s entire abdomen lurched as Galant slammed in again, the flare now visibly distorting her chest. A dark, almost blue shadow pressed under the skin, climbing higher, higher, until it stopped—paused—for one hideous, perfect second right beneath Emma’s breastbone. Jenna saw Emma’s ribs bow outward, the skin stretched so thin it looked like tracing paper over the cock.

Jenna couldn’t look away. She couldn’t breathe.

Then, with a final, unstoppable push, Galant’s cock punched straight up through the limits of Emma’s body, the outline driving directly into the hollow of her throat. Jenna watched the lump rise, bulging out Emma’s esophagus with an obscene, perfect curve. She heard Emma gag and tried to reach for her chin, to guide it, but Emma’s head was already being shoved up by the force of the cock, mouth forced open in a perfect, ragged O. Jenna scrambled up onto the bench, gripping Emma’s hair and tilting her head back, desperate to help her breathe, to help her see what was happening to her. Emma’s jaw worked helplessly, the muscles under the skin twitching as the immense pressure rammed itself up through her throat.

The next thrust was a slow-motion car crash. Jenna could feel the outline of the cock through Emma’s neck—hard, unyielding, making the whole column of her throat bulge grotesquely. Galant’s flare was right there, just behind Emma’s teeth, the blunt, dark tip desperately trying to get outside.

“Open,” Jenna said, more to herself than to Emma, but Emma heard—she always heard—and with a shudder that ran down her whole body, she forced her jaw as wide as it would go. Her tongue lolled, purple and slick with spit, and the flare of Galant’s dick pressed up through her mouth like a demon being exorcised. Jenna had to grip Emma’s chin in both hands to keep her head steady.

She leaned in closer, forehead almost pressed to Emma’s face, and stared in disbelief. There it was: the horse’s cock, tickling Emma’s uvula with each thrust, the slick, swollen tip glistening with a mixture of spit and whatever internal juices it had picked up on the way through. Jenna could see Emma’s eyes, wide and bloodshot, staring up at her with an unreadable expression—panic, awe, maybe pride. Or maybe just the whiteout intensity of being completely, absolutely filled.

She ran her hands up the length of Emma’s neck, following the impossible contour of cock under the skin, then slowly, reverently, guided her friend’s head back and forth, helping Emma’s mouth work the first few inches that had breached her lips. The head of the dick filled Emma’s mouth so completely there was almost no room for air. Jenna could hear each raspy, ragged breath, the harsh hiss of oxygen sneaking in around the pulsing shaft. She wondered what it felt like from the inside—her mind jittered with the horror and the glory of it, the absolute surrender, the sense of being used as nothing but a vessel, a sleeve.

Emma’s jaw flexed and trembled under Jenna’s grip, lips gaping impossibly wide. The pressure in her neck doubled, tripled, then the flare of Galant’s cock suddenly, brutally slipped past her molars. Eight inches of wet, glistening midnight erupted through Emma’s mouth, the tongue-thick tip stretching her lips near to splitting. Jenna had never seen a person so invaded, so completely unmade—Emma’s face a mask of shock, her mouth forced into an obscene O, the skin of her cheeks glassy and white with strain. The shaft churned behind, each pulse making Emma’s lips shimmer and the sinew in her jaw quiver.

Jenna’s own mouth went dry as a tomb. But watching Emma’s face forced wide, lips drawn so thin the pink of the muscle showed through, her breath glancing out in little rabbit-pant bursts around the shaft—it made every inch of Jenna’s body scream with a need so sharp it bordered on jealousy. She wanted to taste it. She wanted to crawl inside that moment, be a part of the annihilation.

Then she noticed the heat radiating from Emma’s face—flushed, fevered, sweat slicking her hairline. The horse’s cock was so throbbing, so alive, she could feel it pulsing against her own lips before she even touched it. When she did, she started with a timid lick at the rim of Emma’s mouth, where her friend’s lips strained like a balloon stretched to breaking. The skin was taut, trembling; the taste was a delirium—salty, coppery, edged with a barnyard tang that somehow made Jenna’s thighs go numb.

She licked again, tracing the line where the upper lip met cock, tongue following the weeping trickle of spit and precum. Then, emboldened, Jenna flattened her tongue and slobbered a long, noisy stripe down the eight inches of exposed shaft, then circled back to lap at Emma’s obscene, straining mouth. She let the flared head bump at her chin, then mashed her lips into the cock just below Emma’s nose, sealing them together in a grotesque, perfect kiss.

Emma’s eyes rolled back, then refocused, latching onto Jenna with a stare so raw it was like being electrocuted. A guttural sound rattled up through Emma’s throat, vibrating the cock, making the tip throb against Jenna’s lips. Jenna grinned, then sucked gently on the exposed head, lewdly tonguing the slit, drinking in the mixed taste of Emma’s spit and Galant’s impossible musk. She could feel the vibration of Emma’s moan, feel the soft give of Emma’s lips mashed against hers, separated only by the slab of horse meat wedged between. Jenna decided to put herself in front of her friend, just in the place where Galant’s cock reached its apex, and in every thrust planted a kiss right in the slit, savouring the fresh, potent precum of the horse.

With their minds full of horse cock, also the body in Emma’s case, and the dizziness caused by the intense musk, both of the girls squirted with all their might. Jenna’s hitting Emma’s dangling tits and Emma forming a puddle so big that soaked the table and pooled in the floor beneath it.

With her mind having recovered some of clarity, Jenna decided she had had enough of licking, she needed that magnificent cock inside of her. She leaned her back against the fence and spread her legs, showing her brown and needy pussy, some white drool dripping down her ass. With trembling hands she guided Galant’s pole to her pussy. As she expected, her pussy had trouble accepting the horse’s dick, but the slaps on her lower lips were making her moan already. But she needed much more. With unwavering will she pushed further her hips. The cock pressed against her pussy, but Jenna didn’t give in, making the rod curve upwards. After a few seconds, when Jenna thought the dick would slip, she felt her lips part and suddenly the flare was inside of her.

It was insane, not just a stretch—at this point, Jenna could feel her own pelvis grinding as the flare bulldozed her open, the stretch grinding deep into her bones. She howled, or tried to, but the sound fizzed out in her throat, came out as a strangled whimper, and that obscene crown just kept on shoving its way into her. The first inch burned, bright and urgent, a taste of real pain that made her clench her jaw for an instant, but then the sensation twisted, transfigured, became something more, something so huge and full that it toppled her right into ecstasy.

The cock was so hot, so capacious, it felt like the only thing inside her; Jenna’s nerves were alright, her hips locked in the vice of sensation. She flailed for balance, grabbed the fence post, her nails gouging splinters from the wood; her other hand gripped the shaft as if it might anchor her to the world. Girth like this, she thought, stomach trilling with horror and pride, wasn’t just a number on a subreddit any more. It was real, mapped into every screaming sinew of her cunt.

She’d never felt so open, so exposed. She could actually feel Galant’s cock rearranging her guts, each nudge upwards shoving something deeper, shifting her whole viscera into a new order. And every time the flare bull-whipped her inside, it mashed her g-spot with a pressure that made her legs jerk and her toes curl, made her body convulse and try to crawl up the length, to take more.

She set her jaw. She wanted more.

She pressed her ass lower, the fence post biting into her shoulders for purchase, and used both hands now, spreading her own lips, prying herself wider, feeding that midnight shaft inch by inch up into her body. The flare vanished past her entrance, the stretch still pure fire, now accompanied by the deep, grinding pressure of the shaft filling her, thick as her forearm and several feet long. She looked down and saw the skin of her belly visibly rising and falling with every pulse, a black-and-blue shadow snaking up from her slit toward her navel.

Emma, still gagged on the upper reach of Galant’s cock, watched with a wild, manic focus, her eyes watering, drool webbing between her stretched lips and the throbbing shaft. She saw how her friend’s stretched pussy was slowly descending to meet her stretched lips. She cheered Jenna on with a blur of hand signals, clapping the table and giving an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.

Jenna moved faster now, the animal’s musk spinning her head, her own fluids mixing with the horse’s until the whole floor was a swamp of sex and straw and the metallic taste of her own blood where her nails had pierced her palm. She rammed herself down, the cock bottoming out, and her world went white—an orgasm that vaporized her thoughts, that blasted out of her in a series of shrieking pulses. She sprayed, not in the elegant arc of a porn star, but in a convulsive, animal pulse. Liquid shot from her urethra and sprayed the beast’s belly and rained over Emma’s body.

The flare found her cervix and battered it like a ram. Jenna braced, one hand gripping the top rail, the other splayed on her own trembling thigh. The pain was different here—deep, tentacular, radiating up through her spine and across her ribs. The next thrust buckled her knees. She wanted to fold, but she was pinned by the pressure, suffused with a crystalline ache so sharp she could taste it in the back of her mouth. She glanced down and saw her own lower belly bulge—an unmistakable roundness, as if she were already six months pregnant with the outline of Galant’s cock.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she whimpered, and punched down, grinding her hips in a spiral. The flare mashed her cervix, the rim catching and then, with a slick, obscene pop, punching through. The world flashed white. She heard herself howl. Her vision blurred out to the sides, a tunnel collapsing, and then she was through: inside-out, a new universe of sensation, her cunt a sleeve stretched end-to-end, her insides a river rushing to accommodate the invasion.

Her lips met Emma’s, stretched wide and glossy around the same impossible shaft. For a moment Jenna’s universe was only this: her own insides rearranged, Emma’s mouth spasming and drooling around the spit-shined black, the two of them joined on a single animal vector. She felt Galant’s cock surge, not just in and out but upward, up through the soft meat of her womb, shoving her organs aside like packing peanuts. Her lower abdomen cramped, then rippled, then clenched in spasm after spasm. Somewhere in the haze she recognized her own cervix yanked open—she could feel it, a ring of hot, sticky pressure—and beyond, the cold, weirdly smooth slide of an equine cock through the inside of her uterus.

Jenna hugged the shaft with both arms, her cheek pressed to the hot, veiny surface, and let the aftershocks convulse her. Every time she tightened, her body locked down on the intruder, wringing it, the friction focused like sunlight on a single burning point. One more thrust and the pressure spiked, her insides at the ragged edge, the flare battened straight against the dome of her womb. She was full, fuller than full, the cock plugging her at both ends, so huge inside her it felt like her guts would shear away from her spine. She wanted to stay here—impaled, out of breath, nerves so raw they sparked with every pulse.

The horse twitched, then huffed, a shiver passing down his massive body. Jenna saw the skin ripple under her arms, the veins bulged, and for a wild second she thought he might actually cum, might flood her with so much that it would spray out both ends, drowning everything between her and Emma. This idea almost pushed her over. The barn’s air, already muggy with sweat and sex, went absolutely molten. Jenna braced for the impossible, her arms and legs splayed wide, every nerve ending lit up in anticipation. Galant’s entire body tensed: a tidal surge of pressure rippled up the shaft, and then it happened—a nuclear-hot jet of cum rocketed into Jenna’s womb, so forceful it felt like a punch to the gut. The second shot hit even harder, a blast of heat and volume that made her entire belly seize. Jenna’s hands scrambled for purchase on the shaft, her fingers slipping in the sudden overflow that leaked everywhere, down her thighs, splattering the concrete, flooding her insides with an alien, sweet-fermented musk. She felt as if her uterus was being pressure-washed, every cubic centimeter jammed full of that impossible, living flood.

She screamed, a raw, animal howl that vibrated her own skull. The flare at the end of Galant’s cock battered against her cervix, then—impossibly—wedged inside. Jenna felt the rim burrow past the ring of muscle, locking her entire reproductive tract in place. Another burst of cum, titanic, so much that her stomach actually ballooned outward, the skin stretched taut, veins standing out like blue lightning. For a moment, her senses whited out, drowning in the tidal force of being filled, fucking filled, not just a trickle or a squirt but a continuous, pressurized deluge that made her vision go dark around the edges.

Galant bucked once, twice, then yanked his hips back with an urgency that startled her. The cock pulled out not smoothly, but with a wet, gurgling slurp, and as it retreated, Jenna felt something inside her stretch and then snapped free—a hot, slippery mass dragged out by the retreating shaft. It took her several seconds to realize, through the haze, that it was her own womb, the whole damn thing, yanked half-out and blooming around the crown of Galant’s flare. She didn’t even have time to process the terror or awe before the glans, now gloved in her own slippery pink tissue, yanked once again and escaped from her cervix with a lewd pop and returned to the comfy wet inside of Emma’s mouth.

The first jet was a silent earthquake: Emma’s throat convulsed, her eyes bugged, and a geyser of hot, sour liquid slammed through the column of cock and out her mouth with a pressure that should have shattered teeth. Cum forced her mouth wider, ballooning her cheeks and spraying out in a thick, paint-white arc that splattered the concrete in great, obscene ropes. Jenna’s face got hit first—warm, viscous, and with a taste that could only be described as ancient and animal.

Jenna grabbed Emma’s jaw, steadying her, feeling it work under her hands like the pedal of a sewing machine. The heat of the cum radiated through Emma’s cheeks; Jenna could hear it, the rush of liquid in Emma’s piping, the desperate little gurgles and then another splatter as the pressure found the path of least resistance. Emma’s neck ballooned with each shot, the skin tight as a sausage casing, then loosened as the cock retreated for a split second—only to be rammed forward again by another brutal, muscular thrust from the horse’s loins. Jenna was ready this time. She waited for the fountain of cum that shot from Emma’s mouth and opened hers to catch whatever she could. Her clit throbbed, her lower belly ached with the phantom pressure and her head spun. She pressed her own hips back into the splintery rail and massaged her prolapsed pussy with the heel of her palm, mashing it in time with the thunderclap rhythm of Galant’s cumming. She could feel her own insides still sloshing and quivering at the memory of the fullness, the violence, the sense of being used, emptied, then used again.

Another blast—thicker, if possible, and with enough force to send Emma’s head snapping back and her hair streaming behind her like a battle flag—smashed through her mouth. The cum hit the far wall, a six-meter shot that spattered the insulation and then rained down in great globs. Jenna felt a perverse pride at the distance, at the spectacle of her friend transformed into a living, shrieking hose. The cum sluiced down Emma’s chin in rivers, coating her tits, her chest, and pooling in the valley between her breasts.

Galant kept retreating into Emma’s body, but he sure wasn't finished cumming. Rivers of thick potent horse cum pooled in Emma’s insides. At some point, she couldn’t keep holding herself to the table, and Galant’s constant pulling made her slip from the table, the only thing supporting her now her arms and her wobbly legs.Her stomach began ballooning from the sheer quantity it was receiving, so much that Emma could not stop puking cum, now more like a rivulet that a geyser. At first it was subtle, just a tightening of the skin around her navel, but then the outline grew, rounded, swelled. The skin stretched, veins darkening, until Emma’s whole midsection swelled to twice, then three times its normal size. She looked pregnant—hugely, impossibly so, the roundness pushing her tits up and out, the skin shiny and mottled with the force of the pressure.

Emma’s belly was a full moon now, the skin so tight Jenna could see the faint blue scrawl of veins spiderwebbing just beneath the surface. Each new pulse of cum made it shudder and swell further, a grotesque, living water balloon. Emma’s hands, slippery with her own squirt and the frothy river of horse jizz, scrabbled at her stomach as if trying to hold it back, but there was no end to it. Galant’s cock—still rigid, still throbbing—looked like a pipeline running from Emma’s asshole to her stomach, and Jenna found herself transfixed, unable to look away even as nausea and awe warred in her chest.

She was vaguely aware of the wet slap of her own ass as she collapsed to the floor, knees buckling in sympathy with every convulsion of Emma’s body on the bench. Her vision swam, the barn reduced to a tunnel of yellow light, the only real things the smell of hay and semen, the sticky cling of it on her skin, and the sound—Jesus, the sound—of Emma retching and laughing and moaning, all at once.

Galant gave a final, massive thrust, pinning Emma flush to the plank. The cock was buried to the hilt, the bulge in her throat so outsized it looked like she’d swallowed a bowling pin. Then, with a twitch that sent the entire animal shuddering, he jerked his hips back. The flare popped first from Emma’s mouth, leaving an instant, gaping O, and then Jenna watched the whole shaft reverse: yards of it, thick and glistening, was being pulled through Emma at a speed that seemed impossible. The cascade of cum that followed was impressive, liters of it were expelled from Emma’s ass until her massive belly shrunk to pregnant size.

Jenna lay there, the aftermath washing over her in big, rolling seconds, each breath like sucking air through a straw. Her abs twitched and throbbed, the aftershocks stuttering down her thighs and up her ribs. She felt cold. She felt raw. She felt like a living science experiment, inside a mess of sensations she couldn’t name. Her vision stuttered with little black dots; she blinked them away. Somewhere above her, Emma was still on all fours, cum oozing out her mouth and down her chin, dripping onto the concrete in a slow, sticky metronome. She looked dazed, eyes glassy with the post-nut stun. Jenna wanted to laugh but her throat wouldn’t cooperate; it came out a wet, gurgly cackle.

Jenna glanced down at her own body. She was spread so wide, so inside-out, it was hard to process as herself. Her pussy was gaped open, leaking a white, syrupy river; her thighs were streaked with pink and blue and every shade of bruise. She could see her own belly, stretched tight and tender, and—fuck, was that her uterus? A shiny, smooth bulge protruded from the split of her lips, pale pink and veined, like a weird, wet fruit. The sight made her feel sick and proud at the same time.

Emma, finally catching her breath, dropped to her knees beside Jenna. There was a long, silent moment where Emma just stared, jaw slack, eyes locked on the thing hanging half-out of Jenna’s gaping hole. She reached a hand down, tentative, then gave the mass a careful poke. It shivered. Jenna moaned, the sensation so foreign and deep it nearly made her black out.

“Is that—” Emma started, but the words fizzled. She tried again, voice a numb buzz. “Dude, is that what I think it is?”

Jenna nodded, sweat running from her hairline into her eyes. “I think it’s my fucking womb,” she croaked. She wanted to panic but the pain was more curious than sharp, an ache that trembled in her lower back and made her head float. “You want to, like, poke it?”

Emma did. Of course she did. She reached down with both hands, cradling the prolapsed organ like the world’s most disgusting Fabergé egg. Jenna’s legs jerked, knees spasming open even farther. It felt insane—nothing like fingers in her pussy, more like a fist under the sternum, primal and urgent. Emma’s fingers traced the veiny ridges, the wet, living tissue, and Jenna felt every micro-movement as a shiver up her spine. She started slowly, like she was afraid of hurting it, but her curiosity overrode every hesitation. She pushed both thumbs into the slick, trembling mass, spreading the entrance open with a steady, inexorable pressure. The ring flexed, pale and shiny, then parted around her thumbs like a mouth gasping for air. Jenna shuddered so hard she thought she might shake apart, her vision blurring at the edges, black dots gathering in a swarm. Emma worked the opening, stretching it wider, until it was a gaping, wet oval, the inner lining quivering like jelly. That’s when it happened: the pressure that had been building in Jenna’s gut found a way out, and a gush of thick, milky cum burst from the stretched cervix like the world’s grossest champagne cork.

It splattered onto Emma’s hands, then sprayed up in an arc, landing on her chin, her tits, the floor. The new sensation was so overwhelming Jenna couldn’t even scream; she made a high, keening whine instead, somewhere between agony and relief. Every pulse from her core forced another ounce of cum through the gaping hole, flooding the barn’s air with a humid, animal stink. Emma, undeterred, leaned close and licked at the flow, tongue darting out to taste Jenna’s insides and the saline tang of horse jizz. She lapped it up, then pressed her face closer, burying her nose in the open womb and working it with her tongue until Jenna’s whole lower body seized in a spasm.

Jenna tasted the blood-tang on her own tongue, bit down on the inside of her cheek just to anchor herself to the moment. The pleasure was so total it blurred into something transcendent, a raw, animal sense of being completely emptied, then filled again, then emptied once more. The cum just kept coming, a steady, pulsing river, splattering Emma’s face and running down her neck in glossy ropes. Emma seemed delighted—her grin was red with spit and other fluids, her eyes bright and a little feral. She kept her thumbs in the hole, stretching it wider, then worked two fingers in and pressed them up against the inside, massaging the walls, coaxing out another gush.

Jenna’s whole body wracked with aftershocks. Her arms and legs felt like spaghetti, her brain a half-melted cube of butter. She watched, dazed, as Emma scooped up a handful of the dripping cum and slathered it across her own tits, then stuffed her fingers in her mouth and sucked them clean, slow and obscene. Emma’s other hand worked the rim of her own asshole, probing, spreading, then burying her hand and moaning through a mouthful of cum. The noise vibrated through Jenna’s bones, made her want to reach out, touch, be touched, but she was too wrung out to move. Emma made a show of licking her slick fingers, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood-red lips gleamed, stretched in a wolfish smirk. “Ready for round two?” She said it like a challenge, already sidling closer, thighs sliding wetly across the cum-splotched concrete.

Jenna tried to laugh, but the noise in her throat was halfway between a hiccup and a sob. Her hips still spasmed with aftershocks, her head swimming in the memory of the horse’s cock splitting her like a log. She blinked away salt from her lashes, managed to prop herself up on one elbow. “You’re out of your mind,” she whispered, but she didn’t mean it as an insult.

Emma knelt, legs spread, titanic. Her body trembled with anticipation—or maybe just the lingering tremor of adrenaline. Gobs of cum dripped from her chin, her nipples. She reached for Jenna and thumbed the slippery, bulbous tissue still poking out from between Jenna’s thighs. “God, it’s so fucking pretty,” she said, awe in her voice. She pressed her lips to the prolapsed mass, kissing it like a wounded fruit.

Jenna flinched, not from pain, but because Emma’s tongue on her womb set off a spastic chain reaction through her insides. She could feel it all the way up her spine, her stomach turning to fire, her vision a kaleidoscopic swirl of color. The taste was indescribable—wet, coppery, some hint of vanilla, but also the thick, raw bite of fresh meat and salt. Emma licked again, deeper. She pushed her tongue into the gaping, glistening ring. Jenna’s toes curled. The sensation was so intense it almost hurt. She wanted to crawl away, to clamp her thighs shut, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. All she could do was clench the hay with both fists and ride the waves.

“You know what’s better than your womb coming out?” Emma said, voice hoarse and close to laughter. She leaned in, her hair tickling Jenna’s thigh. “Both of ours. At the same time.” She waggled her brows.

Jenna, still loopy with the aftershock, felt her pulse hammer in her neck at the prospect. The ache in her back meant nothing; the soreness in her legs, the warble in her vision—none of it mattered. She wanted to see Emma doubled over with her own insides hanging, pink and obscene and perfect. The idea sizzled through her, reanimating her limbs, quieting the crawling nausea and the pain.

“Fuck yes,” Jenna said, or maybe just thought it; either way, Emma got the message. She approached the horse and began rubbing and licking his shaft, Jenna soon followed, positioning herself at the front and attacking the slit. Neither of the girls had a full sleep that night, only brief black outs between brutal ravagings. When the sun rose, Galant was totally spent, already fast asleep, and the two lusty friends sat on a corner. Their bellies were bloated with horse cum and looked like they were pregnant with quintuplets, both of their wombs laid on the floor, Emma’s slightly bigger and pinkier than her friend’s.

The girls' bodies were sticky and covered in a mixture of sweat and horse semen, but they didn't seem to mind. They sat together, legs criss-crossed, staring off into the distance with glassy eyes. The horse, Galant, was still passed out nearby, looking content and well-satisfied.

Jenna was the first to break the silence. "I can't believe we did that," she said, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

Emma chuckled. "I know, right? Who would have thought we'd end up spending the night with a horse?" They laugh at the situation, but both of them knew that this was only the start of a new phase in their life, one that looked very promising.

Chapter Text

The sedan's dash read 2:31 p.m. when Jenna finally saw the first wooden sign for Emma's property—if you could call three stories of glass and steel nestled in a clearing surrounded by ancient pines a property—and she wanted to chew her own arm off. Somewhere in the last forty-five minutes, her coccyx had fused to the leather seat. Her phone pinged with notifications she'd been ignoring, the service surprisingly strong this deep in the woods, while her car's speakers blasted the true crime podcast Emma had insisted on.

Emma, in the passenger seat, had been pointing out wildlife for half an hour. "That's a red-tailed hawk. Did you know they mate for life but still cheat sometimes?" Her tone made it clear she'd already forgotten the factoid as soon as she finished speaking. Jenna barely grunted. There was a hot, sickly ache at the base of her spine, and her thighs kept sticking to the seat in a way that made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

She hated how much she liked driving out here. Hated the way the air smelled of pine and moss, how the roads turned from brutalist grid to winding forest paths that disappeared between towering trees, as if the whole woodland was deliberately trying to disorient her. Hated that she never got tired of Emma's house, with its all-glass back wall and the way the dappled sunlight filtered through leaves to dance across every room. Even hated the barn, looming at the bottom of the hill like some weathered red monolith from a children's picture book. Because every time she drove out here, she lost a little more of her mind and a little more of her self-control. Either way, the house looked even more like an alien structure that had landed among the trees, the glass flashing green and gold in the filtered afternoon light. Jenna killed the engine and tried to stand, but her legs had gone full rigor mortis.

Emma was out of the car before the engine finished ticking. “Race you to the door,” she called, already halfway up the walk, long brown hair (with two new blonde streaks) catching the sunlight. She wore bike shorts and nothing else; the crop-top she’d started the drive in now balled up somewhere under the seat. Jenna wished she could blame the lack of distractions on Emma’s rack, but the truth was that she’d spent the entire drive with one hand on the gearshift and the other fighting an urge to just yank Emma’s face into her crotch and see what happened.

When Jenna finally caught up, Emma was already inside. A trail of flip-flops, gym clothes, and keys led to the kitchen, where Emma sat on the marble island and devoured cold pad thai directly from the takeout container. “I told you the traffic would suck if we didn’t leave exactly at one,” she said, mouth full, “but I forgive you for being a dumbass because I like your face.”

Jenna leaned both elbows on the counter, exhaling with the slow-motion drama of a dying Victorian heroine. “Your house is literally in another time zone,” she said, glaring at Emma as she twirled noodles around her tongue. “Seriously, it’s like, what, an hour and a half from my place? I almost pissed myself twice.”

Emma grinned, noodles hanging half-out of her mouth. She slurped them up and reached for the Sriracha. “That’s the point. No neighbors. No screaming babies at 7 a.m., no leaf blowers, no one to call the cops if we, like, set off fireworks or whatever.” She drenched her food, then licked a bead of red from her thumb. “Plus, I know exactly how loud you get.”

Jenna’s cheeks went nuclear. She grabbed a fork, stabbed a clump of cold noodles from the carton, and chewed her irritation into something edible. “I don’t get loud,” she said, voice at half-volume because even she didn’t believe it. “You’re the one who started the screaming last time.”

Emma gave her a look—one of those slow-burn, dimpled smiles that usually meant Jenna was about to lose some sort of bet or dignity. “Oh, I started it, but you finished it, babe. Galant’s still traumatized.”

Jenna snorted so hard her nose stung. “Galant is a horse, he doesn’t know shame.”

“Yeah, but he knows what a hosedown is.” Emma hopped off the counter, feet slapping tile, and batted her lashes innocently. “You want a drink?” Emma's eyes flicked up, feral. “I’ve got beer and wine. Anything specífic?”

Jenna snatched a can, cold and sweating, and cracked it open. She let the silence stretch, rolling it around her mouth before she swallowed. The house was still as a church—just the aftertaste of Sriracha, the low hum of the fridge, and Emma watching her, all pupils and expectation. Jenna set the beer down and leaned forward, bracing her weight on splayed fingers.

“So, about that thing,” she said. She could hear how fake casual her voice sounded, like a high schooler asking whether anyone else wanted to try acid.

Emma’s reply was instant: “You mean the grimoire thing?” Jenna didn’t answer, just looked pointedly at Emma’s left breast, which was half out and sporting a constellation of Sriracha spots. Emma followed her gaze, then shrugged the strap back into place, clearly not giving a shit. “You wanna try tonight?”

The casualness made Jenna bristle. “You said you got all the ingredients.”

Emma rooted through a drawer, came up with a battered printout folded so many times it looked like a lost lottery ticket. She smoothed it out on the counter, tracing a line with her finger. "Almost everything is just basic organic chemistry and, like, intent or whatever. But this—" she jabbed at a highlighted line near the bottom—"calls for two liters of, uh, fresh squirt. (2 quarts more or less)"

"That's like..." Jenna's fingers twitched, mentally calculating. "That's like ten orgasms for me."

Emma shrugged, a smug half-smile playing on her lips. "Or just one good one for me." She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, cleavage a full thesis statement. "Remember last time? How we left the sofa? We could probably fill a damn mason jar in one go."

Jenna pressed her hands to her face, feeling the slow-burn flush start behind her ears. "So what you're saying is..."

"I'm saying we can handle this in an afternoon," Emma shrugged. "Piece of cake."

Jenna didn’t bother to answer; she just hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her jeans and shimmied them off, thong and all, right in the middle of Emma's pristine kitchen. The cold air slithered around her bare ass, and the marble bit into her thighs when she hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging. No pretense. No ceremony. Just the raw, unthinking desire to get this over with before she started second-guessing herself. She yanked off her shirt, tossed it onto the stovetop, and sat there, naked as a peeled egg, legs splayed wide, one heel braced on a drawer handle.

Emma, for once, didn’t have a snappy comeback. She just stood there, mouth half open, as if she’d never seen a naked woman before. Which, coming from Emma, was a goddamn miracle. Her mouth opened, shut, then finally landed on a smirk. She reached into a cupboard, produced a liter-sized mason jar and set it next to Jenna's hip with a flourish. “See, I wasn’t kidding,” she said, but her voice had gone a full octave lower, all the breathiness squeezed out. She uncapped the jar and held it poised under the counter’s edge, right between Jenna’s knees.

Jenna rolled her eyes but could feel her pulse jump. The cold from the stone was already creeping up her thighs, making her nipples pebble in the open air. She stared at the jar, then at Emma, then back down at herself, trying to remember any time in her life where she’d been less clothed and more on display. She gave Emma a “what are you waiting for?” look.

Emma hesitated, then, as if remembering her lines, dipped to her knees and spread Jenna’s thighs with both hands—not rough, but insistent, like Jenna was a puzzle she’d been dying to take apart. The first lick was quick, almost perfunctory. The second landed right on target, and Jenna’s entire body flinched, not from surprise but from the shock of how ready she already was. The embarrassment tried to rise, but the sensation drowned it out.

Emma worked with the same strange blend of clinical detachment and greedy abandon she brought to everything. Her tongue pressed hard, tracing the outline of Jenna’s inner lips, then flicked up to circle the spot just under the hood. Jenna’s vision went soft around the edges. She grabbed the counter, felt the cold stone dig into her palm, and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person. The sounds were obscene in the echoing quiet of the kitchen: wet, sucking, the scrape of knees on tile. Emma’s tongue found the perfect rhythm, a slow, mean swirl that had Jenna’s legs threatening to kick her square in the shoulder. She held on. She didn’t want to make a noise—she never did—but Emma always found a way past her guard. It was just a matter of time.

Emma's hands flexed against the inner seams of Jenna’s thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles just above the bone, as if warming up for some hidden performance. Her tongue worked in even, measured laps, then flattened, then flicked, each pass just a little firmer, a little deeper, than the last. Jenna was already shaking—the cold of the kitchen island, the hum in her veins, the low electrical buzz of Emma’s breath—when she felt two fingers splay her open, pressing in, framing the whole topography of her cunt for Emma’s inspection.

Emma’s tongue had always been her weapon—broad, flexible, relentless—but this time she wielded it with a new kind of precision, as if she’d been training for this single act of cruelty. She flattened it against Jenna’s clit, pressing up with a suction so hard it bordered on violence, then swirled in a tight, ceaseless circle. Jenna’s whole body went rubbery, hips thrumming on the cold marble surface. She could hear the glass jar clink against the counter, could taste the sour-sweet bite of adrenaline at the top of her mouth. Her brain screamed: don’t come, not yet, don’t give her the satisfaction. Jenna bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, but Emma’s hands were already sliding up her thighs, nails raking tracks through the cold-shocked skin. Then, her tongue slowed, then left off entirely. Jenna felt the absence as a vacuum, a sudden coldness that made her hips twitch for more. Instead of more tongue, Emma’s fingers arrived—two at first, stroking the length of her outer lips, then prying her open with a confidence that always made Jenna want to spit or cry. The slickness was a joke; there was nothing left to do but find new ways to wreck her. Emma’s thumb found Jenna’s clit, swirling lazy, crooked circles while her index finger probed lower, then paused. Jenna’s chest locked. She knew that feeling. She’d never articulated it—never even said the word—but the memory throbbed in her pelvis, the uncanny, inside-out pleasure of Emma’s finger pushing for the tiny, secret entrance just above her pussy.

Jenna tried to clamp her thighs together, out of reflex or shame or both, but Emma just used the leverage. Her finger circled the entrance, then pressed—not hard, but deliberate. The pain was tiny, a pinpoint burn, but then the tip popped through, and Jenna felt the world invert. The sensation was so sharp, so alien, it made her head swim. Her ears rang. She hated how much she loved it.

Emma’s finger traveled up, maybe a centimeter, and curved. It was almost nothing, just the pad of her fingertip resting inside the swollen mouth of Jenna’s urethra. But then the pressure changed, a gentle, pulsing rub against the roof, right beneath where her clit buzzed under Emma’s thumb. The nerves mapped directly together. It was impossible to tell which sensation belonged to which part of her body; it all fused into a burning, molten ache that exploded behind her eyes.

She jerked, both hands clawing at the countertop for something to hold. The pressure in her pelvis went red-hot. She heard herself make a sound she’d never made before, a high, stuttering gasp that echoed in the glassy stillness of the kitchen. Emma didn’t let up. She pressed further, curling her finger inside until the fullness felt like a balloon inflating behind Jenna’s mound. The friction was insane—so slippery, so raw, every subtle pump translating straight into a need that doubled and tripled with each pulse.

Jenna tried to say something, but her voice crashed into a wall of white noise. The pleasure was so sharp it felt like a threat. The fire spread outward, from pelvis to belly to knees, every part of her body tuned to the relentless rub inside her. Emma’s tongue was back, flicking at her clit while her finger kept the slow, careful rhythm in Jenna’s peehole, and the sensation was so layered and chaotic it felt like her brain was shorting out.

She didn’t have time to protest. The orgasm came up out of nowhere, a surge that threw her spine into a bow. She let out a feral, strangled shriek, her hips bucking hard enough to lift her ass off the counter and Emma pulled out her finger. The first jet splattered straight into the mason jar, a hot, stinging jet that hit the glass and splashed her thighs. Jenna’s eyes rolled back; she jerked again, and the second jet hit the inside of the jar with a splatter so loud it felt engineered to humiliate her, like a science experiment gone carnal. She felt the pressure triple, and the third pulse—a thick, syrupy stream—filled the jar up to a quarter before she even realized she was still spasming. Emma, cackling, had to two-hand the jar to keep it from slipping, and she positioned it with the deadly accuracy of a barista catching the last drips from an espresso machine.

Jenna’s hips thrashed, disobedient, her heels gouging at the drawers, and she heard herself say “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. The pressure behind her clit was nuclear, but the way Emma’s thumb circled—never quite easing off—kept the fire coming in aftershocks. The last pulse was the worst, or the best. Emma yanked the jar away, quick as a magician, and the squirt hit her square in the face, splashing up into her mouth and over her nose. She bit down, hard, right on Jenna’s mound, and sucked. Jenna could hear it, the slurp, could see the glisten on Emma’s lips and chin. She held there. Drank. The suction was ridiculous, shameless, and Jenna could feel her own orgasm squeeze down around the invading mouth, trying to milk every drop. The sound, the actual glug-glug from Emma’s throat, was disgusting and intensely hot. For a second, Jenna thought she might pass out.

When it finally stopped, Jenna was seeing stars. She shivered so hard her teeth chattered, the cold of the counter finally registering through the waves of afterglow. Her thighs were sticky, her hands numb, and there was a hard, sweet ache between her legs where Emma’s finger had gone places no one else ever dared. The mason jar, still uncapped, sat on the counter like a trophy, with a froth of bubbles at the top and a streak of condensation running down the inside. Jenna felt a weird, primal pride at the sight. She had done that. Her body had made that much. She could still feel the echo of it, a hollow, ringing pulse in her pelvis.

Emma, still kneeling, wiped her face with the back of her hand, but mostly just smeared the glisten higher on her cheek. “Jesus, it never ceases to amaze how hard you squirt,” she said. “That was insane, you taste so fucking good.”

Jenna couldn’t even answer. She collapsed against the marble, drool threading from the corner of her mouth, every muscle in her thighs fluttering like she’d run sprints. She wanted to crawl away, to roll to the floor and let her bones rattle back into place, but Emma gave her exactly zero seconds to recover. In an instant she was already back at it, her tongue licking her pussy like an ice cream. Jenna managed a “wait, oh god, wait—” but Emma went harder this time. She straight up inserted two fingers inside her urethra and mercilessly assaulted it. With expert movements she finger-fucked her friends with her two hands, one for her pussy, the other focusing the peehole, while her tongue wreaked havoc on her clit, confident she would be fast enough to catch the jar when she sensed Jenna was close. And she was right. When she felt the first spasms, she quickly yanked her fingers out and grabbed the jar and managed to catch everything.

Jenna was a mess, having squirted so much in just seconds, her face all flustered, hair stuck to her face from sweat and her limbs numb. “Please… let me rest for a bit”, she begged, but Emma's sadistic side was in control now, and she loved to see her in such a vulnerable state, so she kept going.

In the end, she made Jenna cum five times, each orgasms stronger than the previous one. Jenna laid on the counter, her arms and legs sprawled and still twitching, her eyes rolled up and her tongue sagging out of her mouth, some saliva pooling on the counter. Next to her rested Emma’s trophy, a one jar full of cloudy and pearlescent liquid. She finally gave her friend the rest she asked for and fetched another jar. She tapped Jenna on the shoulder to wake her up, “Hey, sleeping princess, it’s my turn now. You’re not going to abandon a comrade in need, are you?”

Jenna propped herself up on one trembling elbow, watching the ceiling swirl as Emma wiped her hands on a tea towel and tried to make a show of looking innocent. Her brain was leaking out her ears, but the way Emma just stood there—smug and expectant, like a cat that knew exactly what it had done—pissed her off in a way that woke up the meanest parts of her.

She licked her lips, tasting salt and ozone, and pointed at Emma’s sports shorts. “Strip,” she croaked, voice hoarse as broken glass. “Now. And get on the floor on all fours.”

Emma’s smile flickered, a tell you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at her. She slid off the shorts in one movement, revealing what Jenna already suspected, she wasn’t wearing any panties. She did this all while keeping eye contact with her, knowing how her big boobs dangled in front of her like the light of an angler fish. Jenna now understood why men were so easily manipulated, just looking at those tits soft as marshmallows made her mouth wet, but she needed to keep those lustful thoughts at bay. Emma squirted a lot more than Jenna, she could easily fill the jar in one go, maybe two if she “forgot” to take the jar, so she had to be inventive if she wanted to take revenge.

With a plan already forming, Jenna kneeled behind Emma’s ass. It was lacking compared to her boobs, but it had a nice shape, the one achieved by regular workout. She parted her cheeks and feasted on the sight of her wrinkled hole and the puffy lips of her pussy, already glistening from excitement.

Jenna let her breath out slowly through her teeth and leaned in, grabbing Emma’s ass with both hands, as if she was kneading dough and might never get another shot at it. The heat off Emma’s skin was unreal, like she ran a fever just under the surface. Jenna clenched harder, puckering the cheeks apart, and dipped her face, tongue out, right to the seam of her friend’s ass. She started with a single, broad lick, tip to bone, savoring the damp salt and clean sweat and the weird, faintly floral note of Emma’s body wash.

She could hear Emma breathing, sharp and shallow, each inhale making her ribcage flutter. Jenna licked again, slower, tracing a spiral around the darker rim of Emma’s asshole. The muscle twitched, every micro-shiver visible, and Jenna grinned. She’d always liked how Emma seemed in control of everything—except this. Except when she was bent over and naked and at Jenna’s mercy. It brought out a cruel, greedy urge in her. She nipped at the rim, teeth gentle, then sucked the whole thing into her mouth and hummed, letting the vibration rumble through Emma’s gut.

Emma let out a noise—half moan, half stifled laugh—and pushed her hips back, grinding her ass into Jenna’s tongue. Jenna dug her tongue deeper into the crease, feeling the tension and the muscle, how Emma’s legs were shaking already. She pulled her tongue out of Emma’s anus with a wet pop, then she went lower, ran her tongue down, tip dancing across the seam, until she hit the slick, pouting lips of Emma’s pussy. She was absolutely drenched, the moisture was already running down her thighs. “With how wet you already are we won’t need any lube,” Jenna declared, her mischievous grin imbued in her words and, for the first time in this new dynamic they both had, Emma thought she may have teased Jenna too much. But she was all tingly from expectation, and there was absolutely nothing that would make her back down now.

Jenna started slow, giving Emma light caresses, always stopping right before she directly touched her pussy or clit, relishing in the sight of Emma getting goose bumps all over her body. When she felt she had teased her enough, Jenna parted her plump lips to reveal her pink wet pussy and her vagina lightly gaping from anticipation. She leaned in, and gave a soft peck on her trembling clitoris. Then, without any ceremony, she plunged two fingers in her pussy, earning a delightful squeal from Emma, who didn’t expect the sudden change in the pacing. Emma was tight, but her pussy welcomed her fingers with eagerness, so she quickly increased the number of fingers. In a matter of seconds, she had already four inside of her lower mouth. She was really wet and the spell gave her a lot of stretchability, so she didn’t give it too much thought and stuffed her fist up to the wrist. Emma’s head snapped back like it was being pulled by an invisible leash, her eyes completely opened and her mouth clenched so she didn’t make any noise, she wasn’t giving Jenna the satisfaction. But Jenna had only begun.

Jenna punched a couple of times against her cervix, and suddenly pulled her fist out. Incredulously, Emma looked back, “What are you-”, she started, but she was rudely interrupted by Jenna’s fist punching straight into her ass. She sank her arm almost to the elbow in one go, Emma, unable to contain herself anymore, made a guttural scream more akin to a bitch in heat than a human girl. Emma's hands went rigid on the tile, her whole body arched like she'd been hit by a car battery. Jenna could hear the raw, scraping sounds coming from Emma's throat—no words, just a strangled yowl mixed with something almost like laughter. Her hips instantly punched back into Jenna's fist, her asshole stretching wild and glossy around the invading knuckles.

"Fuck—" The noise barely made it out, but Emma's ass didn't let go. Jenna's knuckles slid in another inch, bringing with it a rush of heat and a pulse strong enough she could feel it through the back of her own hand.

She twisted her wrist, slow, pushing the limits, elbow-deep now, her arm enveloped in velvet and muscle. The grip inside Emma was so fucking intense, it felt like her entire forearm might get wrung dry if she left it there too long. She flexed her fingers, made a pistol of her hand, and piston-fucked knuckles past the sphincter and into Emma’s large intestine. Emma's legs buckled and she howled like a wolf. She felt the inside of her ripple and spasm around her wrist, every movement hot and slick, the pressure insane. She held Emma steady by the waist and drove her arm further inside, until her shoulder touched her ass cheeks. She couldn't help it—a shudder of pride ran down her spine. This was what Emma got for tormenting her. Now that she had Emma where she wanted, it was time to set in motion the next part of her plan. She looked for that bump that was Emma’s womb. When she found it, she seized it and began pulling her arm out, all while dragging the uterus.
The sensation inside Emma—of being hilted and then hooked, of the fist not just impaling but actively seeking something—made her entire body vibrate at a weird, subdermal frequency. Jenna braced her knees wider on the tiles and cranked her fist, feeling the slippery mass of Emma’s guts and then the soft, tense lump of her friend’s uterus. It was like kneading bread dough from the inside: yielding, then springing back, then slipping forward with every pump.

Jenna’s fingers dragged the thing downward, and the resistance was delicious. The opening of Emma’s asshole was now so stretched it looked almost scared, a glossy, trembling rim that hugged Jenna’s elbow and refused to let go. She could feel the muscular contractions trying to push her out, but she just leveraged her weight—biceps working, forearm flexed—and curled her hand to hook the slippery knot of Emma’s womb.

Jenna was almost done, she could see how Emma’s hole began to open to allow passage to her baby bag. So when she saw the fleshy ring of Emma’s cervix out of her pussy, she quickly grabbed it with her other hand and pulled with both of them until the entire mass of Emma’s womb dangled between her legs. The feeling of having her reproductive organ prolapsed so methodically pushed her over the edge. The dam broke and Emma’s squirt flooded the kitchen’s floor. She usually had long and steady orgasms, but this time the slow and loving play suddenly changing to brutal fisting had overstimulated her too much. A geyser of cum erupted from her peehole, so much that it could have filled two whole jars and would have still left some for another, they had collected all they needed. That is if Jenna had grabbed the jar, instead she stood there, looking how the usually smug Emma practically had a seizure in her kitchen, all while liking some of the anal juices that coated her arm and admiring a little rose had bloomed from her ass. After almost a minute and a lot of squirting, Emma relaxed and looked back, only to find in horror that the jar was still on the counter and completely empty. When Jenna noticed, she shrugged, “Oops, I forgot to take it, guess we’ll have to make you cum again”, she said, trying to sound apologetic, Emma didn’t buy it for a second.

Jenna grabbed the jar and set it next to Emma, but not too close since she was about to get experimental with her and didn’t want to risk it falling and breaking. Then, she kneeled and pressed her face into Emma’s bulbous womb and took a deep breath. The smell was intoxicating, so much that it reminded her of Galant, only his was a potent animal musk, meanwhile Emma’s was the peak of feminine pheromones. The smell was so thick and rich she could almost taste it, it reeked of fertility and lust.

Jenna pressed her nose to the trembling, veiny bulb of Emma’s prolapsed womb and just breathed for a second. If she’d thought Emma’s pussy was intoxicating, this was apocalypse-grade, all ozone and blood and ripe fruit. The surface was slick and pulsing, twitching with every shallow, shivery breath Emma took above her. Jenna gave it a slow, gentle lap, just the tip of her tongue, and tasted the raw, coppery tang—salt and iron and slick, wild hormones. The flavor was not quite animal, not quite human, and Jenna couldn’t decide if she wanted to worship it or devour it.
She did both. She let her tongue drag the whole length of the organ—up the glossy arch, down the dense, muscled underside—then circled the fat, twitching knob at the bottom, where the cervical opening puckered and flexed. The heat was astonishing, alive with its own secret heartbeat. When she licked right into the mouth of it, Jenna felt Emma jerk, a jolt that ran up through the arch of her ass to the tips of her toes.

Jenna grinned against the flesh. She wrapped her lips around the ring and sucked, hard, as if she could drink the whole thing down. Emma moaned, a sound so raw it scraped Jenna’s jawbone. She worked her tongue inside, fucking the opening, letting spit and the clingy, crystal-clear lube of Emma’s own body gloss her chin. She’d never done this before, never even seen it in the wild, but she was a fast learner. She took the whole mass in both hands, cradling it, lifting it toward her mouth, and then started to blow it like she would a cock: slow, long draws, twisting her tongue up into the cervix, then dragging her lips down the bulging shaft of the uterus itself.
She didn’t have to look up to know Emma was unraveling. The whole lower half of her body was shivering, and the kitchen floor vibrated with every spasm. Jenna licked faster, letting her mouth make wet, sucking noises; she knew Emma loved the noise, loved knowing how obscene it all was. She made a point of slobbering, slopping spit all over the organ and her own face, until it dripped from her chin in long, sticky ropes.
She worked the tip with her tongue, then wrapped both hands around the shaft, pulling it closer, not caring that her own jaw ached or that her lips were probably swollen and red as Emma’s cunt. She blew the prolapsed mass like she was trying to suck an egg through a straw, letting her cheeks hollow around it, pushing her tongue in as far as she could. She imagined what it would be like if she could crawl inside, if her whole body could slide up into the velvet tunnel that was Emma’s insides. The thought made her moan, a low, animal rumble, and the vibration set Emma off—it triggered a tremor in her pelvis, and the whole globed organ pulsed under Jenna’s hands.

In their reckless pursuit of carnal pleasure, the two nymphomaniacs remained unaware that many spells in their tome responded to the caster's desires, acknowledged or not. In their haste to explore new sensations and debaucheries they believed were mere fantasy, they had neglected to read the introduction that outlined these very consequences. Now, they would experience one of these effects firsthand.

Emma was lost in a symphony of sensations, the likes of which every woman should experience at least once in her lifetime to feel truly alive. Amidst the storm of pleasure, she felt an unfamiliar tightening in her pelvis, but she had done many unfamiliar things lately, so she dismissed it and focused on Jenna's intense blowjob. Responding to Emma's subconscious wishes, her ovaries began an impossible journey, traversing her fallopian tubes, a feat as improbable as was being fucked all the way through by a horse’s pilar of a cock and surviving to tell the story. Her little baby factories popped into the womb’s chamber, just at the same time Jenna’s tongue slipped past the cervix.
The latina didn’t think she could reach these levels of depravity, she wondered if Emma’s influence was the sole culprit or if she had just been one of the many things that awakened a dormant part of her. Either way she loved how with some puny laps of her tongue she could have her friend squirming all over the place and muttering nonsense. And, even though she would probably never admit it, she loved the creamy juices of her womb, the consistency similar to that of a liquid yogurt, that had a tint of fruity flavor. As she laved the inner walls of Emma’s womb, that always made Emma’s legs buckle, she felt something brush the tip of her tongue. At first she thought it to be a clot of menstruation, which grossed her, but then she realized she hadn’t tasted any blood while licking the uterus. Sure, it had that feint metallic taste, but not enough to be blood. So she decided to look for it using her tongue. She found it again quickly and it seemed to have a twin. She wondered if the bestiality shenanigans of last week had really impregnated Emma and she was directly touching the first stages of some foals that were growing in Emma’s womb. She thought of giving her friend a messed up abortion, some kind of favour since the thought of Emma giving birth to two baby horses frightened her, at least for the moment. She unplugged her tongue from the cervix, wrapped her lips around it and began sucking like she was trying to fit some tapioca balls through a straw. She sucked so hard Emma was sure she would rip off her womb, but the thought of asking her to stop never crossed her mind. After a few seconds, Jenna was rewarded with something popping out of the cervix. The little orbs were taut, but also soft when she pressed them against her palate. They had some kind of strings that seemed to connect them to the womb. Have they developed enough to form an umbilical cord?, she thought. She released Emma’s womb from her mouth and inspected what she had extracted. To her horror, she found not foal embryos, but Emma's own ovaries, dangling from their fallopian tubes and the ligaments that kept them connected to the comb.

"What are you doing? Why did you stop? I was sooooo fucking close," Emma slurred, still intoxicated by pleasure, oblivious to the violent extraction of her reproductive organs.

“E-Ems… I-I don’t… Maybe you should see this,” answered Jenna, unable to even muster an explanation for what she just had done to Emma’s anatomy.

Emma let herself slide backward, ass landing on the kitchen tile with a fleshy slap. She sat, cross-legged and naked, the sudden chill making her nipples harden into little bullets. Her hands patted the floor beside her, as if searching for a lost contact lens, but she found only a puddle of her own slick. "Why the face," she asked, more annoyed than panicked. "Did you fuck my insides up?" She squinted at Jenna, who was still kneeling, hands frozen halfway between holding up Emma's prolapsed womb and shielding her own face from the horror.

Jenna looked like she'd just tasted battery acid, her mouth pinched into a tight, shiny line. She pointed, silent, at the thing cradled between Emma's thighs. Emma followed the stare, half expecting to see blood, or at least a new tear where no tear belonged. The first thing she saw was her uterus, still fleshy and glistening, hanging down like a condom halfway turned inside out, but she still couldn’t understand why Jenna’s was so disturbed. Then she noticed it, poking from the mouth of her cervix, two pale white spheres, connected by slippery cords—like a pair of jingle bells.
Emma's first thought was, I’m not supposed to see that. Second thought: why do I want to touch it? Her fingers pinched the cord, tugging experimentally, and a jolt of something, an indescribable pleasure that lit up her spine. She felt the tug deep in her pelvis, behind her navel, as if the nerves were rerouted: a fish hook in her gut, pulling both directions at once. It should have been pure horror, but the longer she stared, the more a third feeling, bright and wicked, started to bloom. Fascination. She couldn't look away from the way her own ovaries swung from the end of the cord, glossy and speckled, like some fucked up biology model. She slouched and held one up to her nose, sniffed; the surface was smooth, almost waxy, and smelled faintly of her own cum and something mineral, like rainwater.

Emma held out the little bundle, cradling it in her palm. She felt the weirdest urge to show Jenna, like a kid showing off a loose tooth. She pressed the tip of her tongue against the surface, tasted nothing, then licked harder, as if challenging the universe to stop her. There was a bitter, alkaline sting, but underneath it, a kind of sweetness, like the skin of a grape. She licked again, then slurped the entire ovary into her mouth, sucking hard, letting her tongue massage the delicate membrane. She felt Jenna’s gaze on her, hotter than a thousand suns, and grinned around the mouthful.

Jenna watched, transfixed, as Emma sucked her own ovary like it was a jawbreaker, cheeks hollowing, the cord taut between tongue and womb. The sound was obscene—a pop, a squelch, a click of teeth—more carnal than anything Jenna had ever seen in three years of being a pervert with full internet access. Shame, awe, and a hot, shivery jealousy rolled through her in a single, pulpy wave. She wanted to see what it felt like. She wanted to put her tongue there, too. She wanted to roll Emma’s insides on her palm and see if she could make her friend moan with just a flick of her wrist.

But the urge that rose strongest was the one she’d never say aloud: she wanted to go back in for more. To finish the job, to milk whatever was left in Emma’s body until there was nothing left but twitch. She wanted to see that jar full, and Emma emptied. Jenna’s mouth was dry, tongue stuck to the roof. She reached for the jar, twisted the lid off, and held it in one hand. “Doggy,” she croaked, and her voice was so hoarse it barely made it past her lips.

Emma blinked, still dazed, the ovary slipping out of her mouth with a wet pop, saliva webbing to her chin. She grinned, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and without hesitation rolled to her knees. She positioned herself on all fours, ass cocked in the air, her prolapsed womb and its pearly cargo dangling between her thighs. The sight made Jenna’s pulse throb behind her eyes.
Jenna knelt behind her, the tile cold and sticky on her skin, and pressed the mouth of the jar under Emma’s slit. “Don’t move,” she said, but she didn’t need to—Emma’s whole body was trembling, locked in anticipation. Jenna hooked two fingers, then three, into the gaping hole that was Emma’s cervix. It was so soft, so impossibly warm, yet so tense, the walls slicked with a lube that was part spit and part womb fluid. She pulled, slow and careful, until the ring was so stretched that it had turned white. She could see the internal walls in all their glory, they were red and slightly coarse and the holes to the fallopian tubes should be, were turned inward, the said fallopian tubes cradled inside the womb like some deranged noodles. Jenna wanted to see if she could taste the difference, now that the ovaries had joined the party.

She licked up the side, then pressed her tongue flat against the ovary, savoring the weird, alkaline tang. Emma shivered, her hips jerking side to side. Jenna grinned into the flesh, sucked harder, drew the ovary into her mouth until it pressed against her teeth. She rolled it with her tongue, like a grape, feeling the texture, the way it was both fragile and dense at the same time. She glanced up and saw Emma’s back arch, the muscles trembling under her skin. Jenna bit down, gentle at first, then firmer, until she felt the ovary deform, like a stress ball under pressure. Emma made a sound, a high, broken whimper, and her whole body went tense. She bit into the ovary, just a little—not enough to break the skin, but enough to feel it squish, and immediately her mouth was flooded with a taste that was nothing like the blood-tinged tang of Emma’s pussy or even the coppery wallop of the womb. This was sweeter, almost melon-like, with a faintly nutty, creamy finish, like the soft meat of a walnut left to soak in honeyed water. The membrane flexed, then she felt it give, and a spurt of viscous, almost sugary fluid hit the roof of her mouth. Jenna moaned, a sound muffled by the round little globe, and realized her jaw was working the ovary just like she’d chew a gumball—rolling it, pressing it, refusing to let go.

She couldn’t stop. She needed the match. With her tongue, Jenna fished for the other ovary, teased it out of Emma’s gaping cervix until it dangled next to its twin, shining with slick and a little gloss of her own spit. This one she sucked in with a pop, the cord stretching tight before it finally snapped against her lip and left both spheres wedged in her mouth. She swirled them together, savoring the contrast: the even richer flavor of the second ovary, the mineral undertones from the slick cord that connected it to Emma’s body, how it mixed with the ozone bitterness of the womb lining. She was getting high off it—dizzy, drunk, all thoughts of revenge or shame or even what was supposed to go in the jar gone, replaced with the primitive, animal urge to keep tasting, keep filling her mouth with Emma’s insides until she drowned in it.

She let the balls roll against her teeth, then worked them together until the fragile membrane of one split open and flooded her tongue with something so pure, so essence-of-Emma, Jenna honestly thought she might come from the flavor alone. She was hooked. She never wanted to taste anything else.

Emma, on the floor, made a sound that was almost a sob, but her back arched so hard her spine cracked. Jenna could see the womb pulse with every throb of Emma’s heartbeat, could taste the fresh gush of juice as the ovaries emptied themselves onto her tongue. She licked up the overflow, then, greedy, pressed her lips back to the gaping mouth of the womb and sucked again, this time wanting to feel the whole organ collapse, to see if she could slurp Emma’s womanhood right out of her body. But Emma’s body refused to give up. The muscles pulsed, and the cord yanked the ovary back, lodging it against Jenna’s tongue. She dug her nails into Emma’s thighs and bit down, hard, as if she could anchor herself with pain. The jolt traveled up her arm and down her own cunt, which was spasming like she was about to squirt without even being touched.

Jenna felt the urge, the raw, animal need to find her own release. With one hand still gripping Emma’s thigh, she used the other to claw between her own legs, rubbing furious circles over her clit, two fingers slipping effortlessly into her own ache. Jenna opened her mouth wide and let out a gasp like she was surfacing from a kilometer under. The taste of Emma’s ovaries still coated her tongue—she almost wanted to roll them around her molars one more time just to see if they’d pop, but the way Emma’s whole body tremored on the tile brought her back. She sat back on her heels, sucking in air, then let out a low, drawn-out “fuck.” Her own pulse thudded right behind her nose; even blinking felt like effort. She could feel her own juices pooling under her thighs, a sticky, spreading halo on the kitchen floor.

She watched Emma sag, muscles untwining all at once, her face mashed sideways against her own arm. Jenna wiped the back of her mouth, but the taste—fruit, salt, that weird rush of copper—clung there, fusing to her palate. She wanted more. That was the problem: she never seemed to have enough. But Emma looked spent. Not just tired, but used up, trembling with the kind of shakes that only came after an adrenaline overdose. Jenna watched her for a beat, then scooted closer and laid a hand on Emma’s ass, squeezing gently, grounding her back to earth.

“Rest a sec,” Jenna said, voice a low rasp. “Catch your breath. But, uh. Heads up. I’m gonna take this further.”

Emma’s head shot up, the motion all nerve and no muscle. She looked over her shoulder, eyes glaring hard with suspicion and something Jenna could only interpret as animal fear. “What do you mean—further?” Emma’s voice was shredded, thin as a phone wire. “How the fuck do you go further than that?”

Jenna let the question hang for a second, unsure whether to answer or just act. The urge was so strong it felt like there was a string tied from the base of her spine right through the length of her arm, all the way to the buzzing, glistening mess between Emma’s legs. She shrugged. “Just… trust me.” She moved her hand down to the base of Emma’s womb, cupping it like a glass of wine. “You can handle it. You just did it.” She let her thumb play over the slit of Emma’s cervix, still turned inside out, the rim now puffy and white from being stretched so long.

Emma shook her head, eyebrows pinched. “Jesus Christ, Jen. Are you trying to, like, finish me off? I mean, this is already…” the words broke off. She tried to say “insane,” and Jenna could see her mouthing it, but it never made it past her lips. Instead, she shuddered and looked away.

Jenna's grin was wicked, the taste of Emma's insides still hot and coppery on her breath. "I'll be gentle," she lied, her voice a sultry purr. "But you have to tell me to stop if it’s too much." She didn’t pause for a response; experience had taught her that confidence was key to maintaining control. Seizing both of Emma’s ovaries, she began to manipulate them, then inspiration struck. She took the twin orbs into her mouth, biting down at their base where the ligaments connected, and started to pull. "Jen, what the fu—AAAaaaAAAAAAH!" Emma's protest turned into a scream, but Jenna was resolute. She tugged relentlessly, the fallopian tubes now fully outside from the cervix, the inner red walls peeking through it were stark against the pink of the cervical tissue. Inside Jenna’s mouth, the ovaries began to empty, flattening under the pressure. A fleeting moment of doubt crossed Jenna's mind, but it vanished as she felt the muscle give way. Emma’s uterus bloomed and inverted suddenly, causing Jenna to stumble backward, the ovaries slipping from her teeth and spilling their contents into her eager mouth.

Jenna sat up and watched Emma completely still, without even making the lightest moan. Then, her whole body began to tremble and she started to squirt. Jenna quickly grabbed the jar and put it under Emma’s urethra, she had to lift the whole uterus since the inversion had provoked the hole to face forward. The jar was full in a matter of seconds, that was no surprise, Emma had always come a lot, but this time the orgasm lasted way too much. She watched in awe how her lively friend came her brains out for a whole minute, the stream of squirt never stopping for a second, increasing its force each time she squeezed the bell-shaped womb. When Emma finally finished, she collapsed into the floor, totally spent, limbs splayed to the sides, whole body trembling, eyes rolled into her skull and her tongue sagging from a mouth petrified in a blissful grin. Jenna let the inverted anatomy of her friend drop onto the floor, making a loud splash from all the squirt, she went to the entrance and retrieved her phone. Back in the kitchen, she crouched and positioned herself so Emma was portrayed in all her glory, grabbed one of the ovaries, that now resembled more a white raising than the pristine orbs she had started with, and bit it down like an olympic athlete with a medal. The photo was stunning, but too risky to use as her wallpaper. Instead, she decided it would serve as a reminder of the time she had left her friend in shambles the next time she called.

Jenna stood up, “Well, I’ll leave you to clean up the mess you made. I’ll be upstairs studying the book, maybe we can finally understand how this really works.” The lack of any sign of response made her worry, so she lightly stepped on the uterine body and was instantly rewarded with Emma’s soft moans. Not giving it more importance, she went to wash herself and study that perverted book.

—————

An hour and a half later, Emma was about to finish brewing the ointment. She had awakened around fifteen minutes after Jenna had left. She marveled at the state Jenna had left her pussy, even though she knew she should be horrified, she caressed her inverted anatomy like it was a baby, some bite marks could still be seen on her ovaries. She really wanted to leave it like this, but nothing could be done properly with all that between her legs, so she stuffed her uterus back inside, almost cumming again in the process, but left her vagina prolapsed, she liked the feeling when she squished it between her thighs and it didn’t disturb her.

Emma put the pot aside to let it cool and started watching some tiktoks while Jenna finished what she was doing. She didn’t have to wait too long. Jenna appeared through the door, wearing only midnight blue lace panties that she had stolen from Emma’s drawer and flaunting her new pair of tits like a peacock.

Jenna crossed the room, the give of her new tits strangely hypnotic—their weight a constant, unfamiliar pull on her chest, the way they bobbed and brushed her ribs with every step, how her dark nipples seemed to leave a trail. She stood deliberately in the spill of kitchen light, hands on her hips, blue lace panties cut high and sharp over the dark line of her thigh. The look on Emma’s face was beyond words, but Jenna milked the silence for all it was worth.

“Well?” Jenna said, voice tart, cocking one shoulder and then the other. “You like what you see, or did I finally break your brain before?”

Emma’s mouth worked for a second before any sound came out. “Holy shit,” she managed, eyes locked on Jenna’s chest. “You look GORGEOUS.”

“I mean, of course.” Jenna tried to sound arrogant, but the attention sent a weird, electric tingle up her spine. She pinched one nipple—the sensitivity was off the charts, like her whole chest was a live wire—and watched Emma’s tongue drag wetly over her lower lip. “You’re the one who said I needed proportion for today’s session. So, thoughts?”

“I wanna get my face between those,” Emma said, deadpan, but her voice warbled under the flatness. She stepped close, breath a hot prickle on Jenna’s mouth and neck. Jenna could feel the heat radiating off her; the smell of brewing ointment layered with Emma’s own skin-funk. “But yours are smaller than mine, is this spell totally random or what?”

Jenna let Emma cup her breasts, the other girl’s palms soft but greedy, fingers sinking in and then spreading, as if weighing them for sport. Jenna’s whole body was a tuning fork; every nerve vibrated to the pressure of Emma’s hands. “That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you,” she began to answer, fighting through the need to moan, “I’ve been reading the tome and I discovered that many spells somewhat read our minds and respond to our intentions. So I pictured the size I wanted in my mind while reading the chant and this is the result.” She looked down and saw how the new flesh pillowed up between Emma’s thumbs, then overflowed. The grimoire’s spell hadn’t just given her size, it had transformed her skin, made it softer, more yielding, the kind of surface that begged to be touched and bit and squeezed. Jenna shuddered, and her knees almost buckled.

Emma kneaded one tit, then the other, then mashed them together, eyes flicking between Jenna’s face and the flesh in her grip. “Fuck, they’re perfect,” she whispered, then buried her face in the valley, tongue wet and broad. Jenna gasped, a quick, involuntary whine, and felt the blood run straight to her cheeks, then lower, pooling hot behind her navel. She let her hand tangle in Emma’s hair, holding her there, while the tongue explored every inch of the new territory. After a minute of this, Emma pulled back and squinted at Jenna with mock suspicion. “You sure you’re not, like, gonna miss being small?”

Jenna snorted. “No. I can always go back if I want, anyway. I think I like this, I reckon they must be D cups. I like what it does to you.”

Emma’s hands lingered, thumbs tracing the slopes, the pads of her fingers painting heat into the skin. “I cannot believe this. You didn’t even need a bra, and now look at you. The symmetry’s perfect.” She grinned, a full-on cartoon wolf grin, and bent back to mouth at one nipple, rolling it between her lips, tonguing the peak until Jenna gasped and had to steady herself against the kitchen counter. The sensitivity was a thousand times more than before, a direct line from the tip of her breast to the root of her spine.

Emma didn’t let up. She sucked harder, then released with a slick pop, still keeping her hands on Jenna’s hips, nails biting into the skin just above the lace waistband. Jenna could feel everything, every millimeter of contact, the way Emma’s breath ghosted cool then hot across the spit-slick skin. She wondered, briefly, if the spell had made her nerves multiply, or if this was just what it felt like to be seen, to be devoured, with no apology.

Jenna was about to make a joke, something about warranty and mileage, when she noticed a movement in the corner of the kitchen—tiny, nothing, but enough to snap her attention away from Emma’s face. There, half-hidden behind a bowl of bruised apples and a stack of mail, a small, matte-black camera sat propped on a tripod, its red LED blinking. She’d seen it before, out for a dumb TikTok dance or one of Emma’s “morning vlogs,” but this time it was pointed squarely at them, dead center.

“Wait—” Jenna’s chest went cold, then hotter. “Are you filming this?”

Emma’s hands stilled on her hips. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Jenna, and for the first time since she’d met her, Emma looked genuinely sheepish. “It’s just… I kind of wanted to document everything we did,” she said, voice so small Jenna barely heard it. “Not for the internet, obviously. Just for us. This is, like, once-in-a-lifetime shit, right?”

Jenna stared at her, pulse thudding. She thought of the last two hours—her own face, wild and slack-jawed, Emma’s body bent and used, the things they’d already done—and a shiver went through her that had nothing of it could be seen again, she would have to solely rely on her memory of the experience. She thought that having their journey and all the new first times recorded couldn’t be that bad of an idea. “Well, as long as you don’t post it on PornHub or something, I don’t think there’ll be a problem. So, I see you made the mixture, how does it work?” Jenna watched Emma’s gaze swim, the other girl’s pupils dilated to the size of thumbprints, her mouth slightly open, lips slack as if she were about to drool. Either Emma was half-brain dead or she was lost in the sight of Jenna’s new tits. Jenna rolled her eyes. She flicked Emma hard in the center of the forehead.

Emma jerked like she’d just been tasered, hair flying up, hands instantly yanking away from Jenna’s chest. “Ow!” She clapped a palm to her head. “What the fuck?”

“You were spacing,” Jenna said, a little too smug. “You can ogle later. I asked you a question—how does the mixture actually work?”

Emma blinked hard, then gave a sheepish giggle. “Sorry. I just…wow. Okay, uh.” She raked her hands through her hair, eyes darting back to Jenna’s cleavage and then up to her face. “The mixture. Right. So I've already mixed all the ingredients for the ointment. The final step is just applying it." She gestured to the cooling pot on the counter. "We rub it on our breasts, focusing on the nipples. According to the grimoire, it'll transform the mammary structure—connecting all the ducts into one canal and..." She swallowed visibly. "It'll make the nipples...expandable. Like, really expandable. They'll open up, giving access to what's basically a new hole. Two new fuckable holes." Her eyes locked on Jenna's chest again, her breathing shallow.

Jenna’s heart thudded against her new chest, the awareness of all that soft, yielding mass making her skin almost too tight to wear. She watched Emma grinning, then glancing at the cooling pot, then back at Jenna’s tits like she was deciding whether to eat the chicken or the egg. Even after everything, Jenna felt the flicker of embarrassment, some leftover reflex from a less deranged life, but she forced herself to stand tall, chin up, hands at her sides.

“It’s supposed to go on warm,” Emma said, voice a hair above a whisper. “You ready?”

Jenna shrugged, hoping it could pass for nonchalance. “Let’s just do it before I lose my nerve.” She watched Emma stir the mixture, the spatula scraping a thick, pale slime off the sides of the pot. Even at arm’s length the funk of it was intense—yeast and honey and something deeply, weirdly spicy, like horseradish. The surface shimmered with a faint, greasy rainbow, and as Emma filled two measuring cups with the stuff, a thread of it snapped and stuck between the countertop and pot, refusing to let go.

Emma grabbed the cup, then, before Jenna could even flinch, let the whole thing drip over Jenna’s chest. The ointment was hotter than she expected—not quite scalding, but the heat of it dug in deep, spreading through the titflesh and down into her ribs. For a second it was just warmth, then a pulse of something colder, then a prickle that went straight through to her spine. Then she smeared it across Jenna’s right breast, fingers splaying wide, rubbing in slow, greedy orbits from the edge of the areola to the tip and back again.

Jenna had always been sensitive, but this was different: the sensation was chemical, blooming from the skin inward. The heat radiated through her, a tide of slow, deep hunger, burning up the nerves in her tit and sending the signal straight to her clit, then the base of her spine, then right back to her chest in a closed, needy circuit. The first stroke made her gasp and shudder, but the second made her knees actually buckle. She had to grab the edge of the counter to keep from melting.

Emma painted Jenna’s nipple with the stuff, working it into the skin with a series of savage, tight circles. The nipple went hard and glossy, stood out like a newel post, and underneath Jenna felt the tissue swell and throb, the ductwork inside her chest coming alive in a way she’d never imagined possible. It was as if the grimoire's spell had installed a new plumbing system overnight. Emma was careful, but not gentle. Every pass of her palm pressed the ointment deeper into Jenna’s tit, then back out to the curve, then back, then a slow, twisting flick over the nipple itself. Jenna’s breath left her body in staccato gasps, little animal huffs, and she felt the surface of her skin go tight and glassy under Emma’s hand. The potion’s heat crawled under the skin and bloomed inside her, building layer by layer, until the whole tit felt too full, like the skin could barely hold it. Her head spun with the pressure. She tried to say something, to ask if this was normal, but the only thing that came out was a long, shaky moan.

Emma worked the ointment into the base of Jenna’s breast, scooping up the run-off, palming it in slow, circular patterns that felt like they might draw actual milk. Jenna shut her eyes and tried to breathe—breathe, you idiot—but the tightening in her pelvis was already a warning. The way the sensation built, not just in her tit but in some wild, cross-wired circuit inside her body, made her want to brace for impact. She felt her pulse in her nipple, in her throat, in her cunt. It was the kind of arousal that was so physical it did strange things to time; seconds feathered out, each touch a new universe of ache.

Fuck, Ems,” she managed, voice shredded. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Emma crouched, cradling Jenna’s breast, and gave the nipple a sharp, wet pop with her tongue, then she straightened and leaned into Jenna’s ear. “Nooo, seriously? Are you okay?” she whispered, not even trying for a second to mask her sarcasm and sultryness.

Jenna tried to answer, but when Emma rolled her nipple once more, something inside her snapped. Jenna’s body detonated in a flash of white, hips bucking, spine flexing so hard she almost gave Emma an uppercut with her ample breasts. The pressure behind her breastbone collided with something deeper, a bassline rumble that rose up from her clit and boomeranged right back to her nipple, and then she was coming—again, but this time nothing like the kitchen explosion before. It was a full-body, inside-out, eviscerating climax, the kind that doesn’t take no for an answer.

She felt her nipple go numb, then tingle, then…something—an urgent, pneumatic whump—built up and out and through her mound, and it took her a second to realize what was happening because she hardly ever did it upright, and she’d never done it from her chest before. The first jet of squirt shot straight out of her pussy, a dense, high-pressure pulse that hit Emma in the bare kneecap with an audible slap. The stuff ricocheted over Emma’s thigh, splattering in fat, glossy beads all the way down her calf. Jenna blinked, a little horrified, as the next spurt followed instantly, spraying bright up Emma’s shin and pooling on the tile in a quarter-sized splotch. She could feel the clench, the electric grip in her pelvis that made her whole body vibrate, and the mix of shame and pride did strange things to the back of her throat.

Emma laughed, but it was less a normal laugh and more a shriek, her hands clamped tight to Jenna’s breast as if she could wring out the orgasm by force. “Babe, I worked so hard to leave the floor spotless!” she yelped, but then she bent down and licked a stripe from her own knee, like a cat cleaning up a toppled drink.

Jenna's body slackened against the countertop, her muscles unwinding like a clock finally allowed to run down. The aftershocks rippled through her in gentle waves now, each one leaving her more boneless than before. The hot, tangy scent of her own cum filled the kitchen, familiar as morning coffee. Emma caught her eye and grinned, already gathering the slick from the tile with practiced hands, rubbing it between her fingers like expensive lotion. Watching her, Jenna felt something settle in her chest—a rightness, a belonging. This was their world now, one they'd built together, where nothing needed hiding.

“Jesus,” Emma said, voice almost reverent. “That was so fucking hot. I could watch you squirt all day.”

Then Jenna dropped to her knees and began helping Emma spreading all the squirt. She coated all of her thighs and ass, her fingertips deliberately grazing—but never quite touching. She knew it was Emma’s weakness, as Emma knew hers was her peehole. But they had already played enough with their crotches, she wanted to try something new, she wanted to fuck her tits. But leaving Emma unsatisfied wasn't an option, a big part of the fun was sharing that pleasure with someone that understood your sick desires. So Jenna stood up like a spring, harvested the other cup and instantly started rubbing the substance on Emma’s massive, pillow-like boobs. The combination of the glistening fluid and the faint flush spreading across Emma's skin transformed her breasts into luminous, pink-tinted orbs. Jenna always made snide remarks about them being so big that made her look like a cartoon, but in reality they fit the brunette like a glove—the combination of her slender and slightly toned body, her petite frame and those balloons, made her look like some character from a hentai. Cupping the right breast at its base with both hands, Jenna applied deliberate pressure, reshaping the pliant flesh as she worked from root to tip with practiced precision. She repeated this ritual on each breast, guided by Emma's hand at her nape—a silent language of pressure and release that communicated exactly when to intensify or ease her touch. Under Jenna’s touch, Emma’s nipples became hard as diamonds, her areolae swelling outward like ripening fruit. Finally, Jenna compressed both breasts together, kneading toward the centers before gripping the nipples and stretching them to their limits. When she released them, she watched, entranced, how the marshmallows bounced around.

When Emma's tits finally stopped bouncing, Jenna spotted creamy white drops forming on her nipples. Fuck—she was actually lactating. The spell worked. Without thinking, Jenna grabbed Emma's heavy breast and wrapped her lips around the stiff peak, sucking hard like she couldn't get enough. Emma let out a shocked little cry that melted into a deep, throaty moan as Jenna nursed hungrily. The milk flooding her mouth tasted nothing like she expected—thick and sweet as honey, coating her tongue and making her dizzy with want. Every greedy pull drew more, her cheeks going hollow with each suck. As she drank, Jenna felt Emma's nipple changing against her tongue—the tip softening, opening. Holy shit. She could feel it stretching wider by the second. The magic was actually transforming her. Turned on beyond belief, she circled the stiff rim with her tongue before pushing against the center. The tiny hole resisted at first, but Jenna wasn't about to stop. She worked her tongue harder, faster, more desperate until—fuck yes—she broke through. Her tongue slid inside Emma's nipple, and Emma's back arched, a raw, animal sound ripping from her throat as she gave herself over to this impossible new pleasure.
Jenna kept her gaze locked on Emma’s eyes, unwilling to look away, as she drove her tongue deeper into the weird, soft tunnel of Emma’s nipple. The feeling under Jenna’s tongue was unreal: as she wormed it further in, the walls of the nipple clamped down in slow, rhythmic squeezes, as if trying to milk her right back. She could taste the honey-salt of Emma’s milk, but more than that, she could sense the way the tissue stretched to accommodate her, a warmth and pressure that made her own tits ache in sympathy.

She tongued the opening again, harder, letting her lips cinch tightly around the base of the nipple as her tongue bored in, twisting, licking, probing. There was a moment where Jenna was sure she felt the very end of the canal, a soft membrane that flexed and quivered with every movement, and she went for it—drove her tongue against the barrier with a slow, relentless grind. She felt it give, then another half-inch opened, and suddenly her tongue was inside Emma in a way she’d never been inside anyone before.

Jenna pulled her mouth away for just a second, a thick, ropy strand of milk and spit clinging between her lips and the stretched nipple. She grinned, then dove back in, this time letting her tongue piston in and out of the opening, slow at first, then faster, each withdrawal making the nipple stretch, then snap back with a hungry, obscene tightness. Emma’s hands clamped around the back of her head, not to push or pull, but just to anchor herself against the tide of sensation.

Jenna’s lungs burned, her jaw ached, but she was hooked now, addicted to the taste of the milk, the shock of heat at the back of her throat, the way Emma’s whole body seemed to vibrate around the single, plunged focus of her tongue. She wondered if she could fit more, if Emma’s body would keep opening for her, if she’d eventually just disappear up into the other girl like a fox into a burrow.

She let go with a loud, wet pop, the tip of her tongue still tingling, and licked a streak of milk from her own lips. “How does it feel?” she asked, voice gone low and smoky.

Emma's pupils were blown wide, her mouth slack and gasping. Sweat gleamed across her forehead, dripping unnoticed down her temples. "Jesus—fuck—" she panted, knees slamming together as her body convulsed. "My whole tit is—is—" Her fingers clutched desperately at Jenna's shoulder, nails digging in. "I can't—it's clenching inside—" She shook her head violently, words failing as another wave hit her. "Don't stop," she begged, voice cracking. "Please don't fucking stop."

Jenna, pleased with Emma’s inability to form coherent sentences, delved back into her nipple while her hand slowly climbed his way to the other one. She pinched it between her thumb and index and twisted it, sending an electric shock right through her spine. She prodded the tip and her finger slipped inside to the last knuckle, she could feel how wet it was inside. When she broke through the barrier of the nipple the inside was roomier and, unlike the tight grip of the nipple, the milk duct seemed to wrap around it like the most comfy of blankets. It pulsed with each of Emma’s heartbeats, as though daring her to go further, making a certain part of her brain go nuts.

Emma's world dissolved into pure sensation for the second time that day. Every nerve ending in her breasts fired simultaneously, sending waves of pleasure so intense she could barely form thoughts. "Oh god," she gasped, her head falling back. Her nipples had become hypersensitive portals of pleasure, more responsive than she'd ever imagined possible. She watched through half-lidded eyes as Jenna worked her magic, those delicate fingers massaging both outside and in, that clever tongue exploring places never meant to be touched. When Jenna's hand moved to her own breast, Emma recognized the hunger in her eyes. "Yes," Emma whispered, encouraging her. Jenna's nipple resisted at first, but determination won out. The moment her finger breached herself, Jenna's face pressed hard against Emma's flesh, stifling a cry. Emma could feel, and even see, the outline of Jenna's fingers through her own skin—an impossible, erotic connection between them. After catching her breath, Jenna attacked with renewed vigor, her tongue delving deeper while her fingers explored Emma's inner passages with growing confidence, prodding around the duct and flickering the holes all across it. Soon, three of Jenna's fingers disappeared into her own stretched nipple. But Jenna wasn't satisfied. With a look of pure determination, she formed her fingers into a wedge, expanded the hole to point Emma could see the canal pulsing and, in one swift, deliberate motion, pushed her entire hand inside herself.

In the kitchen nothing could be heard but the ragged moans coming from Emma, the muffled ones of Jenna and the obscene squelching sound of flesh being stretched beyond its limits. Emma recognized the tremors in Jenna’s thighs, the flush creeping up her neck, they had mapped enough of their bodies to know when the other was about to burst, hell, she was damn near too. So she mustered the willpower to push Jenna out of her boobs and stilled her hand, buried wrist-deep in her own brown breast. “Wait, wait”, her voice came in gasps, each syllable a struggle against the tide of pleasure, “I have something... in my room... bought it just for this.” She staggered toward the hallway, one hand braced against the wall for support, her jelly legs threatening to stop working with each step. She glanced back, Jenna whimpered with need—lips parted and eyes glistening with need—, her abandoned nipple a glistening, distended hole, the once-tight flesh now a slack, well-used opening that pulsed with each beat of her heart, silently begging to be filled again.
Emma disappeared down the hall, her bare heels slapping against the wood, and Jenna almost followed, but she had a better view from here anyway. Emma’s ass, flexed and shimmied with each step, her cute prolapsed womb wobbling. Jenna watched the movement, entranced, then looked down at her own chest and marveled at what she’d become: a brown-skinned bombshell in borrowed lace, tits glistening with the residue of the spell, one nipple blown open and still twitching like a fish on a dock. She cupped it in her palm, thumb skimming the rim of the new hole. It puckered under her touch, then seemed to pulse, as if her tit itself was alive and hungry.

Jenna heard Emma's footsteps returning before she saw her—slow at first, then with a purpose, a rhythm that said she'd found what she'd wanted and couldn't wait to show and tell. The kitchen was still humid with chemical lust, the air soured by the sweet rot of squirt, and Jenna felt her own nipple throb in time with her heart. She watched, openly staring, as Emma rounded the corner, arms full. The first thing Jenna saw was the familiar pink double-ended dildo, the one with the embedded glitter and the cartoonish length. Emma twirled it like a baton, brandishing it with theatrical glee.

Emma had her left hand behind her back, and when Jenna raised an eyebrow she just grinned, then, with a flourish, revealed the second toy. It looked like a double-ended dildo, but not for humans: molded in glossy red silicone, the thing was a grotesque, anatomical exaggeration of two dog cocks fused together at the base, a hypertrophied knot in the middle thick as a grapefruit. Each shaft curved off in a different direction, the tips pointy, with detailed veins and ridges along the length. It looked obscene even before you touched it.

Emma tossed the glittery twin-dildo onto the counter and kept the dog-cock in front of her, flaunting it, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You get to pick,” she said. “Classic, or… experimental?”

Jenna didn’t hesitate. “Both,” she said, then bit her tongue, but she wasn’t going to walk it back. Her body screamed for it, every nerve ending tuned to the prospect of being obliterated by whatever Emma had concocted in the sex toy laboratory of her pervert brain.
Emma grinned, then retrieved the pink double dildo, got closer to Jenna and began patting her tits with it. She flourished the dog-cock, holding it like a trophy. “I got this for you,” she said, voice all sugar and dare. “I know you’re a huge slut for anything new.”
Jenna rolled her eyes, but she was already standing up, “C’mon, let’s take this to the couch.” She grabbed the camera and reached for the pink glob that was Emma’s uterus, inserted two fingers as a hook and seized it. Then, she walked towards the livingroom, each time Emma tried to speak or protest she tightened her grip, making her friend shiver from head to toe, until they reached the sofa and kneeled on its cushions. She placed the camera on the table, facing them and made sure it would record everything.

Jenna didn’t wait for Emma’s lead. She snatched the pink double-ended dildo, palming its weight with greedy wonder, and, with a focus that bordered on religious, lined up the glimmering tip with her own stretched right nipple. The skin there was still tacky with ointment, the areola glossy and weirdly rosy, but the hole at the tip was a dark, twitching O, flexing as if already hungry. With the camera watching, Jenna pressed the dildo’s rounded tip to her nipple and held it there, breathing hard through her nose. She glanced at the camera, then at Emma—whose face had gone completely slack, mouth parted in a silent “holy shit”—and then back to her own chest, as if she could will it to open wider. The pressure wasn’t much at first—a little push, then a harder, deliberate shove. The magic had remade her; her titflesh stretched, the rim of her nipple yawned, then the bulbous tip of the dildo vanished inside with a slick, skin-popping sound that was so obscene Jenna felt her knees buckle. Jenna’s nipple stretched wide, the base flared open, and suddenly the first three inches of glossy pink shaft vanished into her chest. The skin around the areola bulged, the flesh ballooning with the intrusion, veins surfacing in wild blue arcs over the tit. Jenna’s breath hitched, not in pain—never pain—but in a kind of greedy, full-body need. She bent forward, palm braced on Emma’s shoulder, and rammed the toy harder. Inch after inch disappeared. The surface of her breast rippled, the skin straining to hold the bulge as the dildo tunneled deeper.

Emma’s jaw hung open, her own nipples throbbing hard enough to feel the pulse in her bones. She didn’t even realize she was grinding her hips into the sofa, her prolapsed cunt drooling slick over the cushions, until Jenna paused, almost halfway down the shaft, and grinned up at her and then at the animal monstrosity next to her. “Help me?” Jenna rasped, voice shredded. She held the base of the toy, knuckles white, as the shaft bowed upward, root trembling with the force she’d already put behind it.

Emma didn’t need a second invitation. She grabbed the dildo by the two bulbous knots and aligned it with Jenna’s still empty boob. With the security of someone who does this for a living, she pushed the sharp tip into the very center of the nipple. Since this hadn't been played with until now, it offered a lot more resistance than the other, but the shape of the dildo helped a lot. Emma started twisting the dildo like trying to screw it in Jenna’s boob. Her idea proved to be useful, the cock’s head was inside Jenna’s boob in a matter of seconds and, with some little more twists, the nipple was enveloping the entire shaft, the dark pink flesh kissing the base of the knot. Jenna, as in trance, watched how the red silicone was engulfed by her breast, the tightness and fullness was something undescribable, something maybe only Emma could explain thanks to Galant. The warmth in her breasts began to spread all over her body, first pooling in her belly, then shooting straight up to her head.

When Emma saw the look on Jenna’s face, she saw pure and unfiltered lust, “My turn?”, she said with a trembling voice. Jenna only answered with a nod and a maniac smile, her friend had turned into a succubus whose victim was Emma, and she was all for it. She held her boobs in place, her hard pink nipples still swollen and gaping a little from before. Jenna thrusted the two dildos at once, Emma’s puffy areolas were pushed inwards, until, suddenly, both nipples allowed entrance and her mammaries wrapped both shafts. From Emma’s mouth escaped a loud moan, having the emptiness she even hadn’t registered filled at once.

Jenna locked her gaze on the cartoonish bulge winding under Emma’s skin, the way each new inch of the double-ended dildo warped her breast outward in a spectacular, slow-motion ripple. The magic had turned her into a new creature, but the part of her that liked the grotesque, the impossible, was still hungry. The two of them settled into a rhythm, each feeding the toys into their own bodies, then into each other’s, like some deranged assembly line made just for them. Jenna planted her knees on the couch, bracing, as she pressed the pink shaft further into her right breast. The surface of her tit strained, the areola stretched thin and glossy, and the head of the dildo visibly warped the skin from the inside. She watched the bulge creep sideways, then up, then—fuck—toward the center of her chest, as if it were tunneling its way to her heart.

Emma matched her rhythm, so that the dildos moved in perfect, mirrored tandem: every time Jenna pushed forward, Emma’s side of the toy popped further into her own chest, their nipples flaring around the root, the areolas stretched wide and shiny and almost white with the strain. Emma was moaning now—low, open-throated, not even bothering to muffle it. Jenna loved the sound. She wanted to make her scream.
Jenna grabbed Emma by the shoulders and began to mercilessly push into her, each time making the dildos bulge her tits outwards, making it look like an alien was about to rip her skin open. She braced Emma’s shoulders again and slammed the double dildos in with her own body, hard, and the knot at the base hit the edge of Emma’s areola with a wet, obscene slap, making the flesh ripple like an earthquake. Emma’s arms flailed, wild, grasping at Jenna’s biceps, nails digging deep enough to leave instant half-moons in her skin. Her whole body spasmed, back arching off the couch, a single, continuous moan boiling out of her ribs. Jenna could feel the energy in her—like a power cable stripped bare, the current running straight from her chest to her cunt and back again, every muscle trembling on the edge of seizure.

Jenna’s own nipples were raw, glistening, her breasts so full of blood and milk it felt like they’d split open if she took a deep breath. She needed—needed—something inside them, both of them were close to finishing and she was going to make it big. She stared at Emma, whose consciousness was beginning to fade. With a single, brutal shove she woke Emma up, both knots slamming against their skin with a force that made their vision gray out. She kept going, not even thinking, just chasing the sensation; the knot battered at her nipple, then, with a pop that nearly made her black out, it vanished inside, the whole breast convulsing around the root. Jenna’s chest felt like a bomb. The pressure was so much it ached, but the ache was edged with such white-hot pleasure she wanted to scream. She looked down and saw the silicone knot bulging in her own tit, the brown skin stretched so thin it was glossy, the veins straining under the surface. She could feel the shaft tunneling through her, the tip deforming outrageously her flesh downwards, the pointy tup clearly visible. Every time she moved, the whole apparatus shifted inside her, tugging at nerves and tissue in ways she’d never even tried to imagine. She looked at Emma’s and saw her knot was stuffed yet, so she gave one last push and her pink glossy nipple stretched enough to let the veiny silicone knot enter, her whole areola taut from the dilation.

Jenna was the first to come, the orgasm had some kind of delay, but hit her brain like a lightning, her whole nervous system ringed the alarms. The first thing to come out was the squirt, so strong, so much in such a short time that if it had had a bit more pressure it would have dug a hole through the sofa. The next thing to come was milk. It had been accumulating inside, the nipples so tight around the toys that it couldn’t flow normally, but the orgasm had set the milk factories to full throttle and now the pressure was so big her boobs had inflated to double its previous size. Eventually, ii escaped in a double white splash similar to a fire hydrant. The splash zone was huge, wherever the squirt couldn’t reach it was coated with milk.

In the middle of Jenna’s cataclysmic orgasm, Emma was hit by one herself, equally if not stronger to Jenna’s. In a similar manner to her friend, her milk was trapped inside, her huge melons inflated to the point of being cartoonish. The pressure was so big that she was practically expelled backwards, the torrent of milk painting every inch of Jenna’s tanned body in white. Her squirt reached its peak altitude and began to fall, directly on her face and body, washing her of any rest of Jenna’s or her own milk, but filling at the same turn her now gaping and empty boobs. She watched Jenna fall backwards into the sofa, her orgasm finally subsiding, the dildos still inserted in her perfect brown boobs.

Emma was sobbing now—not sad, not even overwhelmed, just totally lost to the sensation. Her hands clawed at her own tits, squeezing the flesh and feeling how her warm squirt sloshed around. She twisted her torso and the liquid poured out of her and pooled on the floor. She would need to burn this sofa and get a new one, or maybe she would keep it around somewhere as a memento. She focused on her friend, her limbs splayed and twitching, but otherwise completely still. She mustered some of her left strength and poked her with her feet, “Hey, are you still with us?”

Jenna shifted in her place, “Kinda. I think I came so hard I might have become paralyzed.” Emma couldn’t help but laugh at the comment, and it was music to her ears. With an idea in mind, started to lift herself up and held the two dildos still lodged inside of her. Then, slowly began to let go, feeling how the new muscle gripped the toys and didn’t let them fall. While biting her lips, she looked straight into the camera, held her hands high behind her head and began shaking her tits around. She did the typical sideways, then went to the “up and down”, and finally got brave and decided to try the infamous helicopter she heard some men talk about when in highschool, so many years ago. She fumbled with the form for a bit, the dildos clashed together, but she quickly managed to get them in sync, making the toys spin so fast it looked like a fan. Emma could not keep it together any longer, seeing her always nonchalant and kinda tsundere bff doing something so silly, yet so hot, made her burst into laughter.

“Oh my god! What a trick, if you were a stripper, you would gather men all around the world just to see this!”, Emma managed to say between laughs, just before Jenna launched herself on top of her, also laughing.

Jenna grabbed Emma by the wrists. “Ohhh, you sure wanna make fun of me? I’ve got two nipple dicks and I’m not afraid to use them!”, she threatened, sending Emma into another laughing fit. Then, she began to calm, her eyes wet with tears of joy and Jenna’s heart skipped a beat and went for the kiss. They had already made out before, but that was more lust than anything else. This one felt like the first, so much emotion being poured into it, but Jenna started to panic when she didn’t feel Emma answering. Maybe she had misread the signs, maybe she was utterly being a foul, but just then Emma kissed her back with even more passion. When they broke the kiss, both of them were panting and Jenna laid sideways next to Emma.
They stood like that for a bit, not voicing their thoughts and doubts. Emma was the first to break the silence, “We should probably talk about what just happened…”

“Yeah…,” Jenna replied, “but let’s leave for tomorrow, right now I just want to stay like this a bit longer.” Emma turned to face her and embraced her, her forehead pressed with hers. In the end, they slept all night in each other's arms.

Chapter Text

If you asked, Dafne would say she was up late working, reading scripts, maybe practicing some accent. If pressed, she'd say insomnia ran in the family; her mother used to reorganize kitchen cabinets at three a.m., her father tracked his sleeplessness by how many books he'd finish in a night. But no one was pressing, and at 1:43 in the morning, Dafne’s laptop was open to a well-worn chain of browser tabs that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with grinding down the edges of a day spent pretending to be someone else’s daughter, someone else’s princess, someone else’s perfect fuckup.

Her routine was boringly clinical. One tab for a Letterboxd review of the show she was supposed to be prepping for (currently minimized, forgotten hours ago), one for Twitter where she'd been doom-scrolling through fan theories about her character's "secret backstory", and three or four for the slow, shame-padded descent into her favorite porn rabbit hole: amateur, real lighting, zero production value, bonus points for creative use of kitchenware. Tonight was one of the slow nights, the kind where she took her time to find the perfect video, picture or whatever to rub one out. She’d already checked her favorite cam sites, filtered by some unconventional kinks and then “Most Viewed,” and was now clicking on a blog she’d never heard of, an amateur-looking web called “Lusty Witch.” The header image was a cartoon witch riding a giant pink dildo, the navigation bar an empty space with only the “Home” tab. Either the blog was really new or the author wasn’t fond of accessibility. She guessed it might be the first one, since there was only one post.

The blog post was a video: “Two Sorceresses Push Their Limits.” Dafne rolled her eyes so violently she nearly closed the tab, but the thumbnail stalled her hand. Two girls, faces pixelated beyond recognition, knelt across from one another, enormous breasts dominating the frame. The preview was a tight crop at the neck, but it was the posture that snagged Dafne—a tension at the shoulders, a poised, almost fateful readiness—and, in the foreground, two double dildos, one of them veined and brutal, shaped like some animal’s cock. She hit play with one hand, the other drifting down to her pussy, not quite touching yet, just grazing the soft bristle of her bush, trimmed into a neat heart. That little ritual always made her smile. When her fingers actually found her lips they were already slick, and for a moment she just gathered the wetness, holding it up to her eyes as if to prove something. She spread her fingers; a thread of juice clung between them, trembling before she brought it to her mouth and sucked it off, thoughtful. Then she started to circle her clit, slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm on-screen.

The action was methodical, almost ceremonial. The tanned girl, smaller breasts but still huge compared to Dafne’s own C-cups, angled a pink-glitter double dildo to her nipple. Dafne expected the ordinary: maybe some teasing, maybe a deepthroat. But the girl just pressed the dildo to her nipple, harder and harder, until suddenly—with an audible pop—the toy vanished half its length inside her breast. Dafne’s mouth fell open, her hand stuttering in disbelief. She even rubbed her eyes, half-convinced she was hallucinating from sleep deprivation. But there it was: that dark pink nipple, stretched around the toy, swallowing it down. The pale girl, her perfect chest almost surreal, guided the dog dildo to the other tit and forced it in, the bulge distorting the skin.

“This can’t be real, it has to be AI… yeah, totally AI,” Dafne muttered, breathless, not noticing her fingers working faster, rougher. But as the seconds ticked by, she searched for the tells: glitches, color warps, uncanny motions. Nothing. The sound, the movement, the color—all of it was seamless, a perverse miracle. And Dafne found herself soaking in every impossible detail, chasing the edge right alongside them. The tanned held both dildos and aimed them at the pale one, who was visibly eager. Like she did with herself, she pushed the dildos against those pink nipples, mercilessly. The first one to penetrate was the pointy tip of the dog one, the red silicone slowly filling the breast. Next came the pink one, probably harder thanks to the wider round tip.

She watched, now furiously fingering her pussy, her fingers a blur, the wet squelching sounds filling the room. Her eyes were glued to the screen, both women smashing their tits together, the dildos entering and coming out of them, the flesh of their areolas stretching and contracting. As a grand finale, the tanned one pushed brutally with all her body and the full length of both dildos was engulfed by their boobs, knots and everything, their nipples kissing each other in a cacophony of moans. Dafne’s pussy exploded, a full torrent was expelled from her peehole, the quantity and pressure so much that a finger could enter easily. The jet crashed against the wall and the ceiling of the desk, it rebounded and wetted her legs and chair. If she hadn’t waterproofed everything she would have totalled all her household appliances long ago. For 15 seconds she kept squirting, never stopping, never decreasing in strength. When Dafne was done, a smile plastered on her face, eyes shiny with tears that only an orgasm as strong as this one could produce, she was surrounded by a large puddle of her own squirt.

While she rested, Dafne thought about what she just watched. She was not the type to get off on this stuff. Not really. But she watched, and watched, as the witches annihilated every boundary she thought existed in the world of girls and their holes. Like something had clicked in her brain, like some feminine instinct had awakened in her, one that commanded her to fill every hole she had. The video kept playing, after tons of liquid was ejected from nipples and pussies, the tanned witch got on her knees again and started moving in a display that Dafne would describe as the nastiest, most perverted thing she had ever seen. But then she noticed something on the inside of her left wrist: a faint, curling tattoo, almost hidden by the angle. A lightning, she realized. Dafne’s brain made a lazy circuit, recalling all the people she knew with arm tattoos, all the times she’d seen that same muscle flex, that same little zigzag of ink peeking out from the hem of a sleeve. Impossible. She shook her head and moved on.

But then there was the room. Dafne’d been in a hundred rented apartments, a thousand Ikea nightmares, but this one was different. She paused the video at 13:12 and studied the frame: the edge of a mint-green couch, the blown-glass lamp in the corner, the familiar wall of glass and the pristine tiles of the floor. She’d been in this room. She’d sat on that couch, holding a cup of some mixings that she did not dare to ask. She closed her laptop and sat in the dark, hands in her lap, palms still warm from her own juice. There was a thick, greasy ache at the base of her skull, and her heart was beating way too fast for two in the morning.

This was dumb. She was dumb, for even thinking about it. She’d been at Emma’s place maybe three times, and each time Emma had insisted they all cram onto that weird green couch for a round of Cards Against Humanity, “because the table is for grownups and the couch is for beautiful trash.” The lighting was always bad, and the crowd was always loud, and there was no way in hell that either Emma or Jenna—especially not Jenna—could be one of the freaks in the video. For one thing, neither of them had tits like that. They were both, what, B cups, maybe C if they’d put on some weight? The witches in the video were monsters, both of them, one with perfect, bowling-ball boobs and the other with a pair of perky missiles that seemed to flex and bounce with every move.

Dafne told herself it was just porn. Random girls in a random studio, probably not even in the country. She put aside the laptop, shoved it onto the floor, and got up to wash her face, hands braced hard on the sink. The bathroom light was cold and merciless; it made the shadows under her eyes look like bruises, and her hair, still wet from a lazy post-midnight shower, hung over her cheeks in slick, dark ropes. She wasn’t going to think about it. She was going to go to bed and forget the whole thing. Tomorrow she’d text her agent about the script, or maybe the rumor about the show getting a second season, and if she did think about it, it would be as a joke. Nothing more.

But when she finally dropped onto the mattress, face buried in the cold side of the pillow, Dafne’s mind replayed the video. The tattoo, the laughter, the way the pale brunette’s voice sounded so similar to Emma’s. She thought of Jenna’s voice, sharp and mean and always a little too loud, and the way Emma’s eyes went dark when she was scheming something. It couldn’t be them, she decided. No way. They weren’t that reckless. They had contracts. Image to think about. They didn’t even like each other half the time, she was pretty sure. It was a coincidence, just a fluke of architecture and bad taste in furniture.

Dafne rolled onto her back, hands folded on her stomach, and stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned. The shadow of her own doubt lingered just above her head, fuzzy and stubborn, refusing to go away.

She was, after all, very good at lying to herself.

The only thing she did before she slept was opening the laptop again and downloading the video into a folder she reserved for her favourite videos. Just in case it got taken down.

She was not, in the end, very good at letting things go.

————

Dafne made her entrance at the gala in a dress of her own choosing: long, royal purple satin that caught the light with the sly shimmer of a river at midnight. The fabric clung at her waist and hips, tracing the line of her body with a soft, insistent pressure—not garish, not pleading for attention, but sculpted. The neckline, a subtle V, hinted at the possibilities beneath without slipping into melodrama; two thin straps crossed at the back, slicing across bare skin in geometric simplicity. The skirt dropped in an unbroken line to the floor, yet the high side slit, up past mid-thigh, opened every time she took a step, revealing sinew and skin in a counterpoint to the rest of the design's restraint. She didn't really remember the cause. "For children" was the phrase; the children, somewhere very far away, would not be present. This was the third benefit for children—or animals, or children with animals—that she’d survived this month, and it was only the fifteenth. The ballroom, as ever, was a refrigerated box with too-bright lighting, the air a cocktail of clashing perfumes and colognes, all layered thickly to smother the basic fact that everyone in entertainment sweated, nerves or not.

She stationed herself at the bar, half-listening as a tech billionaire monologued about his new charity, while the wife of a studio exec murmured praise for the purple dress. The satin danced with every adjustment of her footing, the color throwing flashes across the room, catching eyes and holding them. Dafne knew the effect. She’d been taught: confidence was armor and lure all at once. With one hand on her champagne and her gaze skimming the crowd, she played her role, making just enough eye contact, smile tuned to the exact right wattage, all the while searching for a back door, a detour, a crack to slip through.

She spotted them before she heard them—and given the usual volume of Emma’s laugh, that was a feat. Emma's laughter usually rolled over a crowd like a warning bell, while Jenna's presence announced itself in other ways—the sudden straightening of spines when she entered a room, the way conversations faltered mid-sentence as eyes tracked her movement. But here they were, somehow silent, gliding through the tangle of bodies, arms linked, Jenna in deep green and Emma in wine red. Jenna’s dress was a study in imbalance: a single strap over one shoulder, the other bare, the neckline a blunt rectangle that made her breasts seem to crest right out of the fabric, impossible not to notice. The back, cropped just so, left her honeyed skin glowing in the chandelier light; the skirt swept to the floor but gaped wide at the side, slit all the way up, the flash of her leg a staccato punctuation with every stride. Emma had gone with a burgundy fitted midi, the material fluid, hugging her every curve. Two thin straps, barely-there, spilled off her shoulders, framing a plunging sweetheart neckline—a setting for what could only be described, bluntly, as two white melons, luminous and impossible to ignore. The back dropped clean, down to the base of her spine, the fabric cascading in two asymmetrical panels, the motion of her walk opening the skirt’s softer folds and showing her legs beneath, never quite giving the whole away.

Dafne blinked, then blinked again. There was no way. No. She must be seeing things, hallucinating. She’d last seen Emma at an awards show a month prior, her usual cartoon self, maybe a little more voluptuous—but this was a leap, a phase change, four cup sizes overnight. Jenna, too: her outline unmistakable, chest pushing the limits of fashion, as if the two of them were locked in some secret contest to break every bra strap in the county.

But it wasn’t just the volume—the physics of it—it was the way they inhabited it. Emma led with her chest, unapologetic, each step a billboard; arms loose, predatory. Jenna folded her arms but projected a challenge: Look at me, I dare you. As they closed the distance, every footfall hammered home that this was not a trick of lighting or memory. The tattoo, the video, the couch: the facts arranged themselves in sequence, slow and undeniable.

Dafne didn’t go to them. She floated around the perimeter of other conversations, picking at her thumbnail until the skin frayed, sipping water and letting her abandoned champagne go flat. Watching Emma and Jenna work the crowd was like watching magnets drag order out of chaos: people realigned, orbits shifted, conversations bent around them. They moved with an ease that was both entirely natural and utterly strategic. Emma always a pace ahead, guiding Jenna with a touch; Jenna half a beat behind, murmuring jokes into Emma’s ear, making her laugh in that low, throttled way. Men drifted over, some brave enough to ask for photos; Jenna flashed a jagged grin, Emma collapsed in close to her, side pressed to side, a fortress of two. If they noticed Dafne, they didn’t show it.

When the program started—a comedian, low-tier, working the room with blunt-force charm and the kind of roast that made the mega-rich cackle—the crowd settled and the girls slipped into a table near Dafne, passing a dinner roll as if it were a secret message. Emma was deep in conversation with a woman dressed in black, shoulders squared in power pads; Jenna, eyes flat and hard, rolled olives with a fork but never looked away from the stage. Dafne felt her own pulse thump faster, climbing up her neck. The urge to escape flared in her foot.

She leaned toward Jenna, the woman’s cleavage right there, a gravity well, and said, “Hey, I hope this isn’t weird, but—is it cool if I sit with you?”

Jenna’s eyes flicked up, unfurling over Dafne’s dress, her face, a scan so quick and thorough it left a mark. She shifted her chair, patting the empty spot next to her with a flourish so over-the-top it wrapped back around to being funny. “Absolutely,” she said, voice sticky-sweet with a tang under it. “Young actresses have to stick together. These events are basically predator conventions.” She shot Emma a look; Emma snorted, almost derailing her conversation.

Dafne slid in, trying (and failing) not to stare at the architectural marvel of both women’s chests. Jenna’s perfume hit first, jasmine and sugar, almost synthetic; then Emma’s, sharper, edged, a glint of metal in the air. The heat they radiated was startling, a pocket of warmth suspended in the overcooled space, and it made Dafne hyper-aware of the silk slipping against her own skin.

Jenna turned toward her, closing the distance, her scent sharpening. “Didn’t know you’d show,” she said, voice pitched low. “Your agent made you come? Or do you just like punishing yourself?”

Dafne shrugged, tearing the bread for something to do with her hands. “Both. I owed Alex. Now I get to watch millionaires audition for sainthood.” She risked a glance at Emma, still deep in conversation, then back to Jenna, dropping her voice. “You guys look…amazing, by the way.”

Jenna’s gaze jerked to the tabletop and then up again, a quick loop. “You too.” A microbeat of delay, almost embarrassed. “You always had that thing,” Jenna motioned at Dafne’s collarbones, the sweep of her neckline, “like, queenly but cool. I’d buy it.”

The compliment ricocheted under Dafne’s skin, raising goosebumps. Her mind spun. She wanted to ask about the video, the tattoo, the logic of it, but it sounded insane, a fever dream stitched from insomnia and internet stories. She found herself staring at Jenna’s hand—the tattoo, the lightning bolt, the scar—a beacon.

Jenna caught her. “What’s up?” The sarcasm faded. “You look haunted.”

Dafne inhaled. “Not haunted. Just…maybe a glitch in the Matrix. I was watching something last night, and I swear I saw you.”

Jenna’s eyes narrowed, then she went for a grin, sly and sharp. “Well, I do have one of those faces, right? Maybe the yogurt commercial, or the prescription ad, or—”

“I saw you and Emma in a video,” Dafne said, words falling out flat. “You were fucking each other’s nipples. Those crazy, elastic nipples, with those huge dildos. Your tattoo was visible—the lightning bolt. Emma’s living room, green couch, glass wall. And now your new tits. It’s you two.”

Jenna’s mouth shut, hard. She tucked her hand under the table, hiding the tattoo. A tic jumped in her cheek; her eyes were nearly black.

“That’s not me,” she said, monotone. But her pupils were blown wide.

Dafne leaned in, elbows to the linen. “I’m not going to out you. I don’t care about the social media part. I just need to know if it’s real. If it’s physically possible.”

“Why?” Jenna’s voice was barely there.

“Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for days,” Dafne said, rolling her napkin into a tight cord. “Because it did something to me. And now I need to know if I could do it too.”

Jenna blinked hard, as if she could clear the static from her head by force. For a second she just stared at Dafne, tracing the line of her jaw, the hollow at the base of her throat, the way her hands balled under the tablecloth. Jenna’s heart jackhammered, and there was a weird tickle at the back of her tongue, like she might laugh or bite down hard enough to draw blood. She looked at Emma, who was still deep in a conversation with a Netflix VP, oblivious, then back at Dafne, who held Jenna’s gaze like a dare.

“Five minutes,” Jenna said. Her voice was a hush, so nearly lost in the clatter that for a moment, Dafne thought she’d imagined it. But then Jenna bolted upright, clutch in hand, and the chair’s legs shrieked against the floor. “Restroom. Don’t follow right away.” She didn’t wait for a nod or even a look; she was already moving, tapping Emma on the shoulder, the pair of them rising and walking off, legs carrying them with the brittle, uncertain grace of ballroom dancers who might topple at any moment. Their heels struck the floor in perfect sync, sharp as a metronome, the sound slicing through the din of the gala until it was all Dafne could hear.

For a long moment, Dafne just sat, frozen, staring after them, heart a frantic, stuttering thing in her chest. The comedian’s voice grated, each joke landing dull and thick in the air. She gulped down what was left of her water in three desperate mouthfuls. Every second dragged. When the clock in her head finally ticked past five, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, forced her face into a mask of bland disinterest, and walked to the bathroom.

Light inside: harsh, surgical, no shadows to hide in. The mirror was a lens, exposing every flaw, every tiny imperfection. Jenna and Emma were at the sinks, tension radiating off them like static. Emma’s head was bowed, contrite, and Jenna’s nostrils flared, her reflection dark and furious, haunted and hollow-eyed, the green dress a slick of oil clinging to her hips and thighs. Dafne let the door close behind her, the lock clicking with a finality that echoed. Only then did Jenna look up, her gaze sharp.

“I don’t know how you found that,” she said, voice scraping, raw, “but you were NOT supposed to see it. Ever.” She turned, pinning Emma with a look that might have cut glass. Emma tried to smile, lips trembling, mouthing “sorry” in the mirror. The silence between them was thick as velvet, stretching, humming. Then Jenna let her face relax, a sigh breaking the tension. She faced Dafne, the anger now something more measured, a slow burn. “Look, that video was just supposed to be a diary thing. Emma wanted us to document the… experiments.”

Dafne’s hands twitched. She felt the words pool in her throat, unsure if they’d even come out. “I’m not going to leak it or anything,” she managed, voice thin. “I want to—” But the rest died on her lips. There weren’t words for that kind of hunger, the urge to crack the world open and crawl inside.

Jenna’s pupils were bottomless, swallowing the light. Three steps closed the gap, Jenna’s hands wrapping around Dafne’s, grounding her, making her meet those impossible eyes. “Are you sure you want to participate?” Jenna said, searching. “It’s not painful, and so far, no real danger. But it’s not for everyone.”

Dafne nodded. Her breath came in tiny, jagged pieces. She reached for the courage she’d never needed before, and found it. “I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t just live normal knowing that’s possible. Something in me just wants to find the edge.”

Jenna studied her, the intensity almost burning. In that moment, Jenna trusted her, believed her. And, honestly, Dafne was gorgeous. “Okay. Next Friday. Are you free?” The words landed with a weight. Dafne nodded, hard and fast, an answer that couldn’t be anything but true. Jenna almost laughed, then pulled her composure tight again. “Fine, then. Emma’s place, morning. We have a lot to explain. A lot to get ready.” Then she turned toward Emma, conspirator to conspirator. “Now, about your punishment…”

Emma startled, almost falling off the sink, caught off guard and staring. “What? You’re not really going to…” she began, but the words trailed off under Jenna’s glare.

“I told you not to upload it. Explicitly,” Jenna said, voice low but razor-sharp. “What if some creep found it? If Dafne got there, anyone could.” Emma’s mouth opened—a protest, maybe—but the sound evaporated. Jenna softened, just a little. “I’m not furious. Just… you need to learn. Now, up with your dress.”

Dafne watched, heart pounding again. This was really happening. Emma sat on the edge of the sink, dress parted around her hips, pale thighs showing between the slits of the skirt. She was completely shaven, her mound soft, a perfect hill on an otherwise straight abdomen, and from between the lips, shining in the bathroom’s stark light, a pink tube protruded, slick and unmistakable. Dafne couldn’t keep the awe out of her voice. “Oh my god. Is that really what I think it is?”

Jenna barely glanced over. “Yeah, her womb. She likes to keep it out.” And from her purse, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jenna produced five pink eggs, fitting them one by one into the exposed, glistening tunnel of Emma’s womb. The organ bulged, filling with the toys until it was stretched, trembling, the eggs visible, bright and obscene beneath the taut flesh. Jenna kissed the swollen opening, cinched it closed with a hair comb, and brought out a tiny remote. “You’re absolutely not allowed to cum until the end of the gala. If you do, you’re cut off until Friday. Got it?”

Emma’s face was pure shock, then resignation. She swallowed, cheeks burning. “Yes.”

“Good. If you make it, we’ll call it even. Now let’s go.” Jenna and Emma marched back to their seats, faces calm as if nothing had happened. Dafne trailed behind, barely able to process. When she slid in next to Jenna, Emma was already squirming in her chair, every movement betraying the chaos inside. Nothing on Jenna’s face hinted that she was torturing her friend, she acted as her usual nonchalant. But Dafne could not think about anything else. How she had opened a woman’s most inner sanctum and defiled it with some sex toys.

The gala ended in a storm of self-congratulation, everyone declaring their own humility with oblivious pride. Jenna and Emma slipped out early, Emma’s steps shaky but determined. She’d held out, Dafne realized, never giving in—not until the end. Rumor blamed the drinks for Emma’s shaky legs, but Dafne knew. She knew that if you looked closely, you’d see the wet trail down Emma’s thighs, and she knew, too, that her own underwear was just as soaked.

———

Friday, 7 am, the Uber dropped Dafne at the edge of the long, pine-lined drive, and she debated texting Emma to say she’d bailed. She didn’t, of course. She hiked the last fifty meters up the pea gravel, sweating through her clothes. Suddenly, her outfit felt calculated and childish at the same time: a black crop top that hugged her tits tightly and exposed her belly, denim shorts riding so high they barely covered her butt, stripped thigh-high socks snug and glossy, strip of bare skin between elastic and denim glowing in the sunrise light.

When she reached the door, she rang the bell, waited, and then, when no one came, leaned on the button until a faint, annoyed voice echoed from the other side. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” A pause, Dafne wondered in what sense was she saying that, knowing the kind of thing these two did in their free time. Emma opened the door, wearing only a pair of pink pajama shorts that barely contained her hips—her tits were out, unashamed, huge, swaying, the skin flushed like she’d just stepped out of a sauna. For a second, Dafne just stood there, pulse thudding in her throat, pondering if she should jump on her and devour her.

“Wow,” Emma said, grinning wide, biting her lips like looking at something tasty, and stood there for a few seconds, studying Dafne’s outfit, paying attention especially to her legs . “You look so cuuuute. And that ‘absolute territory’ is sooo sexy!” She didn’t move aside, just stood planted in the doorway, letting Dafne take in the full effect of her body—boobs so big they looked like an anime prank, nipples shiny and puckered from the chill. The house behind her was dark but alive, all shadow and distant hum, and for a split second Dafne thought about bolting, just spinning away into the night. Instead, she made herself breathe, found some words, and held Emma’s gaze.

“Do… do you always go topless?” Dafne said, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack.

Emma snorted, the motion making her chest jiggle in a way that defied physics. “I like to let the girls breathe, also it would be a sin to cover them. And I wasn’t about to put a shirt on when I knew you’d show up dressed like a snack.” She stepped back, finally giving Dafne room, her hand brushing lightly against Dafne’s bare midriff as she passed. The touch was deliberate—not accidental, not apologetic. Just a statement. The house was warm, already thick with the smell of toasted sugar and expensive coffee, light knifing in through the glass wall. Barefoot, Emma padded ahead, ass bouncing under the thin shorts, the sway of her breasts almost matching. Dafne followed, rolling her shoulders back, trying to play it cool—trying not to think about what came next.

Emma plopped onto a stool at the island, legs wide, and beckoned. “You want coffee? I got cold brew, or I can make cappuccino.” She stretched, arms over her head, the motion a blatant show-off—every inch of her torso bare, the skin milk-pale, ridged with shadows. The nipples stood out, glossy and faintly flushed from the chill.

Dafne’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Cold’s fine,” she managed, fingers curling tight around her own wrist. She slid onto a barstool, knees together, and stared at the marble surface like it might explain the rules.

Emma poured two glasses, sliding one over with a practiced flick. When her hand passed close, Dafne couldn’t help noticing the trail of pink bite marks running along Emma’s arm, almost faded but definitely real. She wanted to touch them. Instead she picked up her coffee and tried to swallow the tension down. “Jenna will come down in a bit, she’s still in the shower. You got here pretty early.”

“Sorry, it’s just Jenna said to come early and I didn’t want to start with the wrong foot, “ Dafne spoke fast, afraid that one single mistake could take this opportunity away from her.

Emma gulped down a sip of coffee before answering, “Oh, there’s nothing to worry, really. So, what about I fill you in?”

At half past eight, Jenna came down the stairs, wearing a white bathrobe and drying her hair with a towel. When she went for her usual mug of coffee she saw Emma and Dafne in the kitchen, Dafne stopped talking that very moment. “Hey, so you really did come,” she said, the smile on her face set Dafne off. Jenna kept walking towards the cabinet and stopped to give Emma a kiss on the cheek, making Emma flush bright red. Seeing that Dafne stared at her like she could blow up any second she decided to calm her down, “Look, I’m not usually like when you saw at the gala. It’s just that you took me by surprise, I don’t bite.”

Dafne finally relaxed knowing that Jenna’s demeanor wasn’t that of a cruel dominatrix and tried a little of gossiping, “Soooo, are you guys a thing?“

Emma flushed again and tried to cover her face with the mug, it was really strange that she could show her bare boobs, and even her uterus, to basically a stranger and was rendered unable to speak when talking about romance. Jenna decided to step in, “Mmm, something like that. We’ve not been together for much time, only for a couple of weeks, but everything seems to be going good. Well, apart from that little thing of no communication," she gave a side glance to Emma, faking anger but quickly turned her frown into a playful smile. Emma exhaled, visibly relieved and reached to grab Jenna’s hand.

Jenna squeezed Emma’s hand, then turned and grinned at Dafne—a smile that held both dare and promise. “I’m guessing Emma filled you in on what we’re about to try?” she said, voice sly and a little sing-song. Her gaze flicked over Dafne’s body, cataloguing the crop top, the way the denim barely clung to her, the endless, glossy length of her thighs.

Emma wrinkled her nose, not quite meeting Jenna’s eyes. “Not totally everything,” she said, swirling the dregs of her coffee. “She knows the basics—the magic, some of the body stuff, what’s physically possible. But I figured we’d go slow… She’s not ready for, like, the really weird stuff.”

Dafne’s cheeks glowed, but she tried to steady her breath, watching the way Jenna’s lips curled at the corners. Jenna leaned in, elbows braced wide, making her breasts strain against the robe; the flash of brown skin was almost indecent, and Dafne felt her pulse trip. “Well, nobody’s tossing you into the deep end unless you want it,” Jenna said. “But—” Here, she glanced sidelong at Emma, then back at Dafne. “-how about we keep it simple? A friendly little game. See who can squirt the furthest? That’s it if you can squirt of course.”

The question landed heavy, but not cruel. Dafne felt it linger in her chest, a flutter, then a drop. She swallowed, then nodded, feeling the weight of their attention settle on her skin. “Yeah, I—” her voice caught, embarrassed but honest. “Yeah, I can. I’ve never measured distance or, uh, total output, but it’s… a lot. Usually.” A flush climbing her cheeks, it was not a thing you usually boasted about. “But you mean, like, right now?”

“Sure,” Jenna said, grinning with all her teeth. “Consider it a warmup. Or an audition. I mean, you’re the one who wants to know if any of this is possible, right?”

Dafne hesitated, and Emma nudged her knee under the breakfast bar, conspiratorial. “Honestly, don’t overthink it. Just focus on the pleasure and have fun.”

Dafne’s mouth went dry, but she nodded anyway, the thrum in her pelvis replacing any need for thought. “How does this work? Like, right here? On the floor?”

"Not in here," Jenna said, her voice soft but absolute. She straightened, cinched the robe tight over her hips, eyes flicking from Dafne’s face to Emma’s and back again. "It gets way too messy. If we’re doing it, it’s on the terrace, and I want you with me." She turned, already sliding her mug aside, her bare calves flashing under the hem as she moved toward the doorless frame.

Dafne felt her own pulse thump, sharp as a heel snap. The air caught in her throat—she hadn’t pictured herself outside, not really, not with the whole world wet and bright and waiting. But Jenna was ahead of her, already moving up the stairs, and stopped to turn her head to see if she came. Emma rolled her eyes, swinging off the stool and following in loose, lazy steps that made her chest bounce in slow motion. “I’ll go set up,” Emma called, her voice sing-song. “Fair’s fair—I get to be ref.”

The wind on the terrace was sharp enough to raise goosebumps on Dafne’s legs, every inch between shorts and socks tingling with cold. She trailed Jenna across the deck, footfalls scraping the concrete—a lifeline tethered, the morning too clear to mistake for a dream. They reached the rail: below, grass glittered with dew, each blade catching the angled sunlight like a knife. This far from the windows, from any prying eyes except birds, the drop off the side felt intimate, like a secret whispered just for them. Jenna leaned into the rail, looked back with a sly half-smile, then slid her robe off all at once, letting it heap around her ankles. Her breasts, unhidden, settled heavy on her chest, fuller on the bottom, the curve so pronounced they looked sculpted, not drooping, topped with dark, upturned nipples and bold areolae. If Dafne had to describe them, she’d say they had the shape of a teardrop but inclined, so firm and round at the bottom like they were defying gravity. Emma’s were round and compact, quite the contrast to her slim build, but Jenna’s fit her perfectly, she was an invitation all her own: trim in the waist, hips that flared out to a show-stopper ass, each thigh thick and flawless. Jenna planted herself at the edge, hips forward, every movement a dare.

“C’mon,” she called to Dafne, voice smoky and teasing, already rolling her pelvis forward so the full architecture of her cunt was on display, brown and bare, balanced on the edge of everything. Her expression softened, the smile dreamy, almost painfully tender: “You said you could do a lot…” Her words trailed, shoulders rolling back, eyes met Dafne’s with a kind of lazy mercy. “Let’s see how far you can really shoot.”

Dafne’s breath caught, the world telescoping down to the way Jenna’s body gleamed in the sunrise: the wedge of thigh, the brazen arch of breast, the way she gripped the rail as if anchoring herself to the planet. Down below, Emma had already set a camera in a tripod so it could catch all the action. She was barefoot on the grass, arms windmilling as if trying to pull them in by sheer force. “I’ll be judging so you better make it interesting!” Emma shouted up; the sound was a crack of laughter, a shiver of thunder through the morning air. Dafne felt a little anxious about being filmed masturbating, but she guessed as long her face was blurred there was nothing that could identify her. Also, she wasn’t going to mess this up.

Jenna pressed her ass against the railing, fingers gripping on the border, and beckoned. "Right next to me. You have to go at the same time." Her gaze never left Dafne’s face. "Unless you’re scared." The word hung, a challenge and an embrace, and Dafne stepped forward, nerves jangling, denim shorts off in one motion, her thigh-high socks still on. Next went her top, revealing her big breasts, although next to these girls they seemed small, but Dafne was confident in them, they were firm and didn’t even drop an inch, they had a slight slope and her pink nipples pointed straight forward.

She lined up beside Jenna, both of them standing bare-assed at the edge, their bodies side-by-side, the promise of what they were about to do thicker than the morning mist. The wind licked over the terrace, and Dafne shivered—not only from cold, but from the heat rising behind her navel.

Jenna’s hand slid between her thighs at once, two fingers splaying low and wide, rubbing the glossy hood of her clit so rough it made her knees buckle. She didn’t tease or edge—she went for the kill, mashing her thumb down until her hips jerked off the railing and her breath hissed sharp through her teeth. The morning chill bit at her exposed skin, but the heat radiating from her slit was a living, greedy thing; she hooked her palm up, catching the rhythm that always sent her over.

Beside her, Dafne hesitated just a heartbeat, then copied Jenna’s stance, feet planted, both elbows bracing her against the ledge. She went at herself with flat, open hands at first, slow and then violently fast, as though the entire surface of her pussy was a single target. Her clit ballooned out, oversized and plush, the crown glistening in the daylight. Jenna’s was neat, precise; Dafne’s was a bursting pearl, so swollen it ached. Dafne pinched hard, almost cruel, then released, circling again, the movement making her knees tremble on the stone.

Jenna’s body was built for this—her fingers dug in, one plunging deep in her slit, the next seeking the slick, tiny mouth of her urethra. She pressed into the peehole with a knuckle, not gentle, shoving past the resistance until the burn turned into fireworks at the base of her spine. She gasped, not caring if the whole fucking world heard, and hammered the heel of her palm against her mound to dial everything higher.

Dafne watched with open hunger, matching her pace. She worked with both of her hands with a greedy precision: right hand knuckle-deep, three fingers fucking into her cunt, left hand working the clit with a fierce, never-ending grip, sometimes pinching, sometimes just holding tight enough to make her jaw clamp shut and her toes claw at the concrete.

Jenna escalated, ripping her hand free and hammering two fingers straight into her urethra, the other four scraping the inside of her pussy so hard she could feel both sets through the thin wall. She chased that feeling, jamming hard, pummeling the fragile membrane between her holes, and when her hips snapped forward in shock, she spotted Emma, arms high, bellowing from below: “Don’t you dare hold back! I want to get showered!”

Jenna could feel her own orgasm building, not slowly but like a freight train with no brakes. Jenna glanced at Dafne’s side profile, then grinned. “We’ll do it at my count. Three—” Her voice was thick, a little ragged, heat already crowding her words as she yanked out her fingers from her peehole and guided them to her breast, pinching her hard nipple and pulling it. “Two—”

Dafne licked her lips; her hips lifted, thighs wide, one arm propping her up. Jenna was already splaying her legs shamelessly, working her fingers into that rough, hungry spot deep inside. Four fingers, zero hesitation, her brown skin taut and sparkling as she fucked herself with the kind of focus that shut everything else out. Cold wind, wet grass, the sharp chorus of birds overhead—all of it blurred into the background, the only real sound was quick, wet friction and the ragged purr of their breathing. Dafne thrust hard, chasing the edge, her fingers moving with frantic speed, a reckless abandon that made even Jenna’s steady rhythm look tame. The slap of skin echoed, sharp enough to make birds explode from the trees.

Jenna jerked her head, hair spilling everywhere, arching so her breasts thrust up, hot and perfect and raw. “One,” she ground out, her voice shredded by pleasure already. Dafne could barely focus, every muscle in her legs straining and shuddering, the air bright and tight with tension. Closer, closer, fuck, nearly there. Jenna twisted a nipple, hard, a guttural moan ripping out of her, lost in the wind, and she barked, “Zero—NOW!” They jerked forward in unison, thighs rock-solid, and then it happened: Jenna first, a hot surge, translucent and violent, spraying in a wild arc straight off the edge, splattering against the grass below with an unmistakable slap. Dafne convulsed, wrecked by her own orgasm, jets of clear fluid exploding in a diamond spray that shot meters from the railing, sun catching the droplets in a flawless, glittering arc.

Both streams doubled, tripled, a pulsing war, sprays crossing midair before hammering the ground. Jenna’s squirt came in savage, controlled bursts, never losing shape even as the fluid arced meters and meters away, more like glass bullets than liquid. Right next to her, Dafne’s body shook, her urethra flaring wide with each contraction, not just shooting jets but unleashing a single, unbroken geyser, the force of it clearing the entire garden. Her release fanned out, raining down across the clearing like a summer storm.

Their legs buckled and wobbled but they kept moving—the pleasure so raw and relentless that every new spasm triggered the next. The outpouring didn’t let up: Jenna’s sharp pulses dropping nearly a quarter-liter in perfect arcs, emptying nearly a full liter across the grass, while Dafne screamed, wordless and primal, nearly collapsing over the edge from the pressure behind her release. One liter, two, somehow three, every drop soaking the garden below as Emma’s skin glowed in the sun, hair plastered to her face with sweat and spray. Emma shrieked and danced in it, spinning, laughing, letting both streams drench her everywhere, belly, breasts, huge tits bouncing as she tipped her face up and bathed in the downpour, her hand already shoved under her shorts, moving so fast her wrist blurred.

Jenna finished first, her muscles locking rigid, a final, impossible spasm wrung out of her by the violence of orgasm. The last pulse was blinding—she gripped the railing, knuckles whitening, her legs shaking so hard she nearly slid off the edge. Five seconds later, Dafne followed, her body buckling as her jet hammered three meters and splashed so high it misted back onto her own calves, warm and sharp against her skin. The aftershocks crawled all the way to their ribs, leaving both girls heaving and animal-raw.

They wiped spit from their mouths, the wind pricking goosebumps across every inch of exposed flesh, and shared a look—mutual awe, maybe a dash of disbelief. Then Jenna snorted once, almost giddy, and jerked her chin toward the grass. “C’mon,” she said, still panting. “We gotta see who won.” Dafne followed, denim bunched in her fist, socks still clinging to her ñegs as she staggered down the steps. Her own thighs trembled with every step, muscles gone to jelly. Below, the grass was a disaster zone—pools and puddles everywhere, the air thick with a sweet, musky tang that made Dafne’s knees wobble.

But Emma—Emma was on her knees in the middle of it all, hair plastered to her face, skin shining with spray. She'd given up on even pretending: her shorts had vanished somewhere, and her huge, ridiculous boobs bounced with every motion. Between her legs, a glistening pink mass protruded—her womb, prolapsed completely from her vagina. One hand gripped this obscene flower, fingers wrapped possessively around the slippery organ, while her other hand worked deeper, index and middle fingers buried to the knuckle inside her cervix. The transparent slick of arousal coated everything, pooling beneath her knees as she worked herself with a ferocity that bordered on delirium, breath coming in ragged, hitching gasps. Jenna got close enough to touch, but didn't—she just watched, a wild, hungry smile on her lips. "You okay down here?" she asked, voice husky, but Emma couldn't answer; she was seconds from shattering, hips bucking in frantic little pulses as her fingers corkscrewed inside her own cervix. Then she shrieked—a sound so raw it didn't even register as human—and the squirt hit, a catastrophic flood that shot straight out, soaking the ground and the legs of both girls at point blank.

Dafne's eyes went wide. Emma's release wasn't explosive like hers or Jenna's—instead, it flowed in a continuous, unbroken stream that pooled across the concrete before reaching Jenna's ankles. Unlike their violent jets, Emma's squirt maintained a steady pressure, arcing gently about four meters out and occasionally lifting a meter high when her muscles contracted. The sight of this endless flow—just slightly more volume than Dafne's own release had produced, which was already amazing—made something inside Dafne clench with a leftover tremor, forcing her to steady herself on Jenna’s shoulder. Emma moaned, her voice dropping to a sustained, breathless whimper as her chest arched forward. Her breasts swung heavily, slick with their own perspiration and squirt from before. The stream continued relentlessly—fifteen seconds, thirty, forty-five—a hypnotic ribbon that caught sunlight as it passed, creating a growing puddle that spread outward towards all directions. But Emma’s stream went on, unbroken, for another ten seconds before her thighs finally gave out. She fell back onto the grass, belly heaving, hair tangled in the mess she’d just made. For a few heartbeats, all three of them just stood in it—breathless, skin wet and shining, the silence punctuated by the last, defiant dribbles from Emma’s still-twitching organ.

Dafne gawked at the carnage, then at Jenna, then down at Emma, sprawled and glossy with sweat and squirt. She let out a sharp bark of laughter, half disbelieving, half triumph. “Holy shit,” she said, voice hoarse, “I guess seeing us got you worked up. So, who won the contest?”

Emma lifted her head, blinking through the fog, her face slack with pleasure and confusion. “I’m fucking dizzy,” she mumbled, shaking her arm to clear the tingling. “Jenna totally hit the record for distance, for a moment I thought she would reach the trees, probably 20 meters. But Dafne wasn’t too far to be honest, around five meters short I’d say.” She pointed, weakly, to where the droplets glittered in the sunlight, the splatter cutting a clean line through the grass. She swiveled her gaze to Dafne, grinning, feral and raw. “But you, you absolute freak. You squirted like… three times what Jenna did. And yours shot up, too, almost a meter higher than Jenna’s.” Her laugh cracked, breathless. “That was insane. You’re lucky that I upgraded our filming set up, otherwise it’d be fried by now ”

Jenna steadied herself against Dafne's shoulder, her palm sliding down to "accidentally" brush against the curve of Dafne's breast. Her fingers lingered there, tracing small circles as aftershocks still rippled through her thighs. "You're an animal," she murmured, voice dropping to a husky whisper as her thumb grazed Dafne's nipple. "Honestly, I thought you were bluffing. Didn't think you had all that inside you."

Dafne felt the words settle in her bones, warm and fizzy, her gentle fondling a pleasant feeling, and she ran a hand down her own thigh, marveling at how every inch of skin sparkled with their combined mess. “Honestly? I’ve never seen anything like that. Not even on porn.”

Emma rolled to her side, pawing at her own womb, the organ still slick and swollen from her effort. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll do it again,” she said, voice thick with pride. “But for now, I’m happy to crown Jenna queen of the snipers, and Dafne—” she paused, licking a streak of squirt from her arm—“queen of sprayers. That jet was ridiculous.”

Jenna grinned, letting her hand drift to Dafne’s lower back, fingers skimming the skin just above the socks. “You wanna keep going?” she murmured, hungry. “Or do you need a break?”

Dafne bit her lip, pulse pounding, eyes drawn to the way Emma kneaded her own prolapsed womb, stretching the tissue as if testing its weight. She couldn’t stop staring: the pink tube glistened in the light, the ringed mouth opening and closing around Emma’s fingers, a slow, hungry rhythm that made Dafne’s knees wobble again.

She swallowed, voice catching. She blurted the first thing that snagged in her brain: “I—I think I need to rest a minute before I can go again.” Her voice came out shredded, barely more than a whisper, but both girls turned instantly, eyes bright and greedy. Dafne clenched the railing for support; every pulse still rippled through her thighs, her lungs burning as if she’d sprinted three marathons back-to-back.

Emma clambered upright, grass sticking to her shins, that pink tangle of uterus glistening between her legs. “You did incredible,” Emma said, admiration punching every word. “Seriously—give it a sec. You look like your bones might liquefy.”

Dafne managed half a laugh, brushing a damp lock of hair from her face. “Yeah, well, apparently I’m not built for endless rounds. Not yet, anyway.” She let the back of her hand drag down her own thigh, tracing the map of liquid streaks cooling against her skin. The aftermath had weight—there was a swamped, underwater ache throbbing through her pelvis, echoing in her knees. Her heart jittered against her ribs. She wanted more but knew, if she pushed again right now, she’d collapse in a heap.

Jenna stepped beside her, one hand steady at Dafne’s lower back, thumb moving in lazy circles just above her ass. “Relax,” she said, voice honeyed smooth. “With a little bit of training you’ll be able to go at it for hours, like us.” Her gaze flicked over the wreckage on Dafne’s bare thighs, then up to her own glistening cleavage, the swell of her breasts still streaked with milk and squirt from before. “Wanna head inside? We can clean up, maybe shower together—and if you’re still curious, you can see the grimoire yourself.”

The words landed with such heat that Dafne’s breath hitched. “Together?” She risked glancing at Emma, who had already found her pajamas, pulling her shorts back into place without bothering to wedge the womb inside. Instead, Emma cradled the pale mass against her thigh, holding it there like a hot-water bottle as she strode across the soaked lawn. Then she went to dismount the camera and fold the tripod with expertise, clearly having done it many times before.

“Duh,” Emma chirped, clearly caught between pride and perversion. She waggled her eyebrows at Dafne and Jenna in turn. “The more the merrier, we’ll clean up any dirt after we’re finished.” She twisted at the foot of the steps, waiting for them—her marshmallow tits jostling with every breath, eyes teasing. Dafne and Jenna made their way up, the latina’s hand a firm support on Dafne’s back. The inside of the house felt impossibly close after the wild exposure of the terrace—the humid air warped with sugar, ozone, and sweat. Dafne staggered a bit in the doorway, but Jenna steadied her, and together they padded to the bathroom, feet splashing in little pools left by their own dripping bodies.

The shower was enormous: stone, glass, and tile, with four heads set into the ceiling. Jenna went first, stepping straight under the ceiling jet, her long hair flattening to black glass against her back and her breasts glimmering as if shellacked in honey. Dafne followed, a little shy, but then Emma crowded in behind her—close enough that with every movement, her huge chest pressed into Dafne’s back, slippery and brazen, the heat of it radiating through both of them.

Jenna handed out the soap—a big bottle of purple shower gel, thick and sweet scented, like fruit—and they made a ritual of lathering up, hands sliding over ribs and thighs, tracing arcs of slick across bellies and necks. It was not a light touch; Emma’s fingers dug in, kneading wet muscle, pinching a nipple here or grazing a mound of ass there, half-worshipful and half-cruel. Dafne gasped when Jenna’s palm swept between her legs, easy and confident, rubbing the inside of her thigh as if she’d always owned it. The water ran hotter, flooding the air with steam, and the only noise now was the slip of skin on skin and the soft, high whimpers that punctuated their work.

Emma, grinning, squeezed a generous dollop of soap between her massive breasts, then pressed herself against Dafne's back. "Let me get that for you," she murmured, sliding her body up and down, her slippery mounds painting soapy trails across Dafne's shoulder blades. She swiveled her torso in slow circles, using her tits like twin sponges to spread lather across every inch of skin. Dafne gasped as Emma's nipples traced electric patterns down her spine, then around to her ribs. Her hands flew out for balance—one braced on the wall, the other clinging to Jenna's wrist where it circled her hip. The three of them moved together, an awkward, gorgeous tangle, the rhythm of the water building a kind of heartbeat through the floor.

Dafne reached for the bottle, but her hand slipped sideways; instead of grabbing shampoo she pressed full-palm to the outside of Emma’s breast, so big and dense it barely budged under the touch. She left her hand there, fingers splayed, amazed at how the flesh gave way like a water balloon—soft at first, then impossibly firm beneath. Emma didn’t even flinch; if anything, she tilted into the pressure, letting her nipple drag across Dafne’s wrist as if guiding her. The heat radiated through both of them. Dafne gave an experimental squeeze, thumb digging upward, and felt the quick pulse of Emma’s breath as she laughed low in her throat.

She moved to Jenna, meaning to pass the soap, but found herself zeroing in on the curve of Jenna’s ass—anatomically unreal, so thick and round it defied logic. The shorts had come off long ago, leaving only the springy brown skin and a webwork of muscle, the kind that begged to be grabbed. She cradled Jenna’s thigh in both hands and squeezed, working the lather into every ridge of muscle, then traced the seam up to where the thigh met the roundness of ass.

Jenna’s butt was unreal—solid and heavy, the skin dark and gleaming under the foam. Dafne dug her fingers in, kneading from the underside upward, thumb skimming the groove while her other hand braced against Jenna’s damp hipbone. Each squeeze made Jenna hum, a low, pleased vibration that traveled straight through Dafne’s knuckles.

They kept slipping past and around each other, bodies aligned and frictionless. Every time Dafne returned to Emma, she took a little more license: one pass, she cupped both breasts from behind, the weight filling her hands so perfectly she wanted to moan. Next time she lingered at the gap between belly and underboob, tracing the soft fold, then pinched lightly at the areola until Emma gasped aloud. The sensation was mirrored in Dafne’s own chest—both boobs suddenly tight and tingly, nipples prickling so hard she had to bite her lip.

The soap made their skin glassy, the friction smoother, every slide of wrist and knuckle a suggestion. Dafne tried to be casual, but her eyes kept darting down between Emma’s thighs, where the pink mass of her womb dangled, slick and obscene and alive. It jutted out, longer than she’d expected, a coil of glistening tissue ending in a pulsing, ringed mouth. Once, when Emma twisted to shampoo her hair, the womb swung and brushed wetly against Dafne’s thigh, leaving a hot stripe on her skin. She shuddered, then deliberately pressed her leg back into it, just to feel the shape and texture and the strange, vital thrum that traveled up her bones.

There was a moment, brief but unmistakable, when Dafne caught herself staring—at the pearled, obscene extrusion that hung from between Emma’s legs, the organ pink and taut and quivering in the spray. She tried to look away, but the sight had a gravity, drawing her gaze back again and again: the slick, ringed tip, the puckered opening at the center, the way the whole mass swayed with every shift of Emma’s hips.

Emma noticed. Of course she did. She followed the path of Dafne’s eyes, then glanced sidelong at Jenna, a slow smile blooming like hunger. “Wanna see inside?” she said, her voice a sly invitation, pitched low and bright above the hiss of the shower.

Dafne froze, caught between terror and wonder, but Jenna had already pivoted, planting herself in front of Emma and dropping to one knee. Her grip was firm, reverent, as she cupped the base of Emma’s prolapsed womb, then slid her slick fingers along the shaft until they found the ringed mouth of the cervix. With practiced ease, Jenna pushed two fingers of each hand inside—the hole opened with slow, careful pressure. The interior was a rich, dark red—darker and weirder than Dafne expected, almost bruised, slicked and pulsing in the thick steam. Two holes yawned at the center of the mass, both gaping, alive. Water from the shower pooled against the lower curve, collecting until it overflowed and spilled through the small, twitching holes that led deeper.

Dafne leaned closer, transfixed. She watched as the water vanished into the tunnels, the inner lining shiny and coarse, not like pussy at all—more like some weird, living fountain. The holes puckered, then flexed, and she could see tiny ripples travel up inside, as if the whole organ were swallowing thirstily. It made Emma shudder and jerk on her feet, the motion traveling up through her breasts and shoulders. Dafne felt her own fingers tremble. The urge to touch, to poke her own fingers into those gaping holes, was so fierce it made her dizzy. “Can I—?” Her breath caught in her throat.

Emma didn’t hesitate, just nodded, legs a little shaky. “Go for it. I’ve been through worse.” What could be worse than this, Dafne thought, but decided to just go with the flow.

Dafne reached out, still timid, and pushed the pad of her index to one of the holes. It yielded at once, tight around the tip but so wet and yielding inside it was almost frictionless. She pressed further; the lining gripped her, spasming around her finger, making the water burble and slip deeper. She could feel the faint pulse of Emma’s heartbeat through the flesh, and could see Jenna watching with wild, proud eyes. The tunnel was surprisingly smooth and it hugged her finger with an unprecedented tightness. She kept digging deeper until she touched something at the end.

Emma jerked and her legs spasmed, “That would be… my ovary!”.

Dafne got scared and yanked her finger in one motion as if she had been burned. Emma let out a moan that was between pleasure and disappointment. Jenna watched as Dafne stepped back a little and cradled her hand between her breasts, clearly distressed. “I think this might have been too much for her, let’s finish washing and show her the book,” she said, trying to soothe Dafne as if she was a little fawn.

The girls ordered something to eat and went to pick it up together, the trip there full of anecdotes and experiences. The mood had lightened up and Dafne felt more secure, now open to talk about some of her fantasies when the topic came up. When Jenna and Emma heard one of them, as if on cue, they looked at each other and grinned.

———

Several hours later, the girls were winding their way through the darkening forest. The sun had already dropped behind the trees, and with every step, the dusk pulled the shadows tighter, letting them shift and flicker at the edge of Dafne’s vision, twisting themselves into shapes that shouldn’t exist. Emma and Jenna had changed into their comfort clothes: both in gym shorts, but Emma’s were grey and so loose that, when she moved just right, the split between her thighs flashed bare and open, while Jenna stuck with black spandex, classic and slick, matched to her black sports bra. Emma had a white tank top on, but it couldn’t hope to fit anymore; her breasts warped the fabric, leaving it to drape like a curtain, and the curve of her underboob always showed, as if she were daring someone to look.

When Dafne confessed her latest fantasy, it was like lighting a fuse. Emma and Jenna snapped into motion, not even pausing to debate. First, they made her recite the spell—to give her body over, to make it like theirs. Then came the scramble for supplies: camera, lamps, the other things needed for what came next. They barely paused to breathe. When they were ready, they practically dragged Dafne, still dazed and blushing, across the uneven ground to a small clearing—a patch of grass vivid and alive, ringed with rocks, the trees knotted up around them like silent spectators. Emma set up the lamps and camera, tucking the lens into a pocket of green beneath the bushes. Jenna hunted up some stones and kindling, starting in on the bonfire with hands that barely trembled. Dafne just circled the edge of the clearing, her fingers twining and untwining, the air thick with a charge she could feel in her teeth.

“Guys?” she ventured, voice floating thin in the growing dark. “I’m not really sure we should be doing this. It’s only a silly thing, more like a curiosity.” But it was hopeless; Emma and Jenna were already locked onto the idea, their momentum absolute.

Emma only rolled her eyes, gaze cutting through the shadows. “Don’t be a pussy. You already did the spell—you saw what we’re capable of.” She moved close, sudden and unignorable, hands coming up to frame Dafne’s face, forcing her to meet those bright, unblinking eyes. “It’s scary, sure. I was terrified when I fucked Galant the first time.”

The name hit the air sharp and wild. Dafne blinked, caught by curiosity. “Who’s Galant?”

Emma jerked, surfacing from her own memory, something wild and greedy in her smile. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll meet him after tonight. What matters is this: you’ve got to loosen up and have fun. Right now, you’re basically immortal.” She winked, simple as a secret, and broke away to where Jenna had the bonfire ready and waiting.

Jenna dug out a folded slip of paper, the words marching across it sharp and inky. She and Emma sang the incantation together, voices curling in the dusk, as if they’d practiced this a thousand times, their sounds layering and looping, so tight and easy you could imagine them finishing each other’s sentences. Dafne felt the hairs lift on her arms—not from fear, but from the intimacy, the way their energy filled in the cracks around each other, seamless as a single mind. The words fell silent. Jenna reached into her bag and produced a little wolf effigy, carved from wood, and laid it in the heart of the fire. Emma doused it with alcohol; Jenna thumbed her lighter, and the whole thing jumped into flame.

The wolf burned for long minutes. The light from the bonfire painted their faces in stark relief, bones shadowed, eyes bottomless. The wooden figure collapsed into ash, and a howl broke the air somewhere in the distant dark, lonely and wild, followed by others, threading through the trees like static. No hesitation: Emma and Jenna stripped, tossing their clothes to the grass and not bothering to look where they landed, keeping only their shoes. Dafne froze, caught by the sight, before she understood, and then Emma was helping her, tugging loose the last layers, leaving Dafne in nothing but her thigh-high socks, strangely elegant, clinging to the length of her legs.

They waited, bodies bare to the sharp chill, a cold that was nothing beside the heat between their legs, their nipples cut hard by anticipation, not the night. They watched the woods, lips parted, skin tight with goosebumps and want. Then the sound of footsteps—a hush of movement at the edge of lantern-light. Eyes first: dozens of spectral yellow glimmers, watching, unblinking, just beyond the edge.

The first shape to break cover was a wolf, tall and rawboned, fur thick and brown but gone almost black at paws and muzzle. Its eyes caught the fire and cut into them, sharp as teeth, mouth pulled back in a snarl that flashed white, a warning. It stalked closer, step by step. The growl that rumbled out was so deep it seemed to vibrate inside their skulls, clouding out thought and replacing it with something older, stranger, raw.

Jenna’s heart slammed against her chest, but she didn’t move—she held the line at the edge of the fire, one hand on Dafne’s hip, the other curled into a tight fist at her side. The wolf’s eyes flicked over the three of them, the posture never dropping, every muscle wound tight as cable. Its gaze settled on Jenna’s belly, then fell to the glisten of Emma’s legs, and the air changed—one sharp, greedy inhale, and the beast’s tail went from rigid to wagging, lashing the air with a pulse of curiosity.

It sniffed again, this time slower, head cocked. The firelight caught the brown of its muzzle, the sleek line along its spine. It prowled a meter closer and dropped the threat—ears flattening not in fear but in greedy expectation. The growl faded. Now, the wolf’s tongue lolled wet and pink from between those brutal jaws, and its attention cut from face to face, then straight down between Dafne’s thighs. Jenna heard Emma exhale, a tiny, strangled whimper. The wolf’s focus drifted instantly—straight to Emma’s naked thighs, the sheen of wet there impossible to miss. With a single, practiced movement, it buried its nose into the fork of her legs, snuffling so loudly the sound nearly drowned out Dafne’s gasp. The heat of the animal’s breath hit Emma’s slit and she buckled, knees almost gave out.

Jenna’s thighs parted on instinct, bare feet sliding in the damp grass. She watched the beast’s sheath swell, the red tip slick and glossy, pushing out in measured, deliberate pulses. Jenna’s heartbeat slammed in her ears, a chemical rush, and she dropped to all fours, quick and hungry, hands landing in the loam just inches from the beast’s paws.

The wolf’s cock was enormous: thick as her wrist, the color violent, almost luminous in the light. The flesh emerged in heavy, glistening increments, each throb sending another centimeter pushing out of the dark fur. Jenna didn’t hesitate. She curled her fingers around the shaft, careful but greedy, and stroked upward, letting her palm ride the slippery heat of it. The wolf growled again—not a threat now, but a low, guttural approval. Its hips snapped forward, cock lurching in Jenna ’s hand.

Behind them, the rest of the pack broke cover. One by one, yellow or green or blue eyes glimmered from the shadows, wolves emerging in a silent, circling tide. Twenty—no, maybe more—each one different: some dark as coal, some with pelts the color of old bone, a few with silver masks or russet streaks along their chests. But all of them were male, hard, and ready—every sheath split open by a jutting, angry spire of animal cock, each member unique but united by shape and intent. The clearing filled with low growls and the sick-sweet stench of musk.

Jenna’s focus tunneled down to her hand, the way it barely spanned the girth of the wolf’s shaft. The meat was hot, pulsing, the tip at the end squirting precum with every stroke. Her grip slid; the texture shocked her—softer than she expected, yet solid enough to fight against her palm. She twisted her wrist, working the animal with a rhythm she’d honed on Emma’s toys: steady, insistent, just rough enough to challenge the beast’s control. Slick dripped down her knuckles, clear and viscous, pooling at the base where the sheath still clung tight.

The wolf’s tongue lolled, breath coming hot and fast, a rope of drool swinging from its jaw. Every muscle in its body rippled, the hackles raised not in fear but anticipation. It lowered its head, staring at Jenna like it would eat her alive, but the rigid red cock in her hand said there was only one kind of hunger here. Jenna dropped to her elbows, jaw already unhinging as she pressed her lips to the tip of the wolf’s cock. The flesh was burning hot, musky, the taste a punch of copper and wildness that made her tongue curl. She licked around the tip, teasing the slit until it glistened with a mix of saliva and clear animal slick, then she opened wide enough to take the whole tip in one brutal swallow. The texture stunned her—velvety but hard, fur at the root bristling against her nose, the shaft wider than anything she'd ever tasted before. With greedy focus, she pushed further, flattening her tongue to glide the blunt end of the knot up against her lip, suckling at it while her hand cupped the base and jacked the length, wrist twisting like she wanted to wring a howl out of the beast.

The wolf froze, legs spread, a guttural growl shuddering from its chest—but not warning, need. The member twitched between Jenna’s lips, swelling fatter by the second, and with every pulse her cheeks had to flare wider just to keep the head locked behind her teeth. She loved the way it stretched her jaw, how the pressure made her brain fizzle, how the flavor filled her whole mouth—nothing subtle, just raw, unfiltered animal. She could feel its heartbeat through the shaft, the veins throbbing so vividly she imagined she was sucking on a live grenade packed with cum.

She bobbed her head up and down, rhythm quickening, letting drool slide down her chin and onto her tits, stroking the shaft with both hands now, greedy for every new centimeter that emerged. A thud of movement behind her made her glance—Emma had dropped to her knees, her huge tits jostling as she reached out to beckon the next two wolves closer.

Emma planted her knees in the grass, back arched, and clapped her thighs together to steady herself. The first wolf approached immediately, his cock already fully out, a lurid pink rod almost comically big for the sleek, lean body above it. The second followed, slinking low, eyes glued to the target. The pair stood on their hind legs and put their front legs on her shoulders, leaving claw marks on the pale skin. Emma didn’t hesitate—she grabbed one cock in each hand, guided the tips to her nipples, and mashed the heads right at the center of her swollen, glossy areolae. The holes gaped, slick and hungry, and the cockheads popped inside, stretching her areolas so wide the skin flashed white around the edge. One wolf barked once, deep and hoarse, and rammed forward—Emma's tit ballooned around the girth, veins standing out in blue arcs, the bulge of the cock pressing up against the thin membrane as the shaft tunneled deeper—while the other whimpered, the pleasure so strange for the wild animal. She could feel every millimeter: the fleshy tip, the weird, swollen veins, the heat. It was glorious.

On Jenna's end, everything was teetering on the edge. It leaped onto her, a surge of frantic energy that made her brace with anticipation. She welcomed it, warmth spreading through her even as the wolf's motions became barbaric, feverish, every pump slamming into her with animal need. The knot was next, battering and then finally forcing itself past her lips; her throat, stretched and bulging around the sheer girth, convulsed as the wolf started to cum, unloading directly into her belly. She could feel it—a heavy, searing fullness pooling in her gut, a rough meal delivered straight to her core. The wolf reared back, tugging at her mouth with a shiver, and when the tip finally popped free it left her gaping and gasping, drool and cum dripping from her lips.

She was lost to it now. Lust had wrapped around her like a fever, burning away even the sense of her own movements. Jenna dragged a wolf onto its back, straddling it, her ass swallowing the thick red shaft as she ground down. The spiral escalated: two more wolves circling, as if drawn by her heat. She beckoned them, one to her pussy, the other she steered to her peehole, the tip slipping in and stretching her open. The trio dove into her, all three spearing her at once, and the effect was immediate: her belly bulged and writhed, each cock tracing its own frantic path under her skin, as if her insides were a nest of serpents fighting for space.

Dafne stood there not believing her eyes. She knew these girls were depraved, but couldn’t fathom what levels they reached. She wasn’t prepared for this, she needed to get away. She started to move backwards, not even thinking about her discarded clothes, then started to run as she turned, only to trip and fall on her belly.

When Dafne looked up, she saw what could only be described as a nordic god. It loomed above her, bigger than any of the others, its midnight fur glossy, shoulders massive, emerald eyes almost hypnotic. The leader. He'd circled around them, a shadow waiting for the decisive moment to pounce. Her gaze slid down and froze—a cock that defied sense, purple and swollen, nearly a meter long, thicker than both her arms. The knot at the base was grotesque, obscene, like a pair of pulsing infant skulls, and each throb made her gut clench.

Dafne inhaled sharply and the musk seized her, any thought dissolving into animal hunger. On hands and knees she crawled to him, compelled, the leader watching her with a steady, patient pride. The scent grew overwhelming, a wall of it; pressed close, she could do nothing but breathe it in, her brain shorting out with the intensity. She came instantly, a wet explosion beneath her, soaking the ground. She licked him, tongue tracing the shaft from tip to base, metallic and wild, and when her lips closed around the head, the taste made her shiver. She worked her mouth, sliding up and down, worshipful and desperate, nothing in her past could even compare to this.

When the wolf's cock glistened with spit and pre, thick ropes winding down the length, she turned around and offered herself, arching her back, ass high. The wolf lowered his head, sniffed, and licked her, each pass drawing a fresh wave of anticipation. Then he mounted her, paws digging into her shoulders, cock lined up with her entrance—and then, pure violence: one thrust, splitting her open, half the shaft vanishing inside. Her head snapped up, mouth frozen in a gasp, and then the pleasure hit, brutal and absolute; her muscles locked, eyes rolled back, and she squirted again, the force leaving her limp and shaking. The wolf seemed to savor her reaction, pounding her relentlessly, claws raking her back—but the pain only fed the fire, and the wounds closed over almost instantly, steam rising, not even a scar to mark where he'd been.

Meanwhile, the wolves hilted themselves deeper into Emma’s nipples, fur bristling as their bodies locked in rigid arcs. The sound that came from them was guttural—a kind of choked snarl, caught between pain and ecstasy—and that was the only warning she got before both cocks throbbed violently inside her tits. Emma braced, fingers digging into the sodden grass, her mouth falling open as she felt the first volcanic jet of wolf cum slam into her chest.

“Fuck—” Emma moaned, but her tits just kept inflating, skin stretched paper-thin, blue veins crawling across the pale surface as the cum inside sloshed and churned. The filling was relentless, obscene—if it hadn’t been for the spell, she was sure her chest would have exploded from the pressure. The sensation was wild: every spasm forced more liquid up inside her, the milky rivers racing through the ducts, slamming into every corner of her breasts like a dam about to burst.

On the other side of the fire, Jenna was caught between three sets of jaws and cocks, the wolves pounding her from every direction. The first one knotted in her ass, the flare blooming wide, so thick her hips nearly buckled. She screamed, but there wasn’t air for noise—her whole belly ballooned instantly as the wolf came, jets of sticky cum blasting up through her guts, making her stomach swell, skin tight and gleaming. Her vision flickered, she clawed the ground, but the second wolf hammered home into her pussy at the same time, knot battering her g-spot with a force that made her see stars, and the third knotted her urethra, expanding it further than ever before. Within seconds, the waves overlapped, the two knots locked in place, and her abdomen ballooned again, the pressure folding her spine backwards. Her belly ballooned to a monstrous size, the never-ending cascade of cum inflating it more by the second.

It was all a blur, like a fevered dream dragging Jenna down, down, until anything that wasn’t thick cock and spilling heat just melted away. When the wolves on top of her finally pulled out, their loads poured from her gaping holes—a flood, not a trickle, like a river breaking loose after a wild storm. The wolf underneath her shoved past, insistent, as if he couldn’t wait even one heartbeat longer. She tumbled to her side, and the obscene draining continued, fluids pouring from her ruined ass to join the mess already leaking from her.

The pack leader was close; she could feel it, sharp and inevitable. Dafne barely had time to brace herself before he surged forward, battering past all resistance, tearing into her womb—a forbidden threshold, a space never meant to be breached. His tip deformed her insides, stretching her baby room with a violence that was impossible to resist, and then he began to unload. The first spurt felt like a cannon blast, swelling her belly to something almost monstrous; the second was worse, curling her up, leaving her grotesquely swollen, a parody of pregnancy. And when he finally finished, she couldn’t even flatten herself against the ground—the sheer size of her womb forced her spine to arch.

Time blurred again. The orgy stretched into hours, the animals seemingly tireless, their stamina a torment of its own. Jenna ended up sprawled out on a rock, back bent, nipples so open and abused they were fountains, oozing cum, her face glazed with it, every one of her holes prolapsed and ruined. Her ass looked more like a brutalized, ragged tail than anything else, her womb still bloated when it was hauled out, rubbery-thick, and her bladder eventually gave up and slipped free of her, light pink and trembling, both ureters leaking with relentless abandon. Emma barely fared any better; her breasts swelled to the size of beach balls, cum pouring out in steady jets. She hadn’t taken quite as much damage to her ass or pee hole as Jenna had, but her womb had been inverted, the uterus and even the ovaries forced outside, throbbing and drowned in cum.

But Dafne never got even a flicker of relief. The leader remained fixated on her, determined, always pushing himself onto her, each time with a violence that left her cervix in tatters yet still clinging tight to the thickness of his cock. No sooner did the leader bury himself in her womb than the brown, lean wolf prowled up, impatient for his chance—even if his favorite hole was already occupied. He didn’t care. Instead, he crowded in beside the alpha, red cock glistening, and shoved forward, slicing into her abused pussy and plunging directly into her womb, right alongside the pack leader.

They slammed forward, hips pistoning, the competitive frenzy vibrating through the whole length of Dafne’s body. Each wolf drove in harder, trading brute shots at her ruined cervix, their shafts locked together like dueling battering rams, the flesh of her womb stretched taut, veined purple-black at the edge. The alpha’s cock—thicker, hotter, a battering ram of slick purple meat—barreled deeper with every thrust, the knot at its base throbbing against the battered rim of her cunt. The brown wolf, lean but vicious, hooked under the leader’s shaft, the red flare tunneling alongside, wedging both cocks into her at once, distending the canal to twice its width. Dafne’s belly deformed, the skin drawn so tight across her abdomen she could see the outline of both dicks warring for space inside—the thick purple root bulging left, the angry red shaft snaking right, the two of them bowing her insides into a grotesque, living X. The pressure was not just inside her womb now: every slam threatened to rupture some new membrane, to find some further boundary that nature never meant to yield. Her body wasn’t built for this but it didn’t matter: every lick of magic rewrote the rules as they went. Pain wrung out as pleasure, turned every panicked spasm into a trembling, full-body climax that left her clawing at the moss and dirt.

The wolves sensed it too. The pack leader let out a rumble—a note of warning, or maybe pride—and drove himself forward with such violence that the dome of his cockhead literally deformed the ceiling of Dafne’s womb. Not to be outdone, the brown wolf hammered upward, the head of his swollen organ flaring, stretching the shared space until Dafne’s belly bowed out like she’d swallowed a medicine ball. Both cocks rammed together, tips jousting at the very end of her uterus, until—impossible—they parted ways, each one finding a fallopian tube and burrowing in.

Dafne screamed. The sound tore up her throat, animal and raw. She felt both shafts wedge themselves into those tiny, secret tunnels, splitting her up the middle, each wolf fighting for supremacy inside her. The pack leader’s cock bulged the left tube, the outline of it writhing just beneath her skin, while the brown wolf commandeered the right, forcing open the delicate passage with every brutal pulse.

Her entire reproductive system was being invaded, possessed, transformed into a fuckpipe for these two beasts. The pleasure was so sharp it blinded her; her brain dissolved in the chemical overload. She sagged between their bodies, all her muscles gone slack, hips held aloft only by the knots of cock rammed into her holes. Squirt poured out of her, wave after wave, splattering the wolves’ fur and pooling at her knees. But they didn’t pause. If anything, the competition escalated. The brown wolf braced his forepaws on her back and started to saw in and out, never fully withdrawing, just jackhammering the already-stuffed tunnel. The pack leader shifted his grip, locked his jaws around the nape of her neck, and bucked so hard she thought her spine might snap. Both cocks plowed deeper and deeper, the tips worming their way through the fallopian tubes. At the very end, right behind her navel, Dafne felt both cocks wedge up against something small and slippery—hot spheres cradled at the tips. Her ovaries. The wolves rammed forward, not waiting for her to adapt, the purple and red heads battering into the soft orbs with relentless pulses, squishing the tissue flat against her own abdominal wall. She screamed, the howl shredded and bright, her fists clawing deep furrows in the moss as each thrust made her ovaries bounce and flex around the invading tips. The sensation ricocheted through her entire nervous system, and her pelvis locked in rictus, jets of squirt blasting out to paint the furs of both animals and the grass below.

They held her there, both dicks jammed so deep there was no slack in the system. The leader’s knot was tight against her slit, the brown wolf’s shaft flexing furiously alongside. Their cocks throbbed; she could sense the pulse, the heat gathering at the root. For a moment, nothing moved but the ripple of their muscles—then both wolves tensed, haunches rigid, and the orgasm hit. The wolves rutted with the last of their frenzy, the shafts ballooning, knots slamming tight against the battered entrance of her cunt. Then both animals tensed, bodies rigid, and Dafne felt it: a double eruption, the twin floods of cum surging up her wrecked tubes to spatter straight against her ovaries, splattering the eggs inside with molten, gelatinous heat. Her belly, already taut with the effort, swelled just enough to show the battle inside—a light bulge, a distension that trembled with each fresh pulse of wolf spunk.

The wolves were still locked inside, buried to the hilt, not caring a bit that Dafne’s brain had been fried by the pleasure they gave her. Each throb of their cocks forced more liquid into the shuddering length of her reproductive tract, packing every millimeter with slick. Even as they finished, the knots held her open, stretched to maximum, plugging the holes so nothing could escape. Her insides churned, the pressure unreal, but somehow her body adapted—expanding, accepting, holding the load.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the wolves began to pull back. The brown one went first, yanking his knot through the mangled entrance of her pussy, the leader’s knot didn’t leave much space to maneuver. Both shafts had twisted itself so deep into the tubes that when they tugged together, they dragged the limp, distended tunnels behind them, turning the inside of Dafne’s uterus inside-out as it went. The tips burrowed so far up they actually hooked the fallopian tubes and ripped it after, the tubes stretching slick and white around their cocks.

Both cocks burst free in tandem, jerking clear of her body with a gory pop; the wrenched organs followed, trailing in a gloss of wolf cum, the prolapsed anatomy shivering in the open air. Dafne screamed, or tried to, but the sound caught and died in her throat. All she could do was collapse, the mass of her womanhood puddling under her belly, her thighs quaking uncontrollably.

Emma and Jenna kept their distance just long enough to watch the wolves finish their terrible rite; the pack lingered a while, proud of their handiwork, before vanishing into the brush. When the last tail had flickered out of sight, Emma and Jenna made their way to Dafne. She lay sprawled just as the wolves left her, unconscious and smiling, eyelids fluttered halfway open, as if still caught in some wild, half-remembered dream.

"Damn," Emma said, low and full of awe, cupping the soft, pulpy mass of her own inverted uterus and rolling her ovaries between her palm and fingers, "they really went at her. Some initiation, huh?" Even now, Emma's hunger and heat simmered just beneath her skin. For an instant, she was tempted to start again and keep at it until Dafne stirred.

Jenna, still kneading her own prolapsed organs, shot Emma a crooked grin. "It’s not like they took it easy on us, either," she said, her voice rough and bright all at once. "I’m basically a walking body horror cover. Look at this." She shoved her bladder back where it belonged, her fist disappearing deep inside, and did the same with her colon, plunging her arm up to the elbow in a way that left her body quivering and hollowed out in long, happy pulses. Jenna hesitated, then turned her attention to her battered, dangling womb. She gave the bruised ring of her cervix a fond, playful pat, then worked her fingers around it, stretching it, curious and pleased.

Emma couldn’t tear her eyes away, watching as Jenna prodded and pried and coaxed the bruised mouth of her cervix. "You oughta show off your ovaries, too," Emma teased, her smile wicked and bright. "Look at mine! Shiny, right?" She pulled her ovaries up, cradling them against her chest, the flesh still slick and beautiful. For a second, Jenna looked ready to lose herself, hunger sharp in her eyes—but all at once she caught herself, cheeks burning.

"Maybe next time... but only for you," Jenna murmured, flustered and blushing, the words soft and close. "I want it to be special."

Emma laughed, her delight sudden and fierce. "God, you’re adorable. Get over here." Before Jenna could move, Emma pulled her into a wild embrace, kissing her deep and long until the world faded to white and raw and nothing else mattered.

When the kiss ended, Jenna caught her breath and glanced at Dafne’s sleeping form. "Should we wake her up?"

Emma’s lips twisted into a hungry smile. "Not yet. I wanna play a bit first. Would be a crime to ignore those gorgeous ovaries—they look so tasty." Emma licked her lips, eyes bright and feral, the same way the wolves had looked, hours before, as they tore into the three of them.

For a heartbeat, Emma just stared at Dafne, imagining her waking to the sight of her own insides on full display, so vulnerable and strange. "You’re right," Jenna said, reading her mind, "let’s have a little fun before she wakes up. Besides, her womb and ovaries are bigger than yours. More to grab onto!" She dropped to the ground, laughter sparkling in her voice, and began to knead the plump, heavy curve of Dafne’s womb. The sleeping girl shuddered with each squeeze, her breath catching even in unconsciousness.

Emma gasped out a laugh at Jenna’s joke. "Womb shaming? Really?" Then she settled down beside Jenna and reached for Dafne’s ovaries, rolling them in her hands, brushing off bits of dirt, and popping both into her mouth, her cheeks bulging with the soft, pearly flesh.

"Save some for me, greedy!" Jenna crowed, laughter ringing out. Emma grinned, pulled one ovary free and offered it over, and together they sucked, prodded, and nipped at Dafne’s glorious, glistening ovaries, whiling away the time, waiting for their new friend to wake.