For the next few hours I lay in darkness, not speaking. Even when I did ask Linda a question I rarely received an answer. During this time I could feel something cool and sticky being applied to my lower torso—followed by something heavy. Very heavy. But the feel . . . I couldn’t quite place it. I had some idea what it might be . . .

“There. All done.” The mask came off. Linda was right in my face. “You can get up now. But take it easy.”

I sat up slowly, and as I moved my eyes downward (as well as my hand), my thoughts had been confirmed: Linda had given me another set of breasts.

It was some sort of appliance, but it was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I could see myself in a mirror just across the room. The extra breasts were affixed beneath my “regular” pair. They were the same size as what I already had—four G cups! Damn! My whole torso was nothing but tits now; the set on the bottom hung all the way to the top of my pubic area. I almost couldn’t see the tattoo there. As small as I was it now looked as if I were nothing but breasts.

I examined the appliance. It looked real. When I touched them they felt very real. It was a form of latex I’d never seen or felt before. Real professional makeup shit here, folks. Just like in the movies. And the application job . . . I turned looking for where it had been attached. Linda had been busy in the last few weeks, ‘cause I couldn’t really detect where the appliance ended and my real skin began. It was almost as if I’d been born with these things.

And they had to be expensive. When I moved I could feel their weight. When I hefted them I could feel the weight. I was just guessing, but they had to weigh as much as my real breasts. Then even felt the same—no, better. With my implants you could feel something under the skin if you squeezed too hard. With these—it was just like kneading flesh. If only I could feel something when I played with the fake nipples . . .

I turned to face Linda, but moved a little too fast. It was just like when I’d first gotten my implants; if you move too quickly, you’ll find your breasts don’t want to stop moving. And with this extra weigh on my lower abdomen—if I thought I had some back pain with my real breasts, I was going to soon discover that I could only stay on my feet for an hour or so at a time without needing my back rubbed.

“Where did you get these?” I was flabbergasted to say the least.

“An old friend of mine works with Rick Baker,” she said. The smile on Linda’s face was brighter than any light in the room. “He built those for me for—well, lets say ‘services rendered’. It wasn’t anything too embarrassing . . .”

“But they’re so—“

“Real?”

“Yeah!”

“Good.” She took me in her arms and kissed me. “The glue I used on you is special.”

“Meaning?” I knew where this was leading.

“Meaning it’s designed to be very—lasting. Has to be. Otherwise those babies would fall off after a few hours.” She started rubbing her cock against my clitoris. “Those can probably stay that way for a month before you need a touch up.”

“So what you’re saying is . . . they won’t come off.”

Linda nodded. “Not unless you pull on them very, very hard.”

Turn about is fair play, no doubt. I went on my knees, forgetting for a moment that these new breasts might get in the way. Might? I could feel them pressing hard against my thighs and the undersides of my real breasts. They would get in the way, that was a guaranty. And what would I do for clothes? Fuck it. There was no need to think about that now . . .

I was pretending to suck her cock while I fingered her. Of course Linda couldn’t feel anything in the dick, but that didn’t stop her from touching the back of my head and directing my mouth towards her . . . she wanted me to suck her off, and I did. She bucked her hips while I ran my hands across her developing thighs, wondering just how muscular she might get . . .

I wanted her to cum in the worst way.

But I didn’t taste her in my mouth.

I waited two days before heading into work. Linda had been correct; these breasts were glued on like a mother, and it would be some time before they came off. I couldn’t find a bra that would fit them, but then they weren’t about to start sagging so I didn’t worry about it.

Finding something to wear, though . . . shit. I was able to get a skirt on without a problem, but locating a top was another story. No dress I had would fit; the same with most of my tops. I finally settled on a baggy sweat top which did little to hide what I was packing below.

Getting to work was also a lot of fun. I never thought about what it would be like to have another set of breasts for real, least not a pair the size of the watermelons I had now. Driving was complicated; it was hard to get in and out without moving the seat back, and they seemed to get in the way when you tried to steer—although I suppose that last wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. When I first got my implants I had to learn to drive either with my arms out far to the side, or under my breasts. Now, with my arms under I found I could rest them on top of the lower pair. They tended to get trapped between the two sets, but what the hell.

I thought I might run into a bit of trouble when I got to work. I didn’t anticipate what would happen.

“What the fuck is with you?” Ellen asked me. She’s the manager, and a total bitch if you ask me. While she’s not that bad if you’re dealing with something non-work related, anything that happens in the club is her business—and it’s usually not good business.

“I had a breasts addition,” I said. I held up my top to show her what had happened.

She took a moment to examine by new additions, and then it came: “You enjoy being a fuckin’ freak?”

“I am not a fuckin’ freak,” I replied. I didn’t want to sound too testy, but I think I came off sounding sarcastic.

“Any women with more than the tits she was born with is a freak.”

“You want to use that logic, Ellen,” I said, my voice starting to rise, “then every women up on that stage is a freak, since most of them don’t have the tits they were born with!”

She looked me square in the eyes, her voice taking on a knife edge of coldness. “The clientele want to see girls with big breasts. They don’t want to see freaks who like having latex attached to their bodies.”

I told Ellen to stick her head up her ass and enjoy the view, then stormed out. Fuckin’ freak, my ass! There was no way . . . but maybe she was right. I didn’t know. After all, people look at you funny when you have huge breasts like I had.

Would they turn away if they saw you with four breasts like that?

I had to find out.

There were a number of clubs in the area, and even though it wasn’t quite night yet, a lot of people looking for action were starting to fill up the sidewalks. I wandered down the street to see what people would think. It wasn’t dark—early twilight, really—so there wouldn’t be any possibility that people might think they were seeing something besides what they thought they’d just seen . . .

There were guys and women who looked at me in disgust. But then I got that when I had just my augmented breasts. There were guys who did a double take and then had to cover up the boner they got. There were some who just looked with a “What the fuck?” appearance.

But for the most part I was getting that vibe that said, “Man, what a freak.”

And did I care?

I was starting to. I thought, am I a freak, just because I want something different? When you think about it, most people want the norm and little else. They’re afraid of change, of things that are different. That’s why hippies and disco animals and punk rockers and skinheads have scared the hell out of people over the decades—they’re different, and people (not individuals, as Tommy Lee Jones put it, but people) don’t want different.

I was a person. I wanted different.

But I had to admit I was getting bummed out. Having the appearance of four breasts—that didn’t set well with people. Hell, I should have known, because when I first got my implants people stared at me like I was freaky. I had tits like basketballs—it’s not normal, sure. But that didn’t make me like a person from another planet, did it?

I was about to head back to the car when a couple of young women, probably twenty, twenty one, stopped me. “Excuse us—“

“Yes?”

The girl was blond, sun blond, and cute. While she might be just about legal drinking age, the more I examined her friend, the more I realized she was probably closer to thirty. But still beautiful. “This might seem like a strange question, but—do you have four breasts?”

I thought of saying something nasty, but backed off and went for the truth. “The lower set are artificial, but yes, I have four breasts.”

The two women stood there blinking their eyes at each other like they couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. I was about to turn and head off when the older woman said, “I think you look lovely. You, uh, wouldn’t happen to be into girls, would you?”

Several hours later, after my threesome with Tamara and Petula (!) was over, I realized two things: one, there were more than just a few of us with “polymastic fetishes”, as they called it—

And two, there was nothing wrong with being different.

So fuck it.

From that point on change was imperative.

I kept my phony breasts, and Linda kept taking hormones to pump up into Superwoman. She got her implants—DD cups—before the testosterone and GH burned off all the fat in her system. Sandy and I moved in with Linda, as we both were out of work—Sandy was fired by Ellen almost the moment she walked through the door on the day I told her to fuck herself—and she was picking up jobs here and there. It would seem the word had gotten out that her girlfriend was a little freaky, and some of it might have rubbed off . . .

I considered kneecapping Ellen, but figured it wasn’t worth the effort.

After six months Sandy found some steady work in a “normal” strip bar, but Linda was having problems. Seemed her place of business didn’t want the She Hulk around, and were giving her shit on the job. The word she was hearing was that most of the guys were feeling “intimidated” by her, and so were a lot of the women. The end came when one woman, some bubble headed blond who worked the front desk, ask her why “she wanted to look like a guy.” Linda whipped out her fake schlong and asked, “Would you like to be fucked by this, baby?” The company said they wouldn’t press charges if she’d just leave quietly. It was a few months before Linda was able to find employment elsewhere.

As for me . . . I spent a lot of time masturbating. And whoring. Well, I shouldn’t really put it that way. It seems so—crude. “Sleeping around” doesn’t seem much better. How’s about “enjoying the company of other women willing to pay cash for kicks.” There, that does the trick.

First, the masturbating. I was doing that most of the time when I wasn’t having sex with Linda or Sandy. Just having those extra breasts, thinking about them—feeling them. It made me very horny. I’d lay in bed and bring myself to orgasm, wishing has hard as I could that I’d feel something in those fake nipples which Linda had given me. I never did feel anything, but there were times when I thought I could . . .

Plus laying on my back relieved the pressure these breasts put there. The G cups I’d paid for could be a strain at times—but having a second set pulling your lumbar region out of shape as well? Shit. I could stay on my feet for about two, three hours max before I’d feel pain. And then I’d have to sit or lie down. And what else is there to do when you are laying down but play with yourself?

I’d had some dresses made to accommodate my new look. Most were short and did little to hide my new “protuberances.” One outfit I particularly loved was a metallic-looking blue mini dress cut so it showed a lot of cleavage from both pair of breasts. I’d put on a pair of knee high boots—I knew heels weren’t good for my back, but I was beginning to love encasing my legs in leather—and go out walking. I had nothing to hide—and neither did the people I encountered.

About ninety eight percent of them gazed at me with unbidden disgust or stark curiosity. A few would mutter “freak” as I’d walk past. Some would even scream at me: “What the fuck is wrong with you?” “What sort of freaky bitch are you?”

It was the other two percent who made it worth while. I had one guy tell me I was beautiful. Another woman confessed her feelings for wanting to look like me. A third person asked me if I had ever considered modeling. Another wanted to know if I’d ever wondered what I might look like with six breasts the size of the ones I now had?

And then there was the guy . . . “I’ll give you $300 if you’ll let me cum on your breasts.” When I told him to buzz off, he stopped and begged me. Pleaded with me. Then said, “I’ll give you a $1000. But you have to let me tit fuck you.” He explained that he had always had this fantasy of having sex with a woman with more than one set of breasts, and the bigger the better. For a grand I wasn’t about to spoil this poor bastard’s fantasy . . .

I also spent a lot of time with Tamara and Petula. Like Sandy and me, they’d been together for a long time. Petula had been the older sister of Tamara’s best friend, and they had just been attracted to each other from the get go. Both had “normal” jobs, and didn’t let on to most people they were lesbians. There we a lot of fun to be around, mostly ‘cause they were just as much into fantasy as I was.

Petula showed me a photo she’d done of Tamara, a morph job showing her with twelve breasts and four arms. The longer I looked at it, the less I saw Tamara and the more I saw myself in the photo. And realized for the first time that I wanted more of my body. “I wish it were me,” I said.

“You’d like to have a morph done?” Petula asked.

“No. I want that done to me. In fact—“ I drew in a sharp breath. I was getting excited. “I want multiple—everything. Arms, legs, breasts, pussies, asses, mouths, heads . . . you name it, I’d like more than one of it.”

Petula smiled. I’d never told her this before; fact is, until I saw the photo I’d never thought of it before. Maybe once. Right after I was asked if I could see myself with six breasts I gave it some thought. A lot of thought . . .

“I could see you with eight breasts like the ones you have,” she told me. “And ten arms—“

“Ten?!”

“Sure. Eight to fondle yourself, and two to fondle me.” She kissed my right nipples, the upper and lower. She never minded that the lower ones weren’t real. “Maybe twelve arms. I’d like you to rub my breasts, clit, and vagina simultaneously.”

I could see my body contorted to that vision. All my arms going over my body and Petula’s. My breasts covering my body, hanging to my knees. I was starting to cum. “Finger me,” I gasped.

A while later we lay in bed and discussed what we were looking for from our bodies, our fantasies. Petula said she could see me as something like a human spider, all arms and legs and breasts, constantly aroused and wanting to please. I went for something more extreme: a human centipede with fifty sets of legs, segmented torsos stacked with breasts, multiple sets of arms—

“And heads?”

“I think . . . I think I’d want your head next to mine,” I told her. I touched her clitoris and was greeted with a shiver and moan. “Then you could be by me always telling me what we should go for next.”

It was then that Petula told me about her conjoining fantasies. About how she’d always dreamed of sharing the same body with Tamara, about how they could someday wake up and find their torsos were now one, but they possessed the arms and legs from their old bodies—

“You’d have to learn how to move around again,” I said.

“And you wouldn’t?” Petula giggled. “Maybe we could all be in the same body.”

“A conjoined triplet?”

“Why not? At least if you—we had that centipede body, there’s be plenty of room. And three heads are better than one.”

We talked on through the afternoon into the night. The more we talked, the more horny it made me.

And the more I wished . . .

Of all people, it was Sandy who finally changed—everything.

Almost a year had past since I’d started by giving Linda her dick, and watching things go from there. Linda was pumped up big; she’d put on about sixty pounds of muscle and was very cut. She’d also had new implants put in; she was about an EE now. We’d finally had to cut the “item” off that I’d locked on her, but with all the hormones she’d been taking her clitoris was about two inches long and bright red. She’d cum if you just blew on it. She’d also had a new appliance made, a latex cock about twenty inches long and three inches across, with testicles the size of baseballs. She couldn’t wear it all the time—even wearing a skirt or dress wouldn’t hide the bulge—but she loved to fuck Sandy or me with it.

I’d made a costume for Tamara and Petula for Halloween; it was a Lycra dress which joined two people together, with pants for three legs. True, there were two legs together in that middle leg, but you could pretend that the two women were conjoined. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Particularly when you saw the women working the crowd at the party we were at. You would think they’d been that way all their lives.

I was there, waiting for the moment I could unsnap the crotches to their pants and treat them to a “conjoined surprise.” My costume was much simpler: I was a multiple-breasted dominatrix, with a leather harness holding up my enormous tits, leather opera gloves, and thigh high lace up boots. And don’t forget the riding crop. I made almost every girl I met get on her knees and kiss my clitoris. Or lick my boots.

I loved wearing my boots; the pair I had on at the party I’d been wearing for three days straight. When I had the thigh highs on I didn’t seem to have problems with my back. By then I’d gotten rid of all my other shoes and just wore any sort of boot I felt like wearing. Another fetish, I know. But I couldn’t help myself . . .

Sandy wasn’t stripping much any more; she’d met up with someone who’d introduced her to the world of porn, and Sandy started doing two, three movies a month. She still looked like a teenager, so she’d always get to play the bisexual nympho cheerleader type who’d gang bang everyone in sight. It was during this time that we discovered Sandy’s fetish: she wanted to be chubby. Not fat, mind you, but more like thick in the thighs and waist and ass. It seems someone had told her that if she put on twenty pounds she could do a fetish flick like “Chubby Soccer Sluts” and make three times as much loot as she was pulling down from “straight” porn. She put on thirty and fleshed out in all the right places. The next thing she knew she was not only signed up for five more videos, but she found she liked her look.

In particular she wanted a big ass. While her legs and waist got big enough, she couldn’t seem to move enough fat to her ass. Tamara told her she had a “gangsta butt”, that she soon would be giving Jennifer Lopez a run for her money in the big butt category. Sandy didn’t think it was enough.

“If it were really big, I could do ass fetish movies and pull in some major money,” she told us all one night at Tamara and Petula’s place.

“Like how big?” Petula asked. If there was one part of her body she was very self aware of, it was her ass. The thought of another woman wanting hers bigger drove her nuts.

Sandy stood up and held her hands about a foot from where her ass was now. “Like this.”

“Jesus!” Tamara exclaimed. “That’s almost—like disfiguring yourself.

“That’s like the pot calling the kettle back, Tam,” Sandy smirked. I had to laugh myself. We could paint Linda green and she’d look like the She Hulk, and I’d be getting a new appliance in a month because I was going back to get bigger implants, and I wanted to balance out. People disfiguring themselves? Not in this room.

Tamara nodded, then said, “But wouldn’t you get fat if it got that big? It’s not like you have any control over something like that.”

“I know. But I think I have it figured out.” Sandy went over to her bag—we’d all brought things to wear the next morning—and pulled out a book. “This will help.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“A book on witchcraft.”

None of us could help it; we stared laughing. Oh, sure, I thought. Witchcraft. I knew that would come into play one of these days . . . But I saw Sandy wasn’t laughing. She looked mad, actually. Or serious. It’s hard to tell with her.

“C’mon, guys! This shit is real!” She almost stamped her foot to show us she meant every word.

Linda held up her hand. “Please, Sandy. That shit doesn’t work at all. It’s just for gullible teenage girls looking for a love potion.”

“I don’t think so.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a large jar which was partially painted over. She opened it up and dumped out the contents. “Try telling me that’s bullshit.”

Lying on the floor was Ellen. A very small Ellen. She was naked and couldn’t have been more than six inches tall. She couldn’t move too well, since her legs appeared to have been broken, but she pulled herself along with her arms. There was this squeaking coming from her; I’m sure she was moaning. Or crying. Or both.

None of use could speak. This certainly wasn’t bullshit. No way. And then I remembered: I had read that Ellen had turned up missing about a week ago. People who knew her had been interviewed, and the opinion was that she’s skipped town because she’s gotten into some “trouble” arising from her club.

Oh, she’d gotten into some trouble, all right. And I didn’t look like there was any way out.

I was the first to speak. “You did that?”

Sandy nodded. “I wanted to see if the spell would work. The voice—“

“Voice?!” Tamara seemed like she was about to piss her panties. “What fuckin’ voice?”

“The one I heard.” Looks were getting passed around. I didn’t want to say anything, but I didn’t like the sound of that. “I followed instructions, and cast the Spell of Dollshape on Ellen.” She put her face next to the tiny woman. “Because you’re a fuckin’ bitch!”

“So, uh . . .” Tamara seemed to be at a loss for words, but at least she was speaking. I think everyone else was shocked beyond reasonable comprehension. “What are you going to do with her?”

I knew what was coming; it was almost as if I could read Sandy’s mind. “Sacrifice her,” she said. “So I can transform myself.” Then came the payoff. “Transform everyone.”

Now, if I had been thinking I’d have gotten up and left. If I had been thinking. What I had been doing was sitting around naked—with the exception of these black ballet boots with ten inch heels I’d just wriggled into; Linda Petula loves to see me in them—and smoking heroin and cocaine, something Petula and Tamara had introduced to me. After “Burning a Speedball” I didn’t feel like doing much of anything. I knew Tamara and Petula were stoned as well, but Tamara looked like she had enough on the ball to split if she wanted to. I think the three of us were a little nervous.

Now Linda . . . the word “transformation” perked up her ears right away. I could read her mind as well: “I can get that horse cock . . .” That’s all she was thinking about, getting a huge dick and set of balls that matched—and worked! She could give a shit if Sandy was hearing the voice of God, Satan, or Norman Bates’ mother from beyond the grave—if Sandy could shrink a woman, then she could give Linda a dick! Show that woman the penis!

Linda was the one who voiced the question for all of us. “What do we have to do? To get transformed, that is?”

“You have to agree,” Sandy said, her voice becoming low as if she were sharing a secret with us that no one else was to hear. “When everyone agrees, think about what you want to be. Then I kill this little cunt—“ she indicated Ellen, who lay on her back, panting—“and it happens.”

“What happens?” I asked.

“We transform. What else?”

It sounded too easy. Just Say Yes to Transformation, think about it, make the sacrifice, and viola! You are what you think. “What about doing the spell?”

There was a pause I didn’t like. “I’ve already done it,” Sandy told us.

“What?!” That came from all of us.

“I did it before we came over.” She looked at everyone with big puppy dog eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want this?”

I couldn’t tell her because . . . I didn’t know the truth. The real truth. Did I actually want a transformation? Yes, I did. But into what? In the last couple of years I’d thought of many changes to myself, and I couldn’t say for sure what would happened to me if I put my imagination to work. But I was also afraid. What if I couldn’t make up my mind? What would I become?

A freak?

Then it hit me. Fuck it. What do I care? I’d had a pair of huge fake tits affixed to my abdomen for the last year, and I’d been walking around with them on, even fucking people with them. Like I’m going to worry what I might become? What if I ended up with six big breasts and four arms, like the dream I had the other night? Well, so what? Sandy and Linda could keep working—or even Tamara and Petula, unless they conjoined—and keep my weird ass happy.

Now’s the time to put up or shut the fuck up.

“I agree.” I almost shouted it out. “Fuck it. Bring it on.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Linda didn’t need any convincing. “Yes. I agree. Let it happen.” She was panting from excitement and horniness.

Tamara and Petula were hesitating. I know Petula had her fantasies, but Tamara? To her it was just something you played at, not a way a life. Her eyes said it all: What’s going to happen to us after? She was afraid. And I couldn’t blame her. We lived with our fantasies. She was only a visitor.

“What happens if I don’t agree?” she finally asked Sandy.

For the first time I saw this look of uncertainty cross Sandy’s face. “I don’t know,” she replied in time. This shocked Tamara even more than getting a real answer. “I suppose . . . you wouldn’t transform. Into what you’d like to be? You do have something you’d like to be, don’t you?”

She lowered her head, as if almost ashamed to have to admit that she didn’t get into the same sort of role playing we did. I thought she was going to cry, but Petula put her arm around her and held her tight, saying, “It’s okay, honey, it’ll be already, just agree and I’ll always be here for you.” Tamara nodded her head, and Petula spoke for them both. “We agree.”

Sandy nodded as well. “And I agree, too.” With that she moved into high gear. She grabbed some salt and sprinkled a circle around all of us. Sure, magic circle, I’ve seen this before . . . Then she pulled out a knife. No, a cleaver. I knew what was coming next.

“Nothing personal, Ellen—“ With that she grabbed the little woman by the feet, held her struggling form still, and deftly whacked her in half.

And then the room went dark.

Tamara screamed. I think I was about to do the same. Especially when I heard this low, deep voice whisper loudly, “Have you met the conditions I have imposed?”

Sandy stood, looking off at nothing. “Yes.”

“Are you all in agreement?”

“Yes.”

“Then the bargain is fulfilled . . .” And then there was this green glow which surrounded Sandy— Followed by a mirthless chuckle. I didn’t like that . . .

Sandy began to morph. Her ass began to swell. It was growing firm, round, big . . . bigger. And bigger. In about ten seconds she went from big butt to bubble butt to balloon butt—and it didn’t look like she was stopping. Not only that, but her legs were getting thicker, as was her waist . . . she was putting on weight, but not fat. She was just getting big.

When her ass stuck out about a foot from her body she started looking panicked for the first time. “Wait! This isn’t what I dreamed off!” Her upper body and arms were starting to get fleshy. Her face got puffy and a second chin formed. Her belly was starting to roll.

There was that chuckle again as her ass continued to grow. “Stop! STOP!” It was then I noticed her voice was gaining in pitch. She was starting to sound as if she’d been sucking helium for the last hour. It was almost comical: here was Sandy looking like she weighed about 250 pounds, with an ass that was a good three feet across and still growing—

And then suddenly her tits began to grow. Sandy touched them to see if what she was feeling was real. She was screaming, “No, NO, NO!” in that voice that made her sound like a mouse, but that did no good. They just swelled up but never drooped. The struck straight to from her body in an impossible configuration seen only in the comic books. Even then they because so huge they literally covered every inch of her torso from her neck to her crotch.

Then the glow disappeared. Sandy stood there, her body puffed up in a fleshy way that didn’t make her look fat, just fucking big. Without the breasts and butt she looked like she might weigh close to 300 pounds. Her neck was thick. What I could see of her arms and legs made it look like they now big and round without being too soft. Her ankles and feet were normal sized, making her look grotesque; the fat woman with size 4 shoes.

Her breasts made it impossible for Sandy to put her arms out in front of her. Each one was at least three, maybe four feet across. Each nipple was a good six-eight inches long and as big around as my arm. And sticking straight to. You could impale yourself on them.

And her ass . . . Her butt was almost as big as her breasts, and the cleavage just as pronounced. Each cheek must have been a yard across, flowing up into her lower back and down into the back of her thighs, riding high and firm. There wasn’t a chair or toilet in the world could accommodate that ass. She started crying in a high-pitched whimper.

Then the glow attacked Linda.

She’d seen what had happened to Sandy—who could avoid it?—and stood there, prepared. I don’t think she minded what was going to happened to her, since Linda had dreamt of nothing but extreme for the last year. She already looked like a professional bodybuilder, and getting bigger in the right areas wouldn’t bother her at all.

Instantly she started growing; I mean she ripped right out of her clothes. Her muscles not only got bigger, so did her height. She must have shot up to about eight feet; it was hard to tell, Tamara and Petula’s place had a cathedral ceiling, but the girl looked like she could play basketball. She stood there laughing as her muscles started to expand. Not just grow—expand. She got that huge, cut look you see drawn on fantasy characters—but even more so. She was ripped everywhere. Her chest puffed out, her arms were so massive she couldn’t put them at her side anymore. Her legs looked like tree trunks.

Then her knees started to shift backwards.

She went from having human-looking legs to those you would find on an animal. They were still muscular, but oddly—equine? Then I heard her scream for the first time. Horns were popping out of her forehead. Not equine, honey. Those horns got thicker and longer. At the same time Linda’s nose grew wider and flatter. Definitely a bovine look. For some reason I didn’t seem shocked. Or even worried.

“No! What the fuck is this . . .?” She was starting to panic. And why wouldn’t she. A tail was popping out of her back just above her ass. I saw that her feet were pulling together, taking on a black sheen. Hooves. I watched her hands but they remained human. So did her face with the exception of her horns and nose. She’s gonna look like a minator when this is over, I thought as her skin took on a dark color, the human half a deep tan, the lower half close-cut fur. Only one thing left . . .

Her clitoris grew. It took on the appearance of a small cock, but it didn’t stay small for long. Testicles were appearing just below her now quivering vagina. She was going to remain a hermaphrodite, that much was certain. Her balls blew up to the size of ripe watermelons hanging to her knees. Her cock . . . it shot out from her body. In the blink of an eye it became nearly five feet long and more than a foot across, rippling with muscle and veins. Linda’s testicles shifted downward and back as her vagina expanded; it now looked to be large enough to take in all but the cock Linda now possessed. It glistened, her cum falling slowing in large droplets to the floor.

She tried to reach her cock, but discovered that being muscle bound can have it’s drawbacks. She didn’t seem to have much flexibility. Try as she might she couldn’t get her hands around her enormous shaft. “Jack me off!” she yelled, her voice now booming. “Someone fuckin’ jack me off!”

The glow disappeared. I knew—just knew—I would be next.

I was right. The glow surrounded me—and then flowed over to Tamara and Petula. Rather than fear I felt calm. I knew this would not turn out the way we had wanted—it was all too convenient—but I had agreed. And now it was time to pay for the dance.

I floated off my ass and hung in mid air. Tamara—now screaming—and Petula floated over to me. I reached out to the girls as they separated and moved to either side of me. Big mistake. When my hands touched theirs, if suddenly felt as if someone had handed me a toaster while I was standing in the bathtub. The pain was incredible—but not as incredible as watching my hands merge with theirs and then our arms flow together, contracting . . . I knew we were conjoining; it had been Petula’s desire. She had wanted to conjoin with Tamara, and I had thought about conjoining with either of them. Now I would get both.

Our arms shrunk down until our shoulders met. They, along with our torsos, hips, and legs began to merge into one body mass. If I thought the pain from our arms merger was bad, I didn’t know what bad was. It was white hot pain we all felt. Screaming wasn’t an option, it was a necessity. It presumably didn’t last long, but it felt like an eternity.

My ears were hearing things differently now. I could swear that our voices were becoming an amalgamation of all three our of voices, now mixed into one. I saw our reflection in the blackened marble across from us. Our heads were crowed atop a common set of shoulders: mine in the middle, Tamara’s to my left, Petula’s to my right. Our hair colors had changed as well; Tamara was now as bright blond, Petula’s raven-black. Mine had gone a fire engine red that was screamingly bright.

Instead of having two legs we now had three. I could see a vagina between each leg—not only see, but feel. I wanted to touch, but I couldn’t seem to control our right arm. Our left was twitching as well. I couldn’t remember if Tamara had been left handed or not. I could feel our right leg wanting to move, but the left and middle didn’t seem to know what to do.

The changes were over. Not yet.

Our breasts swelled. Moving to the left and right, a third breast formed right below my chin. Our reflection shows that the same thing was happening to the second set. Apparently they weren’t fake any more—something I could feel as the nipples snapped erect.

Arms started growing out of our torso, the pain feeling like a million tiny cuts. I was also feeling something strange in my ass, but I couldn’t twist around to see what was going on back there. Then our back was being stretched. I soon found out why. On our “extended” waist more breasts were growing. They were the same size as the six we already had—and the same number. The nipples started to separate into a trio arrangement around where the original nipple has rested. The ring in my nipples also split; each of our “tri-nipples” would be pierced.

It appeared we were going to have six arms on each side; I put my mind to it, and two of the right arms came around and begin feeling our new breasts. The second I touched the nipples we felt a moan escape our lips. Such an erotic feeling . . . Three of our left hands began moving across our breasts, and one was playing with our left clit.

Then I realized—shouldn’t we be falling over? With twelve G cups hanging off one’s body we should have been front heavy like hell. But we weren’t. I tried moving our body around and noticed for the first time our leg. There had been a burning sensation there, and now I knew why: the ballet boots I’d been wearing had fused to our legs. We would forever be walking on our tiptoes, balanced on ten inch heels, our legs incased in black leather nearly to our crotches. Our toes ached as I finally managed to swing us around— And saw that our body was growing outward.

It looked like our ass had extended backwards, creating a “horizontal torso” of sorts. A human centaur, if you like. About four feet behind us was a second set of three boot-encased legs. The strangeness didn’t end there: on the extension were six more breasts, arranged in two rows of six—and six more arms. The were starting to fondle these extra breasts as I watched. I could see them, but I knew there were two more vaginas back there, nestled between the legs. But there wasn’t a set of asses . . . because there were more extensions beyond that.

That was Petula. She wanted me to be a centipede-like creature, and that’s what we were becoming. There were ten more segments behind the first, and as I watched more rapidly grew—one every ten seconds. Each had six breasts and arms, as well as the legs and vaginas. I could feel us getting very horny as we began using our arms to “feel out” all these new additions to our body. We were already masturbating our two front vaginas, and we could feel a half dozen more being brought to orgasm. We wondered if they would all cum at the same time.

The pain was still there, as was the glow. We felt our breasts swell; G cup wouldn’t be good enough for us. Our torso became very crowed—maybe we were a couple of sizes bigger, maybe bigger. J cup? We couldn’t tell without measuring. We were huge, though. And sensitive. All our nipples were at least a couple of inches long, erect without the slightest indication of droop.

Then a quick pain in our eyes: we all screamed at the same time. Our vision blurred for but a second. When I look at Petula I saw the reason for this: our eyes were multiplying. There were now two more on our foreheads above the originals, and two more just to the outside of each orbit. In the hollows of each cheek an eye was forming as well. Spider like eyes, Petula had once suggested, and that’s what was happening. Our vision improved. While our faces seemed disfigured, I didn’t sense it. I saw something else— Beauty. The beauty of fulfillment.

The pain stopped as did the glow. We started to move our huge backside around. I knew we would have fifty sets of legs in all, so I didn’t need to count. There was no tail at the back of our body, just three legs hiding the two vaginas there. But where there should be three sets of butt cheeks, there was instead one very large vagina and clitoris surrounded by a firm, large, meaty ass. We could see we were already wet and willing. We reached out to touch the enormous clitoris, but never made it. Our ass was grasped by the strong hands of Linda, who’s cock was only inches from our faces. “Please, guide me in,” she begged.

We knew ours was the only cunt big enough for her. We guided her inside and damn near passed out—not from pain this time, but pleasure. Having five feet of hot cock inside your body . . . goddamn! We knelt and began to lick Linda with tongues which now seemed three feet long. Tamara and Petula each caressed one of Linda’s balls, while I concentrated on her pussy, lapping up the juice which ran forth as if from a leaky faucet.

It was heaven for us. So much so we didn’t even know what that voice was telling Sandy— Or care.

Sandy didn’t know, but her book would put her in league with demons. Demons usually fuck with you. They did with us; they transformed us into shapes which could never go out in public without being rounded up for study.

Which means there’s only one place for you to go. Hell looks a lot like Dante envisioned it; hot, dirty, bad. Lots of screaming and whipping and torture and shit like that. I couldn’t tell you what circle we’re in, but . . . well, we seem to get a lot of sex.

Most of the people around us have been transformed in one fashion or another. Some wonderful, others horrible. We—Tamara, Petula, and I—are pretty much in the middle of the graph; not too bad, but not normal either.

On one hand, we are fucked constantly by Linda, who has to use us for sexual relief. Her curse is that she can’t touch her own cock, and there is continual pressure in her balls. Everyone else’s pussy is far too small to accommodate her, and anyone touching her cock—except us—is burned. Therefore, our pussy much relieve her. At least once an hour. Nothing wrong with that.

On the other hand, a few demon’s with cocks bigger than Linda’s also fuck us, and it’s not enjoyable getting that molten cum rocketing through your insides. And no matter how much we play with our pussies, we never seem to satisfy our self. Even Linda fucking us doesn’t do it. Which means we have to put our entire body to use in an effort to stem the horniness we constantly feel. And with a hundred cunts to fill, that’s a lot of use. We spend our entire existence being fucked, being filled with cum, walking about in constant pain due to our deformed feet— Not that we mind.

You see, we are what we want to be. We are what we desired. Although we became the very image of what “freak” means, we don’t mind. I knew this would happen when I agreed to the transformation. It’s like they say, be careful what you wish for. It might come true.

Sandy didn’t show the correct respect to the demon she summoned, and is therefore the object of its scorn. And as punishment she’s been tied to Ellen, who is also here. She was shaped into a giant naga, a snake-woman almost one hundred feet long. Ellen can’t move very well, but she does move—slowly. She is just as frustrated as we are, but at least we get relief now and then. Her only relief is Sandy, who’s ass and tits will grow bigger each hour if she doesn’t suck the fluids from Ellen’s vagina, which reforms over her body constantly. She is frightful looking; her ass and breast have grown beyond comprehensible size, and it’s all she can do to drag herself around. She must eat Ellen’s pussy, then return to piss in Ellen’s mouth, which somehow allows her to cum.

The big drawback is that Ellen’s pussy seeps battery acid. . . and Sandy pisses steaming puss. Compared to them, we don’t mind being fucked all the time. After all, better to serve in Hell than to rein in Heaven, no?

The End