Her Taste for Transformation Pt. 02

Breath... Come on... It can't be that bad, everything's fine, everything's going to be fine...

That was what I had to tell myself, yes, even though I did not believe it, not as the tips of my fingers, where my nails had dropped away, thickened up, pulsing and flaring out. They bulged even as a strangled cry broke my lips, red hot humiliation at being "caught" so unnerved pulling at the pit of my stomach.

There was no one there to see me, was there? And, still, I felt humiliated, burning up from the inside out. There had never been any weakness shown in my family and yet I knew that that was not the "done thing" even as I panted and heaved and tried with all my might to move my hands as I once had, even to pick up the radio that I had been playing with, trying to get to work.

"Come on..."

But my fingers didn't work as I fumbled and dropped it straight back on the desk. A sob broke in my throat, which was too tight already with emotion, pushing at the desk, my tools, knocking the paint palette off.

All my little projects... Nothing!

I wanted to paint for relaxation, I wanted to fix things... I wanted to do so many things with my hands and then...the chance was gone. It was as if it had never been, my fingers thick and difficult to move, as if the bend in the joints had gone.

I tried to push back from my desk, the chair scuffing over the carpet that, really, was a bit too thick to comfortably put a chair like that on with hard legs that damaged it a little more every day. But the lack of flexibility in my hands didn't get me anywhere, merely rocking in place as I stared in horror at my hands.

They didn't respond to me and I couldn't even feel them properly anymore, as if they were merely something at the end of my arms and wrists, but not something familiar to me.

"Oh my god... Oh my god!"

I had to go to the hospital -- but how was I going to even call an ambulance if the use of my hands was denied to me? I could call and they could trace it, maybe, if I could manage to put any numbers into it. Didn't phones have an emergency voice call system these days too?

I had to go, had to do something, even as my hands bulged, something swelling from the heel of my hand, fat and bulbous. Pausing, half off the chair, I heaved and panted, chest rolling with every breath. Even my pyjama top, over the top of my night bra, felt too tight around my chest, but I couldn't spare the time to focus on that as my hands ached and something entirely foreign pushed from the palms.

And then I didn't want to call an ambulance at all, for what was happening to me was so much more horrifying than I could ever have expected that it sent a lurch into my stomach, turning over, leaping and churning. My palms swelled and swelled, but I could see what was coming there as what I could only describe as a pair of balls spilt from my palm.

"No... You can't..."

My stomach clenched, muscles that I didn't usually have to think about tightening, though it was all in a way that I liked, that I wanted to feel more of, despite the horror snarling in the back of my mind. It didn't blend, but it did come together, a big, grey pair of balls swelling fully from my palms, fat and heavy and still growing.

Oh... Oh, it was like...

But, no. I couldn't let my mind go there, not as the weight of the balls, a pair on each hand, yanked my hands forward. It hurt! It was not comfortable, not like in my fantasies, though I didn't even know, truly, if that was what was happening right then. I could only assume, the pressure pushing out and bearing through as my chest expanded too.

For I had not imagined that either, the swelling growth of my breasts, a pained groan breaking my lips. There was too much there, too much going on, everything colliding in a moment where I couldn't take it in. I could feel, even then, the ache in my wrists from the fresh weight on my hands, too much weight on the end of a limb that, for a human body, was never meant to support it.

And my fingers... Seeing the balls made the shape that my fingers were becoming easier to imagine, though I reeled in horror, holding my hands out as far away from me as I possibly could. I tried to wiggle them, but I lose more and more of the mobility in them, even the shape of my palm growing such that it just looked like an extension of the balls, fat and throbbing, trembling every time my hands so much as made the smallest of movements.

"This can't be happening, this can't be real... Oh, no, no, no, no, no!"

The words were real and the more I talked aloud the more I clung to that as my sense of reality. My fingers shaped themselves with fatter tips that bulged out to the sides, the testicles pushing out too through the back of my hands. I didn't want to rub my hands together, didn't want them to touch anything at all, though I wasn't able to hold them up any longer and they had to thump, awkwardly, down to the desk.

"Unff..."

That hurt, sending a tremor through me, though I could not shake the sickening sense of being watched. But there was too much to take up my attention even then, my fingers no longer responding to my direction. I'd never had to think about how to wiggle my fingers, but that made me try again, breathing coming in shorter and sharper pants, the cocks that were my fingers bulging and swelling.

There was a flare at the tip, just like the horse dicks that I fantasised about, a medial ring pulling into place, somewhere in the middle. Yet every wiggling movement they made, entirely of their own will and weight, rubbed them against one another and the desk.

"Ohhhh..."

I had not been expecting a moan, but I had not anticipated my fingers changing into cocks and my palms into balls either. The balls wobbled back and forth, thick and heavy, large enough to supposedly feed every cock that my fingers had become.

Fear tangled with arousal. I had to be dreaming, I had to...but I didn't want to think like that. I didn't want to think, not even then, that I was going to be stuck with my hands like that, the bugling cock flesh of my fingers useless to me for anything. I couldn't paint, I couldn't delve deeper into the workings of electrical items, I couldn't tackle what had been my passion in life.

It took a moment like that for me to realise what it was that I had wanted to do. No wonder I had never stayed in those little passing jobs, things to occupy my interest. Sure, I seemed to be good at marketing -- but I didn't need to be! I could work on mechanics, engineering, technical...stuff! And yet not if my hands had transformed, all against my will, into nothing less than horse cocks and balls.

I groaned, trying to lift them from the desk, my heart pounding. There was a loss there, but the arousal, oh... Oh, it was not as if I could set aside everything that I had dreamed about, everything that I had fantasised about for so long. I tried to open the drawer of my desk, where my camera was, but the heads of those cocks were already glistening, shockingly so, with pre-cum, drooling and dripping.

"Oh... Yes... Ohhhh..."

I couldn't hold back my moans, even though I knew that they did not belong there, not on my lips, not that time. The arousal was something to struggle with, heaving and grunting and panting, no longer even sounding like myself. Yet how could I sound like myself when I didn't even look like myself? I couldn't go out in public with cock fingers and balls on my hands! I didn't even have hands!

The chair creaked under me as I fumbled at the desk drawer, but I couldn't get into it, tears in my eyes, dampening tracks down my face. My lips twisted, grinding my teeth, clenching my jaw, but even trying to get into the drawer got me nowhere.

Pleasure blossomed and I moaned all over again as I smeared pre-cum over the drawer handles, the notches in the smooth, polished wood that should have been so familiar to my fingers. I whimpered, hating the sound as much as I loved it, heat rippling through me. How was it even possible to feel so aroused and so horrified at the same time?

My fingers grew still, the cocks that flopped down against the edge of the table as I gave up and laid them back down there. The skin stretched, an odd sensation of pulling, though I grimaced and bore through it. At least the drumming of my heart in my ears, pounding a rhythm, gave me something normal to focus on, though that did not help as much as I wanted it to.

My cock fingers throbbed, drooling and pulsing -- and it was then that I was treated to my first orgasm as they swelled to several times the thickness of my fingers, so big there that it was comical to think that they had once been fingers. They seemed too big, altogether, for the balls that fed them, though I did not yet know that that would change too. I moaned and let my head fall back, no longer feeling in control, wavering on that edge, all as seven of my cock fingers drooled and spurted in orgasm at once.

It was not comfortable, but there was a kind of pleasure there, an ache that throbbed through, though I'd never felt that kind of throbbing before. I wanted more of it as much as I wanted to pull away from it, the pleasure too intense, snarling, snapping, demanding that I pay it the attention that it deserved.

But it did not deserve it, not at all. I wasn't a fetish...thing! I didn't want that! I didn't want that at all, not as I heaved and grunted, tipping forward over the desk, my shoulders rounding. Oh, the bra was bad, even as my mind was tugged from one thing to the other, finally pinging free with a sharp snap against my back. I arched, jolting with the pain, but that only made me smear my fingers across the desk, my other three cock fingers pulsing in orgasm, rippling drives of need swelling through.

The desire was not to be ignored, as much as fear tried to control me. And I didn't know what, even then, I wanted to be controlled by. I wanted to control myself, of course, though that did not seem to be possible anymore. Ropes of cum, sticky, creamy ejaculate, splattered across the desk, my radio, my broken palette, but none of that was going to matter anymore to me. Even if I did not know it at that time.

That did not change how I felt, horror aching through, arousal pulsating, the prickling tingle of skin stretching further over the thick flares at the heads of my cock fingers making me think more. But the bra dropping away brought attention to my swelling chest too, how the weight of my breasts became harder and harder for my back to bear. Without the cupping support of the night bra, as comfortable a one as I could find for my sleeping preferences, the pyjama top, which I had thought was loose before, was the only thing that could keep my breasts in check.

And it did not do that for long, not as I moaned and whined and slumped sideways, shoulders weaker than they had been before. My arms were simply not ready to contain such a weight and it affected parts of my body that I had not thought about before, how the muscles interacted. If everything had not been happening at such a pace, my eyes desperately locking onto my phone, wondering if I should try to call the ambulance still, I might have had more consideration for the biomechanics of the body.

Not then. Not as my hands throbbed and spent another load, though I did not track, not that time, how many cocks spent their seed, marking the desk, so fat, so unwieldy. My body was all I could focus on, something else sinking into me, something dark, something that struck a deeply rooted sense of unease into my stomach, as if my whole digestive tract was churning and aching.

Continued in part three of four...