Lips

A quick story about lip transformation. As in, getting turned into a giant pair of lips. Sorry about that! Explicit.

It's just a tube of lipstick: deep red, almost purple, with a satin glow and a glossy shine. You don't remember buying it, and you probably would—the tube is flashy and golden. Maybe one of your friends left it there, and in any case, what could the harm be? It's just a tube of lipstick.

You lean toward the mirror and roll it across your lips, starting in the middle of your upper lip and moving in a smooth motion all around and back to where you started. You press your lips together, give them a light pop, and then grab a tissue to tidy up the edges. Wait a second. Were you going out? Do you even wear lipstick? You know you wouldn't just put on some lipstick you found in your bathroom. There must have been some reason, even if you can't remember right now.

At least it makes your lips look great. The warm sheen catches your eye and draws you in toward the center of your lips. You pout them, mime a kiss into the mirror. You're looking right at them when they begin to swell.

Your lips press outward in one soft, smooth swell. The feeling of stretching skin is warm and tender, but it doesn't ache; it's more like the feel of warm milk on your tongue. You gasp. Your lips part and curl in the mirror before you. They're adorable, plump and soft and delicate. You raise a finger to your lips to poke them, and you can feel the gentle pressure pushing back before your finger winds up between your lips. Oops. Your thighs squirm and your tongue starts tracing rings around the tip of your finger. Thirty seconds later, you pull your finger free, and you're left panting and wide-eyed.

Grabbing another tissue, you resolutely wipe your finger clean. Your eyes dart down to your lips in the mirror. Your makeup was smudged, rubbed off a bit in the middle. You've got to reapply it. Your eyes glaze over for a moment. You've got to reapply it.

When did the lipstick wind up in your hands again? Oh, right, you were going to put on a second coat. You need to match the rest of your makeup. Were you wearing makeup before? Well, you are now, so you must have put it on. Your long lashes bat as you pout and press the lipstick to your lips, moving it slowly in a circle, savoring the slick feeling. You're leaning even closer to the mirror now, barely a foot away from your reflection. Your lips start to grow again, and it feels wonderful.

The edges of your lips curl back; it feels like they're swelling from the inside out, pushing out rounder and plumper from within your mouth. You try to purse them, and you can feel them squashing together, too thick and perky to squeeze between your teeth. They slip back out with a wet pop and gleam in the light. The top of your upper lip is coming closer to your nose, while the bottom of your lower lip is halfway to your chin.

Without thinking too much about it, you squeeze your finger sideways between your lips, making them stick out like plush pillows. You suck on your knuckle lightly. When you pull your finger away, your lips keep a small gap between them, unable to quite close all the way.

You'd be shoving your fingers into your mouth if you hadn't already taken hold of the lipstick again. Your eyes look strange—are they red, or is that just your eye shadow playing tricks on you? For a moment, you think you should lighten up on the makeup, before you press the lipstick to your lips again.

It's hard to hold back that moan, but it feels good. You make it last, drawing out the pressure rolling across your tender lips. When you're done, you give a light smack, then curl them into a nice O.

They start to grow again. Plumper, rounder, more protruding, more taut. The glossy finish leaves them with a smooth shine from the lights. They're pushing out from your face; you can feel their growing depth. When you tilt your head, you feel their weight shift slightly. They have their own subtle bounce as you move around. At the corners, they squeeze against each other, fighting for space, bulging outward from your face unmistakably. You lift a finger---since when do you have painted nails? Oh well, not important. Lips are important. You run your finger across them, top then bottom, repeating in slow circles. Your eyelids begin to droop. You wipe your finger off on a tissue, but seeing that little smudge of deep satin red makes you want more.

You've picked up the lipstick again. You part your lips as much as you can, opening your mouth and rolling the lipstick around, spiraling outward from the center of your lips, across their smooth, bulging shape, to their outer edge. They look far too smooth to be natural, but that's the point, isn't it? More than natural. More eye-catching, more pouty, more glossy, more lips.

Now as they grow, they start to inch past the edges of your face. They're thicker across than your cheeks are wide, squeezed up against your nose, hanging down past your chin. Dizzily, you try to say something, but it gets lost beneath your lips, which move, but only so far. You reach up and grasp your lips—you can actually hold them with your hands, squeeze them, try to press them back against your face. It doesn't work, but you can try. They're so heavy and tender and warm, and the thick coats of lipstick makes them slick beneath your fingers.

Your hand slips right between your lips and your tongue goes to work. Your skin tastes salty, with a faint oily sweetness from the lipstick itself. Your eyes roll back, your body bucks against the bathroom counter, and you start compulsively sucking on your own hand, because it just feels so good. Your lips squeeze so tight around it. Your knees start to go weak.

With a force of will, you pop your hand free from your lips. Drool drips down onto the counter. Already, your other hand has the tube of lipstick, and it's rolling it on, moving in concentric spirals, working to cover the entire area of your swollen lips. It takes so long to do you can feel it starting to grow before you're even done---the warm, heavy mass surging out, your skin pulled impossibly taut, your tongue lapping eagerly at the corners of your mouth.

Your lips get bigger and bigger, starting to block your view of the mirror, inching closer to your chest, bloated up into an almost perfectly rounded profile. Your lower lip is one thick, plump curl, while your upper lip still has its rolling contour, like a low M. It's bulging so much that the gap between your lips is actually narrowing. You tug at your lips, which now completely dominate the front of your face, and try to ignore the jolts of delight you get from squeezing those pumped-tight balloons.

This feels wrong, you shouldn't be like this. But you love lips, don't you? You love lips. Big lips love to suck. You love to suck. Your vision swims before you and you drag your hand back through your hair, trying to keep your head from spinning. Your cheeks are flushed and you're sweating.

But your hand finds its way between your lips again, and you start to bob your over-sized, over-pumped lips down over your wrist. Your tongue can feel something between your fingers, but you don't have time to think what it might be before it rolls down your throat and you swallow.

You swallowed the lipstick.

The swelling starts and it doesn't stop. Your lips are growing steadily wider, still keeping their rough proportions despite being tall enough to obscure your entire head. In fact, you're squeezed up so tight against the back of your lips that you start to sink right in---the growing, swelling, deep-red glossy satin sheen begins to take you in. You realize it's happening and try to lean back, to pull your face away from your lips, but it's just smooth flesh, straight from the back of your head up around the swell of your lips.

They're big enough to reach your waist now. They're so tender, so thick and swollen, that you'd have to use your whole arm to reach around just one of your lips. They're wider than your armspan now, and they're dominating your senses more and more, giving you dizzy urges to squeeze something between them, to wrap them around something and let your tongue go to work. That's the only other part of you that's keeping pace with your lips. Every so often as you squirm, you can feel it parting your lips to roll hungrily between them.

You reach out and try to grab the back of your lips, to try to restrain them in any way possible, but your arms just sink into that smooth flesh, from your fingers up to your shoulders. A few hazy groans slip between the huge glossy pillows that are your lips. You're just a pair of lips on legs at this point, and as more of your torso sinks beneath that great swelling bulge, your thoughts are getting loose.

Big lips. You are big lips. You are lips.

Even with your judgment slipping, even with no way to see, you manage to stumble out of the bathroom and squeeze your giant, swollen lips through the door. They don't stop growing. Four and a half, then five feet tall, and ten from side to side, just huge and heavy and so tender. Your legs give way and you fall to your knees. Your lips bounce with a pendulous jiggle as they hit the floor. You keep struggling, keep trying to get up, even as your hips and legs sink down into the mass of your lips.

More and more, they're less your lips and more you. There isn't any other part of you, just your lips. The last bits of your legs are subsumed into your swollen, pouty mass, and already you're struggling to remember if you used to be more than just lips. It's hard to wrap your mind around, but then you don't have much of a mind now, anyway. You're just a five-foot-tall pair of lips. (And ten feet wide, and about three or four feet thick.)

Your tongue rolls across your deep-red lipstick, wetting it so it glistens even more in the light. While you can't hear or see, you can feel the air rush as the apartment door slams shut, the footsteps stomping down the hall, and the vibrations as your roommate lets out a cry of shock.

You just know there's something long and rounded standing near you. You move as fast as you can, lunging forward, curling open your overstuffed pout and squeezing shut around the intrusion. Your tongue slides across them hungrily, feeling the contours of their face and shoulders with its sensitive tip. They squirm and wriggle. It feels so good.

You start pushing and pulling with your tongue, pumping them bodily in and out between your lips, from their shoulders down to their waist. Their struggling becomes more sluggish and confused. You can feel them swelling up, parting your lips a little more with each pump. Your tongue teases their mouth and they cough out something slick and salty that just makes you more excited.

Soon, they're not so much struggling as they are shuddering at even intervals, each time you suck them down as far as you'll go. The shape between your lips feels more familiar too, more natural the more you work your tongue along their body. It spurs you on, encouraging you to suck them deeper, wrap your tongue around them, and feel them swell thicker and longer.

If you could think, you'd wonder how exactly you're deepthroating them without a throat, but since you don't really think any more, you're just happy to do it. They stretch your lips rounder and tauter and keep throbbing, quicker and harder the more you suck them down. Soon they're plunging in and out of you, pulling you taut around their girth. Your tongue can't feel a face any more, but it can feel a thick head and a bulging underside. You keep going, working them like a machine until they go stiff, start pulsing vigorously, and start to spill more slick salty fluid down your tongue. You lap it up greedily, then slowly let them slide free from between your lips.

Your sense of time is hazy, but you have more fun with them a number of times, all in the same way—they seem to want to be sucked as much as you want to suck on them. Luckily for you, just as you're starting to get a craving for something else, maybe kissing something, or eating something out, you feel the slam of the door as one of your friends comes in to check on you.