A parasite slowly turns a young man into a woman and drives him to have sex. Explicit, rough language, mild body horror.

The grinding headache was the first symptom. Tom woke up feeling like two wrecking balls were smashing together in his head, and his limbs were so heavy they might as well have been tied down. Last night, there had been the party; the girl with the most amazing smile, who was so warm against him; sneaking off while snickering like drunk idiots; and then a big blank nothing.

Tom swung a hand onto his face and rubbed his cheeks: flushed, hot. He needed to shower. With legs made of lead, he crawled off his bed and forced himself to his feet. Vertigo spun around his head a few times. One hand on the wall to steady himself, blinking, scratching at the crust around his eyes, he pushed himself into the bathroom. The hot water creaked on and began to flood the bathroom with steam, while Tom, with his feet now firmly underneath him, peeled off his shirt and tossed it into the hamper.

The second symptom was the rash. It looked almost like webbing, like the outline of pink veins beneath his skin, tracing upward along his torso, blossoming across his chest, and fading as they stretched along his arms.

For a few moments, Tom's stomach churned, but then that passed and he was left staring down at his own chest with the crawling rash wrapped around it. That didn't look good. He'd have to look it up, WebMD or something. Right now, he felt like he was made of cheap frat beer and dried sweat, and he just wanted to dunk himself in the hot water and wake up his pounding brain.

With the water splashing through his dark hair and pouring down his shoulders and back, Tom felt better. He nudged the water a little hotter, then tipped his head back and let some of it fall into his mouth. He reached for the knob again; a little hotter still. He lowered his head. The water soaked his hair and ran down over his face, dripping from his nose and rolling from his chin to his chest. The knob wouldn't go any further. The air was thick with steam, and nearly as warm and wet as the water itself. Panting, Tom leaned against the shower wall.

His mind was on that girl again. He wished he'd remembered her name, but the whole party had was distant and muffled in his head. She'd looked so hot though; hot in a way he couldn't put into words because it didn't seem to touch his rational mind. His body had been horny for her body. Just remembering how she made him feel was getting him hard again.

His hand closed in a fist around his erection and he started to pull. The hot water beat sideways across his body, while the billowing steam fogged up his head. There was just him and the water rolling down his body and his fist sliding back and forth and the vague memory of the girl down on her knees. Or was it all fours?

Groans slipped from his hanging mouth. He stared at the shower curtain, which had become a screen to project his fantasies onto. The girl kneeling in front of him, her face buried in his crotch. The two of them hunched over together, her back squeezed tight against his chest. Stretching out on a strange bed, while one of his friends fucked his pussy. Crouching down, one hand between his legs, fingering his slit while he sucked some guy off.

Tom's eyes snapped open and he lifted his head. His shaft throbbed in his hand. His muscles tightened; his jaw clenched. His hips pumped, but for as intense and explosive as his orgasm felt, it seemed like nothing came out. Instead of cum, a slick, clear fluid drooled heavily from the tip of his cock, rolling down over his fingers and dripping from his knuckles. His hips bucked. A new wave of fluid rolled out of him. And then another, and another, until the cramps struck again and he crumpled to the floor of the bathtub.

After minutes of lying there barely-conscious, Tom managed to crank off the water and crawl out of the tub. His gut still ached. It pulsed in time with the throbbing in his temples. He rose to his feet, and had just enough presence of mind to stumble over to the toilet before his stomach turned.

That, at least, quelled his symptoms for the time being. Shivering, he wrapped himself in his towel and sat on top of the toilet, trying to think clearly enough to make sense of the situation.

He was sick. That much was clear. Maybe the flu? He didn't know if the flu gave you rashes. Though it had faded in the shower, he could still pick out the brachial pink splayed across his torso. Then there was the headache, and the nausea...

But what about not being able to cum right? And the fantasies he'd had just before that, where he'd been a girl—was that just delirium from being so sick?

Slowly and clumsily, Tom finished drying himself off and brushed his teeth to try to rid his mouth of the taste of vomit and forced himself into a tank top and some underwear. His stomach groaned, though thankfully it didn't come with sharp, digging cramps or nausea. He was just hungry.

After tossing on a pair of shorts and some flip-flops, since he didn't feel capable of tying shoes at the moment, Tom left his apartment and made his way to the nearby convenience store, just a few blocks down the road. The sunlight made his eyes throb and his tank top felt uncomfortably thick and warm against his skin. Stepping into the air-conditioned store brought him relief, but not much.

Tom didn't have the willpower to do anything but follow his cravings, so he stuffed two bags of potato chips and one tub of ice cream into the basket, then crouched down in front of the medicine racks and grabbed one pack of Tylenol and one of Pepto-Bismol. He'd stuff his face with whatever it took for him to feel better.

Everything was normal, more or less, until he went up to the cash register. The cashier was a guy, and he was cute. That's what his body told him as he glanced up at him. That's what it kept telling him, as Tom set his stuff on the counter and tried not to stare at him. As his erection began to rise, he shuffled closer to counter, and kept his eyes resolutely pointed down at the racks of candy.

"Did you find everything okay?" the cashier asked, above the scanner's beeping.

"Y-yeah, it was great!" Tom said. His voice cracked excitedly. He swallowed and looked instead at the card reader. The cashier's amused snort made him shiver a little. He wanted to say something else to make him laugh again, but instead he dug his teeth into his lips and shoved his card into the reader.

Ask him to fuck you.

Tom's fingers slipped on the keypad. "Oops," he muttered, jamming the back button to start again.

Tell him you need his cock in your pussy. 'Error: Invalid Credentials.' Tom pressed his thighs together and giggled nervously. "Fuck. Sorry."

Get behind that counter and get down on your knees.

His fingers were sweaty. His thumb slid off the 'accept' button once before he managed to mash it right.

Fuck him. Fuck him fuck him fuck him right now do it.

Tom shoved his card back into his pocket and grabbed the bags. He gasped out something like, "Thank you so much," as he shoved himself out the door. He practically jogged back to his apartment, ignoring the pounding in his head, and as soon as the door slammed shut behind him, his hand shot down into his shorts.

He imagined crouching behind the counter, feeling the cute cashier's cock bump the back of his throat; getting spread over the counter and pinned down; even taken into the freezer in the back, where his breath fogged up in front of him, and his bare skin was shoved up against the crates of frozen stock. His conscious mind had no say in the images popping into his head. They came blazing right up from the depths of his unconscious, too powerful and too vivid to filter out.

With a weak groan, he came again. The slick fluid that wasn't cum soaked his fingers and rolled down onto his shorts. After he'd staggered to the bathroom and peeled them off to toss into his clothes hamper, Tom stood bottomless in front of the sink, rubbing his fingers together slowly. The fluid was slick and hot, and less viscous than semen, almost like precum.

After washing his hand and toweling off his thighs, Tom slipped on a new pair of underwear and sunk onto his couch with a bag of chips and a cereal bowl piled high with scoops of ice cream. He was exhausted, and confused, but most of all hungry. He put on some Youtube channel that didn't require much mental effort to watch, then sunk into the cushions and started to eat. He felt an occasional pang from deep within his gut, but he was having no trouble keeping the food down. To be honest, he had more trouble eating fast enough to satisfy his hunger. The chips and ice cream struck right at the heart of a basic, animal craving for carbohydrates and fats.

At some point, he'd fallen asleep, which he only realized after opening his eyes to find the evening light coming in low through the window. The playlist on his TV was paused on the last video. Propping himself on one arm, he sat up and rolled his neck. His skin felt itchy and tight, like he was trying to wear a shirt he'd outgrown months ago. He scratched at his cheek, his arm, his thigh—and then he stopped.

Trailing down the center of his forearm was a tear. On either side, a layer of pale, white skin had been pulled up, dry and thinner than parchment. It looked like he was peeling. Slipping his fingertips underneath one of the layers, he pulled. The tear widened, reaching up to his wrist. Across his palms and his fingertips, he felt a shifting tension, like tugging at the base of a lab glove to pull it tight across your fingers.

Then his whole hand slipped free from his old skin.

The sheer shock sent Tom scrambling back against the couch. It was like peeling off a glove he'd never known he was wearing, and then there it hung: a flapping, ghostly hand of dead skin, dangling from his forearm beneath his actual hand. His freshly-bared skin felt new and soft to the touch.

The unpleasant sense of tightness across his body was only getting worse. Tom began to squirm and wriggle on the couch. He tore off his tank top and arched his back, grinding his shoulders against the cushions, trying to scratch away the itch, but it didn't work. His shoulders split across his back; he felt the tension break and the fresh, delicate skin beneath catch its first breath of fresh air.

The feeling of having this extra hide on top of him was too much. He needed to get out, an urgent need that overrode all of his conscious objections. Gritting his teeth, he reached back, took hold of his peeling skin, and pulled.

His old skin cleaved smooth and wet from the new. It was like taking off a mask, albeit one that covered his entire body. It rolled off his chest and slid off his chin and popped free from his cheeks and his lips. Nowhere was the feeling as shudderingly strange as on his face, where it traced every contour as it lifted away and left his new, soft skin feeling impossibly delicate.

Soon he had to tug off his underwear too. Shedding the skin around his crotch was a tender, slow process, until it finally slipped free from his old skin and he could shuck his legs free like pulling off a pair of stockings.

Tom was left sitting on the couch, naked, next to his own shed skin piled beside him. Gingerly, he began to look himself over. His new flesh was still slightly pink from being pulled free; it was sensitive to the touch, and smooth. His fingertips grazed along the lighter, shorter hair of his arms. When he reached up for his face, he found a hairless chin and cheeks. His chest and torso, likewise, had only the lightest dusting of fuzz. Probing lower, he found himself shivering at the touch of his fingers on his smooth cock, and quickly pulled his hand back, so he wouldn't wind up making another mess of himself.

The other thing his investigations revealed was a fresh softness to his chest. His hands pressed at his breasts, squeezing, pushing, as if enough pressure might get them to sink back down into his slim frame. Even stranger, his belly had lost some of its firm muscle. It wasn't until he grabbed his underwear off the floor and wiggled back into it that he realized he was thicker across his hips as well. All that fat he'd been eating had to go somewhere.

Prodding his cheeks and his lips, Tom had the suspicion that his face didn't fit him the same as it had before, but the thought of going into the bathroom and looking at himself in the mirror was too anxiety-inducing to consider. He pulled his tank top back on, though it only hung against his chest and made him more aware of the new weight sitting there. As he stooped to gather up his shed skin and shove it into the trash where he didn't have to see it, his hair fell down in front of his eyes. On reflex, he tucked it back behind his ears, though he hadn't had hair long enough to do that since his skater phase back in high school. On the scale of weird things he was dealing with, though, 'long hair' rated pretty low.

Cleaned up and freshly medicated, Tom sat down on his bed with another large bowl of ice cream and set his gently-throbbing mind to research. As his browser tabs multiplied, the ice cream slowly disappeared, and by the time the bowl was empty and scooped clean, the internet had told him that he was suffering from a simultaneous flu and sunburn.

With a sigh, Tom flung himself back against his pillows and lay there, laptop beside him, staring up at the ceiling for a short while. His phone let out a chime from the other side of the bed. He pulled it over to find it was his friend Marcus, asking if he was okay, since he hadn't been in class. Opening his phone, he started typing out 'Coming down with something', when his eyes strayed over to Marcus's contact photo.

Cute, his body told him. Ask him to come over. Tom hit send as soon as possible and tossed the phone across his bed. It tumbled down onto his carpet somewhere. Tell him you want him to fuck you raw on your sofa. He was already hard. He grabbed his computer and dragged it over, but trying to read medical websites couldn't distract his mind enough from the growing heat inside him. Call him and tell him you'll suck his dick. If Tom couldn't calm himself down, at least he could redirect his attention. One hand was already going for his crotch; with the other, he opened up one of his porn bookmarks.

Tom sunk down into his bed. He stroked himself with one hand and browsed from picture to picture with the next. His body lit up like a bonfire: a couple sparks, and then it was blazing. His mind leaped from one fantasy to the next, like he could feel himself in each picture, getting fucked from behind or spreading his pussy or with his legs up around his partner's waist.

A sudden dissonant shiver struck him, crawling from behind his ears and running down his spine like ice water. The scenes that his mind was sticking himself into felt more real than his own body right in front of him. The hand around his cock was wrong and his cock was wrong and everything was wrong, like the feeling of falling and having nothing to catch him below.

All he could do to stem the plummeting feeling was to dig deeper into each picture before him, tapping mindlessly at the arrow keys, flooding his brain with one vivid fantasy after another, until with a startled gasp, he came. Slick fluid drizzled down his hand. His head thumped angrily. The pillows swallowed him up, and he drifted off to feverish sleep.

Tom woke up hungry. Breakfast was cereal, plus the rest of the bag of chips he'd started the day before. He felt his gut grinding a few times—not like hunger, or even like nausea, but more like someone shoving a skewer into his stomach and rearranging his intestines. Each time, he broke out into a cold sweat, and felt sympathetic spasms all the way up through his chest and along his backbone. He gulped down some more medicine, then worked up the courage to step back in front of the bathroom mirror.

His hair had continued to grow overnight, leaving him with messy, dark shoulder-length locks. Pushing them back, he tipped his face forward and felt a knot of anxiety squeeze in his chest. He still looked like himself, mostly. 'Mostly' bothered him more than if he looked like someone else entirely, because it meant it really was him in the mirror, with his bright eyes and plump lips and the embarrassed pink rising to the top of his cheeks. He could have passed for his own sister.

His body had changed over the course of the night too. What sat on top of his chest, pressing against the front of his tank top, was unmistakably a pair of breasts. He looked like a girl wearing her boyfriend's shirt. The blush on his cheeks deepened and he fought back a rising tide of horny thoughts. He needed to get help. But first, he needed to shower, because he looked like a mess and he smelled like sex.

He doused himself in hot water and started scrubbing himself clean, but he couldn't quell the heat rising up through his core and making his heart thump inside his chest.

You need to fuck.

His eyelids fluttered and he clutched the wall with one hand. The other sunk down to grasp his cock and started stroking. That shivering, falling feeling of wrongness hit him again, but it couldn't stop him.

You need to get fucked. You need to make men want you.

No he didn't, he thought back, but the words rising into his mind couldn't be argued with. There was no negotiating with raw instinct. His cock was throbbing at the thought of hungry eyes watching, staring, wanting him.

You need to make them want to fuck you.

A gasp squeaked out of Tom's throat and his slick ejaculate dripped onto the bathtub floor. The burning need scored itself deep into his animal mind, lurking below his thoughts as he climbed out and dried off and got dressed.

Why was he doing this? He was putting on his shoes, stepping out the door, walking down to the street. His phone was in his pocket. He could reach in and pull it out. Call 911, tell them he was sick. Hell, the hospital wasn't far; he could save himself an ambulance ride.

But he didn't get out his phone. He didn't turn and walk toward the hospital. Instead, he headed into town, driven by a need he couldn't even put into words. His self-consciousness kept his eyes down on the sidewalk, but every so often as he passed someone he could catch their head turning out of the corner of his eye. He worried that they were staring at him, that they knew what was wrong with him, even though as far as anyone could tell, he was just a normal college girl fresh from the shower.

Not an hour later, Tom was back in his bathroom, leaning over the sink with an eye pencil in his hand. The brush he'd used to brush out his hair still had its tag on; his hair itself had been tamed into long, straight locks that danced along the tops of his shoulders. He'd managed the lip gloss without too much trouble, but between his lack of skill and the way his hands trembled, he felt like he was making a mess of the eyeliner. From the back of his mind sprung an image of his eyeliner running down his cheeks while his mouth was wrapped around someone's cock. He had to pause, set both hands on the counter, and breathe slowly. He couldn't stop for long, though. It was like hunger; he had to keep going. Had to look good. Had to make men want to fuck him.

There was a knock at the door. Whispering, "Fuck!" under his breath, Tom dropped the eye pencil beside the sink. He debated what to do as he washed his hands. Who could be coming by? It couldn't be a delivery, those ended up in the mailroom. One of his friends, then? Maybe he could get them to help him. But then he'd have to explain all this...

Tom found himself in front of the door. He opened it. There was Marcus. Fuck. His heartbeat quickened and he stared at him, mouth slightly agape, a small cramp rolling across his stomach like eager squirming.

For a moment, Marcus looked shocked to see someone who wasn't his friend. "Oh! Hey, is Tom there?" he asked.

Hearing Marcus's voice in person wasn't doing Tom any favors. Tom could smell him. Not his deodorant or his breath; it didn't really have a scent, it was just like a little marker, a radar ping in his brain. Male. Fuck him. "Um..." Tom said, blinking a few times. His thoughts refused to work.

Marcus smirked a little and leaned against the door frame. "Are you like his sister or something?"

"No!" Tom blurted out. Bend over the kitchen counter and tell him to fuck you. He rubbed his cheek; he was blushing. "I mean, I'm, um...his cousin," he said.

Marcus nodded. "Oh, cool. I didn't think his cousin would be so cute," he said, with a little lift of his eyebrows.

Tom wanted to tell him that he was being way too blunt, but it was all he could do to fight the urges stomping through his head and keep himself under control. The stiffness of his cock felt almost dizzying. It wasn't supposed to be there, his body kept telling him, no matter how much he insisted otherwise.

Ask him if he wants to fuck.

Tom laughed and played his fingers through his hair while swinging his hips coyly. Shrugging, he said, "Oh, I don't know about that..." Was he flirting with Marcus? No. Stop it.

"So is he here?" Marcus asked again.

"No, he's—" Get down on your knees and pull open his pants. "—a-at the ER."

Marcus frowned. "That bad, huh? Well, let him know if he needs someone to take notes for him or whatever," he said, then stood straight and turned to the side, as if ready to leave.

No! Fuck him now!

Tom shoved himself on top of Marcus. The two of them bumped up against the door frame, Tom's arms thrown around Marcus's sides, his lips locked with his friend's. Marcus's eyes went wide, but then his hands settled against Tom's waist and he let Tom's tongue slip into his mouth.

Tom's eyes were shut. His body arched against Marcus, feeling the pressure of his own soft chest against Marcus's pecs, the warmth of his body just beneath his clothes, the faint pressure of his erection stirring between his legs.

Maybe that was what gave him the energy to pull away, or maybe it was that once the initial urge had overcome his body, there was a lull and his mind could exert itself again. Tom pulled back. He was panting. Marcus had a distant, transfixed look in his eyes, like he'd just been struck by an arrow. He was about to say something when Tom cut him off.

"Sorry. Have to go. Nice meeting you," he blurted out, then ducked back into his apartment and slammed the door shut.

From the hall he could hear Marcus saying, "Hey, wait!" and then, after a little while, his footsteps leading off toward the stairs. Tom leaned against the door, breathing heavily, his lips tingling. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the kiss.

The cramps hit him in earnest, like thick tendrils writhing around his gut. His knees buckled and he slid down along the door, until his ass hit the ground, his legs spread wide in front of him. Curling his back, he gripped at his stomach. He could feel something churning around inside there, sliding between his organs, winding around his gut like a taut leather belt.

Unbidden, out of nowhere, an orgasm hit him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth, feeling his body spasm, feeling the hot, slick fluid spilling out of him. It didn't stop. Not as he felt his balls pulled tight, as if on strings; not as his shaft retreated further and further into his body with every fresh throb of fluid, pulled back by some powerful suction churning within his gut. It only stopped once all that was left of his cock was a tender clit, nestled between his swollen folds, only once one last wave of fluid had gushed from his newly-formed pussy. A few last gurgles rippled through his gut, a few small bulges rolled along the surface of his stomach, and then Tom toppled over onto his side, unconscious.

Waking to find himself on the floor was confusing, but as his memories pulled back into focus, Tom scrambled up to his feet and pulled down his still-damp shorts to see—yes, his penis was gone. Worse than that, he had felt something writhing around inside of him, something that was not supposed to be there. Something inside him, something that was doing all this to him.

Tom was a few steps from his bedroom when a growl from his stomach turned him around and sent him hurrying to the fridge. The urge to eat was so sudden that he barely managed to stop from shoving his face into the tub of ice cream. Standing at the counter, he shoveled out big scoops and stuffed them down his mouth.

He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. His body told him he needed to eat, that he was desperately hungry. It had to be the thing inside of him, making him eat. With all his willpower, he locked his elbow. The spoon with the scoop of ice cream hovered a few inches from his face. His stomach groaned. He felt like he was going to starve if he didn't eat. His hand trembled. He could smell it; he could almost taste it. You need to eat. You need to grow. For all of ten seconds, his concentration lasted. Then he shoved the ice cream into his mouth and swallowed gratefully. He didn't stop until he'd polished off every last spoonful left.

As the urge to eat faded, Tom forced himself to clean up. He tossed his damp clothes into the hamper (he'd have to take it down to the laundry room soon) and rinsed himself off in the shower. He was ginger about his new pussy, reluctant to touch it, to be reminded that it was his.

Settling down against his bed, Tom laid back, then sat up again and pulled off his shirt, which had been bothering his skin. The rash from yesterday was gone, but even the lightest fabric felt heavy on Tom's skin, and he'd only managed to deal with his tee shirt and shorts for as long as it took him to leave the apartment and come back. Normally, he wouldn't have given a second thought to hanging around with his shirt off, but he felt guilty about just having his breasts out, even though there was no one else to see them.

He snagged his computer and dragged it closer. His porn tabs from last night were still open. Even in the short time it took him to open a new tab, his breath had already quickened and his blood grown warmer. Don't think about that, he told himself. Focus. You need to figure out what's wrong with you. He typed into the search bar: 'sex change parasite' and hit enter.

All he found were a bunch of articles about crabs. 'Sex change parasite human' didn't help much either. He was out of luck. Except...the girl at the party. Maybe she knew something about this.

Marcus had also been at the party, so maybe he'd— Fuck him. Call him and tell him you're fingering yourself just thinking about him. —no, not Marcus. Jack had been there too, he would know.

Holding his phone and slowly grinding his thighs together, Tom typed out a message to Jack, asking if he'd seen the girl he was with at the party. He described her as well as he could remember (tallish, red hair, great smile) and tried to focus on the keyboard instead of Jack's contact photo, lest his body get distracted again. He finished the message, then hit send and pushed his phone away.

Tom's body lit up again, as hard as he tried to keep his thoughts clear and collected. His mind spun in circles around the image of laying on his bed, his hips hanging off the edge, his thighs wrapped around Marcus's waist, and his legs crossed at the calf. The image melted and grew, until it wasn't just Marcus, and it wasn't just that position—it was all the tabs that Tom was clicking through, each one burning a fresh image into his mind. He wasn't sure when his hand had made its way down between his thighs, but all of a sudden, his fingers pressed into his slit and he was squirming beneath his own touch.

What bothered him, or at least the conscious part of him that wasn't consumed in lust and staring glassy-eyed at porn photos while imagining himself in each and every one, was how natural his pussy felt. He didn't have to think about pleasuring himself; he did it, as if that was how he'd always done it. His body was yelling this is normal at him, even though he was insisting as hard as he could that no, it wasn't.

Tom slipped down deeper into his pillows. He wasn't even looking at the computer; his mind was a whirl of ideas more vivid than any picture could be. He could feel the hands reaching around him, dragging along his thighs and ass, holding his shoulders, his head, his neck, his breasts. He could feel the weight pressing down against him from all sides. And he could imagine what it would feel like to be thoroughly fucked from every direction. A squirt of pure dopamine hit his brain: positive reinforcement. Good girl.

As he rose toward his orgasm, Tom felt tendrils pulling taut deep in his abdomen, like the strings of a guitar being tuned and plucked. Even that couldn't stop his fingers, or the radiant, throbbing pleasure pouring off his body. He sunk into his sheets and lifted his hips into the air as he came. Each wave of orgasm that crashed over him brought more slick fluid dripping from his pussy.

Tom didn't like to brag, but he'd had sex with plenty of girls before, and he'd never seen one who made this much of a mess.

For minutes he lay sprawled out on the bed, puffing hot breaths between his teeth, too heavy to move. Finally he rolled over and tumbled off the side, then limped into the bathroom to peel off his underwear and dry himself off. His head was a complete mess, and he was exhausted and dizzy and dealing with a fresh new pounding headache.

Staggering out to his couch, grabbing the unopened bag of chips along the way, Tom sprawled out naked along the cushions. He took some more medication and put on another Youtube playlist, hoping to at least numb his mind out of its feedback loop of sex.

It was about five minutes before he started thinking that the hosts of the show looked pretty hot. Fifteen until he started fingering himself again; twenty-five before his first orgasm on the couch. Somewhere between his casual masturbation and the constant throbbing in his head, he drifted off to sleep, his head propped up on the cushions.

The next morning, Tom woke up, pushed himself up so he was sitting, and groaned, "Fuuck." The slight stiffness of falling asleep on the couch was one thing, and the dried fluids clinging to his thighs another, but the growth of his body was something else entirely. Yesterday, he'd been unassuming, feminine but not the sort to stick out in a crowd. Today, his breasts were thick and heavy and overflowed his hands when he tried to squeeze them back against his chest. His hips had grown to the point that he wasn't sure his old underwear would fit. And yet his waist was still relatively thin; he could pinch a little bit of fat and roll it around, but there wasn't even a muffin top to be found.

Groggily shoving himself in front of the bathroom mirror confirmed his fears: he was hot. He had the sort of body he fantasized about seeing. His hair had grown longer, and had become more of a mess thanks to sleeping on the couch. The cushions had turned his eyeliner into a black streak along his left cheek. Before he got anything done today, he needed to clean himself up. Needed.

Climbing into the shower, Tom scrubbed himself thoroughly. The dried fluids on his thighs took several passes with soap before he felt like he was properly clean. His hips bumped into the side of the shower; he tried to stand a little further away, but he did it again as he turned around to shampoo his hair. Hard to keep in mind just how much wider he was now.

The routine he went through after drying off was instinctual. You have to look fuckable. Tom brushed out his hair, fighting the tangles until it laid out straight, then pushing it back behind his shoulders to keep it out of the way. Leaning forward, he piece-by-piece applied his makeup: the lip gloss, the eyeliner, the blush, the eye shadow, the mascara. He felt the gentle, aching heat between his legs, like a furnace on standby, ready to be stoked into a raging fire. His mind kept drifting away, trailing off into fantasies of being fucked, then falling back to reality a few seconds later, each time feeling more and more pent up.

The gnawing, pre-verbal compulsion in the base of Tom's brain to look fuckable drove him to get creative with his wardrobe. A baggy old shirt tied off at the midriff covered his chest, while he squeezed his legs into a pair of old sweatpants that looked more like yoga pants around his thighs. His impromptu lazy-chic look wasn't enough, it wouldn't get him fucked, but it was at least enough to last him until he could find some clothes to satisfy that incessant itch.

On the way to the mall, Tom's guy-dar pinged off every man he passed. It left him dizzy and weak-kneed; every few seconds his body would suddenly urge him to throw himself at the latest man who happened to pass by him. The sidelong looks had shot up drastically from the day before, too. Guys were staring. Double-takes. Glassy eyes. It was like he had some glowing aura of attraction around him, and as soon as someone got close, they fixated on him completely.

First on his agenda was underwear. A little knot of anxiety twisted inside his chest as he stepped into the lingerie shop. He felt like he wasn't supposed to be here, even though no one would think twice about it. To the rest of the world, he was a woman shopping for underwear. He stood in the middle of the store, looking around at the racks for a minute or two, before he worked up the courage to find a clerk and tell her, "Um, I don't know my size. Can you measure me?"

Getting measured for her bra was surprisingly sober. Here was a girl, just about his age and pretty cute, putting her hands right up against his chest, adjusting the tape measure running around his bust, and yet he didn't feel hot or flustered or out of control. In theory, he was attracted to her, but his body was entirely uninterested.

That changed when he took a set of bra and panties back into the changing room. He saw his reflection in the mirror, with the panties hugging his hips and the bra lifting his chest up and out, and that set him off. What if someone fucked you in that lingerie? He bit his lip and steadied himself against the wall. His thighs and cheeks went flush with heat. What if they shoved you right up against that mirror and made you watch your own face while they fucked you? Tom leaned against his hands, one on either side of the mirror, and stifled a moan. His swollen pussy dampened the crotch of his panties.

"I-I'll take it!" Tom called out to the clerk, waiting just outside. "I can wear it out, right?"

With his measurements in mind, shopping for clothes was easy. All he had to do was walk through the racks and wait for something that gave him the giddy dopamine tingle he was learning to respond to. Miniskirt, yes. Cocktail dress, yes. Glittery tank top, fuck yes. At one point, he had to pause, legs clenched together, hanging onto the nearest rack, as he recovered from the throbbing pleasure he'd gotten from running his finger over a pair of slick black leggings.

With two full bags of new clothes, Tom made a beeline to the bathroom to get changed. He shucked off his improvised outfit and squeezed himself into a miniscule tank top, a gold mini skirt, and a pair of high heels. He felt a flood of heat rush through him when he saw himself in the mirror, and wound up stuck there for a few minutes, adjusting the straps of his top, wiggling the waistband of his skirt a little lower, and fighting the urge to pull down his panties and finger himself.

Tom's last stop at the mall was the salon, where he asked the stylist to just do something with his hair that would look good (he may have used the word 'fuckable') and wouldn't need too much maintenance. She trimmed his hair back until it was level with his shoulder blades, except in the front, where it would hang down in front of his face—there, she cut it just above his eyelids, giving him a short fringe with the rest of his hair left long.

By the time Tom made it back to his apartment, it was nearly three in the afternoon. He dumped his bags onto the floor of his room, fell back onto his bed, tugged down his panties and shoved his hand between his legs. By the end of his trip, it had taken his entire willpower not to drag every single guy he saw off into an alley and fuck them right there. That was where his fantasies started now: him up against the wall, feeling the bricks scrape against his cheek and his palms as he was fucked right out in the open.

While his fingers buried themselves in his slit, the other reached out, groping for his phone. He pulled it over and flicked it on to find a reply from Jack, saying he didn't know who the girl from the party was, and neither did anyone he'd asked.

Tom bit his lip and cursed under his breath, just as his hips lifted off the bed and a spike of pleasure curled around his spine. You need to fuck. Tom's breaths became quick and heavy. His fingers were already slick. You haven't fucked for two days. You need to fuck. His eyes rolled loosely as a heavy moan slipped out of his throat. He melted back onto his bed. His juices flowed out between his fingers and onto his sheets.

Fuck. Now.

Tom pawed at his phone while he lifted his wet fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean one by one as he typed out a message to Marcus. His mind could hardly think further than the dull, lingering ache between his legs, but he got out the whole thing, then hit send: 'Hey, this is Tom's cousin. Can you come by his apartment?'

That was all the effort he could spare. He flopped back down against the bed, panting and red-cheeked. A few small cramps rippled through his gut as the thing inside him shifted. Tom scratched his belly absently, then wriggled his hips and slid his hand between his thighs.

About half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Tom had managed to clean himself up a little, but didn't even bother getting his panties back on. Why bother? They were just going to have to come off again. He couldn't waste time. This was urgent.

"Hey, it's Marcus," Marcus called through the door.

Tom clopped across the kitchen in his wedge sandals, then grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open. The expression on Marcus's face went from confidence to surprise to a sort of entranced awe. His pupils dilated and he began breathing harder through his nose.

He wants to fuck you. Fuck him.

Tom smiled and said, "Hey, come on in."

"Uh, sure," Marcus said, trailing in after Tom as he led him inside the apartment.

Fuck him now.

Tom's body was already lighting up like fireworks. "Sorry about running off yesterday," he said. "I wanted to—"


His tongue felt thick in his mouth. The whole explanation he'd thought up melted right out of his head and drooled out between his legs. He felt it running down his thigh.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck do it now now now now.

Tom turned around, bent over at the waist, and leaned against his kitchen counter. Glancing over his shoulder at Marcus, he said, "Fuck me?"

At first, Marcus didn't move. His mouth hung half-open, like he was still catching up with what he was seeing. A moment later he snapped out of one trance and into a different trance. He strode up to where Tom stood, bent over and practically presenting himself, and shoved his hips up against Tom's. Tom pushed back with a groan of giddy delight as his brain was bathed in dopamine.

Yes fuck good girl fuck him yes yes fuck.

There was a fumbling of jeans and zippers on Marcus's part, and then they were fucking. It came with an explosion of sensation: the tightness, the friction, the sheer squeeze of someone sliding up inside of him, the way Marcus's hips dug against him at the end of each thrust. It was his first time getting fucked, and it felt amazing. Starburst colors popped in front of Tom's eyes. His toes curled, his palms braced himself against the counter, and he pushed back.

That was their rhythm, the two of them shoving themselves against the other, following some mindless, animal need to fuck. Marcus's hands moved along Tom's body, gripping his hips or his breasts or his shoulders, like he couldn't choose where best to hold on, like he wanted all of his body to himself. They barely spoke; Marcus was too fixated on fucking Tom, and Tom was too awash in bliss to string together more than one word at a time.

Each breath Tom took was deeper and heavier. He dug his nails into the counter; he twisted his shoulders; he arched his back up against Marcus. Above him, Marcus hunched over, clutching Tom's chest in both hands, panting so hard Tom could feel the air against the back of his head.

Things were getting knocked over. They didn't matter. Neither did the strain in Tom's legs as he curled up onto his tiptoes, trying to push himself harder against Marcus's hips. Nothing mattered except fucking. Nothing matters except fucking.

The thing inside of Tom plucked a few of its tendrils taut, and Tom came with a burst of pleasure so bright and blazing it knocked the air out of his lungs. Collapsed against the counter, he was left gasping for air, hanging beneath Marcus, his whole head so stuffed with fuzzy bliss that he felt like he might pop. His fluids dripped onto the floor between their legs.

After several rough thrusts and grunts that sent tingles along Tom's spine, Marcus came too. A rush of hot cum shot deep inside of him, then slowly tapered off as Marcus's body relaxed.

Tom felt his ass drop and his heels hit the floor when Marcus pulled back. He pushed himself up slowly; his head spun and his body glowed with satisfaction, but the orgasm was enough to sober him up, if only slightly. "Fuck," he sighed.

"That was amazing," Marcus said. He still had that glassy look in his eyes, like he could hardly think.

Kneel down and suck him dry.

Tom gulped and pushed back some of his hair that had fallen down into his face. His heart still thundered away in his chest, and Marcus still had his cock out. He blinked and shook his head. "You need to go," he told Marcus.

Marcus stiffened his back and pouted. "What? Why?"

Tom managed to squeeze an excuse through the pounding in his head. "Tom's coming back soon. You have to go."

"'re amazing," Marcus said, looking down at him starry-eyed. "What's your name?"

That was not something Tom could deal with right now. "T-Tom's...cousin," he said, giving Marcus a push toward the door. "Sorry. I really want to fuck you again." Fuck him again. "So much." Fuck him fuck him god fuck him. "All the time," he said, then shook his head again. "Go!"

Through a combination of force and confusion, Tom managed to shove Marcus out the door and shut it behind him, then flip the deadbolt shut.

Fuck. Tom paced from one end of his apartment to the other. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his cheeks. He'd just fucked his friend. Really, he'd just been fucked by his friend. And it had felt honestly amazing, but that wasn't the point. The point was the thing inside of him was doing this, somehow, for some reason. Whatever it was, Tom didn't want this.

He tried to think. The thing was some kind of parasite. What had it done? Made him into a girl. Made him horny. Made him want to fuck. Why would a parasite do that? For food? No...reproduction. If it was sexually transmitted, that would explain how he wound up with it in the first place: the girl at the party. And if he caught it from her, that meant that Marcus—

A powerful itch struck along his shoulders. Tom grunted and reached back to scratch it, but it only grew the more he scratched. He felt tight, too tight in his skin, like it was shrinking around him. He recognized the feeling; the dry crinkliness of his skin, the strange, wet splitting feeling that stretched across his shoulder blades: he was molting again.

The instinct to peel himself free was stronger than any other urge. Leaving it alone felt like being slowly constricted. So he tore off his clothes, then rolled his fingers underneath his shedding skin and began to peel it off, wriggling from one side to the other, like trying to pull off a snug sweater. His skin slipped free over his shoulders and down his arms, all the way to his palms and fingers, each sliding free individually from his old skin.

His face felt all wrong, like a mask that couldn't quite match up with his expressions. The more he squinted and grimaced and wrinkled his nose, the more artificial and heavy it felt against him, until he managed to get his fingers underneath the loose skin on his neck and peel himself free. His old face lifted off in one piece, slipping free from his chin, then lips, then nose, and finally shrugging off of his forehead and all falling onto his hand. Feeling fresh air on his skin again, he opened his eyes and gasped in relief.

The last of his shed skin slid off of him like he was peeling off a jumpsuit. He rolled it down his legs and kicked his feet free, then left it where it lay and ran to the bathroom mirror.

The face that greeted him was incrementally different from the last. More feminine, more overtly sensual, with its smooth cheeks and thick lips, and less like him. He reached up with slender fingers and pressed against his cheekbones, rubbed the tip of his slim nose, and tested his soft pout. His face was bare and fresh; all the makeup had been peeled off with the rest of his skin.

He had to—

He leaned on the counter and squeezed his thighs together. A small trickle of slick fluid rolled down toward his knee.

He...had to...

He sagged between his shoulders, eyes fluttering, his juices dripping freely onto the floor. If he looked this good now, just think how hot he'd look, how many guys he could fuck if, he couldn't. He didn't want any of this, but he needed it, more acutely than any hunger he'd ever felt.

You have to put on your makeup.

His trembling hand reached out and picked up a tube of lipstick. His lips spread open and he rolled the lipstick across them, back and forth, painting them until they looked wet and glossy. Then his hand picked up the eye pencil, and slowly traced smooth black along the outlines of his eyes. It came out thick. Slutty. Good.

You have to fuck.

His hand slid between his thighs. Warm bliss washed over him, lapping up against his cheeks the more his fingertips played with his slit. Before long, he was leaning against the counter, pressing the back of his palm against the edge, grinding his hips in slow, deliberate motions. It didn't matter that he knew it was the thing doing this to him. He could tell his body he didn't want to fuck all day long and it wouldn't make him any less desperately horny.

You have to fuck as many people as possible.

Tom set the mascara brush down and held onto the counter instead. His mindless grinding and fingering rose to a higher and higher pitch, until with a burst of warm delight, his orgasm hit him, and his slick fluids drizzled from his fingers onto the floor. He lifted his head, blinking a few times as he stared into the mirror, still half-dazed from his orgasm. With his makeup on, he looked salacious, eye-catching, and most importantly, fuckable.

As he walked back to his bedroom, he sucked his fingers clean. Shedding his skin left him feeling loose and sleek and tender, and that just stoked his body's need to get fucked again. Already he was starting to plan out which clubs he could hits, which frats had parties on the weekends, with the hungry determination of an animal that needed to feed. He didn't want to do this. He had to.

There was his phone on the bed. A whole contact list full of potential partners. His friends, he insisted, but he felt the twinge in his stomach and knew that wasn't going to matter. The clubs wouldn't be open for another couple hours. He needed to fuck, now. Helpless to stop himself, Tom typed out a message to Jack: 'Hey, this is Tom's cousin. Come over to his place, there's something I need to show you.'

Before Jack came over, Tom had all sorts of anxious plans in his head, plans to slip some message through to Jack, to let him know what was going on, to alleviate some of his guilt over the fact that he was going to infect one of his friends. It didn't work. As soon as he knocked on the door, Tom's instincts took over and they wound up rutting like dogs on the couch. Eventually, Jack fell asleep, and Tom left him there, since his body was itching for new partners and it was late enough that the clubs would be open.

With every fuck, Tom felt a fresh wave of guilt and shame; with every fuck, it was a little weaker, and the dopamine burst telling his brain good girl felt a little stronger. Before the end of the night, he'd given up fighting it.

He needed to fuck, and that was what was important.


Jason had tucked himself into a corner of the party, sipping on a cup of mostly-flat Sprite, and trying to preserve his hearing by finding a place in the hall as far away from the living room speakers as possible. Parties weren't really his sort of thing; he'd have more fun playing video games back in his dorm, and besides, he never met anyone anyway.

"Hi there!" said a voice from beside him: warm, enthusiastic, and flirtatious.

Jason jumped a little and took a half-step back. "Oh! Um, hi," he said, and then the other words he was planning to speak just sort of melted from his mind.

The girl he was looking at was tall. She had long, dark hair, soft lips, and a strapless dress wrapped around a body that made his knees weak. The look in her eyes reminded him of a cat staring at a laser pointer; a single-minded sort of fixation. There was something in the air around her, not quite a scent, more like a magnetic field. It pulled him in, and then suddenly his hands were on her waist, and her hands were on his shoulders, and he was still struggling to think.

"You're hot," she said, leaning forward against him, her chest against his. She was so warm, he almost wanted to ask if she had a fever.

Instead, nearly panting, he said, "You're hot."

Her eyes lit up. Her crotch pressed against his leg. Jason's head was spinning, but he didn't want to lose this feeling, like arcs of sexual energy crackling between them. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment. He felt something warm and wet dripping along the top of his thigh, but he didn't pay it any attention, because she was saying, "I need to fuck you."

The only response Jason could think of was, "Yeah."

The next morning, he woke to a grinding headache.

October 7, 2018