It had begun with the onset of a second puberty. The expression was not entirely accurate - puberty could not possibly happen twice - but I had found no other way to describe my predicament. To place it quite simply, I had found that where I had grown in my teenage years, I was growing once again. To most, finding one's brassiere ill-fitting one day would have been taken for nothing but a slight variation in the course of one's life. A little larger here, a little smaller there, the normal changes in one's body throughout the years. Soon, however, I discovered myself to be showing signs contrary to age. Against all expectations, my bosom grew firm, round, full to a perfection I had not discovered until now. Surely something was afoot. I verified my thoughts against the world. My food was biological, local, from sources I knew were friendly. My newspapers told of nothing like I, aside from the monthly accusation of manboobs caused by cow milk - a boredom I quickly dismissed. Doctors I sought, but I quickly exhausted. The islands of Hawaii held but few of this precious resource, and it was with increasing consternation that I saw them measure me with ever increasing proportions. The averagely feminine office person that I was had begun to sport a much more definite hourglass shape, and my chest had gone one letter up by the end of the week. By Saturday, I was told of yet another jump. I had, somehow and at last, reached the mythical and stereotypical D-cup. With so many experts given the subject and no solution nor cause given to the matter, I reluctantly turned my attention to a more arcane sort of science. A certain Doctor Monroe, whom I faintly knew practiced on the northern tip of O'ahu. Born from a Native American mother and a Haitian hermaphrodite. He was a generalist, a shaman and a voodoo priest all at once. Unfortunately, he was the best in his field. The old lion greeted me with a scowl, appearing unconvinced, giving a brief glance at my assets - much briefer than all those past doctors I had seen. It was as if I was of no interest to him, and the thought was beginning to inch closer to the truth in my opinion as I heard his voice ordering me to the examination chair, in a room with but a dim light and a small window. Unlike the others, he had not told me to undress. I had to ask him if I had to take anything away, and his only response had been in a shrug. Without much ceremony, he helped himself. He unbuttoned my blouse and only got to my chest before stopping. Muttering something about them being natural, he turned away to jot down a few notes on his clipboard. Doubtful of his competence, I had begun asking him about his credentials, about whether he believed what I had said, or if he was even being remotely serious about the patient that I was. Once again, all I heard was a mutter, something disgraceful, mentioning a bimbo trying to show off as a desperate measure. He did not even react when I told him I had heard that. But then, as he turned to face me again, he opened his mouth only to say nothing. He pointed his pencil at my chest. Something was wrong with it all of a sudden. As I looked down, I confirmed his suspicions. Buldges had formed while he had his back turned away from me. Stripping out of my top, I found the reason: a pair of golden hoops had somehow pierced themselves into each of my nipples. Clearly, he did not remember seeing this on his first pass, and neither did I. And it was only then that he became genuinely concerned with my state. He asked me to tug on my newfound piercings. Looking at them closely, he found that they were set as if they had been there for a year, not one hint of an initial wound to be seen. His keen sense of smell picked up the subtle aromas of milk. A series of questions followed. No, I did not have a child. No, I had not attempted. In fact, I was sterile as far as feminity was concerned. I had never ovulated in my life. The only potent area of myself was my male half. Hermaphrodite in looks, I was but shemale in functionality. At this point, I had taken all off on my own volition. I had no shame in my body, and even less so now despite my surreal problem. I freely admitted that I found beauty in the feminine form, and that being part of this slightly less numerous gender called the hermaphrodite was a privilege I enjoyed. Strangely, he was more interested in my infertility than in my current situation. I had to oblige, even though I was not certain of where he was trying to go. To my doubts, he answered with a lingering memory, of a past event somewhat like mine, that his hunch told may be the same after all. In short, he suspected my body of possessing its eggs indeed, but of being guilty of holding them all for itself, fruitlessly believing that I was gifted with ovotestes and could bear a child at will. I knew that this was not the case. Now, I did remember myself to be a friend of debauchery. Beneath the guises of the office hour clothes lay fishnets, high heels, skimpy skirts and shirts, colored beads and clubby personality, young at heart despite the steady work. I sought friendship, I sought love, I marveled at the sight of those advantageous curves and buldges I encountered, and those who were inclined so returned the favor. We favored each other, in sight, in talk, and then in bed. Knowing I could never get pregnant, I happily took all I could inside of me without preparations. It made it feel all the better. I grew addicted to the pleasantly warm feeling of this love pouring deep into me. It filled me, fulfilled me, reached me to the very soul, leaving me tipsy, happy, energized - so much that I could hardly sleep afterwards, giving my partner the obligation to cuddle me as I sought relaxation. To this strange doctor, I told all, desperate for a straight answer at last. If anything, he might just have it. He was the last on the list that I knew before I'd be forced to air-ticket my way to America with my measly savings. It was something I could not reasonably afford. He agreed to examine me a little further. Scientifically speaking, he could not find anything wrong. Supernaturally speaking, the nipple hoops were a dead giveaway - but the usual incantation, in his own words, did not supply any more clues to the matter. In the end, with apology and rubber gloves, he admitted that he was going to have to examine my gender firsthand. I lifted my skirt and took down my underwear immediately. Of my kind, I was one among many, a respectable sheath directly above its opposite counterpart, sensitivity hidden inside of me, none the worse for the warm as far as tests have shown. The arrangement was tidy, neat, well able to allow panties rather than trunks, lingerie over boxers, although I found both to be equally appealing in comfort and look. At times, I felt like a virile hunter. At others, I considered myself a goddess, clad in the latest of lace attires, ready to accept the pretenders and pretentious. Today, I was the latter. I wore a risque pastel blue arrangement, perfect against the white of my blouse and of my vulpine fur. Even the doctor gave an approving nod of the head, at seeing a patient who has taken good care of hirself on and in every inch of hir body. And thus, with a care that matched my own, he proceeded to take a medical camera, and explore my depths with the tool. Quickly, however, his expression became concerned. So he reported, he saw nothing but blue, where he should have seen red and pink. Figures danced on the screen, unidentified shadows, mystery showing itself in the core of my most intimate of treasures. Disappointed, he retreated the equipment, signaling me to wait a minute before returning with a portable video camera of more conventional engineering. To it, he had added a twenty-inch lens extension, supposedly to allow a clear cervical picture on some of his stranger patients. He found that I warranted such a picture. And thus, he proceeded to insert this into me, as I fought to restrain my moans. The tool was large, an improvised dildo in a pinch. Thus he went, onwards, past the five, the six, the seven inches, briefly seeing a tunnel, and then naught but this sky blue that seemed to populate my inner being. He pressed on, constantly reminding me to tell him if I felt him touching the end, watching for my nod, which I repeated, only for him to announce... that he had sunk all twenty inches of the lens inside of me. Moreover, he had a clear picture of what was within me. Detaching the viewscreen to hand it to me, he gave me the formal diagnostic: I housed a portal to another universe inside my womb. I looked, unable to believe, looking for the difference between the Play and the Record button on his device. I stared at a whole world, seeing structures, tubes, moving parts, details hard to make out but a living presence indeed noted. I moved the camera to the left, and so did my viewport. I moved it to the right, and my vision followed. I moved back and forth, finding that the screen told all and nothing but the truth. I ordered the doctor to take the camera away, and then spread myself as far as I could go. Holding myself open with both hands, I told him to take a direct look inside. He looked, and he confirmed. At the end of my sex, he saw what appeared to be a wide open cervix... and beyond, the blue sky of another world. My past partners had never witnessed this - not even when they did look into me in this same manner. So, for this world to be so open now must have been meaningful. Just as meaningful as my larger breasts, my wider hips and my strange piercings. His suggestion was only logical: I should take a week off and keep an eye on myself all throughout. No one could tell what would happen to me. We were both sure nonetheless that I would feel no harm - after all, my body had been increasingly good to me for obvious reasons. Things could only keep going up from there, but to avoid the usual situational comedy common to most stories of the genre, it was best that I keep to my own devices and restrict myself to takeout menus or food made at home. A little bit of peculiar behavior would be much better than a body acting beyond the control of its owner. Helpful, he wrote me a note that I could fax to my employer, an instant week of sick leave on the base of a benign but virulent influenza - one that was certain to annoy all those who endured it on themselves and others. Truly not a thing to bring to the office. Indeed, on Monday morning, I received a call confirming my leave and wishing me well. Now then came the one question above them all: what was a universe doing inside of me and what was its relationship with its seeming control over my hormones? Moreover, what was this thing's motive for acting upon my body? Was it accidental? Surely not - if it could influence me in such a precise manner as to pierce my nipples and... no. The piercings were gone. In the safety of my home, I undressed. I stood, naked, before the mirror, looking upon myself with my hands on my stomach. I was beautiful beyond belief. I had gone from the average to the ludicrous. A woman could not have asked for any better. Neither would a man have, as I noted my sheath to be significantly larger than I remember it. The concern for clothes briefly came up, but I remembered that I had a week to investigate my own body and the otherworldly creation of which I was the supernatural host. My thoughts were interrupted by a jolt. I snapped my look down, at my own sex, watching as it swelled and stretched, a peculiar appendage emerging from it. Surely it was part of this thing inside of me. There was no way this could belong to me. I could not feel it - I could only feel its effects on me, the way it rubbed against my walls, the way I felt its soft, furless skin, the limb twisting around and reaching straight up, leaving staring with mouth agape at a nimble, five-fingered hand. The hand gently closed my mouth, placing a finger on my lips, to then trail down along my body, passing over one of my breasts along the way, giving a lovely caress to my sheath, before retreating into my sex, without a trace. Or rather, a visible trace. I could sense the aroma of love, of feminine love coating this strange hand. My own love returned to me, delivered straight to my muzzle, given to me in taste, leaving me on my hunger, wishing for more. I looked into my own eyes in the mirror, my desire evident, a nearly equine arousal betraying this temptation I was falling to. My demands, I spoke them out loud. I asked for this presence to return, for this unknown entity to gift me with its touch all over again, to feel this limb, larger than any sex I ever had, return and prove itself once more. I saw it again. This time, I saw a pair of white-furred legs emerging from me, stretching me, leaving me staring in shock as the legs grew, as the waist and the hips became wider, taking me to an unnatural degree without even one hint of pain. The legs stood up, straight, carrying me wherever they wished, with me atop them. It was like I had given birth to a fully grown adult's lower body. And that lower body was dripping wet with an amount of juices I did not know I could muster. The legs took me closer to the mirror, getting me to stare at myself as I saw more changes operate onto my body. My hair straightened itself all on its own, twisting in neat curls, bobby pins appearing in artistic fashion, cheeks lightly blushed and lips coated with a soft layer of red. I had been given a look worthy of a classy night out in under a minute. And when I groped my bosom with my lingering thoughts, I saw my piercings appear once again, bigger, brighter, thicker than before. The legs slowly shrank and returned into my body. I couldn't move. I let myself come in contact with the floor, sitting cross-legged, naked, staring at myself and my erection. The being inside of me had complete, deliberate power over my body. For a moment, I panicked. But how could I possibly run away? I was stuck with this thing, forever prey to its fancy, condemned to suffer its powers over me no matter the time and place, no matter the convenience or lack thereof. The hand returned, followed by another, dripping with my seemingly endless stream of honey. I was aroused like I had rarely been in my life, and at the same time, I felt desperate, helpless. As one hand began to work over my cock, I felt the other on my cheek, slowly trailing its way towards my chest. I couldn't believe I was communicating with my own pussy. I felt ridiculous, sitting in my bathroom, in front of a mirror watching my very own sex talk to me in sign language. All I could interpret was this softness, this implied message that everything was going to be okay - and yet, why would a whole universe concern itself with me? The visions appeared. I saw myself, making love, being made love to, accepting all this seed within me, without any shame or concern. In me was vulpine, equine, canine, feline, the odd primate or two and even a couple of friendly insects. I had taken them in, partners by the dozens, in a rapidly flowing sequence that made it all seem like one magnificent orgy. I did with men, women and herms alike. I loved to no bounds, to conflicts and problems, to fights over my body, to broken hearts and anger, unable to supply to the demand. I was left on this tipsy after-love state. I had not even begun to feel the sensations, and already I felt pumped, energetic, perhaps the result of being toyed with by this creature - or even those creatures. I had no way to know who or what it was, if it was many or one, intelligent or feral. I could only guess. I gave up on thinking. I was too dead set on sex to ponder the meaning of its presence anymore. I became its slave, its disciple, its worshipper, taking this limb in front of me and sucking at those fingers, taking suggestive expressions in my need for satisfaction. I hugged it against me when I cried out. I felt the hand keep on stroking me throughout my climax, while the other grabbed on to my shoulder, lending itself to my needs until I was done, becoming silent, panting, wordless at the experience. I couldn't see myself in the mirror anymore. I stood up, somehow bursting with strength, feeling awake and alert, even moreso than before. My knees should have lost all their power, but this was not the case. On the contrary, I felt like I could run ten miles and ask for more. The hands went for the mirror, sweeping over the thick layer of cum I had left all over it, closing into fists and retreating into me, taking my own seed into my own body. And then, I saw tentacles. Countless tentacles, picking up every last drop like a straw, filling me with this warmth that I knew so much, now given by me to myself. I felt it, this conviction, this knowledge implanted into my mind by this entity, letting me know of all that I should know, finding the moment proper to unleash itself as my body's deus ex machina. In myself, I saw my body, my organs, my sex, my ovaries, giving away month after month, only for each and every one of these attempts be taken into a portal, into a universe not yet born. In this universe, I saw the eggs, the tiny little eggs, piling up, choosing one seed or another, intelligently, driven by a budding consciousness trying to influence its future body. In those eggs, I saw possibility, mutability, as one egg took in seed after seed, as another chose its own, as genetics matched, as sentience grew, casting away test subjects, but carefully managing its resources, seeking a perfection of its own knowledge, waiting for the proxy to be accomplished, like a seal giving away to reveal a being of power beyond comprehension. And then, in the magnificent, orgasmic big bang that followed, I saw this being come to power, to omnipotence, to shape itself as its own universe, within me, growing at an exponential, alarming rate, without taking even one atom of space in the world to which I belonged. I saw the being forming planets, suns, cities, bodies without faces, masses of limbs and appendages, of sex toys from normal to planetary, knowing all along that it had me to thank for its existence. And in those thanks, I saw myself anew, in my bustier, my curvier, my motherly form, cradling my belly, a phantom, eternal pregnancy, curled up on myself, in front of a mirror. My doubts faded away. In me was nothing but love. In me was a creature of unfathomable power, and yet without the urge to conquer the world. All it wanted, was to conquer my heart, and become all that my past partners could have ever been. My next hours, my next days were spent in complete nakedness, in food hastily ordered, paid for and eaten, my communication with the world naught but a crack in the door, my voice panting, alarmed as I answered and stuck out a hand to generously tip those who gave me my chicken, my pizza, my Chinese, my quick meals, meals that I took down in one gulp, discovering in myself an ability to deep-throat beyond my personal fantasies, able to swallow an entire dish in mere seconds, just to return to this love I enjoyed, to return to this moment I hoped would never end. My lover became ever wilder with me, taking changes and finding just rewards, multiplying my sexes just to have more outlets, piercing my body all over, covering me in the glimmer of chains, of golden hoops, of jewels that appeared and disappeared at a whim. I became a taur, I became a lamia, I became a mink, a mare, all at once, nothing describable, fancies of fashion, of sex, of lust, at times tasteful and at times a pleasant monster, a maddening creation that could have only been enjoyed in the privacy of one's home. I saw my head duplicate. I saw a head that didn't belong to me, mute, only smiling, pushing me to kiss it, to kiss myself and my lover at once, to fondle myself, to see arms that didn't belong to me, to find myself conjoined with a copy of myself, finding myself beautiful, willingly making love to this foreground, this anonymity concealed under the guises of my own looks, addicted to the delightful pleasures, not even aware of if I was in a genuine state of bliss or if I was under mind control. One way or another, I did not care. I kissed, I fondle and I fucked - yes! I fucked, I proclaim it, I fucked with a capital F, wildly and roughly, demanding more each time, demanding from this endless supply, knowing it would always provide. I slept with a sheath over my cock, pouring my seed into this being, pouring it into myself by way of its tentacles, feeding it my milk, my juices, squirming in my sleep as I enjoyed those recurring dreams, of walking in this strange, alien, nameless land, captured and made love to, fulfilling even larger fantasies, impaling myself from muzzle to sex atop a cock I could not hope to take all the way into me. I woke up, my largest of dildoes buried into myself, the creature letting it away, only for every other one in my collection to escape afterwards, overwhelming me with a sensation to which words could not do justice. I watched, almost ready to die on the spot from the surprise, finding out the creature had managed to lay its limbs on every single one I had kept hidden inside the house, laying out my sheer depravity to my eyes as the tubes, the cylinders of all colors and textures piled up at the end of the bed. I'd have never imagined them to make up such a mass together. Looking at it now was a frightening experience... but looking at each individually, I wondered what I could ever do without them... When I took baths, he did all the work for me. He washed and brushed my hair, my fur, my body from head to toe, punishing my attempts at doing the work myself by tying my hands. I watched as my pussy stretched each and every time, to let out almost a dozen hands roam about my body, finding the soap, the shampoo and the sponge without the need for eyes, gifting me with its services and placing everything back where it belongs without my guidance. My showers were even kinkier than this. Tentacles came out of my sex, picking up my wrists, my ankles forcing me to spread my legs, suction cups against the ceiling, lifting me up and hanging me, the shower's stream against my impossibly swollen clitoris and cock, my body quivering as I broke one climax after another, losing count after mere minutes, my mind going blank, unable to keep up with my stamina, gone to a surreal degree, my recovery time having become almost nonexistent. I could cum, and cum, and cum again, and take even more. I could cum as quickly as physics allowed, without pain, without exhaustion, enduring a torture of minutes on end, of satisfaction brought so soon and so often. I hung on for what seemed like an hour, for what indeed had been an hour, the lovely, unknown creature controlling the water flow, careful of excess, knowledgeable of my bills, my revenue, doing all in the realm of fantasy without dipping into a debt I could not recover from. And then, when I came out, finally released, I found all those arms, those tentacles hanging out of me, out of my hugely stretched cunny, squirming, moving about as I dried, being playful, at times sweeping me off my feet, connecting me to the ceiling again, making me hang upside-down and see myself with hair as it would have been under inverted gravity. I couldn't help it; I giggled, I laughed, I appreciated these spontaneous actions, the creature unpredictable, unreadable, making each and every minute of my life feel different. Hours passed. Days passed. I found that any hole on me was a viable hole for the creature to accomplish its wonders, I saw my nipples stretch with its presence, my rear given a new makeshift tail, the end of my cock given tentacle, to let it stroke itself without anyone's help. In my sex, I see a shaft, making love to me from the inside, juices pouring anew, making a mess of the floor, only for those nimble straws to lick it all up when it is over. I lie, in my debauchery, a multiple-legged taur, stretching from bedroom to living, to kitchen, back and over, finding myself before one of my multiple cunnies, licking away at folds puffy beyond reason, lips fastening over a clit soon looking like a cock, feasting upon a newfound narcissism, calling for my lover, to take this body over, to invite itself among me and multiply within me. I answer to kinks unheard of, to fetishes that would have been deadly to the common of mortals, to actions that physics would have never allowed. I meet heads, my heads, his heads, hydra of boundless love, kissing him and myself, exchanges two-way, three-way, four-way, degenerating into blowjobs and cunnilingus, into dirty words between breaths and teeth, into an incredible mess always cleaned up by the safety net, by those tentacles, those straws, drinking up with incessant hunger, rewarding each and every time I climax for him. Inside of me is a god, an omnipotent, omnipresent god, a shaper of my new reality, a perfect being born out of perfection many times over, almighty, eternally loving, allowing me the privilege to embrace my newfound state of being. Every part of my life becomes an escapade, an excuse for a renewed love. I sought distraction in a book, in a romantic, an erotic book, devouring its words, seeing them leave the page, feeling them enter me, make love to me as I discover the unfolding scene with eyes closed. Such a good book, such a deliciously story, an adventure in which I am the heroine, the addiction, fucked by this fictional character, fucked by the words moving inside of me, fucked by the creature with its amazing power over them, rendering any and all text into an imagined universe that feels more real than my own life. I ate fruits and vegetables, the round, the long, forced to feed many times over, seeing myself deep-throat a cucumber whole, only to see it escape my sex, intact, given back to me, to swallow again and taste my own honeys. In such, I swallowed and birthed food ever bigger, until, in a frenzy for more, I stretched my jaw around a watermelon... only to feel it within me, stretching my walls in return, forcing my legs open, my sex to reach its biblical proportions I have never quite grown used to, taking this newly birthed food and swallowing it again, and again, and again, until I doubled over onto myself and locked muzzle to sex, indulging in the guilty, excessive pleasure until I signaled for true digestion rather than sensual toys. I experienced a morning on top of a four-legged body without a head, driven to all the rooms of my house as I see fit, each movement causing my hugely stretched cunny to leak its juices all over the limbs of this being. I experienced an afternoon suspended to the ceiling, held upside-down by those tentacles and their suction cups, each demand, each movement a new pleasure that caused my voice to break down not in words, but in moans. I became a contorsionist, I became a twist, a turn, a spiral, able to turn in all directions, able to stretch and tie myself into knots, able to suck and lick myself, able to gaze into myself and see surprise after another, seeing erections of all sorts coming out to greet me, allowing me to suck and please them all. I took poses ever exotic, ever erotic, my bones existing only when it suited my fancy, his fancy, our combined ideas and ideals, my body an object, shaped into a bow, a circle, a figure-eight, the symbol of infinity - inspiration! I pierced myself, along limbs, along sexes, along the back into a corset, clothing myself in ribbons, in silk ropework, sealing my pussy with its laces and leaving the fabric to dig into the slit and reward each of my movements. I tugged at the giant hoops in my nipples, I played music on the golden chains that linked my body to itself, becoming a harp, becoming a fine lute, a xylophone, a magical instrument capable of clear and pure sounds, accompanied by voice and words spontaneous, improvised yet always beautiful. I tightened the links, seeking bondage, seeking a new form of pleasure, suspending myself, a chain flossed from muzzle to ass, suspended for hours on end, the sole act of struggling bringing me to the edge and over it, shoving me forward and sending me flying. I multiplied, duplicated, answering an insatiable need for more pleasure, more quickly, more intense, in more places at once. I gazed upon my erection and my wet folds, and I saw them grow, slowly, steadily, deliberately taking their time, a seam passing through them as I saw my cock split into two, my labia become three, my fingers instantly seeking this new gratification even as I grew more. I stared at a third shaft making its way out of my sheath, at my entire sex forming a seam again and moving apart, at my entire crotch as I saw it widen, as I gazed upon each cock doubling up, moving to each side, into respective sheaths. I fingered myself even as my sex became double twice, staring down to find a third hand whose introduction I had missed, watching my forearm, and then my entire limb slowly come apart and gift me with its new presence. With my one hand on the other side, I gripped one of my six hard cocks, waiting for my lover's magic to follow along to my intent, seeing my hand come apart before my eyes, and then the wrist, the forearm, all the way to the elbow and shoulder, gifting me with four complete hands to experience my newfound pleasure. I mutated, in an ever quicker fashion. I came from a few, only to see the others at the ready again. I ran out of holes to finger, my sexes dozen, my pace maddening, four slits and four tight stars between my widening hips and my two, my three, four, five, my six legs and its complex bundle of asscheeks, my mind finding new heights in this crazed experiment, losing count, remembering me being twenty-cunted before the numbers shuffled again. I grew my cocks, inch by inch, some getting bigger, some pouring out of their sheathes, until I was a hyperfertile impossibility, body in the dining room and tips somewhere in the kitchen. I gazed upon a veritable sea of pink, growing every second, unable to reach for myself, grinding my shafts against the floor in a desperate attempt to answer to my own urges. My waist became a needle, my chest and my hips thrice larger than before, bosom and rear round and firm, riding on long legs and strong thighs, feminity exaggerated to a ridiculous extent best enjoyed in private. Between my legs, I found my sex puffing out, swelling, inflating, under the effect of an invisible pump, coaxing me into reaching for it and grabbing it in lewd fashion, discovering a new kink in the way I saw my cunny take amazing proportions, its lips so fat they fought for space between my legs, underwear made useless, fabric only serving to rub at my slit and at its clit, so large a hand could not hope to conceal it, dripping with such abandon that I was able to retreat into the bathroom and fill the tub with nothing but my aromatic, therapeutic honey, overfilling it even as I leaked in the midst of my afterglow, watching the tentacles of my sex clean away with each mess I made. I found my own cock in a dildo, away from me, only to seize the one on me, and see it come away, cleanly, neatly, without one hint of pain. I took another, and another, and another still, gifting myself with a myriad of these intelligent, throbbing rods, my own to enjoy, to suckle, to insert, to place into ass and nipples, to feel the wonders of a man dozens of times over. I lost them, I lost so many into myself, gone into the universe that was my lover, feeling them in this great unknown, taken into slick depths, secret hidden away, pleasures even as I answered the door, blushing, taking my meal and paying in a hurry, forgetting to eat altogether, mind set only on when he would pleasure his hostages once again. My cocks, I never saw them back. What I multiplied and gave, he kept into the haven of my womb. He became the master of my sensations, able to turn me into an emotional, sexual wreck on a moment's notice, without even having to show himself. Him, her, what did it matter at all? He was a man, a woman, both and neither. He was all and naught, able to shape me, to shape himself, target of my subconscious, my feminine side, longing for a completion in the shapes of the tomboy, the energetic, the husky-voiced, the matter of fact against my irrational, the tenderness against my occasional bouts of strength, switch against switch, mental shapeshifter for all occasions, impossible perfection sought and never attained. I came to know my lover, my child, the god that I had birthed. He was a partner in crime, in lust, in passion, a lover but not a spouse. He was a companion, a supplement, a disciple, thanking me as a mother, just as I thanked him for his well-spoken intentions, in its actions and its control over me. He was my benefactor, my gift out of nowhere, given to one who was not worthy, but only a detail to the almighty that lived inside of me. On Sunday, he left me in peace. His hands explained that my daily life would resume, but he would wait like a faithful husband. I would perform my work, looking only a little bustier, a little curvier than before, and at home, I would meet him anew, privacy the ingredient to those restless nights that would threaten to leave me unproductive, but on the contrary, balanced my life beyond all expectations. I ceased my outings to the clubs. I gave rest to my escapades, my extravagant orgies among the horny males and the easy girls. I became collected, serene, in control, seeking to repay my gift by being a good mother, by showing my worth each and every day, smiling as I worked to beat my record of impeccability, each night after a good day's effort feeling like a just return for the sweat of my brow. In those rare moments where I flawed, I declined his advances, limiting myself to a tease of comfort, to a hug, to the warmth of his flesh and a shoulder to cry on. My ethics brought me away from this island that I've called home for so long. I took on a position that offered me the world, a few nights in New York, in Paris, in Geneva, Beijing, Bangkok, Moscow - name a major city of the world and I will say yes, I have seen it. My life brought me into bars, pubs, hangouts and speakeasies. I became part of a greater social order, above the chakra of sex, among individuals distinguished, in tuxedos and evening robes, over adjusted briefs and colored lingerie. I met of all species, of all origins, sometimes exotic, sometimes strange, sometimes conflicting, from the Angora cat in Tokyo to the serpent in Jerusalem. It was during this life among the high and the mighty that I met the flame that would not replace my flame, but supplement it further. I had seen hir, androgynous, rare breed of privileged hybrids, marketing mastermind who had begun with hir own body, a tasteful mixture of coon, of wah and of tigress all into one. By the first drink, we knew each other's name. By the second, we had forgotten all about profession, and had gone to know about the personal. I complimented hir composure, hir posture, hir body, hir mind, hir every being from head to toe, within and without. I called bluff on hir advantageous curves, on hir body too beautiful to be true, on hir sharp wit and hir good morals. I thanked the world for letting hir exist, and I cursed it for making this precious treasure so rare. Nonetheless, one was enough, always better than none. I invited hir to my suite, to discuss further, away from the noise. I saw hir rear subtly fill out in hir pants, turning hir svelte appearance into a feminity I had not suspected. I proposed that we do away with the formalities of profession and discuss straight and to the point. Just as I reached to undo the zipper of my gown, sie understood, and began to reciprocate with the buttons of hir blouse. Down to naught but underwear, in panties kinky, in bras useless, we spoke softly, quietly, planning an evening of romance and philosophy. Simultaneously, we looked below, curious. We smiled. From our sexes, a pair of tentacles had lovingly coiled around one another.