A Synful Twist

This isn’t what he wanted. That’s what he tells himself. Really, though, deep down, in the darkest pit of his now racing heart, the thing standing in his bedroom right in front of him is, in fact, exactly what he wants.

It all comes back to him. The night before. The meteor. He’d approached it carefully since the heat seemed intense, when all of a sudden it cracked wide open all on it’s own. Peering inside he saw it cradled in a membrane of dripping mucus like an oyster’s pearl. Against all sense of self-preservation he’d reached inside with gloved hands and drew out what could only be described as a huge egg, nearly the size of a football. It shimmered as he turned it about in the light of his headlamp, but despite it’s glisten it didn’t seem wet at all. Smooth to the touch in fact save for the latticework of bulbous veins winding their way across the surface.

From there his memories are patchy. Vaguely he recalls hiking back through the woods and making it back to his apartment. He remembers taking off his glove and venturing a trembling touch with his bare fingertips, finding the eggs surface surprisingly warm. There was even a little heartbeat. The very thought of it made his hand tremble.

Why did he do this? Every self-preservation instinct he had should have kicked on immediately. A veiny alien egg with a pulsing heartbeat? He’d seen Alien, he knew how these things ended up.

Looking now towards the closet he sees the door hanging open even though it wasn’t when he left. He must have stored the egg there and fallen asleep but...he can’t remember doing it. The last thing he remembers after touching the egg was waking up the next day with the memory of the previous night sitting snugly in the place where all bizarre dreams went when morning came.

He’d showered, ate breakfast, went to work. Even now his body still aches from eight hours of arduous retail. Being as skinny and quiet as he was it felt like sometimes others didn’t even see him, not customers, not his coworkers, and especially not his boss – that last one he took as a good thing. Sometimes he’d open up to others, strike up a conversation once he felt the person was someone he’d get along with. Inevitably, though, after enough exposure, the other person would get tired of his eccentricities, his seemingly unwarranted quirks of enthusiasm. Eventually this led to a state he liked to call “arms-length familiarity.” All his relationships were like this. His friends, his family, his neighbors. Potential girlfriends were like that too, but those were rare enough as it was. Through every one of them he got the sense that there was a part of him unexpressed, something concealed beneath his comfortable exterior that sat coiled...and he was starting to feel it to.

There was something there, some aspect of himself he couldn’t express as he was, like there wasn’t enough room in his every day persona for all the aspects of himself. All his life he’d been drawn to superheroes and comics because the people in those stories had what he craved...the alter ego, the other, heightened self. He was especially drawn to the clinging costumes, the masks, those amazing transformations they would make by donning their second skin and bringing that other half of their life to the forefront, subsuming their normal, mundane self and concealing it so that all limitless parts of themselves could have room to play and be free.

Every day, late into the night, he’d browse websites, look at pictures, and read stories and comics that exemplified this desire, gave shape to it. The fetish aspect wasn’t lost on him, but he wanted to believe it was deeper than that...or did he. The more he thought about it, the more he dwelled, the more extreme this other persona would look to him. He’d see it in his mind, sketched out and taking form, drawing from a number of sources and inspirations until it began to take a life of it’s own own, escaping boundaries of himself he never knew were there. It fascinated him, repulsed him sometimes, but his apprehension assured that whatever he felt it would always remain just as it had always been: the impossible, fetishistic fantasy of a lonely young man.

That is, until now.

Standing just feet away, bathing in a glorious beam of moonlight flooding through slatted blinds of his bedroom window, is her.

Her dark green, insectoid-like skin seems to glisten, just like the egg. That isn’t the only similarity either. All across her voluptuous, hourglass body subtle veins wind their way, only further accentuating her shape. Patches along her limbs and flank look almost like exposed muscles, themselves colored a darker green then the rest of her skin. The erect nipples at the peaks of her massive, well-supported breasts make him blush, but it’s the fleshy pink labia peeking from the slit in her crotch that makes the blood rush...elsewhere. The most hypnotic aspect, though, is her face. Her neutral expression can’t hide the plumpness of her dark-green, almost black lips, half open, fanged teeth just visible, along with the pair of large, glassy, pitch black eyes that one could sink in forever. All of this framed by a pair of pointed, elfin ears, and a mop of tentacle hair pulled back, cascading to her shoulders. All this put together is what made her, his other.

He wants that face so fucking bad. He wants that to be his face, his body. Almost involuntarily he begins to touch himself. As if reacting to this the figure turns around so it’s back faces him and then leans forward 45 degrees. He can hear it before he sees it: the snapping, the squelching. When the seam appears along the alien creature’s spine and begins to split open he knows his wish is about to be granted. Slowly it begins to peel open, stopping just above the buttocks. Before light can spill in to reveal the inside he can see the glisten of dripping, mucous-like fluid dripping and spilling along the edges. Once fully open the moonlight finally reveals her hollow interior: a lining of wet, bulbous, gooey pink flesh shifting and undulating, beckoning for his own flesh to meet it.

He doesn’t hesitate.

In a flash he tears off his work shirt, unbuttons his pants, and slips off his boxer-briefs, revealing himself to already be half-erect. Stepping forward he feels the thrill of a chemically induced certainty enflame his brain. Nothing about this is safe or understandable, he realizes, but he knows that him slipping into that alien skin is just about the most inevitable thing in his whole life. Whatever happens after he’d just have to take.

Gingerly he reaches out and touches the suit’s waist as he prepared to bring his left leg up to feed into it’s leg sleeve. An electric shock seems to travel up through his finger tips. He laughs softly, but doesn’t know why. A musty sweet scent greets his nose as he leans forward, preceding his first real glimpse of what the suit has in store for his lower body. A small vaginal opening at the crouch, well above where the exterior one was, is clearly meant for his dick. It pulsates and undulates just like the rest of the interior. He doesn’t know exactly how he’s going to fit there’s no room for a sleeve. Further back, right in the middle of the seat where his butt would go, is a foot-long fleshy shaft, and where that’s meant to go is all too clear.

No stopping now, though. Any hesitation is fleeting. Standing on one foot he lifts his left leg and lowers it down, down, down towards it’s corresponding opening. It’s only as it reaches it that he realizes he’s shaking. As his toes touch the flesh, though, and the wet warmth begins to seep into his muscles, all of a sudden the quivering stops. After that sliding into the leg sleeve seems almost trivial. The caress of the undulations practically guides him, gently goading his penetration with seemingly practiced ease. As the soles of his feet finally touch bottom and slip forward, those undulations carefully but efficiently guided his toes forward to slip into their corresponding slots. One foot firmly in place. He repeats the process with the other foot, but stops partway down. He can practically feel the suit’s impatience.

A line is about to be crossed. He can feel the shaft gliding and poking around his crack, looking for entry, it’s tip occasionally grazing it. He isn’t gay. He feels pathetic having to reaffirm that in his mind, there’s nothing wrong if he is, but there has to be that distinction in his mind for what he’s about to allow and likely take pleasure from.

Like he said, no turning back now.

He resumes lowering his leg. At first at a snails pace put quickly picking up speed. The shaft’s search narrows and narrows, the snap of it’s movements more feverish, more deliberate, until after another graze over his entrance it stops. The first thing he feels is the pressure of the tip. It doesn’t shove it’s way in, it’s pace of entry is steady. The first few inches he doesn’t feel much of anything, just a bit of pressure...until it reaches his prostate. The bloom of warmth and electricity blooming in his abdomen is like nothing he’s ever felt before. He’d read about it, but didn’t think the feeling would be this different. Deeper and deeper the shaft goes. His mouth falls open and an involuntary moan escapes his mouth. Finally his foot reaches it’s destination and his butt finds it’s corresponding cavity for it to rest in. Almost immediately the shaft stops burrowing, but he can still feel it’s slight undulations. He takes a brief moment to feel his new, dump truck ass, but realizes that time is short. If he doesn’t find a place for his dick soon the suit’s goo wont be the only liquid lining it’s insides.

With his hand he grabs his dick, now at full mast and practically throbbing, and guides it towards the yonic opening. Just as he’s about to reach around with his other hand to bring the front of the suit up all of a sudden the front of the suit rises up to him on it’s own accord. All questions of how his dick would fit vanish in an instant as the opening devours it. The phantom vaginal shaft feels tight, possessively so, but it’s slimy lubrication ensures an easy and pleasurable entry.

Finally, he feels the dam burst.

“Fuck...fuck...fuck...”

His body goes rigid, his brain flooding with sexual chemicals as his muscles spasm in the throes of the most godly orgasm he’d ever had. He can feel the cum surging from his insides, through his shaft, and out into...something. Wave after wave after wave. It feels like it’ll never stop until eventually, slowly, it does. His body slackens in the afterglow, but the intruder continues to undulate, pleasuring him constantly. Contentment is replaced with confusion as more warmth seems to fill him. The feeling is unmistakable but it didn’t make sense. All the same he lets it overtake him. He cums again, but this time there’s something else to it. He’d never had multiple orgasms back to back before. There isn’t any cum this time, he’d used all that up. He Doesn’t need any. The explosion he feels in his insides is already enough to make him cross-eyed.

In these throes of pleasure he realizes this will just keep happening until he finishes the process. Recovering he straightens up, brings his arms in, and feeds both of them into the suit’s sleeves. About halfway in, he pauses and realizes the suit is again rising on it’s own and he doesn’t have to do anything. His attention then turns to the inside of the suit’s chest which quickly rises to meet him.

“Breasts. I’m going to have breasts” is the last thing he thinks before the lining meets his skin. The process from there is quick. The open flaps of the back fold together, and he can hear the squeak and squelch of the flesh knitting together, sealing him in. His cocoon of slime fills him with perfectly tuned warmth. It’s then that he starts experimentally moving his limbs. It feels clumsy, like he was wearing full-body padding. He can’t even feel anything through it. The suit is obviously thicker than he is, so maybe it’s to be expected, but still he can’t stave off the bitter disappointment of how much the suit felt...well...like a suit…

...for a moment at least.

All at once something seems to surge into his spine, and the suit tightens hard and fast against all facets of his human body. At first it feels like an electric shock but it doesn’t make him rigid. Instead it almost feels like his body is liquefy, even melting. All sense of feeling from the neck down blurs. He can’t even feel the shaft or his dick anymore. It was undeniable, he and the suit were becoming one.

“Ha...here we go...here we go-ahhhh...”

The first sensations that return are his fingertips. The brush of his bedroom air felt divine against his clawed fingertips. His feet are next, graced with the rough texture and friction of his shag carpet between his toes. Up his limbs the feeling goes. It’s advance in his legs halts at the pelvis. Clearly the suit knows to save the best for last. The wave from his arms, on the other hand, remain unimpeded. First it creeps across his shoulder blades, then along his back until finally…

“ooooohhhhh...”

His breasts finally come into being. The weight of them is the first thing he notices. The air, which already felt divine on his fingertips, now feels ecstatic against the breasts nipples – HIS nipples. He brings his hands in, cupping them, then squeezing. From the outside they seemed so firm, unnaturally suspended in shape, but his fingers quickly discover a wonderfully fatty softness as they press in. He wishes he could squeeze them for hours.

He barely gets acquainted with his chest when the suit decides now is the time to finish the job. It comes in a rush. First his ass, then his stomach, then…

“Oh fuck...”

His mouth drops open as he feels something burrow into his crotch and take form...his new vagina. Tears form at the corners of his eyes. They’re not from pain, though he’s not sure they’re from pleasure either.

All at once the feelings stop, and there they stands. He looks down trying to get a look at his new body, but the head of the suit, which hangs off the front of the neck, blocks his view. A new urgency takes him. He has to see it. He has to see it while he’s still “him.”

Walking quickly towards the door he immediately notices the spring in each of his step, the ease at which his new legs bear him along. Taking an immediate right he enters the bathroom and turns to face the mirror, and his eyes go wide. His body is absolutely statuesque. Every breath he takes is reflected in the heave of his ample bosom. He turns about, checking out his ass, getting an eyeful of every facet, every glistening curve of his new body.

He strikes a pose, popping his hip out and bringing his hands up to cup his breasts. Every second passing he feels more and more of his inner, other self seeping out. His eyes drift down to his vulva, glistening noticeably more than the rest of the suit. With one finger he gently presses and strokes where he assumes his clit is, sending an immediate shiver through his body.

“Let’s save that for later, shall we” he muses.

Arms at his sides, palms down he juts his chest out, giving his mirror image a coquettish look – that vague kind of look models give when they want to seem innocent, yet sexual, eyes unfocused and relaxed, mouth half open.

But what of his face. He certainly likes it. He’d recently shaved, which gave his male features a much more androgynous edge. But he knows it isn’t enough. Maybe for his normal self, his mundane self, but for his other self, the one that at that very moment strains against it’s confines like a fire in his chest the only avenue towards freedom was a more...radical change. No, this face wouldn’t do at all. He knows he’ll need it again later...after his other has a chance to play a little, but even as the prison of his heart threatens to burst he knows he needs to take it slow. The hallowed moment of change is immanent, but like sex they both know it needs a little foreplay first.

He looks down at the mask hanging from his neck and smirks.

“All right, dear” he said way sexier than he thought he was capable “time to open up for me.”

There’s a moment of nothing, then that familiar snap and squelch of the suit’s biological mechanisms working their magic. The tendril hair parts, and the back of the mask’s head peels apart like a blooming flower – a pink, fleshy, slime dripped flower. Inside at the mouth is a large, veiny, bulbous shaft, like the one in his ass, waking up and extending. Two smaller tubes emerge from the nose cavity.

It’s time.

He takes one last glance at the mirror. In his eyes, beyond the glint of lust, he catches a glimpse of the last bits of his masculine self’s last bits of doubt fading more and more into the background.

“Buh-bye” he says, bouncing an eyebrow “time to let her drive for a while.”

He looks down and places his hands carefully on the face of the mask then pushes it up towards his own face. He brings his head down a little, inching his mouth open. His heart thumps harder, stoking the imminent inferno. The shaft bobs and undulates, searching closer and closer. He lets out a breath, grazing the shaft, and it freezes a centimeter from his lips. He let’s his tongue hang out, and ever so gently grazes the surface of the shaft, with each lick growing more intense. His eyes focus with equal intensity on the black lenses of the masks eyes. Completely impenetrable. Soon they would be his eyes...or rather hers.

Finally, he wraps his lips around the end of the shaft and presses the mask in. Deeper and deeper the appendage goes, past his teeth, over his tongue – no, surrounding it. His tongue slides into a sheath, one that clearly corresponds with the suit’s own tongue. The world grows darker, his thrill too. He starts breathing through his nose, but as soon as he does the nose tubes lash out and jam themselves into his nostrils, burrowing up his nasal cavity. He start trembling. This is it. He presses the mask up while bringing his face nearer and nearer to the inner lining. By now the mouth tube is firmly in his throat, and even though it begins forcing itself down his windpipe, for some reason he doesn’t gag. His nose touches the lining first, and as his face presses against the soft, slimy, alien lifeform he feels it mold to his features, adapting it’s shape to accept it’s gracious, oh-so-willing host. His teeth slide into something, a mold. A brief panic washes over him as he realizes he can’t open his mouth anymore. Behind him he can hear the petals of the back of the mask quickly fold in and press against the back of his own head, smushing his hair down and sealing the mask shut with a squelching squeal.

Then...darkness.

He is sealed inside, devoured by the alien skin.

The mask squeezes, forcing something into his ears which allows his hearing to return. The tube in his mouth and throat blooms and expands, latching on and molding to his vocal cords. His heart flutters. The inferno inside pulses once, then again, and then...it bursts, flowing out to his limbs and surging up into his brain. He’s changing. She’s emerging, smothering him, covering him, sealing him. He...no...she is being born. She gasps, air surging through the tube and into her lungs then out again. Already she can hear the edges of her new voice. She’s not just any woman. No, she’s a goddess, a demon of sex, lust, and violence, descended from the stars to toy with the pitiful humans of his planet to her whims. She can go anywhere she wants, fuck whoever she wants. She can see herself on rooftops, towering in her nakedness in the moonlight, unafraid and unashamed of anything, because what could possible hurt a goddess? She’s not new, she’d been in the heart of her male self this whole time. So what if the suit was influencing her a little, who cares? She’s free. She’s free. But who is she. Who…

…

...the tightening stops. The fire fades. She feels the air on her face and lets out a long, luxurious breath, hearing the edge of her voice again. Slowly, she opens her eyes…

...and there she is.

The voluptuous, green-carapiced goddess, who for so long had only existed in their wildest fantasies stood there reflected back at her, whole and complete. She moves slow, almost unsure of what to do with herself. She reaches out with her hand and places her fingertips against those of her mirror self, and leans forward, studying her features. She takes her free hand and guides it along her tendril hair, which contracts and expands slightly at her touch.

She gasps a single laugh.

“Why hello there, beautiful” she says, her marvelous, husky, alto voice spilling out of her mouth like aural chocolate. She catches a glimpse of her teeth. Grinning she parts her plump, dark green lips and bares them, finding a complete set of pointed, pearly white teeth, with gleaming, serrated fangs in place of incisors. Her tongue peeks out from behind her bottom teeth, a pink mound of muscle. Moving it about seemed all too natural, and with an experimental flick she stuck it out of her mouth. To her great surprise it spills out further and further, not stopping until it’s three times as far out as a normal, human tongue.

“Ooh” she cooed “Got any more surprises for me–”

That’s when it struck. The urge. The yearning in her sex. She’d never felt such an obscene thirst when she was her male self. This wild hunger, tugging at her mind, grips her with an all encompassing need to fuck. She’d looked at her body long enough. Time to put it to work.

With a bounce in her step she strides back into her bedroom and makes a beeline for the closet. No time to find a mate, she’ll just have to make do with herself now. Thankfully her other had found just the thing. Back when he first saw the still sealed box near the dumpster he at first thought nothing of it except for the shiver it sent down his spine, but as he walked away something piqued in the back of his mind. It’s not like he was going to use it, he thought. He was half right, of course, it wasn’t really “him” that was going to use it. Digging and throwing stuff aside, she burrows deeper into the mountain of junk until at last she finds it, still in it’s box: a foot-long, thick as hell dildo, fresh and unused.

With her claws she tears the packaging apart and pulls the lovely appendage out. Stepping back into the moonlight she holds it up, it’s plastic sheen glistening in the moonlight just like her skin. The thought of shoved it deep inside her pussy makes her even wetter, and she can feel drivelets of lubrication spilling in streaks down her leg. Suddenly, almost involuntarily, she brings the base of the dildo to her mouth and laps it with long, slobbering licks. For a moment she’s confused until she grabs a large, flat piece of wood leaning against the nearby wall – which her other had meant to use as an addition to his desk – and plants the dildo squarely in the middle of it and drops it on the floor. The dildo didn’t budge and inch...adhesive spit, another charming surprise.

With her means of pleasure in place she kneels down, dancing and waving her hips as she does so, until she’s on her hands and knees. The way her hips sway over that shaft, the way she effortlessly grazes it’s tip only parting her lips just enough to tease herself, it feels like she’d been doing this all her life. On one pass, though, the tip catches just a little and she knows it’s time. Slowly she lowers herself, feeling the pointed tip breech her outer flaps. At first it’s just pressure, but at two inches in the bloom of heat in her pelvis begins – different to the shaft in her ass – and her mouth drops open. Her lubrication eases it’s entry, but it’s so thick that she can’t help but release the loudest, horniest fucking moan she’s ever given in her life.

“This is what it feels like, huh” she mutters between gasps. She trembles, having to force the last few inches until finally her crotch lays flush against the wood, her womanhood completely filled.

But even as she basks in it, she knows it’s not enough. It’s not enough to simply be penetrated, she has to be fucked. Quickly she brings her hips up, the dildo slipping out of her (which felt almost as good as it going in). She smiles. No easing it in this time. She impales herself, wringing another gasp from her, but no sooner does she do this she was already drawing it out. Over and over again she did this, riding her artificial lover like a slut in heat. Rivers of warmth flow through her blood. Her head tilts sideways, her tongue lolling out like a wild animal.

“Fuck yeah” she moans “FUCK YEAH!”

Her new self begins to coalesce, solidify, seal itself into being as she slips with ease into the suit’s rhythmic guiding of her masturbatory movements.

“Who are we...” she gasps, bringing one hand up and gliding it down the side of her face “who am I” she moans.

She feels the edge coming...but not yet. She can’t cum yet. She needs a name. To give her womanly self true form she needs a name because names have power. Her mind races, but stumbles as wave after wave of unholy pleasure bowls over every rational thought. It’s there, at the edge of her mind just out of reach. She grasps for it. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Almost –

“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”

The pleasure crests. She crashes past the point of no return. Her mind clings at the name – her name – and with that name is ready consecrate it in the blaze of her first womanly orgasm…

...and then...she came...

“WE ARE SYN!!!” she roars.

The fabric of the universe cracks open. Her hips buck. Her whole body quivers. She screams. Everything goes white. Eternity. A vision from the stars of glorious purpose. Of conquest. Her pussy gushes as she tries to hold the artificial cock inside of her. And then, slowly, she slides back down to earth, the glow fading.

“We are Syn” she recites like a mantra.

Her womanhood, still impaled and oozing on the plastic phallus, buzzes and pulsates with temporary satisfaction.

“We are Syn.”

With deliberation she stands, allowing the instrument of her pleasure to slip out with a sickening schlick.

“We are Syn.”

She rises to her feet, standing tall, tilting her head back as she absorbs the moonlight still streaming through the window. In this moment she truly is a goddess. Her fingertips scoop up her vaginal fluids and brings them to her face, allowing them to glide down her features and onto her breasts.

“We are Syn.”

But what of him? Her masculine other? Well, he would just have to wait. Eventually she’d let him out. He was a part of her after all. But now was her turn, at least for a little while, until she had her fill.

“We are Syn.”

Thoughts begin to fill her head, ideas of what to do, where to go, and who to fuck. She looks to the window, walks over, flicks the latch with one finger, and with ease pulls the bottom pane up until there’s just enough space to slip out. She feels a crisp evening gust blow in against her luscious form. It promises freedom. The possibilities for her are endless, and it’s time to explore them.

Thoroughly.

Carefully she climbs out, adhering to the side of the building by her finger and toe tips like a spider. Finally she is born, and as she pulls herself over the lip of the roof and stands tall in the whip of the chaotic wind and the pulsing energy of the night flows through her, one thought echoes in her mind:

“We are Syn. We are Syn. We are Syn. We are Syn...”