In Corpore Sano - Part Eighteen

[tekuno]

Yay, my rib is doing somewhat better, to the point where I actually rolled over on one side in bed last night (haven't been able to do that without pain in a month!) and mowed the lawn this afternoon. Still hurts, but much less than before, and that's progress.

The bad news is that I'll be unable to spend much time on this story for most of the second half of this week. It is, as you can probably tell, headed towards a climax. I'm going to make a serious push to get it done in time so as not to leave you hanging, but if there's nothing by Wednesday night, then I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until (probably) Saturday night. (Visiting with family until then, and I may have to catch up on other things when I'm done.) There's a couple of parts' worth to go, which I will post as a single, very long part instead if I finish it in time.

(Also: I went back and changed the content warning at the beginning. This story has run into macro range, to a limited extent, so it wasn't quite accurate.)

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In Corpore Sano
Part 18

This story has been completed. Content warnings and general description are included with the prologue, general commentary is in the comments following the epilogue.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Epilogue

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The sun eventually came up. My body didn't seem to be aware of the fact, or to have noticed the passage of time in any way. It had coated most of the room with semen, and the pool looked more and more disgusting. The mirror suggested that I had reached and passed 11 feet at some point during the night.

The sunlight streamed into the room, and -- thank goodness -- before long the glare made it impossible to see my reflection any more. My body finally stopped its frantic masturbation and stalked through the sticky mess back into the house.

Everyone seemed to have packed up and left. The three men on the first floor were gone, and when my body went upstairs the masked man and the two frat rats were gone as well.

My body wandered around the house. Presumably it was in search of someone to fuck or another mirror, although I had no more idea of its motivations than I had control over its motions. When it came back down to the first floor, there was a sound of giggling, which my body followed. To the kitchen.

Paul was sitting at the kitchen table where we had eaten a few days before. He was cross-legged on the floor, but was now so incredibly huge that he still had his arms resting comfortably on the table. He was staring down, over his bulbous pecs, at his hands. His head had about a foot of clearance.

He frowned down at them for a moment, and they moved, and he relaxed and giggled again. My body decided that it wasn't worth finding out what was so fascinating, and walked over to Paul and started doing a sort of worship session. (It was a bit awkward, since both of us were now so large.)

"What? Oh, hey, Scotty. Got the third floor working now." Paul was grinning from ear to ear, looking down at the table. But, of course, my body wouldn't look down, so I couldn't see what he was holding.

"Geez, you're turning into a big fucktoy now, aren't you? Oh, yeah, that reminds me." Paul got to his feet, knocking me back. He had to walk bent over now, with his legs bent. He walked over to a tall cabinet in the corner and took out an enormous thick-walled glass (clear plastic? I never found out) container; it was the size of a large barrel, perhaps three and a half or four feet in diameter, and taller than the countertops. He unscrewed the lid, laid it gently on the table, and sat back down in the middle of the floor.

"Gotta have this ready for tonight." He held the container between his enormous legs and started to masturbate. My body ran forward and started licking his enormous cock -- really, it had to be more than five feet long now, and it was significantly thicker around than his head.

"No, Scotty. No! Dammit, back the fuck off!" Paul gave me a backhanded swipe which sent me flying across the kitchen. For the first time, I was glad that my mind was disconnected from my body; as with the erotic sensations, I could sense them without exactly feeling them, and when my body hit the wall, it hurt. Not that it seemed to make much difference. Whether it was the thickness of my muscles protecting me from harm, or simply that whatever was controlling my body was too horny to let injuries get in the way of sex, my body was back on its feet within ten seconds, and immediately headed for Paul again.

"Oh, for-- look, at least stay out of the way!" This time, Paul pushed me behind him. That suited both me and my body just fine. My body started rutting with the muscles of Paul's back -- my cock went sliding up and down his spine -- while I got to look over his shoulder and see what was going on. Perhaps the bar was now set very low, but after being forced to watch my body masturbate for so long I was eager for any variation, even if it was only to watch Paul do the same thing.

Paul sat and rubbed his cock. It got boring fairly quickly, and my mind wandered some more. After a while, I came, coating my chest and Paul's upper back with semen. But of course that didn't stop my body, and it seemed like almost no time at all -- although the clock on the microwave said it had been nearly half an hour -- before my cock erupted again.

That was something to think about. Paul seemed to be taking forever to reach orgasm. Not that this was news; he had taken well over an hour when he raped me, and a longer time each time we had sex before that. Still, it served to focus my attention on Paul's efforts, which was when I noticed: Paul had six fingers on his left hand, and four on his right hand.

I wished I could control my body, even just a little. This was something weird, and I wanted to rub my eyes, and look from a different angle to see if I was hallucinating or imagining it. (After all, I had now been awake for 48 hours or so, and although I didn't feel like sleeping at all, going without sleep can do funny things to you.) I counted repeatedly, whenever I happened to have a good view, and the result was the same. Four fingers on his left hand, six on his right.

Wait, hadn't it been the other way around? Four on the right? I was pretty sure that's what I had seen a moment ago. I had been thinking how it was probably bad because Paul was right-handed, and now he was short a finger. But now there were six fingers on his right hand.

No, there were five. And five on his left. As my body came again, releasing another spray of semen which managed to spurt up between my pecs and onto Paul's hair, I wondered whether I had imagined the whole thing.

Paul gave a grunt. "Uh, god, so close." He giggled again. "Hey, Scotty, watch what I can do with the eggs." He gave another grunt, and shifted his torso around. I fell back for a few seconds before my body was able to adjust; I suppose it couldn't understand language any more, and had been taken unawares.

There were five arms rubbing Paul's cock. Two from each shoulder, and one which seemed to come from his crotch. It was easy to tell which arms were the new ones; they had an extra joint and the fingers were floppy and prehensile and stretchy. I would have liked to have thrown up.

"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Fucking business! Eggs on the third floor!" All five arms went rigid as Paul finally came. The semen poured out of his cock in a stream, even more than I myself produced. Most of it went straight into the glass container, oozing down the sides until the container was about half-full.

"Heh. More each time. I knew I needed a larger container." Paul's voice was smug, and perhaps a little higher than it had been? It was difficult to tell, because -- being so large -- his normal voice was now about as deep as any I had ever heard. He got up, knocking my body back again, and carried the container over next to the sink. (The extra arms were gone again, much to my relief.) There, he reached into the cabinet below and pulled out a short hose, which he screwed onto the faucet. He put the other end over the side of the side of the container and ran cold water until the container was full. Then, from another cabinet, he pulled out a mid-sized bottle, about the size of a smallish cola bottle, which he stared at for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders, unscrewed the top, and poured the entire contents in.

"Food coloring," he said unnecessarily, as a deep blue cloud started to spread into the water. "The fuckers still don't realize they're drinking semen."

He screwed the lid onto the container, picked it up, and shook it hard. (Surely it was plastic, right?) The contents sloshed around and took on a uniform, sky-blue color. He put the container down, and turned to me.

"There, now we're all ready for the party, aren't we? We'll be seeing a few business faces tonight."

My body had stood masturbating through this whole operation. I had to admit that, insofar as I was any judge, Paul's body was such that this reaction was merited. Not only was he huge -- he still contrived to make me look tiny -- but his cock was huger than ever and still hard. If it had been vertical, given the height of Paul's crotch, it would have been rubbing on the ceiling, or maybe pushing right through. Instead, it hung forward at an angle, dripping. My body ran forward, and started to lick, sucking down every spare drop of semen it could find.

"Feels good, Scotty. And you're getting a lot more than they do, undiluted, for free. Pretty generous, huh?"

Paul's smile was unnerving. His face was now almost indescribably perfect, with high cheekbones, a beautifully-tanned and clear complexion, dazzling bright blue eyes, perfect stubble -- obviously somehow being kept in check by means other than shaving -- and muscular outlines which made him look stunningly attractive and powerful. If you could take a picture of the most attractive male model in the world, airbrush the picture until it was unrealistically, superhumanly god-like, and then bring it to life, and then ask it what it wanted to look like, it would have described Paul.

Except for the way his right eye kept swiveling between looking down and looking right while his left eye looked at me. That probably wouldn't be in the description at all.

Part 19

[nnnrg]

OK... there's a bit too much of the Warp Spasm going on there. Or whatever madness is infecting Paul.

It's possible for tentacle horrors to be slightly sexy, but Lovecraftian horrors who forget what their body is supposed to be like, that's just disturbing.


Still, as STORYTELLING it's quite effective

[convolution]

Wow, that was very creepy/cool

Scotty in wonderland ... or is that netherland