The Transformation Story Archive Strange Things and other Changes

Adsorbing Passion

by S. B. Douglass


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Part I

My eyes closed as his hands slid over what was left of my face, and I knew that they would never open again. It's funny, I still think of him as a man, even though in the last week or so, he's begun to look quite feminine, and even though he's surely not a human.

I was beyond panic as his hands slid over my lips and cheeks to my chin, then up over my breasts, gently massaging me, giving me intense pleasure by merely touching what little flesh I could still call my own, and then stopping, leaving me alone with no sensation. I was separated from the world, alone with my thoughts and memories.

My memories? At least I still had my own memory to draw on. I was Cheryl Anne Smith, I knew that, and I held onto it as the one personal posession I still owned. As long as I had my own name, my own identity, I was still there, no matter how little of the rest of me remained.

How long had it been since I had a proper body? It seemed like only yesterday that I'd gone out dancing, dressed to kill, and yet it must have been much longer. I remembered too many sunsets, too many long talks with Ron. How long had it been? What had happened to my sense of time?

How long had it been since I'd first set eyes on Ron as he stood by the edge of the dance floor? He'd been wonderfully handsome, attracting me from the moment I saw him. Had I really walked up to him and asked him to dance? He was a perfect handsome stranger, and when he spoke he was hypnotically romantic. I'd been so taken by him that I hadn't even asked his name until after I'd made up my mind to try to get him into my bed.

Thinking about our meeting made me want to scream, or at least it made me wish I could want to scream. There's too little of me left to actually scream, and worse yet, there's not enough of me left to even want to scream. It had all started so well. Perhaps I was foolish to bring him home with me when I left the bar, but it felt so good at the time, and who'd have imagined what he really was.

I'd gone out to pick up a guy and have a fun evening and some sex, and I remember thinking as I let Ron into my apartment that I'd done very well. Ron and I had sat down on my couch to talk, but we didn't talk for long. A comfortable romantic silence had fallen over us as we looked into each others' eyes. There's a turn of phrase that fits what we'd done, we'd undressed each other with our eyes. We'd done it silently, and then we'd gone on to undress each other with our hands.

Everything had seemed not merely normal but better than normal as he'd undressed me, gently unbuttoning my sheer blouse and peeling off the tight little miniskirt I'd worn. He'd carressed my body with such love, or at least, that's how it had seemed. He'd gently touched every part of me from fingers to toes as we'd played on my bed.

He'd said that he hungered for me, and I'd responded with such lust, pulling him to me after I stripped off the last of his clothing. Would something as simple as a condom have saved me? I'd cooperated with him; there was no doubt about that. Worse than that, I'd enjoyed it even after I discovered that things had gone awry.

That was the aweful thing. Even now, the memory is pleasant, now that I know exactly what he wanted from me. I can't help but enjoy it. After I'd undressed him, I'd pulled him to me on the bed, thrusting my hips at him, lusting for his penis within me. He'd entered me swiftly, and it had been wonderful. I'd never had multiple orgasms before, but that night I came as he entered me, and then I remember coming again and again, long into the night.

I must have blacked out with the pleasure, because the next thing I remember is the morning sun streaming in through my bedroom window. His penis was still deep inside me, and I was in mid climax. I remember his smile after he climaxed, and I remember eagerly clenching him to me with my legs, happy to keep him in me as we relaxed.

He rolled off me without pulling free, then helped me up into a sitting position on his hips. "Good morning," I remember saying. He smiled up at me as I enjoyed the sensation of his penis within me.

"Want to call in sick?" he'd asked, gently carressing my breasts with his fingertips.

I remember giggling as I sat on him, then calling the office from my bedside phone. I didn't want to let him out of me, and as I talked to Jeanne at the office, I remember idly rocking my hips on him, starting the two of us along the road to another orgasm.


I was startled back from my memories by the feel of his thighs against my cheeks. Was he walking? The rhythm was right, and then there was a pause and I felt myself start to gag. I felt the familiar pressure in my throat and moments later, I vomited. I was used to it, but it was horrible nonetheless. It wasn't so much the taste of it as it was the thought. What was I throwing up, how was I reduced? What could there possibly be left for me to throw up? He wiped my mouth, and then I felt the pace of his walk again.

I returned to my dreams, remembering the moment I'd discovered that Ron had trapped me. It had been shortly after I'd called the office, and we were talking quietly on the bed, still locked together as we worked our way towards another orgasm. I'd been on the bottom at the time, and I laughed as I pushed him up and rolled us over so I was sitting on his hips.

"I've never met anyone who was so good at staying in a girl before," I'd said, smiling down at him.

"It comes naturally with me," he'd said, returning my smile.

"Want breakfast?" I'd asked, pulling away from him. I'd asked it more from habit than from hunger, but as I pulled, I discovered that I couldn't pull free of his penis.

"Hey! I'm stuck!" I remember saying.

"Yup," he'd said, still smiling, and then driving me to another orgasm. The orgasm hadn't peaked like a normal one; instead, I remember it continuing to rise in intensity forever, driving through my body with ever increasing waves of pleasure, making any questions I might have seem completely irrelevant in the face of such a total and immediate experience.

How long did he keep me under? I can't say, but the next thing I remember, it was dark outside as he held me in his arms. "You're still in me?" I remember asking.

"We're joined forever," he'd said.

I remember laughing. "Don't joke," I'd said, "we've made love all day. Let's take a break, wash up, go out for dinner."

"We can't," he'd said, and I lost track of time again as a wave of intense pleasure swept from between my legs and crashed through me.

He touched me, startling me back to the present as I felt his fingers on my breasts. I felt myself ache with anticipation as he gently touched my sensitive areolas. There was so little of me left that any touch, any sensory stimulus was heavenly, and as his hands left my breasts and slid down what was left of my chest to my clitoris, I lost all interest in what I was and how I'd gotten there.

It was over too soon, though, and I thirsted for more. I was hungry for orgasm, and it wasn't the same anymore. Why? Was there too little of me left? I wanted the intense love Ron had given me in our first days together, and he wouldn't or couldn't give it to me anymore.

It took me a while to get over my disappointment, and then I drifted back to dreaming. When had I first understood what Ron was doing to me? I remember drifting back from an orgasm, lying face to face with him as I slid my hand down his body to where our hips were joined.

I'd thought he was asleep at the time, so I slid my finger down between our bodies to see if I could dislodge his penis. I remember being confused for a moment about what I found. I couldn't find my vagina! Where his penis entered my body, it had felt like his skin simply blended into mine. I remember finding my clitoris, and below it, the skin had simply folded back to became the skin of his belly.

I don't think I screamed, but I remember gasping, startled, and then he'd touched my arm and slid his hand down to join mine, feeling what I was feeling.

"It's fun, isn't it?" he'd asked, grinning.

"But how do we I" I'd begun to ask.

"We don't," he'd answered, pulling me to him and silencing me with a kiss as he gave me yet another overwhelming orgasm.

"It is fun, isn't it?" he'd asked, when the orgasm ended.

"Yes," I'd said, terrified but speaking honestly.

"Good. It always is, you know."

"What's happening to me?" I asked.

"We're one, joined in body and soon in soul," he'd said, sliding his hand down my side to my hip and then off.

I remember looking down at our hips some time later. I'd rolled myself, onto him, it was daylight again, and I'd just called the office to say that I was still very sick. That was the first time that I could really see that our bodies were merging. The area of attachment between us had grown much larger than the size of his penis, and as I looked down, I remember being startled to see the smooth blending of our bodies.

Why didn't I object? Why did I call my office regularly, why didn't I struggle? Looking back on it, there are so many things I could have done that might have changed the outcome, but I'd done nothing.

Looking back on it, it's easier to measure time by how we were attached to each other than by what day it was. For example, it wasn't until my thighs were joined to him all the way to the knees that I asked why I wasn't hungry. It was a question I should have asked far sooner, but it was hard to think coherently when I was constantly interrupted by such glorious orgasms.

I was sitting on Ron when I asked the question. We were in what had come to be our usual daytime resting position; he was on his back with me squatting over him, my ankles by his hips and my knees beside his ribs. At first, there'd been other possible positions, but once my thighs had begun to bond to him, it was the only position.

"Why don't we eat?" I'd asked I idly traced a finger along the joint between our bodies. "Shouldn't I be hungry? For that matter, why don't I need to go to the bathroom?"

He'd smiled and pulled me to him to kiss me, then let his hands slide down my chest to finger my breasts.

"I never eat," he'd answered. "Right now, I'm adsorbing you."

I remember wanting to scream as his answer hit home, but I knew that there was no point to it, and he rewareded my patience by pulling me to him and gently kissing me before bringing me to another orgasm.

He'd kept me up, cresting from one orgasm to another for what must have been at least a full day after that, preventing me from asking questions or learning more about my fate. At that point, I can't imagine that either of us had much left in the way of genitals, other than my clitoris which was still exposed at the point where our bodies joined, but it didn't seem to have any effect on my ability to experience wonderfully intense orgasms.


My attention was wrenched back to the present by a growing pressure in my throat. I had to vomit again. Judging by the feel of his thighs on my cheeks, he was just sitting down, probably on the toilet. Why hadn't I noticed him walking to the bathroom, had I slept? Had I been so intent on my memories? Quite some time must have passed.

I vomited, and then, as he gently wiped my lips, I remembered the first time it had happened. "You've got to go to the bathroom," he'd said, pulling me up into a sitting position on him, then shifting his legs over the edge of the bed. "It's OK, I know how to do this," he'd said, and then he'd stood up, holding his hands under my armpits to support me as he carried me to the toilet.

His comment about my needing to go to the bathroom hadn't mad sense to me at first. As far as I knew, I was incapable of it because he'd adsorbed that part of me. I'd reached the point where my legs were almost gone. My hips emerged from the front of his, and somehow, it had begun to look almost natural, as if we were supposed to be joined that way.

With the bulk of my legs gone, I guess I was easy to carry, and the way he held me was even comfortable, but as he knelt by the toilet, I was overcome with the need to vomit. It had started as a barely noticable pressure in my gut, but it expanded almost instantly into severe nausea. I remember him helping to turn my head moments before I vomited, and then my memory fades. I have only dim memories of the next few minutes, but it seemed that I emptied myself of gallons of creamy yellow liquid before he helped me rinse my mouth and drink glass after glass of water.

"Better?" I remember him asking as I recovered.

"Yes," I'd said, "but I feel dirty."

He'd smiled at me, then sat on the edge of the tub and began filling it. For the next hour, I remember having a very enjoyable bath. I washed him, he washed me, we combed each others' hair, and generally behaved like childish young lovers, alternating useful cleaning with sex games.

It was like that for what could have been another week. I suspect that I was physically addicted to the wonderful orgasms he could give me, and I suspect that his body was taking control of my hormones, preventing me from feeling any sense of panic, terror, or anger. Intellectually, by then, I'd gotten used to being bound to him. I can't say that I accepted my fate, but I could face it calmly. I remember feeling twinges of regret about projects I knew I'd never be able to finish, but they were only twinges.

At night, we slept and made love, and during the daytime, we talked, danced, made love, and kept the apartment in shape. A few times, very early in the morning, we'd even gone down to the apartment mailbox and collected my mail, and then I remember spending enjoyable days looking things over, paying bills, reading magazines, and generally, keeping up the pretense that I was still a person.

I genuinely enjoyed that week, even as I noticed the changes in what was left of my body. My waist grew slim, until it was no thicker than my neck, rising from between his thighs almost like a huge penis. Ron never hesitated to let me see what was happening to myself, but whenever I questioned it, whenever I objected, he silenced me with his universal answer, another orgasm.


I was pulled back to reality by a splash of water on my mouth, and then the water entered me briefly. What was it? I tried to guess what was going on, and then it was obvious. Ron was taking a bath. I felt the water lap up over my nipples, and then I felt his soapy hands slide over them as he relaxed in the tub.

Another bath? How much time had passed? Why was he keeping my breasts? Why wasn't he adsorbing my mouth and cheeks? For that matter, why was I still alive at all? What perverse purpose was served by what was left of my body?

And then it dawned on me as his fingers slid down to my clitoris and touched my lips. He was using me to become a female! The way he'd adsorbed my body had let my chest fold back against his abdomen, with my head sinking slowly, over the days, into his crotch. Now, my mouth was where a vagina belongs, my chin was becoming his pubic bone, my clitoris was almost in place, slipping slowly towards my lips, and I suddenly knew that my breasts were sliding slowly up his body to grace his chest.

I felt a wave of anger, but I was horny; it had been a long time since I'd had an orgasm, and he gave me one, sliding his hand to what had been my chin, pressing on my clitoris, then sliding a finger to my mouth where I kissed it. He drove me to an orgasm, but it seemed like a hollow ring of what I wanted. Deep in what was left of me, I felt a growing hunger for something more.

I felt his touch again as he toweled himself dry, and then I felt his thighs move against me as he walked to bed. What would Ron call himself as a woman, I wondered. He'd never told me more than Ron, and that could as easily be Ronda as Ronald. What would Ron do as a woman?

The answer to the last question swept over me without warning. Ron was hungry, it was time to find a new person to consume. That explained my own deep hunger, and for a moment, the thought froze in my mind. Part of me wanted to die before participating in such an awful act. I wanted no part in consuming Ron's next victim. Or did I? Ron didn't victimize people, when Ron consumed someone, it was a wonderful experience, and I suddenly felt certain that part of every person Ron had ever consumed was still there, somehow, inside him the way I was inside him.

I drifted off to a dreamless sleep, and then it was morning. I knew it was morning even before I felt anything, and then I felt motion against my cheeks, and I knew it was time go get out of bed. What had changed? The answer came to me not as words, but as certain knowledge. My brain was being consumed. It was now attached to his nervous system, being blended into him as thoroughly as my body had been blended with his body, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I still had no sensation other than on my breasts, clitoris, lips and cheeks, but I knew. It was morning, Ron walked over to my bedroom mirror and looked at the reflection there. I knew that Ron was a beautiful woman, slim, intensely desirable, and hungry for a man. I knew that Ron stood in front of the mirror approving her looks as she combed her hair. I suddenly knew that it had been a full month since Ron had started consuming me! It had been August when we'd met, now it was September.

Ron walked to my closet and began to consider my clothing, pulling out dresses and looking at them. I felt it as she pulled on a skirt, and suddenly, it came over me that she was pulling on the very skirt I'd worn on that fateful evening when we'd met.

I felt the skirt slide tightly over what had been the skin of my neck and cheeks, but now that skin was on her belly and fanny, and then I felt the light touch of a blouse against my breasts. Was it the same sheer blouse I'd worn that night a month ago?

It was, I knew it, and I was powerless to do anything about it. I knew that Ron was stepping into my shoes, and then she stood at the mirror, admiring herself as she buttoned my blouse and tucked it into the elastic waistband of my skirt. She turned, smiled at her profile, then decided to shorten the skirt, pulling the elastic fabric up a few inches and turning the excess under at the waist.

Suddenly, I understood that the woman Ron had become looked like me. Ron had lost weight, moulding her body until it had my proportions, sculpting her face to have my looks, and even changing her voice to be my voice. Had she done it deliberately or was it a natural consequence of consuming me?

I could feel her hunger for a man, and I knew that hunger. I was desparate for the orgasms I knew she could give, I was desparate to feel a man's penis within my mouth, and I felt no remorse. Part of me wanted me to feel remorse, part of me wanted me to feel angry, but I couldn't.

She took a last look in the mirror, admiring the way my blouse almost hid my breasts, yet drew attention to them by the very fact that they weren't entirely hidden. She checked the hemline of my skirt, noting that it was almost indecently short, then she reached down and gently patted what had been my chin.

"Cheryl Anne Smith, let's go get us a man," she said. I didn't hear the words, but I knew what she was saying.

We walked out of my apartment, and I knew that we'd never return. I wondered how she'd go about adsorbing a man, and she answered my question, letting the knowledge flood into my mind. She'd adsorbed countless men in her long life. If a man chose to have sex with her orally, she could adsorb him head first, allowing her to keep his legs and genitals and adsorb her own if she wanted.

If she had conventional intercourse with a man, she could adsorb him the way she'd adsorbed me. She preferred to do it that way because it was more fun, allowing for weeks of pleasant conversation and play. The knowledge washed over me. I knew that the middle weeks were best. The first week with a new partner was solid orgasm, a necessary part of taming her victim. Then there were two weeks of fun, and finally, a week of adsorbing the last of her partner and preparing for the next.

While I grappled with this flood of knowledge, I knew that she was walking down the street, enjoying the approving glances of the men she passed on the sidewalk, drawing on centuries of experience in the art of attracting a new partner.

It was important to find the right man, someone who could provide a secure house for a month, someplace where there wouldn't be any interruptions. I knew that physical security wasn't enough, though. She wanted company while she adsorbed her next partner, so she needed a man she could like, someone fun to talk to. If she liked her partner enough, I knew that she'd keep part of him and integrate it into her own personality.

Was that what she was doing with me? The answer was obvious even before the question came to mind. Yes. Part of me wanted to back out, to die, to accept any end other than merger with this monster that consumed people. I knew what she was doing, though, I knew that she was slowly digesting that part of me, burning my flesh for energy until all that remained offered no resistance to a complete merger.

It was still before noon, and I felt her decide to visit the university. She walked there, arriving around lunchtime, and then she took a seat on a bench in the shade of an old oak tree. I knew this without seeing. I could feel the bench pressing comfortably against what had been my cheeks as she relaxed and watched the early fall crowds on the campus sidewalks, but it seemed like I could feel more, my sensation wasn't confined to what had been my own skin.

I knew that she didn't want a student, students couldn't meet her need for privacy and security during the time it took to adsorb them. She wanted a single faculty member, or even better, someone from the research staff, someone who lived alone but was old enough to own a small house.

Her glance fell on a good prospect, and she smiled politely as her eyes met his. I could feel the anticipation as he walked over to talk, and even though I couldn't see him, I knew that he was wonderful looking, a man to lust after.

As they talked, he mentioned his roommate, and that made him a poor prospect. Part of me cheered as a victim escaped, but that part felt smaller every time I noticed it. The larger part of me shared her disappointment as the man got up to leave. More and more, it was our shared hunger that I felt, not her hunger but ours.

As afternoon came, we met others, and our feeling of need heightened. I knew that Ron could adsorb any mammal, in desparation, but she preferred to hunt by stealth, finding partners she could enjoy instead of merely flesh to consume. How had she begun? There was no answer. Her oldest memories were only a few centuries old, and there were few from before my lifetime. She was a composite of her partners, yet there must have been something from before. I slowly became conscious of the fact that others among her many partners had speculated about what she was, and none of them had ever found a good answer.


My attention was pulled back to the present. She'd caught sight of a man I recognized, Roger Stearns. I'd dated him a few times and gone to bed with him once. A tiny part of me wanted to yell at him to turn away, but he was such a nice guy, such a good lover, and there was nothing I could do.

"Roger?" I called, as the last shred of resistance fell away from me.

He turned my way and then looked surprised. "Cheryl?"

"That's me!" I said, getting up from the bench and walking up to him.

"I heard you were sick," he said, looking concerned.

"I was," I said, smiling, rewarding him for his concern. "I was out of work for a month, but I'm OK now."

I knew what Roger liked. I knew him, and I'd had years, lifetimes of experience with other men like him. In no time, he offered to drive me to his place for dinner. All the while, his eyes were on me, entranced by my face, by my short skirt, and by my breasts. In the car on the way to his house, I set my hand on his thigh, and by the time we reached his house, he'd already found out that I didn't have on any underwear.

"Want to make love before we eat?" I suggested as he held open the door for me.

He said nothing, but led me into his loft bedroom and pulled back the bedspread from the satin sheets covering his waterbed. The feeling of anticipation sweeping through me was intense as I helped him undress, and as I freed his penis, I kissed it, full in the knowledge that if I wanted to, I could join with him right then and adsorb him through my mouth.

That wouldn't be fun, though, so even as the animal deep within me called on me to bond with him on the spot, I pulled back and finished undressing him, then let the desire build to almost orgasmic intensity as he undressed me. We laughed as he sat in the center of his waterbed and invited me into his lap, and then I came to him, squatting over him and taking his penis into me.

We bonded as he entered, and then I sat in his lap, gently stroking his wonderful body, content in the knowledge that it was now mine. My clitoris pressed firmly against his pubic bone, sending a thrill through my body, and then I pulled him to me and kissed him as we shared what I knew was only the first of many wonderful orgasms.

Part II

I was walking across campus on my way home from the lab when someone called my name. "Roger?" It was a familiar voice, a woman, but in the crowds of students filling the sidewalks, it took me a moment to see who'd called.

Then I saw Cheryl Smith, one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. "Cheryl!" I called.

"That's me," she said, getting up and walking over to me. God, she was beautiful, and she certainly wasn't shy about it. She was wearing a tiny elastic miniskirt that hardly covered her crotch and a nearly transparent blouse that covered but hardly hid her breasts.

"I heard you were sick," I said, remembering what Jim Davis had mentioned over coffee two weeks before.

"I was," she said, smiling warmly. "I was out of work for a month, but I'm OK now."

"Good," I said, "Jim mentioned that he'd heard it was pretty bad."

"Don't worry," she said, and then rested her hand on mine. "It's been a lonely month, though, and you know what? I was just thinking about you, about the last timeI"

The last time. We'd only been out on three dates together, but somehow, on the last one we'd ended up in bed. Cheryl had turned out to be as good in bed as I could have hoped, but somehow, we'd never managed to get back together after that.

"Want to come over for dinner?" I suggested, acting on impulse.

"Sure," she said, smiling as she stood there in front of me. "Where's your car?"

"In the West Engineering parking structure," I said. I'd meant to try to set a dinner date some time later in the week, but I didn't mind her misinterpretation.

She walked ahead of me at first, making it easy for me to admire her long legs and tight fanny. Her almost transparent blouse flowed loosely with the motion of her body, and she occasionally turned to smile at me as she walked, giving me glimpses of her beautiful breasts.

She held my hand as we approached the parking structure, and somehow, walking hand-in-hand with her was almost magical. We weren't just walking together, we were dancing. Dancing hand in hand, side by side. When she was close, she let her breast gently nudge my arm. When there was room, she danced along at arm's length, smiling happily at me as I watched the gentle bounce and sway of her breasts.

She got in the car with me, and as I drove out of the garage, she sat close to me with a hand on my thigh. It wasn't long before my hand was on her bare thigh, and she held it there with her other hand as we drove.

"You're acting pretty horny," I said.

"I am," she answered, sliding her hand up my thigh and letting a finger slip between my legs to rest on the soft bulge of my penis. "And you?"

Of course I was horny, in an abstract way, but as her finger touched the crotch of my pants, the abstract became very concrete. I slid my hand up her thigh to answer her gesture, and where I expected to find panties, I found smooth skin.

By the time we reached my house, I was ready to make love on the spot. As I let her inside, Cheryl began unbuttoning her blouse. I led her up the steps to the loft, pulled back the bedspread, and turned to her. She fell into my arms, kissing me full on the mouth, then started to unbutton my shirt. While I held her to me, part of me was curious to learn why she was so anxious to get me into bed, but mostly, I was swept away with anticipation.

She gently pulled my shirt from my shoulders, then undid the button at my waist and unzipped my pants. As she freed my penis, she took it into her mouth, plunging her head over it, threatening to drive me to a premature orgasm, and then she pulled free and grinned up at me.

I sat on the padded edge of my waterbed while she pulled off my sandals and finished taking off my pants, and then she stood in front of me while I finished unbuttoning her blouse and pulled the smoky grey fabric from her. I slid her tight elastic skirt down over her hips, and then she grinned as I gently slid my finger over the clean-shaven skin of her crotch.

I rolled onto the bed and sat in the center, cross legged, and she understood, crawling out to meet me. My penis stood out between my legs, hard with anticipation. She knelt over me, holding my shoulders to brace herself against the gentle bounce of the waterbed, and then she kissed me before she fell into my lap, thrusting herself down over my penis and laughing with joy as she wrapped her legs around my hips.

She almost drove me to a premature orgasm as she engulfed me, and then we sat there, hugging and kissing as she gently rocked her hips on me, grinding her clit against me as the look on her face changed from bliss to intense pleasure. She laced her fingers together behind my neck and leaned back, looking intensely into my eyes as I held her breasts. I could resist no longer! I felt myself explode within her, pulsating, riding the crest of orgasm as she rocked her hips on my lap and moaned with her own pleasure.

She hugged me tightly for a long time as she sat in my lap, and then she leaned back, fingers laced behind my neck as she smiled up at me. "I like your waterbed and satin sheets," she said.

The sensation of my still half-erect penis burried deep in her body was indescribably good. I didn't want it to end, but I felt obliged to be a good host. "Thanks. Want to get off me so I can whip up dinner for us? We can always fool around some more afterwards if you want."

She smiled at me, but there was something almost sad looking about her face. "Roger Stearns, I've got a thing or two to tell you."

"What?" I asked.

"I can't get off you," she said. "We're stuck together."

"What?" I asked. There was no way I could believe what she said, but at the same time, the tone of her voice and the intense look on her face made it clear that she was very serious.

"We don't have any choice in the matter," she said. "Try to pull out of me if you want, but I guarantee you that you won't be able to."

I tried to lift her off me, but my penis was locked tightly into her. She cooperated, lifting herself slightly as I slid a finger between us. My penis was stretched tightly, locked somewhere deep inside her, and I couldn't budge it.

"What the hell?" I asked.

She grinned ruefully. "Try to pull free, try hard. See what you can do to free yourself."

I pushed her onto her back and tried to lift my hips. I can't say how, but as I pulled, the sensation in my penis was incredibly sexual, and before I could accomplish anything, I found myself thrusting myself deep into Cheryl, pulling her to me as she squirmed with pleasure beneath me. The intense pressure of an orgasm came over me suddenly, and then it washed through my body as I pumped myself deeply into her.

Unlike any orgasm I can remember, it continued, sweeping me away, taking my self-control, until I was exhausted, barely able to think, and unable to continue any effort to pull free of Cheryl. It took me a long time to recover enough to think about what had happened, and longer to rouse enough energy to move or speak.

"Cheryl Smith," I finally said, "you've got a lot of explaining to do." I was lying spent beside her on my bed, still locked into her, with one hand between us exploring where my penis entered her vagina.

She smiled whistfully at me. "I was sick for the last month, you know, and now, you've caught it. A condom would have saved you. A guy named Ron caught me a month ago; he locked into me just the way you're locked in. Every time I tried to pull away, it ended in orgasm. The harder I tried to resist, the more pleasure he gave me. Now it's your turn."

I stared at her, not wanting to believe what she said, but she offered me no choice. The experience of the last few minutes was enough to convince me that she spoke the truth.

"What happened to Ron," I asked.

"You should ask, what happened to Cheryl," she said. "I look like her, I have all her memories, but mostly, the resemblance is superficial."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

She smiled, with a sad look in her eyes. "I'm telling you what you need to know. For most purposes, Cheryl's dead. This thing that I am is a monster, something out of a horror movie, a venerial disease. It's old, older than I know, and it eats people. Ron was a victim, Cheryl was a victim, and now you're going to be a victim. If all goes as it has for as long as I can remember, a month from now, Roger Stearns will have been consumed; what remains of him will be a part of me."

I laughed, trying to shrug off what she was saying. "Come off it! How do you expect me to believe that kind of nonsense."

"What you believe doesn't matter," she said. "It's happening, though, and I can't change the outcome. What I can do is try try to make it more fun for you by giving you a chance to participate more fully. Cheryl had fun while I consumed her, Ron had fun when I consumed him, all the memories I have are of happy endings, but I think I can make it even better. I know you pretty well, and all my other victims were strangers, at least as far as I can remember."

"So why did you pick me," I asked.

"I didn't pick you," she said. "You were thereI No, that's not entirely true. I spent the day talking to men, trying to find someone who could provide shelter for the month it takes me to consume a victim, and you were the first man to come along who met my criteria. I'm glad you came along, though, because I do like you alot. As long as I'm doomed to consume people, I may as well have fun while I'm doing it.

I stared at her as a sense of unreality swept over me. "What do you mean about consuming me. Surely you aren't going to eat me."

"In a sense," she said, still smiling, gently rocking her hips against mine as she lay there, then rolling me onto my back and swinging herself into a sitting position on my hips.

She smiled down at me and gently stroked my chest before she continued. "Eating's the wrong word, though. Neither of us will eat again. Once the bond between us is solid, I'll begin adsorbing you through it. I have some control over what I adsorb and how; if I do a bad job and pick someone I can't get along with, I have to adsorb their brain first and then spend a lonely month with their mindless body hanging from me. If I make a good choice, like I did with Cheryl, I'll keep them intact as long as possible so I can enjoy their company."

As she talked, she rocked her hips gently on mine and stroked my chest. By the time she reached the end of the last sentence, I was rising to an orgasm, and as she stopped talking, an intensely happy look swept over her face. I came, pumping deep into her, swept away with her into the perfect world of orgasm.

"It's good, isn't it," she asked, still squatting over my hips as I recovered from the orgasm.

"Yes," I said.

"It's nice being able to talk this way so soon," she said. "For all the victims I can remember, I had to keep them under for most of a week before we could talk much, but before you, as far as I know, I've never consumed a friend, someone I knew pretty well before we started."

"I'm not sure I want to be such a willing victim," I said, relaxing under her with my head cradled on my hands.

"I know," she said. "But you haven't got much choice in the matter. If you resist, you'll have an orgasm that ends your resistance, and you'll enjoy it. I think my body makes tranquilizing chemicals to keep us calm, and I know that whatever part of your mind tries to resist will be the first part to be destroyed as I adsorb you.

"What choice do you have?" I asked, trying to turn the tables.

"Not much," she said. "I've got to eat, if I don't, I start digesting myself, and then I get desparate and go after anybody. It's far more pleasant to go after someone who's company I enjoy. I use orgasm to control my victims, but it's far more fun to make love to my victims than to masturbate them into submission."

I began to hit on an idea. "Cheryl, if I can call you that, there've been a few times in the last few minutes where you've hinted that you didn't remember lots of things. Why not. Who are you?"

"You can call me Cheryl, there's a good part of her preserved in me," she said, and then her smile turned to a frown. "As to who I am, I'm not really sure. All my memories are the memories of my victims, or the memories of those parts of their brains I've adsorbed. In a way, I guess I'm mostly a composite of my victims bodies and minds, plus what must be some small part that makes me what I am."

"If that's true," I said, frowning as I tried to concentrate, "then do you really want to keep eating more people?"

She was still sitting on me, and her face suddenly shifted from a serious look to a look of transcendant pleasure as an orgasm swept through her. Her hips rocked convulsively on top of mine, sweeping me away with her. My penis throbbed within her, I pulled her down to me, kissing her, hugging her, and all the while, thrusting my hips against hers as I rode the crest of orgasm.


It was dark out when I finally pulled myself together enough to speak to her of anything, and it was a while before I came back to the thread of our interrupted conversation.

"I asked you if you really wanted to keep adsorbing people," I said, gently holding her as we lay face to face beside each other.

"No," she said, and her hips began to thrust at me. "I can't help it, though. Every part of me, every victim I know of reached the point where they'd rather die than participate in this, but I" she stopped, gasping with the pleasure of another orgasm, and then I was swept away.

The orgasms were a obviously a defense. She'd said that she used them to tranquilize her victims, but they controlled her too. By morning, after a night of short conversations punctuated by incredibly intense orgasms and long peaceful recoveries, I'd learned that she wanted to find a way to stop consuming the people around her, even if it meant an end to her life.

As the early morning light swept through the skylight over my waterbed, she told me everything she could about the mechanics of consuming her victims, how she adsorbed them, how the waste products of her metabolism were stored in the body cavity of the victim and occasionally eliminated through whatever body opening remained available, and how she controlled which parts were adsorbed in what order.

"Right now," she said. "I haven't really started adsorbing you. All I've done is burn some of your fat, but that's no loss. I suppose that if I wanted I could even initiate the adsorbtion in my own body instead of in yours, though I don't remember ever doing it."

"If you did," I said, feeling inspired, "could you arrange it so you died, so that all that's left when it's over is me?"

"I think so," she said, smiling. She pulled me to her and kissed me, we made love, and for the first time since she'd joined me in my bed, it was love, not her desire to tame me or the strange way her body saved her from self destruction. It was joyous love, but slow. We kissed, hugged, and touched while the tension built and the glow slowly spread to my hips. I began thrusting my penis into her as she pulled against me. I was swept away with glorious love as we climaxed, and, though the climax seemed like it would last forever, it never stole my rationality or clouded my mind.

I still wondered about the strange way I was bound to her, and I was curious to understand why I never felt the need to get up from the bed. We made love over and over, rolling from one position to another and resting between sessions of lovemaking as we talked. Mostly, Cheryl told me about the people she'd consumed. I knew quite a bit about Cheryl, but there were others, Ron, Mary, Steve and so many more. She only knew snatches about some of them; with others, she could recall a lifetime of detail, and others had been totally forgotten, completely consumed with not even a souvenier to remind her of who they'd been.

"Roger," she said, sometime during our second evening together. She paused, and then started over. "Roger, I've done it. My body is starting to adsorb itself, you'll survive."

She hugged me, rolled onto me, and rested her head on my shoulder, then drew a ragged breath. "It's kind of sad, in a way, I'm going to die, and until now, I've had a strange kind of immortality in this hellish but fun life that I've been living. I'm glad we found a way to do it, though, and at least, it'll be a fun ending."

I held her. There was nothing I could say. I felt a tear drip onto my shoulder. She drew another ragged breath, and then sighed, relaxing against me for a long time before she began gently thrusting her hips, drawing strength and comfort from the simple sexual pleasure that we shared. I helped, meeting her thrusts with my hips, helping her on the long slow rise to an orgasm. When it came, it was what I needed, not intense, but slow and gentle, a comforting feeling of pleasure pulsating from between my thighs as we hugged and pressed our bodies together.

The next morning, as she sat on my hips, I called in to work and told them that I'd have to take a month or so of sick leave. I fibbed, telling them that I had mono, and then hung up the phone as Cheryl rewarded my fib with an intense but short orgasm.


Cheryl told me everything that would happen before it happened, but it was still a shock over the next few days as the bond between our bodies grew from just my penis to a broad connection joining her fanny to my hips. She made an effort to spend as much time as possible squatting on my hips with her knees under my elbows, explaining that that position led to the most enjoyable bond that she'd found.

"Can you lift me out of bed?" she asked. It was the afternoon of our fourth day together, and her thighs were starting to bond to my ribs.

"I think so," I said, shifting my weight as I sat up. I swung us around until my feet were over the edge of the bed, and then paused. She was beautiful lying on my thighs and looking up at me, and I absently ran my fingers up and down her sides, from hips to breasts, befor continuing with the job of getting us out of bed.

"OK," I said, once I'd managed to lift us into a standing position. Her fingers were laced behind my neck, supporting her body, and I leaned back against her weight and tried briefly to support her fanny, that is, until I realized that it needed no support.

"Where to?" I asked.

"The bathroom," she said, "then the kitchen. You don't need to eat, you can live for a month adsorbing me, but you've got to keep your digestive system running. While we're at it, we could probably use a bath, and although I don't really need to wretch yet, it'll probably help if I unload what I've got."

I sat on the toilet for what must have been half-an-hour before I managed to pass what was in my bowels, then she asked me to hold her over the toilet so she could wretch. It was awful watching her heave, and the gob of thick yellow stuff that came out of her mouth was disgusting enough that if I'd had anything in my stomach, I think I'd have thrown up.

"Are you OK?" I asked as I helped her back into a sitting position in my lap.

"Sure," she said, licking her lips. "You look awful. Don't take it so hard."

"But that stuff, it's so gross."

"Actually, it tastes pretty good. It's not surprising. Think about it, it takes me a month to consume a person, and that comes to about five pounds of flesh and bone a day. That's too much to nourish a person, so I must not be very efficient, as carnivores go. I bet the yellow stuff is loaded with nutrients, probably fat and protien."

>From then on, we made a daily habit of a trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen. I never felt hungry, but she made me eat something every day, with emphasis not on nutrition, but on roughage to keep my plumbing in order. Our baths were fun times to explore our slowly merging bodies, and no matter what we did, it was punctuated with orgasms, every change of subject, every move from room to room, every shift of posture drove us to orgasm. It wasn't empty sex; as the days passed, a deeply shared bond of love grew between us.

By the end of our first week together, the bond between Cheryl's body and mine had spread until it reached her toes, binding them to the sides of my hips. The changes were gradual, but I could see that her thighs were shrinking into my body and her waist was becoming slimmer. The result could have looked monsterous, but it didn't. Cheryl remained a pretty woman even as she sank into my body, and I found that I liked the way we looked together.

Every day, she vomited out more of her substance, and I regretted every ounce of yellow goo that I flushed down the toilet. She continued to assure me that it didn't taste bad; she said that it wasn't unpleasant to vomit it out, but that didn't make it any better.

We were talking about it a few hours after we'd made our daily trip to the toilet. "It's almost orgasmic when I vomit, you know," she said. "If you'd help, it would be orgasmic. That's how it always ends up, but if you work at it, you can make it more fun sooner."

I pulled her to me and kissed her as we walked back from the kitchen to my living room. Her legs were almost gone, and between her weight loss and my experience balancing her, it was becoming easy to walk around with her.

I sat down on the couch, still kissing her, and then leaned back to speak. "Mabe I'd have an easier time dealing with your vomit if I had a taste of the stuff. You keep telling me it tastes OK."

"Here," she said, pulling her face to mine.

Our orgasms had changed. Her hips were firmly bonded to mine, with her back emerging from where my penis had been. My penis was gone, and all that remained of her genitals was the bump of her clitoris where her belly emerged from mine. I couldn't thrust into her, she couldn't engulf me, but we still shared sex, somehow, and it was better when I stroked the joint between our bodies as we came.

I began to stroke her, feeling the rising tension of our coming orgasm, and then it washed over and through me as she pulled herself against me, her body pulsating with pleasure as the waves swept through her. At the very climax, as we kissed open mouthed, her mouth filled with something that tasted rich and salty, but slightly bitter.

It was surprisingly good, good enough that swallowing was natural and we never broke our kiss. With each slow wave of delightful contraction that swept through us, she delivered another small portion of the stuff into my mouth. Each time, I swallowed; it was such a perfect completion of our love that I hardly had to think about it.

That started a habit that lasted for the next month. From then on, every time we made love, we kissed, and as she came to an orgasm, I drank from her lips. After trying it only once, it seemed more than natural, it was necessary. Her vomit was my nectar.

It was soon after that that she noticed that her adsorbtion wasn't following the expected course. "Roger," she said one morning, sitting up on me, if you could call it that, while I lay in bed, "I'm not being adsorbed as quickly as I expected."

"Any idea why?" I asked, looking up at her. There was nothing left of her hips and legs, and I could see that she was getting thin. Her long thin waist rose from my groin before expanding into her beautiful and very feminine thorax.

"Well, it's all going differently from what I'm used to. I mean, vomiting every day has made changes gradual that used to be sudden, and now that you're drinking it, I think you must be adsorbing me more efficiently; perhaps that'll make me last longer."


Three weeks after she bound herself to me, it was obvious that lasting longer wasn't the same as lasting forever. She'd grown perilously thin, and her ribcage had begun to collapse. She didn't need to breathe, I could breathe enough for the two of us, and she was finding it harder and harder to talk. Her waist was so thin that it looked like a huge penis standing between my legs, and more and more, she relied on her arms to support her weight as we moved around.

"Roger, I don't think I'll be able to speak anymore," she said, drawing a short breath before each word. "I love you."

She kissed me. I held her, gently sliding my hands over her back where it arched from my groin, bringing us to a slow but wonderful climax, drinking her nectar, and then holding her for a long time.

Her chest finished its collapse fairly quickly after that, but her arms were still strong and she was still intensely fun. We could still communicate, she could form words with her lips, and she could type. We spent long hours fooling with my Mac. I used the computer to try to keep up with things at work, and it wasn't hard for me to talk her into using the computer to write up her story. It turned out that she was a pretty good writer, better than I ever hope to be.

I was worried that her breasts would disappear as her chest collapsed, but they lasted until near the end, very kissable, and very much a part of our lovemaking. Her body shrank to a long column the size of her neck, stretching from where my penis had been to her head, decorated by a single two-nippled breast just below where her arms branched off.

Her heart was obviously gone by then, and over a period of a week, her arms began to bond to the sides of the column that had been her thorax. At first, it was just her upper arms and she could still finger me with her forearms, but then they bonded in place, leaving her fingers briefly on my groin before they too began to dissapear.

By that time, I'd become pretty good at reading her lips. We'd just finished a bath, and after I toweled us dry, I walked over to the full- length mirror to look at us, turning first one way and then the other as we looked at what had happened to us.

"You're pretty nice looking," she mouthed, then grinned. "I think the turn of phrase is well hung. I'm becoming your penis, you know, my nectar is your ejaculate, and when we make love, the way you run your hands up and down me, it's just masturbation."

I honestly hadn't noticed, but she was right.


With the loss of her arms, her body had been reduced to a long neck connecting her head and groin. At first, she still had bones in her neck, but they didn't last long. As her neck became flaccid, I began to notice that it was erectile, stiffening when we made love. She really was becoming my penis.

We still love, though; it wasn't masturbation. She demanded to be kissed, she needed to be touched, she returned my love with full spirit even as what was left of her body diminished.

Every day, her neck grew shorter and thinner. Her clitoris began a slow migration up towards her nipples, and my skin followed. As her neck shortened her breasts slid upwards, always staying within reach of my lips until her nipples merged with her lips. It was nice making love with her that way, holding her head so she could kiss my nipples, stretching her elastic neck so I could kiss her, feeling her neck expand and stiffen with our erection, and then stroking it until we came and I drank her nectar.

Her head began to shrink, yet she was still lucid. Her eyes disappeared from her face, her nose closed up, yet for days, she could still shape words of love with her lips, and we continued to talk with each other, laughing over childhood memories, and always, making love.

"I think my brain's mostly gone," she mouthed one evening as we rested after a sweet hour of lovemaking. "Good bye, and I love you."

Those were her last words. I kissed her and brought her to another orgasm, one that swept me into dreamland until morning. When daylight came, I half expected her to be gone, but she wasn't. Her head was gone, but the stalk that was either the remains of her body or my penis was tipped by a pair of very expressive lips, and and surprisingly, they still responded. I pulled them to mine in memory of her, and when I kissed them, they returned the kiss eagerly.

The very last thing she lost was the ability to make love to me. For two days, her lips sat on the end of what more and more resembled a penis, and for two days, I made love to them, kissing them, letting them kiss me, stroking what was more and more my penis, masturbating, and drinking the nectar that still flowed from between her lips.

The opening of her mouth shrank, but it remained a kissable mouth until my penis shrank to the point that I couldn't kiss it anymore. Then, all too predictably and in only a day, what had been her lips, her clitoris, and her nipples shrank into the very normal looking end of a long but rapidly shringking penis.

I was desparately lonely. I missed Cheryl's company, I missed making nearly continuous love to her, and I felt empty. It had been almost two months of pleasure that Cheryl had given me, and now she was dead, by her own choice. I comforted myself with the fact that at least I had none of her memories, and better yet, as far as I knew, I'd escaped her monster.


I mourned the end of Cheryl for a day, but I was just about out of food, so I decided to go to work in the morning and go grocery shopping on the way home. At the lab, everyone told me I looked good, they welcomed me back, and Steve Jenkens thanked me for the work I'd managed to do while I was out.

It felt good to have such attention, very good. I felt painfully lonely without Cheryl; I needed someone to make love to; I needed someone to share my life with. When Jeanne welcomed me back to work, I couldn't resist her offers of comfort and sympathy. We ended up spending most of the day together, and she invited me over to her place for dinner after work. Jeanne was beautiful, warm, and funny, and I wondered why I'd never felt so attracted to her before.

I went home after work, took a shower, and drove over to Jeanne's place for dinner. She met me at the door to her apartment wearing the sexyest thing I'd ever seen on her, a strapless black leather top with a skirt that was slit to the hip. Sitting across from her at dinner, I was fascinated.

After we ate, she put on a CD of dance music and we danced in her living room. Why was I so stupid! Why didn't I understand what was going on! As we danced, she pulled me to her, advertising that she wanted to make love by the way she held me and by the way she moved her body against mine.

I could feel my hard penis pressing against her, and then she pulled back and slid her hand down to caress it. She smiled at me, pulled me to her, and kissed me, then unzipped my pants and pulled out my erect penis. She giggled, holding it in her hand as we danced, and then she knelt during a pause in the music and let it slide into her mouth.

I tried to pull out as soon as I realized what was happening, but I couldn't do it. Each time I pulled, each time she tried to let go, we were both overcome overcome by an intense wave of orgasmic pleasure. Jeanne looked so helpless with her lips locked around my penis. She couldn't speak, she could hardly breathe, and it seemed like an eternity that I had to look down at her helpless eyes before she finally passed out. God, how I wish I could join her in unconsciousness. How did Cheryl control the thing, how did she make it kill her and not me, I want to die and I don't know how to do it!

Adsorbing Passion copyright 1996 by S. B. Douglass.

And I wondered... >>