Final Form

At last, the shapeshifter drops it’s guise and is revealed in what you instinctively know is its true from: a sinuous mass of glistening tentacles writhing in an obscene parody of human proportion. Its almost human mouth splits into a coy smirk, but your eyes are drawn further up, to the iridescently gleaming, slowly pulsing yoni in its forehead.

Your heart pounds and your throat is parched. Your fingers itch and it feels like the mere movement of your much too dry lips over each other could start a landslide.

Your every muscle tenses as you prepare to speak, and cold sweat rolls down your face.

Barely able to form the words, you whisper “you’re beautiful.”

In a voice like eels in jelly, it responds. You feel like the words have slipped down your throat and hooked you by the toes when it says “thanks. I like you too.”


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