Metamorphoses

 

Ich komme, ich komme, grünende Brüder…

“I am coming, I am coming,” I sing, as my soft arms extend heavenwards – curling, flexing, fashioning out of my imagination leaves, vines, boughs of ash and laurel – as I embrace the gift of mother-goddess to water-nymph. Below me, strings churn and gambol, myriad-divided, like the viridescent light which shines dappled through my branches. Sinewy lines of unseen woodwind twist and twine upwards. “I am coming, my verdant brothers. Sweetly rises in me the sap of the earth.” Süß durchströmt mich der Erde Saft…

Violins shimmer, clarionet triplets caress my supple bark, a single hautboy ascends plaintively from earth to orb, eliciting my delicate echo, which soars where my soul has always been destined to fly. Violoncello flageolets bear me skywards, hovering between F-sharp major and a dissonant dominant seventh. “Gather my branches… accept me as a sign of eternal love…” Nehmt mich als Zeichen einziger Liebe… I sing, as my pentatonic ostinato fades into eternity. I am she who has been transformed.

But the audience never understand eternity. They want it to end too soon, to catch their trains home to the grime and squalor of their paltry lives. And they want to applaud, as if by some pathetic act of adulation they can sit in judgment on perfection. “Brava! Bravissima!” come the cries, the bouquets, the ovations. I smile sweetly, and bow dutifully. But I know that true joy lies beyond, for, like Gaia and Zeus, Ovid and Euripides, Gregor and Strauss, I too have touched eternity.

~

Lucy’s eyes are full of tears as she enters my dressing-room and embraces me. “Oh my god, Daph, that was wonderful!” She checks around her, before kissing me delicately on the lips, so as not to swallow too much makeup. “I love you, baby,” she smiles with shining eyes as she pulls back to gaze through mine into the beyond which still flickers, not quite extinguished, within.

“Let me get all this shit off my face, Luce,” I say, “and then you can give me a proper kiss, hey?” She grins mischievously, her short blond bob dancing as she nods. She is beautiful as sunrise, and my heart leaps to watch her.

Thirty minutes later, my dressing-room door is locked, and we lie naked on my couch caressing each other’s breasts. Hers are full and round and luscious, like ripe peaches; mine are small, like the budding leaves which graced my costume less than an hour ago. She kisses mine, taking little nibbles which send shivers through my body. Gently I hum Strauss’s final ecstasy-perfect F-sharp ostinato, as her lips explore my whole body from branch to root, sucking, nibbling, licking, caressing.

By the time she begins to taste my fertility, my cunt is moist as rich soil, damp as leaves in warm drizzle. Her tongue probes lovingly into my soft dark matting to find my clit, then glides slowly down my gently parting lips to my perineum. I moan and whimper uncontrollably, the last vestiges of Strauss’s divinely crafted phrasing swept away by Lucy’s earthy, raw talent. My clit swells and emerges from its sheath, glowing, pulsating, inviting; she responds, wrapping her lips around it, gently squeezing, stroking, pressing against it with the flat of her tongue. Soon I come, my cunt spasming into her mouth, as I squirt gently onto her lips.

“Oh yeah! She is vat you call a messy soprano!” Lucy giggles, in her best Borge voice. One of my pubic hairs clings to her lower lip, and wiggles as she speaks.

I laugh heartily. I’ve heard the joke many times before; but laughing is good when you’ve just come.

There is a knock at the door. “Oh fuck,” I mutter to myself. But I call out: “Who is it?”

“Apollon,” comes the leading tenor’s voice from behind the door.

“Can it wait till later?” I call out, grimacing to Lucy, then sticking my middle finger up towards the door and mouthing, “fucking dickhead”.

“All right. Ah will come back lateur,” comes Apollon’s voice, in his ridiculous French accent.

Lucy giggles again. “The tenor enters in single file,” she quips.

“Yeah, and always with his cock in the vanguard,” I add cynically. Apollon can sing, but that is the sum total of his qualities. “Dickhead,” I repeat, before lying down over Lucy, tasting my cunt on her pale face, and feeling my tit-buds bury themselves into her luscious boobs.

Lucy loves eating me out, but has never liked receiving that way. No, it’s not just that I’m no good at it. Lucy likes to joke about how someone as orally talented as me “just can’t eat pussy right”, but even she admits that no one has ever been able to get her off orally. She just prefers the feel of cunt on cunt.

We scissor our legs together, our clits mutually flip-flopping, out vulvas flaring, our juices flowing and mingling, and Lucy starts to talk. I can always tell when she is feeling good, because her speech starts to get filthy, just as mine launches into moans, groans and song. “Oh yeah, Daph, rub that cunt of yours against me, baby. Let me feel that swollen clit of yours against mine. Oh yeah, baby, kiss my pussy hard with those fucking cunt-lips, let your cunt drool all over mine. Fuck me with that big clit of yours.”

“Hey, baby, you want me to get my strap?” I suggest.

“Got your feeldoe?” she asks, breathless.

“Yeah, hang about,” I say, as I retrieve our favourite toy from my bag. It’s a tough one to control, and works my kegels no end, but Lucy loves being filled up, and I’ll do anything to make her happy.

“Oh yeah, that’s so good, baby, fuck me with that cock of yours!” squeals Lucy as the dildo slides easily into her wet cunt. We grind back and forth against each other, the shaft of the dildo hard against her clit, the bulb-end gripped tight in my pussy. “Fuck me, darling,” she pants. “Fill up my hot cunt with that cock! Make me come, baby! Oh yeah, fucccckkkk!” she hisses through her climax.

As Lucy’s orgasm subsides and we both come down from our ecstasy, kissing and stroking each other’s sweaty bodies, she says to me, “I love it when I can feel your girlcock in me. It’s so good getting fucked by you.”

“Sounds like you’d rather have a man than me!” I laugh.

“No way!” she corrects me. “Been there, done that. Love the cocks, but you can keep the rest. No, a girl with a cock: that’s the best…”

“So… do you wish I had a real cock?” I ask. She looks at me quizzically. “In your fantasies, I mean,” I clarify.

“That’s be weird: a girl with a cock. Is there an opera about it? Ligeti, maybe?” We guffaw uproariously.

“Don’t they study that stuff in your Institute?” I tease. She looks at me, scoffing.

“No, seriously,” I continue, “if I had a real cock, and you could taste it warm and throbbing in your mouth, and you could feel it stiff and pulsating as I fuck you… and then maybe if it could come… Hey, where would you want me to come?”

“Actually, that’s one thing I do miss about men: when you feel their cock jerking and spraying as they come in your cunt. And then it’s all squidgy and gloopy inside, and you can grind your clit against their cock as it softens… and, if you’re lucky, you can squeeze one more orgasm out, and as your cunt spasms you can feel it all squishing around – oh my fucking God…!” Lucy grinds harder against me with reawakened lust, her eyes glazing over briefly – before correcting herself: “Hey, fuck, girl, what are you trying to do? Turn me straight?”

“Well,” I laugh, “if you at your fucking Institute for Sexual Medicine ever find a way of giving me a cock of my own, I’ll take it. Then I can fuck you with it every day for the rest of your life! You and me fucking, together, forever, till death do us part…”

“You’re on!” laughs Lucy.

Half an hour later, Lucy is on her way home, I have showered the last vestiges of girl-slime off my body, and I am lying on my couch resting before the evening performance. There is a knock at the door.

“Fuck,” I think. But I say: “Come in.” It is Apollon.

“Apollon, what can I do for you?”

“Ah, tu es très belle, Daphné,” he warbles, his eyes ogling my dressing-gown-clad body.

“Et vous êtes très gentil, Apollon,” I reply, with an attempt at courtesy. “What can I do for you?”

“Was zat your geurlfriend?” asks the tenor with a smirk, as he sits down, uninvited, on the end of my couch.

“Lucy? Yes, it was,” I say, unremarkably.

“You were ‘aving feun togezzer?” asks Apollon.

My hackles rise. “Apollon, what we were doing together is none of your business. Is that all you came to say?” I stand up, moving to open the door for him.

“Ah sink zat a beautifeull geurl like you shouldn’t be feucking ozzeur geurls. You should ‘ave a man to take care of you.”

“Apollon, get the fuck out of here now,” I say, using my considerable vocal resonance to hammer the point home.

“Ah bet you really want a cock inside you,” says Apollon with persistence. He stands up too, grabbing and pulling me close, rubbing his crotch against mine. I can feel his erection, small but stiff, rubbing against me through my dressing gown.

I do not try to remonstrate any further. With as much force as I can muster, I jerk my right knee upwards, hard into his crotch. Pleasingly, I feel it pummel into that sensitive space between his balls. He howls, clutching his crotch with both hands. “Putain de salope!” he bellows, as he retreats through the door, which I slam in his face.

I scrabble for my phone, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Luce, baby, I’m sorry, have you caught your train yet? Something awful has happened. Please, come back, I need you… What? No, I’ll explain when you get here… Oh, thank you, baby. Okay, I’ll wait for you at the Artists’ Entrance… Ten minutes? … Oh, thank you, baby, I love you.”

Ten minutes later, and I am standing, my nerves shattered, my eyes red, searching up and down Floral Street for Lucy. It is a warm summer’s evening, and the London crowds course and flow up and down the pavement. A black cab pulls up on the opposite side of the road, and I see Lucy get out and start to pay the driver.

“Luce!” I call.

“Daphné…” I hear a low voice behind me. I don’t need to turn to know who it is: I’d recognise that filthy accent anywhere, and I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. In panic I run, stepping off the pavement into the street. As I do, I hear a car screech around the corner off Bow Street. In a split second, stretched in my consciousness into a lifetime, I see the vehicle hurtling towards me, the eyes of the driver wide open in horror; I hear Lucy screaming from the other side of the street, and Apollon shouting “Non!” behind me.

It all seems to happen very slowly…

And then, everything is black. And I am not there anymore.

~

“She’s waking up, Doctor.” A voice echoed, disembodied, on the edge of Daphne’s consciousness.

Daphne opened her eyes, to see, as if through a blur, two women looking down at her. “Where am I?” she asked.

“The Institute for Sexual Medicine,” replied one of the women. Daphne blinked, and the woman came into focus: large, dark-skinned, with frizzy black hair, wide hips, and huge breasts bulging behind her white lab coat.

Daphne started. “Is Lucy here?” she asked, urgently.

“Lucy…” the woman replied, hesitantly. “No, I’m sorry, she isn’t here.” She smiled down at Daphne with an air of almost maternal delight.

“But she works here, doesn’t she – Lucy Kuiper? She was there when I had my accident: she was just over the road.”

“Yes, she was,” replied the other woman, approaching closer. She was smaller, thin and very pale-skinned, her light blue hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She appeared to have pointy ears, like an elf. Daphne did a double-take, shutting her eyes and re-opening them again. But the ears remained pointy, and seemed to be waving slowly back and forth.

“Where is she now? Please call her. She works here, you know.”

“She did,” said the larger woman, cautiously.

“But not any longer? What do you mean? How long have I been unconscious?” Daphne tried to get up, but realised that she couldn’t move, or feel anything in her lower half.

“Daphne, please try to stay calm,” said the dark-skinned woman with a soft reassuring voice. She smiled again, making dimples in her chubby cheeks. “You have been asleep a very long time.”

“What do you mean? How long?”

There was a pause. “Two hundred and sixteen years.”

Daphne laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible.”

“It was impossible, Daphne. When you had your accident, the only option was cryogenic suspension. That is what Lucy, as your next of kin, chose for you.”

“And Lucy’s…”

“Long gone, Daphne. I’m so sorry. But we can send you back to her.”

“What do you mean, ‘send me back’? How the fuck? What are you talking about?”

“We now have the technology to turn time back for you, Daphne – if you consent, that is – to give you a second chance.”

“Well, I don’t want to stay here,” said Daphne, panicking. “I want to go home.” Suddenly, the sheer horror of what had happened hit home, and Daphne howled in pain and anger, thrashing against the bed with her arms. “No! no! no!” she screamed. “This is all wrong! I want to go home!” She tried again to get up, but her lower half did not respond: she could not feel it there at all. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I move?” she pleaded, desperately.

“Daphne,” said the woman, “when you had your accident, you were badly hurt. Your lower half was crushed between the car and the wall of the Opera House. Your pelvis was destroyed, and all the internal organs in your lower half. You were on what used to be called ‘life support’ for a long time – thanks to Lucy’s intervention. And then we – my predecessors, that is – had to rebuild you. And for that purpose, we followed the instructions Lucy left for us. Before we remove the anaesthetic on your lower half, it is important that you hear what those instructions were. May we play them to you?”

Daphne nodded, bewildered.

The small blue-haired elf-woman clicked a button on a remote-control device, angling the head end of Daphne’s bed upwards so she could view a screen on the wall, on which a film began to play. It was Lucy, red-eyed and weeping, speaking to the camera.

“Daphne, I don’t know if you will ever hear this message. But if you do, I want you to know that I love you – more than I can possibly express. I’ve lost you, my love. But I’m going to fight with every fibre of my being to save you. You are on life-support now, in hospital. And I will not let you go, my darling. Never.”

Tears welled up in Daphne’s eyes, and she choked.

But then the film cut to a new shot. Daphne started in shock, for Lucy looked older now. Not by very much – ten years, perhaps. She spoke again to the camera, gravely, but not apparently still in distress: “Daphne, my love, you have been transferred now to my Institute. The hospital refused to keep you alive any longer. But I am the Director here now – I was promoted last year – and we have determined that we can transfer you to cryogenic suspension, to keep you safe for longer. But there is a little catch: we can only get the funding to do it if it counts as ‘research’. Exactly what comes under that heading, I am not entirely sure at present. But I will do everything to keep you safe, my love.”

“Wait a moment,” said Daphne. “What the fuck is going on? What’s she talking about? ‘Research’? What are you doing to me? Am I a guinea-pig in some experiment?”

“Sh…” said the elf-woman. “Listen…”

Lucy was speaking again now. At least, Daphne knew it must be Lucy. In some ways it was unmistakeably Lucy. But this must be Lucy forty, fifty years later, maybe – an old woman. Daphne gasped and choked at the sight, for Lucy was still beautiful, and passionate as ever – but wrinkled, spent, tired. “Daphne, my love. It has been such a long time since I last heard your voice.” Her voice was croaky, but still recognisable and familiar. “I still visit your capsule every day when I come into the Institute. You are unchanged, frozen in time – whereas I am decaying. I have cancer, my love, and I won’t be around much longer. So I must now tell you what the Institute have agreed. I hope that you, if ever you wake up, will be happy with the choice I have made for you.

“Remember how you used to say that if the Institute for Sexual Medicine ever found a way of giving you a cock of your own, you’d take it? Well, the science is still in its infancy. But it may mature in the next few decades, and the Institute have agreed to fund your ongoing cryogenic stasis in order that you can become the first human woman ever to have a real live cock, when the technology is full developed. Sadly, I won’t be around to see it, so you won’t be able to fuck me with it every day like you promised you would!” Lucy giggled – and Daphne recognised her youthful sense of mischief piercing through the old woman’s features; she grinned with delight. “But this is my last gift to you. I hope you will enjoy it. It gives me joy to think that sometime in the future you will make some other girl happy with it. Daphne, I love you so much. You know that I never believed in eternity like you do; but I will love you forever – if such a thing as ‘forever’ exists.”

The film clip ended. Daphne lay back in silence, propped up on her pillows. Tears streamed down her face, and she sobbed: tears of grief, tears of confusion, tears of joy, gratitude, love. Quietly, she sang: Nehmt mich als Zeichen einziger Liebe…

Daphne did not know how long she sat weeping. The blue-haired woman drew the curtains open, and through the window Daphne could see the sky, clear and cloudless, but with the occasional strangely-shaped airship whirring across the horizon. Eventually she sighed, “Okay. So what do we do now?”

The black woman replied. “If you are ready, Daphne, we will remove the anaesthetic, and you will be able to feel your new cock.”

Daphne laughed. “How many women do you say that to, Doctor? ‘Your new cock’! How crazy is that?”

“About two or three a week, actually, these days,” replied the Doctor, smiling. “They have become quite popular. And by the way, call me Gaia. And this is my assistant, Melia.”

Melia bent over Daphne, held a small syringe up to her upper arm, and injected something. “It should take about five minutes, Daphne,” she said, smiling.

The restoration of feeling to Daphne’s lower half was one of the strangest things she had ever experienced in her life. Part of it meant the return of sensations which were familiar to her: her toes curling, her thighs squeezing, her knees bending, her bladder filling. But there was something new and inescapable: between her thighs, something was different. She couldn’t yet see it, but it felt as if her clitoris were larger, stronger, “more significant”, she thought to herself. “Oh my God,” she whispered, as she sat up, pulled back the bedclothes, looked down – and gasped. Between her legs, where her clit used to be, was a cock. Not just a big clit – she had always had one of those – but a real cock, with a glans, a foreskin, and a pair of balls.

Daphne reached down to touch it – and instantly she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her. “Oh fuck!” she exclaimed. “That feels so good!” Her cock bobbed and twitched, and began to stiffen. “Oh my God!” she squealed, as she wrapped her hand warm and tight around her cock-head. She began to stroke slowly up and down, feeling her member stiffen further as it lengthened to some eight inches, the foreskin gently sliding back to reveal a throbbing purple head. Süß durchströmt mich der Erde Saft! she sang, as she felt a surge from deep within coursing up through her shaft. It felt, she thought, a bit like she was going to pee, or squirt – but different: it was a boiling, thick, rich sensation, rising through her column of stiff flesh till it felt ready to explode.

Gaia and Melia must have seen this happen many times before because, without saying a word, they were immediately both there by Daphne’s bedside. Gaia reached down, cupping Daphne’s balls in her hands, gently caressing them as they released their first ever ejaculation. Melia, her skin and lips turning a pale shade of blue, and her pointy ears turning and twisting (“That must be what her species does when horny,” thought Daphne to herself), leant over and wrapped her lips around Daphne’s cock-head, ready to capture her girlcum as it exploded from her cock. “FUUUUUUCK!!!” Daphne screamed, as she orgasmed as never before. She felt her cock-cream splatter against Melia’s soft palate, swashing against her own spasming glans as it gradually filled the girl’s mouth.

Melia held her blue lips tightly wrapped around Daphne’s shaft until her orgasm had ceased, then opened wide to show off her mouth full of steaming, bubbling ejaculate. She straightened up, leant over, and slowly dribbled a long gloopy rope of cum into Daphne’s mouth. “Oh fuck, it’s sweet!” Daphne exclaimed, curling her tongue around her lips to savour the taste, then swallowing it down.

“Welcome, Daphne, to the world of the dickgirl,” grinned Gaia. “We have been able to transform women in this way for some thirty years now, thanks in no small part to the expertise of scientists from Melia’s planet. Are you happy?”

“Oh yes!” Daphne laughed with joy and relief. “Lucy and I used to joke about this.”

“Would you like to stay a few days, Daphne, to get used to it? We can find you some other girls to fuck. Or some boys if you prefer?” Gaia grinned mischievously… “Or some other dickgirls?”

“But can you really send me home?”

“Oh yes, certainly,” replied Gaia. “Melia’s race have taught us a lot about that too.”

“In which case,” replied Daphne, “let’s do it now. I want to see Lucy again. I want to talk to her, to touch her, and…” Daphne giggled, “I want to… well, you know…”

“Fuck her with that cock every day for the rest of your life?”

“Too fucking right!” Daphne grinned.

“Well, then, Daphne,” said Gaia, indicating a glass-fronted wardrobe in the corner of the room, “you will need to enter this booth. I can’t be sure exactly when and where you will reappear in your own time – though we will do our best, and it will definitely be at some space-time point along your original trajectory. You will replace your parallel self when- or wherever you appear. Best not to tell anyone, except, of course, Lucy: she won’t be expecting your, uh, changes. But if you explain, I am sure she will find it… amusing. Oh, and be careful: don’t make your original mistake and run out into the street – or we may be seeing you again in another two hundred years!”

Daphne got out of bed, walked naked across the room, and stepped into the cabinet, as Melia shut the glass door behind her. She felt a strange whirling sensation, and a yank behind her crotch, as if she were being pulled backwards without actually going anywhere – “like a Michael Jackson moon-walk,” she thought, “on speed…” Instinctively, she shut her eyes to stave off nausea, before finding herself, a few strange seconds later, landing back in her dressing-room at the Opera House, in full costume.

~

“Oh fuck, that was weird,” is my first thought. My second is, “What a crazy dream!” But then there is a knock at the door.

“Oh my god, Daph, that was wonderful!” says Lucy as she enters, tears welling behind her eyes.

This time, I am in tears too. She looks beautiful: more beautiful than I have ever known. Nothing has changed, except that I know that everything can. I embrace her, kissing her deep, wrapping my arms around her, feeling her soft breasts squish against me through our clothing. Tears course down my face, as I repeat over and over, “I love you, my darling, I love you. Don’t ever leave me…”

“Hey, what’s up, baby?” asks Lucy, as she wipes the tears off my face. “Strauss really got to you today, hey?”

“I want to fuck you, Luce,” I say. “I want it so much. Please, now, let me fuck you. I need you so badly.” I feel my new cock stirring in my panties.

“Thanks, Rich!” quips Lucy, her eyes darting up to heaven in mock-prayer, as I lock the dressing-room door.

“Luce,” I say. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Ho ho,” she smirks. “What now? A new kink? A new game? A new butt-plug?”

“Not quite…” I tease.

“A new dildo?”

“Ooh, you’re getting warm. But I don’t think you’ll ever guess. Here, undress me, and you’ll see.” I curve my arms upwards, posing like Ovid’s laurel tree, letting Lucy remove my dress, my bra, and then, kneeling down… my panties.

She gasps. “Oh my God! Daph! How on earth?!” She reaches out to stroke my cock gently with her fingers.

I hold a finger to her lips, as I hum Strauss’s final ostinato. I feel my cock rising to her touch. Soon it is throbbing and rigid, as Lucy’s kisses explore the full length, from balls to glans, nibbling, caressing. She licks teasingly at my huge dangling balls, then probes underneath to find my cunt, already leaking sweet nectar. I feel two fingers slip inside, curving upwards in a come-hither gesture to find the perfect spot. I squeal, as my cock bobs up and down with sympathetic pleasure.

My cock is stiff and strong, like a new branch on a tree. Her tongue slides lovingly along its full length, gently flicking at the frenulum while she continues to finger my wet cunt. I moan and whimper uncontrollably: Lucy’s dick-sucking talent is clearly, like riding a bike, not forgotten. My cock glistens, pulsates, invites. Lucy wraps her lips around the shaft and begins a slow mouthfuck, gently sliding her soft wet lips down, enveloping my whole cock as her tongue plays games along the underside of my shaft. I groan in ecstasy. “Oh Lucy,” I moan, “that’s so good. I’m going to come if you’re not careful!”

“Well then,” she says, “you’d better fuck me with this thing first!”

Lucy lies down on the couch, spreading her legs wide so I can see her bald cunt glistening at me. I kneel, and watch in fascination as my cock disappears between Lucy’s fuck-lips for the first time ever. My cock is large and beautiful, rough-hewn but smooth, the veins throbbing and the head deep purple and bulging. As I begin to slide slowly in and out of her cunt, I feel something I have never known before – the sensation of being enveloped, encased by hot female fuck-flesh, squeezing me, caressing me with her hot sweet walls. I fill her up, complete her as never before, cock and cunt fitting together like hand in glove. “OH FUCK!” I scream. “THIS IS SO GOOD!”

Now my cock is pounding hard in and out Lucy’s cunt. I feel my cock-head ram against her cervix, then drag itself exquisitely back, until it sits briefly poised at her hot pussy lips, ready for its next journey back into ecstasy. “Oh yeah, that’s so fucking good, baby, fill me up with that big cock of yours!” Lucy squeals. “Make me come, my love! Oh yeah, FUUUUUUCK!”

And as she comes, so do I. My sap explodes, deep into Lucy’s cunt. I feel it swashing around in our shared space, as our spasms gradually subside, and we bask in the joy of our interlocked bodies, melding, melting, one flesh.

We grin at each other with delight.

“Well,” I joke, “Now you’ve got a new paper to write for your Institute for fucking Sexual Medicine!”

She laughs with glee, grinds her clit against my softening cock, and kisses me deeply.

~

That night, as the lights dim, as the soft green light washes over the stage, as the divisi violins shimmer and the oboe chants his plaintive arpeggiated motif – I curl my boughs to the heavens, and sing:

Ich komme, ich komme, grünende Brüder…

No one but Lucy notices my cock; now, it is but another branch to my tree.

Nehmt mich als Zeichen einziger Liebe…

I am the sign of eternal love.

I she who has been transformed.

I’m a scientist, you know. Actually, I’m a doctor. I fix people. And I know how. So I don’t believe in miracles, or the paranormal. Generally speaking, things happen for a reason, according to relatively predictable principles. My job is to learn what those principles are, and to work with them.

My name’s Lucy, and my specialism is sex. Sounds fun, you think? Yes, it is – but perhaps not always the way you might expect. I work at the Institute for Sexual Medicine. I deal with issues of fertility, sexual diseases, genetics, hormones – lots of stuff: you name it, I’ve seen it. Weird things, unusual things. I won’t bore you with the details. But the point is, even the weird stuff is not random. It’s medicine, it’s science. It’s not witchcraft. It’s not magic. It works according to scientific principles: we just need to investigate what’s really going on, in order to help people.

So… when my girlfriend grew a cock one day… Yes, you read that right. No, she’s not a hermaphrodite, or intersex, or transgender, or anything like that. She just one day appeared with a cock. And then she proceeded to fuck me with it.

Now, I know what you’re going to say: girls don’t just grow cocks like that – especially not insatiable eight-inch beauties like Daphne now has. Yes, yes, I say beauties, because – well, it is beautiful. Actually, cocks are beautiful. Especially when surrounded by female flesh. Okay, I admit it, I used to fuck guys. But then I stopped fucking guys – not because I didn’t like their cocks, but because I decided I couldn’t stand the specimens of humanity who sported them. Well, a few of them anyway – but that was enough.

And then I met Daphne. And oh my fucking God, she is beautiful. She was, even before the cock made its appearance. Tall, dark, elegant, with small breasts but a huge scrumptious clit – well, even huger now of course… but I am getting ahead of myself. And we love each other so much. Really, truly, she is for me and I am for her. Forever.

Now, Daphne is very different from me. She’s an opera singer. Even worse, she’s a soprano – and all the stereotypes, let me tell you, are true. As much as I am a scientist, she is an artist. She talks about beauty, and eternity, and the transcendent, and the immanent, and “Platonic ideas”. As far as I can tell, it’s all bullshit – but it works for her, so that’s okay by me. And by God, she sings beautifully. If anything could make me believe that there is a God, it would be her voice. You know when someone sings, and you feel they have become a window to another world? That’s what it’s like just listening to her. God only knows what it’s like to be her, and to be able to be that window. Okay, I admit it, I am jealous. My world, my scientific-medical mindset – it just seems so petty in comparison.

So how did Daphne get a cock? Well, her story is total mumbo-jumbo, involving aliens and time-travel and cryogenic suspension: it wouldn’t win any competitions, I can tell you. If I didn’t know Daphne better, I’d say she was on acid at the time. But she doesn’t do that kind of shit; she doesn’t need it because, she says, singing opera is trip enough for anyone. But whatever the truth, one day I appeared in her dressing room after her matinée performance of a Strauss opera – and she had a cock.

And oh my God, how we fucked! Now, if you’ve never been fucked by a girl who’s just acquired a real live dick – which I presume is the case for most of you – then, well, you haven’t lived. Which is kind of sad, because of course girls don’t just grow dicks just like that. Except they do. Well, one has, at least. And I am blessed to be her lover.

And so there we were – me grinning like a Cheshire cat, just fucked by my opera-singing lover with her eight-inch dick, feeling her sweet cum swashing around inside my pussy – when there was a knock at the door. And suddenly Daphne froze in terror, the colour drained from her face.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“Apollon!” she whispered. There was terror in her voice. Absolute terror – I’d never seen anything like it.

“What, the tenor guy? How do you know?”

“Oh God, Luce, you have no idea!” she whispered, her voice trembling, tears welling in her eyes, her jaw shivering as if she’d seen a ghost.

“I mean, I know he’s a dickhead,” I started to say, “but has he done anything to –”

“Don’t let him in!” Daphne hissed.

“Okaaay…” I answered, cautiously, wrapping her dressing gown around me and making my way to the door. Sure enough, it was the great Apollon Legay, in his costume, dressed as a cowherd. “Hi, Apollon!” I greeted him with an unconvincingly cheery smile, as I felt Daphne’s cum trickle down my thigh towards my knee. “Can you come back later? Daphne’s a bit… busy at the moment. Thanks, byeeee!” I shut the door in his face, before he had a chance to object.

“All right. Ah will come back lateur,” called Apollon’s voice from behind the door.

Daphne sat on the edge of her couch, hyperventilating. I got her a drink of water, gave her a hug, helped her to calm down, and then said, “Come on, let’s go out for something to eat, so you can tell me what’s bitten you – and where you got that motherfucker from,” I add, gesturing to her cock. “Okay?”

Daphne gave me a hug, her big girl-cock now dangling flaccid between her soft thighs, whilst I kissed her tears away, and that trickle of futa-cum reached my ankle.

~

“Signorina Daphne! Signorina Lucy! Benvenute! Che piacere!” We heard his voice calling almost before Daphne had touched the door handle to his little café north of Covent Garden.

“Giovanni, come stai?” Daphne and Giovanni have known each other for years – ever since she was junior chorus at ENO, and she used to pop into his place for a coffee between rehearsals. Now, of course, she is a star, and Giovanni, apart from taking full credit for that fact, adores her.

“Your private booth, signorine? Come, come, you don’t want the public chasing after you asking for autographs now. Come to the back, I keep you safe from all the paparazzi, sì?”

“Mille grazie, Giovanni,” said Daphne, as they kissed each other’s cheeks in turn.

Giovanni keeps a curtained dining booth at the back of his café for his celebrity operatic guests – of which, thanks to Daphne, he now has plenty. “Come, signorine, sit down. And this is my niece Lucia, visiting from Milano – she will serve you today. Ah ah, Lucia, just like you, signorina Lucy – but we call her Mimì, like in Puccini. Sorry, her English is not so good – but signorina Daphne, I know you speak excellent Italian, maybe you can ‘elp ‘er?”

Daphne caught sight of the girl before I did – and I knew from the way her eyes widened that she must have seen something quite remarkable. I whirled round, and was greeted with the most breathtaking vision of beauty I had ever seen. What Mimì was doing waitressing in her uncle’s café in London I don’t know – because she could have been a supermodel. She was small – a waif almost – fine, elfin features, a delicate button nose, high cheek-bones, long wavy light brown hair down to her buttocks, and eyes which announced to the whole world her own deliciousness – sparkling, fluttering, irresistible. She was wearing jeans, and a thin loose crop top which tastefully concealed – but only just – a pair of pert teenage breasts, nipples quietly straining for release though the soft fabric.

I could tell Daphne found her as sexy as I did, because she did that “man thing”, moving her handbag carefully in front of her crotch, before hastily taking a seat behind the table and rapidly pulling the flap of the tablecloth outwards over her lap, in a desperate attempt to conceal her sudden erection. To her relief, neither Giovanni nor Mimì noticed her tent. After all, who expects a beautiful soprano to be concealing a hardon under her skirt?

Daphne has learnt her Italian from singing Donizetti and Verdi – which means that genuine Italians find her turn of phrase quite amusing. Giovanni has long been used to Daphne’s archaic-poetic style, basking in the imagined flattery of being spoken to like a nineteenth-century prince. Mimì was not expecting it, and could not help but smile as Daphne ordered our meal in the language of Ghislanzoni and Boito. And what a smile! Her entire face sparkled with grace and beauty. I was smitten – and felt just a touch guilty. After all, it really doesn’t do to be ogling other girls less than half an hour after being fucked by your lover, does it? Except, perhaps, when you know your lover is also ogling her, and, what’s more, has a raging boner on account of it.

By the time Mimì had left with our drinks order, drawing the curtains around our booth so we could not be seen by the other customers, Daphne was trembling all over. “Oh God, Luce, help me – I’m so horny! Why am I so goddamned horny?” She shifted her bottom awkwardly, trying to reposition her cock which, despite the intervening skirt, tablecloth and serviette, I could tell was still erect.

“Well my dear, one: that girl is sexy as fuck. And two: something to do with that new member between your thighs, babe,” I giggled, shuffling towards her along the banquette and reaching under the layers of fabric to grasp it gently in one hand. “Your hormones are doing things which they never taught me about at the Institute!”

“Oh God no, Luce, if you touch me there I’m not going to be able to hold back. I’ve got to control myself, this is agony!”

“Okay, darling, let’s change the subject,” I smiled, taking my hand off her cock. “We can have another fuck back at the theatre before your evening show. But how about you tell me where this thing came from?”

And so Daphne’s story poured out: about how she’d been hit by a car, and put into suspended animation, and woken up two hundred years in the future with a cock, and then sent back in time by a pair of aliens. Total horseshit, of course – but I didn’t think she was in the right place emotionally for me to say so just yet. So I listened carefully, nodding and making affirmatory noises as she spoke, holding her trembling hand and stroking her hair. Thankfully, talking calmed her down, and her erection gradually subsided…

… until Mimì came in with our wine – filling the booth again with her life-affirming, sultry beauty. Fuck the wine. I didn’t even need to look at Daphne’s crotch: I just knew her cock was rising again. Jesus – what was I going to do with her?!

Distract her, I decided. “So what’s this business with Monsieur Legay then?” I asked, as Mimì left, drawing the curtains shut behind her. Now, I already knew the man was a lecherous dickhead – typical tenor – with a long-suffering wife and kids back home in Paris, while he travelled the world singing exquisitely and fucking chorus girls. But he had never, as far as I knew, tried it on with Daph.

And then Daphne’s whole terrifying story poured out: of how he had tried to force himself upon her, but she had kneed him in the crotch and sent him packing, just after today’s matinee – in her imagined alternate reality, that is, which, I noted silently, was becoming progressively embellished with each re-telling. But she insisted that it was to escape him that she had run out into the middle of Floral Street and been hit by the imaginary car. Of course, it couldn’t have happened, could it? Because people don’t go back in time. And there is no such thing as “alternate realities”. And women don’t grow dicks…

Oh shit – except, of course, Daphne had. Grown a dick, that is. And she was still trembling in fear and humiliation, gulping down her wine in an attempt to calm her jittery nerves, while telling me a story which – though surely a hallucination – was clearly still affecting her deeply. And so I listened as best as I could, wiping away her tears and kissing her hand.

“Allora, cosa vorreste mangiare, signorine?” I heard Mimì announce as she entered to take our food order, giving a slight start as she noticed Daphne’s hand at my lips, and averting her eyes swiftly. She had tied her hair back now, in a simple pony-tail which served only to accentuate the breathtaking beauty of her face even more than before. She seemed ever-so-slightly sweaty, as if she had been working in a steamy kitchen: beads of moisture glistened on her upper lip, and her now slightly damp top sagged endearingly against her pert protruding nipples. Fuck, she was sexy! I sensed Daphne shift her bottom around on the banquette, trying to accommodate and conceal her cock.

“Why not just let it happen, babe?” I suggested softly after Mimì had left with our food order, reaching across and feeling Daphne’s cock, rigid and throbbing again in my hand.

She whimpered at my touch. “Oh God, Luce, I'm so horny, I need to come. I can’t wait. What do I do?”

I said nothing, but slipped gently off the bench and onto the floor under the table.

Soon Daphne’s dick was twitching in response to the caresses of my tongue, sweet pre-cum leaking generously from the glans and forming a long gloopy string which dangled invitingly in front of my face. It dribbled gently onto my chin as I took her cock between my lips and began slowly easing my face down onto her huge shaft, my tongue tickling the underside as it searched for her balls. I could hear Daphne squealing and whimpering above me, humming little snatches of opera and muttering, “Oh Luce, stop, please stop, if you don’t stop I’m going to… oh God, oh fuck, oh Lucsssssssss…” she hissed through clenched teeth.

As her cock exploded, I clamped my lips tight around her shaft, caressing her balls with one hand as she unloaded her sweet cum into my mouth. When I say “sweet cum”, I am not being poetic, you know: it is sweet – still a bit salty, still a bit chlorine-y, but sweet, like a combination of salted caramel, crème brûlée, and the Camden municipal baths. Mindful of keeping Giovanni’s carpet unsoiled, I took it all in my mouth, gently sucking Daphne’s cock in long strokes from base to tip so as to not waste any. Swilling it around in my mouth, I was just about to slide out from under the table and share it with her when – shit! – I heard the curtains opening, and Mimì entering with our first course.

“I vostri primi piatti, signorine,” she announced as she entered, her slightly sweaty fragrance embellishing the exquisite aroma of basil and sun-dried tomatoes, butter and fresh sage which, even from under the table, I could smell floating up from our bowls of pasta. Seeing Daphne apparently sitting alone, she enquired, “Ah, dov’è la signorina Lucy?”

Daphne was still panting from her orgasm, but she managed to stutter, “Nel… nel bagno.” – “In the toilet,” she lied. “Fra-a poco tornerà-à-à” – “She’ll be back soon.”

But Mimì did not leave, instead deciding to stay and chat, clearly fascinated by this elegant operatic friend of her uncle’s who spoke archaic Italian. And muggins here was stuck kneeling under the table, with a mouthful of futa-cum, unable to move while they continued their conversation.

For a couple of minutes it was okay. I swallowed the cum, licking my lips and fingers clean, and squeezed the last few drops out of Daphne’s cock as it gradually went flaccid again. Daphne and Mimì continued to converse in a mixture of Italian and English. My Italian is pretty rudimentary, so I caught only a few snatches of it – and it seemed to be principally inconsequential small talk – until Daphne asked, “Hai un fidanzato, Mimì?”

There was a pause, after which Mimì replied, “Boyfriend?” – clearly wanting to make sure she had understood correctly.

Daphne’s “yes” was met with another awkward silence, and a tentative “… nnnnnno…” and then more silence. I could not see Mimì’s expression, or Daphne’s, but I had an idea what was happening, because I sensed Daphne reaching out her hand to touch Mimì, and I saw Daphne’s cock begin again to twitch.

“Oh fuck,” I thought to myself. “She’s getting horny again. She wants to fuck the waitress – what do I do? My lover, my girlfriend, wants to fuck the fucking waitress – and she so wants to fuck her that she is getting yet another erection just thinking about it. What do I do?”

But actually, Daphne wasn’t just thinking about it. Not anymore. For Mimì was now sitting next to her on the banquette, her right leg pressed up against my lover’s, foot deftly kicking off her slipper and beginning to tenderly stroke up and down Daphne’s left calf. Soon I could hear the sounds of smooching and moaning coming from where, by extrapolation, I presumed their mouths to be now interlocked.

Now tell me, if it were you in that position – watching your lover get a boner from making out with a young waitress – what would you do? Rip her fucking dick off? Leap up, throw a hissy fit and storm out? Or quietly crawl out of your hiding place and join in? I mean, I’m no prude, really I’m not, but normally I would at least expect a bit of consultation prior to my lover initiating an adulterous liaison – wouldn’t you? All these thoughts went through my mind as I sat there listening to the two of them slurping at each other’s faces, whilst watching Daphne’s cock grow huge and stiff again, bobbing lustfully in front of my face.

From the movement of their bodies, I could tell they were feeling up each other’s tits now. And then I saw Daphne’s hand reach down to Mimì’s crotch and begin to make gentle circles over her vulva through the fabric of her jeans. Daphne had clearly lost any self-control now, and any sense of the necessity of secrecy, for she made no attempt to stop Mimì reciprocating: the young girl’s hand stroked its way down across Daphne’s stomach, curling its way around the hem of her dress until, inevitably, it came into contact with, curled around, and grasped her balls.

“Porca troia!” screamed Mimì, leaping to her feet. “Che due palle!” – and she was not wrong. In her shock, she knocked over the table – glasses of wine and bowls of pasta flying everywhere – revealing me skulking in embarrassment on the floor, my face inches from the pair of testicles she had just unwittingly discovered. Mimì stood trembling and panting in shock, pointing in horror at Daphne’s erection, now revealed in all its glory. “Signorina,” she trembled, “hai un cazzo!” – “You have a cock!”

There was a long silence. I was expecting Mimì to make a run for it. After all, what would you have done under the circumstances? But she didn’t. Instead she stood trembling, eyes fixed on Daphne’s huge member, pointing in disbelief. My lover slowly stood up, her cock twitching with anticipation as she continued to ogle the waitress’s young lithe beauty. “Ti piace?” Daphne asked – “Do you like it?” Mimì nodded wordlessly, sweat beading on her face, a tiny strand of drool dangling from her trembling lower lip.

Mimì walked slowly back towards Daphne, her eyes fixed on her cock, her face exuding fascination and lust. Halting in front of her, she wordlessly – perhaps mindlessly – reached down, and grasped her dick with both hands.

Of course Daph began to sing: she always does when she’s horny. This time – cheeky bitch! – it was “Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar” – “Your tiny hand is frozen, let me warm it…” But by the time she got to “Al buio non si trova” – “You’ll not find it in the dark,” the girl had bent over from the waist, her tight arse sticking out behind her, and had swallowed her cock deep.

I stood watching in fascination, as Mimì began to suck Daphne’s cock, her lips sliding effortlessly up and down her huge dick, nibbling their way along on the downward journey, smearing outwards on the upward, leaving a thick layer of saliva glistening all along the shaft. The waif might not have had a boyfriend – but she clearly knew what to do with a cock. And what was I to do? Just stand there, transfixed as I was by the sheer beauty of the sight? Yes, Daph and I had had the occasional threesome with another girl in the past, but such events were usually meticulously planned and discussed in advance – you know, to make sure there’s no misunderstanding, no jealousy. I had never seen her pounce like this – but then, she’d never had an eight-inch cock before, or two huge testicles powered by… what hormone, precisely?

So, by the time Daphne had reached “Ma per fortuna è una notte di luna” – “Fortunately it is a moonlit night,” I was already kneeling behind Mimì, admiring her half-moons which peeped at me over the top of her jeans. And by “E qui la luna l’abbiamo vicina” – “The moon is close to us,” said jeans were around Mimì’s ankles, and my face was buried between her buttocks, inhaling the heavenly aroma of sweat, pussy juice and arsehole, laced with olive oil and fresh basil.

Mimì was clearly no novice with either sex, moaning contentedly as my tongue teased her little brown bud, pushing her bottom backwards into my face – even as great ropes of saliva began to dangle and swing off Daphne’s shaft as she continued to pleasure it deep in her mouth. Soon I was lapping enthusiastically at her starfish, feeling it begin to gently loosen and wink, welcoming my probing tongue into its pungent depths. And it was not long before Daphne’s rendering of Puccini had degenerated into squeals of anticipatory ecstasy, and I could tell she was approaching yet another orgasm.

Mimì clearly could tell it too – but she didn’t want that yet. “Signorina, inculami con questo cazzone!” she spat, as saliva dribbled down her chin and she ripped off her spit-soused top. It was not quite Boito, but Daphne understood, and I knew she wanted it too. I pulled the waif’s jeans off so she could kneel on the banquette, her bare arse high in the air, flipping myself over so I could taste her wet cunt from below. My opera-singing lover braced one leg on the banquette, poised with her huge cock pointing at the girl’s arsehole, now winking and dribbling from my ministrations, and lunged.

Mimì screamed. No, not a scream of objection, but a scream of ecstatic pleasure, followed by a long loud stream of Italian swearing which went quite beyond my limited knowledge of the language, and certainly not in the spirit of Ghislanzoni. I lay below, inhaling the girl’s young cunt-fragrance whilst watching my lover’s huge cock – not much more than a couple of hours old yet, in this world anyway – pounding in and out of our waitress’s tight arsehole. I reached up with both my hands, curling two fingers of one hand into Mimì’s neatly shaven cunt, and two fingers of the other into Daphne.

“FUUUUCK!” screamed Daphne. It takes a lot of pleasure to get Daphne to shift from singing to swearing, so I knew I was doing well. The Italian girl had clearly lost all inhibitions too, as she began to mouth off: “Ah sì, signorina Daphne, inculami, metti il tuo cazzone nel mio culo. Signorina Lucy, ti piace la mia figa calda, sì? Allora mangiala, bella puttana. Ah sì, eccola, signorine, SÌÌÌÌÌÌÌÌ!”

Well, perhaps I made some of that up – but it was along those general lines, and even if you don’t know any Italian, you get the idea, I’m sure… At any rate, I felt the young girl’s cunt spasm against my fingers, tasted her juices dripping into my face. I saw Daphne’s balls tense, heard her squeal, “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck I’m going to come,” and saw her cock stiffen, pulsate and release her load deep into Mimì’s arse, eliciting yet more squealing and swearing from the young girl as she felt her rectum fill up with Daphne’s sweet seed.

Daphne slowly slid her cock out of Mimì’s tight hole, and a small flood of cum dribbled out after it, down the crack of her arse, forming little rivulets between and around her cunt-lips, which dangled tantalisingly above my face. “Ne vuoi?” asked Mimì, looking round and down into my face – “Do you want some?” I nodded, and she obliged, sitting on my face so that my mouth could envelop her creamy cunt and arsehole, and all of Daphne’s warm sweet cream could dribble down my throat.

From my recumbent position, Mimì's face, framed between her pert puffy tits, looked even more ravishing than ever. And when she giggled cheekily, “I secondi adesso?” – “Main courses now?” we both replied, “Sì!”

~

“I’ve changed,” said Daphne, as we walked back to the Opera House.

“No shit!” I grinned.

“No, no, I don’t just mean like that. I mean…”

“In your desires?” I suggested.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Luce. I love you. I love you so much. But this dick, it’s just… insatiable, uncontrollable! You’re an expert on such things – is that what’s it like for people with cocks, all the time?”

“You mean men? Pretty much,” I nodded grimly, my cynicism overriding my clinical judgment. “That’s why I gave up on them.”

“Oh baby, you won’t give up on me, will you?” said Daphne, desperation etched on her face. “If so, then this cock just isn’t worth it!”

“Well, you’ve got it now,” I chuckled. “And short of time-travelling you back to the future, I don’t know how to get rid of it. So, no, I’m not going to give up on you. I never will. Keep fucking me with that thing, and I’ll stick by you, love. Always.” I squeezed her hand.

As we reached the stage door, I added, “But what are we going to do about the Frenchman?”

A mischievous grin crossed Daphne’s face. “Funny you should ask that. I think I have an idea…!

~

Fifteen minutes later, we were both in Daphne’s dressing-room, and both clad in nothing but dressing gowns – Daphne sitting on her couch, me standing against the wall at the other side of the room. There was a knock at the door, and Daphne winked at me, before calling out: “Come in.”

It was of course Apollon – leering and ogling as usual, as he greeted my lover with, “Ah, tu es très belle, Daphné!” Apollon was barrel-chested and tall – handsome enough, I suppose, but with an air of loud self-satisfied arrogance which reminded me of one of my exes. In fact, he reminded me of all the reasons I gave up men. But I put that all to one side, as Daphne and I had a dish to concoct – and it would be best served cold.

Daphne is an opera singer; despite that fact, she is actually a rather good actress, and she was playing her part perfectly. “Et vous êtes très gentil, Apollon,” she replied, in mock courtesy. “And do you know my friend Lucy?” she added, gesturing towards me.

Apollon turned and caught sight of me, his eyes shamelessly focussing on the shape of my large tits, bulging under Daphne’s somewhat too-tight spare bathrobe. “Ah, Lucie – is zat your geurlfriend?” asked the tenor with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, she is my girlfriend, Apollon,” answered Daphne with a smile. “Isn’t she pretty?” I fluttered my eyelashes in what I thought was an utterly ridiculous soft-porn centrefold manner – but Apollon was clearly no great judge of my piss-poor thespian skills, or at least, any judgment he might have was submerged under good ol’ male tit-lust.

Either way, Apollon thought this was hilarious. “Daphné, Lucie – oh la la! Beaudiful geurls like you shouldn’t be feucking each ozzeur. You need a man to take care of you,” he leered.

Daphne giggled coquettishly, biting her lower lip as she replied, “Oh Apollon. You are so right. And you are so handsome and strong. Please will you teach us girls the true meaning of pleasure?”

“Take your clozes off, my beaudiful geurls, and ah will give you such pleasure zat you will neveur want to go back to feucking each ozzeur,” drooled the tenor.

“Oh, how could we resist, Apollon?” trilled Daphne. I stood in the corner, quietly pissing myself – metaphorically speaking, that is – but trying not to show it. “This is our treat for you, Apollon,” she continued, giggling. “Lie down on my couch, on your back, and we will give you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” he grinned. “Quel sorte de surprise? Do you want to give me a special show, ze two of you? Or maybe a special kind of massage?” He lay down on the couch, giggling in anticipation, like a stupid schoolgirl. I approached, doing my best to look seductive, despite feeling little more than an unpleasant combination of ridicule and nausea.

Daphne pulled out a scarf to tie around Apollon’s head as a blindfold. “Oh, you are a very naughty geurl, Daphné!” he chuckled. “What will you do wiz me?”

“Nothing you could possibly imagine, Apollon,” Daphne replied, tying the blindfold over his eyes. “Something out of this world, in fact!” Once the fool’s eyes were covered, Daphne slipped off her dressing gown to release her large but flaccid girlcock. Silently, I knelt down in front of her and began to suck. This was revenge, not a pleasure-fuck, so I worked fast, my cheeks hollowed out, rapidly wanking her shaft with one hand, whilst stroking her large balls with the other – till her cock was stiff and throbbing. I opened the front of my dressing gown so Daphne could ogle my tits – and she began to moan in pleasure.

“Oh la la, Daphné, Lucie – que faites-vous là? Puis-je voir?” giggled the man stupidly. I guessed that he could hear the slop-slop of Daphne’s cock fucking my mouth – but that it probably sounded enough like a rather vigorous pussy-frigging, that he wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.

“Have patience, Apollon,” panted Daphne between little squeals of pleasure. “Soon you will have the experience of your life!” And she was right, for soon I felt Daphne’s cock expand further in my mouth, and begin to twitch as her cum rose yet again. Just as she was about to spurt, she did that male pornstar thing, pulling her cock out and starting to jerk off rapidly with her fist – her huge swollen glans about six inches from Apollon, and pointing directly, mercilessly, at his face.

Just as her cock began to blast, Daphne called out, “Surprise, Apollon!” and pulled off his blindfold.

Apollon’s screams, I am reliably told, could be heard as far away as Covent Garden market.

“Ah, Mrs Stubbs! Do come in.”

Mrs Stubbs was, in contradistinction to her name, tall, slender and elegant, with pale skin, gently slanting oriental eyes, her black hair formed into a soft bob which, indeed, bobbed winsomely as she entered the consulting room, smiled cautiously, and sat facing Dr Gaia’s large mock-oak desk. The doctor was, by contrast, large and buxom, with frizzy black hair, her dark skin rich and glowing despite her middle age. To her side sat her assistant Melia – thin and pale, with slowly twisting pointy ears and light blue hair.

“And how is the new arrival, Mrs Stubbs?” smiled the doctor.

Mrs Stubbs’ face broke into a broad grin. “Oh, beautiful, Doctor! Thank you so much. My wife is over the moon! It’s what we have been hoping for for years. We’re just so glad the treatment is now available on the NHS!”

Gaia and Melia grinned with evident delight. “I am so pleased, Mrs Stubbs,” trilled the doctor. Now, as you know, yours is the first ten-inch specimen we have ever installed on a human female – which is why this post-operative check-up is necessary.”

“Of course, Doctor,” nodded Mrs Stubbs. “What would you like me to do?”

“Well, first, would you mind removing your clothes, so we can see how the specimen has taken? We may need to take some measurements.”

Mrs Stubbs’ new cock was flaccid, but already some eight inches long nevertheless, thick and roughly-hewn, and dangled impressively from her crotch as she stood in the centre of the room. “Oh, that is a beauty, isn’t it?” sang Dr Gaia. “What do you think, Melia?”

It was not long before Melia was on her knees, callipers and tape in hand, measuring all dimensions of the patient’s genitalia, from the neatly trimmed black pubic bush which perched above the base of her penis, down past her two warm testicles to her labia, which parted slightly of their own accord to reveal her moist pink vaginal flesh. “Oh God,” squealed Mrs Stubbs, “when you touch me like that, I straight away go all… oh fuck…” Her cock was already stiffening, bobbing gently in Melia’s palm, and her pussy-lips parted yet further, the heady fragrance of warm cunt gently filling the consultation room.

“Ten inches indeed, Doctor,” confirmed Melia as the penis reached its full size, “and six in circumference!” She put her measuring equipment down in order to manually explore Mrs Stubbs’ genitalia in greater detail, dictating her findings as Gaia scribbled notes on a clipboard. “The foreskin pulls back perfectly; pre-cum already evident,” she added, using her finger to spread the natural lubricant around the glans.

“Oh fuckkk!” hissed Mrs Stubbs, as Melia briefly stroked the underside of her frenulum with a moistened finger. Her cock jerked up and down, releasing more glistening pre-cum, which now dangled in a thin gloopy string from the glans. “I’m always so horny now, Doctor! My wife loves it, because I just can’t get enough fucking. We’re at it all the time!”

“And what about orgasms? Easy enough to achieve?”

“Are you joking, Doctor?” laughed Mrs Stubbs. “Again and again! Do you want me to…”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Stubbs. As your wife wasn’t able to come today, could Nurse Melia give you a blowjob?”

Melia extended her tongue to lick off the pre-cum dangle. “Ooh, lovely – even better than our nine-inch model!” she exclaimed, before opening her lips wide to engulf Mrs Stubbs’ whole cockhead, which was by now swollen and throbbing.

Dr Gaia was furiously scribbling notes on her clipboard, as well as snapping photographs with a small camera, as the nurse began a slow throatfuck, dislocating her jaw with a soft click before gently lowering her mouth down Mrs Stubbs’ shaft to swallow the entire ten inches, so her lips could nibble up and against her crotch. Melia’s lips and skin were turning gradually light blue, and the twisting of her ears was beginning to accelerate. “Oh God, Nurse Melia!” squealed Mrs Stubbs, as she began to drive her cock in and out of the extra-terrestrial’s face. “I’ve never throatfucked a Vrdmlian before; my wife can’t quite get all ten inches down, but with your jaw-click thing it’s… oh fuck, so good!”

Below her swelling testicles, Mrs Stubbs’ pussy-lips were now parting still further, and a dribble of cunt-juice began to run down her leg. “Check out her pussy, please, Melia,” instructed Dr Gaia; the blue-skinned alien complied – not pausing her throatfuck, but simultaneously inserting two fingers of her left hand into the dripping gash whose rich fragrance now filled the room.

“Oh… so good!” squealed the patient. “Please, Nurse Melia,” she panted, “do you have a dildo? When my wife sucks me off she sometimes sticks a vibe up there!”

“Melia can do better than that!” interjected Dr Gaia. “Can’t you, Melia?” she smirked.

The blue-haired nurse slowly withdrew her mouth off Mrs Stubbs’ ten-inch shaft, releasing a copious dribble of pale blue saliva as she clicked her own jaw back into place. Removing her white lab coat, she revealed her own body: thin and lithe, pale creamy skin gradually turning bluer with every passing minute, three pert blueberry-nippled breasts gracing her chest, and – eliciting a gasp from her patient – a huge sapphire cock, already stiff with excitement, the mushroom-headed dark blue glans throbbing with desire.

“Oh! I had no idea!” squealed Mrs Stubbs. “Do all Vrdmlians have a…”

“No,” giggled Melia, making her stiff member jiggle up and down before her. “We have three sexes on our planet: female, futanari, and flexible. I am in the third group – which means my cock is fully retractable. Would you like me to fuck you with it?”

Mrs Stubbs did not need to reply. Her face glowed with fascination and desire, and her ten-inch cock – looking almost petite in comparison with Melia’s – stood to attention, more glistening pre-cum leaking down the shaft towards her balls and cunt. Melia stood facing her, nudged her bulging blueberry cockhead against the patient’s slimy pussy, and pushed upwards.

Mrs Stubbs screeched with pleasure as she felt herself fill with hot throbbing alien fuck-meat. Soon she was blabbering sweet lustful nothings, as Melia’s thick blue shaft pounded in and out of her cunt, while the alien stroked Mrs Stubbs’ ten-inch cock with her slender blue hand. “Oh motherfuck… mo… fuckfuckfuck… oh God, Nurse Melia, you’re going to make me fucking… oh God, I’m… OH FUUUUUUCK!” she screamed, as a gush of warm slime erupted from her cunt, soaking the alien’s twelve-inch shaft down to her heavy blue balls. At the same time, her own testicles began to spasm, sending futa-cum coursing upwards through her shaft. The extra-terrestrial squealed with delight, her ears twisting and thrashing wildly against her blue hair, as she withdrew her tumescent member from her patient’s spasming gash, pumping it urgently with her hand until it too exploded. Mrs Stubbs’ cum squirted upwards in multiple jets, thin but powerful, adorning Melia’s blue body with fine creamy stripes and decorating her three blueberry nipples with globs of futa-jizz. By contrast, Melia’s cum came in thick azure ropes, firing high and decorating Mrs Stubbs’ pale face and black hair with stripe after blue stripe, a criss-cross pattern of cum which gradually disintegrated, dribbling down and dripping off her chin onto her pert tits.

“MJHLW!” squealed Melia in her own language, as her body trembled all over in orgasmic bliss. “MJHLW FRGLLLLL!!!”

“Language, language, Melia,” tutted Dr Gaia, who paused her note-taking to scoop up a sample of Mrs Stubbs’ cock-cream into a test-tube. “Well, thank you, Mrs Stubbs: we will have this sample tested in the lab – but on first appearances, everything seems to be functioning well.”

Mrs Stubbs did not respond. She had dropped to her knees in pleasure, and was licking the last few drops of pale blue cum off the end of Melia’s cock, which was now beginning to go gradually flaccid, and a progressively lighter shade of azure.

“Frgl… Mjhlw frgl…” panted the extra-terrestrial, as her breathing gradually returned to normal, her ears slowed down, and her skin colour regained more of its prior peaches-and-cream hue.

“Well, that will be all, Mrs Stubbs,” said the doctor, smiling. “Unless the tests throw something up, I think we won’t need to see you again. But remember, you are on access for the next six months just in case you have any concerns. In the meantime, please give my best regards to Ms Stubbs.”

“Oh, and more, Doctor!” giggled Mrs Stubbs, smacking her lips, shaking the last few drops of cum from her glans, and slurping up the last blue stripes from her face and tits, before donning her clothes. “Thank you so much!” she grinned as she let herself out the door.

“Well, that was successful!” Melia clapped her hands in delight, as she wiped the dregs of Mrs Stubbs’ bodily juices off her breasts and abdomen. She gently stroked down the upper surface of her cock with one finger, causing the once-huge member, along with its attendant testicles, to shrink and retract into her crotch; within thirty seconds all that remained visible was a deep blue clitoris, nestling contentedly at the top end of her azure pussy lips. “We can start rolling those out now, can’t we, those ten-inchers?” she asked, as she put her lab coat back on.

“Unfortunately, things may not be quite so simple, Melia,” replied the doctor. The blue-haired woman looked back quizzically. “There wasn’t time for me to tell you before – but we’ve had a message from the Minister: there’ve been some problems associated with our dickgirl transformations.”

“What?” gasped Melia. “Surely not! All the clinical results have been perfect!”

“The clinical results, yes,” replied Gaia. “But there have been timeline problems. Do you remember that woman Daphne, the opera singer?”

A nostalgic smile passed across Melia’s face. “How could I forget her? How long has it been – over two years now? I oversaw her case all those decades that she was comatose in the ward next door. I miss her, you know,” Melia grinned wistfully. “I feel like I got to know her really well – even though she was only awake for about an hour before we sent her home.”

“And there’s the rub, Melia: we sent her home. And that has, apparently, caused timeline problems.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, have you noticed the unusual spike in demand over the past year? The timeline investigators say that is as a result of our having sent Daphne back. Her girlfriend Lucy worked here, as you know, at the Institute, in the early twenty-first century. She, apparently, in her own timeline, harnessed our technology from Daphne, and unwittingly unleashed a whole futa craze upon the world – but two hundred years too early! It is set to become more severe over the next couple of years, as often happens when a negative timeline event filters through into the present. This could lead to massive demographic problems and social unrest: the Minister is not happy.”

“Mjhlw…” muttered Melia.

“Quite so,” grimaced Gaia.

~

Nur Todgeweihten taugt mein Anblick… sang Daphne. A warm summer breeze blew in through the open windows of her Honda Jazz, as the rolling verdant scenery of the Sussex Downs raced by.

“Is that what you’re singing tonight?” asked Lucy from the front passenger seat.

“Yes. That’s Brünnhilde warning Siegmund that she has to take him to Valhalla.”

“Meaning, he has to die?”

“Yep. Because his step-mother’s jealous that his dad’s been screwing around and fathering other races to pursue his own dubious ambitions.”

“Are you sure I’m going to enjoy this, Daph? I’m not going to be staring at a fucking swinging pendulum all night – or a green-tinted cyclorama?”

Daphne chuckled. “No, no; this production’s actually got scenery. And the Sieglinde can actually act, instead of just wave her arms about randomly. But anyway, Siegmund refuses to leave his beloved behind – and Brünnhilde is so moved by his love for Sieglinde that she disobeys Wotan’s commands and tries to save Siegmund’s life – all to no avail of course… which is when the shit hits the fan… Ah, Glyndebourne this way,” interjected Daphne, noticing a road sign.

“Got my cucumber sandwiches,” giggled Lucy.

“All right for you! But what about me?”

“Meaning?”

“Well…” Daphne looked sheepishly at her lover. “It’s going to be a long show…”

“You’re incorrigible!” laughed Lucy.

“Yes, but that’s not my fault! Remember, you told me, it’s that weird hormone from the future you discovered in my bloodstream. You should patent it and sell it at vast profit.”

“Sorry, Daphne, not buying it. Weird hormone maybe, but from the future? Pull the other one!”

“Oh Luce, do you still not believe me?” replied Daphne – an uncharacteristic hint of irritation in her voice. She bit her lip in consternation.

“Aw, love, what does that matter?” Lucy reached out to stroke Daphne’s thigh tenderly. “I’m yours, you know? Nothing can come between us.” Her right hand still stroking Daphne’s thigh, she swivelled herself around in the passenger seat and reached forward with her left hand as well, taking Daphne’s briefly off the steering wheel so that their twin rings glinted side by side.

A happy tear leaked from Daphne’s eye. “I love you, Luce. You make me so happy.”

“Shall I make you even happier?” replied Lucy cheekily, as one hand slipped beneath her fiancée’s skirt and began to explore the soft flesh of her inner thighs.

“Oh God, Luce, if you touch me like that, I won’t be able to hold back!” Daphne trembled.

“So don’t…” whispered Lucy, as her hand cupped Daphne’s testicles.

O süsseste Wonne! Seligstes Weib! sang Daphne.

“Whatever you say,” chuckled Lucy, as she released Daphne’s already throbbing penis, spat into her hand, and began to gently stroke the stiff shaft. Soon it had reached its full length, its head was bulging, and the foreskin was sliding effortlessly back over the glistening glans.

“God, this thing’s beautiful!” Lucy’s voice trembled. “Want me to kiss it?”

“No, no, just keep doing what you’re doing, love, that’s so… oh… ohhhh!” panted Daphne, her cock twitching with pleasure as Lucy’s right hand continued to ease her foreskin back and forth, gently pumping her shaft whilst her other hand stroked her balls. Daphne gripped the steering wheel harder, as if forcing herself to concentrate on the road, willing herself not to lose control. “Oh Luce, my love!”

“So, what would Siegmund say then?” chuckled Lucy, as Daphne moaned, her right foot, despite her best efforts, gradually easing itself harder onto the accelerator.

Du bist das Bild, das ich in mir barg… sang Daphne, her volume gradually increasing with the speed of the car.

“Ooh, that sounds sexy!” grinned Lucy. “Is that German for ‘Jerk my fuckink futa cock, you beautiful zexy bitch’?”

O lieblichste Laute, denen ich Lausche! continued Daphne, her vibrato widening as her cock expanded and she felt the exquisite feeling of her cum rising from her balls through her thick shaft.

“Or does it mean ‘I am goink to sqvirt my huge fuckink load all over your pretty face’?”

Daphne could hold back no longer. As she sang at the top of her voice, SO BLÜHE DENN, WÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄLSUNGENBLUT! her cock exploded, a great geyser of futa-cum shooting some eighteen inches vertically upwards from her pulsating cockhead. Lucy watched with delighted admiration as the cum-fountain fragmented, almost as if in slow motion, into thick creamy droplets which curled back downwards towards Daphne’s crotch. There they, and each successive glorious spurt of cock-cream, should have landed with a triumphant splatter, coating Daphne’s shaft and balls, as well as Lucy’s hands, before dribbling down Daphne’s thighs to decorate her flaring pink pussy-lips.

But it didn’t happen like that. To be fair, Lucy didn’t see exactly what happened, because she was too enraptured by the sight of Daphne’s flying cock-cream. But suddenly Daphne screamed – not a scream of lustful pleasure, but of utter terror – as she slammed her foot violently down on the brake. The car screeched and swerved, and Lucy lost grip of the cock, which waved and waggled uncontrollably, cum flying in all directions and splattering Daphne’s nose and caterwauling lips. Lucy’s upper torso, hitherto facing Daphne, was thrown backwards between the two front seats. Now she could see nothing, only feel her stomach churning as their car careered down the road, out of control, screeching to a halt halfway onto the soft shoulder.

There Lucy lay, listening to Daphne panting and squealing and sobbing in the driver’s seat, before she cautiously lifted her head to survey the damage. “What the fuck? Daph – baby, what on earth?”

“It was her!” Daphne’s voice shook, as tears poured down her face, which was now white as a sheet. “I saw her!” Her cum dangled in gloopy strings off her own face, jiggling spasmodically as she blubbed.

“What? Who?” Lucy reached forward, tenderly wiping the cream off her fiancée’s face and licking it off her own fingers.

Daphne appeared beside herself. “That blue-haired girl… that alien… whatever her name was… Melinda? Melanie? Oh God, it was her, Luce, I saw her – she was there by the side of the road, standing in front of that phone box! Help me, Luce!” Daphne grabbed Lucy tight, her fingers digging desperately into her flesh. “She’s come to get me! They want me back – I know it!”

“There, there, baby, no one’s coming to get you,” crooned Lucy, kissing Daphne’s face and stroking her hair. “Look – there’s no one there!”

And there wasn’t. For, even when they got out of the car and walked back down the grass verge, Daphne clutching Lucy’s hand in terror, there was no one to be seen. There was not even a phone box…

“It was here, Luce: a big old-fashioned red telephone box! And she was… right here!” spluttered Daphne. “The blue-haired alien: Melia – that was her name. She…”

“But love, these days people have their hair in all sorts of colours. That doesn’t mean they’re aliens. Just some young punk: did she have a mohawk too?”

“No… I mean, that’s what I thought at first, Luce – but then she turned and looked at me. She looked right into my eyes! She’s after me, Luce, she wants me back, she – OH GOD!” Daphne broke down in tears, howling in terror. “DON’T LET THEM TAKE ME AWAY!!!”

The two women, one futa, both female, stood a long while by the side of the road, holding each other tight – one of them beside herself with terror and desperation, and the other doing her best to reassure, until slowly Daphne’s tears subsided, and Lucy was able to say, “Come on, Daph, you must admit, never mind the blue-haired alien, there’s not even a phone box. You must have been imagining it. My fault for getting you all hot and horny whilst you were driving. Let me drive now. Let’s get you where you need to be, get you a nice cup of tea, or a little snifter of brandy. There’s no one here – see?” She gestured up and down the empty soft shoulder.

Daphne nodded, smiling weakly. “Of course, you’re right, love. Thank you. You put up with so much from me, don’t you?” She wiped the last of her tears away and laughed nervously, before standing up tall again.

“You’re worth it, my love. We’re together forever – remember?”

~

Schwester! Geliebte! sang the tenor.

Actually, this isn’t half bad, thought Lucy to herself, from her mid-stalls seat. In Act I, Siegmund, played by a fine tall Swedish Heldentenor, had rescued Sieglinde from the clutches of her abusive husband, played by a huge bearded Bulgarian with a voice like a choir of trombones. It was now Act II, the hapless pair were on the run, and the now-pregnant Sieglinde had collapsed with exhaustion. The divine warrior-maid Brünnhilde, played by Daphne, looking both gorgeous and terrifying in her black leather-and-chain armour, had arrived on stage, heralded by a quintet of Wagner tubas punctuated by funereal timpani rolls, to announce to Siegmund his doom, in a voice as bewitching as it was menacing:

Siegmund, sieh auf mich! Ich bin’s der bald du folgst. – “Siegmund… I am the one whom you will soon follow.”

It was then that Lucy noticed her. She could swear she hadn’t been there two minutes ago – but now there she was, standing at the back of one of the circle boxes, behind a row of glitteringly befrocked opera-goers, watching the stage intently. Despite the dark, her eyes shone a piercing blue, and a soft azure glow seemed to exude from her long coloured hair.

Wer bist du, sag, die so schön und ernst mir erscheint? sang Siegmund on stage, as he stared in awe at the Valkyrie: “Who are you, who appear so beautiful and yet so grave?”

But Lucy was not watching the stage anymore, as her heart skipped a beat. What the fuck? was her first thought. This must be a joke, a trick. Who? And why? And how dare they? She slipped out of her seat, tripping over the feet of a few tutting glitterati as she apologised her way along the row, then strode back up the aisle, into the foyer, and up the staircase to the circle. Determined to expose the stalker, she counted the doors to the boxes until she had found what she was sure was the right one, and quietly edged it open.

There she was, standing with her back to Lucy, her blue hair draped elegantly across her shoulders, eyes fixed on Daphne on stage who, accompanied by a soft chorus of trumpets proclaiming the summons of Valhalla, was now announcing:

Auf der Walstatt allein erschein ich Edlen! – “Only those chosen to die on the battlefield can see me!”

In her rage, Lucy was about to grab the blue-haired stalker, drag her out into the lobby, and demand a confession out of her – until she noticed that the woman’s ears were thin and pointy, and slowly twisting. Twisting? thought Lucy. Ears don’t twist. What sort of sick joke is this?

It was then that the ears start to speak. Speak? thought Lucy. Ears don’t fucking speak!

In point of fact, these ears weren’t actually speaking – out loud, that is. But Lucy somehow knew that, even though the blue-haired woman had her back turned to her, she was addressing her. Her ears are talking to my ears! thought Lucy. What the fuck?

And what the ears were saying now to Lucy was: She has to come with me, you know.

Lucy froze, and dared not speak; yet she thought: Come with you? Where to? Who the fuck are you?

In reply, her ears heard: My name is Melia. I helped give Daphne her cock.

You?! What? How? Where have you come from? thought Lucy.

Same place as you: the Institute for Sexual Medicine – but in your future.

No. No, no, NOOOO!!! Lucy screamed silently. This cannot be true!

I know it must be a shock, Lucy. But how else do you think she had her transformation? And where else do you think I am from? Melia’s ears continued to twist and wave, as if in silent confirmation of her non-humanity.

Lucy stood, trembling. OK, OK, she thought. Whatever. But why are you here now? What do you mean, she has to come with you? Why? Where to?

But now, Lucy noticed, Melia’s ears, still twisting and waving, were not just speaking, but singing. That is to say, the only real sound of singing in the theatre was of course from the stage – but somehow Melia’s mind, through her strange twisting ears, was taking that sound and not merely translating it but imbuing it with meaning, a meaning so clear and specific that it filled Lucy’s mind with terrifying urgency. On stage Brünnhilde was singing to the tenor – yet Lucy knew that the alien was speaking to her, and that Daphne was her Siegmund, her target, her victim:

Zu Walvater, der dich gewählt, führ ich dich. – “I will lead you to the one who chose you: you will follow me to Valhalla.”

Lucy, in horror, understood. And yet, without intending to, she found her own mind harnessing Wagner’s words and music to scream back Daphne’s refusal, as on stage Siegmund cried:

Zu ihnen folg ich dir nicht! – “I will not follow you! Where Sieglinde lives, Siegmund will stay!”

Though the alien’s back was still turned to her, Lucy felt the frustration blazing behind the twisting ears and unseen piercing blue eyes. As muted violas scratched out their anger from the pit, on stage Brünnhilde replied to the recalcitrant Siegmund:

Solang du lebst, zwäng’ dich wohl nichts! – “Whilst you live, I cannot make you come: but death will force you, you fool!”

Lucy’s head swam, as she realised the full horror of what the blue-haired interloper meant. Instinctively she wanted to attack her, to destroy her and the accursed message she had come to convey. She reached forward, clasped her hands around Melia’s neck, and squeezed hard, as on stage Siegmund raised his sword over his sleeping beloved and, amid bleating of wind and churning of strings, bellowed back at the Valkyrie:

Kein andrer als ich soll die Reine lebend berühren! – “No one but I will touch her. Take both our lives at a single stroke!”

In an instant the spell was broken. The intoxicating music and meaning disappeared from Lucy’s head, retreating, as if down a narrow tunnel, back to the stage and pit. But Melia’s slender pale hands, stronger than they looked, reached up and broke Lucy’s hold. The alien turned and, with a brief glance of her fiery-cold blue eyes, pushed past Lucy and out of the box and into the circle foyer.

“No you fucking don’t!” hissed Lucy – this time out loud, eliciting much outraged tutting and grumbling from the other occupants of the box as she charged out after Melia.

The alien was fast. She wasn’t running as such, but seemed to have the sort of anatomy which allowed her to walk with a swift gliding gait, such that even running down the stairs, through the main foyer, and out into the grounds, Lucy was unable to keep up. “You leave her alone, you hear?!” screamed Lucy across the summer-twilit Glyndebourne gardens at the retreating sapphire-haired shape. “She’s been through enough already! You try taking her away again, and it’ll be over my fucking dead body!”

But Melia had already reached the other side of the lawn where, lodged below a small copse, Lucy could just make out the sight of a large red telephone box. The alien stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “No you fucking don’t!” screamed Lucy – but blinked, only to find that the phone box was no more to be seen, and she was alone again.

Lucy collapsed in rage, and howled into the mud.

~

“Ah, Mr and Mrs Bloggs, do come in!” smiled Dr Gaia, as the door to her consulting room creaked open.

Mrs Bloggs, tall and strongly built, with long straight blond hair down to her buttocks, strode confidently in. In her wake followed a slight, slender, beardless young man with short, light brown hair and a nervous, almost sheepish expression on his face.

“Now, as I understand it,” began the doctor, after the couple had settled themselves, “you are having second thoughts about your new cock – is that right, Mrs Bloggs?”

“Oh, please don’t get me wrong, Doctor,” replied the blonde. “I adore it! It feels so good – and it’s so beautiful. I mean, ten inches of hard throbbing fuck-meat,” she giggled, “who wouldn’t love that? But…” Mrs Bloggs hesitated, looking sideways at her husband.

Dr Gaia looked quizzically back and forth between the two. “Are you not so sure about it then, Mr Bloggs?” she asked.

Mr Bloggs looked nervously at his feet. “Oh come on, Fred,” urged his wife, patting his hand affectionately. “You can tell the doctor: it’s all right.”

Fred Bloggs, still staring at his feet, spoke in a painfully hesitant undertone. “I like it… It’s… it’s… it’s just that it’s… too big…”

“Ah,” said the doctor.

“You see?” said Mrs Bloggs.

Fred continued to look at his feet.

“Well,” continued the doctor, “there are things we can do about that. Would you mind showing me the, uh… size of the problem…?”

“Of course!” said Mrs Bloggs, peeling off her skirt and panties to reveal an enormous penis which, though currently flaccid, was thick and gnarled, marbled with prominent blue veins. “I just want Fred to be happy, you know, Doctor? He’s always wanted a futa wife – but I think it’s just a matter of fine-tuning, if you know what I mean…”

“Oh, that is a beauty!” marvelled the doctor, moving around to the front of her desk so she could take hold of the naked cock and examine it closely. The huge member began to jerk and bob in anticipation. “I had forgotten how well that one turned out!” she grinned. “When did we do it – was it a fortnight ago? It would seem a shame to… but no, show me what the problem is, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Mrs Bloggs gestured tenderly to her husband, who pulled his trousers down and bent forward over Dr Gaia’s desk, his buttocks bare, smooth, and only slightly pimply. His wife stood behind him, slowly caressing the crack of his bottom with her futa penis whilst leaning forward and whispering in his ear, “You want this, Fred? You want this in your arse?”

Fred nodded shyly, reaching backwards with two hands to spread his buttocks, so that his tight puckered hole, framed with a few wisps of light brown hair, was visible.

“Can’t hear you, Mister Bloggs,” giggled the blonde, as she continued to stroke her semi-erection up and down her husband’s arse-crack. “I said,” she breathed hoarsely, “do you want this big fat cock in your arse?”

“Oh, yes please, Mrs Bloggs,” whimpered Fred.

Mrs Bloggs raised her voice slightly. “Then tell me what you fucking want, Mister Bloggs. Talk to me!” Mrs Bloggs’ cock had by now nearly reached its full ten inches, the foreskin naturally peeling back to reveal a huge gleaming purple cockhead, as thick as a man’s wrist.

“I want your cock in my arse, Mrs Bloggs,” squeaked Fred, as his own member began to stiffen in excitement.

“You like it in your arse?” pressed Mrs Bloggs yet louder, as she hawked a large gob of spit onto her husband’s pucker, slid her middle finger in, and began twisting and twiddling it round to gradually open up the sphincter. “Why is that, Mister Bloggs? Tell me!” she insisted.

“I love your cock in my arse,” squeaked Fred, his bottom writhing against his wife’s finger. “I love your big futa dick, your beautiful dickgirl cock. You are so wonderful, Mrs Bloggs, and I love you so much, and I want you to fill me up with your big dick…” Fred’s voice trailed off into an ecstatic whimper, as Mrs Bloggs spat more saliva onto her glans, leaned inward and pressed at his anus. Fred let out a muffled cry, half of pleasure and half of pain, his own penis stiffening further as he felt his bottom penetrated by the tip of his wife’s cock.

“Oh yes, Mister Bloggs!” panted the blonde. “Feel my big fat cockhead in your mancunt. Feel it squeezing in where no man has gone before. Is that nice being fucked up your hot shitter by your dirty fucking futa wife? You want me to go deeper, baby?”

“Yes, Mrs Bloggs, please push it in deeper, let me – AAARGH!” screamed Fred Bloggs, as his wife attempted to press the shaft of her cock further in. “NO – TOO BIIIIIG!!”

And so Mrs Bloggs paused, her glans still buried in her husband’s anus, but unable to proceed any deeper. “See, Doctor?” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s what he always says.”

“I can understand that!” grimaced the doctor, taking a deep breath, and procuring a pair of callipers from her pocket to measure the diameter of Mrs Bloggs’ girlcock. “It’s not so much the length that’s the problem, but the girth. Our ten-inch model was really designed for postpartum pussies, not male recta. Shall we try reducing the circumference a bit? A little injection should do the trick. It’ll take ten minutes or so to take effect – but best if you stay erect throughout the process: that makes for more even results.”

Three millilitres and ten minutes later, Mrs Bloggs’ cock was indeed still erect, maintained so by the kindly ministrations of Mr Bloggs, who knelt in front of his wife making oral love to her penis, until his saliva coated the full length of the futa shaft, swayed in thin strings off her balls, and dribbled down his beardless chin. Still rugged, and still ten inches long, its girth had nevertheless reduced, making it now look long, slender and suave. Mr Bloggs grinned with meek satisfaction.

“Shall we try it again?” asked Dr Gaia – and both the Bloggses nodded in anticipation.

This time, Mr Bloggs emitted no screams of pain, but merely moans of approval and pleasure, as his wife’s ten inches slipped into his rectum in one stroke. “Oh Mrs Bloggs!” he whimpered. “That’s so good. Thank you, my darling! I love you, my darling!”

“Oh yes!” trilled Mrs Bloggs as, for the first time since her procedure two weeks prior, she felt her whole shaft buried balls-deep in her husband’s rectum. “You like that, Mister Bloggs?” giggled his wife. “You want me to fuck your arse deep with my long cock?”

“Oh yes, my darling, I love it so much,” he tittered.

“You want me to pound your sweet little arse with my great long futa dick, dear Mister Bloggs? Want me to ram it in and out, fill up your pretty little boy-shithole with my stiff girlcock?”

“Oh yes please, Mrs Bloggs. Fuck me hard, now!” whimpered the young man. His own cock, though far smaller than his wife’s, was stiff again, its glans throbbing with pleasure and glistening with pre-cum.

Mrs Bloggs began dutifully to pound her long cock energetically in and out of her husband’s rectum. Dr Gaia’s consulting room was soon filled with scents and sounds of the marital futa-fucking: the squelch of ten-inch cock squeezing itself in and out of a tight man-hole, the slap of heavy girl-testicles against male buttocks, the moans and sighs of Mr Bloggs as he reached downward and began to manually pleasure his own cock, the ongoing scribbling of Dr Gaia on her notepad, and the enthusiastic dirty talk of Mrs Bloggs as she urged her husband on: “Yes, Freddie, this is what you’ve been wanting for so long, isn’t it? Your beautiful woman-wife filling you up with her perfect slutcock – you like that, don’t you, my darling? Want me to give you my sweet futa cum? Want to feel me spray-paint inside your pretty boy-arse with my hot cream? Is that what you want, Mister Bloggs?”

Mr Bloggs could only respond with moans and squeals – but his wife understood him well enough to time her orgasm perfectly. And so two cocks came simultaneously – the slender ten-incher deep into Mr Bloggs’ rectum, making its recipient screech with pleasure as his own cock also exploded. Mrs Bloggs lodged her spasming shaft balls-deep inside her husband, whilst at the same time reaching one hand around his trim body to pump his smaller specimen, collecting the dregs of his spasming ejaculation in her palm before slurping it off, even as her own cum began to ooze out of her husband’s happy anus.

Dr Gaia could not help but applaud. “Wonderful, wonderful, Mr and Mrs Bloggs! How was that for you both?”

Mr Bloggs had a happy grin on his face, as he straightened up and his wife knelt behind him, lips pressed between his buttocks and tongue lapping contentedly at her own sweet semen now dribbling in thick rivulets down his thighs. Collecting a generous mouthful of her own cum from her husband’s arse-crack, she stood up, pulled up her blouse, and let the cream dribble down her chin and ooze onto her large tits.  “Oooh!” exclaimed Mr Bloggs, as he nestled his head against her breasts, licking creamy futa-cum off his wife’s nipples and whimpering over and over: “Mmm… mmm… mummy…”

Dr Gaia, smiling with indulgent satisfaction, opened her mouth to speak, but was suddenly interrupted, as the door to the consulting room was flung open, and there on the threshold appeared a thin young woman with pale skin, pointy ears, and long, light blue hair.

“Melia!” exclaimed Gaia. “You’re back!”

“Oh, Doctor, I am so sorry to interrupt!” panted the extra-terrestrial. “Please, may I speak with you now – it’s urgent!”

~

“You’re very quiet, love,” said Daphne, taking a sip of wine. She and Lucy were sitting facing each other across their pine kitchen table, illuminated by a single candle.

“Hmm?” muttered Lucy. “Oh, darling – it’s nothing,” she lied. “I suppose I was quite moved by the show tonight.”

“Well, in which case, you’ve been ruminating over it all the way home: you’ve not said a word!” chuckled Daphne. “Not like you not to give me your opinion of all the things that were wrong with the production!”

The truth is that Lucy had spent the evening, ever since her encounter with Melia, fighting back tears, and rage, and fear. She had returned to her seat at the second interval, but found herself ignoring most of Act Three, as she went over and over in her mind what the blue-haired interloper had said. Determined to protect Daphne, both from Melia and from any unwarranted alarm, she had decided not to mention the episode – but was finding it difficult to feign normality. “Daph, I… I, uh, missed part of the end of Act Two: I wasn’t feeling too well. Tell me, did…”

“Ha ha!” laughed Daphne. “Too many cucumber sandwiches, then?”

Lucy attempted a half-hearted chuckle. “I mean, how exactly did Siegmund persuade Brünnhilde not to kill him?”

“She was so moved by his love for Sieglinde, by his determination that they should live or die together, that she disobeyed her orders. Unfortunately, to no avail…”

“Do you think that’s possible in real life?”

“What?” said Daphne, frowning.

“That even heartless emissaries of the state can be swayed by love, can disobey their orders out of mercy for others? I mean, history suggests otherwise, doesn’t it?”

Daphne’s face lit up with broad smile. “I think there are always exceptions. There are always remarkable people who dare to step outside the box, dare to be individuals, dare to not pander to the establishment – in pursuit of love and truth.”

Lucy gazed with awe into her lover’s face. “I hope you’re right, my love. I hope you’re right…” She reached forward to clasp both Daphne’s hands. “Look!” she added, placing their engagement rings side by side. “That’s us – always together…” A happy tear dripped down her face, before she continued: “Daph, my love?”

“Yes?” answered Daphne, squeezing Lucy’s hands.

“I… I’ve changed my mind,” said Lucy.

“Meaning?”

“You know I’ve always said there’s no hurry to get married, that it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just a pointless ceremony?”

“Mmm?” ventured Daphne tentatively.

“Well…” Lucy slipped off her chair and knelt on the floor, her head on Daphne’s knees. “Darling, please, let’s get married – soon!” Joyous tears coursed down Lucy’s cheeks, as her lover’s face broke into a sublime grin.

“Oh, Luce, do you know how happy that makes me?” laughed Daphne, leaning down to kiss her fiancée on the forehead. “Did Wagner bring this about?”

Lucy giggled nervously. “I was just thinking about Siegmund and Sieglinde, and… well, you never you know what’s round the corner, do you? We need to make the most of every minute we have, don’t we?”

Daphne rose, pulling Lucy up with her, so that they stood face to face, lips close but not quite touching. She was about to speak, when Lucy interjected, “Also, I… I believe you.”

“Uh… about what?” Daphne’s face announced her puzzlement.

“About everything – about what happened to you, about the accident, and the time-travel, and the aliens and everything…”

Daphne stood awhile gazing into her lover’s face, lower lip trembling in awe and gratitude, before singing, in a voice as soft and happy as spring:

Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond, in mildem Lichte leuchtet der Lenz…

“Ach so!” giggled Lucy, deliberately breaking the mood. “Zat means: ‘You are zuch a zexy bitch, I vant to fuck you tonight!’”

Daphne laughed, before taking Lucy by one hand and gently leading her out of the kitchen.

Auf linden Lüften leicht und lieblich, Wunder webend er sich wiegt…

“Und zat means: ‘I am zo horny,” Lucy smirked as she glanced down towards Daphne’s crotch, “my big futa cock ist schtiff as a fucking girder!’”

Daphne led Lucy through the living room, down the corridor, and into the bedroom.

Durch Wald und Auen weht sein Atem, weit geöffnet lacht sein Aug'…

“‘Achtung, Daphne! Ven you sing like zat, you make me all horny too!” giggled Lucy, as Daphne pushed her back onto the bed.

Aus sel'ger Vöglein Sange süß er tönt, holde Düfte haucht er aus…

sang Daphne, as she slipped out of her dress and underwear, shaking her long dark hair loose and releasing her eight-inch cock, which was, as Lucy predicted, already stiff with joyous excitement.

“Zo fuckink horny, my pretty pink muschi is gettink all vet und dribbly!” teased Lucy, as she too undressed and lay back, legs spread.

Seinem warmen Blut entblühen wonnige Blumen, Keim und Sproß entspringt seiner Kraft!

sang Daphne, as Lucy laughed: “Fuck me, my love! Fill me up viz zat great big futa cock! Ram it into my fuckink cunt and make me schcream mit pleasure!”

And so Daphne did just that. And as she climbed on top of Lucy and slid her cock deep into her moist depths, Lucy pulled her down and held her tight, so that her fiancée’s heavy futa balls slapped against her perineum, her cockhead lodged itself hard against her cervix, and the base of her shaft ground firmly against her clitoris. “I’m going to hold you right here, Daph,” said Lucy, her silly mock-German accent discarded and her voice trembling with unmasked emotion. “Grind your cock deep inside, where I can squeeze you tight, where you can’t escape me, where I will never let you go, so that no one – no stupid fucking messengers from another world, no Valkyries in fake chain mail, no blue-haired aliens – no one at all can ever part us! Daphne, my wondrous warrior-maid, love me, and fuck me, and marry me, and make me yours forever – OH GODDDDDD!!”

And so Lucy came, her cunt spasming joyously, desperately, around her beloved’s cock. And Daphne came too, her sweet futa seed filling her fiancée with life and happiness and truth. And they embraced long and hard, feeling their spasms ebb and flow and slowly die away, till they found themselves gazing into each other’s eyes, knowing that, truly, they were one flesh.

And in that moment, nothing mattered except the present. And it was beautiful. 

CUNT IS A CONCEPT!

proclaimed a banner, in gaudy capital letters.

A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!

demanded another.

FUTA RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS!

announced a third. And a fourth posed the existential question:

ASSIGNED CUNT AT BIRTH…?

“God, look at them,” sneered Gaia, as she stood by her window watching the crowds demonstrating up and down the length of Harley Street. “always thinking they’re entitled to more! Do you know, I had a man ring me up the other day: he’s already got two cocks, but he’s wanting three, so he can DP one of his “wives” whilst the other gives him a blowjob. And he wants the second “wife” to have a cock too, so she can fuck the first one’s face; and she wants four tits – or was it five? – so he can titfuck them all at once; and on and on…”

“And what did you tell him?” asked Melia.

“Well, I told him exactly where to put his two cocks! And – guess what? – he replied, ‘Oh, that’s a good idea: I’d not thought of that…’ Ha! That’s what happens when we develop science without the wisdom to match. People think that just because they want it, and it’s possible, there’s no reason they can’t have it!”

“Humanity has always been like that, Gaia,” sighed Melia, a resigned tone in her voice. “Ever since I arrived here, on that first Vdrmlian transport a hundred years ago, I have been as amazed at human short-sightedness as I have been at your inventiveness and ambition.” She looked down at the crowd outside – mainly humans, both men and women, some of them ostentatiously displaying their multiple genitals as they hoisted their banners and hurled slogans at the façade of the Institute for Sexual Medicine.

“So why did your government choose here? Surely there are any number of planets in the Galaxy you could have set up a colony on!”

Melia thought for a few seconds, before answering: “Well… maybe the food… Yeah, that’s about it, really. Crème brûlée: yummy. Nothing quite like it on Vrdml… Oh yeah, and the tits: that’s one human obsession Vrdmlians have taken to big time: big tits. Problem is, fitting three G-cup breasts on a chest my sort of size is a bit of a challenge,” she added, indicating her slender torso – so no surprise it hasn’t really caught on. I think I’ll do without…”

“Yes, exactly: you at least have enough common sense to realise that you can’t just keep denying reality without there being consequences! I warned the Minister about this years ago: that we’d have to go slowly, tread carefully. But – typical politician – instead of solving the housing crisis, or the cost of living crisis, or the education crisis, instead he just gives people more ways to fuck, hoping they won’t notice that they’re homeless poverty-stricken ignoramuses! ‘Cocks and circuses’ – that’s what I call it! The irony is, now he’s the one who’s scared of civil unrest – I mean look at them out there!”

Through the window came the sound of chanting from the crowds outside: “A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK! A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!”

“Well…” interjected Melia cautiously. “You must admit, much of this acceleration has been caused by the whole Daphne effect. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d have been OK.”

“True,” nodded Gaia ruefully. “And that was my fault. I had such reverence for, such gratitude towards Lucy Kuiper – I mean, without her tireless work back in the twenty-first century, this Institute’s dickgirl research would never have come to fruition, and we would never have made contact with you! I guess I wanted to pay her my debt of gratitude, by returning her beloved Daphne to her. Sadly, I may have achieved exactly the opposite.”

“How do you mean?” Melia raised an eyebrow.

Gaia sighed. “I’ve been in the Ministry this morning, studying the timelines: not a pleasant experience, you know, researching everything which ‘might have been – if only’… Here, have a look.” She picked up a folder from her desk, marked “L. Kuiper: timeline information – strictly classified”, and handed it to Melia. “It’s towards the bottom of the page one.”

Outside the crowds were now chanting, “MY BODY, MY COCK! MY BODY, MY COCK!” as Melia opened the folder and read. Reaching the bottom of the first page, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Oh no! Oh gods! How awful! But… we can’t tell her, can we?”

Gaia took a deep breath. “Ordinarily, no. But if by revealing to Daphne the terrifying truth we can convince her to assist us in readjusting the timeline, it might be worth it.”

“Is that legal?” asked Melia.

“Not in the strictest sense. But I have spoken to the Minister about it, and he thinks, especially as your first attempt to persuade her wasn’t successful, that we could, in this case, stretch the protocols a bit. These are exceptional circumstances, Melia. The situation is only getting worse – and the timeline investigators say it will reach crisis proportions within the year, unless we achieve readjustment. We must act now.”

“Mjhlw frgl,” sighed Melia.

~

“And so, may I ask you all to join me in offering a toast – to the brides!”

“TO THE BRIDES!” chorused the guests in response.

“Hip hip…”

“HOORAY!”

Daphne and Lucy sat at the head table, dressed in twin backless white wedding gowns, faces glowing, clasping each other’s hands. Around were gathered parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and the best of their colleagues from the medical and musical worlds, all relishing the joie de vivre and companionship which only such an occasion can bring.

“Hip hip…”

“HOORAY!”

The hotel was a Tudor manor house in Surrey, and the cake was, by special request of Lucy, a croquembouche: a massive cone of profiteroles, stuffed with pastry cream and laced with chocolate and spun caramel. Both brides stepped forward, to cheers from their guests, to each pick one profiterole from the cone and feed it to her new spouse.

“Hip hip…”

“HOORAY!”

Of course, it all went wrong: Daphne managed to smear chocolate on the lace collar of her dress, caramel dripped down into Lucy’s cleavage, and they couldn’t help giggling as they simultaneously hand-fed cream puffs to each other, so that the contents thereof smeared onto their lips, chins and fingers, making a creamy mess of both their faces and all four of their hands. There was much good-natured laughter and cheeky banter all around, before they invited their guests to enjoy their dessert while they retreated upstairs, to discard their soiled clothes and change early into their going-away outfits.

Clutching a bowl of profiteroles, the newlyweds made their way up the stairs to their room, still feeding messy handfuls of caramel- and chocolate-coated cream puff to each other. Drunk on their own joy, and knowing that they would have to change clothes anyway, they made no attempt to be careful, so that by the time they reached their suite, their faces, hair and hands were a slapstick mess: cream and chocolate dripping off their eyebrows, noses and chins, their soft cheeks gleaming with sugary delight.

Neither Lucy nor Daphne needed to say anything, for as they closed the door of their hotel room behind them, they knew what they had to do. Their lips mashed together, tongues exploring, seeking, tasting, as they slurped and licked all the sweetness from each other’s faces, hands groping, squeezing, stroking and – inevitably – ripping each other’s wedding dresses off till they stood flesh-to-flesh, naked bar their white stockings and heels.

“Fuck me, my darling,” whimpered Lucy, as she felt Daphne’s cock, stiff and sweaty, pressing against her vulva. And Daphne would have complied immediately, had they not been interrupted by a sharp double-knock at the door.

“Who is it?” panted Daphne, as she revelled in the sensation of Lucy’s damp pussy-lips smooching gently at her swollen glans.

“Room service!” called a voice. “Mrs Kuiper said you might have some dresses for cleaning?”

“Oh fuck, Mum,” panted Lucy under her breath, before calling out, “Just a minute! We’ll leave them here over the back of the chair and go into the bathroom. Then you can let yourself in and take them away – all right?” Lucy and Daphne smirked, picked up the bowl containing two last profiteroles, and retreated into their ensuite, Daphne’s rigid dribbling cock wagging eagerly from side to side as she walked. “You can come in now!” called Lucy as, with a giggle, she shut the bathroom door behind them.

In an instant, Lucy was on her knees. Grabbing a cream puff from the bowl, she impaled it on Daphne’s cockhead, letting crème pâtissière ooze along her thick shaft, before opening her mouth wide to swallow the cream-coated futa dick as deep as she could in one go. “Mmmfuck…” she moaned, savouring the heavenly combination of cream, chocolate, caramel and sweaty cock, whilst calling, mouth still full of futa-flesh and pastry, through the bathroom door to the maid: “Have you found the dwesses aww wight?”

Lucy and Daphne heard the maid reply, “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” before shutting the door on her way out. But the newlyweds did not bother to return to the bedroom. Instead Lucy grabbed the last profiterole and squeezed it in her palm, before smearing its contents over Daphne’s dick and balls and resuming her full-frontal oral attack. Cream melted and dribbled off the shaft in little white rivulets, rendering Lucy’s happy face gradually messier and messier.

“Oh God,” whimpered Daphne. Unable to restrain herself, she began to fuck Lucy’s face, relishing the feeling of her cockhead lodging itself into each cheek in turn, as a mélange of cream, chocolate and spit dripped off Lucy’s chin and onto her full breasts. “OH GOD!” cried Daphne again, feeling the cum start to surge up through her shaft, and her cock begin to spasm. “Oh Luce, oh love, oh fuck…” she trilled, unable to hold back.

“Let it go, my love,” cried Lucy, grabbing the cock with one hand and pumping it vigorously in front of her open mouth. “I want my dessert!” Her lips and face still smeared with croquembouche, now her mouth filled with a new type of cream, as she jerked spurt after spurt of her wife’s sweet futa-cum deftly onto her tongue, before swilling it around and, with an ecstatic whimper, swallowing it.

Daphne gazed down in adoration and delight, as Lucy’s lips and tongue slurped up and down her girlcock, licking off the remains of cream and pastry. “Oh love, that’s so good, so good…” Daphne moaned. “But… you haven’t come yet. What shall I do for you now?”

“Later, my love,” giggled Lucy, making a little glob of semen jiggle, sway and drip off her lower lip. “They’re expecting us downstairs. Best not to make it too obvious what we’re up to! Let’s have a quick shower now, and change: later, that dick’s got all night to make me come and come and come – what about it?”

“OK, darling,” replied Daphne. “Though… shame this shower cubicle isn’t larger…”

“That’s the problem with Tudor manor houses,” smirked Lucy, standing up. “And when Mum found this place, a fuckable shower stall probably wasn’t top of her list of priorities!”

“Well, you go first then, love: you’re messier than me! I’ll just go get myself a cup of tea,” said Daphne, as Lucy let herself into the shower cubicle.

But as Daphne let herself out into the bedroom, her semi-flaccid sugar-coated cock still dangling before her, she drew breath in shock – for there, standing in the middle of the room, was a dark-skinned, frizzy-haired woman with large breasts bulging beneath her maid’s outfit, and a pair of cream-soiled wedding dresses draped over her left arm. “What do you think you’re doing?!” hissed Daphne indignantly, instinctively but unsuccessfully attempting to cover up her genitals with her hands. “You were asked to take those dresses for cleaning – so take them, and get the f–”

But then Daphne paused – for she realised that she had seen this face before. “You!” she exclaimed, her face crumpling.

“Please don’t be afraid, Daphne,” replied Dr Gaia. “And please don’t send me away. I’m trying to save you. You are in danger, both of you. You must listen to what I have to say.”

~

Tristi e soli i vecchi miei piangeranno, penseranno ch'io non torni più! – “Far away, alone and sad, my friends will weep to think that I shall never return,” sang Jake Wallace, the camp minstrel, in his doleful baritone, accompanied by Volodymyr the Ukrainian répétiteur on a baby grand. Except that, this being a production by the great Henke (so great, indeed, that he needed only one name, a bit like Björk, or Pelé – or Stalin), Jake Wallace was dressed in a hazmat suit and carried a Geiger counter instead of a banjo. “Cut!” screamed Henke, a middle-aged hippie with a paunch, a bald pate, a goatee and long grey hair down to his shoulders. “Who do you think you are, a camp minstrel?” he bellowed at the hapless baritone as he pounded his fist on his table. “The end of the world is nigh! And you act like you are singing a home-sick ballad – no, no!”

“But, Henke,” pleaded the singer, a short paunchy Welshman called Dai, “listen to the text: ‘La mia mamma, che farà s'io non torno?’ – ‘How my Mamma will weep if I never come home!’ Surely this is a home-s–”

“The text?! Fuck the text!” screeched the Teuton. “I am the Director! My vision overrules the text! It’s all in Italian anyway: these English toffs don’t understand a word of it. We give them what they deserve – not what they think they paid for! Do it again!”

Daphne sat at the back of the auditorium, awaiting her entrance, muttering under her breath, “How to fucking ‘opera Germanly’ – Jesus, now I’ve seen it all…”

Sitting just in front of her, her tenor co-star, a slightly balding Scotsman called Duncan, smirked in sympathy. “Just wait for the infanticide, the race riots, and the gay orgy. All to come. And you thought this was a Wild West romance?”

Daphne slouched back into her seat, but did not waste much time sulking, as her mind was too full of her unexpected encounter with Dr Gaia the previous weekend: “No,” Daphne had insisted, “I am not leaving Lucy here to come back with you to the future! You sent me back here, and it was Lucy’s foresight that allowed that to happen. We will not be parted!”

Al telaio tesserà lino e duolo pel lenzuolo che la coprirà... – “To shroud herself shall she weave woe and linen at the loom,” sang the chorus of gold miners on stage – dressed, of course, in Ku Klux Klan outfits which they kept tripping over, much to Henke’s annoyance.

“What we didn’t realise, Daphne,” Gaia had replied, “is that sending you back changed the course of the sexual history of mankind. It’s one thing for women to want cocks. But now they’re demanding multiple tits, or retractable dicks like the Vrdmlians. And men are wanting two or three cocks – or both cocks and cunts, or expanded arseholes, so as to take all these huge ten-inch dicks we keep providing their wives with. And because Lucy has now learnt about this technology from you, and can research it at her Institute, all this demand has developed two hundred years earlier than we expected it to!”

Il mio cane dopo tanto mi ravviserà? – “Will my dog recognise me after so long?” sang the chorus of miners, whilst bending over and miming buggering each other doggy-style through their KKK costumes. Henke smiled contentedly – though Daphne could not tell whether this was mere directorly satisfaction, or because the mediocre but buxom mezzo-soprano, Bambi by name, whom he had cast as the squaw Wowkle, was now crouched at his feet, headdress feathers waving just above the level of his table as she slid her fulsome spit-lubricated tits up and down around his rather small penis. Daphne scoffed, but returned to brooding over the conversation with Dr Gaia.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Doctor!” Daphne had responded. “This is ridiculous! You can’t expect me to abandon my wife now, and let you take me away just because of your bullshit story about a ‘crisis of demography’! You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake, and you claim to have all this amazing sexual technology! So use it! Sort the problem! Yourselves!!”

O mia casa al rivo accanto, là lontano, chi ti rivedrà? – “Will I ever see my home so far away…?” sang the miners dolefully, whilst crawling on all fours smacking each other’s backsides with their Geiger counters. From below Henke’s table there now emerged the sound of slurping and gurgling, which provided an awkward counterpoint to the miners’ concluding pianissimo six-part a capella chorus; nevertheless Henke was happy, rolling his eyes upwards in combined artistic and penile ecstasy.

Daphne’s eyes, though obscured in the semi-darkness of the rehearsal hall, began to water, as she remembered what Gaia had revealed next: “All right, Daphne, I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I’m not supposed to tell you this, because normally Ministry rules are that timeline matters are to be kept secret, and certainly not divulged to those who will be most deeply affected. But… if you stay here,” Gaia had continued, with a desperate sigh, “you will be condemning Lucy to death!”

Vlod the répétiteur was working extra hard now, Daphne noticed. After the relative calm of Jake Wallace’s ballad, now the miners were having fisticuffs. In Henke’s version, of course, they were using Sten guns and hand grenades – but the pianist still had to produce a passing impression of the orchestral part, all jagged trombone lines and hammering triplets from the wind. Daphne knew her entrance was soon, but she sat frozen in her seat, recalling her shock and anguish as she had stood with her dangling dribbling penis listening to Gaia’s revelation: “In two years’ time, Daphne, she will die in a car accident. You will be widowed – unless you come with me back to the future now and enable me to correct the timeline. It is the only option. It is your – her – only hope…”

“HELLO, MINNIE!” chorused the miners on stage, as Volodymyr bashed out Daphne’s entrance theme – a broad, lush, triumphantly thrumming twelve-eight with great fistfuls of added ninths and heart-melting glissandi: the perfect tune for a powerful heroine both adored and feared by the men who surround her. “HELLO, MINNIE!” But Daphne was still cowering at the back of the hall, frozen in remembered terror.

“DAPHNE!!! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” screamed Henke, instantly rousing her from her anguished reverie. “YOU’VE MISSED YOUR FUCKING ENTRANCE!”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” cried Daphne, dashing down the aisle towards the stage. “I’m so so sorry!”

“HELLO, FUCKING MINNIE!” screeched the director. “What the fuck’s wrong with you these days? You missed three cues yesterday! And now you can’t even get your cunt on stage on time for your Act One entrance!” Henke’s face was incandescent with rage, and spittle flew from his lips – as Bambi emerged from beneath the table, hastily stowing her tits in her buckskins and smirking as she wiped a stray drop of semen from her chin.

Daphne stood, mute, her body trembling with rage and humiliation.

~

“Ah, Mister and Missuses Lecoq! Do come in,” trilled Dr Gaia, a fixed smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

Mr Lecoq was a tall, muscular man in his fifties, dressed in a Gucci suit, with dyed black hair, Prada sunglasses, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He reckoned that he had reason to be pleased with himself, for, in his wake, by means of a pair of pink faux-leather leashes, he was leading two young women, tottering on their stilettos, neither looking any more than nineteen years old, flawless examples of largely identical surgically-enhanced silicone beauty: plumped red lips, extended pink finger-nails, bleached blonde hair down to their cinched waists, and huge breasts bulging behind improbably tight sparkly crop-tops. Indeed, they were so similar that the only way Gaia could tell them apart was by the lettering on their bulging tops: one read “WHORE”, in pink cursive script; whilst adorning the chest of the other was the designation “BITCH”.

“Whore, Bitch – down!” commanded Mr Lecoq. “Whore” batted her eyelashes and giggled stupidly as she sat on the floor and gazed adoringly up at her husband. “Bitch”, in contrast, pouted, sticking both tongue and middle finger out at the man, before sitting at his feet and proceeding to suck her thumb.

Surreptitiously, Gaia rolled her eyes at Melia, who turned her back in disgust, pretending to sterilise some medical equipment on a trolley by the wall.

“You gave me two cocks, remember?” said Mr Lecoq, an unmistakeably accusatory tone in his voice, as he pulled down his trousers to remind her.

“I do remember,” replied Gaia, maintaining her customer service expression as best as she could, as the blonde bimbos licked their botoxed lips at the sight of Mr Lecoq’s members while kneeling in a practiced attitude of genital veneration. The man’s two erections were, even Melia would have admitted, most impressive. Positioned one above the other, but sharing a single massive pair of testicles which dangled below, they gleamed and throbbed with lust. The lower cock was clearly the standard nine-inch model, huge and roughly hewn; the upper was a touch slenderer, obviously a bespoke model designed specifically for its intended purpose – which Mr Lecoq was apparently intent on demonstrating.

“‘Ere, let me show you,” grunted Mr Lecoq, before looking down at his fawning wives. “Whore, arse up, now!”

“Oh yes, Hubby-Bubby, totally fuck your Whore with both your dicks,” squeaked the first Mrs Lecoq, as she knelt on all fours, pressed her head sideways onto the floor, and pulled back her very short skirt to reveal a tight round bottom. “Whore totally loves being DPed, Hubby-Bubby!” she giggled, as she spread her buttocks to reveal a dripping shaven pussy and a gently winking anus. Placing one foot on the side of her painted face, Mr Lecoq lunged, his two penises simultaneously penetrating his wife with a noisy double squelch, before beginning to fuck both her holes with ostentatious abandon. “Oh, Hubby-Bubby’s cocks feel so good,” the girl continued to squeal. “Hubby likes fucking his dumb blond fuckwife so fucking hard!” The second Mrs Lecoq held the first wife’s buttocks wide with her hands, drooling with worshipful desire at the two squelching pounding cocks.

Mr Lecoq paused his fucking. “See the problem, Doctor?” he blurted, in an accusatory tone.

“Er… no…?” replied Gaia. “Sorry, what is the problem?”

“Bitch wants to suck my cocks – and she can’t, because they’re both fucking Whore! What’s she supposed to do?!”

Gaia bit her lip. “Um… could you perhaps take one cock out – maybe the one in her arse, and she could suck that? She might appreciate the flavour…?”

“Nah, Whore needs DPing, like, all the fuckin’ time. Don’t ya, Whore?”

The first Mrs Lecoq nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Doctor, Whore totally needs two cocks in her, like, all the fucking time. Otherwise Whore can’t cum!” she giggled. “And Bitch can’t live without Hubby-Bubby’s cock in her mouth – can you, Bitch?”

The other girl pouted. “Yeah, ‘coz Bitch is an oral fuckslut, she is. Bitch’s throat is totally made for Hubby’s cock!” she drooled, as saliva dribbled down her chin and into the crack of the other woman’s buttocks.

“Whore and Bitch both worship Hubby-Bubby’s cocks, they do,” chorused the two women in unison. “Bitch and Whore can’t live without Hubby-Bubby’s cocks!” Mr Lecoq beamed, gesturing towards Dr Gaia with a “told you so” look on his face.

“And,” the second wife continued, “Bitch totally needs a cock too, so Bitch can help Hubby-Bubby fuck Whore airtight.”

“Um… could you not get someone else in?” asked Gaia, a pained expression on her face. “That would be the normal method, wouldn’t it?” Melia had by now abandoned all pretence of professionalism, and was standing in the corner face-palming as she listened to the conversation.

“Someone else?” Mr Lecoq sounded outraged, even as he resumed energetically fucking both his first wife’s orifices. “But it’s me they want! They fuckin’ worship me! Don’t ya, fucksluts?!”

Both women squealed their approval. “Yes, Doctor, Hubby-Bubby is our Master! Whore and Bitch only want Hubby-Bubby’s cocks – no one else’s!”

“And,” continued the first wife, “Whore totally wants Hubby to titfuck her, so Hubby can, like, spurt all his hot cum in Whore’s pretty face. If Hubby gets three cocks, that means Whore will need… will need…” – the first Mrs Lecoq frowned in puzzlement at her painted fingers, as if trying to work out a very complicated sum – “… so many tits!”

“Uh… but where will you put them?” asked Gaia in bewilderment, as Melia snorted with barely-concealed derision.

But the medical professionals’ reservations were clearly having little effect upon their clients, as Mr Lecoq picked up the pace of his DPing, sweat began to pour down his brow, and the first Mrs Lecoq’s huge tits swayed and jiggled beneath her in time with her double-fucking. “‘Ere it is, then, filthy fuckwives: take this!” The man pulled both his cocks out of his wife’s orifices and began rapidly pumping them with his hands. The larger cock exploded first, thick heavy ropes of cum exploding out of the glans, criss-crossing over the first Mrs Lecoq’s buttocks, dribbling down the crack of her arse, and forming a viscous pool at the pucker of her anus. “Oh yes, Hubby-Bubby, totally own your little Whore with your cum: Whore loves that so much!” she squealed, as her husband’s cock-snot dribbled down off her arsehole onto her fucked-out cunt-lips, where it beaded and dangled tantalisingly.

The upper cock came next, a series of sharp well-aimed spurts splattering the second Mrs Lecoq’s face. Her pout disappeared in an instant, as with glee she began slurping at the still spasming anal-scented dick, licking and sucking till her lips and chin were coated with hot cum. Simultaneously she inserted her middle finger into the other wife’s arse-crack, scooping up the thicker gloopier cream from the larger cock and smearing it over her face. “Oh yeah, yummy fucking cum cocktail for pretty little Bitch!” she squealed. “Thank you, Hubby-Bubby!”

The first wife turned round, her tongue extended and drooling with desire – inviting the second to dribble a long thick beaded rope of cum mixture into her open mouth. They kissed lustfully, squealing and giggling with pleasure as they slurped cream off each other’s faces and pawed each other’s huge breasts, before turning their attention to Mr Lecoq’s members, which they sucked in alternation, until all his cum had been drained and joyfully swallowed.

“See, Doctor?” affirmed Mr Lecoq. “They worship me!”

“Oh yes!” chorused the women. “And Hubby-Bubby’s fucksluts want more Hubby-Bubby cocks!”

Gaia sighed. “You know you won’t be able to get this on the NHS, don’t you, Mister and Missuses Lecoq? NICE has set a limit of two cocks per person, and three tits.”

Mr Lecoq laughed. “I’ve got plenty o’ dosh, Doctor, don’t ya worry. You’ll be well paid.”

Melia turned towards the wall and pretended to vomit.

~

It was time to rehearse Act Three. The highwayman hero Dick Johnson, played by Duncan the Scots tenor, had been captured by the miners, and was about to be lynched – but, this being a Henke production, rather than the traditional gallows, they had strapped him into an electric chair and placed an executioner’s mask over his head. Thus muffled, he did his best to sing:

Ch’ella mi creda libero e lontano, sopra una nuova via di redenzione…

“May she think me far away and free, on a new path of redemption,” thought Daphne, as she sat again at the back of the auditorium, determined this time not to miss her entrance. She remembered the gut-wrenching tussle with her conscience, then hastily pulling on her going-away outfit, following Gaia out the tradesmen’s exit behind the kitchens, through the bin yard, across the service lane, and into a small fir copse where, to her amazement, there stood a large red telephone booth. The tears coursing down her face mixing with the remains of croquembouche – now both salt and sweet on her lips – she had paused a second to take in the distant sounds of revelry coming from the marquee – all her friends and relations rejoicing at the union which, unbeknownst to them, would now be aborted before it had barely had a chance to draw breath.

Aspetterà ch’io torni, e passeranno i giorni –

“She will wait for my return, but the days will pass… the days will pass,” Daphne muttered, as Duncan poured his heart out, accompanied by big bold G-flat major parallel chords from Vlod’s piano, and she remembered the tussle which had taken place amid the dry earth and pine needles in front of the phone box: “Just let me go back and explain to Lucy!” she had pleaded.

“There isn’t time!” Gaia had insisted, desperately trying to drag her in. “We mustn’t be seen.”

Eeeeeeed io non tornerò – “Aaaaaand I will not return!” sang the tenor, his rich bell-like voice soaring a perfect fifth to linger on a high B-flat – a note which, despite electric chair and mask, filled the hall with an exquisite blend of heroism, repentance and love. And, Daphne remembered, she too had lingered on the threshold of the phone box, her heart torn with such anguish as she had never known, all the while whimpering with the pain of seeing all her dreams, her greatest joys, torn away from her yet again.

And then – “DAPHNE!” had come the voice she always rejoiced to hear, calling to her through the trees. “Daphne, where the fuck are you?!”

“Luce! Oh God, Lucy, I am so sorry, please forgive me!” Daphne had called through her tears, even as she had followed Gaia into the phone box. “I love you, my darling! But I have to go…”

But then Lucy had appeared, charging through the trees, barefoot, wet and naked in her haste. Through the bedroom window she had caught a glimpse of red metallic paint through the fir trees and realised what must be happening. She had come clattering down the stairs, screaming with rage at Daphne’s would-be abductor. And Daphne had collapsed, half in and half out of the phone box, howling into the dark dry earth: “Oh God, I’m sorry, Luce. I love you. I don’t want to leave you. But I’m doing this to save you, my love. Please forgive me: I’m doing this because I love you…”

Minnie, della mia vita mio solo fior… sang the muffled Dick Johnson – “Minnie, the only flower in my life… who loved me so much…” Daphne recognised her cue, as just at that moment, in through the rear door of the auditorium trudged Ned the stage manager, wheeling a gleaming midnight crimson Harley Davidson Freewheeler.

“Bloody hell, Henke, what wrong with a horse, like the script says?” muttered Daphne, before leaping on, engaging the clutch, and turning the throttle. The roar of the engine drowned out all sound from the stage: soloists, chorus, and – despite his most strenuous efforts at the keyboard – poor Vlod. War-shrieking wildly in E major, Daphne rode her motorbike at full throttle up the centre aisle towards the stage, scattering cast, crew and director, as she rode to the rescue of the hapless Dick Johnson.

Henke was delighted. Forgetting that his fly was still undone and there was semen still dripping down his trousers, he stood applauding enthusiastically, a great goofy director’s grin shining out from behind his goatee.

~

The last rays of twenty-third century late-evening summer twilight streamed sideways in through the office window, as Gaia and Melia sat, each nursing a small glass of blue Vrdmlian wine. In the distance, a few small airships scudded quietly across the horizon.

“OK, are you ready?” Melia asked.

“Oh yes, my dear. Yes…” sighed the doctor.

“You don’t sound so sure,” replied the alien.

“Oh… no – it’s just – well, I hope this works.”

“They’ve agreed, though, haven’t they?” asked Melia, taking a sip of blue wine.

“Oh yes, we talked it all through. Daphne wanted to get past press night for this “Funicula” thing, or whatever it’s called. But now it’s set in stone, and planned to the last detail.”

“Well then, happy days are here again, no?”

“I hope so, Melia. I can’t stand any more cases like ‘Hubby-Bubby’ and his blasted fuckwives. Two cunts, three arseholes, six tits and four cocks between them – and they still dared to say the girl’s wasn’t big enough! I ask you…”

“Human society needs a re-set.”

“The world needs a re-set,” agreed Gaia, before pausing and pondering. “You know, what you said was so true: knowledge does not necessarily bring wisdom with it. When I was younger I, like Lucy, naïvely thought it would. But clearly we humans need to draw our wisdom from deeper sources. I hope we learn… someday.”

“Hey, you’ve done well, Gaia. Be satisfied. Soon you can go back to what you always wanted to do when you first became a doctor, which was to help people be healthy happy fuckers.”

“Well… maybe…” replied Gaia cautiously.

“Meaning?” Melia raised an eyebrow.

“I think… I might be retiring soon,” said Gaia.

“No?! You’re joking, right?”

“Um… no,” replied the doctor. “I… I’m tired, Melia. I’ve lost that love for this work that I used to have. And it’s not just all this dickgirl stuff. I… I guess I’m just getting older, and sex is just not quite as fascinating for me as it once was…” She chuckled self-deprecatingly.

“Well…” Melia made a slightly apologetic expression. “When was the last time?”

“What, for me?” replied Gaia in mock astonishment.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” smiled the alien.

“Oh God… ages!” smirked the doctor. “These days I don’t do, I just watch, take notes and analyse…”

“Well, let’s correct that, shall we?” Melia started to get up.

“What? No, no, Melia, you and I are the best of colleagues, and the best of friends: we have been for years. We should not mix work with pleasure…” A brief glimmer of doubt revealed itself on the doctor’s face, before she added, cheekily: “Should we…?” Melia laughed in recognition.

“Just shut your eyes, Doctor Gaia, and let me help you,” replied Melia, setting down her wine glass. “You deserve some joy, some catharsis.”

“Oh God,” muttered Gaia, but did as she was told.

“Cock or no cock?” Melia grinned, as she sat on the floor in front of her boss.

“Oh, God, no cock, please, dear. I’ve seen enough of those to last me a lifetime. Just something gentle and… feminine, if that’s OK… – oh!” Gaia gasped, as she felt Melia’s head softly disappearing under her long skirt, and her warm breath on her legs.

Melia, even in “feminine” mode, was a consummate artist, thought Gaia to herself, as she felt the alien’s unseen face burrow into her warm fragrant space. Melia’s lips were soft and moist, and they kissed tenderly up and down Gaia’s inner thighs, making curved and curling journeys back and forth, before gradually following the moisture and the scent to their sweet source. “Oh,” moaned Gaia, as she felt those soft alien lips – now, surely, beginning to turn blue, she thought to herself – begin to nibble at her outer flaps, and the extra-terrestrial’s tongue start to lick and probe at the soft space between.

“Oh, it’s been so long!” moaned Gaia, as she felt her slit begin to flare, felt her inner moisture begin to leak, for the first time in… “God, how long has it been?” she voiced aloud, as Melia giggled and smiled, still unseen beneath the doctor’s skirt.

Melia’s tongue – by now blue indeed, though neither of them could see it – was making long sweeping journeys up and down her boss’s dark fleshy lips, teasing them open to reveal the glistening pink flesh within. As Gaia’s cunt flowered, so did her fragrance fill the space beneath her skirt, drawing Melia in, until her long blue tongue nuzzled and scooped deeper and deeper, drawing out string upon string of viscous sweet nectar. “Oh, human cunt is so tasty!” came the muffled voice from beneath Gaia’s skirt.

Gaia laughed, and it was a multi-faceted laugh – firstly, a jocular reaction to Melia’s inter-species observation; then, relief that, at last, the whole Daphne crisis might be drawing to a close; then, the joy of anticipation of her retirement from this crazy job; and finally, though perhaps she didn’t quite recognise it yet, a laugh of devotion, of endearment, of adoration for this beautiful, slender, ageless extra-terrestrial who had been her constant companion for so many years and who was now buried between her thighs. It was precisely that adoration which turned Gaia’s chortle into a laugh not just of pleasure and relief, but of self-giving, of ecstasy, of meaning. “Oh God, Melia, I have so much to say to you!” cried Gaia, as her ecstasy grew towards its peak.

“Later, later, my dear,” grinned Melia as she clamped her mouth about Gaia’s dark brown vulva, her delicate nose buried in her dark damp fragrant bush, her azure lips nibbling at her swollen russet clit, her long blueberry tongue slurping deep into her pink cunt-hole.

When Gaia’s orgasm came, it did so not just as a temporary screech of pleasure, but as a profound heartfelt cry – cathartic yes, but also kenotic, as if it was the culminative expression of a whole life devoted to sex but never really discovering what it meant; it was, the thought passed though Gaia’s mind, as if this was her first glimpse, through a glass darkly, of something deeper, more lasting, more eternal than she had ever experienced before.

Melia of course knew, almost better than Gaia, what Gaia was thinking, for her ears – as you know, dear reader – were not just receptors of sound, but communicators of meaning and feeling and purpose such as humans could never imagine. And so when her head emerged from beneath the skirt, lips and tongue bright blue and cunt-glistening, ears twisting and thrashing with desire, Gaia felt that she understood both herself and her beloved colleague better than ever before. Her lips trembled, her chest pounded, and she knew what they must do. She pulled Melia upwards, and their lips and hearts met.

~

It was opening night. Lucy sat alone in a box of her own, as the drama unfolded on stage. It did not matter to her that this lovely sentimental drama about miners, bandits and bar-girls had been transformed into an incoherent pottage of nuclear holocausts, summary executions, torture, infanticide, abortion, incest, orgies… oh, and, for good measure, T-34 tanks charging back and forth across the stage at each scene change. For she had come to hear Daphne sing: her beloved futa wife who, it seemed, could make the theatre – nay, the world – resonate with the sound of angels. Daphne began Minnie’s last long soliloquy, a sinuous hemiola-laden G-major monologue which wound its way into the heart as only Puccini could, its interpolated flattened mediant ninths subconsciously melting the hearts of the audience no less than the characters on stage. Lucy recognised her cue. Slipping out of her seat, she let herself quietly out of her box, crept to the end of the corridor, punched a code into a control panel next to a “Fire Exit Only” sign, and admitted herself backstage. Tiptoeing past lighting controllers and surtitle operators, she made her way quietly down several flights of stairs to the stage door, where, nodding to the security guard – who appeared more interested in stroking off to his copy of Escort magazine than anything else – she stood to watch the finale of the drama unfold on the backstage closed-circuit television.

Of course, Henke had done his best to ruin this part of the opera no less than any other. Instead of Minnie and Johnson riding blissfully off into the sunset on horseback, there appeared on stage a mocked-up Tupolev 95, the roar of whose engines threatened to comprehensively drown out both singers and orchestra. The audience, knowing a dud production when they saw one, jeered and booed and hissed, as they had all evening, but Daphne continued to sing with blissful impassivity: as Lucy knew, when her wife sang, her soul was elsewhere, exploring the eternal truth to which she had devoted her life – of which her voice was just an echo, a shadow, a narrow door.

Non sei tu che m’offrivi i fiori… she sang – “Was it not you who offered me flowers like those from your moorlands… remember those nights I stayed awake with you in your delirium… your eyes azure as a baby’s… I am your sister, who once taught you the supreme truth of love…” – la sorella che un giorno v’insegnò una suprema verità d’amore!

And so, the chorus of miners reluctantly unstrapped Duncan the Scots tenor from his electric chair, so he could embrace Daphne and follow her into the cockpit of her bomber – which proceeded, to jeers from the audience, to take off, soaring awkwardly above the stalls and up into the flies where it disappeared from sight.

Mai più ritornerai, mai più… – “Never again will you return,” mourned the male chorus from the stage, wiping their eyes as they saluted their beloved Minnie in the imaginary distance, to the accompaniment of rich harp arpeggios.

Addio mia dolce terra… addio!

Now Lucy heard Daphne’s footsteps briskly trotting down the stairs, saw her grin as she unceremoniously discarded her pilot’s goggles, helmet and gloves on the floor, and rushed into Lucy’s arms. Their lips pressed together, passionately but briefly, before they both asked, “Are you sure about this?”

Both giggled at the irony, and both replied “Yes!” before clasping hands and – ignoring the guard who was now panting in the throes of an ill-concealed self-administered orgasm (in honour of “real wife Sharon from Basingstoke”) – dashing out into the summer-twilit London backstreet. There stood a red telephone box, in the doorway of which grinned two women wearing white lab coats – one large and buxom with dark frizzy hair, the other slight and slender with light blue tresses down to her shoulders. They kissed each other on the lips and beamed, as they held the door open for their new guests.

“I love you, my darling,” said Daphne as, hand in hand, she and Lucy followed Gaia and Melia into the phone box.

“Together, forever – remember?” replied Lucy.

Back in the auditorium, the chorus had taken its bows, as had Duncan the tenor, Dai the balladeering baritone, and Bambi the dumb blonde mezzo, and the audience were clamouring for Daphne. “WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE, THE STUPID CUNT?!” bellowed Henke backstage, as the audience began an indignant unison slow clap.

But Daphne was not there anymore. For as she and Lucy shut the phone box door behind them, they felt a strange whirling sensation and a yank at their hips, as if they were being pulled forward without actually going anywhere. And then they were gone.

And as they opened the door into their new world, Daphne sang:

“Addio mia dolce terra. | Farewell, sweet Earth.

I am Daphne,

la sorella che v’insegnò una suprema verità. | your sister who taught you the supreme truth.

Nehmt mich als Zeichen einziger Liebe: | Accept me as a sign of eternal love:

I she who has been transformed.”

And Lucy smiled, as she had never smiled before.

And they saw that it was good.

 

CALA IL SIPARIO LENTAMENTE.

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