Becoming Monsters

Never mind the sensitivity training people received nowadays, all Honoka thought at this moment was - in her best Boromir - they have a cave troll.

“Look, I know I gave you Thursday and Friday off,” Steve said, his twelve-foot hulking form hunched to push his fanged and grotesque face into Honoka’s cubical. Inhuman Steve might be, it was comically offset by his tailored white and blue striped dress shirt, suspenders and gray slacks. His expression, a look Honoka knew as his revulsive way of being sorry/not sorry, told her all she needed to know. “Buuuuttt, management needs the Gremlin Bank plans done by Monday and I need all hands on deck.”

For the hundredth time since the Change, Honoka wished the System gave her laser eyes so she could melt Steve’s troll face. Not because he was a troll but because he was middle management: becoming a troll five years ago just made him more insufferable and gave him extreme body odor. However, instead of speaking up, Honoka nodded silently and looked down at the ground, her natural anxiety keeping her from doing anything. Again.

“Attagirl,” Steve said with a tusked smile, gently slapping Honoka’s shoulder but still nearly throwing her out of her swivel office chair. “Knew I could count on you.” He trudged off, his overly large, clawed and shoeless feet stomping loudly to give the rest of the drones warning the boss was on the prowl.

Honoka turned back to her computer screen, CAD drawings of the fourth-floor basement of the Gremlin Bank stared back at her without sympathy. She couldn’t believe it. Steve was forcing her to work during the most crucial weekend of the year, the one time she asked off since the Change. She couldn’t do anything. Frozen in impotent frustration, her hands unwilling to move and get back to work. She was so mad she felt like laughing, nothing making sense anymore in the soup of her emotions.

There are three other architects working on the Gremlin Bank, Honoka thought, desperately trying to keep her mental state in check and the mistiness of her eyes from turning into a crying fit. Why do I need to give up the only time I’ve asked off, for this?

“Wow, tough cookies, girlfriend.”

Honoka glanced up, startled while she reflexively wiped a hand across her eyes. Meredeth, Honoka’s cubicle neighbor, leaned her cyclopean face over the edge of the fifteen-foot tall partition comfortably. Honoka shook her head, trying to play it off. “No biggie.”

“It is a biggie,” Meredeth replied, her deep alto voice barely keeping in the range of office decorum as she brushed some purple bangs out of her eye. “This was your chance. You’ve worked hard for it.”

Honoka couldn’t keep out the palpable bitterness in her voice. “There’s always next year.”

“Bullsh…crap!” Meredeth caught herself at the last moment, considerate of Honoka’s distaste of profanity, but Honoka heard the office hush a bit over the giant cyclops’ rise in volume. “You should complain to management. HR might see this as harassment or Racism.”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t want to cause any problems.” Honoka hung her head, letting her long black hair hide her face. Realizing she wasn’t getting any work done at the moment, she slowly stood up, posture defeated. “I gotta take a Change Break.”

“Oh, ok.” Meredeth wanted to say more, Honoka was sure, but the Change brought on too many, well, changes to let anyone interfere with what social media and civil rights activists insisted was a private matter.

Making sure to grab her canvas bag (purses don’t hold enough, and her messenger bag was pink, which made it cute), Honoka moved quickly, trying to avoid the stares she imagined from her coworkers, posture slumped on her way to the restrooms. The norm of the old world gone, three doors greeted the young woman as she walked past Male and Female, pushing open the larger Changed door at the end and entering an empty unit. The Changed Room’s design was different than a traditional restroom, stalls of various shapes and sizes available, each its little private space with sinks, mirrors, biohazard disposal, harnesses, vacuum pumps and whatever else was needed in the modern era. Honoka couldn’t hear anyone so she counted herself lucky, closing the door behind her for a regularly sized chamber with only a simple toilet, sink and mirror setup.

“Welcome back, today we have a treat. Our guest, Dr. Sputenmeiker, is here to talk to us on the fifth anniversary of the Change.”

Honoka nearly jumped out of her skin, letting out a little shriek before putting her hand up to her mouth and stifling herself. It appeared there was someone else in one of the stalls, likely following the age-old corporate philosophy of Paid To Poop while they watched a video on their phone or tablet. The volume wasn’t loud, but in the otherwise silent restroom, Honoka picked up the broadcast without any other clue to whom was in here with her.

“It is good to be back, Lucy, and I hope people can forgive my appearance, I’m currently molting.”

Honoka paused, wishing they would leave soon, but the pressure increased dramatically, causing the young woman to sweat. Knowing what would come in only a few minutes, she rationalized no one would discover it was her. Taking only a moment to hang her bag on a hook in the door, Honoka softly walked to the toilet. A simple styled one - though she knew there were other more exotic pieces of porcelain in different stalls - she didn’t need a deluxe model. And besides, the greatest taboo in the world today was talking about other people’s Change. Honoka went to work removing her clothing without any more fuss.

“No problem at all, Doctor, I’m sure plenty of our viewers relate. To start us off, can you or any of your colleagues give us answers yet as to why or how the Change happened?”

For reasons of her Change, Honoka restricted herself to a peach blouse and white skirt, pants being impossible for her now. The skirt was simple and ruffled, reaching down to just above her ankles. The young woman fumbled at the clasp, trying to get it off but her hands were clammy and she felt a straining tension. Typically Honoka tried to strip before taking care of business, but she foresaw today might be more urgent so she settled for just the skirt. Finally, she unhooked the clasp and pushed the garment to the ground, exposing her Change to the cold air of the stall.

“No one knows, and nothing can scientifically explain it either. One day the human race was minding its own business, going about its Pre-Change reality when everyone in the world got hit at once with a blue screen announcing we would be subject to Levels, Classes and - as in my case and the case of nearly a third of the world’s population - a change of Race. Even now, anyone can bring up their Status and find a numerical summary of abilities and individual information. I’ve personally dedicated my life to understanding the phenomenon and I realize we as a people are barely beginning to scratch the surface of all the many options there are to explore.”

Glancing in the mirror, Honoka always felt shame whenever she looked at herself, even before the Change. Five feet and nothing inches (152cm), ninety pounds (40.4kg) soaking wet, her mixed African and Japanese heritage gave her all the wrong parts and only made her look like a mongrel freak. Black skin the color of creamy cocoa - the only feature she inherited from her father - the rest resembled her mother’s family. Long black hair straight and thin, slanted eyes and high cheekbones, five years ago she might have been able to pull off exotic even if the rest of her fell repulsively short in the womanhood department. Honoka retained the same body she had when she was ten years old, only her regular period proving she was a twenty-six-year-old and fully adult woman. Honoka knew better, she resembled her Honda grandmother only with dark skin, but the tiny women of Nagasaki looked like emaciated dwarfs to the giants of America and Western clothing sizes were laughably limited for her proportions. She wore a tween sized bra to keep her nipples in check - nothing up there needed support - and she used to buy her panties out of the children’s section - her butt and hips were so small - all the way up to the Change. Now, though, she bought her panties special-order.

“Touching on those subjects, what do you think has been more disruptive: Classes or Races?”

Ripping off multiple heavy-duty velcro straps, Honoka’s harness opened up like a jack-in-the-box. Her massive, sixteen inches long (40cm), thirteen inches (33cm) circumference black cock sprang up and smacked her forcefully in the stomach before settling in a twenty-degree angle curving slightly upwards and aggressively throbbing in place, begging for a hole to fill. It defied logic and science, the one significant transformation coming with her Change into the Ymirian race (the other brightening her eyes into piercing cobalt blue). She called her alien appendage the Beast.

Honoka remembered that fateful morning five years ago when she was rudely awakened to the searing pain of her clit pulsing and trying to thrust its way out of her panties, building and building in size with each pounding of her heart. Screaming midst the fiery pain, her swollen glans tore through the cheap cloth like a submarine emergency blow. Today, lacking a clitoris hood, the rest of her vaginal equipment remained functional and hardly changed at all, only now stretching out of her lower abdomen was a piece of meat large enough to give some horses penis envy. The woman used to shave her pubic hair but that looked weird to her with a slab of man meat, so she kept everything neatly trimmed. And on her tiny frame, her hands barely able to grasp around her member and feel the veins pound hot blood into the thick black shaft, it looked colossal.

“Haha! Personally, I think dungeons popping up around the world brings the most disruption, including their magical economies and dangers; that's my opinion. I know the rise of magical Classes - allowing people to become superheroes, they exhibit so much power - is thought to be the most disruptive, but unless it happened to you, I can't think of anything more agitating than transforming into a Crow Tengu, gaining a beak and having your arms turn into wings.”

How about growing a dick? Honoka thought with some snark before she lost too much of herself to the lust. Realizing long ago how much of a mess she was about to make, she leaned over the open toilet with one hand on the porcelain tank and the other pushing down as hard as her feeble girly arm could muster, pointing the Beast into the bowl. A drop of sweat ran off her nose and hit the white lid, soon followed by others as she got to work pumping her turgid cock, biting her lip to keep herself from moaning uncontrollably. There was no teasing, no foreplay. The Beast long ago taught her she had needs, and they continually mounted. Her hand moved up and down quickly, gripping as much of the shaft as she could, the thick and engorged dark skin acting as a sheath for her pulsing penis.

“I can only imagine! Fantastical Races bursting on the scene overnight sure caused quite the stir, especially for the first year after the Change. And half the world is still in turmoil: China alone is in the middle of their second civil war, Europe may never recover. Nevertheless, it looks like things are settling down here in the States and people are getting on with their altered lives.”

Honoka’s feet curled inside sensible brown flats, pushing her up on her toes, her legs tensing painfully. The tip of her glans flung gouts of splattering precum all around, in and even behind the bowl, she retained only so much control at this point to aim. Some squeaks and groans hummed past her lips, her eyes crossing as the pressure escalated and intensified and swelled at the base of the shaft inside her second urethra. Her glans was so bloated it felt ready to explode, the pain hidden under sexual urgency.

“I go over all of this in my new book - just released today - This Isn’t A Game, But The Rules Have Changed. I think…”

With a final tightening of every muscle, her hips lunged down into the bowl, a geyser eruption of steaming, milky cum basting the ceramic. She couldn’t stop a short grunting scream from pushing past her closed mouth at the same time. All her energy drained as she shot burst after burst of her man batter. Each ejaculation felt like her entire lower body contracted in on itself before forcing her forward like she was pumping her seed into an invisible pussy. Electrical shocks ran up her whole body from the Beast directly into Honoka’s pleasure center and caused her vision to go dark as the woman wondered if this was the orgasm that would finally kill her.

After twelve shots, it slowed to a dribble, her cock going blessedly flaccid. At this point, she slumped over the seat, head on the tank while the rest of her body draped like a used washrag on the frozen throne. One thing that permeated her new life was the <em>smell,</em> a pungent man musk mixed with the mild flavor of honey. The spent woman lay there for at least ten minutes, too tired to do anything else but gasp for air. Honoka tasted salt and her eyes stung, the powerful AC of the building causing her to tremble while she forced herself off the toilet and leaned with locked arms on the seat to get a better view of the damage.

Could have been worse, Honoka thought, pleased she was able to get most of it into the bowl. The glistening white blobs were challenging to pick out on white ceramic, but with shaking arms, she wadded the cheap TP all corporate bathrooms used and wiped everything down. It severely depleted the roll, her girlchowder containing a thickness and viscosity more in line with mucus-y yogurt. From years of experience and careful measuring experiments, this looked like a real gusher, probably around half a gallon of spunk in and around the toilet. Her average was a quart, but there were days at the beginning where she thought she might survive without regular release and her penis took matters into its own hands. The pain would knock her out and the cleanup resulted in a literal gallon or three of mess, which led to her current daily routine of three sessions a day, every day.

Toilet cleaned, Honoka pushed up on wobbly legs and proceeded into all the weird things they don’t teach in school. The futanari was a grower, not a shower, her penis limp and down to a more manageable seven inches (18cm) long and eight inches (20cm) around. She started at the base and pushed a finger along the length of her dark penile urethra, forcing out the last glop of jism she shook into the bowl. Then she carefully unclenched only one of her kegel muscles and finished the job with a short urination, a physiological process her internet research explained was necessary to keep the urethra disinfected and clear of leftover semen. Shaking it gently, the after-orgasm sensitivity stinging painfully at the tip, she walked over to her bag and pulled out her packet of wet wipes, practiced motions taking little time to tidy the worst of the sweat and blowback. Another set of wipes went on her thighs and around her engorged labia to her ever-constant frustration, panties soaked beyond repair as she shimmied them off and put them in the sink. She made a mental note that her legs needed shaving.

Not enough I struggle against the raging hormones of a teenage boy hopped up on Super Viagra,

Honoka thought with a grimace, taking her time to clean vaginal juices on both herself and - to her displeasure - on her skirt and the tiled floor, I have the wants and needs of an adult woman forced to give handjob after handjob without getting her own hole filled. Honoka already felt it, placing her equipment in the special harness and wrapping the velcro into place, she would need to spend some extra special time tonight if she was going to have any chance of sleeping.

Her womanly lust had remained unfulfilled all week. Only today, since the cramps began on Saturday, was she blessedly free of her monthly river of blood and hormones, putting her pads away with a victory cry this morning. Honoka knew of women that took the Pill to lessen the pain, but the unique biology the Change gifted her left Honoka unable to use most medicines. Only expensive potions the rich and wealthy purchased might do anything, well outside of the architect’s meager budget. Which left Honoka in a mixture of pain, uncomfortable sensitivity, a desire to eat all the chocolate and being confused enough between her warring brands of lust to make her monthly visit with Aunt Flo utter torment.

Putting her skirt back on and running fingers through her hair to give herself a modicum of dignity, the black woman resigned her hair was a lost cause. Turning the faucet, Honoka sighed as she found herself planning tonight and what she needed to do while she soaked her panties and tried to save the rather expensive bit of red lace with the hole in the front for her penis. Custom clothing, becoming more common in today’s climate than five years ago, also got more expensive as demand outstripped supply.

“Guess a full-on Movie And Toys night is coming up,” Honoka mumbled, more resigned and morose than excited at the prospect. To anyone else, masturbation was fun and addicting. In Honoka’s reality, it resembled doing dishes: it needed regular repetition else you ran out of dishes or the sink suddenly ejaculates all over the kitchen and you spend half a day mopping up the mess to save your deposit.

Even if the world became a game with menus and stats and levels, it didn’t come with a tutorial. For Honoka, it took years to learn some of her rules. A self-repressed girl growing up too shy to talk to any guy, thrust into unwanted sexuality without any warning or applicable wiki, she’d learned everything alone.

She'd discovered porn.

What before disgusted a good Christian girl, now the Beast insistently pulled her into without gentleness. She acquired particular tastes. Before her Change into a different Race, she had been attracted to men and even snuck a peek or two at her cousins when they were staying at the house and getting ready for the pool her parents possessed in their backyard, so she knew what she liked. Then the Change happened. Now, the dominant lust of the Beast overrode her everything. She gained a penis and that penis reacted to the female form, the bigger the better. Big tits, big hips, big muscles, massive dripping cunts pounded by the biggest black dick - which didn’t take much imagination to replace some porn star’s tool with her own. And maybe because Honoka lacked in every womanly curve, her favorite fetishes involved growth and expansion. Breast expansion, butt expansion, giantess growth, muscle growth, growing in absolutely absurd dimensions. Whatever Honoka lacked and could never obtain, she wanted; if not for herself, then for the fictional girl she ravaged in her private moments.

It was enough to make her drool a little, the saliva dripping down her chin snapping her out of the fantasies, forcing her to finish up with her panties and pat them dry with paper towels. Placing them in a handy ziploc from her bag, she felt ready to face the workplace again - only one more thing to do before she got back to work.

“Status,” Honoka said with conviction, the effort to pull up the blue screen a mental one as the System responded like it always did.

There it was, her unchanging screen for five years, Honoka’s future sure to remain unobtainable and bland. There existed massive databases and forums dedicated to cataloging every Race, Class, Status variation - every Status layout in existence - yet more than a few things about Honoka’s were unique.

As far as the rest of the world cataloged, she was the only known Ymirian and the only person to have a Race numbering less than a thousand. There might be others, but according to common knowledge, she was the only one who was the only one. And it terrified her. Five people knew what her Race was and she swore them all to absolute secrecy. Honoka did not want to end up as some government’s science experiment or - even worse - locked in some pervert’s basement. She would figure it out on her own. However, multiple anonymous accounts on Change support forums remained the only way she garnered what little knowledge she possessed and it wasn’t much.

“Yipee, nothing’s changed,” Honoka grumbled, grabbing her canvas companion and stepping out. The disappointment got shoved violently back by anxiety when she noticed there was another occupant, Mary Sue. A withering mass of slimy, green tentacles with two eyes on stalks, Mary was the perfect example of how It Could Always Be Worse and Different Races Have Different Needs. Honoka froze in place, letting the other woman slither past.

“ssOUndSs llliKEs sssOMEeoNE haaaAds aa GOOoodS tIMEss.” Mary Sue didn’t speak so much as she made bubbling and hissing noises mimicking words. “HhIghliGHTss ooofs MYs DAaay.”

Honoka tried to decipher the words, the other woman giving off what sounded like either laughter or a Model T engine, opening the main door leading out of the restroom. When Honoka understood the garble, she also noticed the datapad and a screenshot of a news program with a lady and a birdman. Mary Sue left and the door swung closed, but Honoka collapsed in a crouch, hyperventilating in embarrassment and trying her best to keep her breathing under control. The only thing holding her together was the knowledge that Mary Sue wasn’t a gossip.

Honoka tried not being Racist; she was a Ymirian, who was she to gripe? Yet Mary Sue creeped her out. Racism was the civil rights movement of the modern era. One day, there were only humans and ethnicity was something that mattered. The next, the world divided into humans and thousands of other Races, some as milquetoast as aelfs and dwarfs, others as strange as dragons, pixies, girtablilu, slimes, apis, undead and djinn. It was confusing to the world but it eventually normalized. People realized ghosts and goblins were still people and there wasn’t much difference between two hands and a mess of tentacles.

The whole thing brought a reformation of the word Race. Race no longer meant ethnicity or culture; it meant magical subtype. And people tried to call all these transformed humans other species but everyone’s Status clearly stated Race. It was a nonstarter, the god-like finality of the Status forced the world to adapt.

The harder part to accept was that all these different Races were still, no matter how bizarre or exotic, genetically Homo Sapien. Race DNA wasn’t evolved, the world just flooded with an unusual form of energy: thaumian energy. It was like nothing shifted, except some people wore metaphorical costumes that made them look different and manipulated alien types of previously undiscovered transmorphic energy. The proof of it all was anyone still conceived viable children with anyone else and that child would be any number of the thousands of different Races regardless of its parents’ Races. In the end, the whole world became Sneetches on beaches, though there were plenty of people who remained bigots because that's what humanity does.

And humanity, no matter what label or veneer they put on top, hates anything different. Although Honoka looked like a small, mixed ethnicity human girl, her driver’s license said she was a different Race and so for liability, her cubical sat next to other Races and her supervisor was the only troll in the company. Honoka suspected companies would give them separate drinking fountains if they thought they could get away with it. The world still consisted of them and us, it just no longer was about skin but rather the reality of how many heads you possessed. Honoka shuddered, realizing she was daydreaming because she didn’t want to go back to work.

“Come on, Honoka, you can’t hide in here forever, Steve will only come and grab you and take you under his bridge or…file TPS reports or something.” The joke wasn’t funny, but life needed sarcasm, so Honoka picked herself up and returned to her cubicle. Because, joy of all joys, she had a Gremlin Bank to finish.