Swollen Desires: a New Beginning
Copyright© 2025 by GPT Writer
Chapter 11
Supernatural Sex Story: Chapter 11 - Chris is your average high schooler who just moved into a new home with his divorced mom and twin sister. While talking to his attractive neighbor, a wasp flies up the leg of his shorts and stings his dick. So naturally his dick grows to twice its size and his pheromones and testosterone to go into hyper-drive. Despite the cheesy porn-plot, its an immersive, character driven story.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa ft/ft Fa/ft Mult Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Wife Watching Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter MaleDom Spanking Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Size Transformation AI Generated
The fist is already cocked back, knuckles white, and I can see every vein in his forearm. My whole body locks up. This is it. This is how I die--beaten to death in a high school gymnasium over a girl I met thirty seconds ago.
TWEEEEEET.
The whistle shrieks so loud and so close to the guy’s ear that he flinches sideways, his grip loosening just enough for me to stumble back a step. Coach Fox is right there, red-faced, the whistle still clamped between his teeth, and he rips it out to start screaming.
“Dammit, Buddy! Cut that shit out before you end up in jail!”
Buddy’s whole frame deflates. His fist drops to his side, and he releases my shirt like it burned him. His eyes go from murderous to something closer to a kicked dog in about half a second.
“Sorry, Coach,” he mutters, staring at the floor.
Coach Fox looks at me. His gaze travels from my face down to my sneakers and back up again, appraising me the way you’d appraise a stray cat that wandered into a dog park. Then he wheels back on Buddy.
“This pipsqueak ain’t stealing your girl! Now give me twenty burpees and get back to your game!”
“Yes, Coach.”
Buddy drops immediately and starts hammering out burpees like the floor personally wronged him, each one explosive and violent. Coach Fox watches him for a few reps, then stalks back toward the main court, whistle swinging.
My heart is still jackhammering against my ribs. On the one hand, that man just literally saved my life and I owe him everything. On the other hand--pipsqueak? Really? I glance down at myself. I’m not that scrawny. I’m lean. There’s a difference. I think. I hope.
I look over to where Nancy was standing, but the girls have already closed ranks around her, a tight little cluster of whispers and sideways glances in my direction. Nancy catches my eye through the group and gives me this slow, lazy smile that says she enjoyed every second of that. Unbelievable.
One of the nerdy guys I was shooting with sidles up beside me, keeping his voice low. “Flirting with Nancy right in front of Buddy--are you crazy?”
“Hey, I didn’t know she was with that meathead.”
“How do you not know that?” He pauses, then gestures vaguely at Nancy’s cluster. “Besides, who do you think a girl that looks like her would date?”
Fair point. Devastating, but fair. I’m going to have to start operating under the assumption that if she’s hot, she’s probably dating someone who could fold me in half. Which means--oh shit. Angela. Angela from history class, the blonde cheerleader who sat in my lap and shoved her tongue down my throat. She’s probably dating some varsity linebacker who bench-presses small sedans for fun.
I drag a hand down my face. “You’re right about needing to assume they’re dating someone. But I literally just got here yesterday--I don’t know the whole social circle yet.” I nod toward Buddy, who is on burpee number twelve and showing zero signs of fatigue. “Who is that guy, and what’s his deal?”
The kid glances over his shoulder like Buddy might hear us from twenty feet away. “That,” he says, tilting his head in Buddy’s direction, “is Buddy Revell. He got kicked off the football team last year for being too violent. Coach told him if he goes a whole semester without getting into a fight, he can rejoin the team.” He watches Buddy slam through another rep. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it.”
“And the girl?”
“Nancy Downs. Trust me--just do what I do and admire her from a distance.”
Solid advice. I should probably get it tattooed on my forearm.
There’s a beat of awkward silence after that. He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. I can feel the question radiating off him like heat.
“Go ahead and ask it,” I tell him.
He hesitates another second, then commits. “So is it true you’re Regina George’s boyfriend, and any woman you want has to ... fuck you?”
This guy does not beat around the bush.
I let out a short laugh before answering. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. But yeah--that’s basically true.” I pause. “Except for the fact that none of the guys are on board with that idea. Obviously.” I gesture toward Buddy, who is now back on his feet and jogging toward the court without so much as a backward glance.
The kid is staring at me. His eyes travel slowly from my face down to my gym shoes and back up again, like he’s searching for some hidden superpower he missed the first time.
“How?” he stammers.
I shrug. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I just seem to be irresistible to women.”
His mouth is still hanging open, working on a follow-up question, when the bell rings. We funnel toward the locker rooms with everyone else.
We’re probably supposed to shower, but absolutely fuck that. I get in there, find my locker, and change as fast as humanly possible. Shirt, pants, shoes--done. The warmups actually did me some good. All that running and moving loosened up my muscles, and I’m able to pull my shirt over my head and step into my pants without a single grunt of pain. Small victory, but I’ll take it.
I pull out my phone the second I’m through the locker room doors and text Michelle.
hey this is Chris, can you give me a ride to your house?
The response is immediate. And multiple.
Oh hi!
Yes I can!
I ride the bus home
You can ride with me
It’s bus 56
It’s like a really short ride, maybe 10 minutes
More messages keep popping up, the preview bubbles stacking on top of each other faster than I can read them. I stop trying and just head for the bus pickup area. I text Jess on the way: Going to Michelle’s house to work on an English project. Getting picked up after. Then I text Regina: Meet me by the buses?
Regina is already there when I arrive, leaning against the bike rack in a way that makes it look like a fashion shoot. She spots me and her face lights up. She pulls me in by the front of my shirt--gently, thank God, I’ve had enough shirt-grabbing for one day--and plants a kiss on me. Full, warm, unhurried.
Then she pulls back, nose scrunching. “You are stinky.”
“I just had gym.”
“I can tell.”
Before I can defend myself, Michelle materializes at my elbow like she teleported there.
“Hey Chris! So awesome we get to work together. I’m on bus 56, it’s a short ride home. I’m not supposed to have boys over, but it’s for school so it should be okay. If my mom comes home early you should probably tell her that we’re--”
She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes have landed on Regina.
Michelle just ... stares. Her mouth is slightly open. Her red ponytail is frozen mid-swing. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a very expensive, very beautiful car.
Regina extends her hand with practiced grace. “Hi. I am Regina. Pleasure to meet you.”
Michelle takes her hand on autopilot. “Michelle Flaherty. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God--”
She just keeps going. I lean into Regina’s ear. “I think you broke her.”
Regina’s lips brush against my ear as she whispers back. “Do whatever you want with her. Just shower afterwards.” She pokes me in the ribs, playful and sharp, and pulls away with a grin.
I kiss her goodbye--quick, because I’m apparently stinky--and guide the still-stammering Michelle toward the line of buses. Bus 56. I spot it three down the row.
Michelle finally snaps out of it somewhere around the bus doors, launching right back into whatever sentence she was on before Regina short-circuited her brain. I climb the steps behind her and find a seat, letting her voice wash over me like white noise as the bus lurches forward.
Michelle hasn’t stopped talking since we sat down.
“—and I was telling my friend Becca, well she’s not really my friend friend, more like we had biology together freshman year and we bonded over the fetal pig dissection because she was the only other person who didn’t think it was gross, anyway I was telling her about how Ms. Vaughn paired us up and she said—”
I lean my head against the bus window and let the vibration rattle through my skull. The glass is warm from the afternoon sun. Outside, the streets scroll by: strip malls giving way to neighborhoods, lawns browning at the edges from the August heat. I catch fragments of Michelle’s monologue like a radio station drifting in and out of range. Something about index cards. Something about her color-coded highlighter system. Something about how she once wrote a twelve-page paper when the assignment only called for three.
I believe it.
“—because Ms. Vaughn actually wrote ‘verbose’ on my last essay, which I had to look up because I thought it was a compliment but it turns out it means you use too many words, which I thought was kind of unfair because how can you use too many words when the whole point of writing is to use words, you know?”
“Mmhm.”
That’s all it takes to keep her going. A single syllable of acknowledgment and she’s off again, like feeding a quarter into one of those mechanical horses outside a grocery store. I zone out hard, watching a guy mow his lawn in the distance, the mower kicking up a pale cloud behind him. My body feels decent for the first time all day; the basketball loosened me up more than I expected, and the soreness in my abs has faded to something I can ignore. I still smell like gym class, though. Regina wasn’t wrong about that.
“This is us!”
Michelle grabs my arm and tugs me toward the aisle before I even register the bus slowing down. I stumble after her, muttering thanks to the driver as we step off onto a quiet residential street.
Her house is modest: a single-story ranch with pale yellow siding and dark green shutters, the kind of place that looks like someone actually cares about it. Flower beds line the front walkway, freshly mulched, and there’s a ceramic garden gnome half-hidden behind a bush of purple flowers. Wind chimes tinkle softly from the porch. It’s the kind of house that makes you think of bake sales and PTA meetings.
“Are your parents home?” I ask as she fumbles with her keys.
“No, my dad works until six-thirty most nights and my mom has her book club on Tuesdays so she won’t be home until like eight or nine because they always drink too much wine and end up talking about everything except the book, which is honestly pretty funny—”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope, just me, only child, which is probably why I talk so much because I never had anyone to talk to growing up so I just kind of developed this habit of filling the silence, at least that’s what my therapist says, well she’s not really a therapist, she’s more of a counselor—”
She probably told me all of this on the bus. I definitely wasn’t listening.
The inside of the house matches the outside: tidy, warm, decorated with that particular suburban mom aesthetic. Framed family photos line the hallway. A candle that smells like vanilla and something floral. Michelle leads me to the kitchen table and drops her backpack, immediately pulling out folders, notebooks, and a truly alarming number of colored pens.
“Okay so I already read the assignment sheet three times and I think the best approach is to divide it into sections, I made an outline last night actually, well not a full outline more like a pre-outline—”
“Michelle.” I hold up a hand. “Can I see the assignment sheet?”
She slides it across the table, and I read through it while she hovers, still talking.
“—so what I was thinking is if you take the thematic analysis portion and I handle the structural comparison, then we can merge them together, kind of like a literary Voltron, which is a reference you might not get if you didn’t grow up watching—”
“I know what Voltron is.”
“Oh good, because some people don’t and then I have to explain the whole thing which takes forever, not that I mind explaining things, I actually love explaining things, my mom says I should be a teacher but I think I’d rather be a journalist because then you get to ask questions AND talk a lot—”
I press my palms flat against the table and stare at the assignment sheet, trying to focus. The words blur. Not because of my eyes, but because Michelle’s voice is a physical thing, a constant stream of sound that fills every cubic inch of this kitchen, bouncing off the tile floors and the granite countertops and worming into my skull.
“—and another thing about the second book is that the author actually wrote it in like three weeks, which is insane when you think about the complexity of the narrative structure, because most authors take months or even years—”
I feel it stir. That dark thing in my chest. The one that whispered to me at Regina’s house, the one that sizes people up and finds the lever that makes them bend. It uncoils like something waking from a nap, lazy and sure of itself.
“—some critics say it’s overrated but I personally think that’s just because they don’t appreciate the subtlety of the symbolism, like the recurring motif of water, which I think represents—”
“Michelle.”
“—the protagonist’s unconscious desire to return to a state of innocence, which is actually a really common archetype in—”
“Michelle.”
She blinks. Those green eyes go wide. “Yeah?”
I push back from the table and stand up slowly. The demon is fully awake now, rolling its shoulders, and I don’t fight it. I don’t even want to. I’ve been listening to her talk for forty-five minutes straight, on the bus, in the house, over the assignment sheet, and something inside me has snapped clean in half.
“Come here.”
She takes a step toward me, her lips already parting to say something, probably another run-on sentence that would stretch from here to the Mexican border. I reach out, take her jaw gently in one hand, and tilt her face up toward mine. She’s tiny; the top of her head barely reaches my chin. Her ponytail bobs as she looks up at me, green eyes wide, cheeks flushing the kind of pink that only redheads can pull off.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“I—well, sometimes, I mean when I’m sleeping obviously, and sometimes when I’m really focused on something I can be quiet for—”
I kiss her. Not soft, not tentative. I press my mouth against hers hard enough to swallow whatever word was coming next. She makes a small surprised noise against my lips, mmph, and then melts. Her whole body goes slack like someone cut her strings. Her hands come up and grab the front of my shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric, and she kisses me back with a desperate, breathless energy that tells me she’s been wanting this since Ms. Vaughn announced our names together.
When I pull back, she’s panting. Her lips are wet and her eyes are glazed.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Oh my God, that was—I’ve never—you’re such a good kisser, like I’ve only kissed one other person and that was Danny Pellegrino at summer camp in seventh grade and it was really wet and not in a good way—”
She’s still talking. Of course she’s still talking.
The demon smiles.
I put my hand on top of her head, and I push. Steady, firm pressure, guiding her downward. She resists for maybe half a second, not out of reluctance but out of surprise, and then her knees buckle and she sinks to the kitchen floor. She’s looking up at me with those big green eyes, her ponytail slightly askew, her lower lip trembling.
“I’ve actually never done this before, like I’ve watched videos obviously because who hasn’t, and Becca told me once that the trick is to breathe through your nose, but I don’t really know if—”
“Michelle.” My voice is low, a register I barely recognize. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to put your mouth on my cock, and you’re not going to say another word until I tell you to. Do you understand?”
She stares up at me. Her throat works as she swallows. Then she nods, and her hands are already reaching for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. She gets it open, then the button, then the zipper, and when she tugs my pants and boxers down and my cock springs out, still hard, always hard, grotesquely swollen to twice its proper size, she lets out a sound that is, blessedly, not words. Just a soft, awed “oh.”
She wraps both hands around the shaft and they don’t come close to covering it. Her fingers are small and pale and dotted with freckles across the knuckles. She leans forward and presses her lips to the tip, tentative, almost chaste, like she’s kissing it hello.
“Open your mouth.”
She does. Wide. I slide the head past her lips and feel her tongue press against the underside, hot and wet and uncertain. She gags almost immediately, not deep, just a reflexive hitch, and pulls back, coughing.
“Sorry, sorry, I just—it’s really big and I wasn’t expecting—”
“I didn’t say you could talk.”
Her mouth snaps shut. She nods. Takes a breath. Leans forward again.
This time she gets further. Her lips stretch around me and her cheeks hollow as she sucks, and I feel her tongue doing something uncoordinated but enthusiastic. She bobs her head in short, shallow strokes, making wet sloppy sounds that echo off the kitchen tile. Her inexperience is obvious: she’s using too much teeth on one side, her rhythm is all over the place, but there’s something about the way she’s trying so hard, the way she keeps glancing up at me with watery green eyes, looking for approval, that makes the demon in my chest purr.
I put my hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling into her ponytail, and guide her deeper. She gags again, hard, her throat clenching around the head of my cock, and tears spring to her eyes. But she doesn’t pull back. She braces her hands on my thighs and holds herself there, breathing hard through her nose, just like Becca apparently told her to.
“Good girl.”
A tiny whimper vibrates through her and straight into me. I start to move her head, slow at first, then with more force, using her ponytail like a handle. She takes it. Every stroke pushes a little deeper, and every time she gags, the convulsion of her throat sends a jolt of pleasure up my spine that makes my toes curl against the kitchen floor.
Her eyes are streaming now. Mascara, she’s wearing the tiniest amount, runs in thin black lines down her freckled cheeks. Spit coats my shaft and drips off her chin. She’s making these guttural, choking sounds that are the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all day, because they are not words.
I fuck her mouth until my thighs are trembling. Every thrust bumps the back of her throat, and by the time I feel the pressure building in my core, her gagging has turned to something rawer, a hoarse rasp that says her throat is giving out. I pull back, letting just the head rest on her tongue.
“Swallow it.”
She nods frantically, tears and spit and snot making a mess of her face. I thrust twice more and come. The orgasm is sharp, not as intense as this morning, my body still not fully recovered, but my balls and abs protest with a familiar ache. She swallows convulsively, once, twice, three times, and some of it escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She coughs when I pull out, a deep raspy cough that sounds like a lifelong smoker.
“Oh my—” Her voice is wrecked. A ruined whisper, barely audible. She coughs again. “That was—I can’t believe—”
Even now, even with her throat shredded to ribbons, she’s trying to talk.
I reach down and pull her to her feet. She weighs nothing, petite is an understatement. Her legs are shaky and she grabs the edge of the kitchen table for balance. I turn her around and bend her forward over the table, her colored pens scattering, the assignment sheet crinkling under her palms. She gasps, a rough, sandpaper sound.
I flip her skirt up over her hips. White cotton panties with a tiny bow on the waistband. Cute. I hook my thumbs into the sides and pull them down her thighs. The bright copper-red hair between her legs catches the kitchen light, and it matches her ponytail perfectly: vivid and unmistakable.
I press myself against her from behind. She’s soaking, I can feel it before I even touch her, the heat radiating off her. When I slide a finger through her folds, she bucks against the table and makes a broken sound that might have been my name if her voice could manage more than a croak.
“Have you done this before?”
She shakes her head rapidly.
“Use your words.”
“N-no.” A tortured whisper. “Never, I—” She coughs. “I wanted to wait for someone—” Another cough. “—special.”
The demon should feel something about that. Guilt, maybe. Hesitation. Instead it feels a surge of ownership, something primal and possessive that tightens my grip on her hip.
I line myself up and push in. Slow. The resistance is immediate, she’s tight in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with never having been stretched before. She lets out a sound, halfway between a moan and a yelp, and her fingers claw at the assignment sheet, tearing the corner.
“Oh my God oh my—” Even wrecked, her instinct is to narrate. But it dies in her throat as I push deeper, and what comes out instead is just a raw, voiceless groan.
I feel the moment I break through. She goes rigid against the table, every muscle locked, and a sharp hiss escapes through her teeth. I hold still, buried halfway inside her, and give her a moment. Her breathing comes in harsh, ragged pulls. After a few seconds, she shifts her hips, just slightly, pushing back against me.
That’s all I need.
I start to move. Slow strokes at first, pulling out until just the tip is inside her, then sliding back in a little deeper each time. She’s impossibly tight, her walls gripping me with a pressure that borders on painful. Her moans are broken things, cracked and dry, each one rougher than the last as her ruined vocal cords struggle to produce sound. The table creaks beneath her with every thrust.
I pick up the pace. My hands grip her hips hard enough to leave marks, pulling her back onto me as I drive forward. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the kitchen, mixing with the jingle of the wind chimes drifting through a cracked window. Michelle’s fingers scrabble for purchase on the smooth table surface, sending pens rolling off the edges and clattering to the floor.
“Oh—oh—oh—” Each syllable is barely a breath. She’s past words now, finally, truly past words, and all that’s left is this raw animal sound punching out of her with every thrust. Her red ponytail bounces against her back. Her small body shudders underneath me.
When she comes, it hits her like a seizure. Her whole body locks up and she slams a fist against the table, rattling everything on it. A sound tears out of her throat, or tries to, but what emerges is just a shredded, voiceless wheeze. Her walls clamp down on me so hard it’s almost uncomfortable, pulsing in rhythmic contractions that drag me to the edge.
I thrust deep one final time and come inside her, my fingers digging into her hips as the orgasm rolls through me. My abs scream, my balls throb with that familiar hollow ache that tells me I’m running on fumes, and I grit my teeth against the pain until the last wave passes.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Just breathing. Her back rises and falls beneath me, her skin flushed and damp with sweat where her shirt has ridden up. When I finally pull out, she makes a small whimper and stays draped over the table like she doesn’t trust her legs.
I tuck myself back in and lean against the counter, watching her slowly push herself upright. Her ponytail is half undone, red hair sticking to her damp forehead. Her face is a mess, smeared mascara, swollen lips, flushed from her cheeks all the way down her neck. When she turns to look at me, her green eyes are glassy and unfocused, like someone waking from a deep sleep.
She opens her mouth. Tries to speak. What comes out is a hoarse croak that doesn’t resolve into anything recognizable. She clears her throat, winces, and tries again.
“That was—” A raw whisper, barely audible. She puts a hand to her throat.
“Hey.” I pick up the assignment sheet from the table, crinkled, one corner torn, but legible. I hold it up. “I need you to finish this. Tell Ms. Vaughn I helped.”
She nods immediately. No hesitation. She reaches for the paper and holds it against her chest, looking up at me with an expression that’s equal parts adoration and exhaustion.
“I can do that,” she mouths more than says.
“Good.” I glance down the hallway. “Where’s your bathroom? I need a shower.”
She points, her hand trembling slightly, and mouths what I think is “second door on the left.”
I find the bathroom easily: small, clean, smells like strawberry shampoo. The shower is one of those tub-shower combos with a floral curtain. I strip down, get the water hot, and stand under it for a long time, letting it beat against my shoulders. The steam fills my lungs and I close my eyes and just breathe.
When I step out and towel off, I feel almost human. I pull my clothes back on, they’re not exactly fresh, but at least I don’t reek of gym class anymore.
I pull out my phone and text Regina.
Ready when you are. And send a pin of my location.
I walk back to the kitchen. Michelle is sitting at the table. She has the assignment sheet smoothed out in front of her, a highlighter already in hand. When she sees me, she smiles, a small, shy thing, completely unlike her usual manic energy.
She opens her mouth, and I can see the words building behind her eyes, an entire paragraph trying to form. But all that comes out is a faint rasp. She touches her throat, winces, and just gives me a little wave instead.
I lean against the doorframe and wait for Regina, enjoying the quiet.
Regina’s white Mercedes rolls to a stop in front of Michelle’s house, and I’m already out the door before she cuts the engine. She climbs out, heels clicking on the driveway, and meets me halfway with a kiss that tastes like strawberry lip gloss and ownership.
“So,” she says, pulling back just enough to study my face. “How did it go?”
“Fine. We just worked on the assignment the whole time.”
One perfect eyebrow arches. She tilts her head, and those blue-grey eyes cut right through me like I’m made of glass.
I last about three seconds.
I run a hand through my still-damp hair and give her the short version. She listens without interrupting, which is rare for Regina, and when I’m done she does something I don’t expect. She smiles, not a smirk, not a scheming grin, an actual warm smile.
“Thank you for being honest,” she says. Then she reaches into her purse, pulls out her car keys, and holds them out to me, dangling from one manicured finger. “You can drive us to the mall.”
I stare at the keys like she just handed me Excalibur. “Seriously?”
“Consider it a reward.” She drops them into my palm. “Do not scratch it.”
The second I slide into the driver’s seat and press the ignition, I understand why people spend obscene amounts of money on cars. The engine doesn’t roar to life, it purrs, low and confident, like it already knows it’s better than everything else on the road. I adjust the mirrors, ease us away from Michelle’s modest little ranch home, and merge onto the main road.
The difference between this and my mom’s ten-year-old Kia Soul is staggering. When I press the gas, the Mercedes responds instantly, smooth, eager, almost alive under my foot. In my mom’s car, flooring it just makes the engine scream louder without actually going much faster, like a chihuahua barking at a Great Dane. This thing accelerates like it’s offended I’m not going faster.
Right then and there, I make a decision. Whatever it takes, however long, however hard I have to work, I will own a car like this someday. People who say guys with nice cars are compensating for something have clearly never driven one. Guys with nice cars own nice cars because they’re amazing. End of discussion.
We’re about halfway to the mall when the high starts to fade. Not from the car, the car is still incredible. It’s from something else. Something that’s been crouched in the back of my mind since I walked out of Michelle’s bathroom, freshly showered.
The way she looked at me from the kitchen table. That dazed, adoring expression. Voice barely above a whisper. The girl who couldn’t shut up for five consecutive seconds rendered nearly mute, and I’d been proud of that. I’d thought it was funny.
But it was her first time.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My jaw sets.
“I figured you would be happier to drive my car,” Regina says.
I glance at her. She’s watching me with those sharp eyes, head slightly tilted.
“It’s not the car,” I say. “The car’s amazing. I just ... I’m feeling guilty about how I treated Michelle.”
Regina’s expression doesn’t change. She waits.
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