Chapter 2

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.