Strange HER in the night

The 17th floor is a hell of a place to watch a storm.
It seems like a living thing. The raindrops spin and swirl in shafts of wind, hesitate slightly in an updraft, each tracing its own unique path to the Earth.
The night is warm, the apartment dark behind me except for a tiny lamp on the end table. I’m standing naked in the balcony doorway, smoking. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before; I didn’t think about it, really, it just seemed like the thing to do. The lightning is frequent, sometimes close. I suppose if anybody was looking they could see my nudity during the strikes, but so what if they do?
I’m thinking about lighting another cigarette when a sudden surge of air hits me. It’s a gust straight out of January, aimed particularly at my genitals.
I stumble backward into the apartment, hunched over slightly by the blast of cold. There’s a sudden change in air pressure; bizarrely, I think of the storm catching its breath in surprise. Then, the thunder – starting quietly and building so quickly to that frightening noise that sounds like the sky being torn open.
The lightning strikes my balcony, inches from where I had just been standing. I’m tossed backward, blinded and stunned.
If I actually lost consciousness, it wasn’t for very long. The storm is still raging outside, my ears are still ringing from the thunder, and the lightning bolt is still seared into my optic nerve, the ghosts of its jagged edges bouncing as I move my eyes.
There’s someone on the balcony.
It isn’t possible, but there she is, and it is most clearly a she, her body silhouetted by the glow of the city. She enters the apartment, gliding with a sleek elegance, and steps into the glow of the lamp, looking down at me sprawled on the floor.
Her skin is the color of cool milky marble, her long straight hair raven black. She looks slightly exotic to me, Mediterranean, entirely nude.
Her breasts are absurd. They are full and large, the buoyant lighter-than-air pair of a comic book super-heroine. The impression is heightened by her slimness, though ‘slimness’ isn’t the right term. She doesn’t look skinny or anorexic, but dehydrated, like her skin is suctioned onto her muscles which are suctioned onto her bones. There seems to be no cushioning to her, no fat or moisture or veins or unnecessary flesh whatever.
Her labia are as freeze-dried as the rest of her, drawn back toward the frame of her body. Her clitoris is a rosy dripping cone, protruding and clearly visible, as she steps over to me, sinuous and fluid, as though her bones are bending as she moves.
She stands over me, her head tilted to one side, looking at me like I’m a curious specimen. For my part, it simply hasn’t occurred to me to move. I feel no fear, only dumb surprise and growing arousal.
She straddles me and drops her cunt onto my mouth, her hands on my belly. Fluid flows from her into my mouth; it seems to come directly through her skin as though it were being squeezed out of a sponge. It’s very much like rainwater, but there’s an odd tingling tang on my skin, like the sensation of touching your tongue to a battery.
She shifts and shimmies as I eagerly lap at her. I feel her hands on me, cool and dry. She’s saying something, a soft sing-song chant in a language I can’t classify at all. She caresses my genitals, my cock already fully erect, but straining to meet her touch. She cups my balls and tugs gently on my scrotum, fondling me exquisitely.
I don’t know how long we long stay like this; time doesn’t seem to mean what it usually does. I become aware of movement within my body, an unsettling sensation of veins and capillaries and vesicles channeling fluids to my groin. There’s a growing sensation of discomfort, as though my genitals are being inflated like water balloons.
She leans over, holding her head over my crotch. The inflated feeling becomes something resembling numbness, though I can still feel the motion of fluids within me. She clutches my penis just behind the head; then she tightens her grip painfully and PULLS. My legs quiver and kick, my hips buck, but my mind is strangely disconnected from the pain. I merely note it rather than truly feel it.
How long this goes on, I couldn’t say; it isn’t brief. Eventually, she lifts herself off me, stretching languidly. She looks down at my crotch, an eyebrow raised, assessing her handiwork. She looks at me, her eyes oblique, inviting me to look.
It’s so ridiculous I have to laugh. My testicles are the size of cantaloupes, the shaft of my penis the breadth of a baseball bat and as long as my forearm, the head a grotesquely distorted lump the size of a doorknob, and all of it a bruised purple.
She seems quite pleased with it. She straddles me again, facing away, gathers my cock in her hand and, pointing it straight up, lowers herself onto it.
If you’ve ever watched a nature special and seen a python devour prey far bigger around than itself, you have an idea what it was like watching her take in my deformed cock. It felt like her cunt was swallowing it; gripping tightly, then loosening and sliding down a little before tightening again.
The inside of her cunt was not the slick heat of a normal woman, but as cool as her hand. My cock slides in but not back out, trapped, feeling like she’ll never give it back. Finally, impossibly, I’m all the way in, her weight fully resting across my hips; I can feel her clit poking into my scrotum.
My bloated testicles are resting on the floor, her hands on top of them, rocking them, positioning them just so. I have a flash of intuition for what she is about to do, but my traumatized body is incapable of acting to protect itself.
When she punches the heels of her hands into my balls the pain is horrific. My body convulses like I’m being electrocuted, but she is entirely undisturbed. She squashes them flat, then releases them, allowing them to expand and refill before crushing them again. Over and over again, she uses them like twin pumps to draw all the cum out of me, but it can’t possibly all be cum. It seems as though she’s taking gallons out of me, and I don’t want to guess what else it might be.
The amount of fluid diminishes each time, my balls growing smaller with each crushing. Before she’s done, they’re just little raisins she squishes between thumb and forefinger.
She lifts herself off my cock, which is still over-inflated and as hard as a tree trunk. As she turns around and kneels by my side, I can see the change in her and it is amazing. Her body isn’t sere but full, literally fleshed out; her skin tone is no longer an unnatural paper-white, but rosy and flush.
Her hands are warm and moist now as she grips my cock and leans forward. I have only the briefest glimpse of her fangs before I feel them, tiny points of freezing heat penetrating the skin on the underside of my cock. The power of the suction of her mouth on me is shocking. My cock stays completely hard for a surprisingly long time before it finally begins to deflate, her head following it down, down, until at last she releases it, a shriveled peanut.
I wasn’t terribly concerned about the humiliating state of my manhood, though, given that I was dying. The only moment I can muster is a slight twitch of my finger; I feel a shadow-self (soul?) begin to sink out of my body.
She was standing over me, a strong, healthy young woman twirling her hair with a finger. Instead of plainly visible ribs, she has a cutely plump belly over a dark wedge of pubic hair, her behind jiggling as strolls around the place, her curiosity apparently restored as well. My vision is starting to spot and cloud when she returns. She kneels next to me, cradling my head, working a stiff pink-brown nipple into my mouth. She starts the sing-song chanting again and gives her enormous torpedo breast a squeeze, squirting sticky wetness into my mouth. Each mouthful brings me further back; when she lays my head down I’m exhausted but firmly connected to life again. She strokes my head and I’m aware that the storm is still raging outside. The lightning flashes again and she’s gone. I try to get up, falter, instead falling hard and fast into unconsciousness.

I wake in bed. The images are sharp and vivid in my mind. Abruptly, I throw the covers back and yank my underwear down. All is well.
Relieved beyond words, I roll my legs out of bed, trying to recall exactly which combination of illicit substances I had abused the previous night. Anything that conjured such a bizarre dream had to be recorded and avoided – or retried.
I shuffle to the bathroom, the familiar pressure down below. I yawn, grateful it’s not a work day, heedlessly draining myself into the toilet. A dream that fucking weird, I decide, should be avoided in the future. It’s just a little much.
I reach to flush and stop short.
The toilet is full of blood.
Skin prickling on the back of my neck, I start giggling, but it doesn’t turn hysterical until I turn my penis and find the two sharp, red dots underneath

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