'I hate you.' The grotesque pillar of flesh rose from between her legs, throbbing, aching with demand for her touch. ${name} had done little else recently as time blended together, but lay in bed despondent, sobbing and unable to resist. The room was disheveled and reeked of sex. The sheets were tangled about her, coated in sweat, her hair matted, still wearing her soiled, wrinkled school uniform from days before, when she had insisted she would make class. Awards and trophies lined the shelves, pictures of smiling girls now spattered with her errant emissions, a different life, destroyed by this thing she could no longer control. She hated what it had done to her, but worse, ${name} hated how good it felt, how addictive the pleasure was, as the world shrank down to the confines of this filthy bedroom and the electric sensation brought on by the slightest graze of her fingers. ${name} closed her swollen, red eyes and relented, loathing herself more with every stroke.
Only a short time before, a lifetime ago, she was the epitome of the beautiful, popular, outgoing girl on a perfect upward trajectory that everyone wished they could be.
Futa, was the term the counselor used when explaining what had happened to her after she was discovered failing to stifle her screams in the bathroom, shamefully pumping and thrusting, incapable of stopping as tears ran down her face. 'A freak is what I am,' she had thought. Futa were a poorly understood phenomenon, and little help was available. Worse, her rate of growth put her in a category known as hyperfuta, meaning her expansion would be intense, drastic and perhaps go on forever.
How much smaller and more manageable it had been back then. She had no idea how far down the vicious spiral she could fall.
She tried to carry on in denial even as the bulge occupied more and more of her panties, becoming longer, thicker, more bulbous, obscene and increasingly obvious under her skirt. Everyone looked at her differently, there was an edge of fear mixed in with the aside glances and mockery. Former friends faded away, making weak excuses to avoid her.
It was like slowly drowning, as avenues were cut off and she descended further, retreating into isolation; her confidence evaporated and her spirit shattered.
Her grades plummeted. The swelling, sensitive shaft made concentration impossible, to go without slipping and grazing its pulsing, veiny contours with her fingers. She tried to do homework, a critical assignment, as the creeping urge gnawing from under the desk at her resistance. It was a cruel tyrant that would not be ignored.
The compromise of writing with one hand and rubbing herself furiously with the other was miserable, and soon collapsed as she lost control. ${name} writhed in her seat, unable to contain herself, hands smacking against her thighs in a rapid rhythm. Her legs trembled as she jerked the full length with abandon, her fingers clenching and unclenching as her breathing quickened, feminine orgasms already crashing through her frame, nerves alight with passion. She closed her eyes, ears perking as she felt the first jets splash her cheek, warm and wet. It carried on for hours, howling with insatiable desperation, craving relief.
Coming out of her haze, she felt awful, her face and chest a dribbling mess of thick globs soaking into her shirt. It was too much to even contemplate cleaning up, so she wallowed there, breathless and sticky, already awash in that hated sensation of growth.
Seeing the homework spattered, disgustingly stained, broke her down