The sound of footsteps and the splash of water jerked Ben’s attention to the mouth of the alleyway. Just in time, he caught sight of a woman out for a nighttime run. The pink-tinged running shoes kicked up small showers of muddy water with each stride. Her shorts were skintight and black, ending just above her knees, and some sort of corset-like wrap circled her waist in a purple bad. Her breasts were healthy and full, held in place by the sports bra-style to hold them in place. Her hair was blonde, but pulled back in tight braids that bounced on her shoulders and back as she moved past. Ben smiled, amazed at himself for finding the time to appreciate a beautiful woman on her way to nowhere as she slipped her evening exercise in.
He imagined her, helplessly prisoner to his own biology, naked and spread before him. For an instant, the book and the events of the evening were forgotten as his mind roamed the imagined terrain of her body.
Suddenly, the spot on his arm that had been doused with the foul stuff from the basement of that accursed house began to itch, a maddening sensation that drew his other hand in a frenzy of clawing scratches. A hissing gasp escaped as the skin of his arm bubbled and roiled, blisters rising and subsiding in rapid succession. The bubbling skin spread up and down his arm with a rapidity that alarmed him, and, for an instant, Ben was sure that whatever concoction he’d been subjected to in that dank basement had poisoned him and he would be found later as nothing more than a puddle of goo.
The book dropped from his hand and settled on the rain-darkened asphalt as ben staggered away from it, his hands clawing at his dark hoodie, surprising himself by ripping the seam down to the middle of his chest. It burned, a fire beneath his skin, and Ben fell to his knees, his hands raised before his eyes.
“Oh Jesus!” he cried to no one, his voice echoing off the walls and barred windows facing the alleyway. No one came to assist, no one turned on a light.
He watched in shock and wonder as the tips of his nails grew longer, reaching two inches past the tips of his fingers, forcing the skin to spread painfully. When he turned his hands over, he saw the nails were painted a bright pink, and the hair on the backs of his hands withdrew into the skin like one of those reverse-photography gags. The skin was bubbling there, too, but it was slowly coming to an end, leaving behind slim fingers tipped by the wicked and brightly-polished talons. The transformation continued up his arms, as if a wave had passed through him and now withdrew, leaving behind a new shape and new skin. His forearms were slimmer, and the effect traveled up to his shoulders.
Bending low to the ground, Ben felt his stomach turn, and then something deeper, an ache unlike any he’d experienced before. He opened his mouth to vomit, but nothing would come up. Instead, he found himself distracted by the hair hanging down, into his eyes, a curtain of blonde hair that spilled over his ears and threatened to touch the wet ground.
Another twisting, sharp pain gripped him, and his long-nailed hands flew to his throat, where he could feel something tighten. That pain was lost to the grander sensation of his torso melting and reforming. A glance down, and he was staring between two mounds of flesh hanging from his chest.
“what the hell-?” he managed, but stopped short when he heard the high-pitched voice, one that made him think of squeaking hinges and deflating balloons. He tried to stand, but another wave of pain crashed into him, this time at the very core of his manhood. He tried to grip his aching balls, but his palms pressed flat against his pelvis instead, surprising him with a jolt of pleasure amidst the pain. The sensation was short-lived as the searing ache wound down his legs and made his feet arch savagely.
Finally, it was done. He felt no more pain. He was on his side, collapsed on the hard asphalt, breathing hard and quick.
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