Greg was a normal guy. He had a great job, a loving family, and a wonderful soon-to-be fiance. Everything was going great...until one day Greg awoke to learn that overnight, he had become a vagina.
Greg is trapped--with nowhere to escape. What will he do to escape his luscious, wet, womanly prison?
Experience sex like you've never experienced it before...from the inside!
Warning: This 10,000 word story contains scenes of an explicit sexual nature and is therefore strictly for adults looking to "get inside!"
This very sexy parody will stand on its own, even if you're unfamiliar with the original work by Kafka.
Heat Rating: Sizzling
After a seemingly endless night of nightmares, Greg Jackson woke up, only to learn that in the midst of his nightmares, he had become a vagina.
"Hmm, this will probably be okay," he thought to himself. He didn't really have any place to go. "Here is just fine," he thought as he stayed where he was. He felt a little dry and had a bit of a pressure in the back of him.
So if Greg was a vagina, who was his host? Well, he didn't have eyes, so how could he know? Actually, what senses did he have now (if any)? Touch at least, he inferred.
He was going to be late for work. Hopefully his host worked where he did. Somehow he would convince her to take him to his workplace. Just like teamwork. They would work together; he would be the vagina, and she would be the rest. He would explain to his boss that it was just a simple misunderstanding, and all would be well. Greg was a great employee, so the boss would surely forgive him for being late this one time.
The host woke up a few minutes after Greg did, feeling very aroused and a bit lonely. She was an artist that worked from home, so unless she had an art show to do, she didn't need to leave the house at all. There was no such show today. The host proceeded to make herself feel very good, starting with tiny circles on her clit, rubbing through the skin of the hood to begin the generation of pleasure.
Someone was messing with Greg's upper apparatus, rubbing it in circles that were becoming faster and faster. He could barely think with such racket! This was silly; he needed to be to work and someone was playing with his head, both literally and figuratively! Ugh, he had started to leak some sort of fluid, and he hated being wet. Such terrible luck he was having.
B.B. Roman writes from a secretive cabin about...well, secret stuff. Stuff that people don't like to talk about with each other, despite the fact that they all love it and simply can't get enough. Writing and reading, reading and writing. Despite the dirty subjects, the cabin is very clean.