Chapter 1 - Apotheosis of the Pale Dowager

Apotheosis of the Pale Dowager
 
Rain pummels your window; it's hard to tell whether the sheer force of the downpour or the howling winds outside are causing it to rattle and quake in its frame. Storms like this make sleeping a tempestuous affair - just when you think you've gotten used to the patter, the rushing wind, the rattling window and even the very foundations around you dangerously creaking... Then you still have to contend with the thunder; splitting the sky and your ear drums. You fade in and out of slumber - as briefly as you're unconscious, it's hard to tell if you've woken in a dream at any given point. Every time you awake, you struggle to get your bearings. You're in a new position; your covers are knotted around you, and you've broken into a cold sweat.
Consciousness comes in flashes. Dreams come in snippets. A pier, with someone waiting at the end. A huddled mass at the corner of two crossroads. The ceiling above opening up and drizzling water the color of starry night onto you.
A crack of thunder wakes you. What time was it - how much sleep did you get? You have no answers, but the storm has calmed. Your hair sticks to your forehead, and your covers to the rest of your body. What's more, you feel something else. Swollen, perhaps; between your legs. Cool, sweaty flesh nudges against your thigh in an unfamiliar manner.
You peel the covers off audibly, and look across your body in the cool moonlight - filtering through your window; shadows of raindrops dancing across your sleep-deprived form. Your eyes trek across your bare chest; across chilly flesh and hair, into your undergarments, wherein you see a bulge - and a dark stain. Darker than that of wetness. Bigger than you're used to.
Your thumb hooks around the waist of your underwear, tugging it down - following the trail of hair ever-downward until you meet a shadow. Tugging your underwear lower, the shadow continues; and then you see it. Resting on your crotch, sitting like an engorged slug is a mound of slick, dark flesh, pulsating rhythmically. Where it meets with your skin, you can see visible bruising - but you feel no pain. In response to your sight, it quivers, and between the border of it and your skin, it spits a bit of purplish slime. With the covers removed, you smell it - beyond the petrichor, beyond the wood of the house and your own sweat, you can smell low tide.
To say the scent is offensive is an understatement. It batters at you; almost sends you reeling back into unconsciousness. The flesh pulsates again and more slime is spat out in chunky globules. You can feel it on its furthest edges, crusting already - curling and somehow stinking worse. That fat blob of flesh is shrinking, though. Or... Thinning. Conforming. Molding. But molding what?
Molding you. You can feel it tighten - feel it strain against your hips, as that slime spreads. Not only spread outward - but you can feel it, like a million tiny invaders, seeping into your pores - like tendrils; like roots taking hold in your body to feed a growing tree. You feel your gut become their nesting ground; feel them knot together as that blob finally goes fully flat.
Yet, it has no right to - it flattens in defiance to your anatomy. Where... Where's your...?
It tightens again. Tightens and digs. Buries itself like the slime - that by now has eaten away at your hair. Or, perhaps not eaten away... But repurposed? You can see nubs and nodules; like blisters, erupt across your crotch - dark; purple like the slime, against... Lavender skin? No - likely white... But too white; through the film of the slime.
Deeper and deeper the sensation digs. Pounds into you, each one making your otherwise-paralyzed body quake.
You feel like you're being hollowed out. Not like something was in you and eroding you; making you less - but more like there was an emptiness growing. There's a wet squelch as it feels like whatever was digging into you finally reached its depth - as you look tentatively downward, you see it.
Between your legs are a pair of fat, bloated, diseased-looking lips. Their shade reminds you of the drained pallor of a drowned man. All around it, that purple ooze has paled; dried, leaving you with a whitish, grainy residue across your all-too-pale crotch, which is now occasionally flecked with the same purple tone as the ooze. You hear a soft 'crack' as something... Something moves beneath the residue. Slowly, small tendrils begin to rise up - in a pattern much like your hair, yet considerably more lively.
Your body convulses. You feel your midsection clench - your legs buckle inward, and slowly, you can feel something - something big slide down; almost impossibly, through your core. When it finally reaches your new pussy, you can see your belly bloat to accommodate it... But even as it passes, your stomach remains larger than before. Beads of black ink begin to trail out of your crotch. Drip by drip - and then, in long lines. Yet, they don't fall down - instead, the oily blots rise up into the air - fading away into black smoke; smoke that begins to obscure the ceiling. It's not the normal kind of dark; the kind of dark touched by the faintest hints of light and given definition. It's well beyond that. It's the kind of dark that draws your eyes and makes you wonder if they're open or shut. It's the kind of dark that distracts you from the spreading pallor on your body.
It looks - not to mention feels - like worms are squirming beneath your skin. Pushing it out wider; thicker, every so often tripping muscle and making you spasm. You kick off the covers, leaving your body bare; bathing in the almost radiant black above. The black you stare into - as you could swear, on the far end, there's a hint of light somewhere inside. Even as your skin pales and thickens, you can still feel something inside pushing against it - and you can see beads of slime slither out of your pores, drizzling along your flesh.
As the changes reach your belly, you begin to feel a problem - enough to bring you back from the darkness above. It feels like whatever is beneath your skin is hitting resistance. It bumps and thuds against your stomach - each strike making the slightly-paler flesh rise and engorge. Then, you see it - the faintest... Cut in your skin. Another hit makes the cut widen - stretch up, and up, and wider, until -
It tears, letting a bloated, sagging stomach stretch through the tattered shreds of your human skin. Beneath, you can see more of that pale, purple-freckled skin and whatever lay beneath it, making circles and intricate patterns ensuring that it grows, swells with... The nothing inside of you.
And nothing is what you feel. Perhaps not entirely - not yet. But looking upon this macabre scene, you can't muster any fear, not anymore. Any anger or confusion. You recognized that the ichor-spewing axe-wound between your legs twitches and belches out a little more slime when you look upon the adipose and alabaster flesh.
Your human flesh seems to curl and retreat like the edges of burning paper - or perhaps like the curling limbs of a dying insect. It's almost intriguing how frail it seems, and things dance under your new skin. All around your body - where that skin remains - it, too, begins to tear. Your toes curl as change continues to make its way downward - you faintly feel yourself hefted off the bed by some phantom force; or, perhaps it's the swelling of your rear; and the distant flexing of the orifice between the more load-bearing cheeks. The uneven growth arches your back and forces your head back up - back into the dark; so radiant. So alluring.
Your skin cracks and thickens even before whatever inside of you reaches your feet. You can tell that flesh upon your legs... Dies. Grows thick; leathery... But at the same time, stretches? Mass conforms to alien whims as a sandpapery, leathery pattern interrupts the otherwise-unstoppable expanse of white. Yet, even so, the changes continue below - your well-expanded thighs taper into legs that, though ever-thickening, slim as they reach their terminus.
And when they do, you feel a bright flash of sensation. It's hard to tell if it's pleasure or pain. But, you can tell that your feet angle themselves differently - downward . Your feet arch and your toes point up. They splay for just a moment before you feel something compress them; hold them together, force them together.
Whatever human skin that once sat upon your feet now holds a grander purpose - though, by no means indispensable. Thick chitin covers your feet now - and while you haven't solid ground to stand on, the sheer constrictive nature already begins to nag at you; especially as your toenails thicken and jut forward.
But you don't pay attention to that. There's something shining in the dark - not a light; not per se. But something. It started as something little bigger than a gnat - but how, it's like a penny against the darkness. You're getting closer to it - you want to get closer to it. You want it to come to you. Perhaps you may feel as though your body is growing to meet it, too. You can feel something coil around in your chest - once, then twice. Spiraling upward and standing tall...
Before gravity takes its toll, sending two new sacks of fat and void falling to the rest of your slimy body with an audible slap.
You can feel the slime all over you refreshing as best it could, but unable to keep from totally dehydrating. Under every fold of fat upon your growing body, you can feel some means of flaky strip or gritty residue; grinding and rubbing against you irritatingly. It bothers you distantly - but with each new fold, it compounds. Frustrates you. You can feel your lips knitting into a frustrated pout.
Your arm jerks back as it's entered. The 'coat' of flesh upon it has taken on a leathery, bumpy tone - and it stretches to accommodate the swelling bingo-wing inside. Your hand twitches again, as it shifts, fingers growing thicker, nails growing longer, and finally, you find you can move it again.
And so, you move it to your crotch. Your nails scrape against the briny buildup over your sopping cunt, and eagerly dig themselves in even as the nails themselves are still growing. Your bloated, slimy walls clench down on those fingers, and a moan - in voices you've never heard - belts from your throat.
You can feel your other arm twitch; but you're too focused stuffing your pussy with your other to notice or even bother to move it. Beneath both arms, more tendrils arise - not just squirming, but painting and spreading the slime ever-thicker beneath such a stuffy area of your anatomy. The flesh on your chest swells again - and thickens into an... Undercoat; adopting a dense, ridged surface. Another follows suit - giving your body a perceived thickness even on top of its actual thickness. Slime sits beneath every layer - but as it remains off of your skin, it dries. It thickens. It stinks.
"Burrlbph." A guttural sound rises from your throat. You can feel the skin of your neck bulging as it gets to your chin. For a moment, you feel like you're drowning. For a moment, you consider how arousing the prospect is. Slime rises up your gullet and bubbles past your lips, which feel like they're thickening with every moment. You feel less like a whole, now; more like a void with a thin veneer of something perceivable and tangible. Within that void, you can tell - as that glimmering in the darkness encompasses your field of view - is something even blacker. Depravity in its purest form. The sheer essence of depth so deep no light could reach it. As flesh almost seems to swell around your face, you feel like your very soul is torn out of your eyes.
And from there, it's sent through aeons. You see nothing but black - but you feel things. Like individual bits of sand from a sandblaster, chipping something away... But leaving that ever-paradoxical void in its place. That darkness. That depravity. That craving to show it to more. That boredom when you realize, somewhere simultaneously in the middle the crossing of the Rubicon and the invention of the world's first feeling artificial intelligence, that you've seen it all. A boredom that lasts for aeons more.
You stare at a black wall. Soon comes a momentary cure for your sensory deprivation. Yourself.
You look at your body. You see yourself looking at your body.
You see your body deform. Age weathers it. Your hair changes color. Pounds are packed on... Yet, you remain human. A familiar human. A teacher from long ago.
The scene changes. You find yourself hovering over a young boy. You recognize that he's been misbehaving. Your hand balls into a fist, then relaxes. No - it straightens. Your mouth moves, but you can't hear your words - you understand them nonetheless. A litany of disdain flows from your pursed lips. Of discipline and righteousness, as you land a solitary slap onto the naughty boy's rear. He'll be a good boy soon enough. You feel trapped in this body - like your maleness still exists, yet... Is compressed. Tamped down by the weight on your form.
Days go by. You teach. You leer. You discipline.
And then, you find yourself at an unfamiliar desk; a cigar in hand. You sit in a comfortable chair, and a secretary walks in. Your secretary. She hands you forms, showing you how much money you had. How much power. It's quite a lot - but not enough. You crave more. You grab the secretary's hair and force her between your legs. Between your chunky thighs, and against your sex. She knows better than to resist - to risk her career disobeying you.
Days go by. You make money. You fuck your secretary. You spoil yourself.
You find yourself on a couch next, your hand scratching a dense thatch of hair on your corpulent belly. You haven't shaved in a week. You haven't showered in just as long. Your roommate returns, and a spark of energy is channeled into your lethargic form. You pull them into a hug - you can see the sneer of disgust on their face. You put them into a headlock in response.
Days go by. You eat. You watch TV. You stink.
You find yourself in a nice bed, wearing a nice pair of stockings. A man sits with his member erect and at the ready, and you know what to do. You extend your feet and gently begin to pet it, stroking it deftly with your ever-so-soft stockings, curling your toes around it.
Days go by. You service many men like him; even some women. You put your feet to good use. You can't keep your hands off your crotch as you do.
You find yourself... Yourself, again. Male. Normal. But younger. You're in a familiar living room, with your hand down your pants. You feel anxious, but moreover, you feel aroused. Your mom walks into the room - she's shocked for a moment; but her eyes lower, and a smile spreads on her face. She walks toward you and leans in, removing your hand from your pants... And sliding hers in. Her touch is gentle; heavenly. Her free hand presses you to her breast as she coos sweet nothings into your ear.
Days go by. Mommy is a gentle woman. You're mommy's little boy.
You wake up, finding yourself in a familiar kitchen. You walk out of it, to find your son in the living room, masturbating. You're shocked for a moment; but your eyes lower, and a smile spreads across your face.  You walk toward him and lean in, removing his hand from his pants... And sliding yours in. Your touch is gentle; heavenly. Your free hand presses him to your breast as you coos sweet nothings into his ear.
The next day, you aren't so gentle. You catch him again, and you use your feet to get him off this time. Next time, you use your breasts. It isn't long before you're teaching your boy how to be a young man.
Days go by. Mommy hasn't shaved in a few days, so when your little man has to fuck your armpits, he has to deal with a dense mat of hair. Next time he fucks you, you have to apologize about how loose your ass is getting. Mommy doesn't have as much tightness in her as she used to. You start serving him more calamari; he’s a growing boy, after all. The fact that it’s raw just helps him build character. Though, you can always think of something else you want him to eat. You’re going to raise him right. He’s going to be mommy’s little boy.
You find joy in depravity.
You find refuge in the debauched.
Years go by. Your skin adopts a deep pallor. You begin to wear molted flesh. You experiment with your tentacles. More and more your vision aligns with the body remaining on your bed. The one you've almost forgotten about.
But it's the one you wear now. It's the one you see when you look in that mental mirror. It's not the only one you own, but it's yours. You are this body. This body defines you.
Your eyes fall first upon your face. Your eyes are two deep pools sitting atop noticeable, tired bags - set on either side of a bulbous, pointed nose. Barbs protrude from either side of its bridge, and it juts forward; albeit crookedly. Your black head-tentacles are wrapped in a tight bun, and your lips are pursed in a stern pout; flanked by plump, jowled cheeks.
Suddenly, you feel another field of vision birth itself. Your puffy, inverted nipples bulge out as two more eyes exit them. They stare forward at your saggy breasts, and as you reach your hands - the endpoints of two fat, saggy arms; in themselves rather plump digits connected by thin membrane and tipped with long, aquatic spine-like nails - to either side of the cavernous crevasse of your navel, you reveal another glimmering eye at the very depths - surrounded by innumerable rows of teeth. Your belly squelches and spits a bit of slime as you release it and allow for the eye to be hidden again. Before you venture onward, you raise your arms - showing off squirming mats of tendrils surrounded by crusty, off-colored residue.
The tentacles that extend from the lowest reaches of your belly down to just over your fat, sopping, ichor-dripping sex reach inward and pull your lower lips open and reveal yet another eye. It examines your legs; doughy and pockmarked by cellulite, ending in claw-tipped feet - which now, you must stand on your toes for; as they're so used to your chitinous heels. The toes are somewhat deformed and bent in on each-other; their sharp nails crossing.
You raise your hands, and eyes form on their palms. You use them to look at your back - at your jutting, plump, shelf-like rear and the fat, pronounced pucker - that, on your command, unfolds not unlike an anemone - sitting between it. The rest of your back is riddled with small sores. Blemishes cover your form; small purple freckles, the occasional sore, but most often the bounty of salty residue caked underneath your folds.
Another eye pops up on your shoulder. This one isn't looking in the mirror - but peering through the abyss. Through time itself. You can instinctually tell what time it is. The area that will be Zhanjiang; 210 BC - men speak in hushed whispers about a woman in the water. Nobody knows her name. Another eye on your breast opens. Portus, 102 - rumors of an Anus Maximus circulate among the city. Few take it seriously, until a sailor goes missing. Another eye appears on your back. Venice, 1532 - men of leisure are pressured to take caution, as La Baba della Note is said to stalk the streets looking for prey. London, 1860 - sailors have taken to carrying crude whalebone charms in hopes of warding off the Pale Dowager, preferring the seas to port; as out there, only their lives are at risk - not their souls.
More eyes open. As you've spent epochs reveling in your debauchery; honing your craft, you've left a slimy, black mark on history itself. Perhaps even the future, as well. Time is a mortal concept. It exists not within the abyss. You watch yourself drag men, women, and children alike into the inky depths with you. Such pleasures you show them. Such more, you'll bring them. You look backward; past Zhanjiang. Past the invention of the wheel, when you were still a dancing shadow against the world’s first flames. Past when your essence tainted pools of primordial soup. Further, further, lights across the galaxy darkening. Growing ever-closer to your abyss. Ever-closer to home.
In the void of space; as sound and fury and dust race across existence, a solitary, black spot sits static amidst the chaos. It opens its eyes. Brilliant yellow, with the faintest sliver of black. You open your eyes.
Then, your eyes shut - all but the two in your head. Distantly, a memory bubbles to the surface of your perverse, labyrinthine mind. A room. A storm. A place you need to be. A place you're called to. A thing you need to reclaim.
In the waking world, your physical eyes have rolled back, as the flesh around it bulged and sagged; jowls forming, lips growing blubbery, hair replaced with a slick, black mass of tendrils. Tendrils that, as you finally find yourself back in some semblance of a mortal form, jolt.
Your eyes roll back into place - deep yellow pools with the faintest sliver of black. They regard the world around you coldly; as well it should. This pitiful little plane barely deserves to be graced by the slime dripping out of your asshole let alone your whole corporeal form. Slowly, you feel your head shifted up as the tendrils upon it knit themselves into a bun.
You use your free hand - the other still buried, in defiance of human biology, up to the elbow in your crotch - to right yourself on the bed, sitting upon it. Your squat, thick legs hang over the bed, and with a sharp squelch and smattering of vile, black ooze onto the wooden floor as you remove your hand from your pussy and a sharp, staccato click as your chitinous heels land on the floor as well, you finally make landfall.
You can hear a sizzling, as your juices eat through the floorboards - likely the concrete and earth below as well. You can hear a creak as you shift your prodigious weight against the ground - and with a phlegmatic grunt - stand up. As you do, you can feel your gut shift and jiggle, hanging over your fat, drooling sex – it might preserve your modesty, if you had any. Your breasts rest upon the mountain of flab that is your stomach – if they didn’t have it to support them, then the fat, puffy, inverted nipples they bear would be pointed straight down. They quake and shift with every movement; gravity holding domain on them more than most else on your form.
You can hear a ruffle and a crackle as the dried flesh and fluids that compose your leathery garb are disturbed. You can hear salt and flakes of what one may presume to be kelp or seaweed fall out from under your folds and between your skins. You train your eyes upward at the ceiling; the one that’d been blotted by darkness before. It was so much closer now. Should the tentacles upon your head unfurl, they’d be able to trace across the wooden ceiling.
You can hear others - so many others - on this plane. Others that scamper about like their ants in their terrariums. Pitiful little things... However cute. Some that play at satiating their desires; some that dip the scantest bit of their body into the pool that is depravity.
You are that pool. You will drag them in, kicking and screaming. You will drown them.
The storm kicks up again. When morning comes to banish the shadows that lay within the room, all that's left inside is a faint coating of salt on the floor.
Epilogue

It's in the depths that you wallow until you're bidden back into the waking world. Until you're prepared for the hunt - until you've conjured suitable fate to induct somebody new into your world, with.
You're well aware of your appetite. You've spent aeons tainting the minds and bodies of those that chased the same path that you embody. Your nipples invert, and within them, two more eyes appear. Your gut flexes, and as you reach into the deep crevasse of your flab and pull it apart - you bear your gnashing maw; the eye recessed into it staring outward hungrily. A slavering, sinuous tongue slips out from between your lower lips, dragging sloppily across your thigh.
You are ravenous. Sometimes you look the part.
Other times, you don't. You distantly recall your last charge; a man that ended up little more than a ball of orifices to be pierced with tentacles. You still haven't unknotted the poor thing. You still wear the appearance you used to induct him. Your slimy sausage fingers run across your wrinkled, jowled cheeks. Age is something you've found an attraction in. An attraction in humans - that is. Attraction is synonymous with existence, with you.
Your yellowed eyes stare out from your hooked, bulbous, beak of a nose - and they themselves sit above deep bags. You wear the tired look of that man's mother; but thicker. Harsher. Thick lips curled and revealing small teeth - but naught but darkness behind them.
"Mommy." You lost count of how many times you've heard it. How many times you've gently cradled women to your fat breast; nipple peeling back and stretching wide enough to suck on their face while you jam a tongue down their throat.
How many men you've wedged into your cavernous void of a cunt, never to be recognizably seen again. "Mommy." The word makes your entire body quiver and salivate.
Your depths are as you please them. When you put your foot down, you can feel solid mass beneath your feet. You can hear the booming echo of your clicking heels. You can, as you approach a decades-old conquest, settle your feet by them; buried in the darkness so as to only reveal their member and face. Their miserable face.
You stomp once - the chitin on your foot cracks and fragments, leaving you standing with shards of it buried in your foot. As you force fragments out - out through your foot, and the sandpapery stocking still upon it - you can see ichor trail from the 'wound'. It didn't harm you - but it is as a mortal would expect. You hover your foot over their face first - letting the cool, slimy, ichor-tainted appendage run smoothly across it. Slowly, you paint your own essence over their face; you hide them - their identity, until all that's left is their member; the driving force behind what landed them here. Your other chitinous shoe dematerializes as you walk toward it, having no problem in extending both feet toward it. You hear panicked grunts as the rough surface of your stockings, and the slick, itching ichor on your wounded foot runs across their member - but here, in your depths, the pain filters back into pleasure. They grow harder and harder - their pre-seed dripping upward - toward the waking world... But never to reach it.
A sole eye peeks out from the darkness as they dare open it. They see you - that you can tell - but they see you with your legs bowed, stroking and smearing your essence on their cock. Between your legs, they can see the squirming mass of tendrils on your crotch prying your lips apart - spreading them and letting more of the ichor flow - but beyond the flow, they can see something more. Eyes. Not just one; not just like your belly button.
Hordes. Legions. The faintest glimpse about just how expansive you were. Their eye rolls up and shuts - the last hint of them you see is the white spray of seed jetting from their cock; until you cover the last bit of flesh with your vantablack essence.
You let that pearly white seed evaporate into the air, and the tendrils release your crotch. You run your fingers through them – the expansive mat looks akin to a nest of small worms stacked innumerably atop each-other. They grasp at your nails and fingers affectionately; eager to please. You hastily resume the surveillance of your realm. You pass a woman half-immersed in bubbling, pitch-like ichor while tentacles extend all the way through her body. You remember her. She knew you as La Strega dell'Oceano. You remember tearing her from her villa in the midst of the renaissance. She's grown quite accustomed to having her mouth and ass forced open by tentacles. Not to mention the heat.
Another boy is strung upside down with a great weight pushing and holding a thick, organic toy into his rear. Though - to you, all of these mortals are organic toys. He called you the Lady in the Sunset. You like to think you saved him from running with a gang of outlaws out in the western states. He even called you mommy. You pinch his cheek as you continue walking away.
As you walk away, you can see - through eyes in the back of your head; you often have them - black veins spread across his cheek, where you touched. He'll be driven insane in the next few days. The mind can only take so much. You prepare to stride ever forward -
but you stop.
It's time, you can tell. A sliver of light hovers over your clawed hand. You reach for it, and tear it open. You find yourself torn forth, in a flurry of ichor and tendrils, through ages both bygone and awaiting the clock's chime.
And you arrive on the early morning mists, your bare feet landing on mossy, algae-crusted stone outside of a gloomy port. Bells on buoys chime as you slink ahead; not just keeping to the shadows, but gracing them with your form and countenance. Even before you find your prey, you can hear whispers on the air of the Pale Dowager.
When you're feared; perhaps that's the only time you truly feel at home in this pitiful realm.
And then you see him. A young lad running off to school. Or, well, he's supposed to be. You sit in the shadows of the alley the poor thing has wandered into - utterly lost. Afraid. Not just for himself; but for the stern old headmistress at his little red schoolhouse.
And what fear he feels when he finds the alley blocked by an imposing shadow. One that almost seems to snake forth on the dewy cobble; stopping just at his feet. Though far from the pier, he can smell it, circulating in the alleyway.
Stepping into a more open area in the alley, light is shed on the figure – and a slick, queasy squelch can be heard, accompanied by the staccato click of heels. He recognizes it. He trembles as he looks upon that hooked nose, those round glasses perched upon it, that fat black mole on that jowled chin. That corpulent figure that every boy in his class feared would crush them if they made the slightest misstep.
But he didn't recognize the skin tone. He didn't recognize why Ms. Abernathy was so pale. So tired looking. Why her hair was so wet, and black, even if it was pulled into the right bun.
Why her dress didn't look like it was made from cotton - instead, like dried-out lichen, that cracked with every step. Why those heels - though pretty - boomed through the alley; echoed through his fear-tizzied head. And he didn't understand the smell. It fell off of her in waves. He could taste salt in the air.
You could taste fear in the air. This, perhaps, was your favorite part of the catch. When you finally exit the alley, the squelching stops, and the fat flanks of your hips stretch out; no longer constrained by the narrow walls. Your fleshy hips wobble as they are freed; sending a wavering quake across your entire form. No human should move like that. Even the boy recognizes that.  
He looked you over, standing with his back against the wall. Slowly, he relaxes, sliding downward, onto his rear. His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. You watch those fearful eyes of his roam over your figure; the simulated dress you wear bulging unevenly with your sagging tits and gut.
You can see a bulge rising between his legs. What does it for him, you wonder? The stink? The weight? The height? The maturity? Did he just love his headmistress all that much?
You reach forward, and from your sleeve extends a long fishbone; he might mistake it for a yardstick. You rap it with force on the top of a garbage pail nearby. The clatter makes him flinch and shield himself. "Yyyoung man," you begin, blubbery lips contorting into a sneer - you feel ropes of slime slop off of them. You're almost ashamed of how much you anticipate breaking this thing. Almost. "you are late. Do you know how we punish truants in this institution...?" He shakes his head. Your mouth is too far locked into its disdainful contortion to adopt the smile you so desire.
The boy knew that the woman whose face you wore was tall – taller than him, naturally. Perhaps he sees this as he looks at you in the mouth of the alleyway. But, as you advance, the height gap is magnified. You don’t stand over him – you loom. Bigger than any man or woman he’s known. Taller. Wider. You dominate his field of view and you aren’t even close to the little thing.
Your shadow snakes around him. The cobblestone on the ground begins to swell - and then, they pop, sending ichor everywhere. He screams - but before he can get any more than a peep out, your hand is clapped over his mouth. Even if you're several feet away. The ichor getting slopped around erodes his uniform - a fact that you taunt him for. "A student is supposed to take care of his uniform, young man. This will not reflect upon you well. His lower half is covered with your ichor - and you can see his young member standing at attention. As he awaits your approach, paralyzed, he feels your palm open - and he feels a tongue invade his mouth, threatening to slink down his throat, as your hand visibly pulsates around his mouth.
You take a few steps forward, into your shadow; into the puddle of ichor. He knows who you are, now. What you are. Everyone does.
Each step you take, you sink a little lower. Closer to home. Slowly the height gap erodes – but broad as you are, you fill his entire field of vision. It gets to a point where you're eye level with him, most of your body submerged as you glare at him with hungry eyes. "You're coming to me. You're going to need extended detention." You pull him close, his feet gliding across your essence. Your other hand grabs his hair, spreading your essence through it. "Maybe, if you're a good boy," The words make his cock twitch. Duly noted. "we can see about some remedial lessons in proper etiquette." With that, you force his head down into the ground. He sinks with a splash - a few bubbles rise up, but nothing more. You can feel him enter you; enter your domain. There, he'll be for a long, long time. You can't wait to get started.
Your sink into your shadow, and your shadow shrinks to a blip. Nothing is left behind but a legend and another missing child.
