Tagging ➙ Leigh Winston [As: Noah Russo]
Time Frame ➙ Early Afternoon — [07.28.14]
Location ➙ The Winston Residence | Sangren, CO
General Notes ➙ Having a stroke.
Seven inches. Seven and a half, maybe. Not quite eight. Not that it fully mattered. It was thick. Real thick. And while small, slender, pale hands could just barely wrap around it, long, tan fingers easily grasped the base and hit a slow stroke
up
then down
then up the length of it.
Couldn't stop stroking. Fascinated. Engrossed. Interested. It was somewhat rare that Leigh found interest, and even more rare that any interest she had spanned beyond a few instances of probing curiosity. Only things that she deemed worth studying were allowed to take up her time and the limited space in her memory banks. Everything else, she succinctly wrote off. Unimportant. Unnecessary. Unessential.
Already, she'd spent the better part of a week attempting to change into a different body.
Already, most of her afternoon was spent exploring said body.
Noah's body.
It was worth her time.
Fire still vibrated beneath her skin as she inspected herself in the mirror. The change had taken time, and a great deal of energy. Heat and horripilation and broken bones, enough to leave her sprawled out on the large, unmade bed Noah had just vacated. Five feet and eleven inches. More length than she was used to normally. A length she'd gotten to know well fucking around with Noah as per their arrangement. Her sheets still reeked of him--like fabric softener and cologne--and she rolled in the smell, sure that it belonged with her new body.
The imperfections in her altered form were spotted immediately after she changed. Arms were too thick. Legs not thick enough. Nipples too far apart. Eyes too close. Nostrils too big. Feet too small. Even the hands she stroked with weren't quite as large as they should be. Though the build was close, the created likeness was far from...right.
Her eyes were still grey--she couldn't change that.
Her wrist was still marked with the tangled foxes--she couldn't change that either.
Parts of Leigh always remained no matter the form she took.
But the dick was perfect.
All Noah.
All seven and a half inches of him was just as Leigh remembered. The memories of the morning and other occasions where the two wriggled and writhed were still fresh. She remembered the skilled glide of slender, pale fingers and lush red mouth when she moved
up
then down
then up the length of Noah's cock.
Time spent blowing Noah was time spent well. Time that allowed Leigh to study his form and commit the carved nuances of him to memory. Leaking tip and veiny base and curved balls, all of which the shifter reproduced perfectly.
People were always difficult. Though inside they were all structured the same way--made up of the same parts--getting the packaging right was not a simple task. It wasn't enough to simply resemble a person. It was necessary to be that person. Leigh could be Noah. She'd gotten his voice down after their first meeting, and the more time they spent together, the more she picked up.
All that she noticed she attempted to remember.
She attempted to recreate.
His moans. Groans. Sighs. Feelings that were echoed in the reverberating sounds buried shallowly beneath his ribs. She pulled them out. Stole them. Licking
up
then down
then up the length of twitching skin.
Then made them her own.
With time, with practice, and with patience, her imitation would be good enough to show the world.
Soon.
First, she was hard. Thick dick throbbing and bobbing, swaying with the shifts of her body and yielding to the presses of her fingers.
First, she'd rub one out. There was an ache to relieve. Heavy in the pit of her stomach and producing longing groans in a voice that wasn't her own. She'd stroke
