Gemma's eyes flutter open, and she stirs a little beneath the coverlet. "Dad", she croaks out. Alan can barely avoid rushing her in a bear hug. He just lightly grasps her shoulder with one hand and strokes the side of her face with the other, brushing aside a stray lock of brunette hair. "Hey, Doodle-Bug" he says with trembling lips. "You're going to be okay." She gives a pained moan as more shudders and shakes go through her. Sky-blue eyes seem to clear up as the fog of sleep and painkillers is lifted from her. "I feel weird, Dad.", she half-whines. "You're in pain, sweetie. You fell, remember?" "Yes, but there's something else..."
As she says that, Alan notices some subtle differences about her face. He can't really put his finger on any one of them. It's still Gemma, just a little less ... cute, for lack of a better word. As those crunching sounds emanate from her broken bones, there is also a squelching. Her face contorts in ... confusion, more than pain. Her eyes leave her dad's face and look down on herself, widening somewhat.
Sensing trouble, Alan follows her gaze. The mostly smooth duvet sports a small bulge where there shouldn't be one. After a "What the fuck!?" from Alan and a deep breath, he takes off the cover.
+++
Sure enough, the bulge is a) between Gemma's legs, and b) beneath her hospital gown. Muttering something the lines of "Please let it be some leftover operating tool", he lifts the hem of his daughter's gown. Sure enough, just above her nether lips is a small erect penis, roundabout 2 1/2 inches long and 1 across. The sight makes Alan blanch and have several realisations in his head.
1: "My daughter has a cock!"
2:"It must be this virus affair all over the news. It's not a hoax, after all!"
3:"It gets kids, too?! What the fuck, virus!?", then corrects his own thought. "Fuck" might be an unwise word in this context.
4:"Wait a minute - I'm probably how she got it, given how quickly this thing is said to affect females. Oh, this shit just gets better and better!"
While he deliberates with himself on how to react to this new development, Gemma tries to speak, clears her throat and tries again. "What is it, Dad? Why are you looking there?" He is about to answer her when she arches her back and grinds her teeth and voice something halfway between a strained groan and a scared squeak. "It'll be okay, Gemma." He quickly grabs her hand again for both of their comfort, as a squelching and gurgling from her lower abdomen heralds the arrival of a hairless, wrinkly sack that pushes out of her, fusing with and quickly obscuring any indication of her vagina. He estimates each of the balls, which probably were ovaries a minute ago, to be as big as her(!) ... penis is wide.
As her body releases her new equipment, Gemma sighs audibly with relief ... and the beginnings of the alien sensation of arousal. With the testes complete, the virus can replicate itself more efficiently.
+++
Alan has to get help. He can't leave her. He doesn't want to hear her voice laced with something she shouldn't have at her age-
The intercom! He can do both! Scurrying over to the wall behind Gemma's bed, he grabs the intercom. Turning away from his daughter for a moment, he blurts into the device:"Hello? This is Bartram in room 107 - my daughter has woken up and she seems to be doing fine. But she contracted You-Know-What somehow. What shall I do? ... Hello?"
"Just say it, Dad. It's that 'Himbo' disease everyone's bonkers about, isn't it?", Gemma says resignedly. "I can't move my hands. Let me see it." Alan turns to face her and notices that his daughter has put on some weight while he wasn't looking. She now actually looks a tiny bit chubby. "Are you sure you want that, darling?" "No, but *it* is there anyway, so I might as well face the music." He looks at his brave girl, and both blink away tears of frustration. Sniffling a little, Alan obliges. He undoes the side ties of the gown and folds back the front.
The fruit and two veg are bare for their owner to see. Gemma beholds her additions with an expression of shock, revulsion, confusion and curiosity. "This is totally screwed.", she mumbles incredulously. As if on cue, her member pulses and surges forward to 4 inches, growing about half an inch in thickness, all in a span of about ten seconds. Her reaction is to close her eyes and let out a long moan, unconsciously flexing her hips.
+++
Eyes glued to her penis, Gemma basks in the emcompassing feeling that is her horniness. It now twitches in sync with her quickening heartbeat, as the beeping monitor can attest to. All of a sudden, she can understand the grown-ups' preoccupation with sex quite well. It draws all of her attention. Her mind runs wild with all the things that can be done with her, err, thing.
Dad says something to her, but she doesn't listen. He'd like to think it's shock, but her flushed cheeks suggest otherwise. Trying to get that thought out of his head, he reaches for the intercom again. The cracking and creaking of her bones and flesh distracts him for a moment. It is now quite audible all the time. "At least this madness is healing her also", he says to himself, not to disregard a silver lining.
"Anyone hear me? This is Bartram in 107. My daughter contracted the Himbo Virus, can anyone assist!?" This time, there is a reply. "Oh, Himbo!" says a husky voice that is way too chipper. "How is sweet Gemma doing? Is she conscious and all?" "Yeah, she's actually healing up before my eyes, that must be the virus's doing, but still, she's grown a dick and ..."
Correcting, not just a dick has been growing. Her whole body is stretching up and down. Her torso is lengthening, as are the legs and arms still in their casts. Besides getting a lot taller, she is mere getting a tiny bit wider, now appearing noticeably thinner.
"You still there, Mr. Bartram? Tell your ... daughter congratulations to her cock. She'll love it." "Err, what?" Alan says flabbergasted. But all he hears from the intercom now is moaning (less feminine than before) and the unmistakable sound of lotion between a hand and a ... well, you get the picture. Screaming through clenched teeth, Alan turns the intercom off. Fat help you are!
Gemma has grown from her original 4'9" at least half a foot, to an estimated 5'4". The growth is slowing for a moment, but not stopping. Her occasional grunts of pain are an almost welcome distraction from her labored breathing and increasingly wanton moans. Her face has changed again, now sporting bigger eyebrows and nose; it is difficult to tell now if his daughter's face belongs to a girl or a boy. Her penis has slowly gotten a little thicker. Her mind is consumed by the presence and sight of her penis. "Yes, *my* penis", she thinks as a smile creeps up her face. She may not have asked for it, but it's hers now and she wants it.
+++
"This is insane! I thought I was going to lose Gemma, then a miracle saves her and now I'm going to lose her to that same 'miracle'? What the hell!", Alan babbles internally, starting to hyperventilate. His eyes are glued to her changing form and take in the next changes.
His daughter(?) is growing more quickly again, a height increase like the last one is oncoming. She puts on another 7 inches and now looks rail-thin, even as more mass comes into her from wherever. Now just short of 6' and the same height as her father, she finds she can move her arms again, although their mobility is still limited by the casts. As her dick(that's the word in her mind) starts growing again, it's a no-brainer where those hands need to be. Unnoticed by Dad for the moment, Gemma lifts her left arm and closes her hand around her member.
"Yes, yes. YES!", her mind and body chant. One long "Yeeeessssss" makes it out through her lips. As she does so, her face sheds more of its girliness. Alan notices with dismay as it crosses the conceptual line into boyhood. It is cute, cherubic even. But it is a boy's face. And yet, it is Gemma's.
Looking down, he sees her casted arm slowly jerking her penis. And that's not all. Dark, curly hair erupts around and above the base of it. Thinner and lighter hair spreads out to form a light covering of teenage male body hair on her arms, legs and shoulder pits - except for an extension of pubic hair that forms a happy trail up to the navel.
While Alan is still recovering from various shocks, Gemma is at this point stroking six inches of herself two inches across, still moaning and grunting with the voice of a ten-year-old girl. Her tool has started leaking precum, providing a little lube for her arms' rehab exercise. Her other hand grasps her ballsack, a bit too tightly. She lets go with a pained gasp, then gently cups it a moment later.
+++
"This has gone far enough", Alan half-says, half-screeches as he forces her hands off her equipment. "No, Dad! Please, I need it!", she exclaims as she struggles futilely, her casts not helping her. Nor is the fact that they don't grow with her arms. Now that her lust is on the backseat for a moment, she finally notices the sharp and increasing pain in her wrists. Her thumbs are being bent backwards from the lengthening of the lower arms. So far, her arms have been lagging behind.
"D-Dad? Get something to take these off! I'm growing out of them!" Panic creaps into her voice. Just then, another spurt of growth takes her three inches taller, and her arms surge along and catch up to the growing that's been going on. The part of the cast that goes in front of the thumb relentlessly digs into the thumb and the base of the hand. It gives way with an ugly sound on her right arm. The sound comes from both the cast and her thumb. A piercing wail and the same sounds from her left arm ring in Alan's ears and probably the entire wing of the building.
He hugs his daughter to his chest, not caring about her still throbbing and growing cock that now pokes him in the side. For a moment, feeling her tears soak into his shirt and caressing her matted hair is all that matters. "It'll be okay, sweetie. It healed your arms, remember? The pain will go away." Thank God it's plaster and not fiberglass. They might have taken her thumbs right off.
"Dad? I love you like pancakes, but I still need to get out of these." Gemma sniffles a bit, but she tries to put on a smile. "Can you put me on the recliner? I feel helpless lying on the bed here." 'Quick, before I'm too heavy for you to lift', she silently adds.
He nods and takes her off the bed. She closes her gown, that had been open for some time, so as to not distract Dad with her penis. Alan anticipates that Gemma is heavier than he is used to, so he has little problem lifting her. He figures her to weigh about the same as her mother used to. That would be about 125 lbs. That's a far cry from her original 75. Idly wondering again how the hell this virus brings in additional matter, he carries her over to the recliner chair he sat in earlier and lowers her into it. She doesn't close her legs all the way as she would have done usually.
"I'll do what I can to find a saw or something fast. Hold on, will you?" "I will, Dad." He gives her a kiss on the forehead and slinks through the door, closing it behind him. After what he heard through the intercom, this hospital has gained a bit of a 'zombie-movie' vibe.
Once Dad is safely away, her eyes are drawn to the slowly spreading dark stain on the front of her gown. Sure, it hurt like hell when her thumbs were forced through the plaster cast. But the pain is already numbing, even though her thumbs still stand off at odd angles. And there is something more important than pain, after all.
With a devious smile, Gemma opens her gown again and takes in the beautiful sight of her now 8" dick. "Well, Dad, you told me to hold on. Don't mind if i do.", she says while gently squeezing the head between the palms of her hands.
+++
"AHHH! Mhh. Yes, that is great!", she says with her smile broadening into a grin as the heavenly feeling from her groin sweeps over her. She closes her fingers sans thumbs around the shaft and once again starts pumping herself. The start is much smoother this time.
"It's a shame my thumbs are numb. Hurry up and heal me again, will you, Virus?" Gemma talks to her dick as though it were a person and her 'disease' rolled into one. And, in some sense, they are persons. They speak to her.
The obvious one is the dick. With every beat of her heart, it is saying "touch me ... use me ... touch me ...". 'And I see no reason to deny that.', she rationalizes. 'I like the word dick. It is more ... intimate, more familiar than penis. And cock ... sounds a little demeaning for something so wonderful'
The other one is the virus itself. Its message is related to that of the dick, of course, but it says loads of things. 'Your dick is wonderful. You love your dick. You have always loved your dick.', along with every throb.
There are other thoughts, like 'Stop it! This is not you!' or 'Oh my god, the casts will break everything all over again. Somebody, please help me! Hurry, Daddy!', but oddly enough, they don't seem so important. It only seems prudent that she closes her eyes and lets her worries go for a bit.
While Gemma is busy listening to little and not so little voices, her growth has stopped. Well, her increase in height anyway. She is now slowly gaining some width and the accelerating mass gain is doing its best to fill in that frame. But with the two massive spurts she had, she still looks quite thin.
But two other developments that happen about the same time merit some attention.
Firstly, a nub worms its way out of base of her back. In the span of about 25 seconds, it grows to about 2 feet with longer hair on the end. The hair is the same dark brown as her head hair.
Secondly, the foreskin of her dick ('I have always loved my dick!') bunches up into a ring and stays behind as the rest of the organ continues its pace of expansion, to ten inches now.
'My dick is wonderful. I love my dick. I have always loved my dick.' Her internal and unconscious chanting disappears to the back of her head when her reshaping dick feels a little too different to ignore. Gemma's eyes snap open and worriedly scan her member for any damage. Well, part of the skin of the shaft has bunched up into some kind of ring. It doesn't seem to be dangerous, though. Just different.
And it's once again longer than before. With a sigh of lust and relief, she resumes stroking herself.
She'd hate for anything to happen to it. After all, she loves her dick. She's always loved it.
'Wait. I don't remember having a dick. This is weird. I know I've always loved it.' Her cute, boyish face scrunches in confusion. 'How can I remember loving my dick and not remember having one? ... Must be the virus. It's making my dick grow like crazy, in addition to other things. That's bound to cause some hiccups in the old noggin. I don't remember it because I don't remember anything like this. It used to be a lot smaller. Yep, that must be it.'
She relaxes and once again gazes at her tool with adoration and love. After all, she loves her dick. And her dick loves her right back by releasing a fresh dollop of precum for her.
+++
Gemma spends a good minute moaning away in lusty abandon. Her lips occasionally form part of the voices reverberating in her psyche when she is not moaning or gasping. 'Did I do that before my dick changed?', she idly asks her brain. When no answer comes forth, she resolves to examine that in detail, later.
'I love my dick. I am proud of my dick. I want to use it. I want to fuck.'
Said dick expands towards 12 inches in length now, and 2 1/2 in width. Her mind swims with all the fun things she can do with it. From showing it off to her friends, to showing it up close and in detail, to sharing it with them. She's seen how it's used on the internet, but that never interested her much and it was frankly a little disgusting. But, oh, is that horse another color now. She doesn't even notice (for now) that the penis continues its reshaping, the head now more blunt. Its tone of skin darkens somewhat.
'This big! How many girls my age have one this big? Do they have one at all? Or is it just me?'
"Ehh, fuck it. It's mine and I love it", Gemma says out loud, her voice firm and filled with confidence and pride.
Her body widens a little more and its muscles tone up a bit. If someone walked in now, they'd see a big-dicked, slightly effeminate and tall boy in his late teens, with a face several years too young. As the arms and hands bulk up a little, her thumbs regain their usefulness, although the arms are still encased. The padding inside the cast has a little more give, maybe.
+++
'Or maybe not. These hurt like hell!', she thinks as her arms bulk up and lengthen to match the rest of her current body. A cry of pain and frustration rings out. 'I can't wait for Dad! I've gotta do something now!' Her upper arms that are outside the cast are about the size of the cast. 'They've gotta have some pressure from the inside! I'll just bang them against the wall!'
The former girl launches herself out of the recliner towards the wall, loses her balance because of the leg casts and lands on her ass and tail, the latter of which she hasn't even been aware of till now. The brief shock of finding out she has a tail, the pain and humiliation of landing on it, the pain and helplessness from being captive to her casts, these work together to spark another emotion in her: rage.
'NO! I will not bow down to these shitty little casts! I'm in charge here!' With an inarticulate scream, Gemma strikes the floor with her arms, the wall, the edges of some innocent cabinet. The voice is still, and for the last time, that of her original ten-year-old self, but uncharacteristically filled with murderous fury. When her lungs are empty, she draws in as much air as she can and does it all over again. If those arms and legs inside were her old ones, she'd be breaking them all over again, maybe even better than her fall from an abandoned building. 'These things are ENEMY! Destroy!', her mind and the virus rampage in unison.
With every lungful of air that she screams out, her voice breaks a little alongside her casts. When the tattered remains of plaster of Paris and cotton-viscose padding are loose enough to yank off, she does exactly that. During that little outbreak, her muscles have grown some more, now the physique of a teen boy who walks or runs regularly and hits the gym now and then.
Finally free to stand and still snorting with rage, Gemma catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the wall. She approaches and immediately recoils in yet another shock. 'That's not me! Whatever twisted thing you are, you're not me!' Yet, as she grabs her ears, so too does the reflection.
They're cow ears. Or bull-ears, as the case might be. Her original ears are nowhere to be seen. These must be them, the virus changed them. 'What the blazes is this thing's endgame?'
The face. It's not the face she's used to seeing in the mirror while brushing her teeth. It's a boy's face with her eyes in it and her long hair around it, the only parts of her original self that are still there. It has masculinized once again, now being definitely a boy's face between 16-19, definitely car-driving age. Not as cute as before. But pretty good-lookin'.
Gemma sees her changed and changing face for the first time. Putting her fingers to her face for the first time. "Is that ... my voice!? I sound like a boy now!"
'But you *are* a boy', the virus helpfully supplied. "Am not! I am NOT A BOY!", she yells and punches the wall next to the mirror. "GAAH!" 'Okay, bad idea'
As the boy/young man (who thinks he is a pre-teen girl) shakes out her stinging hand, she examines her reflection and catches sight of her semi-hard tool ('I love my dick'), now 14 inches and clearly not a human one. More like a horse. Which is a little weird, because the tail and ears suggest bull. 'I'm using the word weird way too much. I should know better by now in this situation.' There's a bunch of skin at the base, a sheath for when it's not erect.
The almost familiar lust returns as she/he continues to stare at herself. 'Uggh, I'm turning myself on' is the last coherent thought before the numb fog of lust descends over her mind again. And this time, there are no casts to torture her out of it.
+++
"Damn, I look hot! Could do without the hair, though." The virus takes that as its queue to do something about the hair. As Gemma continues to drink in her/his appearance in the mirror, the head hair slowly retracts.
Her beloved dick surges to 16 inches long and three across, and finally stops growing and changing. It is now pretty much a horse-cock, black, blunt and veiny. She cannot close her hands around it. Compared to the penis, the testes have begun looking puny, still at the size they "started out" with. Now, they begin swelling with more seed and more testosterone. When the latter reaches her brain, the voices advocating that 'he' is a male, that he has always been one, grow more dominant in his mind.
Her, scratch that, his face leaces boyhood behind and is now that of a young man, with a nice three-day beard. 'I see a male in the mirror, so I must be male. I am male. I am a man.' His towering cock twitches powerfully at this realisation. After some minutes of ever-accelerating weight gain, he is now stocky to overweight. Gemma wishes he had more muscle ... Gemma. His lips twist in disdain. He still has a girl's name. A reminder of what he used to be.
He is suddenly gripped with a skull-splitting headache and his hands fly to his temples. It turns out it really is skull-splitting when two bony nubs appear on the sides of his head. The beginnings of a pair of horns are pushed out, very much like girly thoughts, girly likes and dislikes, girly memories are slowly and surely pushed out his head.
+++
He is just about to resume working on his dick when his legs give out under him and he falls onto his side. Looking down, he sees his feet and legs twisting and reform. It hurts, but the maddening, pulsing lust has too powerful a hold now. He knows the feet are becoming hooves, and his lower legs reforming to become those of a bovine. 'And honestly, that's fine. As long as it makes me more of a male.'
Speaking of more, the virus decides he's not done growing taller. The creaking and stretching comes back as he puts on another 5" in a spurt.
Hunched as he is lying, his dick is temptingly close to his mouth, and he seizes the opportunity and tastes himself. He immediately longs for more, and various glands in his 2" balls and elsewhere are only too happy to rev up the production.
His feet and lower legs are done reforming into cloven hooves and inverted joints. He moans into the head of his dick as he sucks himself and his now more frequent precum greedily. Those moans get deeper as his body hair below the waist thickens dramatically. When he stops for a big gulp of air, his one hand roams over a veritable coat of fur, feels the hard hooves bigger than the usual size of a bull.
"Yes, I'm such a beast", he says with a normal adult male voice. He returns to fellate himself, although reaching his dick takes more effort now.
+++
For the next three minutes, his balls keep slowly swelling to 3 inches each before stopping for now and his whole body puts on loads of weight. The size and tone of his muscles fail to keep up, and so he looks quite fat now. His belly gets in the way and he has to give up sucking himself. He switches back to jacking off with his hands.
Two more inches of horns push out of his head, and more of his memories of having been a young female human either disappear or reform into something more appropriate. Having mom combing her long hair at age 6 becomes having her groom his fur. Pink pyjamas turn into loincloths or no clothes at all.
His chest on his chest, arms and shoulderpits grows thicker and darker.
The face is hyper-masculine with a broad, strong jaw and full beard and his head hair is now receding to ear length. He is unable to reach orgasm, his lust and desire just keep climbing. The grunting and growling of frustration keep growing louder, drool pools at the corners of the mouth.
+++
A new surge of growth distributes his still gaining mass across 7 feet and almost 400 pounds of bull-man now. The musculature gains a little, but still looks puny on the massive and still growing body.
The depths of his mind have chosen Farley to be his name. It echoes through his mind like a giant gong being struck: 'My name is Farley. I am a bull. I am Farley. I am a minotaur.' The reality of being a handsome specimen of virile minotaur reaches his sweat and scent glands. His smell had started to change earlier, but with the torrent of musk and pheromones now pouring out, his own smell of bull hits him like a ton of bricks.
His skull expands in all directions. The bones all around the skull and face grow much thicker now, perfect for headbutting and locking horns. Farley's face pushes out into a minotaur's elongated muzzle, the eyes growing further apart. They grow more difficult to align straight ahead, giving him a bit of shortsighted-ness, although this doesn't seem to be a major limitation. His immense, broad nose directly atop his upper lip sucks in bigger and bigger breaths, eager to pick up on more details of his own smell, eager to rid himself of the slightest whiff of girl.
Farley lets out a series of long moos that gradually deepen another register, and his teeth swell into the blunt slabs that befit his new jaws. His voice is now at the lower limit of what humans can produce. The hair on his head is pretty much a crewcut.
+++
He grows a little wider and 4 inches taller. He still has much fat to redistribute into a proper stature. His heart goes a mile a minute as his balls expand and swell one more time. His factories are now 4 inches each across and churn madly with pent-up need. Still, his throbbing ecstasy is denied release and keeps building.
The horns double in length in a heartbeat or two. Now 8 inches, they are quickly approaching what is appropriate for him. His brain restructures more quickly now. There never was any ballet, there was any number of competitive sports of raw physicality. Playing house becomes rough-housing with buddies. Farley now remembers when he first started popping boners as a calf. He feels the preoccupation with asserting his dominance and with mating.
As the name of his former existence is banished from Farley's mind, he lets out an almighty mooing bellow that announces his presence, demonstrates his power and issues a challenge to anyone who would oppose him. He does not care for what was before. He is Farley the minotaur, Farley the bull, and will not have it any other way.
+++
As he keeps growing and reaches 8 feet, the width of his body approaches something you'd expect on a normal man if you proportionally blew him up to that height. A steady stream of precum now flows from his dick ('I am proud of my dick!') and is matting more and more of his fur with the delicious smell of sex.
Speaking of fur, the rest of his body, his torso, arms and head obey his pendulous balls and produce a dense coat of dark brown, glossy fur that cover everything save the insides of his meaty hands.
His voice drops once more, by a full octave. His breathing will now and forever be the rumbling, rattling bass of a horror movie monster. Whenever he uses his voice from now on, you can feel it in your gut as much as hear it.
As his skull releases more horn, the virus and his mind rapidly scans all memories with combined efforts. Whenever something is encountered that suggests Farley ever having been anything other than a minotaur stud, it is altered or destroyed with extreme prejudice. 'Preposterous! Who in his right mind would want to be female? Or a weakling human?'
'Her' biological parents become his adoptive parents, since two humans could hardly bring forth a minotaur, right? 'Her' older sister becomes his younger one. He loves her, but she is still trapped in her measly humanity and girlhood. He knows he now has the power to help her.
+++
The virus decides that Farley's muscles and general body shape are done playing. With every rumbling breath in, his body stretches a little wider, the muscles define more clearly and inflate with more tissue. In a spurt of sickening crunches, he lurches up another 4 inches in height. Both his hands stroke his angrily pulsing malehood. His maw hangs open and collects foaming spittle on the lips, mooing with wild abandon on every breath out.
Not interrupting his jerking off, the massive heap of flesh stands on his hooves. The minotaur senses that the end is nigh, and he will meet his orgasm standing up, as a MAN. Standing on top, being dominant is the most intoxicating thing to him. He lusts for what he values: muscles, strength, confrontation. He longs to test his mettle against other males and make love with them. He is always on top, unless a worthy opponent bests him and claims Farley's submission as his prize.
The female form doesn't hold much interest for him, except when it flows and changes into something more pleasing before his eyes. For some reason, that is a tremendous turn-on; his dick spews a little fountain of precum when his brain accepts this new sexual stimulus.
+++
Another, smaller, pang of growth sends him to an even 8'6". More than 600 pounds now savagely work on releasing his frustration. 'Yeah, seeing females transform into sexy dudes is so fucking hot' His eyes unfocus for a moment as a little voice in his head says 'I'm being transformed! You're a girl! Don't you listen to yourself!?' His mind disdainfully seizes that thought. 'I DO listen to myself!', his brain scoffingly tells the heretical denizen before casting it out along with a fresh inch of horns. A full foot of bone juts out of either side of his ponderous skull.
His fat hardens into sizable slabs of muscle. His pubic hair and beard, which have been absorbed into the general coat of fur, grow out of it once again. The hairs there are now a lot longer than the rest, and a line across his chest, between his growing pecs and around the navel follows suit and connects the two patches.
Farley no longer perceives the hospital or the fact that he is jacking off. In his mind, he mounts a burly rhino from behind with a leisurely pace, planting slurping kisses with his muzzle up and down his partner's sizable back. Together with a 7-foot wolfman, he spitroasts a silverback gorilla. A trio of human twinks work together to sate his dick orally and manually, while putting on a good show for their lord and master. A woman with big breasts winds in pain and lust while she sheds her femininity and ascends to his true form, as a beefy tiger man shreds a pointless cocktail dress from within.
All these scenes and many more take place in his mind simultaneously. Countless sounds of pleasure coalesce into a tempest that sweeps through every nook and cranny of his brain. The last vestiges of Gemma that have endured so far are powerless as a tidal wave of moans, moos, brays, grunts, snarls and any number of others sweeps them into the abyss.
He cums in these scenarios simultaneously, as he does in the hospital room. As his horns jump out to 14 inches, his balls churn out everything they've been frantically producing for a while. As Farley's manliness pumps out of him with enough force to reach the opposite wall, his lungs take in an enormous breath and the minotaur issues a glorious howl of triumph. He has come, totally and completely, in every sense of the word.
The orgasm crashes through him such intensity that he blacks out. Still painting the room with his spunk, he keels over backwards and lands on Gemma's bed. With over 800 pounds and still not done growing heavier, the metal construction is at least 150 pounds out of its league and succumbs with an ugly shriek of tortured metal. Even while insensate, the bull continues to grow impossibly large muscles and his body grows wider than Gemma has been tall.
+++
A heart monitor beeps a continuous monotone, the electrodes disconnected from the patient and partially torn from the device. The room lies in ruin, and is dominated by a hulking figure lying on top of the disfigured remains of an intensive care bed. Nothing about that figure indicates it may once have been a human girl. Or is it? When the bull-man stirs to life, the same blue eyes that belonged to a girl open groggily and take in the surroundings.
Farley has no idea where he is when he wakes up. It looks like a hospital room. 'Am I sick or something?' As he stands, he sees the carnage wrought upon the room. He smells, hears, feels and sees the signs of him having gone wild in this room. 'Can't be that bad if I beat off in here. Oh hell, what did I do to the bed? That's going to be expensive.'
"Wait a minute. This can't be my room. It's human-sized." Looking around, he notices a torn and drenched kid-size operation gown. "What's going on here? - Patient folder!" He grabs the document. "Gemma Bartram. Hmm, pipsqueak has the same surname as me. Maybe Dad has a relative I never knew about? But why am I in her room and where is the girl?" As he looks around for clues once more, he realises just how big a load he must have blown in here. "Damn, I must have had blue balls for a while."
Nature calls, and Farley tries to exit the room. Opening the door, he is forced to crawl through it sideways. Standing up again, he enjoys the feeling of his plate-sized hooves taking his weight. They feel a little sore, much like the rest of his body. After doing his business and showering (at the same time, because those puny bowls have no chance against 1100 lbs), the bull searches the hospital for his adoptive father.