You immediately know what that final piece of fruit is for. And by god, it's tempting. More than just the shape, more than the absurd eighteen inch length, something about it calls out to you on a deep, maybe magical level. The flawless matte shine of the peel. The subtle faded lines of green running through it. The ridged edges of the outer casing. You don't even realize when you finish off the banana in your mouth. It's getting hard to focus now. Your mound calls out with a puffy, swollen, pleading emptiness, begging for something to fill it, to fuck, to BREED.
To hell with it.
You grab the fruit, careful not to damage it, not to crush it with your newfound strength. It's oddly solid in your hand, though in the haze you don't notice that, too focused on getting free of this insane need. Your other hand goes down to your entrance, immediately confirming that you're sopping wet down there, and oh so sensitive. A finger brushes against the side of your mound and sends a jolt through your spine, a needy whimper rising from the back of your throat. A strand of juices clings to your finger as you pull it away, before falling off to the floor below with a wet dripping sound. Your mound is pulsing with need now, your nectar soaking into the bed sheets below. God, you need this. You close your eyes, chest rising and falling with quickening breaths as you prepare yourself.
You line up the fruit's tip with your waiting lips, and start to ease it in.
Oh god.
You can feel it.
You can feel everything.
The fruit presses into your entrance, the tapering tip slowly, so very slowly pulling them apart, a thick wet slick noise as the dripping need parts around it, covers the peel to ease it inward. Your stomach flutters with the sensation, and you so badly want to just ram the whole thing in, but you're still in charge here, still in control enough to be careful with this. You force yourself to keep the slow pace, guiding the banana deeper centimeter by centimeter, taking time so you don't hurt yourself, using the fingers of your other hand to spread the wetness of your monkey snatch so it glides against your inner walls instead of catching or hurting or tearing. Your fingers only add to the sensations, their intrusions spreading you wider, pulling and pushing at your passage in ways you can't anticipate, but appreciate oh so very much.
The banana is a quarter way in now, and you're starting to clench around it, your nose flaring in appreciation. You're even wetter now, wet enough that you don't need your fingers to spread the moisture anymore, so you move them to the outer lips, softly teasing your aching mound as you keep pressing the banana deeper into yourself. One of the ridged edges rubs against a particularly nice spot inside, and you roll your hips involuntarily, dragging the edge against it, and you gasp at how amazing it feels, the sound shamelessly feminine, your new voice soft and high and breathy. You pull the fruit back so you can keep rubbing that spot, keep feeling that pleasure. Your muscles clench down as you hit that spot again and again. Your outer lips shift with the motion, sliding around beneath your fingers, an accidental stroking that feels so nice, so sudden. A tingle runs up your body and hits your left breast, and your free hand follows, softly pinching down on the nipple, rolling the sensitive nub between your long fingers. You start experimenting with the angle of your makeshift dildo in hopes of finding more spots like this. A few reveal themselves, but none are as good as the first. Your nipple does more to reward your efforts, sending tight, sudden jolts down your core that make you almost double over in pleasure.
And that's how you find the next spot. As you double over, the banana rubs against the spot right above your entrance, and puts pressure on a little bud of pure pleasure. Clearly you've been doing this all wrong. You lift your thumb from its place on the banana to rub the spot directly, but pull it away at the overwhelming, discordant sensation that brings. This spot, your clitoris, you realize, is far too raw and sensitive to touch directly, like trying to rub an uncovered nerve. But as you pull your thumb away, back down to the banana that you're still rolling in and out of your passage, it manages to rub the very top of the entranceway, sending a weaker but much more pleasant surge through you. Of course, you realize. If you can't touch it directly, you need to rub it through other parts. With a toothy, feral grin of determined need, you start angling the banana to rub and press at your clitoris from inside your walls, adjusting your techniques to keep that wondrous pleasure going without overwhelming yourself. You piston the fruit in and out, shifting and angling it with each thrust to hit every wondrous spot you can find, while your other hand pinches and rolls your breasts, long, needy, searching fingers pulling and rubbing and kneading your breasts, flavoring the sensations down below. Each push and twist of the fruit goes a little bit deeper, comes out with more of your monkey-woman nectar coating the surface, the wet schlicking rhythm keeping time with your feverish breath, your walls rolling around it now, your breath hitching, building slowly but inevitably to your climax, ever closer, new heights of pleasure and primal, feminine need building higher and higher, like a roar of thunder closing in on your mind, until...
The lightning strikes.
The pleasure peaks and pushes you over the edge, every sensation, every smell, every touch coming roaring together to one all-consuming burst of pleasure and want and need and most of all sheer, joyous release. You scream out through your primal, fanged new face, a triumphant soul-deep screech of triumphant joy, and for the first time in your new life you feel truly alive, completely free. Your passage shudders and clenches and rolls, a wave of release taking form as you cum, soaking the bedsheets with a rush of juices that soak the banana and the hand around it, the aftershocks of your orgasm still washing over you, a deep satisfying warmth and contentment filling every fiber of your being, satisfying and fulfilling in ways you could never have experiences as a mere human man. You feel a wetness rolling down your cheeks, and reach up to your face with your one dry hand to feel the tears of joy falling from your eyes. You're still floating on the high of your first orgasm as a woman, still flush with joy. Your mind wants to go again, but your body, still exhausted from the change, demands you sleep. You grab a dirty shirt from the floor near your bed, and make a half-hearted effort to clean up the wet spot you've made, before finally wrapping yourself up tight in the blankets and drifting off to sleep.