Monday arrived like a punishment I hadn’t earned yet.
I called in sick.
First time in three years.
The email was short: “Flu. Out today.”
My boss replied with a thumbs-up emoji and “Feel better!”
If only.
I didn’t leave the apartment.
Couldn’t.
Every time I thought about stepping outside, the hunger surged—hot, violent, twisting my guts until I doubled over.
My body was no longer just sore.
It was… changed.
My c**k looked thicker in the mirror, veins more prominent, the head perpetually flushed.
My hole didn’t close all the way anymore; it stayed soft, slightly parted, slick even when I hadn’t touched it.
When I walked, I felt the faint drip running down the inside of my thigh—constant, humiliating reminder.
I tried to eat.
Toast.
Water.
The food tasted like ash.
Nothing
