The Terrible Secret Of Dexter's Diner: A Star Wars Story [Commission] free porn video

"Are you going to take care of that or not?" came the phlegmy, rumbling complaint of Tyrel's superior. "On it, on it," he replied irritably, ducking between moldy, customer packed booths. He hated this job. Dexter's was a run down, antiquated diner located in one of the less prosperous districts of Coruscant. All the pomp and glitter of the Galactic Republic's capital was a quick air cab away, but you'd never know it from the stained, run down buildings that surrounded the dingy little place with dingy little clientele and a not-so little but still rather greasy owner. The job was dingy, too. A far cry from the high ambitions of Tyrel's youth. By all rights, it shouldn't even have been a job. This kind of work was done by droids on any civilized worlds. Dexter's was absolutely at the bottom tier of the service industry. No one was coming here for the atmosphere or companionship of an overpaid real-life bartender. They wanted their grease soaked, synthetic food and they wanted it now. But the auto-waitress had some kind of catastrophic memory core leak, and its misfortune was Tyrel's fortune. Oh joy of joys. Day in, day out, he served a variety of disgusting, oily dishes to disgusting, oily alien patrons. Swept floors. Cleaned various waste disposal facilities, of both the organic and inorganic varieties. Collected measly tips. And had to hear the aggrieved bellowing of Dexter's proprietor; an obese, smelly, four armed Besalisk whose body hair follicles were outnumbered only by his pointless, likely fictional tales of space adventure beyond the Outer Rim. Entering the kitchen at said proprietor's behest, Tyrel came face to waddle with the proprietor. Dexter Jettster was an eyesore even at the best of times. A hulking, four armed brown and beige colored behemoth that looked just like he smelled. Obese, his belly poked obscenely from under a grease and sweat stained white shirt, jiggling slightly as his lower left arm scratched at the stubbly buttcrack poking out from his chronically undersized pants. Above his stubbly waddle, an over-wide mouth spit stale breath in Tyrel's face, a mouth that would have gone ear-to-ear...if Dexter had ears. Instead his skull was ringed with stubby cilia that seemed to fulfill a similar function. "Get to work," the slovenly besalisk explained, gesturing at Tyrel's newest indignity. The dish washing unit was jammed again, brackish, sudsy water seeping into the floor in a nauseating tide of half digested food-stuffs and soap. "Uh, boss, I'm not a mechanic." "I know that. You're here for the water. I've got a business to run and these dishes need to be washed." Tyrel groaned. "How, by hand?" "Yes by hand! But mop up this blasted floor first. Ya know there are times and places where we can't just replace slugabeds like you with droids. Why, in my day..." It went on like that as Tyrel waved a hose and vac set over the seeping liquid. How had it come to this? In his boyhood, Tyrel had high hopes for himself. As a youngling, he'd likely have been listening rapt to the stories that leaked from Dexter like gray water from this machine. Though only because he was imagining himself in Dexter's place. Running spice right under Republic Customs' officers noses...evading bounty hunters, making a living with his wits and his blaster. All of that would have been music to Tyrel's ears. Now though? All just tired reminders of the many things he'd never do. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand. He needed a break. ----- A few minutes later and Tyrel was leaning against the wall of the building next door, thesoothing, heady smoke of a deathstick numbing the feeling of the day's many disappointments. The sound of cursing drew his gaze above his head. An aircab had swerved, barely making its way clear of an ominous black vehicle that had come rocketing up the invisible sky lane. A door in the side of the lean predatory shape popped open and for just a moment spilled a baleful red glow visible even in the afternoon light. Then it was gone, speeding down the skylane until it was just a speck in the distance. But it had left something behind. Something red and pointy clattered to the ground in front of Tyrel. The air around it shivered, and not just from the displacement of the speeder car's engines. Something about it was hynotic. Alluring, even. Tyrel stepped forward, laid hands on the thing. It was small, easily encased in the palm of one hand. A yell came from inside. He cursed. That fat jerk couldn't even give him five minutes for a smoke? It was his break. He was a person, not a droid. Besides, with all the work he put in, it was as much his diner as fatty's. But he got no credit, and no credits. For every hundred chits that passed through fatty's grease stained hands, he'd be lucky to get one. It was time for a more equal arrangement. But as long as he was laying back and taking he, he sure as hell wasn't going to get one. If only he had the spine to really throw his weight around. But that was the problem. Dexter outweighed him by, well....a lot. If only... "Ow!" he hissed in pain. The red pointy thing in his hand was glowing with heat. The flesh of the palm that had cradled it was puckered and inflamed, fast on its way to blistering. He returned to work, the fight burned out of him. The little red prism lay forgotten on the sidewalk. ----- Something was definitely not right. Ever since the incident with that piece of upper city litter he'd felt out of sorts. Queasy. Ungainly. Thick limbed. Wool headed. He couldn't seem to get anything right. Orders were misplaced, dishes dropped and broken, bills miscalculated. Stupid things that even a cut rate droid chassis would never screw up. But fatty still wouldn't let him leave. He moaned, stomach churning, heard the clattering of silver ware and voices raised in outrage. Somehow he'd knocked a plate over as he navigated between tables. "S-sorry," was all he managed to get out, but it did little to calm the angered customers. Tyrel didn't figure he'd be getting much of a tip from that table, anyway. Another protest from his stomach, and increasing ruckus from the kitchen, sent him scurrying for the bathroom before fatty could see him and chew him out. ----- He had a bad feeling about this. His hand was no longer the only thing puckered and swollen. Everything about him was puffy, thick. He could almost swear he was inflating as he looked at himself. Another gurgle. No scratch that. He could definitely swear. Even as he watched, his stomach began to...bubble, for lack of a better word. Little fatty bumps erupted suddenly from his belly, inflated, then began spreading towards each other in a darkening adipose mass. This was not possible. He stumbled on to his backside, leaning against a bathroom stall. The fall probably should have bruised his tailbone. But it didn't. He was cushioned. Feelings similar to the ones engulfing his belly were spreading to his buttocks. And oh yes, he had a belly now. His threadbare shirt was riding up his midriff, forced aside by the emerging curtain of his thick beige gut. The color and shape became more and more familiar to Tyrel as it advanced from his abdomen to spread languidly over his groin. It almost looked like... A stab at his sides interrupted the burgeoning association. He wrapped his arms around himself in warding against the pain, felt something twitch violently against his torso from somewhere above his false ribs. Eyes widening, he felt under his shirt. Two bony nubbins had begun to protrude from under each arm. He felt them wriggling stiffly against his hands. Wriggling, and growing. He needed to get out. A hospital. Yes, he needed a doctor. This wasn't right. Not at all. He groaned, shuffling to his feet, struggling against his increased mass. His belly and new-grown love handles flopped loudly against his groin. His legs felt short, thick, and awkward. Yet he could swear the bathroom stalls were lower in his vision than they had been. Tyrel looked down. Saw thickening tree trunk thighs, thickening brown hair erupting from the suddenly leathery skin. The rest of his torso was erupting as well, shirt shrinking into an absurd little vest. No, the shirt wasn't shrinking. He was growing. Not just wider, but taller too. But certainly wider. Oh yes. The little nubs under his arms were now visible straining against his shirt feebly as the material was pulled taught against layers of flab. Layers that were accumulating in a conspicuously uneven fashion. Particularly around his pecs. "Oh no. No no no," Tyrel moaned. He shuffled out of the bathroom stalls, leaned against the door, nearly knocked it off its hinges. Stumbled into the main diner floor, knocking over chairs. "Help..." he croaked, weakly. People turned to stare, a few even left their sheets. A pule of baleful red light from somewhere in the distance. Tyrel closed his eyes against the glare. His smaller, beadier eyes. When he opened them, no more eyes were on them. Everyone was seated again, eating or conversing. He felt the nubs under his arms rubbing against his forearms as he clutched at himself. Waves of nausea roiled through him. "I need help. A doctor. Please!" They ignored him. Didn't so much as glance in his direction. It was as if he were invisible. The light pulsed again. Red and bloody, like a heartbeat. The nausea deepened. Seized by a sudden instinct, he waddled back to the bathroom. His thighs didn't seem to join his trunk the way they used to. He felt lower to the ground, wider. But he knew that couldn't be right. Everything was smaller, so he had to be taller. Such were the thoughts flitting through the edges of his mind. Mostly, he just felt with a terrible certainty that he had to get away from that light. Big mistake. His flight back to the restrooms brought him face to face with a mirror, and his reflection. "Noooo..." Tyrel whined, feebly. His reflections lips twisted perversely along with the words. Lips that were far too wide for his face. A surge of pain along his mandible saw his teeth stretch, becoming longer and flatter. His jaw cracked, widening further to accommodate them. His hair began to fall out in clumps. Beneath it, his skin was thickening, darkening to a dull browny-red. His eyes shrank in their sockets. His nose flattened. As the last of his hair fell out, new hairs rose to replace them. Near as thick as a finger, short and stubbley cilia marked where the bottom of his hairline had once been as flanges of leather and bone grew over them. He was becoming a besalisk. Like Dexter. A sudden sucking sensation beneath his gut interrupted that thought. He lifted it aside, noted his thickening fingers. His dick was shrinking. Leathery skin bubbled up at the base of his penis, inflating as the rest of him had been. But it wasn't just that. His dick wasn't just retracting under the layers of fat. It was shrinking in every direction. Becoming narrower, withdrawing within him, losing definition. His foreskin peeled back, began to change color? Yes, rawer, pinker. The flesh of his crotch lurched forward suddenly. The tiny nub of his little pink penis was swallowed with an audible gulp. A crease began to open around where it had been. His testicles rose, seemingly chasing their lost companion inside his body. Disappeared into the growing fleshy crevice. No, not like Dexter. Not like Dexter at all. He was going to be a girl. A sharp crack sent his thunderous thighs splaying apart as his hips expanded, leathery skin piling on fat piling on a widening pelvic bone meant for delivering children. Fat little besalisk children. He turned from the mirror, slouched back on to his cushioned behind, moved to cover his face with his hands. But even that offered no refuge from the transformation. His hands were...melting? Middle and index finger were merging together. His ring and pinky fingers were swelling. Becoming thick brownish stubby things with dark nails. A glance at his feet saw the same happening to his toes. He wiggled his fingers. They were stiff and clumsy. Getting clumsier. How was he supposed to work like this? An absurd thought, given his situation, but it had snuck in anyway. He stared, forlorn, as his fingers merged into the fat round digits of a three-fingered besalisk hand, nails thickening into stubby little talons. As he examined them, the stubs of his new set of arms mirrored the movement. He could see they were now almost as long as his original limbs, though as of yet they didn't seem to possess fingers. Another rumble from his chest. Another heralded eruption of fat. His pecs boiled out from his torso, tenting his shirt. Strained to the limit by his new girth and the developing set of secondary arms, the twin mounds peaking from his chest proved the final straw. The increasingly sweat stained garment stretched, tore, and ruptured. Dull tan flab surged out, free from its fibrous confines. Morbidly curious, Tyrel flexed his new arms, saw the beginnings of stunted little fingers on his new set of hands. The feeling was disorienting, trippy, like contaminated death sticks. He couldn't seem to move them independently of his original set of arms. It was like they were tied to them with strings. Though even said original set resembled a besalisk's more than the arms he was born with. Moving his arms had pushed his moobs together in a rather pathetic example of cleavage. His new body was having none of it though, and seemed to redouble its efforts to give him something to show all the besalisk boys out there. His nipples puckered over the increasingly gravid sacks that used to be his pectorals, darkening to a deep brown as the areola expanded, the nipples engorging into a ripe pair of teats. Resting between his upper pair of arms, they squeezed together in a genuine show of cleavage; but whatever was doing this to him wasn't satisfied yet. His breasts continued to grow, the long beige cones filling out, doubling continuously in size. Beginning to sag and flatten under their mass, they now drooped against his belly, two melon shaped hemispheres losing the fight against gravity. The heavy plop he felt as they slapped against his skin, the ripple of his gut as they impacted...it made him cringe. The cringe set his face twitching. He rose awkwardly to his feet, found himself face to face with the mirror. Waddle to waddle. His skull had started turning awhile ago, but it had only gotten worse. His mouth drooped absurdly, thick brown lips thinning somewhat as his grin spread former ear to former ear. His head was a flattened wedge now, complete with skull ridge and over wide mouth. His neck bloated, a thick column that made his skull seem all the smaller, but still dwarfed by his broad besalisk shoulders. His new waddle hung thick and wrinkled as his new womanhood, differing only from Dexter's in the amount of stubble it possessed. He stared, dumbstruck. Wiped a long finger of drool from his too-wide mouth with a too-fat finger. The tingling, bloating, and nausea subsided. Was it over? Another pulse of red light seeped under the bathroom door. The ragged ruins of his shirt and pants sloughed off him as a red film settled over his dramatically curvy new form. A force cupped his sagging breasts, his swollen vagina. Separating, lifting squeezing. The red light around him shifted, became more defined. Something made him lift his arms, all four of them, into some mutated resemblance of a t-pose. Loops of red wrapped around his shoulders and stretched over each thick arm in short poofy...sleeves? Another segment detached, wrapped around the base of his neck where it joined his shoulders. The glowing skin drooped, sagged, and began to grow to the ground; becoming oddly stiff and full. Finally, the glow vanished, leaving a stunned Tyrel to examine the aftermath. He was wearing a dress. A ridiculous red dress with white polka-dots hung from his upper set of shoulders, big brown breasts squeezed into a pointy conical bra that did everything it could to show off the canyon of cleavage he had sprouted. Beneath, a little white belt joined forces with a tighter bit of fabric to dowhat it could to cinch in his thickened waist, resulting in a cartoonishly hourglass figure where his church-bell hips flared beneath him, shrouded by a giant red and white poodle skirt. His new outfit was accessorized with a little white silken scarf that did nothing to obscure his new waddle, and a pair of broad strappy hoof-like high heeled white shoes for his fat new feet. He looked, and felt, ridiculous. Broad cheeks aflame, tears began to stream from his beady, Besalisk eyes, Tyrel broke into husky, feminine sobs. "Doojah? Doojah girl, are you alright in there?" a familiar voice called in a decidedly unfamiliar, concerned tone. Dexter. ----- Tyrel moved through the rest of the day as through a nightmare. That light or whatever it was that was responsible for his transformation had also ensured that no one noticed anything different about him. He quickly realized that he -or rather, Doojah, as everyone knew him- still worked at this crappy diner and was expected to finish the rest of his -or her- shift. The only real difference compared to his old life, besides the obvious differences in his anatomy; was that he was much more well liked by the customers and; unfortunately, the proprietor. Dexter had seemed legitimately concerned to find her - him - crying in the restroom. Still stunned by the changes to his body and reality, Tyrel had stammered out something in his newly feminized voice about a sick family member. He could barely remember what he said, truthfully. He was just proud to have gotten anything coherent out. But it allayed Dexter's fears apparently. A pity, since the old besalisk was soon helping him to his feet, crushing him an entirely too familiar hug and, Tyrel was pretty sure; copping a feel of his wide new butt as he did so. This encounter had set the tone for the entirety of the rest of his shift. Dazed, mentally numbed, emotionally exhausted; Tyrel waddled through the restaurant. He teetered on the strappy little heels with the cute(?) little bows, struggled to write down orders with his thick new fingers, and generally bumbled and jiggled his way through work. His proportions were impossible to manage. Each step seemed to swing his hips violently to one side or the other, and his chest played counterweight, jittering shakily in the opposite direction. His eyes were too far apart now. Everything seemed warp to him. He could see much farther to either side than he could before, he knew, but his field of vision had become rather like staring through a fish-eyed lens. The extra arms were almost as disorienting as the changes to his vision. He found over time, with practice, he could move the lower pair independently of the upper pair. But the movements were still slow, clumsy, uncoordinated. And doing it made him feel a sickening torsion inside. As if his body was raging against the sensations of its new limbs. Proportions aside, he had to deal with the damn heels. His thick calves were constantly wanting to roll to one side or another unless he took the most careful, tiny, mincing steps. The dumb poodle skirt swished too and fro over his thunder thighs with every roll of his giant hips. The flouncy little scarf constantly tickled his grotesque wattle. And his tits...ugh. They bounced up and down with every move, always feeling as though they were going to win free of his blouse and sink all the way to the floor until the bra tensed against the weight, catching them at the last minute. All in all, it made his performance was abysmal. Yet no one seemed to mind. The customers were not their usual snide, impatient selves to this version of him. Some of them (in particular the, erm...heftier species) even seemed to like him. Smiling as he minced his way towards them, even when he messed something up, they watched him smirking as he went back to the kitchens. He could feel their eyes on his big fat rump as it swayed back and forth, skirt swishing. Noted their eyes wander down his dress, skittering over his fat brown cleavage whenever he bent over to pick something up. Kindest - and worst - of all, was Dexter himself. Whereas before, the fat besalisk proprietor had been a constant thorn in Tyrel's side with his eagle eye for mistakes and constant string of new petty tasks; now his eyes were glued to "Doojah's" curves, his voice full of fatherly concern and helpful suggestions. Oh the old letch made a good show of it. Checking to make sure he was alright. Getting things from the higher shelves. Helping him with the dishes as they closed. But all the time, he was leering with those beady little eyes of his. And whenever they were close, he'd just happen to brush up against Tyrel, a hand grazing his hips. His buttocks. His breasts. It was revolting, but Tyrel didn't know what they were in this screwed up nightmare world. He just needed to tread water long enough to...to... That red thing that had fallen from the sky. That had to be what caused this? Right? Surely if it could do this, it could also undo it? He refused to think about the alternative. Finally, the sun sank in the sky, painting the interior diner in metallic reflected orange. His shift was coming to an end. Tyrel had become studied at ignoring the warped movements of his new body. He'd even kind of gotten used to the multiple arms. But being alone in the building with Dexter...ugh. He missed when the fat old jerk just yelled at him. Instead, enduring his presence was a constant trial of uncomfortable proximity and subtle gropes. Tyrel didn't even mind having to hear his husky new voice when he begged off early for illness. Dexter looked disappointed, but clearly he wanted to win 'Doojah's' favor. He acquiesced with an alacrity that was impossible to imagine from the miserly way he'd treated Tyrel before. Wasting no time, Tyrel darted out to the street with surprising grace, heels no longer quite the obstacle to normal movement they had been. That red spiky thing. He had to find it. It could undo all of this. He knew it could. He knew- "Doojah girl!" Crap. "Um...yes?" he called back, waddle shivering as he swallowed against the frog in his throat. Dexter appeared at the threshold. "Are you going to leave your purse here?" A purse. Of course. Dexter was staring at him expectantly, thin lips working about his wide mouth. He had not vacated the door. Sighing, Tyrel shuffled back to the diner. Dexter leered. Tyrel swore there was a drool welling at the edges of his face wide smile. Tyrel had to squeeze past him to get through the door, his breast brushing awkwardly against the man's chest. Strange. Tyrel used to think Dexter smelled, but the odor wasn't nearly so offensive as he remembered. Almost smelled more like cologne than stale sweat and BO. It almost smelled...sexy. Tyrel shuddered. He had to get out of this. He walked back to "Doojah's" locker (the inside of which was adorned with some overmuscled besalisk pin-up), grabbed "his" purse, and shuffled back out as quick as he could. Yelped when Dexter slapped his fat ass on the way out. ----- Rather than take a cab, Tyrel had waited in a nearby alley for Dexter to leave and the lights of the diner to go dark. As much as he'd wanted to find what did this to him, Dexter's continuing attentions were too much for him. He'd pretended to leave, but had instead just lay in wait for his chance to look for the thing unobserved. It wasn't going very well. Dexter's was not in one of the better parts of town. Detritus littered the streets, swept into drifts of trash by the daily activities of cleaning droids. The weird red obelisk was not where he'd last seen it, and that sent him into a hyperventilating panic until he'd realized it was probably swept up with the rest of the trash and shoved into alleys awaiting pickup. That's why evening found him huffing and jiggling, smeared with grease and sweat, elbow deep in piles of backalley garbage. Fortunately, his sense of smell didn't seem to be what it used to. The whole experience was a lot less objectionable than he'd have anticipated. His chubby fist closed around something hard and oblong. Barely daring to look, he raised it to his face, examining his prize under a street lamp. Bingo. ----- The cab ride back to his apartment was almost joyous. Part of him had been convinced he'd never find the obelisk again. His mood was dampened somewhat when he saw the state of his apartment. Tyrel had never been exactly a neat freak, but this was just awful. Doojah was quite the slob. Discarded food waste lay scattered about the few surfaces his cheap apartment afforded. Discarded clothes, wrinkled and soiled, lay in a pile on the foot of the bed. Apparently only her work outfit was spared. Tyrel sighed, flicked on the lights, and examined the artifact. Nothing happened. He pressed one of the spikes on its side. Shook it around. Nothing continued to happen. Tyrel felt dizzy, a sinking feeling in his gut sent him flopping backwards onto his bed, inflated butt cheeks bouncing with the mattress. It wasn't working. "Come on! Do something!" Nothing. In growing frustration, feeling the beginning of tears, Tyrell tossed the thing at the far wall. A pulse of red light followed. Yes, that was right. It had dropped out of a moving air car. It had to have hit the ground hard. Maybe a big impact was what it took to work it. Another pulse of light. A tingling in his extremities. It was working! Still, Tyrel didn't feel up for another bout of changes. He opened his fridge, found a bottle of cheap booze, and with some difficulty, began to guzzle the thing down; tears gathering again at the burning sensation in his gut. Spotting a pill bottle on his bedstand, he shook a few capsules out and had another long chug. He was going to sit this one out. He'd wake up tomorrow, back to himself. With no more important concerns than being late for work. He'd even welcome Dexter berating him instead of leering. Tyrel fell asleep to the womb-like rhythms of crimson light. ----- Tyrel awoke to feeble yellow light washing through his apartment's window. But wait...that wasn't right. His bedroom didn't have a window. He shifted, felt his bulk slipping and sliding under the blankets. Entirely too much flesh. The red...thing. It had worked, hadn't it? He had to see himself. He shrugged off the covers with a grunt, heaved himself to his feet. Oh yes, the thing had worked alright. There was even more of him than before. He waddled wearily to the substantial bathroom that had appeared adjoining his old bed. Found a mirror. Thick. Curvy. Chubby. It was worse than yesterday. Much worse. The brown, leathery hide of this thighs spread out like two Christmas hams, albeit ones studded with bristles on their inner edge. To examine them, he had to grab his gut by the now convenient love handles that sagged over his crotch, a bloated curtain of beige flab. His hips still defeated them, spreading wide and proud, dwarfing the width even of his broad besalisk shoulders, shot here and there with purplish stretchmarks. His upper arms jiggled like jello as he moved his paunch aside. Every inch of him was suffocated in cellulite. Even his waddle had filled out somewhat with fat, the flap of skin doing little to conceal a second chin. Something caught on his gut, something stiff and hard even against the thick besalisk skin. Something attached to one of the fat fingers of his left hand. A ring. Something stirred behind him. "Still worried about your weight, honey?" No. No no no. This wasn't happening. A bulky arm wrapped around his waist, sinking slightly into the adipose cushioning of his barrel torso. He smelled a familiar musk, felt breath hot and wet on his neck. Bile in the back of his throat. "You know you're just the right amount of woman for me." Something warm and moist stroked his fat, waddle-laden neck. He stooped over, began to retch. Dexter Jettster stood over him, stroking his head, cooing sweet comforting nothings in his ear as he emptied his stomach. ----- Numbness followed. Dexter...his husband...left for work. Doojah...no, Tyrel stayed home, pleading too ill to contribute. He found the thing that had changed him, wrapped his hand in a towel, and gingerly; careful to avoid skin contact, tossed it in the trash compactor. Afterwards he spent a few hours spent staring at a wall and intermittently crying, Finally, the booze started calling to her again, and she drank herself to sleep. She woke up to Dexter's wide frame collapsing into bed beside her, a stubbly kiss on her...his cheek. Fell asleep again, trying to ignore the fact that he was spooning with her obese alien boss. Tried to concentrate on the dwindling revulsion at his circumstances, to stifle the other feelings building within her. Woke up again, still spooning, Dexter's fat fingers probing the folds of her new cunt. Wet, and twitching. "Feeling better?" As a matter of fact, she had a murderous hangover, but she was too stunned to move. Dexter slipped another finger in. "It's been too long," he said, flipping her on her wide back, pressing his giant mouth to hers. Part of him rebelled at the feel of their waddles tangled together, his stubbly, hers smooth; rebelled at the feeling of the wide tongue invading his mouth, ascending the wide peg-like teeth. The morning breath. The weight on top of him. The phallus pressing into her folds. But another, insidious part submitted. Felt that this was where she belonged. Beneath her husband. Dexter thrust and huffed, waddle and belly jiggling obscenely as he used his wife. Doojah jiggled even more beneath him, breasts flopping, cellulite shaking. She lifted her four arms and wrapped them around her husband. To steady herself. Something was building inside her. Something warm and gooey and emasculating. Abruptly, grunting, Dexter came, spurting thick besalisk seed within her distended sex. Doojah was left wanting, but too shell-shocked to finish herself off. Especially after the errant hope that he might get her pregnant crossed her mind. ----- Doojah went to work in a stretched out blouse and poodle skirt. Dexter joked, flirted, and doted on her. Rarely did she leave the kitchen without her husband and partner giving her a quick slap on the ass that set her squealing and jiggling. The patrons laughed, apparently accustomed to this. Doojah minced and wriggled to the tables, face burning. Loins burning. Doojah left with Dexter when the Diner closed. Stayed in 'their' apartment. Ate Dexter's meals. Cleaned his clothes. Lay under him as he huffed and thrust in bed. Occasionally, she even orgasmed. Every morning, she woke up, expecting to be a young human man named Tyrel, rather than an obese middle aged besalisk house wife. She never did.