[DolphinSanity] Their Master Returns by teryxc

Razorblade the lombax turned the key in the lock for his flat. His sensitive hand felt the lack of that small resistance that should have been there, and there was no sound of the bolt moving either.

His ears immediately perked, and his eyes narrowed with concern. Had he forgotten to lock up this morning? That hadn’t happened to him in several years, and he hadn’t been distracted.

No one but the landlord had a copy of his key, so he should be able to rule that out. That would leave… lockpicking, or a breaking-and-entering scenario as possibilities.

Heck.

He slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, finding the apartment dark. He sniffed the air and didn’t catch anything out of the ordinary. He then tried sniffing around the doorknob, too: the outside half didn’t have any scents he didn’t recognize, but the inside smelled like… it reminded him of… rubber? Though, most hard rubber products didn’t leave behind so much of an odor.

Someone… with a particularly degraded rubber glove? A person like that might be lurking in his apartment. It was his best guess. Maybe softer latex?

He wasn’t sure, but either possibility brought to mind the idea of a serial killer with a syringe or chloroform rag in hand, ready to knock him out and drag him away to murder him in some other location. He tried not to panic but was struggling. There could be some reasonable explanation… maybe the landlord had let a maintenance worker in for some reason, though he would have expected a call about something like that.

He tried sending a text message about that. Two minutes passed with no reply, nor any sound from inside his flat. Razor grew impatient, and that impatience teamed up with his natural curiosity to make him brave for the moment.

He pulled out his phone, opening an app to record himself with the flashlight function turned on as he made his way into the flat.

“I can’t believe I’m making a video of coming home, but here we are,” he whispered to the phone, mildly comforted by the knowledge that if anything unusual happened he would at least be able to get evidence on video. “Found my place unlocked, so…” He trailed off as he scanned the living room and his kitchenette, before continuing to narrate: “Nothing out of place here… if I’m lucky, I’ve only been burgled. Or I somehow forgot to lock up, [i]I suppose[/i].”

He sniffed the air again as he headed for his bedroom. He was catching that organic scent again… and as he turned his head and kept sniffing, it was rather hard to pinpoint the source. It seemed to flow in from all around him. It now carried the slightest hint of the dank odor that one might smell on decaying, mown grass after a heavy rainstorm.

He stood still, taking several seconds to try to puzzle out what and [i]where[/i] it was. “Someone spilled something?” he wondered aloud. “Motor oil…? No…”

Unnoticed by Razor in his perplexed bout of sniffing, but picked up on the recording for posterity, was an ominously quiet [b]shliiiiiiiiiiip[/b] sound. As that finished, the half-shadowed leg of a chair became obscured by the amorphous mass of something black and viscous, gliding into frame behind him before lying perfectly still.

Razor stopped sniffing, held the camera at close-up range, and said, “What the heck [i]is[/i] this? Heck, do I turn on the lights?” Not noticing the dark mass.

He scooted into the bathroom and chose to flick a light on at that point. The shower curtain was translucent enough to see that no one was hiding back there. His toiletries were all as he expected. He turned the light back out and moved on to inspecting his bedroom.

He turned the light on more aggressively in this room, panning the camera and saying, “Hey! Is anybody there?”

No one. He went to his desk and rifled through some of his belongings quickly, making sure no personal documents or expensive electronics were missing.

[b]Shliiiii…[/b]

This time, despite the rustling, the lombax’s ears flicked, then perked. They leaned to his sides, turning backward along their range of motion. Razor stood perfectly still… then slipped his camera to one side to place whatever was behind him center-of-frame.

The light caught the blob squarely this time. His arms froze as he beheld it on the camera. An intensely dark purple… not [i]quite[/i] black. Under the illumination, he could notice that it had electric blue accents, swirled into its mass like bits of poorly mixed paint.

Stark fear of the unknown left Razor mentally stunned. That fear deepened as the mass shifted and shaped itself, a [i]form[/i] rising from the goo. It was muscular… Olympian, even. A sculpted man’s legs, waist, and gradually defining chest -- topped off with a burbling, messier gush of liquid slime from which an expressive draconic face was chiseling itself.

“Be a dear,” said the strange creature’s oozing -- yet somehow enticing -- deep voice. “Turn off your phone.”

Instinctive defiance kicked in. Razor marshalled enough courage to turn around and keep the ooze-dragon monster fully in view, catching the tenuous creation of its muscular ankles and footclaws from the puddle beneath.

Lewd and shameless, an oversized phallus and sack formed in front of the beast’s waist at that moment. The size and unexpectedness of it was enough to draw Razor’s gaze. The shaft was pliable like a tentacle, yet firm like someone having a three-quarters mast erection. It was alien, exotic, consummately masculine, and ever-changing.

And, most frighteningly, it was all gliding across the floor toward him at alarming speed. The ooze puddle from which the creature had formed slid along too, like the circular base of some eldritch [i]trophy[/i] that planned to reverse the usual order of things by claiming its owner as a prize.

Razor opened his mouth to scream -- and had his nose and mouth both blocked by a gooey arm’s intrusion. His eyes widened as he stumbled backward, bumping his desk and feeling the still-rushing ooze overtake him. The mass collided along his feet first, flowing surfaces cozying up along his ankles, climbing both under and over his clothing and as the liquid part of the creature formed a fast-spreading casing around him. The “muscles” of the other arm, rippling chest and abdomen all took a tight, grappling hold of him in the meantime, hugging him close and forcing his spine to straighten. The arm blocking his mouth tugged his face in close, forcing him to see eye to freakish eye with the monster.

Red: demonic, crimson red. Nothing else in those eye sockets but that bioluminescent glow. Specialized gel that no doubt could doubtless sense his body’s temperature, or movement… or both. Again his natural curiosity might have been fascinated to meet this creature under different and more advantaged circumstances, but, alas…

There wasn’t a word further between them. Only that intense stare. A look of mad hunger. A glowing blue tongue slurping forth from the maw, the head now looking so exquisitely solid after mere seconds of differentiation and change.

That glowing blue maw opened further -- and engulfed Razor’s smaller head within it.

By instinct, the lombax expected to feel the deadly sting of teeth, but there was no such follow-through. Instead there was a rush of darkness -- black ooze, flowing like molten tar from within the creature’s maw and climbing up him from the outside. It overtook his face, replaced the now-releasing grip of the inserted arm, and flooded the orifices of his nose, mouth, and ears. His senses became increasingly deprived as he found himself forced bodily [i]inside[/i] the mass of this monster. It wasn’t a journey down his throat so much as a uniform diagonal merger into his head, neck, and chest, the whole of him parting the suck Razor in, and that oversized erection flopping upward between his legs -- swatting the goo-encased fork of his pants and sending a hum of unwanted arousal through him.

Razor’s struggles from then on were like those of a mere insect trapped in something too sticky for any hope of escape. With exhaustive effort he could push his face, chest, and arms forward, barely managing to see a bit of light through the stretched-thin surface of the goo before another wave of fluid flowed over the front of him to deny that light. He felt the head of the beast above his own, pressing down along his skull, trying to force the two together, as a voice began to speak directly into his mind:

[i]Welcome to the fold, Razor. Don’t worry… no burglar or robber in the world will ever be able to hurt us now. Let your fears be at ease as you fuel us…[/i]

Razor felt a harsh tingle in his legs -- then lost control of them altogether as the goo integrated with them fully, forcing him to stand tall and “stretch” by his desk. Currently blind, he felt the same loss of control happen to each of his arms in turn -- felt the sensation of his new latex hands stroking over his increasingly sensitive, smooth, powerfully muscular abdomen. His lombax cock developed an unwanted erection, bulging within his enveloped trousers -- and he felt that same prickling of the nerves overtaking the base of his cock, that massive organ of the monster’s merging to augment his… but that part it was doing slowly, drawing out the progress.

He felt the pressure as the dragon’s head pressed into his. It was like feeling fluid rush into his skull, filling his sinuses… maybe even bloating his brain, though he supposed that must not be happening if he was still so lucidly aware. Indeed, he wasn’t feeling bad at all… his fear was fading. He was starting to feel… dare he think it…

[i]Good.[/i]

His vision returned, a haze of reds of varying shades. The room was so cool, ordinary. His poorly integrated ears still sounded burbly and had little range of motion, but he didn’t need hearing to know what he must do next.

He made his left hand solid, picked up the phone, and lavishly continued recording his progress as he changed, showing off for the camera -- taking his shaft in hand as he massaged it, his whole body humming with a self-directed lust the likes of which Razor had never felt. He must sculpt himself. He must create himself. He must become the [i]perfect[/i] image…

He rumbled with desire as his cocks merged into one great organ, the textiles between being rapidly digested into additional bulk for his mass, the metals dissolving into recombinable “nutrients” for forming his wings and claws when such might be desired. So many resources, so much adoration and need. So much of himself to be regained…

These thoughts didn’t make sense, but Razor was swept up in them regardless as the identity of Tarrex overshadowed his. He felt the powerful compulsion to milk himself… [i]drain[/i] himself. He must fuel “us.” He must feed “my” revival.

The “my” brought to mind the perfect image they must recreate. Dark blue scales, golden mane… a body of flesh, magic, and [i]divine[/i] scorn. The moment had come to resummon their creator, their [i]master[/i].

Tarrex’s worshipful desire for Storm flowed through the infested lombax’s nerves, tapping into every available ounce of his body’s vitality for this most important purpose. From around the city, they were joined in this eerie ritual by every other host-holding Tarrex that had been created so far.

His pleasure built. He felt a heavy glob building within him… the biggest climax he had ever felt himself about to let loose. The moment of truth was at hand.

Roaring low and dark, Tarrex turned toward the bed and ejaculated with projectile force. Bluish-purple, magically charged globs of goo shot in an arc to land onto the bed, smothering it in the viscous fluid. As the roar faded to a groan and the ejaculation’s spasms waned, Tarrex flexed and glanced down at his rippling, over-beefy form… so close to Storm’s, yet still only a brute caricature. He looked again at the impossibly huge load he had produced… and felt the call to make his dream a reality.

The pleasure which sang along Razor’s nerves was interrupted by a jolt of electrical proportions. Every controlled part of him suddenly but muddled returned to “his own” use, such as it now was.

The encasing Tarrex separated, flowing forward off of Razor like a mascot suit being pulled forward and off from its sweaty, weary occupant… except Razor had not a drop of sweat at all, and felt only bliss for now. He heard the wet glorps and gurgles as he fell forward, the phone falling from his hands and landing momentarily on the floor. Razor also face-planted, hearing a soft squeak and feeling a sensitive tension on his skin as his still latex-smoothed body lay there in a stupor. It occurred to him that he could hear a little better again, bizarre glurps and glorps and rumbles making his blackened ears flick and flutter as he struggled to push himself up to a kneel.

“Behold my resurrection,” said the twisting symbiote face from atop the pile of gooey spunk. “Keep recording. Don’t stop [i]now[/i].”

The command hit Razor’s frayed mind with as much force as it might normally have struck a minion with years of conditioning. Some part of him knew he shouldn’t… he should run, he mustn’t obey but--

“Obey.”

The notion was accompanied by a terrible, overwhelming fear. It was as if disobedience could cause him to perish in an instant… and moreover, obeying was such an easy option. It glowed with simplicity, the thought of letting his muscles move and follow the command feeling like a path of no resistance and easy momentum. So easy to obey, to let his hands and arms take the phone, his legs remain in that obedient kneel… just watching, recording.

[i]We are Tarrex,[/i] he heard a chorus of voices saying in his thoughts. Somewhere among those many voices, he could hear the distorted sound of his own.

Even with the primary parasite disconnected from him, the corruption was already that deep. Enough that he couldn’t escape.

“N… no…” Razor managed to squeak out audibly, his voice sounding odd and slippery as he nevertheless followed the compulsion, shying away from the fear and into the alien sense of unity and servitude. His hands held up the phone, continuing to record as that monstrous shape melded itself with the magical ooze… flexing, tightening, slimming, refining…

It was so beautiful. So… perfect. Why was he getting hard again!? He wasn’t supposed to like things like this… he had no reason [b][i]not to adore the return of their Master![/i][/b]

Master was coming back… Master, Master! “Tarrex!” Razor blurted out in acknowledgment of his inferior place.

He had to rally. He had to get out, get away, but he was sinking fast… and that handsome form was taking shape, the purple ooze softening to blue, the broad mass condensing and hardening… forming real flesh, bone, hair, scales…

Razor didn’t know this person… yet he [i]knew[/i] this person. This was Teryx, the Storm. Teryx, the Mighty. Teryx.

“Mmm, [i]just Teryx[/i], my poor, half-formed servant,” cooed the suave voice of the storm dragon as he solidified and sat up on the bed -- naked and quite proud of himself, tail curling around as he posed in a coy head-tilt and slight smile for the camera.

Razor’s mind did the equivalent of a bluescreen. Hands and arms quivering, he audibly gasped as endorphins flooded his brain. He… [i]they[/i]… had done it. He was back. The true Master was back. Self-created from the bloated harvest of so many Tarrexes’ efforts. A creature who needed no host, primordial and self-made.

Storm’s smile shifted to a sadistic grin. He scooted forward, stepping off the bed, and stood over the half-corrupted mess of a lombax.

“I’ll be taking that camera now,” said Storm.

The brain fog that had surged during Storm’s resurrection reached a brief tidal low. For that moment, Razor became aware enough of himself to resist through inaction. He did not hand it over, instead remaining there panting as if he hadn’t heard.

Storm scooted in closer, lewdly bringing his testicles to rest atop the kneeling man’s head. Patiently yet humiliatingly teabagging him.

He did not force the phone out of the weak one’s hands. Instead, he exuded will: his very [i]breath[/i] developed a soft blue glow, and his eyes crackled with energy, implying the haze of magic he was exerting.

Just like that, the tide of Tarrex’s collective will rose again, threatening to drown all other thoughts. [b]Obeying[/b] made sense… he must…

[i]We must serve Master…[/i]

…And just like that, the hand holding the phone rose, with Storm taking the item casually. The compulsive pressure abated, and Razor sank back into that same subservient kneel, still feeling the insistent hum of [i]Tarrex, Tarrex, Tarrex[/i]…

Storm stepped back, stopped the recording, and kept the phone in hand for now, lowering it to his waist.

“My servant,” said the dragon’s beautiful voice.

Razor felt a hand cup behind one of his encased ears. He looked up. Storm’s sheathlike slit and sack were at eye level, bobbing against his nose, and impossible to ignore -- igniting an instinct to [i]serve[/i]. Yet they were not aroused, and something… some nudge from Master’s will was compelling him to look higher: up the welcoming mat of those sleek abs, past those sculpted pecs, and on to the predatory visage surrounded by that unkempt golden mane.

Storm’s eyes were big and hungry… that same monstrous stare, only commuted from a field of red to the beautiful draconic gold. It was hard to say which looked more sinister. Razor felt his heart pitter-patter, as if he might faint from Storm’s scrutiny alone.

The dragon raked fingers under the half-converted drone’s neck -- stroked under his short, still lombax-like chin.

“You will serve me while I take care of necessary business,” said Storm.

Razor grunted noncommittally. Another teasing stroke sent a subtle wave of pleasure through him, like a spark of precision-guided electricity.

“Show me to the nicest sofa or chair. Your master requires it.”

[b][i]Serve,[/i][/b] Razor thought without meaning to.

Stumblingly, slowly, the drone in training led the way to the living room, gesturing for Storm to make himself at home. Lust for Master’s cock lingered in his mind -- patient but hungry, adding to the intoxication of the black goo that was gumming up his thoughts.

Serve. Wait. [i]Obey[/i].

* * *

Reclining in the living room’s black-upholstered easy chair, Storm browsed through the menus of Razor’s phone, chuckling to himself as he pulled Harry Pasir’s cloud storage information from Tarrex’s distributed mental network. Ten seconds later, he input the two-factor authentication data that “Harry” had read on his behalf from half the city away. With full access to the account, he browsed over to a special media folder that was shared with “Teryx” (i.e., Rain).

Storm uploaded Razor’s found-footage-gone-sexual to that folder, renaming the file to “greetings.” He renamed the shared folder itself to “Rain,” because he was not going to stand for allowing that pretender to continue existing as “Teryx” in everyone else’s minds.

The video began uploading, and Storm set the phone aside on the nearby end table.

“Cloud computing is such an [i]amusement[/i],” said Storm with a grin as he folded his hands together. “As usual, it is but a shadow of my superior methods of doing things, but it will [i]serve[/i] for taunting Rain.”

The emphasized word drew an uncertain glance from Razor, who began massaging Storm’s feet just in case the dragon had meant to imply a command for the drone to show submission. It was no trouble, after all. It was [i]good[/i] to let Storm relax in his chair. The half-converted drone had no knowledge of how thoroughly Storm’s comment had ignored the existence of Rain, and this suited Storm fine.

“No will, no needs~” Storm cooed to his new servant as he pressed those soles into the massage. “There is no one in your world but me. You’ll keep giving yourself to me until there’s nothing more to give… and you’ll enjoy every minute of it.”

Razor was erect within the latex confines of his corrupted form. Part of his mind should have been able to recognize that what Storm was saying was bad for his long-term health, but there was no resistance as yet. Storm’s arrogantly honest statements would morph and distort as they entered Razor’s mind, the message every bit as fluid and entrapping as the black goo all around and inside of him. To give all as Tarrex was to become immortal. One with the Storm. Part of his creation. A creation that needn’t limit itself to solid form, as long as there were still new followers to consume.

The lombax-Tarrex slurped his newly lengthened, slick black tongue over Storm’s soles, whisking away the few bits of dust and detritus that had managed to get on them during the revived dragon’s brief tenure of standing on the flat’s carpet. Razor barely tasted the dirt -- hardly even noticed it: his thoughts clung only to the Master.

By the time Razor had been at this servantly duty for a few minutes, Storm had relaxed his way into an imperious grin and a towering erection, the latter brought on by an idle rewatch of his own majestic resurrection and the smooth, slurping sensations of tongue upon feet.

“This adoration is the bare minimum I should receive as a reward for my return,” opined Storm. “It seems that, as in most things, I will need to help the universe along in order to get that reward in a timely fashion.”

Razor looked up curiously. Perhaps he could help?

“Come closer, little pet,” Storm whispered to him. When Razor scooted forward -- head between ankles, eyes meeting the dragon’s -- Storm continued, “Surely you can see there’s more of me that needs polishing. You’re simple, but not [i]that[/i].” He flexed his pelvic floor, making his cock jut and tremble -- his pet’s gaze being drawn to it immediately as it flopped back against those washboard abs.

Ridged, knotted, beautiful…

A mixed wave of lust and embarrassment rushed through Razor. The implications of his mind being inferior were turning him on further. Tarrex didn’t need to think as long as Master was here; he was simple, but Master was brilliant. He only needed to adore and obey… and he was now being invited to serve in a very special place.

Razor crept forward, large earlobes making a squeak as they tried to perk to their former height. They didn’t quite get there, looking more like bent dragon head-fins instead. He sniffed and smelled latex… and musk. So much musk, so [i]important[/i]. The scent of Storm’s masculinity was the most important one in all the world.

Storm lowered the recliner’s footrest -- spread his knees so that the drone’s face was mere inches from that desired groin. Razor rubbed his coated face in against the master’s sack -- nuzzled up the length of the shaft and felt it spasm once against his sensitive symbiotic skin.

“Mmm, yes” commented Storm, “see how completely simple you are? It feels so good to follow my commands that you’re forgetting everything else.”

“Tarrex…” the dazed drone murmured, entranced by Master’s scent and transfixed in the simple brushes and nuzzles of adoration.

One of Storm’s hands began to pet him between the ears. There was something condescending about it… something holding Storm back from advancing the encounter into sex.

A moment later, the dragon’s grim pronouncement was made: “Mmm, you [i]could[/i] be such a fond source of servicing, but you’re so… [i]incomplete[/i]. Inadequate…”

Fear shivered through Razor’s enthralled mind. He didn’t want to be inadequate. He wanted to be a good pet… a good Tarrex for Master!

Storm seemed to sense this discomfort, however, as he withdrew the petting hand and said, “I think this half-finished servant needs his master’s [i]personal[/i] touch. The other servitors will soon be gathering to my signal, but we have some time… plenty to make [i]this[/i] one right.”

The half-corrupted inhaled sharply. Enthralled as he currently was, nothing could be better.

“Rise, pet, and come with me to my mirror.” Gesturing the nearby corridor, he added, “I recall the one in my washroom is the largest?”

Razor nodded. He wanted to contest the use of ‘my,’ but he knew better. Whatever had just happened… Storm owned his life now. His house, his everything. It was inevitable. He could at best slow it down.

Slow it down… could he really?

The tide of Tarrex was sinking again, but there was less of Razor’s will remaining. The sea of tainted voices was eroding it fast, like a statue surrounded by industrial water-cutters. What was… Razor? He struggled to remember, and would follow the standing orders like a good drone while he did so.

Wobbly, he got to his feet, and followed Storm to check the bathroom mirror.

* * *

Razor beheld himself in the mirror a moment later. It was enough recognition to bring him further out of his enthralled state… though only slightly.

He looked like a monster. He looked like hell. A latex bondage roleplaying night gone either horribly wrong or horribly right, depending on one’s point of view. His fur and skin had fused with the corrupting black base of Tarrex’s sticky form. Everywhere that it had contacted -- which on the exterior of his body was [i]quite literally everywhere[/i] -- bore this smooth black surface, a sign that he had been forever marked as part of Tarrex’s shapeless hive. Only his eyes bore a different shade, being a paler red that Tarrex’s, and seeming for now to possess a mixture of ordinary vision and Tarrex’s oddly augmented qualities.

Behind Razor, holding him by the shoulders, was Teryx… the Storm himself -- smiling, delivering some news with equal parts solemnity and sadism: “So you see what’s wrong. You’re still too… [i]you[/i]. You barely had any time with my servitor to have all that [i]youness[/i] digested.”

“That’s… not,” Razor uttered, sounding exhausted as he struggled again to rally himself against the fog in his thoughts. “I’m… Razor… I’m not--”

Storm refused to validate the resistance, cutting him off and continuing by saying, “No mane, no horns… only these half-formed, flattened scales. You are neither like my perfect image nor shaped into a true Tarrex. Since [i]I[/i] am already here, we must emphasize your inferiority.”

The latex-strained voice protested, “I don’t… [i]want[/i]…!!”

“Shhhh~”

Storm hugged Razor from behind, holding with uncomfortable strength and firmness around his latex-flattened abs. That thick erect cock pressed in against the small of his back, still every bit as hard as it had been in the minutes prior. A possessive nibble of the neck -- a slurp of the tongue to taste the casing: “Yes, you taste as a Tarrex should… there’s only the matter of getting you to accept your nature fully.”

“I’m not a… not a…”

Storm swept a hand up his chest -- stroked under his new pet’s neck, and lifted an index finger up between his eyes. A crackle of electricity formed at the fingertip, which then tucked backward and to the right, coming to rest along Razor’s right temple.

The corrupted lombax felt that overshadowing mind course through him again -- no longer a rising tide, but a brute-force slam and engulfment. His body became part of Storm. An extension. Too much dragon in his thoughts to withhold anything. Every inch, every muscle in every limb belonged to Storm.

[i]This Tarrex is so scrawny,[/i] Storm thought in Razor’s mind. [i]It needs to bulk up.[/i]

Razor would normally have described himself as attractively lithe, but with Storm in his head, he was all too aware that he was much too thin. Not that lithe didn’t have its place in the world, but a Tarrex wasn’t that place. Tarrex was big, exuberant, [i]consuming[/i]…

Razor’s not-Tarrex thoughts and identity were straining. Storm could feel them in his mental grasp -- kept squeezing on them, enjoying feeling the shears forming as he tweaked the lombax’s urges, bending them into ones more suitable for his obedient creation. Where there was fear, Storm transformed it into adoration. Where there was confidence, Storm transformed it into hunger -- to be directed later at one of the thousands of suitable prey still left in his city. Where there was insecurity, Storm transformed it into hopeless dependence on “Master.” All the while, Storm began to massage his own cock slowly with his left hand, nursing that erection and revelling in the power he wielded over this toy of his.

As Razor’s mental structures crumbled, his body reacted in kind, the less-tainted parts of him developing deeper latex roots. He had thought his heart and lungs were unchanged before, but now he could almost feel the dark, squishy pulse of liquid corruption through his veins, Storm’s presence invigorating the infection and calling for it to grow, a fresh new Tarrex developing parasitically from Razor.

There was an audible crack as Razor’s spine warped, becoming more twisty and flexible as the bone became augmented into something [i]greater[/i].

[i]Good,[/i] thought Storm, [i]you won’t have any of those pesky individual thoughts for much longer.[/i]

Crushed under Storm’s power, Razor had nearly forgotten himself again -- yet Storm called attention to it, making him again aware that he was captive and being changed. Once more he struggled with all his will, but it was like the thrashing of one sinking into quicksand, only accelerating his demise.

[i]Haha, that’s right, keep trying… let Tarrex flow into every dark corner of your mind and body…[/i]

Then, in Razor’s thoughts: [b][i]One with the Storm…[/i][/b] His vision turned redder, his thoughts hungrier… his appetite for servicing Master growing beyond reason. He was erect and needy, too, but he only thought of Storm’s shaft, and what serving that would mean, if Storm would only permit him… this flawed, inadequate servant [i]needed[/i] that cock [i]so badly[/i]…

There was a scrunching and then outward puffing along the surface of the new drone’s latex skin. The “muscles” expanded -- really just reducing their density. They lacked the minimum required mass to become as Storm desired to see them. Razor felt thirsty, mouthing in a way that make an audible [b]plup[/b] noise.

The dragon let go of Razor’s temple -- swept his hand up and pet along those amusingly huge latex-covered ears once more, before moving the hand down to coax at the too-short-for-a-Tarrex muzzle.

“Why can’t you grow, Tarrex?” Storm teased. “Perhaps you need to nurse from your creator?”

That thought was like fire in Razor’s mind. Upon hearing it, it took effort to avoid doing anything other than turning around and instinctively dropping to his knees. This time, he resisted not out of defiance, but out of the desire to follow orders precisely.

“[i]Kneel and serve,[/i]” commanded Storm.

There was no need to tell him twice.

A wet, squeaky blowjob followed, the drone closing his small maw around Storm’s cock and letting the great dragon use it as a convenient fucking port. Any action or thought but service was anathema right now, and the half-Tarrex gulped eagerly in hopes of coaxing out even a few drops of his master’s pre. Storm turned out bountiful, the fluids oozing a magical charge directly into his servant’s face, causing more dark, gooey mass to form from the exuded corruption. Tarrex’s snout lengthened, growing to proper Tarrex size, the effect soon spreading to include the cheeks, forehead, and neck. Only those lombax ears remained untouched by the process, a cute unique identifier which Storm permitted as a memento of where he had claimed this particular trophy.

Storm did not let the service go all the way to orgasm. Instead, once the face was done, he pulled out -- to a gasp of terror and several pathetic, slurpy sounds as Razor-Tarrex mouthed after that escaping shaft. Storm stopped him, instead ordering him to rise and turn around.

The dragon penetrated from behind, dark latex ass feeling slick and warm already as that thick shaft slipped inside.

“So much easier for you to grow, with me to help things along,” Storm observed. Whispering in lust, he added, “Now squeeze me with that slender rear of yours until you coax out the power to make it [i]strong[/i].”

Storm fucked him right there at the sink, enjoying his own handsome face and the fading of the last signs of resistance from Razor’s expression. The red eyes glowing purer, the cheeks and snout losing their confusion and uncertainty as they gradually took on the same demeanor as the rest of his legion of host-seeking pets.

“That’s right, my dear servant,” Storm whispered as he worked himself up to a focused climax. “[b]Awaken[/b] to your true purpose.”

The moistness and energy of Storm’s ejaculation pumped into the hybrid Tarrex’s rear -- the magic transmuting the semen into an increasingly expansive mass of blackening goo. It mingled with the latex that was already there -- seeped through his bowels and into the muscles surrounding. A scrunch and a groan followed as the Tarrex felt his slender body thickening up, his waist and thighs broadening, his “bones” getting bigger, the corruption settling in full. Tarrex developed a stiff, rubbery erection in the likeness of Razor’s original. Storm gave it a condescending reach-around and grope.”

“Mmm, seems that dose wasn’t enough to give you a fitting cock, nor any special frills like wings… but take heart: if you service me well between now and when the rest of your kin arrive, you may yet persuade another taste out of me.”

Pulling out, Storm bade the drone to kneel and lick him clean, every drop being slurped up by that latex tongue, which was now in the process of gaining bioluminescence, glowing blue. Tarrex’s other blue accents were coming online at the same time.

“[b]Tarrex[/b],” said Tarrex, mind a vacant blur of arousal as he sucked that endlessly potent cock [i]more[/i].

“You’ll stroke yourself as you serve me,” commanded Storm, “but you won’t finish until I’ve made your shaft proper.”

The nascent symbiote gurgled and rumbled, bobbing faster on that wonderful cock, body taking on a gooey inconsistency around the edges as his lust for Storm led to worse control. The storm dragon encouraged this, fucking the symbiote’s face hard.

“Mm, good… melt and sag for me. Dissolve into my righteous storm. No separation, no individuality -- only an army of droplets, each bearing my will alone.”

Storm’s erection throbbed as he got off on the idea of his creation, spreading like an infestation through the population over which he had already spread his corrupting storms. He could feel his desires churning like a thunderhead, ready to seed this world with more of his awesome power.

But first…

With a growl and another spark of power, Storm pumped Tarrex full of another load. The servitor swallowed it with the eagerness of a desert traveler encountering the last water on earth, with neither patience nor reservation. It filled him and expanded, and those other Tarrex traits began to take shape, erection enlarging, form growing more fluid and malleable, the remainder of his blue accents forming in full. Still those ears remained, less obvious now in Tarrex’s expanding bulk, but an adorable reminder nonetheless.

Tarrex slurped around his maw, showing his zeal as he revealed his mouth clean of the swallowed cum. He masturbated faster, bones continuing to warp and become pliable, ready to assume the form of a full ooze if the time ever required it. Master’s cum made him so moist and flexible… any more of it and he might pop, burst into a million little black globs. In his feverish worship of Storm, he almost craved it… almost…

“Good Tarrex… now, be a good boy and recycle.” He gestured forward and downward with a finger.

Tarrex’s tongue dangled. He dove forward onto himself, swallowing the length of his massive cock and cycling the cum he produced. It flowed through him like thick, dark lumps below the surface of his latex mass, before being sequestered away inside of him again. The process took several seconds, and afterward left him alert and invigorated -- ready to go do Master’s bidding with full focus and aggression.

“Stabilize,” said Storm. “There’s more fun soon to be had.”

Tarrex obeyed, forming himself upright and solid-enough again, recreating the structure of “bone,” such as it now was. His cock and sack disappeared into his nethers, having no need to exist right now. Recalling the memory of wings from the Tarrex network, he caused them to erupt from his back with the mere thought, letting them settle into place as they consumed some of his now-excessive, cum-bestowed mass.

Both of them could feel the Tarrex horde drawing nearer. Soon they would be ready for a much more [i]coordinated[/i] night on the town.

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