Pandemic

Story by Sympatheia

At the risk of sounding insensitive, filling a request:

I'd love to see a story set in an alternate universe where COVID only ends up killing off males and turns females into futas(and men who want to survive have to get their sex changed to female and become futas). Basically the kind of story CCH would write.

A one-shot about an epidemic that isn't quite COVID.

Please understand that no offense is intended to those who have lost their loved ones to illness.

Tags: Lesbians, Misandry, No Sex, Sadism, Off-Screen Incest / Cheating, Corruption, Transformation, Muscle Growth (Non-Extreme), Interracial (?), Cock Growth

All characters mentioned are older than 18.

We'd been oh-so-careful in the first few months — following all the CDC advisories; wearing face-masks in public; sanitizing everything that entered the house with alcohol.

Then spring had arrived, and with it an apparent subsiding in the increase of new cases. Assuming that the worst was over, we relaxed our guard.

From there, things had somehow advanced to this. Who could've known?

Thomas hadn't been conscious when I'd visited yesterday, but this afternoon, he seemed reasonably lucid, if sapped of vitality by the cocktail of antiparasitics and pain relief medication they were treating him with. In the time since his hospitalization, the disease had gradually eaten him from within, leaving him emaciated and pale — a nearly-skeletal figure with sagging, wrinkled skin, nothing at all like the well-muscled man of just a year prior.

Vascular degeneration hadn't quite progressed to the point that the hospital had to put him on invasive ventilation, but his doctor had informed me that it was only a matter of time.

Tiredly, he smiled at me through his breathing mask — squeezing at my gloved hand.

"When I'm gone," he whispered — barely audible against the noises from the machines that filled the room, "please, take care of the kids."

"Don't say that," I replied, squeezing him back. "You'll make it through this, and we'll go home together."

He gently shook his head to the negative.

"I'm done," he said. "Whatever the doctors say, I know my body best. I'm not going to make it."

Not trusting myself with words, I squeezed my eyes shut — focusing on the regular beeping of Thomas' heart monitor. For a time, we merely stayed like that — maybe for five or ten minutes; maybe a quarter of an hour. Eventually, an orderly approached, and informed me that visiting hours were over.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Thomas," I said.

Visibly forcing himself to put up a brave face, he nodded at me, and I turned to follow the orderly out of the ICU.

In the changing room, I removed my plastic face shield and set it into the designated bin; pulling off my face-mask, gloves, and bouffant cap, and tossing them into bio-hazard disposal.

The personal protective equipment the hospital had provided wasn't for my sake, as research had confirmed again and again that the disease wasn't at all a lethal threat to females. Ostensibly, it was to the purpose of protecting terminal patients from exposure to potential pathogens that I carried, as the compromise of their immune system meant that severe complications could arise even from the common cold; but I felt that it was probably just for show. Citing shortages in N95 masks, the orderly had given me a generic face-mask — precisely the variety that the CDC had announced to be of no effect in preventing the airborne spread of the parasites.

Still, I was glad that the isolation gown and the face-mask were opaque; glad that the fabric of the gown was loose and baggy. It let that I could conceal my reaction to Thomas' worsening condition.

My husband of twenty-five years, brought to a point of complete despair; to the brink of death ...

Those broad shoulders that I'd so often leaned against — the strong arms that had held me; supported me through thick and thin — reduced, withered to skin and bone...

The sight of him wasting away in the ICU tested my composure; my self control to its limit ...

Exhaling, I undid the strings of the isolation gown behind me — peeling it from my body. By medical necessity, the material wasn't breathable; and beneath, my clothes were despite the hospital's air conditioning heavy with moisture. Consequently, the darkening brown of my erect nipples was readily visible through the thin white fabric of my button top — unconstrained by a bra.

Between the folds of my breasts, a round shape tented beneath the cloth, straining against the buttons of the placket. Tossing the gown to disposal, I unbuttoned and opened my collar, making my way downward along my torso; along my cleavage. The odor of the cum that coated the valley of my breasts reached my nostrils almost instantly.

Freed from its prison, the bulbous head of my newly developed masculinity glistened with fluids in the fluorescent illumination of the changi

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