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The Implant

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In order to get the implant, she had to come in for daily sessions with the enlarging machine. She’d already gone through the daily suction and infusion to get her tits shaped and enlarged, so she was familiar with the procedure.

She straddled the seat, and the nurse fitted the labial spreaders, rubbed on some lubricant, and fit a cylinder just the width of the clitoris carefully over her clit and its hood, making sure there was a seal before starting the machine up and watching the pressure as the clit began to be pulled down the length of the tube, turning first dark pink, then red, then nearly violet. When the pressure was just right, almost bruising but not quite, the nurse activated the machine’s infusion function, setting it to thirty millilitres as a start.

She was watching in fascination as her clit was suctioned outward by the machine, feeling the comfortingly steady pull of its power, the tightness that was almost pain, and watched as the machine pumped sanitising fluid into the cylinder, just enough to bathe the tip of her clit and clear the condensation, letting her watch as the needle, slowly, came forward, and feeling the anticipation of it going in, and pumping her clit—all of her clit, not just the part in the tube, but especially the inner lobes—full of fluid that would make it grow just as large and swollen, as it had done to her tits. The needle went down her clit, and down, and was wonderfully cold and invasive and strange. She savoured the process, feeling the fluid go in, the minty-tingling feeling of it, and the tautness as the fluid went deeper into her than the needle, her inner lobes suddenly something she could definitely feel, and they were swelling, warm and tight. Too soon, it was over, and the needle withdrew, and she sat in the suction for half an hour more, before it released, leaving her clit looking like a swollen, tight thing, oversensitive, too oversensitive to touch, and she hadn’t come.

The nurse gave her instructions that it was key she stay as aroused as possible between sessions, to encourage bloodflow. Hot baths were recommended, but she had to avoid abrasion. Anal stimulation was recommended for orgasm, until the procedure was over; but, generally, orgasm was not ideal, as it caused the blood to leave the area afterward. She took the advice, and the packet, and went home, following every instruction to the letter. She took a hot bath before bed, and wore her satin underwear, stroking her nails over her clit through the thin red fabric and biting her bottom lip in satisfaction, enjoying the heightened buzz for a while before moving on to play with her nipple plugs.

She was diligent, and her clit was doubled in size by the end of the month. On the first session of the fifth week, the nurse said she was doubling the dose, and so on, until six months had passed, and her clit was so big the gusset of her panties didn’t cover it entirely, and it hung down between her thighs, the size of a small orange.

She went in for the implant session, then; and the nurse attached her to the machine again, but this time, instead of a needle, there was the implant. It was vacuum-sealed in a thin coating of ice, and the machine’s needle was much larger this time, and she felt no shame in screaming, holding tightly to the provided grips as the implant was pushed in, and in, the ice dulling some of the pain, her body melting the ice and waking the implant, who spread its four tentacles, settling one in each lobe of her inner clit, the body curving to precisely fit the furled outer parts. As soon as it woke, it began to secrete the natural healing and numbing enzymes that erased the pain and damage of its entry.

It took fully twenty-four hours to fully wake from the cold-induced hibernation, and she was driven home, feeling it wake, feeling the invasive squirm of it inside her. They were natural symbiotes for those with cocks, but implanting one into a clitoris was still a fairly new procedure, and she was only the sixth person to ask for it.

She was glad she’d booked extra help on the farm; even though it was just her cow, and the chickens, and the crops, there was no way she could do anything until the implant had fully settled itself, and she knew that would take a few days at least, possibly longer, so she was grateful it was still high summer; but the weeding needed to get done. She spent the rest of the day in bed, unable to stand sitting up, obeying the instructions to make sure her clit was exposed to bright sunlight, and felt the implant squirming inside her clit, pushing part of its head toward the sun, pushing right up against. Usually they slid their primitive eye up and out of a urethra, but a clit did not have one. It was trapped inside her, and would eventually adjust; after all, it had known nothing else, had no frame of reference. After a few hours of feeling it push out, and out on her clit, and watching in the mirror as her clit was moved from the inside without her doing it, she saw the small, dark spot of the eye, just barely. It didn’t break through to air, staying just below the surface.

She kept breathing, and began to feel the effect of the sun, as it finally thawed completely and began to purr, and the pleasure started. Every time she tensed, the purring stopped, and the squirming began, the implant not used to her body, not used to the motions. The post-procedure packet had said it would take months for the implant to ‘calibrate’, and that she should expose it to as much sun and ‘natural routine movement’ as possible, suggesting kegels for physical therapy if nothing else. The farmer wasn’t worried about that—she had a very physical job already, and she knew she was the first receiver of the implant that wasn’t white-collar, so the exercise suggestions weren't really directed at her.

Three days after the procedure, she could sit up and at least help with the livestock, if not the weeding. Tanner was taking care of that, and pikas were meticulous weeders. The farmer felt lucky to have a permanent hand that was a pika, they rarely came down from the mountains—though, to be fair, Roseberry was in the foothills.

Without the daily suction, her clit was going down in size, and she took to wearing knee-length denim skirts for a while, to keep it from getting bruised by crotch seams. The implant went still in the dark, dormant, and she knew she had to feed it with sunlight for at least an hour every day. It was some frustrating weeks to figure out how to incorporate that into her routine, in vain, until one of the Ladies Stoddard suggested she take up the traditional feline hobby of sunbathing.

‘It’s wonderful for the temper,’ said Lady Germaine, who was quite liberal when it came to other species doing body modifications.

So, the next day, the farmer climbed up on the roof of her house with a broom in hand, and swept a patch of the roof clean, laying down a towel and taking off her clothes, laying down on the towel. Immediately, the implant woke, and began to purr very loudly, for it was a very sunny day, and high noon. She felt her cunt flush and grow wetter, which only made the implant squirm—but this time, it didn’t stop purring. She had to resist the urge to stroke herself very strongly, knowing that by getting the implant she had sacrificed ever having anything but a hands-free orgasm.