Polli-Nation Nanda The Changeling

I had only meant to steal five minutes for myself, a moment to steady my breath and calm my racing heart. But I’ve been locked in his bathroom far longer now, perched on the cold edge of the bathtub. A deep ache has taken root in my breasts, heavier and more sensitive than ever before. And lower down, a burning heat pulses between my legs. My stigma is aflame with a want entirely new to me.

Rising on unsteady legs, I face my reflection in his reflector. The person staring back is flushed, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and raw desire. I like the vulnerability I see there, the softness. But is this fleeting image of a trembling, receptive Polli going to become my new truth? Is this who I am now?

In our world, it’s a familiar story: the moment one discovers their true gender through the act of pollination with their Maker. It’s the ultimate revelation, unlocked in intimacy with the one who unveils your hidden self. You return to them as a kind of thank-you. That was what tonight was meant to be, I had been Joel’s Maker.

Every time Joel and I had been together before, the roles were clear and comfortable. I was always the Nate: assertive, masculine, the penetrator. And Joel… Joel was the perfect Polli. Most of us grew up wanting to be Nates, to be warriors, thinkers, workers. But not Joel. She was everything a Polli was meant to be, her stigma a fresh, eager flower. The idea that she could be anything else had never even crossed my mind.

But the clocks have turned. The rules have been rewritten.

We’d known each other since the chaotic halls of high school. We never shared a class, but always found each other, lingering by the lockers, smoking behind the pod sheds. She was good for a deep chat or, surprisingly, impeccable makeup tips. Not my best friend, but a constant, sparkling presence on the sidelines of my life. While most of our peers fought to be the strongest, fastest Nate, Joel remained a beautiful, enigmatic question mark.

And now the question has been answered, and it has turned my world upside down. She became a Nate. And tonight, he is going to penetrate me.

So here I am, in the stark silence of his bathroom, the cool tiles doing nothing to douse the fire he’s lit in me. My hand is on the doorknob, and I am utterly, completely paralyzed, wondering what the fuck I do next. Joel was always a Polli to me.

I had chosen the most traditional of rites: the Dance of the Flowers. My heart hammers against my ribs like a marching drum, a frantic rhythm that makes it hard to breathe. The polished doorknob is cool under my sweating palm. I turn it, step through, and let the ritual take hold.

My eyes lock with Joel’s across the room. Holding his gaze, I begin the Polli steps: a slow, deliberate sway of my hips that carries me toward him. Each movement is measured, ancient, charged with a current of pure want. With every step, the space between us closes. I see the softness of his lips, a familiar promise, and my gaze drifts lower. The testosterone from his trembling has already begun its work, sculpting the planes of his chest beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Mother above, how I want to tear it from him, to crush my mouth to his and swallow his tongue whole.

But tradition is our guide. I master the fire within and let the dance dictate my actions. I kneel before my Nate, my movements reverent. My trembling fingers find the button of his jeans, then the zipper. I tug them down, taking his boxers with them in one fluid motion. This is the Inspection, the first sacred act of acceptance.

Though we had been together many times before, I had never seen Joel’s anther. The sight of it now steals what little breath I have left. It stands proud, thick and stiff, already glistening at the tip with a pearl of nectar, a bittersweet dew I cannot refuse.

With my right hand, I seize him, feeling the hard, velvety heat against my palm. I lean forward and slowly, ritualistically, lick the dew from his crown. The taste is electric on my tongue. Then I take him into my mouth, as much as I can manage. It’s a stretch, a filling warmth. I begin to pump slowly, taking another centimetre with each pass, my rhythm building like a chant.

With the fingers of my left hand, I probe the soft skin of his behind, and a shudder runs through him. Joel breaks tradition then, his hand rising to caress my hair, a tender gesture during our ceremony. I ignore the compliment, not out of spite but to maintain the sacred focus and instead increase my pace. I can feel the tension coiling deep within him, a spring tightening to its breaking point.

I take him a little too deep; a choking sensation rises in my throat just as his climax hits. He explodes inside my mouth with a guttural cry, a hot, salty flood the salt of life. I seal my lips tight, not wasting a drop, as I rise to my feet to complete the Acceptance of the Nate.

He slings his newly muscled arms around me, pulling me into a fierce kiss. We share the first severing, the taste of him on both our tongues as we swallow simultaneously. The act is complete. The Nate is accepted.

A shudder of anticipation runs through me. My own stigma is already wet, aching for what comes next: the Inspection and Acceptance of the Polli, before the full dance can begin.

The thin fabric of my dress whispers over my skin as I pull it off, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. Joel’s hands find my hips, his grip firm and sure, guiding me backward in a slow, deliberate dance until the backs of my knees meet the edge of his bed. A gentle pressure forces me down, the cool linen of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat blooming under my skin. Every nerve is a-light, a live wire of anticipation, and my fingers twist into the bedding, pinning me against the dizzying current.

His touch is maddeningly slow as he hooks his thumbs into the lace of my underwear, drawing them down. The air itself feels like a caress against my newly bared skin. Then comes the feather-light brush of his fingers, a whisper against my most sensitive core. It’s less a touch than a suggestion, sending the first electric jolt arcing through me. I gasp. He does it again, hovering so close I can feel the warmth of him without contact, the anticipation itself a form of torture. On the third pass, a moan escapes my lips, unbidden and raw.

A low chuckle rumbles from him. “You want more.” It isn’t a question; it’s a smug declaration.

“You’re not meant to talk before the three acts are finished, you oaf,” I hiss, though the effect is ruined by my breathless tremor.

“So, we should stop there?” he muses, voice dripping with false innocence.

“No!” The cry tears from me, desperate and pleading. “Do it now and put your mouth to better use.”

His answer is a light, possessive pinch and a tug of my stigma that sends a fresh wave of sensation crashing through me. Any pretence of gentle exploration vanishes. His stroking intensifies, a building rhythm that coils the tension deep within my core. My back arches off the bed of its own volition, a silent offering. A deep, shuddering purr rises in my throat as my release washes over me, a warm tide soaking the sheets beneath us.

Before the waves can recede, I feel his warm breath, then the wet, seeking heat of his tongue at the very centre of my pleasure. The world dissolves into pure sensation. My fingers claw into the mattress, my body seizing as a scream I don’t recognize rips from my throat, echoing in the quiet room. Every muscle, pulses around a core of white-hot ecstasy.

He laughs again, darkly satisfied, and I feel the slow, languid stroke of his tongue as he licks the remnants of my nectar from my skin. He moves up my body, a predator savouring his prize, until his face hovers over mine.

“Now you know how it feels,” he murmurs, voice thick.

In that moment, I need him more than I have ever needed anyone or anything. With the second act of the Acceptance of the Polli complete, a sacred tremor passes through me. The air itself seems to hum with potential. Will this, at last, be the dance that culminates in my trembling, the final, sacred offering to The Mother?

His hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing my jawline before his lips find mine. This isn’t the gentle kiss from before; it’s a claiming. His tongue plunges into my mouth with desperate, searching heat, a mimicry of the act to come. I meet his fervour with my own, pulling him tighter against me, arms locking around his neck as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

And then, the sharp, stunning intrusion of pain.

Even prepared, slick and yearning for him, the sheer size of him is a shock. It’s a stretching, a splitting fullness that steals my breath. A low cry is muffled against his lips as my nails dig into the hard muscles of his back, seeking a hold. He stills for a moment, a tremor running through his own body, before he begins to move.

It’s a slow, ancient rhythm, the rocking of his hips like the relentless push and pull of the tide upon the shore. Each forward motion buries that impossible fullness deeper within me, each retreat a sweet agony of loss. The sharpness melts into a building, throbbing pressure that hums through my very bones. A rhythm finds us, and I meet it, hips rising to meet his thrusts.

“More,” I whisper, broken against his skin. “More.”

That’s all the permission he needs. His movements shift, growing harder, faster, abandoning gentle waves for a storm. The world narrows to the slap of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of our breathing, the feeling of him filling me utterly. Every muscle in my body coils tight, a spring waiting to release. I am screaming, a raw, primal sound I barely recognize as my own. My hands scramble for purchase on his sweat-slick back, slipping.

“Don’t stop!” I hiss, the words both command and plea.

He drives into me with brutal efficiency, his grunts animalistic in my ear. I feel the electric pulse of my climax igniting every nerve, my existence narrowing to the point where our bodies join. My back arches as his full weight collapses onto me, crushing me into the mattress. I am awash in the scent of us: musky sweat, the sweet tang of my nectar, the salt of life, our exertion a slick river tracing a path down my thigh.

And then, stillness. The frantic rhythm ceases, leaving only the aftershocks trembling through my body. My orgasm still echoes faintly in my core. But as I lie there, pinned beneath him, cold clarity washes over me. The final act is done. The dance is complete.

Yet the profound, soul-deep Trembling I had prayed for never comes. My body is sated, but my spirit remains hollow, unclaimed, waiting in silence.