You met Nyx six months ago at a Halloween warehouse party—strobe lights, fog machines, bodies painted like demons. She was dressed as a witch: torn crop-top, fishnets, garnet choker. You were just a guy in a vampire costume with a velvet cape. She dragged you into a dark corner, dropped to her knees, and sucked you off while whispering spells. By morning she’d moved in with her notebook and a vial of your cum.

Three nights ago, after a wild party, she milked you dry. Slow, deliberate strokes until you filled the vial again. While you slept, she mixed your hot cum with crushed nightshade, cinnamon, and a drop of her own slick. Kneeling over your chest, she dipped her finger into the warm, sticky concoction and drew runes, spirals, crescents, a pentacle over your heart. The mixture burned like liquid fire, the runes glowing as they sank into your skin with a hiss of smoke and scorched honey. You groaned in your sleep; while she whispered the Lust-Curse. Now at every sunrise your cock mutates for 24 hours, the runes on his chest burning and flaring crimsonMay 1 - 5:00AM: GargantuanDawn ignites the runes on your chest, crimson spirals flare like brands, the smell of scorched honey filling the air. Your cock slaps your abs, 14 inches, wrist-thick, veins like twisted roots, head oozing thick precum. The Gargantuan mutation throbs, skin fever-hot.