Consciousness returned in a sickening, dizzying swirl. Jake felt like he’d been tumbled in a washing machine filled with cold grease. He was a scattered, jellied mess, clinging to the slick curve of a porcelain bowl. A toilet bowl.

Memories slammed back: Stacey’s furious eyes, her impossibly strong grip, the agonizing rip as she tore him out of himself. The roaring vortex of the flush. That bitch. He’d been swept through miles of sewer pipe, a piece of sentient garbage, for who knew how long. Rage, cold and sharp, cut through the disorientation. He’d have his revenge. But first, he had to get back. And he had no idea how far he’d drifted.

He pooled his form, pulling the disparate, weakened parts of himself together into a cohesive, grapefruit-sized blob of violet slime. He pulsed, testing his strength. He was diminished, but whole. He looked up. The rim of the toilet was high above, a circle of dull light.

A door opened. Footsteps. Casual, unhurried. Jake went still.

He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft snick of a button, the whisper of denim sliding down thighs. The bowl went dark as a shadow blocked the light. Someone was sitting down.

Jake didn’t hesitate. This was his chance. As the person settled, he caught a glimpse from his low angle: the soft curve of inner thighs, and between them, the delicate, pink folds of a pussy. What luck!

He launched himself upward in a single, fluid motion. The slime stretched into a cord and dove inside.

The body above him jerked, a sharp intake of breath. The host reeled back on the toilet seat, a hand flying to her stomach. Jake flowed in, the familiar cold rush blossoming into warm, total control. He pushed the girl’s consciousness down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He—she—stood up on slightly shaky legs, pulling up the jeans and fastening them. He walked to the mirror over the sink.

A pretty young face stared back. Big, doe-like blue eyes, currently wide with his own predatory glee. A smattering of freckles across a small, upturned nose. Dirty blond hair pulled into a messy, high ponytail. She was petite, maybe five-two, with a slender frame that still carried a soft, tempting swell in the chest and a cute, round backside. He smiled, and the girl’s face lit up with an expression it probably rarely …