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The harmony of our shared consciousness was a symphony I’d grown accustomed to—a constant, warm hum of six other souls. Chloe’s steadfast presence, Hannah’s electric energy, Zoe’s flowing rhythm, Maya’s serene focus, Brianna’s enveloping softness, and Stacey’s… Stacey’s leading light. It was the feeling of home.

Then, one night, there was silence.

I woke up, and I was alone.

Not physically. The colossal, voluptuous futanari form was still there, resting on the vast bed. Elise slept peacefully curled against ‘our’ side. But the choir in my head had vanished. The mental space that was always bustling with silent commentary, emotions, and the faint whisper of other thoughts was a void. A terrifying, hollow silence.

I—just Josh—was the only one in here.

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to claw its way up a throat that wasn't solely mine anymore. I stumbled from the bed, the movement clumsy without the subconscious coordination of the others. I caught my reflection in one of the many full-length mirrors.

The form was breathtaking. Power and softness in impossible measure. But the eyes staring back were mine alone, wide with fear and confusion.

A strange, desperate impulse took hold. If I was alone in this temple, I needed to reconsecrate it. I needed to prove I could still command its divinity.

I rifled through ‘our’ shared closet, my hands—my hands—trembling. I found it: a set of black lace lingerie, scandalous and intricate, designed for this body. Putting it on was a surreal, intimate act. The slide of the stockings up powerful thighs, the clasp of the garter belt, the way the lace cups strained to contain the impossible swell of ‘my’ breasts. I looked… devastating.

I began a show for an audience of one. Me. I turned before the mirror, watching the play of muscle and softness under the lace. I ran ‘my’ hands over the toned stomach, up to cup the heavy breasts, my touch tentative at first, then growing bolder. The sensations were mine alone to feel, a solo concert where I was both musician and instrument.

My breathing hitched. The fear began to morph into something else: a potent, lonely arousal. I slid the lace aside, my fingers finding the proud, sensitive cock that was now mine to command. The touch was electric, a jolt that was entirely my own. The pleasure built, a frantic, solo climb. This wasn't the shared, multiplying ecstasy …