The Metamorphosis in the Termite Mound
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He awoke to the skitter of legs and the hush of wings beating in darkness.
The tunnel was sweltering, redolent of earth and rot. Marcus pressed his palm to his forehead—sweat slicked his skin; his hair was sticky with resin. He tried to recall how he'd gotten here—one moment, the archeological dig site near the termite mound; the next, dragging himself through warm, chewed corridors, feeling watched.
The antennae came first.
They split from his brow with a prickling under his skin, trembling in the moist air. He screamed, lungs filling with dust, as segmented growths quested outwards, flexing like live wires. His eyes stung; sight fractured into new colors and focus.
He scrambled, desperate, but it was hopeless. The walls pulsed around him, opening welcoming arms of chewed pulp. Then Marcus saw him—the termite king.
He was not human, not by any measure Marcus had known. Crowned with branching antennae, armored in black chitin, he filled the passage; his eyes glowed with an unnatural amber. The air thickened. Something shimmered—a golden haze. The king’s antennae quivered, fanning the heavy musk of pheromones over Marcus.
The change churned inside him—a warping heat, crawling up to his scalp and down to his toes. Marcus’s bones twisted, hips widening, body swelling. His hands, elongating, fused into powerful, many-jointed limbs tipped with scrabbling claws. His torso ballooned massively, the flesh elastic, yielding: in the shivering light the king exuded, Marcus saw his waist narrow and his thorax heave, hips splitting through his tattered clothes. His cries, now a high-pitched keening, echoed through the tunnels.
He could feel his insides writhing, shifting. Egg-laying. The urge sang through his nerves, foreign and relentless. His skin toughened, swelling at the abdomen until he was immense, her form pulsing with new purpose. Gossamer wings sprouted, legs grew thick and bristly. She felt the king's pheromones spiral around her, rewriting her sense of self, drowning any thought of escape.
Where Marcus had been, now a termite queen ruled—her new form magnificent, monstrous, inexorable. The king’s mandibles caressed her cheek. The colony whispered with hunger and expectation.
In the mound’s humming heart, her human mind dissolved. There was only the queen, and the insects that worshiped her, forevermore.
This story was generated by user fendor with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Male transformation into female anthro termite queen by anthro termite king pheromones
Response: He awoke to the skitter of legs and the hush of wings beating in darkness. The tunnel was sweltering, redolent of earth and rot. Marcus pressed his palm to his forehead—sweat slicked his skin; his hair was sticky with resin. He tried to recall how he'd gotten here—one moment, the archeological dig site near the termite mound; the next, dragging himself through warm, chewed corridors, feeling watched. The antennae came first. They split from his brow with a prickling under his skin, trembling in the moist air. He screamed, lungs filling with dust, as segmented growths quested outwards, flexing like live wires. His eyes stung; sight fractured into new colors and focus. He scrambled, desperate, but it was hopeless. The walls pulsed around him, opening welcoming arms of chewed pulp. Then Marcus saw him—the termite king. He was not human, not by any measure Marcus had known. Crowned with branching antennae, armored in black chitin, he filled the passage; his eyes glowed with an unnatural amber. The air thickened. Something shimmered—a golden haze. The king’s antennae quivered, fanning the heavy musk of pheromones over Marcus. The change churned inside him—a warping heat, crawling up to his scalp and down to his toes. Marcus’s bones twisted, hips widening, body swelling. His hands, elongating, fused into powerful, many-jointed limbs tipped with scrabbling claws. His torso ballooned massively, the flesh elastic, yielding: in the shivering light the king exuded, Marcus saw his waist narrow and his thorax heave, hips splitting through his tattered clothes. His cries, now a high-pitched keening, echoed through the tunnels. He could feel his insides writhing, shifting. Egg-laying. The urge sang through his nerves, foreign and relentless. His skin toughened, swelling at the abdomen until he was immense, her form pulsing with new purpose. Gossamer wings sprouted, legs grew thick and bristly. She felt the king's pheromones spiral around her, rewriting her sense of self, drowning any thought of escape. Where Marcus had been, now a termite queen ruled—her new form magnificent, monstrous, inexorable. The king’s mandibles caressed her cheek. The colony whispered with hunger and expectation. In the mound’s humming heart, her human mind dissolved. There was only the queen, and the insects that worshiped her, forevermore.
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