The Wet Echo 1 by FleshVoid

When Elias woke, the air tasted wrong.

Not stale or sour, but humid, intimate–like breathing through a damp cloth pressed too close. He tried to yawn, but his jaw didn’t hinge. His tongue didn’t flick. Instead, a ripple ran through something soft and unfamiliar where his mouth should’ve been–a pulsing, fleshy slit that quivered as he exhaled. He bolted upright, hands flying to his face, and froze. His fingers brushed slick, vertical folds, tender and warm, fringed with sparse hair. No lips, no teeth, just a vaginal opening where his mouth had been for thirty-four years. His breath hitched, whistling faintly through it, and a faint musk hit his nose. His actual nose, mercifully still above this nightmare.

He stumbled to the bathroom mirror, heart hammering. The reflection was grotesque–his eyes wide with panic, his nose unchanged, but below it, a glistening vulva sat embedded in his face. The outer labia were plump, faintly pink, parting slightly with each ragged breath to reveal the darker, wetter inner folds. A tiny nub–the clitoris?–peeked out near the top, twitching as his terror spiked. He touched it gingerly, and a jolt shot through him, electric and alien, making the whole slit clench. He gagged–or tried to–but there was no throat to convulse, just a shallow canal that ended abruptly where his palate should’ve been. Sound came out as a wet gurgle, air bubbling through the folds. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t speak, only whimper in a high, keening hiss.

Elias’s mind reeled. Was this a dream? A stroke? He pinched his arm–pain, sharp and real. He clawed at the thing, nails digging into the labia, but it only throbbed in protest, a bead of clear fluid welling up. His stomach churned. He could taste nothing, smell everything–his own skin, the stale toothpaste on the sink, the faint iron tang of his own secretions. How was he breathing? He pressed a finger inside, past the tight entrance, and felt a narrow passage curve upward, connecting somewhere to his sinuses. Air flowed, but it was labored, intimate, like panting through a straw.

He couldn’t stay here. He needed help–a doctor, a priest, anyone. He pulled on a hoodie, tied a scarf over the lower half of his face, and stepped outside. The cold February air hit the slit through the fabric, making it pucker and ache. Each step jostled it, a constant reminder of its presence, damp and alive.

At the bus stop, an old woman sat hunched on the bench, her eyes flicking to him. Elias kept his head down, scarf tight, but the slit betrayed him. A low, involuntary moan escaped as the wind teased it–a sound too feminine, too raw. The woman’s gaze sharpened. “You sick?” she rasped, leaning closer. He shook his head, but she sniffed the air, frowning. “Smells like… woman trouble.” Her bluntness stabbed him. Did she know? Could she smell it? He turned away, the folds trembling as he fought tears he couldn’t shed–no ducts down there to cry from.

On the bus, a teenage girl sat across from him, earbuds in, scrolling her phone. Elias tried to breathe shallowly, but the slit had a mind of its own. A deep inhale parted it wider, and a soft, wet pop escaped. The girl glanced up, nose wrinkling. “Gross,” she muttered, scooting away. Shame burned through him, hotter than the pulsing heat between his cheeks. He pressed the scarf tighter, but it stuck to the dampness now, outlining the shape beneath. He felt exposed, dissected–every twitch of the labia a spotlight on his freakishness.

At the clinic, the receptionist barely looked up. “Name?” she droned. Elias gestured to his covered face, then his throat, miming silence. She sighed, handing him a clipboard. He scribbled: Emergency. Can’t speak. Face problem. She waved him to a seat. The waiting room was a sensory hell–coughing kids, antiseptic sting, a man’s cologne that made the slit flare and weep. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, unable to stop the rhythmic clenching below his nose. Was it aroused? Hungry? He didn’t know, and the ignorance clawed at him.

Dr. Patel, a wiry man with tired eyes, called him in. Elias unwrapped the scarf, and the doctor’s clipboard clattered to the floor. “Christ,” Patel whispered, then caught himself. “Sorry. I–how long?” Elias held up one finger: One day. Patel approached, gloved hands trembling.

“May I?” Elias nodded, and the doctor’s fingers parted the labia, peering inside with a penlight. The sensation was unbearable–clinical yet violating, the clitoris sparking under the pressure. Elias’s hips bucked involuntarily, a muffled squeak escaping. Patel stepped back, pale. “No teeth, no tongue… just mucosa. It’s vascular, responsive. Connects to your airway somehow.” He scribbled notes, voice shaking. “This is impossible. We need imaging, specialists–”

Elias grabbed the pen, scrawling: Why me? Fix it.

Patel’s eyes softened with pity. “I don’t know. Could be genetic, hormonal, something… cosmic. We’ll try.”

But his tone was hollow, and Elias felt the truth sink in: this wasn’t fixable. Not today.

Back home, he sat in the dark, scarf off, staring at the mirror. The slit glistened, alive, a stranger’s organ grafted to his identity. He traced it, probing its edges, and a shiver ran through him–not just fear now, but something else. Curiosity? Acceptance? He pressed deeper, and the canal tightened around his finger, warm and slick. A sound came out, not a word, but a sigh, resonant and human. Maybe this was him now. Maybe he’d learn to live with it–to breathe, to feel, to be this new, impossible thing.