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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 I was used to. This was a desperate, selfish thing. My back arched, a choked cry that was only my voice echoed in the silent room, and I came, the pleasure sharp and isolating, splashing across the reflected image of a god I didn't know how to be alone.

The crash after was immediate and devastating. The silence in my head was deafening. I sank to the floor, the lingerie suddenly feeling like a ridiculous costume. I was just a man lost in a goddess’s body, and I had never felt more alone. A sob wracked the colossal frame.

A warm presence knelt before me. Elise. She hadn't been absorbed. Her consciousness was still her own, a gentle, separate flame.

“Josh,” her voice whispered in my ear, a lifeline in the silence. “I’m here.”

She didn’t ask what was wrong. She simply opened her arms. I fell into them, the size difference making it awkward, but her comfort was absolute. She stroked my hair, her physical touch and mental presence a calming balm.

“They are not gone,” she soothed. “They are resting. You are the anchor. You must hold the space for them until they return.”

For five days, I was alone with Elise. She guided me, teaching me how to move the body with conscious intent instead of shared instinct. We talked for hours, a real conversation with only two voices. I learned her fears, her love for our strange family, and I shared my own. It was a period of profound, terrifying growth. I learned to be alone, so I could better appreciate being together.

On the fifth evening, as I was staring listlessly out a window, it happened.

A flicker. A familiar, bubbly laugh that wasn't audible.

“Wow, someone’s been moping,” Hannah’s voice chirped in my head, bright and clear.

It was like a dam breaking. Sensations, emotions, whispers flooded back into my mind—a joyful, chaotic cacophony. Chloe’s warm concern, Zoe’s curious flow, Maya’s assessing calm, Brianna’s loving embrace, and Stacey’s fierce, relieved love.

Josh! You held on! Stacey’s thought was a thunderclap of pride and affection.

The relief was so intense it made our knees weak. We—we—stumbled, laughing and crying in a jumble of shared emotion.

And then another sensation made itself known. A familiar, dull ache in the lower abdomen. A specific, bloated tenderness in the chest.

A synchronized thought, from five minds at once, echoed through our shared consciousness with the force of a divine revelation.

“Oh.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Oh, crap.”

“That explains it.”

“So that’s where we went.”

Stacey’s mental voice cut through the chatter, laced with a wry, exhausted amusement. “Well, that’s just perfect. We finally sync up our cycles, and the cosmic PMS is so powerful it literally evicts all of us from our own body for a week.”

A wave of cramping, shared by five of us, rolled through our form. We all groaned in unison.

Elise, who had been watching the reunion with a smile, now pressed a warm mug of tea into ‘our’ hand. “I had a feeling,” she said softly, her eyes twinkling. “Welcome back, ladies. I believe you have some laundry to do.”

We looked down at the giant, divine form we all shared. We were complete again. We were home. And we were, all seven of us, very, very much on our period. The first battle our newly-returned Megazord would face was against a rogue army of heating pads and chocolate cravings. And honestly, it might be our toughest foe yet.