Chapter 55: Gena's tongue swirls around Amy's swollen clit as the Bull fucks her from behind, her mother's screams muffled by Gena's dripping pussy. 'Taste yourself, Mommy,' Gena moans, grinding against Amy's face while the Bull's massive hands grip Amy's milky tits, squeezing streams of arousal-laced milk across their sweat-slicked bodies.
The heavy, sweet scent of our mingled sweat and milk hung in the air, a testament to what we’d just endured. My body felt boneless, stretched and used, the weight of my belly a solid, demanding presence. Beside me, Gena breathed in shallow, satisfied pants, her own distended stomach pressed against mine. The silver ring on her finger was warm against my skin.
The Bull’s shadow fell over us. He hadn’t moved far, just stood there, a mountain of simmering power. His cock, now soft and thick, was still glistening with Gena’s release and his own. He looked down at us, his gaze not sated, but calculating. Hungry.
“Up,” he rumbled, the single word vibrating through the floorboards. “On my lap. Both of you.”
A fresh tremor went through me. There was no refusal. Gena and I moved in unison, a practiced, weary dance. We pushed ourselves up, our movements clumsy with the new weight we carried. My breasts ached, full and heavy, a dull throb that echoed deep in my cunt.
He settled into a large, worn armchair, his thighs spread. Gena went to one side, I to the other, our pregnant bellies brushing against his solid torso as we climbed onto him. The chair groaned under the combined weight. The air was thick with the perfume of sex and something else now, something primal and fertile.
“Feed me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
Gena was quicker, her succubus nature rising to the surface. She cupped her full breast, her fingers deft, and guided her nipple to his mouth. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her as his lips closed around it. I watched, mesmerized, as his throat worked, swallowing the rich milk that began to flow.
My turn. I mimicked her, my hand trembling slightly as I offered myself. His mouth was hot and demanding, his suction immediate and fierce. A sharp, pleasurable pain lanced through me, and my milk let down in a warm rush. I moaned, my head falling back. It was a relief and a violation all at once, this feeding. My body gave itself freely, even as my mind reeled.
Beneath us, I felt the heavy softness of his cock begin to stir against my thigh.
“Touch him,” Gena whispered, her eyes locked on mine. Her free hand was already moving, her slender fingers wrapping around his girth. “Help me, Mom. Make him hard for us again.”
My own hand joined hers. His skin was like heated velvet over iron. We worked him together, our hands sliding over his shaft, stroking and squeezing in a rhythm that was both tender and relentless. The smell of him, musky and raw, filled my nostrils.
“That’s it,” he grunted around my nipple, his hips giving a slight thrust into our combined grip. “Your hands feel like heaven, you two perfect broodmares. Work my fucking cock.”
His words were filth, but they sent a fresh wave of heat through my core. I was so wet, my own slickness coating my inner thighs. Gena’s breathing hitched, and I knew she felt the same desperate need.
He released my breast with a soft pop, a trickle of milk running down his chin. “Switch.”
We obeyed, shifting so he could drink from Gena again. Our hands never stopped their work on his cock, which was now fully erect, a thick, veined pillar of flesh that pulsed with life between us. It was a terrifying, beautiful sight.
“Look what we did,” Gena murmured, her voice thick with awe and lust. She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick a stray drop of milk from my nipple before offering her own to The Bull again. The intimacy of the gesture, so casual and depraved, made my cunt clench.
“He’s so big,” I breathed, my thumb rubbing over the slick head of his cock, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there.
“And he’s all ours to take,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with a dark light. “All ours to fill us up again.”
The Bull’s hands came up, one to each of our hips, his grip possessive and sure. He guided us, a subtle pressure telling us what he wanted. We understood. We were to be his mounts, his vessels, once more. The anticipation was a live wire in my blood, a sharp, aching need that overshadowed everything else. The room, the world, it all narrowed to this chair, to him, to her, and to the relentless, driving purpose of our swollen bodies.