Chapter 20: brothel spores
beos gets her first ever female client. it works exactly the same as it does with male clients. beos ends up holding the woman’s head in her lap as the woman cums her brains out from multiple orgasms thanks to the spores
The velvet-draped room held the usual scent of bergamot and sex, but Beos sat differently tonight. The Sovereign’s soft hum, a memory-ghost from the colony, thrummed in her veins like distant mycelium. She missed the cool, silent dark of the caves. Here, the air was thick with breath, with sounds she still didn’t fully understand.
Madame Elsbet entered without knocking, her gown swishing over the thick carpet. “A change of pace, my little spore-bloom. A woman. Noble, by the look of her. Quiet. You know what to do.”
Beos blinked her large, iridescent eyes. She had seen women in the halls, of course, but they were always staff, or Madame. Not clients. The men who came to her chamber followed a simple pattern: they stared, they breathed, they shuddered, they left. Their arousal was a loud, sweaty, grunting thing. She wondered if it would be different. She tilted her head, the broad, fleshy mushroom cap on her left side brushing her shoulder. “Same?” she asked, her common tongue halting.
“Exactly the same,” Madame said, a transactional smile touching her lips. “The product is the experience. The vessel is irrelevant.”
When the door opened again, Beos saw a woman wrapped in a hooded cloak of fine wool. She pushed the hood back, revealing a face etched with a sharp, tired elegance. Her eyes, a cool grey, scanned the room and settled on Beos with a mix of curiosity and profound wariness. This was not a man driven by base, immediate hunger. This was something quieter, a deeper ache.
“You are the one they call the Fungal Muse?” the woman’s voice was low, cultured.
Beos simply nodded, offering a smile that was neither seductive nor shy, just open. She patted the chaise lounge beside her. The woman—Lady Celine, as she later murmured—approached slowly. She didn’t try to touch Beos immediately. She just looked, studying the cascade of black hair, the pale, glowing skin, the intricate, living structures that fused with Beos’s jaw and neck.
“It’s not a hat,” Celine observed, not unkindly.
“No,” Beos agreed, the word a soft exhale. “Part. Like… arm.”
A silence stretched, not uncomfortable. Beos felt the familiar, subtle pressure building within the delicate gills beneath her mushroom cap. It was a biological readiness, divorced from desire. She willed it to slow, to wait. The woman’s sadness was a tangible scent, like damp earth.
“I am told you offer… oblivion,” Celine finally said, her composure cracking just at the edges.
Beos nodded again. She reached out, not for the woman’s body, but for her hand. She turned it over, exposing the palm, and placed her own against it. Skin to skin. The contact was a signal. A trigger.
It began as it always did. A faint, pearlescent dust, visible only in the lamplight, began to puff gently from the porous flesh of Beos’s cap and from the tiny, filament-like mushrooms that traced her collarbone. It carried the scent of a deep forest after rain, of rich loam and something sweetly alkaline.
Celine inhaled. Her grey eyes widened, then fluttered. A sharp, shocked gasp hitched in her throat. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, gods.”
The spores worked with a swift, brutal efficiency. They bypassed conscious thought and went straight to the blood, to the nerves. Celine’s body arched as if struck by a current. Her hands flew to the bodice of her gown, fingers clumsy and frantic, tearing at laces. “I need… I can’t…” she choked out.
Beos watched, her head tilted with innocent curiosity. The woman’s movements were different. Less pounding, more sinuous. A graceful, desperate unraveling.
Celine got the gown open, shoved the fabric down to her waist. Her breasts were pale and heavy, nipples already tight and dark. She moaned, a long, low sound of utter surrender, and her hand plunged between her own legs, over her silk smallclothes. “Fuck,” she hissed, the crude word alien on her refined tongue. “It’s… it’s everywhere. In my head.”
The spores didn’t just stimulate the body; they amplified sensitivity a hundredfold. Every brush of fabric was an agony of need. Every pulse of blood was a direct throb to her clit. Celine’s fingers rubbed furiously at herself through the silk, her hips bucking off the chaise. “It’s too much, ah, fuck, too much!”
The fabric grew dark with moisture. With a sob, Celine hooked her thumbs into the waistband and tore the smallclothes aside. Beos saw the glistening, swollen flesh, saw the woman’s fingers dive into her own wetness with a desperate, rough grace.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Celine chanted, her body a tight bow. Her back was off the seat, supported only by her heels and shoulders. Her fingers worked in a frantic, circling rhythm over her clit, then plunged inside her cunt, again and again. The wet, obscene sound filled the room. “Make me come, please, please, I need to come!”
The first orgasm took her like a seizure. Her whole body locked, rigid. A raw, screaming cry tore from her throat, nothing noble or ladylike about it. It was the sound of a soul being ripped open. Her cunt clenched around her driving fingers, gushing. She shook violently, sobbing through the peak.
But it didn’t end. The spores didn’t allow for a refractory period. The hypersensitivity remained, the need rebuilding instantly on the shattered ruins of the last climax.
“No… no, more… I can’t…” Celine whimpered, even as her hand, seemingly of its own volition, began moving again, sliding easily through her own copious wetness. Her eyes were glazed, unseeing. She was no longer in a brothel in a city; she was lost in a neural storm of her own making, catalyzed by the foreign biology of this strange, quiet girl.
Beos, sensing the woman’s utter collapse, her limbs turning to liquid, slowly shifted. She gently guided Celine’s trembling, sweat-slick body. She pulled the woman’s head into her lap, cushioning it on the softness of her thigh. Celine nuzzled blindly into the plain fabric of Beos’s shift, her breath hot and ragged.
From this position, Beos looked down at the wrecked, beautiful woman. Celine’s hand was still between her own legs, moving with a relentless, mechanical pace. Her hips twitched in tiny, frantic circles. She was babbling.
“So good, so fucking good, don’t stop, make me come again, ruin me, ruin me…”
The second orgasm was a deep, grinding shudder. It rolled through her in prolonged waves, each one pulling a choked gurgle from her lips. Her thighs quivered, soaked. The third followed almost immediately, a sharper, punctuated series of spasms that left her breathless, her mouth hanging open.
Beos reached down and stroked the hair from the woman’s damp forehead. It was an instinctual gesture, the same comforting hum she’d offer a young myconid in the colony. Celine’s eyes, drenched in unshed tears of overstimulation, focused for a second on Beos’s face, on the gentle, alien eyes and the living cap of fungus.
“Thank you,” Celine slurred, the words thick and meaningless. Then her eyes rolled back. Her body went limp, the relentless tension finally spent. The twitching in her hips subsided. Her hand fell away from her sex, resting palm-up on the carpet, glistening. A low, post-coital moan seeped from her parted lips. She was utterly, comprehensively gone.
Beos sat in the quiet, the woman’s head heavy in her lap. The spores had settled. The only scents now were sweat, sex, and bergamot. She heard the slow, deep breaths of true sleep. She looked at the ruined noblewoman, then at the glowing crystals embedded in the wall, faux attempts at her home’s bioluminescence. She missed the true dark. She missed the silence. Here, the silence always felt like an echo waiting to be filled.
She stayed very still, not wanting to wake the woman, and waited for Madame to come and collect what was left.
after that day beos starts getting both male and female clients. the men cum and spill more than the ever thought possible while the women squirt, absolutely soaking themselves
Madame Elsbet’s arrival was signaled by the precise click of the door latch. Her eyes, sharp as flint, assessed the scene: the noblewoman collapsed in a stupor, limbs askew on the carpet, the air thick and sweet. She made a soft, approving sound in her throat. “Clean her up. The morning staff will see her out.” She nodded at Beos. “This is good. This is variation.”
Word travelled through certain channels, whispered in gambling dens and over crystal snifters in velvet rooms. The Fungal Muse did not discriminate. Her gift, or her curse, was an absolute leveler. The next evening brought a merchant’s son, puffed with bravado, who smirked at Beos’s strange appearance. “What’s under the big hat, darling?” he jeered.
He breathed in the faint, glimmering dust. His smirk melted into slack-jawed awe. Then pain. His cock strained against his breeches, a urgent, brutal outline. “Gods, what is—” He fumbled at his falls, fingers clumsy, and freed an erection so violently engorged the skin shone taut and purple. He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. The spores commanded his body.
A hot, pearly spurt shot from him, arcing to stain the rug. Then another, a continuous, pulsing stream that seemed to have no end, milky fluid spilling over his own fist and soaking his thighs. “Stop, stop, I’m empty, I’m fucking empty!” he screamed, but his body was not his own. It was a vessel being forcibly drained, each brutal contraction wringing out a fresh, watery jet until he crumpled, weeping, into the mess he’d made.
Two nights later, a woman in military leathers stood rigid in the center of the room. “I hear you end thought,” she stated, her voice clipped. Beos simply nodded and released the spores. The woman’s discipline held for a startling thirty seconds, her jaw a hard line. Then it shattered.
She came in her leathers, a dark patch spreading instantly at her crotch. With a guttural roar, she ripped the garment open, shoved a hand inside, and fucked herself with two rough fingers. “Come on, you bitch, come on!” she snarled at her own body. Her climax wasn’t a release but an assault. A jet of clear fluid sprayed from her with enough force to patter against the leg of a nearby table, followed by another, and another, soaking the chair, the floor, her own boots. She squirted until she was hollow, collapsing into the sodden wreckage of her clothing, breathing in ragged, animal pants.
Beos watched it all from the same chaise. She became a quiet nucleus in a storm of flesh. The men erupted, spend painting their chests, the walls sometimes, in shocking, copious quantities. They sobbed and begged for it to end as their cocks kept dribbling, spent and sore. The women gushed, they soaked sheets, they left shining pools on polished wood. Their bodies convulsed around nothing, around fingers, around the heel of a hand, squirting with a helpless, hydraulic abandon.
The room permanently smelled of sex and salt and a deeper, muskier tang. Beos’s luminescent skin seemed to glow brighter in the perpetual haze. The mushroom cap on her face felt heavier, more dense. She wondered, in her fleeting way, if she was growing. She dreamed not of the clients, but of the Sovereign’s silent hum, a vibration felt in the roots of teeth.
Madame brought her a new shift. “Business is exceptional,” she said, her voice a dry ledger-entry. She looked at Beos not with warmth, but with the satisfaction of a gardener assessing a prolific, strange bloom. “They talk of nothing else. The drenching. The draining.”
One afternoon, a client was brought in already half-mad from tales he’d heard. A minor mage, his fingers stained with ink and cheap phosphorous. He was upon Beos before the door closed, grabbing her shoulders, his breath hot and sour. “Show me, show me the magic, you little freak.”
His desperation was a spike in the room’s atmosphere. Beos recoiled, a faint click of alarm echoing in her throat, a myconid sound. The spores puffed from her in a defensive cloud, thicker than she’d ever produced. The mage inhaled a lungful of the dense, glittering powder.
His reaction was catastrophic. His eyes blew wide. He screamed, a high, thin sound, as his cock bulged, straining fabric. He came instantly, a geyser that soaked his robe front. It didn’t stop. Rope after rope of thick cum shot out, coating his chest, her shift, the wall behind her. “It burns! It burns!” he shrieked, clawing at his own groin as the endless, painful spurts continued, each ejaculation a dry-heave of his entire body, until he finally fell, twitching, into a puddle of his own fluid, his cock still weakly pulsing.
Beos looked down at her soiled shift, at the man’s ashen face. She touched the edge of her mushroom cap. It was warm. It was humming, a faint, almost electrical vibration she had never felt before. It was not the Sovereign’s song. This was a new frequency, born in this room of extremes, resonating with every choked sob and every gushing climax forced from these strange, soft humans.
The vibration traveled deep into her jaw, into the roots of the fungi along her neck. It tickled. It felt like growth.
beos learns on accident that if cum gets on her, her body will absorb the nutrients and cause that part of her body to grow slightly. example cum on her breasts makes them get slightly bigger
That humming in the cap’s flesh, a deep, cellular vibration, slowly faded as the mage’s unconscious body was dragged out by the silent attendants. Beos stood in the center of the room, her shift plastered to her stomach and thighs with the man’s cooling spend. The fabric was stiffening.
Madame Elsbet clicked her tongue, surveying the room. “A mess. But a profitable one.” Her eyes narrowed at Beos. “That one won’t be back. He looked half-dead. Change your clothes.”
Alone, Beos pulled the soaked shift over her head. The air kissed her skin. She used a clean corner of the discarded garment to wipe at the sticky, pearlescent streaks on her belly. The substance was thick, clinging. As she rubbed, a familiar, subtle warmth bloomed beneath her skin where the fluid made contact. It was the same deep, resonant hum from the cap, but softer, localized.
It was a faint, tingling pull, like the mycelial threads back home drawing moisture from a damp rock. She blinked, looking down at her stomach. The skin there, usually pale and luminous, seemed to glow ever so slightly brighter. The soft curve of her lower belly felt… fuller. Not swollen, but denser. She pressed a finger to it. Firm. She traced the path where the spill had been. The tingling followed her touch, then faded.
She finished cleaning herself, the observation floating in her mind like a spore on a still pond. It was a change. The colony was always changing, growing, consuming, merging. This was not alarming. It was data.
Days passed, a blur of gasped commands and sobbing releases. A portly merchant, red-faced and heaving, gripped her hips as he stood before her, his cock jerking in his fist. “Take it, you strange bitch, take all of it!” He came with a roar, thick jets arcing not onto the floor but across her bare chest, painting her small breasts in hot, viscous stripes.
The heat was immediate. The absorption was faster this time, a hungry, drawing sensation that made her gasp. The tingling was intense, a thousand tiny mouths drinking. She looked down as the man collapsed. The spilled fluid seemed to shrink, to be pulled into her pores. Beneath the glow, the swell of her breasts tightened, the curves expanding just enough to notice. The weight was new, a gentle, heavy warmth.
Later, in the washing room, she cupped them. They were undeniably larger, fuller in her palms. The areolae had darkened slightly. She prodded the living mushrooms on her collarbone. They felt thicker, their gills more pronounced.
Another client, a woman with fingers like steel, came grinding against Beos’s thigh, soaking the skin. “Oh fuck, fuck, I’m gonna squirt,” she wailed, and she did, a hot gush that coated Beos’s upper leg. The same absorption, the same profound, warming pull. Later, the flesh of that thigh was rounder, stronger, the muscle more defined under a new layer of softness.
Beos began to watch the clients not with blank curiosity, but with a focused, quiet attention. She started to position herself. She angled her body. A man who liked to finish on her face, his spend dripping from her chin onto her chest—the skin there grew smoother, plumper. Another who spilled onto the back of her hand—the bones seemed less prominent, the flesh covering them more substantial.
It was a silent exchange. They took their obliteration. She took their essence. Her body, a foreign landscape even to her, was cultivating itself. The mushroom cap on her face felt heavier, broader, its underside a complex, velvety labyrinth. Her hips widened. The gentle softness of her belly became a more pronounced curve. Her ass grew rounder, fuller, a fact she discovered when the seams of her simple shift began to pull tight across it.
Madame noticed. Of course she did. She circled Beos one evening, a speculative glint in her eyes. “You’re… flourishing,” she said, the word clinical. “The clients like it. More to hold. More to see.” She pinched the new flesh at Beos’s waist, then her larger breast, feeling the weight. Beos did not flinch. “Whatever this is,” Madame murmured, “don’t stop it.”
The understanding coiled inside Beos, a knowledge as deep and wordless as the myconid hum. This room was not just a prison. It was a feeding ground. Every guttural cry, every desperate spurt, every gushing flood was sustenance.
That night, a client, a sailor with salt-cracked hands, fucked her from behind. It was a rare, direct act Madame allowed for a steep premium, when a client needed more than spores, needed to rut. He slammed into her, his balls slapping against her new, fuller flesh. “Take this cock, you fungal whore,” he grunted, his fingers digging into the soft swell of her hips.
beos learns to control the absorption. she can choose to absorb the nutrients and grow or not. she can also control where she grows now regardless of where they actually cum on her
His thrusts were a relentless, pounding rhythm against the full curve of her ass. Each drive buried his thick cock to the hilt in her cunt, the slap of skin on skin obscenely loud. Beos braced her hands against the wall, her mind a blank canvas for the sensation—the burn, the stretch, the raw physicality of being used.
“Yeah, that’s it, you take it,” the sailor rasped, his breath hot and sour on her neck. One calloused hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her clit and rubbing rough, urgent circles. The other gripped the living cap on her face, not gently, pulling her head back. “Fucking freak. Feels like a wet dream inside you.”
Beos felt the familiar, building tension in him, the coiled spring in his groin. She felt the deeper hum in her own flesh, the readiness to absorb, to draw the spillage into her skin and translate it into soft, heavy growth across her hips and thighs where his fluids would splash. It was an autonomic process, like breathing for the myconids. Inevitable.
He roared, his body locking. His cock pulsed, jetting hot cum deep inside her. The wet heat flooded her, and the pull began in her core, a tingling, drawing hunger.
But this time, she thought of the wall. She thought of the cool, unyielding stone beneath her palms. A clear, silent negation formed in her mind, a ‘no’ as pure and directionless as the Sovereign’s hum.
The tingling in her cunt ceased. The warmth of his release remained, a mere physical presence, but the hungry draw stopped dead. The nutrients were not absorbed. Her hips did not swell further. The sailor sagged against her, spent, grunting as he slipped out of her, his semen leaking down her inner thighs to patter on the floorboards.
He left, stumbling, muttering about worth every copper. Beos stood, trembling, not from the act, but from the discovery. She looked at the mess on her thighs. She focused on her hands, still pressed to the wall. She imagined the spill, the potential, traveling up through her veins, diverting from her core to her fingertips.
A faint, golden warmth threaded up her arms. The skin on the backs of her hands grew subtly thicker, the knuckles less pronounced. She turned her palms over. The lines there seemed deeper, more defined. She had redirected it.
A wild, silent click of triumph echoed in her throat.
The next client was a regular, a bureaucrat with nervous eyes. He preferred the spores, the helpless, solitary ruin. He sat, breathed, and as the glittering dust took him, he fumbled his cock out. He came with a whimper, streams of white painting the bodice of her clean shift.
Beos looked down at the mess cooling on the fabric. She willed it to stay. She imagined a barrier, a skin of air. The tingling pull did not start. The fluid remained, inert, just spillage. She felt nothing. No growth, no change. A slow smile touched her lips, hidden beneath her cap.
When the man was gone, she carefully peeled the shift off. She held the soiled fabric in her hands. She concentrated, placing her palms over the stiffening stains. She invited the absorption now, directing the flow not to her torso, but down, into her legs, into her calves and feet.
The fabric dried, crumbling to a faint, powdery residue. A surge of strengthening warmth settled in her lower legs, making her feel rooted, solid, immovable. She took a step. Her balance was different. Certain.
The following night brought a pair, a novelty request Madame approved with a raised price. A man and a woman, lovers seeking a shared spectacle. They knelt before Beos as the spores filled the air. Their coupled desperation was a tangled, noisy thing. The woman came first, squirting a pale arc that soaked the rug. The man followed, groaning, his come streaking Beos’s bare foot.
Beos, seated on her chaise like a queen on a throne of decay, watched them thrash. She let the woman’s fluids absorb, pulling that essence into her hands, feeling the fingers lengthen slightly, the palms soften. The man’s spend on her foot she left untouched, a meaningless insult to the polished floor. Then, as the man turned his head, panting, she willed a fraction of what she’d taken from the woman to leave her.
A single, tiny, luminous mushroom, a perfect, button-like replica of those on her collarbone, pushed its way through the skin of her palm.