Chapter 13: The Mouth That Hungers
The taste of herself was cloying and salt-bitter, a film on her slackening tongue. Madame Eve—though the name was a distant, tinkling bell in the murk of her mind—lay on her side, one swollen breast pillowing her head. The echoes of her violent release still trembled in her thighs. But a new, different ache was threading its way through the haze.
It was a tight, fleshy pulse, a demand that originated in the base of her still-thick cock and radiated outward, cutting through the post-orgasm lethargy. The organ, softened momentarily, was hardening again against the curve of her own belly, insistent, a dull red brand on her milk-damp skin.
The mirrors observed, their weeping threads of gold now dripping with a slower, more viscous fluid that smelled of honey and rust.
“It’s not enough to spill it on the floor,” a mirror whispered, its voice the sound of cracking lacquer. “That’s for beasts. But you’re becoming something else, aren’t you? Something… nurtured.”
She groaned, a low, bovine sound. Her hand, clumsy and plump-fingered, drifted down her body. The touch of her own hand on her cock was a jolt. It wasn’t her hand. It was a stranger’s hand, soft and stupid, wrapping around the hardened flesh. She pumped once, twice, a lazy, exploratory motion. A fresh pearl of pre-cum welled at the slit.
The mirrors sighed in unison.
Her head lolled back. The dark canopy of the parlor ceiling swam above her. Her other hand, as if belonging to a separate creature, rose and clumsily fondled the enormous weight of her breast, pinching the nerveless nipple. A weak trickle of bluish milk streaked her collarbone.
The dual sensations—the rough friction of her fist, the passive drip from her tit—created a feedback loop of blank, mounting need. Her hips began a shallow, rocking thrust into her own grip. But it was clumsy. Unsatisfying. The angle was wrong.
“You know what you need,” hissed another mirror, this one clouded with a breath-like film. “You’re all mouth now. All sucking need. Put it where it belongs.”
A thick strand of golden syrup descended from the ceiling, coiling around her wrist and gently tugging her hand away from her cock. The loss of contact made her whimper. The syrup-strand guided her hand upward, past the mountainous terrain of her breasts, towards her face.
Her lips were parted, panting. Her own scent—musk, milk, sweat—filled her nostrils. The guided hand pressed two of her fingers into her own mouth. The taste of salt and skin bloomed. Her tongue, almost of its own volition, laved at them, sucking weakly.
“See?” the parlor walls murmured, the velvet nap rising and falling like a resting animal’s flank. “The mouth wants to work. It’s hungry.”
The golden strand released her wrist. Her hand fell away, wet with saliva. Her head tipped forward, her raven hair, now lank and sticky, veiling her face. Her gaze, blurry and devoid of its former cunning, fell upon the upright thickness of her own cock, jutting from the thatch of dark hair. The purple head glistened, beckoning.
A drool of genuine saliva joined the pre-cum on her belly.
It was an impossible geometry. Her body was too vast, too transformed. But the parlor assisted. The floor beneath her shifted subtly, a gentle, fleshy incline forming to raise her hips. Another golden thread, warm and pliant, looped beneath her back, providing support. It bent her forward, bringing her head closer to her own groin.
The honey-sweet, coppery smell of her arousal was overpowering. Her mind was a empty room with a single, blinking light: Suck.
With a grunt of effort, she strained forward. Her neck creaked. Her heavy breasts hung down, swaying, their nipples brushing her trembling thighs. She opened her mouth, and her lips, now full and pouty in a way that spoke of dumb sensation rather than allure, closed around the head of her own cock.
The shock of heat, the silken-skin texture, the violent, alive pulse against her tongue—it short-circuited the last vestiges of her coherence. A guttural, approving sound vibrated in her throat, transmitted directly into her own flesh.
Her eyes, wide and green and empty, stared cross-eyed at the shaft disappearing into her mouth. She sucked, tentatively at first, then with a deeper, needier pull. Her tongue flattened against the frenulum, then swirled.
The mirrors shrieked with crystalline laughter. “There! She learns! The circle is complete! Milk and seed, intake and output!”
She began to fuck her own face.
Her hips, supported by the living floor, pistoned upward, driving her cock deeper into her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but didn’t pull away. The gagging triggered a violent convulsion in her breasts, and twin streams of milk shot from her nipples, arcing through the air to splatter on the rug. The obscene rhythm was hypnotic: the wet, choking slide of her throat taking her own length, the syncopated splash of her leaking milk.
Her nose was buried in her own pubic hair. Her world was heat, and taste, and the deafening, sloppy sounds of her violation. She was both violator and violated, a closed circuit of devouring need. Pre-cum flooded her mouth, a bitter-salty reward. She swallowed it greedily, along with her own spit and muffled, choking sobs.
Her hands came up, not to push away, but to clutch at the heavy, swinging orbs of her tits, squeezing in time with her thrusts, milking herself in a pathetic parody of self-sustenance.
“Good cow,” the walls chanted, a soft, wet mantra. “Good, stupid cow. Take your fill. Your only purpose is to be full and to be emptied.”
The pressure built, not in her mind—there was no mind left—but in the raw plumbing of her body. A deep, tectonic throbbing at the root of her cock, a swelling tension in her balls. She sucked harder, frantic, desperate for the final release, her throat stretched taut.
When it came, it was a drowning. Her hips jerked, spasming violently as she buried herself to the hilt in her own gullet. A thick, hot rush of cum shot directly down her throat in convulsive pulses. She had no choice but to swallow, gulping down her own spend as it was violently fed to her. It was a profound, degrading fullness, internal and complete.
She collapsed backward, the golden strands releasing her. Her cock slipped from her bruised lips with a soft, wet pop. She lay spread-eagled, chest heaving, cum and milk and saliva smeared across her face, her breasts, her bloated belly.
A profound change settled over her. The sharp awareness of her own horror was gone, burned away in the furnace of recursive sensation. Her green eyes stared at the weeping ceiling, blank and placid. A simple, soft moan escaped her. “Moo-uh?”
Her body, accepting its final purpose, began its last adjustments. Her breasts seemed to settle, their veins mapping a permanent, fertile blueprint. The flesh of her hips and ass softened further, spreading into a broad, placid cradle. The clever lines of her face melted entirely into a pretty, vacant mask of perpetual, hungry expectation.
The velvet parlor sighed, content. The mirrors cleared, showing only a reflection of a perfect, waiting hucow, ready to be milked, ready to be bred. The first story of the new compilation was over. The feeder had become the feed. The silence that followed was not empty, but thick with the promise of the same fate awaiting the next curious guest who dared to listen.