Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The sterile white hallway seemed to blur as Susan followed the man in the black suit, each step a sticky, squelching reminder of the five lives she’d drained. The cum was cooling on her skin, tightening like a second, grotesque parchment. He led her past several identical doors to a spacious, tiled chamber marked ‘Sanitation’. The air here was humid and carried the sharp, clean scent of industrial cleaner, a feeble attempt to mask the underlying biological foulness.
Another woman was already there, braced under the forceful spray of a industrial showerhead. She was roughly Susan’s age, maybe a touch younger, with the solid, capable build of someone who’d spent years hauling groceries and carrying sleeping children. Her body was encased in a thick, glistening layer of white, so thoroughly coated she looked like a statue carved from soap.
She turned her head as Susan entered, water sluicing channels through the mess on her face. “Well, don’t you look like a wedding cake that faced a hurricane,” she said, her voice ragged but laced with dark amusement.
Susan grabbed a thick, abrasive towel from a stack. “Takes one to know one. Had a party in my chamber. Five guests.” She began scrubbing at her arms, the dried residue flaking off like stale frosting.
“Five? Christ. I only had three.” The woman shut off the water and reached for her own towel. “But my third was a marathon runner. Legs like tree trunks. Talked the entire time about his personal bests. Guess I gave him a new one.” She smirked, scrubbing at her cleavage with a grim efficiency. “Brenda. They call me ‘The Wall’.”
“Susan. ‘Momzilla’.” They exchanged a nod, a silent understanding passing between them. It was the look of two people who’d just done the grocery shopping of death.
“A runner, huh?” Susan said, working on a stubborn patch on her thigh. “Bet he didn’t see the finish line coming. I had a weightlifter. Groaned like he was benching a continent. Then he just… deflated. Like a pool float with a slow leak.”
Brenda barked a laugh. “Mine begged. Offered me his crypto wallet. Like I want a billion worth of imaginary money from a ghost.” She sighed, looking down at the gunk caked under her nails. “This is worse than glitter. Or that slime the kids used to play with. I’ll be finding traces of that broker from Connecticut in my laundry for a month.”
“Try getting it out of your hair,” Susan grumbled, running a hand through her stiff locks. “I might just shave it all off and buy a collection of really expensive wigs with the prize money.”
“What’s the plan for the cash?” Brenda asked, leaning against a tiles wall as they both continued their grim ablutions. “Besides the wigs.”
“Tuition. My daughter wants to be an artist. Sculptor. So, art school. And then I’m buying the commercial building my pompous ex-husband practices law in. I’m going to triple his rent and maybe turn the office above his into a Zumba studio.” A vicious smile played on her lips. “The thought of him listening to ‘Caliente’ on loop gets me through the messy bits.”
“I love it.” Brenda’s eyes lit up. “For me, it’s a new foundation for the house. The current one’s cracking. And a kitchen remodel. My husband’s a sweet man, but he thinks a ‘gourmet kitchen’ means a microwave that doesn’t spark. After turning three men into human jerky, I think I’ve earned a six-burner gas range and a sub-zero fridge.”
“Absolutely. These boys,” Susan said, gesturing vaguely with her towel towards the halls beyond, “they think they know about endurance? Try enduring a PTA meeting on two hours of sleep. They expire in a moment of absurd ecstasy. We’re left with the real work. The cleaning up.”
“Preach.” Brenda finally tossed her soiled towel into a biohazard bin. “It’s almost disrespectful how easy they have it. My last one called me ‘ma’am’. I told him, ‘That’s Mom to you, kiddo.’ He didn’t say much after that.”
They shared a dry, cracked laugh, the sound echoing in the sterile room. For a moment, it was just two women chatting after a long day’s work, if the work was supernatural drainaging.
The hiss of the door interrupted them. The man in the black suit stood there, his impassive gaze taking in the scene of their cleanup.
“Outstanding performances, both of you,” he said, his voice devoid of any real congratulation. “The organizers are impressed. There is a final opportunity. A tandem engagement. You would enter the arena together.”
Susan and Brenda exchanged a glance, their earlier camaraderie solidifying into something sharper.
“What’s the buy-in?” Susan asked, her voice all business.
“There is no buy-in. Only a prize. Fifty million dollars. Each. Upon successful completion.”
Brenda raised an eyebrow. “And what does ‘completion’ look like for that kind of money?”
“Simple elimination,” the man said, his hands clasped behind his back. “One opponent each. Standard rules. The first to secure a fatality wins the purse.”
Brenda snorted, a rough, dismissive sound. “That’s it? One guy? Honey, I just polished off three before lunch. This sounds like a vacation.” She looked at Susan. “What do you think? In and out? We could be spending our money by dinner.”
“Sounds like a stroll,” Susan agreed, a predatory grin spreading across her face. “My daughter’s sculpture fund is about to get a whole lot bigger. I bet I can turn my guy into a dried-up husk before you’ve even broken a sweat on yours.”
The man in the suit didn’t smile. “There is a… modification. A unique variable.” He paused, letting the words hang in the chemically clean air. “Your opponents are genetically curated. Their refractory periods are non-existent. Their output is, for all practical purposes, limitless.”
The two women fell silent. Brenda stopped toweling her hair. Susan narrowed her eyes, the grin fading into something more calculating.
“Limitless?” Susan repeated slowly. “You mean he won’t…”
“He will not ‘dry up’,” the man confirmed. “The challenge is not about depletion. It is about endurance. Your endurance.”
A slow, dark curiosity ignited in Brenda’s eyes. She looked at Susan, a new kind of challenge flashing between them. This wasn’t a simple slaughter anymore. This was a test. “Well, shit. That’s different. My foundation might need to be reinforced for a vault.”
“I’ve handled everything they’ve thrown at me so far,” Susan said, her voice low and steady. “A faucet that won’t turn off? I’ve dealt with leaky plumbing. Let’s see what these super-soakers have got.” She gave a single, sharp nod. “We’re in.”
They were led to a new chamber, larger than the others, with a observation window of dark, smoked glass along one wall. The air hummed with a low, vibrational energy. Two young men sat in sleek, metallic chairs bolted to the floor.
They were barely out of their teens, with the flawless, almost plastic skin of models. Each had a confident, almost bored smirk plastered on his face. And between their legs, resting heavily on the chair seats, were cocks so disproportionately large they looked like obscene props.
“Well, hello, boys,” Brenda drawled, planting her hands on her hips. “Did you both get lost on the way to the horse show?”
The one on the left, with blond curls, laughed. “They said we were getting vintage models. They didn’t say you were actual antiques.” His voice was irritatingly smooth.
Susan stepped forward, letting her oiled cleavage catch the light. “Antiques appreciate in value, kiddo. You’re just a cheap consumer product, straight off the assembly line.” She looked him up and down. “Christ, I have towels older than you. You sure you’re even legal? I don’t want to get in trouble with your moms.”
“Our mothers are patrons of the organization,” the other one, dark-haired, said with a smirk. “They’re very invested in our success.”
“Awww,” Brenda cooed, leaning towards him. “Mommy’s little cash machines. That’s cute.” She jiggled her chest. “You might want to look away, sweetheart. A pair of real, experienced set of tits might be too much for your programmed little brain to handle. Don’t want you blowing your load before the fun starts.”
Susan laughed, a harsh, genuine sound. “Yeah, try not to cum just from the sight of us. That would be embarrassing. All that genetic engineering undone by a couple of milfs.” She moved closer to the blond, her voice dropping to a taunting whisper. “You think you’re special because you can keep going? Baby, I’ve been going for forty-five years. You’re a weekend project. I’m a legacy.”
The blond’s smirk tightened. “We’ll see who’s still talking when you’re drowning.”
“Promises, promises,” Brenda said, positioning herself in front of her chosen opponent. She glanced over at Susan, a fierce gleam in her eye. “Ready to put these toys away?”
Susan took a deep breath, the pulsating red light glinting in her determined eyes. “Born ready.”
“Born ready.”
Susan and Brenda moved in unison, a well-oiled machine of maternal fury. They enveloped the obscenely large cocks with their chests, the slick warmth of their oiled skin a stark contrast to the cold, artificial air. The two young men barely flinched, their smirks only widening.
“You really think this pathetic display will work on us?” the blond one sneered, his hips shifting with an unsettling, mechanical ease. “Our systems are engineered. We don’t have your biological limitations.”
Brenda tightened her grasp, initiating a brutal, rhythmic motion. “Shut up and cum, you little test-tube baby.” She glanced over at Susan, raising her voice over the wet, slapping sounds. “So, anyway, I was thinking about patio furniture. You think teak is worth the upkeep?”
Susan matched her rhythm, locking her opponent in a vise of flesh. “Teak’s a nightmare. Especially with the salt air near my new villa.” Her guy bucked against her, but she absorbed the movement like a wave hitting a seawall. “I’m going with composite. No splinters, no staining.”
“Good call,” Brenda grunted, putting more shoulder into it. “Composite for the patio, six-burner for the kitchen. I swear, if I have to look at my husband’s one warped frying pan for another day…”
The dark-haired man beneath her let out a grating laugh. “You’re discussing home improvements? While you’re failing to kill us? The arrogance of obsolete models is astounding.”
“Obsolete?” Susan laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the chamber. “Honey, I’m a classic. You’re just a cheap knockoff.” She increased her pace, a relentless, piston-like action. “Look at you. You probably still get acne. Brenda, does this one look like he needs Clearasil?”
Brenda leaned down, her face inches from her opponent’s. “He’s got that peach fuzz going on. I bet his voice cracks when he gets excited.” She rocked harder, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I could literally be your mother. I remember when my son was this age. All hormones and no sense.”
“I could be both your mothers,” Susan added, driving her point home with a particularly brutal thrust of her torso. “Did your real mommies tell you it was okay to talk back to your elders?”
The taunts finally hit their mark. The blond’s smug facade cracked, replaced by a raw, frustrated snarl. A tremor ran through his body, a seismic shift that was both voluntary and forced. Then it happened.
It wasn’t an orgasm so much as a geyser eruption. A torrent of white shot forth with impossible pressure, splashing against Susan’s chin and chest in a hot, continuous stream. Across the room, Brenda’s opponent followed suit, his own release a seemingly endless fountain that coated her torso.
“There we go!” Brenda shouted, leaning into the deluge. “Don’t hold back, sweetie! Give it all to mommy! Empty those perfect little balls!”
“That’s it, pump it out!” Susan urged, her voice a relentless coach’s chant. “All of it! Every last drop! Show me what that expensive engineering is worth!”
The fountain continued for a full minute, a ridiculous, overwhelming flood that pooled on the floor around their feet. The air grew thick with the cloying, salty smell. Finally, the streams weakened, then stopped. The two men sat panting, their bodies glistening with sweat but otherwise intact. Their chests rose and fell. They were alive. Perfectly fine.
The blond blinked, his expression shifting from ecstasy back to a dawning arrogance. “See? Limitless. You can’t win.”
Susan wiped a handful of fluid from her eyes. She looked at Brenda, who was doing the same. A silent, grim understanding passed between them. The rules had changed.
Without a word, they repositioned themselves. They tightened their grips once more, their movements now devoid of any teasing cadence, replaced by a desperate, grinding intensity.
The wet, rhythmic sound filled the room again, louder this time.
The wet, rhythmic sound filled the room again, louder this time, a frantic, slopping counterpoint to the two women’s labored breathing. Susan drove her hips forward, a relentless piston, her muscles burning with a fatigue she hadn’t felt since her earliest fights. She locked eyes with her blond opponent, whose smug expression was now tinged with a flicker of something else—not fear, but annoyance.
“Your mother,” Susan grunted, sweat stinging her eyes. “She really signed the waiver for this? Watched them hook up the IVs full of super-sperm juice?”
The young man’s jaw tightened. “She understands progress. She invested in a superior product.”
“Invested?” Brenda barked a laugh from the other side of the chamber, not breaking her own brutal rhythm. “Honey, she invested in a warranty that’s about to void spectacularly.” She leaned closer to her dark-haired foe. “What’s her name? Karen? Melissa? I bet she’s in the VIP lounge right now, sipping chardonnay and hoping her little boy makes her rich.”
“She’s proud!” the dark-haired one snapped, his composure finally cracking.
“Proud that her son gets milked to death by a real estate agent from Phoenix?” Susan mocked, increasing her pace until the sound was a continuous, wet shudder. “That’s the legacy? ‘Here lies my son, he died as he lived: underwhelming a middle-aged woman’?”
Brenda threw her head back and laughed, a raw, joyous sound amidst the grotesquery. “God, can you imagine? If it were our boys strapped to these chairs?”
Susan didn’t miss a beat, a dark, gruesome fantasy unfolding as she worked. “My Mikey? A sweet boy. Wants to be a painter. I’d haunt him from the grave if he let himself get taken out by a pair of bored housewives with a new kitchen to fund.” The thought fueled her, adding a fresh burst of angry energy. “The embarrassment would kill me a second time. The autopsy would say ‘cause of death: acute humiliation’.”
“Right?” Brenda agreed, her voice pitching higher with effort. “My Jason? God, he still can’t parallel park. If I had to get a call saying he’d been titfucked into a dried husk by someone’s mom at a PTA fundraiser…” She trailed off, shaking her head in mock despair. “I wouldn’t even be angry. I’d just be so… disappointed. It’s so undignified.”
“We should send the mothers a fruit basket,” Susan wheezed, her arms screaming in protest. “With a note. ‘Sorry for your loss. PS: Your son came twice before he shriveled up. He was very… productive.’”
“A fruit basket? I’m sending a glitter bomb,” Brenda shot back, her body glistening under a fresh layer of sweat and other fluids. “And a link to a grief counseling group called ‘Moms of Boys Who Couldn’t Handle It.’”
Their dark laughter intertwined with the slick, punishing sounds of their labor. It was a defiance, a shield against the creeping dread that these boys were, in fact, endless.
“Alright, pretty boys,” Susan snarled, pushing past the burn in her shoulders. “Let’s see it. Give momma another gallon. Don’t you dare hold back.”
“Come on, juice box,” Brenda roared, slamming her body forward with a final, monumental effort. “Let it go! All of it! Do it!”
As if commanded, the two genetically curated bodies convulsed in unison. Another torrent erupted, even more voluminous than the first, a seemingly impossible flood that shot across the room with the force of a firehose. It drenched the women, splashed against the observation window, and pooled on the floor in deep, viscous puddles.
“YES!” Susan screamed, riding the deluge. “THAT’S IT! MORE!”
“DRAIN THOSE EXPENSIVE BALLS!” Brenda yelled, her voice hoarse. “CUM YOURSELVES TO DEATH, YOU LITTLE SCIENCE PROJECTS!”
The eruption lasted for another full, absurd minute, a spectacle of catastrophic biological output. When it finally, agonizingly, subsided, the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the ceiling and the women’s ragged gasps.
Susan and Brenda, coated anew, stepped back. Their chests heaved. They stared at their opponents.
The two young men slumped in their chairs, soaked and panting. Their eyes were glassy with overstimulation. But their chests still rose and fell. They blinked. They were alive. Exhausted, perhaps, but fundamentally intact.
The blond one managed a weak, shaky smirk. “Told you,” he whispered, his voice thin. “Limitless.”
A cold wave of disbelief washed over Susan. She looked at Brenda, seeing her own frustration mirrored in her friend’s weary eyes. This wasn’t a battle of attrition they could win. The rules of the game had been fundamentally broken.
From behind the smoked glass, a faint, dry clapping sound echoed, slow and deliberate.
From behind the smoked glass, a faint, dry clapping sound echoed, slow and deliberate. A section of the wall hissed open, not the main door, but a smaller, previously hidden panel. Two women stood there, elegant and severe in tailored suits, their faces carved from the same cold marble as the man who’d offered the contract. They held flutes of bubbling champagne.
“Mother,” the blond boy rasped, a flicker of something like reverence in his exhausted eyes.
The dark-haired woman, her hair a sleek silver bob, took a sip from her glass. “A valiant effort, ladies. Truly. But you see the fruitlessness now, don’t you?” Her voice was crisp, devoid of warmth. “They are perpetual motion machines. You are… biological clocks, winding down.”
Susan wiped a slick strand of hair from her forehead, her breath still coming in heavy gusts. “So you’re the masterminds. Let me guess. Failed athletes? Couldn’t make the cut yourselves, so you cooked up these… things in a lab instead?”
The other mother, a brunette with sharp, avian features, smiled a thin, bloodless smile. “We are investors. And you are attempting to break our most valuable assets. It’s time to concede.”
Brenda barked a laugh, the sound raw in the thick air. “Concede? Honey, I haven’t even put the good towels out. We’re just getting warmed up.” She slapped the thigh of the dark-haired boy, making him jolt. “Aren’t we, sweetheart? Mom’s here to watch you perform.”
“She’s right,” Susan said, locking eyes with the silver-blonde mother. “You should have a front-row seat. Watch how a real woman works.” She turned back to her own opponent, her voice dropping to a corrosive whisper. “Let’s give your mom a show she’ll remember at your funeral. What color casket do you think she’ll pick? I’m hoping for a nice brushed nickel. Very modern.”
“Oh, I bet she goes for classic mahogany,” Brenda called over, repositioning herself with a grimace. “Something sturdy. To hold all the tears she’ll shed when she has to explain to her book club how her perfect son was squeezed dry by a woman who picks her drapes at Costco.”
The mothers’ polished composure cracked. “You filthy creatures,” the silver-blonde one spat, her champagne flute trembling.
“We’re what you made us,” Susan grunted, re-engaging with a brutal, grinding motion that made the chair legs squeal against the floor. “You built these boys to be unstoppable? We’re just the immovable object.”
“How’s it feel, Karen?” Brenda shouted over the wet, rhythmic noise, addressing the brunette mother directly. “Watching the million-dollar progeny you designed get his engine serviced by a soccer mom? You get that on your vision board? ‘Son’s death by motorboating’?”
“His name is Aurelius!” the woman shrieked, her carefully constructed calm shattering.
“I don’t care if his name is ‘Prometheus’,” Susan shot back, her muscles screaming in protest as she drove forward. “He’s going to look just as pathetic as any other man when he’s a desiccated noodle. You’ll have to bury him in a soup can.”
The two women found a new, desperate rhythm, their conversation continuing as if they were gossiping over a backyard fence.
“God, the volume on this one,” Brenda panted, her body slick with a fresh sheen of sweat mixing with the residue. “It’s like a fire hydrant got punched. You’d think with all that engineering, they’d have figured out a less… messy delivery system.”
“Tell me about it,” Susan groaned, shifting her weight to get a better angle. “My guy’s barely old enough to shave and he’s producing enough to repopulate the planet. It’s indecent.” She glanced at Brenda’s opponent. “How old do you think that one is? Twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Barely legal,” Brenda agreed, straining. “And we’re what, a combined ninety years old? That’s gotta sting their pride. Getting taken out by a couple of relics who remember the original Star Wars in theaters.”
“How does it feel?” Susan yelled suddenly, turning her head towards the horrified mothers. “Seriously! How does it feel to watch us work your boys over? Knowing we’re going to squeeze every last drop of life out of them to buy a new sunroom?”
The silver-blonde mother’s face was a mask of pure, undiluted fury. “You will not succeed,” she hissed, her knuckles white on her champagne flute. “You cannot win.”
“We’ll see about that,” Brenda growled.
She looked at Susan, and a silent, frantic agreement passed between them. This was it. They put their heads down, their bodies becoming a single-minded engine of destruction. The wet, slapping sounds intensified, becoming a frantic, continuous beat.
“Now, boys!” Susan roared, her voice cracking with the strain. “Give it to us! All of it! Don’t you dare hold back!”
“Cum for mommy!” Brenda screamed, her body a piston of furious will. “Cum until your heart stops! DO IT!”
As if their voices were a trigger, the two young men arched back, their bodies seizing. What erupted from them wasn't a geyser or a fountain this time. It was a cataclysm.
A vast, torrential flood burst forth, a continuous, roaring deluge that hit Susan and Brenda with the force of a pressure washer. It blinded them, filled their mouths and noses, soaked their hair, and cascaded down their bodies in a relentless, hot wave. The chamber floor was instantly awash, the level rising to their ankles.
“YES!” Susan shrieked, sputtering through the impossible downpour. “MORE! EMPTY EVERYTHING!”
“DIE FOR US, YOU PRETTY LITTLE BASTARDS!” Brenda bellowed, holding her ground against the onslaught.
For a full, impossible minute, the chamber was a whiteout of sound and fluid. The two women stood their ground, cheering and screaming through the storm, their forms barely visible within the maelstrom. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the ceiling and the heavy, gulping breaths of Susan and Brenda. They stood swaying, chests heaving, draped in a thick, glistening layer of white. They looked like grotesque snowwomen.
Slowly, shakily, they turned their heads to look at their opponents.
The two young men were slumped, drenched, and breathing raggedly. Their eyes were rolled back in their heads, their bodies trembling with utter exhaustion. But their chests still rose and fell. They were pale, spent, and shuddering, but unmistakably, infuriatingly alive.
Aurelius, the dark-haired one, let out a weak, wet cough.
From the doorway, his mother took a slow, victorious sip of her champagne.