Chapter 4: Constant Use
The taste lingered for days. It lived in the cracks of Clover’s teeth, a phantom richness she’d catch with the tip of her tongue during a boring lecture, making her shift in her seat. Her textbooks lay untouched. The real education was happening at home, in the perfumed dungeon of Bambi’s bedroom.
Bambi, for her part, had embraced her new role with the effortless grace of someone finding a lost remote under the couch. It just made sense.
It started small. Clover would be curled on the living room floor, attempting homework, when a shadow would fall over her papers.
“Puppy’s blocking the light,” Bambi would sing, not unkindly. Then she’d simply lower herself, a slow-motion asteroid, until the glorious, denim-clad curve of one cheek was resting on Clover’s shoulder, pinning her gently to the carpet. The weight was immense, comforting, absolute. Bambi would scroll through her phone, giggling at videos, occasionally shifting and releasing a soft, cotton-muffled brap against Clover’s arm. Clover would freeze, inhaling the denim-filtered aroma, her pen digging a hole into her notebook.
“You’re, like, the best pillow,” Bambi would muse, grinding down just a little for comfort.
The control became more direct. More intentional.
One afternoon, Clover was in the kitchen, washing a bowl Bambi had used for sugary cereal. The house was quiet. She heard the soft pad of footsteps, then felt a presence behind her.
“Hands in the sink, huh?” Bambi’s voice was right by her ear. Clover nodded, not trusting herself to speak. “Good. Stay just like that.”
Clover heard the rustle of fabric, the slow slide of cotton. A hot, bare cheek pressed against the back of her thighs. Then Bambi was leaning over her, her phenomenal front pressing into Clover’s back, her arms circling Clover’s waist to take over scrubbing the bowl. She effectively caged her against the counter.
And then she pushed.
It wasn’t aggressive. It was possessive. Her pelvis pressed Clover’s hips into the counter’s edge, and her stomach, soft and gurgling, nestled against the small of Clover’s back. A deep, liquid rumble vibrated through them both.
“Ooh, that one’s brewing,” Bambi giggled, her chin on Clover’s shoulder. She kept scrubbing the already-clean bowl.
Clover was trapped, utterly. The heat was unbearable. The promise was worse. She whimpered.
“Shhh, pet. Almost done.” Bambi put the bowl aside and just held her, swaying slightly. The pressure built, a palpable ballooning in her gut against Clover’s spine. Then Bambi relaxed, and a long, hissing, profoundly soggy brap escaped directly onto the seat of Clover’s pastel dress. The smell bloomed instantly—a ripe, gut-churning stench of digested milk and sweet cereal. Bambi sighed, content. “There. All better. You can move now, bestie.”
But Clover couldn’t. She was cemented in place by humiliation and desperate, clawing want.
The bedroom became their altar. Bambi’s commands grew simpler, more dismissive.
“Bed. Now,” she’d say, popping a piece of gum, and Clover would scramble like a soldier with shell-shock.
Bambi stopped undressing completely. She’d just amble in after Clover, wearing one of her tiny, stretched-thin nightshirts, and kneel on the edge of the mattress. “You know the drill, puppy. Get under.”
And Clover would slide beneath her, a willing sacrifice. The ritual varied only in its intensity. Sometimes Bambi would just sit, smothering Clover in sweaty silence for minutes, reading a magazine on her phone, lazily releasing small, pungent clouds that Clover would greedily gulp. Other times, she was talkative.
“Ugh, your dad took me for burritos,” she’d complain, wriggling her hips to get comfortable, sending shockwaves through Clover’s skull. “He got all weird when I tooted in the car. Like, excuse you, it’s a natural thing.” She’d bear down, and a seismic, sulfurous blast would choke the air from Clover’s lungs. “See? Better out than in.”
But tonight was different. There was a restless energy in Bambi’s movements. She’d been quiet all through dinner, her perfect brow slightly furrowed. Now, as she lowered herself onto Clover’s face, she didn’t giggle. She sighed, a heavy, full-body sound.
The smothering was immediate, total. Clover’s world became heat, weight, and the overwhelming scent of Bambi’s most intimate self. She began her worship automatically, her tongue seeking the familiar, puckered welcome.
“Just eat,” Bambi whispered, her voice strained. “I need… just eat it all, puppy.”
She didn’t tease. She didn’t start with gas. She went straight to the source, pushing almost as soon as Clover’s tongue made contact. The hole, already gaping from Clover’s attentions, dilated obscenely wide, a desperate, pink flower.
The first wave was solid, a thick, packed load that immediately filled Clover’s mouth. It was bitter, dense, heavier than before. Clover gagged for a second, tears springing to her eyes, before her hunger overrode everything. She swallowed convulsively.
Bambi moaned above her, a sound of pure relief. “Yeah… that’s it…”
It kept coming. This wasn’t a treat. This was a purge. A deep, intestinal dumping that flowed into Clover’s throat in a relentless, warm stream. She couldn’t have stopped it if she tried. She drank it down, gulp after gulp, her nose buried so deep in the crease she was breathing through the very skin of Bambi’s ass. The room faded away. There was only the taste, the smell, the incredible, degrading, beautiful act of consumption.
Finally, with a last, trembling shudder, Bambi was empty. She went limp, her full weight collapsing onto Clover’s suffocating face for one long, perfect minute before she slowly, tremblingly, lifted herself.
Clover lay gasping, her face a glistening, filthy mess. She was beyond words, beyond thought. A used vessel.
Bambi rolled onto her side, looking down at her. She reached out and smoothed Clover’s damp hair. Her doll-face was serene, blissed-out, empty of everything but soft satisfaction.
“Good puppy,” she breathed, her eyes already fluttering closed. “Such a good little toilet.” She snuggled into the pillows, pulling the sheets up to her chin. Within moments, her breathing evened out into sleep.
Clover didn’t move. The words echoed in her head, mixing with the taste in her mouth. Good little toilet. She didn’t feel disgust. She felt a golden, glowing pride. She was useful. She was necessary. She was owned.
Carefully, so as not to wake her owner, she curled onto her side, facing Bambi’s sleeping form. She brought her own fingers to her mouth, licking them clean of every last remaining trace. The hunger, for now, was pacified. It would return. It always did.
But for this moment, lying in the rotten-sweet dark, she was perfectly, completely full.