Chapter 2: The Conduent Beckons
The fryers out front hissed their endless song. Miku’s hands were shaking. She shoved the phone into her skirt pocket, the fabric straining over her hip, and pushed through the swinging door marked ‘Employees Only.’
The noise cut off.
Here, the world was muffled, cold, and dense. The storage room was a cavern, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent tube that did little to push back the shadows crowding the ceiling. The air was different—not the front’s warm vanilla, but the smell of raw flour, cold grease, and something metallic, like old coins. Towering metal racks groaned, stacked with industrial sacks of sugar, drums of oil, and pale, unpainted doughnut molds. Some of the molds had faces. Idol faces, blank and smiling, piled in cardboard boxes.
Miku leaned back against a stack of crates labeled DO NOT OPEN (unless you’re a goddess). The rough wood bit through her thin shirt. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe, but the message was there, glowing behind her lids. They found the demo. Her heart was a frantic bird in the cage of her ribs.
A soft thud echoed from the deepest shadows.
Her eyes snapped open.
Another thud, heavy, rhythmic. The vibration traveled up through the soles of her pink heels. The single light flickered.
He emerged from between two towering shelves, a shape resolving from the dark. The Conduent.
Seven feet of silent muscle, pale under the sickly light. His apron was the only white in the room, cinched tight around a waist that flared into a massively thick chest and shoulders that seemed to wedge themselves between the shelves. His arms were pillars. But it was the head, always the head, that made reality thin and tear. A perfect, golden-brown doughnut, the surface matte and pocked with tiny pores. The hole in the center was a tunnel of absolute black, from which a faint, honeyed glow pulsed gently.
And below the apron’s hem, swinging heavily with each step, was the other part of him. Thick as her forearm, semi-erect, a ruddy weight of flesh that seemed to belong to a different creature entirely.
He stopped a few feet away, blocking the path to the door. The air changed. The metallic scent sharpened, mixed now with the warm, yeast-and-sugar smell of fresh bread.
The metallic scent sharpened, mixed now with the warm, yeast-and-sugar smell of fresh bread. It filled her mouth, coated her throat. Miku couldn’t move. The space between her shoulder blades pressed hard into the wooden crate. His doughnut head tilted, that dark hole gazing, the inner glow pulsing slow, then fast, then slow again. A low vibration began, not a sound but a pressure in her teeth, in the hollows of her ears.
It pressed against her skin, a physical wave.
It found the frantic drumming of her heart and began to change its rhythm, to slow and deepen it, against her will. Her lungs tightened. She tried to draw a full breath and couldn’t. The air was too thick, too laden with him. Her vision blurred at the edges, the racks of supplies melting into a haze of grey and gold. All that was clear was him: the stupid, beautiful absurdity of that baked head, the terrifying width of him, the silent promise swinging heavily below his apron.
Her pink uniform felt like a child’s costume, the seams whispering their imminent failure.
A button on her shirt gave a soft ping as it popped free, vanishing into the gloom. The released pressure was a shock. Cool air touched the swell of her chest, but it did nothing to cool her skin. Heat was blooming deep in her belly, a sluggish, syrupy warmth that spread downward, making the brown skirt feel unbearably tight across her hips and thighs. She was swelling, softening, her curves becoming heavier under his silent regard.
The vibration in the air deepened, harmonizing with a new, wet sizzle from the shadowed corner where the fryers lived. He took one step forward. The floor trembled. Another step. Now he loomed, his warmth radiating against her. The glow from his head-hole cast a faint, golden light over the top of her breasts, over her parted lips.
She was breathless in his presence.
A helpless, shuddering gasp finally left her, but it brought no air. Her head swam. The memory of the message, the demo, the screaming faces—it all began to blur, to be pushed out by this overwhelming, sugary now. Her knees buckled, not in fear, but in a sudden, total surrender to the weight. Her own and his. The last thing she saw before her vision tunneled was his massive hand, streaked with flour and glaze, rising toward her.
The hand didn’t strike. It settled, immense and warm, over the side of her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat. The vibration was in his skin now, conducted directly into her bones. It was a language. It said still. It said full. It said more.
Her vision cleared, but the world had changed. Everything was softer, edges blurred by that golden glow from his head. The panic about the message, about her past, was still there, but it was distant, a buzzing fly behind glass. The immediate reality was the heat of his palm, the sheer physical domination of his presence, and the low, throbbing ache he had unlocked deep within her plush body.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice a frayed thread.
The vibration from his hand shifted, a questioning pulse. His other hand moved, the fingers brushing the taut fabric over her stomach. A shockwave of sensation rolled through her, making her heavy breasts shift and strain against the torn shirt. Bliss, thick and ignorant, began to seep into the cracks of her fear. It was what the doughnuts promised. What the shop sold. To forget.
She remembered the other girls, the ones who’d been here longer. Their delighted curves, their empty smiles. They’d traded their old ghosts for this warm, heavy nothing. The Conduent’s thumb stroked her jawline, a gesture absurdly tender for a creature of his size and silence. The glow from his head-hole brightened, illuminating the flour dust suspended in the air between them.
It was an offer. A trade.
Her old life, with its screaming fans and lost demos, for this palpable, sweet oblivion. She looked down, past the vast plain of his apron, to the formidable weight of him swaying there. It was part of the exchange. The source of the warmth. The engine of the forgetting.
The words left her before she could cage them, torn from a place deeper than thought, a raw and needy sound.
“Can I…” Her voice broke. She swallowed, her throat working against his thumb. “Can I taste you?”
The vibrations ceased. For a heartbeat, the storage room was utterly silent, the hum of the fluorescent light gone, the distant fryers mute. The Conduent’s doughnut head inclined. The glow within the central hole swelled, warm and consenting, casting her upturned face in a light like caramel.
His massive hand left her throat and moved to the knot of his apron.
His massive hand left her throat and moved to the knot of his apron. The cord unwove itself, a slow unraveling that echoed in the dense, flour-scented air. The white fabric slipped from his shoulders, pooling at his feet like a fallen cloud.
He stood fully exposed, a silent colossus. The warm glow from his doughnut head illuminated the thick, powerful lines of his body, casting long shadows across the storage racks. Below, his cock hung with a heavy, swaying gravity, its girth a surreal testament to the shop’s hidden economy.
Miku’s breath caught, a sharp intake that made her chest strain against the remaining buttons. “It’s too much,” she whispered, but the words lacked conviction. The vibration in the room deepened, a physical pressure that pushed against her fear, against the memory of that text message burning in her pocket.
She thought of the demo, the lost song, the screams that used to feel like love. Here, there was only this: the yeast-and-sugar smell, the golden light, the promise of a fuller, heavier oblivion. Her knees trembled, the pink heels biting into the soft, greasy floor.
The Conduent took a half-step forward, his movement causing the air to shift around them. His hand gestured downward, a slow, undeniable command. The glow from his head-hole brightened, washing over her face, her throat, the exposed swell of her breasts.
“Make me forget,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “Please.”
Her body responded before her mind could protest. The weight of her own curves, the plush heaviness of her bottom and thighs, pulled her downward. She released her grip on the crate, letting the tension drain from her shoulders. The floor rose to meet her, a cold, solid reality.
SHE SINKS TO HER KNEES.
The cold, greasy floor seeped through the thin fabric of her brown skirt as she settled onto her heels. Her teal twintails brushed the floor, and she looked up the impossible length of him, the glow from his head-hole painting her face in warm light. Her mouth watered, not with desire, but with a frantic, starving need to erase the digital ghost of that demo forever. With a shuddering gasp, she leaned forward, her lips parting wide, and SHE GREEDILY CRAMS HIS COCK DOWN HER THROAT. The overwhelming stretch was immediate, a silencing, full sensation that traveled deep into her skull, blurring her vision as the low, approving vibrations from his doughnut head flooded her bones.
The taste was exactly like the shop’s air—warm vanilla glaze, synthetic strawberry, the faint, fatty whisper of frying oil. It coated her tongue, her throat, a saccharine flood that drowned the metallic fear left by the phone’s message. He began to move, a slow, inevitable piston, and with each withdrawal, her world narrowed to the greasy floor and the radiant, golden hole above her. A final, seismic vibration locked her in place as a hot, thick rush flooded her esophagus, a filling warmth that tasted of powdered sugar and obliteration. She swallowed convulsively, the heat spreading through her core, making her already-heavy body feel dense and anchored, finally silent.
The vibrations humming through the floorboards now felt like a lullaby. That earlier terror, the sharp metallic taste of the unknown message, had dissolved entirely into a warm, syrupy devotion that clung to her ribs. She looked up at his doughnut head, at the gentle, pulsing glow within the central void, and understood this was where she belonged. Every swallow had been a vow. She was his.