Chapter 17: Easy Goodnight
The firelight seemed to cling to them as Tom hauled Sarah upright. She stumbled, her legs wobbly, her massively oversized breasts swaying heavily beneath her cum-streaked, stretched t-shirt. A thick strand of drool still connected her slack lower lip to the glistening mess on her chest. "C'mon, fucktoy," he muttered, his voice rough but lacking its earlier harsh edge. He looped an arm around her waist, half-supporting, half-dragging her towards the hallway, leaving the drone of the football game and the crackling fire behind.
The walk to their bedroom was slow, punctuated by Sarah's wet, shallow breaths and the occasional stumble. Tom navigated the familiar path by touch more than sight, the dimness of the hallway amplifying the scent of sex and exertion clinging to them. He pushed the bedroom door open, the soft glow from a small lamp on Sarah's nightstand bathing the room in warm light. Framed photographs on the walls – smiling on a beach, goofy faces at a carnival – seemed jarringly innocent against the debauched creature he guided inside.
He deposited her carefully onto the edge of their unmade bed. She sagged, looking dazed, her huge tits resting heavily on her thighs. Tom surveyed the wreckage: the dried streaks on her chin and neck, the glistening mess smeared across the impossible swell of her cleavage and soaked into her shirt, the faint red marks from his grip on her pigtails still visible in her hair. He sighed, a sound carrying both exhaustion and a strange, lingering satisfaction.
"Stay," he commanded, his voice softer now. He walked into the attached bathroom, the cool tile a shock against his bare feet. He grabbed a soft washcloth and ran it under warm water, soaking it thoroughly. The faint scent of lavender from the candles Sarah had lit earlier that evening finally reached him, a delicate counterpoint to the musk in the air.
Back in the bedroom, he knelt before her. Sarah blinked slowly, her eyes less vacant now, but clouded with a profound fatigue. Tom gently cupped her chin, tilting her face up. "Gotta clean you up, dummy," he murmured, not unkindly. He started with her face, the warm washcloth wiping away the crusted drool, the smear of tears, the trails of mucus. He was surprisingly tender, dabbing at the corners of her reddened eyes, wiping the slick remnants from her swollen lips. She flinched slightly as he cleaned the sensitive skin around her jawline and throat.
"Throat... hurts," she rasped, her voice a wrecked whisper, a stark contrast to the bimbo’s mindless gurgles.
"Shh," Tom soothed, continuing his ministrations. He moved down, pushing the damp, stiff fabric of her t-shirt aside to expose the full, obscene expanse of her cleavage. The washcloth glided over the sticky skin, lifting the cooling streaks of cum. He took his time, cleaning each heavy curve, his touch impersonal yet thorough. The sheer size still fascinated him, even reduced. They were soft mountains, permanently altered monuments to his desire. He wiped the valley between them, the cloth snagging slightly on her stiff nipples. Sarah made a soft hum, her eyes drifting shut.
He pulled the ruined t-shirt off over her head, adding it to a growing pile on the floor. He cleaned her neck, shoulders, and the tops of her arms where stray drops had landed. Finally, he tossed the soiled washcloth aside. "Okay," he breathed, standing. "Bed."
He helped her shuffle back until she could lie down on the cool sheets. He pulled the covers up over her lower half, then walked around to his side. He stripped off his own clothes, the air cool on his skin. The coin felt warm against his thigh, its constant hum a low thrum of power, but quieter now, satiated. He slid in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight.
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by their breathing – his steadying, hers still a little ragged. The lavender scent was stronger here, mingling with the lingering tang of sex and sweat. Tom stared at the ceiling, the day’s events replaying in flashes: the coin’s initial power surge, the kitchen counter, the remote’s garish buttons, the brutal facefucking, the titfuck finish. The sheer, unadulterated power of it. Of her.
Sarah shifted beside him, turning onto her side to face him. Her huge breasts, freed from the t-shirt, spilled heavily onto the mattress between them. Her eyes, in the soft lamplight, were clearer now. The warm brown hue was returning, the vacant glaze almost gone, replaced by a deep exhaustion and something else… contemplation. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if assembling fragmented memories.
"Tom?" Her voice was still rough, but stronger. She swallowed, wincing. "That... that thing you did. With the... the controller?"
Tom turned his head, meeting her gaze. He saw no anger, no fear. Just a profound weariness and a flicker of curiosity. "Yeah?" he replied cautiously.
She paused, searching for words. "When... when you made me... dumb." She touched her temple lightly. "And my throat... open like that." A faint blush crept up her neck. "And... these." Her hand brushed the immense swell of her breast. "It was... intense."
Tom watched her, a knot of something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Not quite guilt, but a sudden awareness of what he’d done. "Yeah," he repeated, quieter. "It was."
Sarah surprised him. A slow, tentative smile touched her lips, utterly incongruous with her raspy voice and the gargantuan tits resting beside him. "I... I liked it, Tom," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. "The feeling... when you change me. It’s... warm. Like... like sinking into a hot bath. And then... when you use me... like that..." She trailed off, a deeper blush staining her cheeks, but her eyes held his steadily. "It felt... right. Like I was exactly what you needed. Exactly what you wanted me to be."
Tom was silent, absorbing her words. The quiet affirmation, the enjoyment she described in the surrendering of her very self... it resonated with the possessiveness humming alongside the coin's power. He reached up, his thumb gently tracing the still-reddened skin near her jaw. "Didn't hurt you?" he asked gruffly, though he knew the answer. He’d seen the tears, heard the gagging.
"Only... only good," she murmured, leaning into his touch. "A little sore now. Here." She touched her throat again. "But... good sore. Like... after a really hard workout." The dopey smile returned, wider this time. "And these?" She cupped one massive breast, hefting its weight. "They feel amazing. Heavy. Soft. Yours." She snuggled closer, her enormous chest pressing against his side, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. "Do whatever you want, Tom," she breathed, the words thick with sleep and utter submission. "Change me. Use me. However you need me. I love it. I love being your perfect toy."
Tom wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. His other hand found the garish pink remote where he’d tossed it on his nightstand. He didn't pick it up, just rested his fingers on its cheap plastic shell. He looked down at her face nestled against him, the peaceful contentment there, the absolute trust. The coin thrummed softly against his hip, a silent echo of her words. His perfect toy.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the lavender and the scent of her hair. "Good girl," he murmured, the words softer now, almost tender. "Get some sleep." He clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint ambient light from the window. Sarah sighed, a sound of utter contentment, her breathing deepening almost immediately.
Tom lay awake in the dark, his arm around the impossibly altered woman who was his wife. The colossal weight of her breast against his ribs was a constant, warm pressure. Her words echoed in his mind: 'Do whatever you want... I love it...' The possibilities whispered by the coin, amplified by the remote in his grasp, seemed endless. The hum intensified slightly, pulsing in time with his own heartbeat. He pictured her eyes glazing over again, her mouth slackening, her body shifting to accommodate whatever twisted, perfect fantasy flickered next in his mind. A slow, possessive smile curved his lips in the darkness. She’d said she was sore. Maybe tomorrow he’d make her asshole incredibly loose and fuck her there while she was still dumb and drooling. Or maybe something else entirely.
He drifted off, the image of her vacant, blissful smile as he reshaped her to his will the last conscious thought before sleep claimed him, the remote cool and potent under his fingertips.