Chapter 25: Oral Feedback Loop
The sobs subsided into ragged hitches of breath, then into a hollow, drained silence. Delores lay utterly still, her arms flung out like a broken doll’s. The only movement was the rise and fall of her chest, a shallow tide beneath her breasts. The warmth of the clone’s spend had cooled inside the mouth that was now her sex, a damp, uncomfortable reminder.
Lisa blinked, adjusting to the permanent twilight of her new vantage point. The world was a canyon of rumpled linen, the distant cliffs of the bedroom wall, and the ever-present swell of Delores’s stomach above her. She could feel the coarse texture of the sheets against what was now the back of her head—a bizarre, full-scalp sensation. She experimentally worked her jaw. The muscles responded, a chewing motion that translated into a peculiar, internal clenching for Delores.
A soft gasp echoed from above. “Stop that,” Delores whispered, her voice scraped raw.
Lisa ignored her. She was concentrating. She focused on the sensation of her own tongue inside her mouth. It felt normal, muscular, controlled. She pushed it out, past her lips.
The effect was instantaneous and electric.
For Lisa, it was simply the feeling of her tongue extending into the cooler air of the room, a faint taste of salt and sex lingering.
For Delores, it was a bolt of pure, undiluted sensation—a slow, wet, deliberate stroke directly across the most sensitive bundle of nerves she possessed. It wasn’t a touch applied to her clit. It was her clit, alive and moving of its own volition.
“Ah! God!” Delores jolted, her back arching off the bed. Her hands flew down, not to touch, but to hover in helpless panic over the face below. She couldn’t push it away. It was her.
“Did you feel that?” Lisa’s voice murmured. The words themselves vibrated through Delores’s pelvis, another wave of stimulation.
“Stop talking. Please, just stop.”
But Lisa was fascinated. This was power of a different kind. Intimate. Total. She did it again. A slower, more exploratory lick. She traced her own upper lip, then the lower, a full, sensual circle.
Delores cried out, her thighs trembling violently on either side of Lisa’s ears. Her hips gave an involuntary, tiny buck. A fresh slickness began to seep, not from Lisa, but from the vaginal opening that was now, functionally, situated just beneath Lisa’s chin. Lisa could feel the heat of it, the new moisture.
“You’re getting wet,” Lisa stated, a clinical observation laced with dark pride. “From your own face licking itself.”
“It’s not me, it’s not me,” Delores chanted, a mantra of denial as another shudder wracked her body.
The clone, who had been watching from the edge of the bed with detached amusement, chuckled. She swung her legs over and stood, stretching her arms above her head. The movement made her soft cock sway. “Seems like she’s learning the controls,” the clone said, walking towards the bathroom. She picked up the ring from the basin, turning it over in her fingers. “This is a hell of a thing.”
“Give it to me,” Delores begged, lifting her head to look at her duplicate. “Please. Use it to fix this. To put her back.”
The clone shook her head, a perfect mimicry of Delores’s own mannerisms. “Why would I do that? This is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to us.” She slipped the ring onto her own finger. It glinted, a passive band of silver. “Besides, I don’t think it works on command for just anyone. She’s the one with the… relationship to it.”
Lisa, emboldened, began to experiment in earnest. She fluttered her tongue rapidly, a blur of motion that sent continuous, buzzing waves of pleasure-pain through Delores’s core. Delores’s protests melted into choked moans. Her hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white.
“See?” Lisa panted, her own breath coming in short gasps that warmed Delores’s inner thighs. “You don’t want it to stop. You never did. You wanted to be in charge, to be desired. Well, now you’re stuck with the one thing that desires you most. Me. I’m literally a part of you now. Your pussy is hungry.”
To demonstrate, she plunged her tongue deep into her own mouth, then thrust it out again in a lewd, fucking motion. The dual sensation for Delores—the internal pressure and the external glide—was too much. A broken, ragged scream tore from her throat as her body convulsed in a brutal, unwilled orgasm. It crashed through her, wringing every muscle taut, leaving her spasming and gasping on the bed.
Lisa felt it all. The convulsions around her, the pulsing, the flood of wet heat against her neck and the back of her head. She drank in the sensation, the proof of her control. She rested, letting Delores ride out the brutal aftershocks.
The clone returned, the ring safely on her finger. She looked down at the wreckage of the original: sweaty, tear-streaked, heaving. And at the face below, smug and sated in its grotesque nesting place.
“She’s a mess,” the clone noted, not without a hint of pity. “We should clean up.”
“We?” Delores wept.
“I am you, remember? Just… better adjusted.” The clone leaned down, sliding her hands under Delores’s shoulders and knees. She was surprisingly strong. She lifted Delores from the bed with a grunt, carrying her like a bride toward the en-suite bathroom. Lisa’s perspective swung dizzily—a blur of ceiling, doorway, then the bright, cold light of the bathroom.
The clone set Delores down in the large walk-in shower, on the tiled bench. She turned on the water, adjusting it until it was warm. The spray rained down on them, soaking Delores’s hair, running in streams over her body, over Lisa’s impassive face.
The water filled Lisa’s mouth. She sputtered, turning her head to the side to spit. “Watch it,” she grumbled.
“Or what?” the clone said, smiling. She took a bar of soap and began to lather Delores’s shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Her hands moved with a practical, impersonal efficiency. When she washed lower, her fingers swept over Lisa’s closed eyelids, across the bridge of her nose. She soaped the cheeks, the chin. It was the most bizarre, intimate washing Lisa had ever experienced.
Then the clone’s fingers traced lower, finding the slit hidden just beneath Lisa’s jawline. Delores jerked, a fresh sob mixing with the spray.
“Still sensitive,” the clone mused. Her fingers, slick with soap, didn’t linger. They pressed inside, two fingers curling, searching. Not for pleasure, but for cleanliness. The invasion was clinical, yet deeply violating for both women connected to the flesh.
Lisa clenched her teeth, feeling the pressure internally. Delores whimpered, her head thudding back against the tile.
The clone worked quickly, rinsing them both off. She turned the water off and fetched a large, fluffy towel. She dried Delores with the same methodical detachment, patting Lisa’s face dry last.
“There. Presentable,” the clone said. She left the bathroom, returning a moment later with one of Mark’s oversized t-shirts. She maneuvered it over Delores’s head, guiding her arms through. The soft cotton fell past Delores’s hips, covering Lisa’s face entirely, plunging her into a muffled, dark world of breathing and heartbeat.
“Can’t see,” Lisa complained, her voice muffled by the fabric.
“Good,” Delores whispered, a spark of bitter defiance.
The clone guided them back to the bed, not to the stained main sheets, but to a chaise lounge in the corner. She helped Delores recline. Exhaustion, profound and absolute, was finally claiming the original woman. Her eyes fluttered shut.
In the dark beneath the shirt, Lisa was left with her thoughts and the overwhelming sensory input of Delores’s body—the slow, steadying heartbeat, the rhythm of her breath, the faint, soapy scent of skin. She was a prisoner in a flesh cell. But she was also the warden of its pleasure. The equilibrium was unstable, terrifying, and hers to manipulate.
She listened to the clone move around the room, tidying. She heard the soft ‘click’ of the ring being placed on the nightstand.
Then, a new sound. The faint, metallic scratch of a key in the front door lock, downstairs.
A jolt of adrenaline, not her own, shot through the shared system. Delores’s heart leapt against Lisa’s unseen world. Her breath hitched.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, familiar.
“Lisa?” Mark’s voice called, tentative, from the hallway. “Honey? You’ll never guess what happened at work. The system totally crashed and they sent us all home. You okay? The bedroom door’s closed…”
The handle turned.
The clone froze, looking from the ruined bed to the exhausted woman on the chaise, the t-shirt tented over the obscenity beneath. She had mere seconds.
The door began to open.
The door began to open. The clone’s reaction was instantaneous, a fluid camouflage of normalcy. She moved to the chaise, not to hide Delores, but to frame her, perching on the armrest just as Mark’s concerned face appeared in the doorway.
“Hey,” the clone said, her voice a perfect, easy mirror of Delores’s usual warmth. She even managed a light, dismissive laugh. “You scared me. We were just having a… girls’ afternoon. Lisa wasn’t feeling great.”
Mark hovered, his teacher’s posture slumped with the day’s frustration. His eyes swept the room, skipping over the torn bedding, lingering on the original Delores reclining on the chaise. She looked wrecked, her eyes red-rimmed, her body shrouded in his own t-shirt. “Jesus, Delores. Are you okay? You look pale.”
Beneath the cotton shroud, Lisa listened. Mark’s voice, so ordinary, so oblivious, sent a thrill through her. Delores’s heart hammered against the back of her skull, a frantic drumbeat of panic.
“Migraine,” Delores breathed out, the lie brittle. She forced a weak smile, her hands gripping the chaise’s arms. “A real skull-crusher. Lisa’s just resting her eyes.”
As she spoke, Lisa acted. She slowly extended her tongue, a flat, wet stroke against the inner seam of the cotton panties the clone had earlier dressed her in. The fabric was a faint barrier. The vibration of Delores’s voice coursed through the very flesh Lisa was now a part of.
“I can see that,” Mark said, taking a step into the room. His gaze drifted to the clone, a flicker of confusion at seeing two Deloreses passing over his tired features before the ring’s persuasive magic settled it. “Should I get some water? Aspirin?”
“That’d be great, hon,” the clone said, smiling, her foot nudging Delores’s leg.
Delores inhaled sharply, the air catching. Lisa had curled her tongue, pressing the tip rhythmically against the dampening fabric, right over the sensitive nub of bundled nerves that was now neurologically shared between them. A jolt of sharp sensation, bright and invasive, shot up Delores’s spine.
“Yeah,” Delores managed, her voice tight. “Aspirin. Please.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Mark asked, hesitating, his kindness a torture device. “You sound… strangled.”
“Just the pain,” Delores whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. Her knuckles were white on the chaise. Inside the dark, humid space of the shirt, Lisa smiled. She opened her mouth wider, taking the soaked cotton of the panties into her mouth, sucking gently. The muffled, pulling pressure was exquisite, agonizingly indirect.
“I’ll be right back,” Mark said, his footsteps retreating toward the bathroom.
The moment the door clicked shut, the clone leaned down, her lips near Delores’s ear. “He’s getting a glass of water,” she murmured. “He’ll be thirty seconds. Be quiet.”
Then, the clone’s hand slipped under the hem of the t-shirt. Her fingers didn’t go to Lisa’s face. They bypassed it, dipping lower to find the hot, slick evidence of Lisa’s work. She rubbed two fingers through Delores’s folds, gathering wetness, before sliding them deep inside with a soft, slick sound.
Delores bucked, a silent scream twisting her features. Lisa felt the penetration as a profound, surrounding pressure, a full stretching that made her own jaw feel achingly open. The clone fucked her with those fingers, slow and deep, her other hand clamping over Delores’s mouth to stifle the gasps.
Mark’s footsteps returned. The clone withdrew her hand, wiping her fingers on the chaise cushion, her expression serene.
The door opened. Mark stood with a glass of water and two pills in his palm. “Here,” he said, coming closer.
Delores was trembling, a fine, constant shake. She took the pills with a jerky hand, chased them with water. Some dribbled down her chin. “Thanks,” she choked out.
“Maybe you should lie down in the guest room?” Mark suggested, his brow furrowed with concern. “It’s darker in there. Quieter.”
“No!” Delores said, too quickly. She forced another smile. “I’m… I’m comfortable here. With Lisa.”
Lisa, seizing the moment of his proximity, began to fuck her with her tongue in earnest. She plunged it in and out of her own mouth, a rapid, pistoning motion that simulated a brutal, shallow penetration. The wet, rhythmic squelch was audible in the sudden quiet, a soft, obscene counterpoint to the conversation.
Mark’s head cocked. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” the clone asked smoothly, leaning back.
“A… sucking sound. Like a drain.”
Delores was drowning. Pleasure, acid-sharp and unwanted, coiled in her gut, tightened by a sheer cliff of terror. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against the chaise cushion. Lisa sucked harder, lapping at the soaked fabric, teasing the rigid point of flesh beneath.
“Old pipes,” the clone said with a shrug. “This house sighs all the time.”
“Right,” Mark said, unconvinced. He looked at Delores, really looked at her. The sheen of sweat on her upper lip, the frantic dilation of her pupils, the way her breath hitched in little gasps. It didn’t look like migraine pain. It looked like something else entirely. A dark, suspicious intuition dawned in his eyes. “Dolores. What’s really going on?”
It was the tipping point. The coil snapped. Delores’s body arched, stiffening. A raw, guttural sound was ripped from her throat, half-strangled by her own clenched teeth. Her thighs slammed together, trapping Lisa’s face in a vice of shuddering flesh as an orgasm detonated through her, silent, violent, and utterly visible.
Mark stared, the glass in his hand forgotten. He saw the convulsion, the blissful-pained contortion of her features, the final, limp collapse. His eyes traveled down her trembling form, to the bizarre, pronounced tenting of the t-shirt over her groin, a shape that did not look human. He saw the damp patch spreading on the fabric.
The clone followed his gaze. Her serene mask slipped, revealing a flicker of sheer, wicked delight.
“It’s not a migraine, is it, hon?” Mark asked, his voice very, very quiet.
Under the shirt, Lisa, her mouth filled with the taste of cotton and climax, slowly, deliberately, ran her tongue in a wide, satisfied circle.
The silence stretched like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken horror. Mark’s fingers tightened around the glass until his knuckles blanched. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the hardwood. The drip, drip, drip filled the room like a ticking clock.
Delores swallowed hard, her pulse hammering against the back of Lisa’s skull. She knew there was no hiding now. No pretending.
So she didn’t.
With a slow, deliberate movement, she lifted the hem of the oversized shirt, exposing the grotesque, undeniable truth.
Lisa’s face stared up at Mark from between Delores’s trembling thighs—lips parted, eyes gleaming with dark amusement, strands of damp red hair clinging to flushed cheeks.
"Hi, honey," Lisa purred, her voice dripping with obscene sweetness. The sound came from Delores’s body, vibrating through her pelvis, a ventriloquist act of the most profane kind.
Mark’s mouth worked silently. His face drained of color. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
Delores didn’t stop.
Her fingers slid down, tracing the outline of Lisa’s jaw before dipping lower, circling the slick folds just beneath her chin. A choked gasp escaped her as she stroked herself—no, stroked *Lisa*—her fingertips skimming over the swollen flesh that was now both her clit and Lisa’s tongue.
Lisa moaned, the vibration rippling through Delores’s core. "Mmm, you *like* showing me off, don’t you?" she taunted, flicking her tongue out to lick Delores’s fingers as they worked.
Mark staggered back, hitting the doorframe. "What—what the *fuck*—?"
Delores’s breath hitched as pleasure coiled tighter, her hips rocking in tiny, involuntary jerks. "She’s part of me now," she panted, her voice breaking. "She’s *always* part of me." Her fingers moved faster, smearing wetness over Lisa’s lips, pressing down hard just as Lisa sucked two fingers into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks around them.
The double sensation—Delores’s fingers fucking Lisa’s mouth while Lisa’s tongue worked her own clit—sent sparks of white-hot need shooting up her spine. Her back arched, thighs clamping around Lisa’s head as the crest of another orgasm loomed.
Mark’s knees buckled. He gripped the doorframe, his cock hardening visibly against his slacks, caught between revulsion and raw, undeniable hunger.
Lisa’s eyes locked onto his. "You want in, baby?" she murmured around Delores’s thrusting fingers. "Or are you just gonna *watch*?"
Delores whimpered, her wrist twisting as she fucked Lisa’s face faster, her other hand gripping her own breast, pinching a nipple. "Fuck—*fuck*—"
The room smelled of sweat and sex and something darker, metallic, like wet copper. The air hummed with the wet sounds of Lisa’s mouth working, Delores’s ragged moans, the creak of the chaise as her body writhed.
Mark didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Lisa grinned, stretched wide around Delores’s fingers. "Come on, Mark," she goaded, her voice thick with saliva and delight. "Don’t you wanna see how *deep* she can take me?"
Delores came with a sob, her body seizing as pleasure detonated, wave after wave crashing through her. Her fingers spasmed in Lisa’s mouth, her thighs shaking violently as Lisa swallowed around them, milking every last drop of sensation.
Mark’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. A dark stain spread across the front of his pants.
Lisa laughed—low, dirty, triumphant.
The ring on the nightstand gleamed.
Waiting.
Mark’s breath came in ragged gulps, his fingers digging into the doorframe hard enough to leave crescent marks in the wood. The air between them crackled with something feral, a raw current of revulsion and sick fascination. His cock strained against his zipper, betraying him, throbbing in time with Delores’s gasps as she rode out the aftershocks of her climax—*Lisa’s* climax, their shared pleasure still shuddering through the grotesque fusion of their bodies.
The clone watched from the edge of the bed, legs crossed, one finger idly tracing the rim of the silver ring still snug around her own. She smirked.
Delores exhaled, shaky, her fingers finally slipping from Lisa’s mouth with a wet *pop*.
Lisa licked her lips, tasting salt and slick. “See something you like?” she taunted Mark, her voice husky, the words vibrating through Delores’s pelvis like a second heartbeat.
Mark’s throat worked. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the obscene tableau—his wife’s face, nestled between Delores’s thighs, grinning up at him like some pornographic Cheshire cat.
“You—you’re—” He swallowed hard. “This isn’t real.”
The clone laughed, low and knowing. “Oh, it’s real.” She stretched, the movement deliberately languid, making her tits strain against the thin fabric of her tank top. “Real enough to make you *drip*.”
Mark’s face burned. The damp patch at his crotch had spread.
Delores shifted, wincing as the movement made Lisa’s breath puff hot against her oversensitive flesh. “Mark,” she said, her voice raw. “I didn’t—*we* didn’t plan for you to see—”
“Shut up,” Lisa interrupted, rolling her eyes. Her tongue flicked out, lapping at the slick mess beneath her chin. “He doesn’t want *explanations*. Look at him.”
Mark *was* looking. His pupils were blown wide, his breath uneven. His fingers twitched at his sides, caught between the urge to flee and the desperate, clawing need to *touch*.
Lisa saw it.
So did the clone.
She stood, sauntering toward Mark with slow, deliberate steps. Her hand brushed his chest, then slid lower, over his stomach, down to the swollen bulge in his pants.
He flinched.
But he didn’t pull away.
The clone leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “You wanna fuck your wife, don’t you?” she murmured. “Even like *this*.”
A harsh exhale. His cock jerked under her palm.
Delores moaned, the sound punched from her lungs. Lisa was working her tongue again, slow, deliberate strokes that made her clench around nothing.
“Fuck,” Mark choked out.