Chapter 3: The Anal Conquest
The words, “I’ll be gentle. At first,” echoed in the hollows of Arthur’s mind. They were a lie, and a part of him had known it instantly. That part was now the only part still awake, a tiny, observant lighthouse in a sea of overwhelmed sensation.
He’d stammered something about not having done this before, about it being too much. Bambi had just giggled, a sound like shaking glitter, and produced a bottle of lube from a nightstand shaped like a giant strawberry. “Everyone’s a virgin once, silly. Now, on the bed. On your hands and knees. And lose the shirt, it’s, like, totally gross now.”
Mechanically, he obeyed. The satin sheets were cool and slippery under his palms. He felt exposed, ridiculous, the architecture of his skinny frame presented for an appraisal he knew he’d fail. The neon glow from the window painted his skin in streaks of garish pink and blue.
He heard the slick, squelching pop of the lube cap, then the sound of her coating herself. A lot. The smell of artificial strawberries joined the cocktail of perfume and sex in the air.
“Okay, here goes nothing!” she chirped.
There was a blunt, insistent pressure. He clenched instinctively, a reflex of pure panic.
“Uh-uh, relaxxx,” she whined, giving a little push. “You’re, like, tighter than my last purse. Just breathe out.”
He tried. He exhaled a shuddering breath, and as he did, she pushed in. Not gently. The stretch was immediate, a burning, tearing fullness that stole the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just her size; it was the sheer, violating depth of it. He cried out, a strangled sound muffled by the sheets.
“See? You’re taking it!” Bambi said, her voice bright with accomplishment. She didn’t wait for him to adjust. She drew back and slid in again, a fraction deeper. The burn intensified, a sharp, clarifying pain that erased every other thought—the bar, the tequila, his name. There was only this: the splitting fullness, the cool satin under his cheek, her squeal of delight above him.
Then she started to move.
It was a brutal, efficient rhythm. In, out. In, out. No finesse, no artistry. This was not lovemaking; it was a transaction, a machine pumping, and he was the receptacle. Each thrust punched a soft, wet sound from him. The headboard began a steady, rhythmic thump against the wall, syncing with the pulse pounding in his ears.
“Ohmygod, you feel amazing,” she babbled, her voice losing its whine for something breathier, more urgent. “Sooo tight for a nerd. You’re, like, hugging me. Don’t stop hugging me!”
He couldn’t have stopped if he tried. His body was locked around her, a tense, rigid sheath. The initial sharp pain began to blur, mutating into a deep, internal ache, a sense of being reshaped. The thump-thump-thump of the headboard became the only clock in the world.
Her pace increased. Her breathing grew ragged. She leaned over him, her enormous breasts pressing against his sweaty back, her pink hair falling around his face like a synthetic curtain. “I’m gonna… gonna fill you up, okay? You wanna be full?”
He couldn’t answer. He was a thing being used.
With a guttural cry that was utterly at odds with her doll-like appearance, she slammed home and held. He felt that same profound internal tremor, that deep pulse at her root. Then came the heat. It was different this time—internal, a flooding warmth that spread deep inside his belly, a claiming. He felt obscenely full, stretched and now filling further. A low, pained moan escaped him.
She collapsed on top of him for a moment, a sweaty, perfumed weight, then rolled off with a satisfied sigh. “Whoo! Okay, that was, like, a good start.”
A start. Arthur lay still, face-down, feeling the warm, wet trickle escape him. His entire world had narrowed to the violated, throbbing ache between his legs. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to disappear.
He got maybe ninety seconds.
The bed dipped as she bounced up. “Okay, round two! I’m all charged up again.” Indeed, when he managed to turn his head, she was already stiff, glistening with a fresh coat of lube. “C’mon, flip over. I wanna see your face this time.”
“Bambi, I can’t,” he rasped. “It’s too much.”
“Pleeeeease?” She pouted, jutting out her lip. “Just one more? For me? I’m, like, so close again already.”
He was too tired, too broken to refuse. He rolled onto his back, wincing as the movement stirred the ache. She didn’t bother with his legs. She just climbed atop him, guiding herself down with an expert hand. The penetration was somehow more intimate, more devastating this way. He could see her face, her eyes half-lidded in pleasure, her plump lips parted. He could see the ridiculous, magnificent absurdity of her body dominating his.
She rode him with a frenetic energy, bouncing, her breasts jiggling in a hypnotic, weighty rhythm. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s it! You’re my good little… what’s the word… fuck-toy!” She giggled, as if delighted by her own vocabulary.
This climax came faster. She threw her head back, shrieking, and another scalding rush flooded his insides. He felt his own stomach distend slightly, a soft, full bulge.
The night dissolved into a non-linear hellscape of sensation.
There was no round three. There was just an endless continuation. She would finish, pull out with a wet, sucking noise, lie beside him panting for two minutes, then her hand would wander back to herself, stroking, and she’d be ready again. Her whines were the soundtrack. “Moooore. I need moooore. C’mon, just the tip? I promise!” Promises meant nothing.
She took him from behind again, on his side, bent him over the plush arm of a giant unicorn chair. Each position offered a new angle of invasion, a fresh depth to be plundered. The initial pain had long since faded into a numb, stretched openness. He could feel the cool air of the room on parts of himself that had never felt air before. He was loose. He was used.
Each massive, internal load left him feeling heavier, more liquid. A profound, wet warmth permanently settled in his lower abdomen. The scent of sex and strawberry lube and her perfume was now the only scent in the universe.
Dawn was a gray suggestion at the edges of the blackout curtains when she finally, finally seemed to slow. She was on top of him again, moving with a slow, grinding laziness, her energy spent but her appetite undiminished. She was half-asleep, mumbling. “So good… my little bookboy… keep daddy’s loads safe, okay?”
With a final, weak shudder, she released what felt like the dregs of a boundless reservoir. It was a lukewarm trickle compared to the geysers that had come before, but it was the final stroke. She slid off, curled into a ball beside him, and was instantly snoring.
Arthur lay on his back, staring at the glowing stars stuck to the ceiling. His body was a foreign country. His asshole was a ruined, spent thing, open and leaking steadily onto the satin sheets, making a warm, wet patch beneath him. Each slight clench he attempted resulted in nothing but a faint, internal gurgle and another slow seep.
He was a vessel that had been filled to overflowing, then kicked over. Empty and full at the same time.
Outside, a car door slammed. Real life was beginning again. In here, in the pink neon gloom, all he could hear was Bambi’s soft snores and the humid, ticking silence of his own wrecked body.