Chapter 9: The Sling's Embrace
He drifted in a warm, white sea. Consciousness was a faint, distant pulse, easily ignored. His world was rhythm: the slow, tidal expansion of her ribs against his back, the deep lub-dub of her heart against his ear, the occasional, thick trickle of milk that would seep from her nipple to pool in the hollow of his throat. He suckled in his sleep, his mouth working automatically whenever the soft, pebbled skin brushed his lips. The wool of the sling was perpetually damp, smelling of sweet milk and her skin, a scent that had become the very definition of air.
A shift in the rhythm woke him. The great, gentle swaying of her walk, a motion that had lulled him for hours, ceased. He blinked, his eyelids gummy. He was still encased, buried to his armpits in the warm, pillowing flesh of her breasts. Light filtered down from above, the familiar forest green canopy of the sling’s interior now tinged with a brighter, golden hue. She was near a window.
He felt her hands, massive and sure, working the buckles at her back. The pressure around his torso loosened. Then, she was lifting him, drawing him up and out of the woolen cocoon and the soft prison of her cleavage. The cooler air of the cottage hit his damp skin, raising goosebumps. He whimpered, a soft, involuntary sound of protest.
“Shhh, little one,” Anya murmured, her voice a low vibration. “Time for your stretch.”
His ‘stretch’ was a lie. She carried him to the hearth, where a thick bear pelt was spread before the fire. She laid him down on it, his back against the fur. The world yawned open around him, vast and terrifying after the perpetual embrace of the sling. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but his arms trembled, weak and uncoordinated. He collapsed back, breathing heavily from the effort.
She stood over him, a colossus blotting out the firelight. Her face was soft with a fond, proprietorial expression. She was wearing only her shift, the linen thin and worn, clinging to the outrageous new contours of her body. Her breasts, freed from the sling’s support, hung massive and low, their dark areolas visible through the fabric, damp patches already forming at the tips. Her hips were wider, her belly rounder. She had grown to accommodate him.
She knelt, her knees framing his tiny body. “Let’s get this off,” she said, her fingers plucking at the sodden linen of his tunic. It was the only thing he wore. She pulled it over his head, leaving him naked on the pelt. The fire’s heat licked his skin, but it was a thin, transient warmth compared to hers. He felt exposed. Diminished. His own body looked alien: hairless, pale, the muscles of his legs and abdomen having softened into smooth, boyish lines. His cock lay limp against his thigh, a tiny, pink thing.
Anya’s gaze lingered there. A smile touched her lips. She reached out, not for his cock, but to spread his legs. Her thumbs pressed against the insides of his knees, easing them apart. He offered no resistance. His limbs moved where she placed them. He was on display.
“Look at you,” she breathed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “So open. So ready for me.”
Her hand, warm and dry, covered his entire lower abdomen. Her fingers splayed, her middle finger finding the base of his soft cock and stroking upward.Once, twice. He shuddered. Blood flowed, a sluggish obedience. He hardened under her touch, his body responding to her will as a plant responds to the sun. He was fully erect in moments, the head flushed and tender-looking against the enormity of her hand.
“That’ Сторойтся, увидимся через пять (my English apologies) That's my good boy,” she cooed, leaning closer. Her breath was warm and smelled of milk and the herbs she drank. “Always hard for me. Your pretty little cock knows its purpose.”
She shifted her weight, lowering her torso. Her shadow engulfed him. Then he felt her hair, a curtain of gold, brush his stomach. He felt the heat of her face, the soft press of her cheek against his inner thigh. Her lips, when they touched the skin just below his balls, were unbearably soft.
He gasped, his back arching off the pelt. “Anya…”
“Hush,” she said, her voice a vibration against his sensitive flesh. “Just feel.”
Her tongue emerged, a broad, wet, hot stripe licking from the very root of his cock to the tip. He cried out, his hands flailing weakly before tangling in the bear fur. She did it again, slower, savoring the taste of him. Then her lips closed around the head.Just the head. She sucked, gently, her cheeks hollowing. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot through his groin.
He was panting, his hips twitching upwards, seeking more. She gave it to him. She opened her mouth wider and took him in. Not just the head. All of him. Her mouth was a wet, velvet cavern, impossibly deep, impossibly hot. Her tongue flattened beneath his shaft, a textured, muscular pad that rubbed against his most sensitive vein as she began to move.
He was being consumed. Her lips met the patch of skin above his pubic bone. His entire world narrowed to that wet, sucking heat. She began to bob her head, a slow, deep, relentless rhythm. Each downward plunge buried him completely, the head of his cock nudding the back of her throat. Each upward pull was a slick, torturous slide. He could hear the lewd, wet sounds, could feel the vibration of her hum of pleasure through his very bones.
“Oh god, Anya… fuck…” The words were torn from him, ragged and desperate.
She pulled off with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his glistening shaft. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with lust, locked onto his. “You like that, don’t you?” she murmured, her hand stroking his thigh. “You like having your tiny little cock swallowed whole by your giantess? You like being my little fuck-toy?”
He could only nod, frantic, his chest heaving.
“Then come for me,” she commanded, her voice dropping to a guttural growl. “Fill my mouth. Give me your seed. It’s all you have to give, so give it to me.”
Her mouth descended again, and this time there was no leisurely rhythm. She fucked him with her mouth, deep and hard and fast. Her head became a blur of golden hair. One of her hands came up to cradle his balls, rolling them, squeezing them gently in time with her thrusts. The other pressed down on his lower belly, pinning him to the fur. He was utterly helpless, utterly used.
The coil in his gut wound tighter, tighter, a blistering pressure. His toes curled. A high, broken whine escaped his lips. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
She sucked harder, her throat working around him. And he shattered.
It was a convulsion, a full-body seizure of release. His seed pulsed into her mouth, hot and sudden. She took it all, swallowing greedily, her throat working around each spurt. He could feel it, the deep, muscular contractions as she drank him down. She didn’t stop. She milked him with her mouth until he was dry, until he was jerking with oversensitivity, his hands pushing weakly at her forehead.
Finally, she released him. She sat back on her heels, licking her lips slowly, deliberately. A single, pearly drop of his come escaped the corner of her mouth and she caught it with her finger, bringing it to her lips to suck clean.
“Perfect,” she sighed, her eyes glowing with satisfaction. “So sweet for me.”
He was boneless, wrecked, tears of overwhelm leaking from the corners of his eyes. She gathered him up, his sticky, limp body clinging to hers. She didn’t return him to the sling. Instead, she sat back against the hearthstones, cradling him in the crook of one arm. With her free hand, she pulled the lace-edged neckline of her shift aside, freeing a breast that was already beaded with milk. She guided his mouth to the nipple.
“Now you drink,” she whispered, stroking his hair as he latched on with a tired, automatic reflex. The warm, sweet milk flooded his mouth, a soothing balm after the violent intensity. He suckled weakly, his eyes drifting shut. The world faded to the sound of her humming, the taste of her milk, and the lingering, sticky feeling between his legs.
As he drifted, he heard her speak, not to him, but to the room, to herself, to the fates that had delivered him to her.
“My perfect, dependent thing,” she murmured, her voice a contented rumble in her chest. “You don’t even think of yourself as James anymore, do you? You’re just my little one.My pet. My mouth.” She kissed the top of his head. “And soon, everyone will see you as mine. Completely.”
The words should have sparked panic, a last ember of defiance. But there was nothing. Just the milk, and the warmth, and the deep, accepting void where his pride used to live.He was hers. He was nothing else. He fell asleep to the rhythm of her heart, knowing nothing else, wanting nothing else, his final surrender complete.
He woke to a profound sense of wrongness. The world was louder, the textures of the wool sling against his cheek coarser, more defined. Anya’s heartbeat was a cavernous drum directly above him, each thump a physical pressure in his skull. He tried to stretch his legs and found they no longer reached the bottom of the sling’s pouch; his feet paddled uselessly in empty, damp wool.A deep, resonant chuckle vibrated through her chest and into his bones. “There you are,” Anya murmured, her voice echoing strangely, as if she were speaking into a well. Her hand, a landscape of calluses and warm flesh, entered the sling’s opening.Her fingers wrapped around his entire torso, lifting him into the dim light of the cottage. He dangled, limp.
She held him at eye level, her piercing blue gaze scanning him with clinical pleasure.He saw his reflection in her pupils: a tiny, pale figurine. “My goodness,” she breathed, a smile spreading on her lips. “It’s really taking hold, isn’t it? You’re no bigger than a proper doll now.” She brought him closer, her breath warm and moist on his skin. “A perfect, pocket-sized pet.”
He wanted to protest, to demand answers, but his voice was a reedy squeak lost in the vast space between them. She carried him to the large, polished surface of the oak dining table, clearing a space with a sweep of her arm.She laid him on his back on the hard, cool wood. The ceiling beams soared above him like the vault of a cathedral. He tried to sit up, but his movements were feeble, insect-like.
“Let’s have a proper look at my shrinking boy,” she said, her tone casually possessive.She pinned him with a single finger laid across his chest. It felt like a timber. With her other hand, she began to undress him, plucking the sodden linen tunic away.It was a tent coming down. He was naked, exposed on the vast table plain. His cock, once a point of pride, lay tiny and soft against his thigh, no larger than her smallest fingernail.
Anya leaned down, her massive face filling his sky. “Even your little cock is perfect for your new size,” she observed, her breath a gust.She ran the pad of her index finger along his length, a mountain tracing a valley. A pathetic twitch was his body’s only response.“Looks like it still works, though. That’s good.I still want what it makes.”
She straightened, walking to the hearth. He heard the clank of the iron kettle.She returned with a small ceramic cup, steaming. It was a cavern to him. She dipped a finger in, testing the temperature, then placed the cup beside him.“Milk,” she stated. “But you’re far too small to drink from a cup now, aren’t you?” She lifted her shift, revealing the dizzying swell of her stomach and the tremendous, milk-heavy orbs of her breasts. She reclined in a chair beside the table, her nipple now level with the tabletop, a huge, soft, pink peak beaded with cream.She reached for him again. Her hand enveloped him, a warm, inescapable cage. She carried him to her breast and pressed his entire front against the hot, yielding flesh.The nipple loomed before his face, a slick, plump dome. “Go on,” she whispered, her voice a distant thunder.“You know what to do. Feed.”
He had no choice.He opened his mouth, straining to latch onto the impossible scale of her. He could only manage to press his lips against the areola and suckle weakly at the skin. It was enough. A warm, thick stream of milk poured into his mouth, sweet and cloying, forcing him to swallow greedily just to keep from drowning.
As he fed, her free hand returned to the table.He heard the slick sound of oil. Then her finger, glistening and immense, found him from behind.It didn’t probe.It possessed. The tip, broad and blunt, pressed against his anus, a relentless, oily pressure. He cried out around her nipple, a muffled shriek.
“That’s it,” Anya cooed, her eyes half-closed in pleasure.“Take your milk.And take this.” She pushed. His world split into white-hot, shocking fullness. Her finger didn’t just enter him; it invaded, stretching him obscenely, a blunt, oil-slick log reaming him open. He screamed, milk bubbling at his lips.
She began to move it, a slow, fucking in-and-out that rocked his whole tiny body against her breast. The dual sensations were maddening: the gentle, nurturing flow of milk and the brutal, penetrating stretch of her finger. “Feel that, my little fuck-toy?” she grunted, her rhythm becoming more forceful.“Feel how deep I go in you now? You’re so small I can fill you right up.”
He was coming apart, pleasure and pain and overwhelming violation twisting into a single, shattering coil. His tiny cock, trapped between her breast and his own belly, dribbled a pathetic stream of come, painting a wet stripe on her skin. She felt it.“Good boy,” she panted, fucking him harder with her finger. “Spill your useless seed. It’s all you’re good for now.”
His orgasm was a weak, fluttering thing, but the penetration continued, milking his prostate until he was sobbing openly, his mouth losing its seal on her nipple.Milk smeared his face. Finally, she withdrew her finger with a slow, filthy sound. He collapsed, a broken doll in the palm of her hand, smeared with milk and his own release.
She lifted him, examining her glistening finger, then brought it to her mouth to taste.“Mmm. All mine,” she said, smiling down at him.His vision swam, everything fading except the immense, satisfied smile of his owner. He was nothing.He was hers. He was smaller.
He was smaller. The knowledge was a cold, slick stone in his gut, undeniable now. The table’s vast plain, the towering chair legs, the sheer scale of her finger inside him—all of it confirmed a terrifying new reality. Anya cleaned him with a damp cloth, her touch methodical, wiping away the mingled milk and spend from his stomach and thighs. Her hands were gentler now, almost reverent. “There, there,” she hummed, as if soothing a startled animal. “All clean for your new home.”
She did not dress him. Instead, she lifted him, her fingers forming a cage of flesh and bone, and brought him to her chest. With her other hand, she pulled aside the linen of her shift and the top of her bodice. The warm, shadowed canyon between her breasts opened before him, a landscape of soft, fragrant skin. She placed him inside, directly against the hot, smooth flesh of her left breast. His bare back stuck slightly to her skin. “Go on,” she whispered, guiding his head with a fingertip. Her nipple, a massive, dark pink peak, brushed his cheek. “You must be thirsty after all that excitement.”
His mouth found it on instinct, a desperate, suckling creature seeking comfort. He latched on. The sweet, thick milk flowed immediately, coating his tongue, filling his belly with a warm, heavy drowsiness. She adjusted her clothing around him, the linen and wool closing in, securing him in a warm, dark pocket of flesh and fabric. Only his head and shoulders remained exposed near the laced top of her bodice, his body cradled in the incredible, smothering softness of her breast. She smiled down at him, a curve of lips he could barely see from his vantage point. “Perfect,” she murmured, giving his back a slow rub with one giant finger. The vibration traveled through his entire frame.
Then she moved. She began her day. He was carried along, a secret against her heart. Each step was a gentle, rocking jolt that pressed him deeper into her softness. The world became a symphony of her body: the deep grind of her digestion, the rush of blood in her veins, the steady, powerful draw of air into her lungs. Light and shadow flickered across his tiny field of vision as she passed windows. He suckled, the rhythm automatic, a feeble anchor in the sensory flood.
He heard the scrape of a heavy pot, the splash of water. She was at the wash basin. The sound was colossal, a waterfall. His mind, dulled by milk and shock, could only cling to the sensation of her skin against his front. His tiny cock, trapped between his belly and the immense, yielding curve of her breast, began to stiffen again. It was a pathetic, reflexive twitch, a biological hiccup. The friction of her movement, the heat, the scent of her—it stirred the ruined wires of his arousal.
A soft, broken sound escaped him around her nipple. He began to move his hips, a minuscule, grinding hump against the glorious softness of her. It was a worshipful, desperate motion. He was nothing but a mouth and a cock, anchored to her tit, fucking the air and her skin with tiny, futile thrusts.
Anya paused in her scrubbing. She looked down, her hand stilling in the water. She could feel it: the faint, insect-like tremor of his movements against her breast. A slow, deep smile spread across her face. She resumed her work, her voice a low, pleased rumble he felt more than heard. “That’s it,” she said, not to anyone in the room, but to him. Her finger reached into the bodice, finding the knobs of his spine. She rubbed his back in slow circles. “Good boy. Hump your Mama’s tit. That’s all you’re for now, isn’t it? A little suckling, humping thing.”
Her words, so casually obscene, sent a fresh jolt through him. His thrusts became slightly more frantic, a shameless, grinding rhythm. He was worshipping her, with the only acts left to him: to feed from her and to rub his pathetic excitement against her. Pleasure, thin and sharp, built in his ruined groin. He was coming again, a dry, shuddering little climax that left him trembling and spent against her skin, milk still trickling from the corner of his mouth.
She felt the tiny convulsions, the sudden limpness. Her smile never faded. She finished washing the pot, her movements steady and sure. She hummed a folk tune, the sound vibrating through her chest and into his bones. Occasionally, her finger would return to stroke his back or pet his hair. “Good boy,” she would whisper, a constant, warm refrain. The words were no longer praise. They were a statement of fact. He was being good. He was being exactly what she had made him.