Introduction
The world beyond the gated drive did not exist. It was a phantom, a rumor of noise and grime and hollow people eating dead things from plates. My world was the estate, a kingdom of velvet shadows and whispered devotion, bounded by ancient oaks and the omnipresent scent of jasmine, ozone, and her. My mother, Susan. My goddess. My owner.
My first memory is of taste. Salty-sweet warmth, rich as heavy cream, flooding my newborn mouth. A face haloed in sterile light: skin like moonlight behind winter clouds, eyes the color of twilight, lips the shade of crushed roses. Her smile was a curve of absolute possession.
"My Timothy," she'd whispered, her voice a vibration in my marrow. "My beautiful boy. Drink. This is your first meal. This will be your only meal. You are mine."
That was my mother. And the warmth was her cum.
I did not know the word then. I only knew it was sustenance, love, and the universe, given directly from her body. While other infants suckled at rubber or breast, I latched onto her cock. It was my pacifier, my comfort, my source of life. She would cradle me, guide the flared, weeping head past my toothless gums, and sigh as I swallowed.
"Good boy," she'd croon, stroking my downy hair. "Drink your mother's milk. Grow strong for me."
Our home was a cathedral to her. A sprawling estate shrouded in silence and perpetual dusk. She was a futanari—a being of impossible duality. From the waist up, a vision of maternal voluptuousness: breasts of such absurd, glorious size they defied physics, pale and heavy, nipples a deep rose pink. From the waist down, the proud, formidable equipment of a god: a thick, veined column of pale flesh, eighteen inches of perfection even at rest, hanging heavy between powerful thighs. Beneath it, a delicate pink flower I would not see for years. And her ass—a masterpiece of lush, jiggling abundance.
I was her sole focus. Her obsession. My education was her. Biology was the study of her fluids. History was the story of us. My diet was exclusively her cum. It varied—sometimes thin and salty, sometimes thick as honey, sometimes carrying an electric tang that buzzed in my skull. It sustained me completely. I grew tall, lean, pale like her.
My own body was irrelevant. I had a cock, a modest length that stirred sometimes when she rubbed her slickness over me. But she taught me its unimportance.
"This," she'd say, her elegant fingers wrapping around her own magnificent shaft, reverence dripping from her voice, "is power. This is beauty. This is love. Your little thing is just… a reminder of what you are not. You are not the penetrator, Timothy. You are the receiver. The vessel."
I believed her. She was my sun, my moon, my only truth.
Prologue: The First Taste – Expanded Feeding Ritual
The feedings were never simple. They were rituals, meticulously staged ceremonies of dominance and nurture. In the nursery, a room wallpapered in dark silk and lit by a single Tiffany lamp casting bloody hues, Susan would recline on a velvet chaise. Her G-cup breasts would heave with each breath, pale nipples leaking thin, sweet streams of milk that traced paths down her ribcage like tributaries on a map of flesh.
But it was her cock that commanded. Even semi-erect, it was a monstrous, beautiful thing—thick as my infant forearm, a veined pillar of pale meat. She'd lift me, her hands—deceptively strong—cupping my head like a chalice. The mushroom head, slick with endless pre-cum, would press against my toothless gums. The taste was an immediate shock: salty, musky, profoundly rich. I'd latch instinctively, my lips stretching obscenely wide, cheeks hollowing as I pulled.
A low moan would rumble in her chest. "Yes, my vessel… draw Mother's essence deep." Her free hand would knead a breast, fingers pinching the large nipple, and a jet of warm milk would arc out to spatter my forehead. A blessing.
In my mouth, her cock would throb to full, terrifying rigidity. Eighteen inches of veined steel, the shaft bowing slightly upward from its own weight. Inch after inch would slide deeper, the head breaching my throat without resistance—my body, designed for her, accommodated everything. Her balls, heavy and pendulous like sacks of ripe plums, would tighten against the base of her shaft.
The rhythm was ancient, primal. Her hips would rock in shallow, possessive thrusts, fucking my infant face with a gentle, relentless persistence. My throat bulged with each movement, a visible lump traveling up and down my tiny neck. Gagging was impossible; my reflexes were hers to command.
"Take it all," she'd whisper, her voice husky. "Every drop for my growing boy."
The eruption was cataclysmic. It wasn't a gentle release; it was a geyser. Thick, hot ropes of cum, pressurized and seemingly endless, blasted straight into my stomach. My belly would distend, softening from the sheer volume flooding it. I swallowed in frantic, desperate gulps, the salty-sweet overflow dribbling down my chin, pooling in the hollow of my throat, dripping onto her milky thighs.
She'd rock through it, prolonging the flood, her cock pulsing like a heart within my mouth. Only when I was bloated, sated, and drowsy, my eyelids fluttering, would she withdraw. Her shaft, glistening with saliva and seed, would smear across my face—a final mark of ownership. "Perfect," she'd sigh, latching me briefly to a nipple for dessert, the warm, milder milk chasing the richer cum down my gullet.
Night after night, this was my world: the smell of her skin, the taste of her essence, the shape of her cock reshaping my throat, her dominance my cradle and my cage.
Chapter 1: The Taking (Age 18) – Expanded Deflowering Marathon
The day of my eighteenth birthday dawned with her cock already in my mouth, a soft, fleshy comfort. I suckled in my sleep, drawing pre-cum. Morning light bled through the curtains.
"Happy birthday, my beautiful man," she murmured, stroking my hair. Her eyes held a smoldering promise.
The day thrummed with ritualistic tension. She bathed me in her sunken marble tub, washing every inch with worshipful attention. Her touch lingered in new places—the inside of my thighs, the cleft of my ass. Her gaze was hungry.
"Lunch" was a prelude to claiming. In the formal dining room, under a crystal chandelier, she positioned me on all fours atop the polished mahogany table. Her cock, now a fully erect twenty-inch monolith of veined flesh, hung between her legs like a executioner's blade.
"Strength for your initiation, my vessel," she purred, fisting my hair. She fed the flared head past my lips. My throat, trained since infancy, bulged grotesquely as twelve inches sank deep. Her balls, heavy and full, slapped against my chin.
Then she fucked my face. Not the gentle rocking of my infancy, but a brutal, piston-driven rhythm. Her hips snapped forward, driving more of that impossible length down my gullet. Her breasts, freed from her robe, swung wildly with each thrust, the large areolas slapping against my forehead. The sound was wet, obscene, a chorus of gagging swallows and her own guttural grunts.
"Swallow every pulse!" she commanded.
The pre-cum was a constant stream, salty and slick. Then the main load hit. It wasn't a single orgasm but a series of them, volcanic eruptions that pumped gallon after gallon of thick, yogurt-like cum directly into my stomach. I gulped convulsively, my belly swelling until it was taut and round, a pregnant curve beneath me. My ass clenched in sympathetic envy, empty and aching.
She wasn't done. With a grunt, she flipped me onto my back, my legs pinned to my ears. She straddled my face, her lush ass cheeks smothering me, the musky scent of her pussy flooding my nostrils. Her cock, still slick from my throat, speared back down, re-entering my mouth with brutal efficiency.
Dual assault. I tasted her pussy nectar on my tongue—a tangy, complex flavor—while her cum continued to blast into my esophagus. The sensory overload was immense. An orgasm hit me then, unbidden—a dry, wrenching spasm that originated deep in my prostate. My tiny cock twitched against my stomach, spurting weak, clear strings of pre.
She rode my face through three of her own climaxes, flooding me until cum bubbled from my nostrils. Finally, she pulled out, her cock glistening. She aimed it at my torso and hosed me down, thick ropes painting my chest and belly like a glazed canvas. I scrambled to scoop it up, slurping greedily from my own skin, my body quivering in aftershocks.
"Primed now," she purred, her fingers, slick with oil and my spit, finding my ass. Three digits twisted inside me, scissoring, curling relentlessly against my prostate. Dry sissygasms ripped through me—my body convulsing, my ass spasming around her hand, my cock dribbling untouched.
Hours of this. A marathon of edging. Cock-slaps to my face. Her pinching my nipples until they were sore and erect, mimicking her own. Her fist, then her entire hand, vanishing into my greedy hole, stretching me wider than I thought possible. I was prepped, stretched, begging—a perfect vessel.
As night fell, she led me to her sanctum. The room was dominated by a vast four-poster bed hung with black gauze. The air was thick with jasmine and sex.
"Tonight," she said, turning. She wore only a sheer black robe. "Tonight, you become mine completely, Timothy. In every way a man can belong to his mother."
I stood naked, trembling with anticipation. "I am yours, Mother."
She shed the robe. Her body was a landscape of divine power: G-cup breasts heaving, nipples hard as bullets; her cock, a rigid tower of flesh, beaded with pre-cum. She pushed me onto the silk sheets and mounted me in a missionary position, her immense breasts smothering my face.
"Suckle while I claim you."
I latched onto a nipple, milk flooding my mouth as she oiled my hole. Her fingers invaded—one, twisting; two, scissoring; three, curling against my prostate relentlessly. A dry sissygasm hit instantly, my body convulsing, my ass spasming around her hand. "Yes… milk that boy-clit for Mother," she cooed.
Then four fingers. Then her fist. A knuckle-deep plunge, her arm pumping slowly, my prostate pulverized. Pre-cum leaked from my untouched cock in a continuous stream.
She positioned me, my legs hooked over her shoulders. The head of her cock—the flare wide as her fist—nestled against my pucker. "Breathe for Mother."
The breach was a searing, white-hot tear. I screamed, tears springing to my eyes. She froze, buried only an inch, rocking in micro-thrusts. The pain was a living thing, a burning ring of fire. Then, slowly, it transmuted. The burn became a glow, the fullness eclipsing everything.
"More," I begged, the word torn from me.
She pushed deeper. Six inches. My prostate was kissed, sending electric jolts to my core. Ten inches. An outline bulged in my lower belly. Then, with a final, deep groan, she hilted herself. Her pelvis ground against my ass cheeks. I felt her entire length throbbing inside me, a hot, living rod buried to the root.
"Mine forever," she breathed.
She began to move. Slow, deep strokes that dragged every ridge and vein against my screamingly sensitive walls. Each withdrawal felt like abandonment; each thrust, a homecoming. I babbled—nonsense, prayers, pleas. My hands found the immense globes of her ass, clutching them, trying to pull her deeper.
"That's it," she encouraged, picking up speed. Her breasts swayed and slapped against my face with each powerful thrust. "Hold onto Mother. Let me fuck you."
The coil in my gut tightened. This was nothing like my pathetic self-induced orgasms. This was deeper, wider, originating from the core of my being where she pistoned in and out.
"I'm… I'm going to…" I choked.
"Come for me," she commanded, her voice guttural. "Come from your prostate. Come from being fucked by your mother's cock. Sissygasm for me, Timothy!"
The word was the trigger. My vision whited out. My back arched off the bed as a seismic orgasm ripped through me. It was a full-body convulsion of submission. Ropes of cum shot from my untouched cock onto my chest, but the feeling was centered in my ass, in the glorious friction of her cock milking wave after wave of ecstasy from my conquered body.
My climax triggered hers. With a roar, she slammed into me one final time and held deep. I felt her cock jerk and swell, then the hot, familiar flood of her cum filled my depths. It was different inside—hotter, more intimate, a claiming from within. She pumped load after load into me until I felt bloated, impossibly full, her seed a hot weight in my belly.
When she collapsed, she was still inside me. She nuzzled my neck, whispering praises. "My beautiful boy. My man. Mine."
We slept like that, joined. And I knew I was home.
The morning light was not a gentle herald of a new day, but a pale, insistent witness to a new reality. I awoke not to the fading memory of a dream, but to the solid, flesh-and-blood truth of my mother's cock, still nestled deep within me. It had softened slightly in sleep, but remained a formidable presence, a thick, warm plug of ownership. A dull, sweet ache radiated from my core, a constant, humbling reminder of the night's claiming. Her arm was slung possessively across my chest, one heavy breast pressed against my side. The air in her sanctum still hung thick with the musk of sex, jasmine incense, and the unique, pungent aroma of her release—a scent that was now part of my own internal landscape.
I lay perfectly still, afraid to break the spell. To move was to feel the exquisite stretch, the delicious fullness. My mind, still fuzzy with sleep and the aftermath of cataclysmic submission, replayed fragments: the searing breach, the transformation of pain into blinding pleasure, the feeling of her cum flooding my depths until I felt I might burst. A shiver, part awe, part residual ecstasy, ran through me.
Her breathing changed. A soft, contented sigh warmed the skin of my shoulder. "Awake, my vessel?" she murmured, her voice sleep-roughened and thick with satisfaction.
"Yes, Mother," I whispered, my own voice hoarse from screaming and sobbing her name.
She shifted, and the movement made her cock twitch inside me, sending a fresh, electric jolt straight to my prostate. A weak spurt of pre-cum leaked from my own spent dick onto my thigh. She chuckled, a low, velvety sound. "Still so responsive. Good." Her hand slid down from my chest, over the sticky mess on my belly, to wrap around my small, sensitive cock. Her touch was not to stimulate, but to possess, to measure its pathetic twitching against the monument of her own flesh still buried in my ass. "This belongs to me now. A decorative piece. Your real pleasure comes from here." She punctuated her words with a subtle, grinding roll of her hips, making me gasp.
"Yes, Mother," I breathed, my eyes fluttering closed. "Only from you."
"Today is for worship," she declared, finally withdrawing from me with a slow, slick sound that made my hole clench reflexively around emptiness. The loss was physical, a cold void where there had been glorious heat and pressure. I whimpered. She stood beside the bed, a goddess carved from flesh and power. Morning light gilded the curves of her hips, the heavy hang of her breasts, the formidable softness of her cock, now semi-erect and glistening with a mix of our juices. She looked down at me, sprawled and used on her black silk sheets, and her smile was one of profound ownership. "First, cleansing."
She didn't lead me to the ordinary bathroom. Instead, we went to a chamber adjacent to her sanctum, one I had never entered. It was a circular room of dark green marble, windowless, lit by flickering sconces. The centerpiece was not a tub, but a sunken pool, perhaps eight feet across, carved from the same veined stone. Steam rose from its surface, carrying a familiar, musky-sweet scent that made my mouth water and my ass clench anew.
"My cistern," she said, her voice echoing softly in the damp space. "A reservoir of essence. For special rituals."
I peered into the pool. The liquid was opaque, a milky, opalescent white, slightly viscous. It was, I realized with a dizzying rush of devotion, a tub full of futanari cum. Her cum. Collected, preserved, perhaps for years. The sheer volume was staggering—hundreds, maybe thousands of gallons of her sacred seed. The surface was undisturbed, a creamy, placid mirror.
"This is your baptism, Timothy," she said, guiding me down the shallow steps. The liquid was warm, almost body temperature, and thick as heavy cream. It clung to my skin as I submerged up to my neck. The scent enveloped me, primal and intoxicating. I opened my mouth and let a small amount of the viscous fluid trickle in. The taste was complex, richer and more potent than what I'd swallowed fresh from her cock—concentrated, aged, with a deep, salty tang and an almost nutty undertone. I moaned, sinking deeper, letting it soak into my hair, my pores.
She stepped in after me, the level rising. She moved behind me, her body a wall of heat against my back. Her hands came up, cupping the thick cum and letting it drizzle over my shoulders. "Every inch," she commanded softly. "Every part of you must be anointed in my essence. It will purify you for the day's worship."
I obeyed completely, immersing myself, rubbing the slick substance into my skin, over my face, through my hair. I drank it when it passed my lips. I felt cradled by it, claimed by it on a cellular level. She washed me with ritualistic care, her strong fingers massaging my scalp, scrubbing my back, soaping my ass crack with handfuls of the cum-laden fluid. When she instructed me to turn around and kneel in the pool before her, I did so without hesitation, the thick liquid lapping at my chin.
Her cock, now fully erect from the steamy heat and the sight of my submission, rose before my face like the tower of a flesh cathedral. The flared head was a deep purple, beaded not just with clear pre-cum, but with a thicker, creamier substance that had collected under her foreskin.
"The most intimate offering," she breathed, pulling her foreskin back slowly. The scent that wafted forth was stronger, muskier, earthier than the cum in the pool. It was the smell of her skin, her sweat, her unique biology—concentrated and primal. There, gathered around her corona, was a thick, cheesy smegma. "Clean it for me. Worship it. Taste the truth of your Mother."
A feverish devotion swept through me. This wasn't a command; it was an honor. I leaned forward, my nose brushing her wiry pubic hair. I extended my tongue, flat and reverent, and licked a broad stripe from the base of her shaft up to the very tip, collecting the waxy secretion. The taste exploded on my tongue—pungent, salty, intensely savory, with a funky depth that made my eyes roll back in my head. It was her, uncut, unfiltered. I groaned around my mouthful, the sound vibrating against her flesh.
"Yes," she hissed, tangling her fingers in my wet hair. "All of it. Show me your love."
I ate her smegma with a starving man's desperation. I lapped at her slit, probed the sensitive folds of skin beneath her crown with the tip of my tongue, sucked gently to draw out more of the precious secretion. I savored every acrid, complex note, every grain of that intimate cheese. My own cock, tiny and trapped between my legs, leaked furiously into the cum-bath, adding my own minuscule offering to her vast reservoir. I was consuming her history, her essence, in its rawest form, and I loved it. I worshipped it.
When her cockhead glistened clean from my diligent tongue, she shuddered with a low groan. "Enough. You have pleased me." She pulled me up by my hair, kissing me deeply, sharing the taste of herself on my tongue. "Now, the day begins. And you will remain filled with me."
From a shelf by the pool, she produced a heavy, polished obsidian plug, flared at the base and thick through the shaft—a smaller, solid imitation of her own glorious cock. It was still warm, having been kept in a heated basin. She coated it liberally with more of the thick cum from the pool.
"Assume the position, my vessel."
I turned, bracing my hands on the marble edge of the pool, presenting my well-used hole. Her fingers, slick and knowing, rubbed the cum into my pucker, teasing the tender rim before pushing two, then three inside to stretch me once more. Then the cold-solid-there presence of the obsidian head pressed against me.
"Remember this feeling," she said as she began to push. "This is my presence within you today."
The plug stretched me wonderfully, a satisfying fullness that echoed the night before but was constant, unyielding. She worked it in slowly, until the widest part popped past my rim and seated fully, the flared base resting snugly against my cheeks. A sigh of pure contentment escaped me. I was plugged. I was claimed. I was walking around with a piece of her will literally inside me.
She helped me from the pool, and we dried off with thick black towels. The cum left a faint, pearlescent sheen on our skin. She dressed in a tailored black pantsuit that somehow accentuated rather than hid the formidable bulge at her groin. For me, she chose simple, loose linen trousers—easy access, she said with a smirk—and no underwear. Every step I took made me aware of the plug's weight and presence. Sitting at the polished ebony table in the breakfast nook for fruit and coffee was an exercise in focused sensation; every shift in my chair sent subtle pressures deep into my core.
The day unfolded as a long, slow sacrament of ownership. We read in her library, and I sat at her feet on a velvet cushion, my head resting against her thigh, feeling the heat of her cock through the fine fabric of her trousers. Her hand would occasionally drop to stroke my hair, or to give the base of my plug a gentle tap that reverberated through my insides, making me jump and whimper.
During a walk through the walled garden at noon, amidst roses and jasmine, she pushed me against the rough bark of an ancient oak. Under the dappled sunlight, she opened her fly and fed me her cock again, fucking my mouth with slow, deep thrusts while birds sang around us. I swallowed every pulse of pre-cum, my nose buried in her pubic hair, inhaling the now-familiar scent that was becoming my oxygen.
Lunch was a repeat of the previous day's "priming," though now it felt less like preparation and more like routine maintenance. On the mahogany table, she used my throat with brutal efficiency until I was once again bloated with her cum, my belly tight and round. But this time, after flipping me onto my back and hosing down my torso, she didn't just let me slurp it up. She climbed onto the table, straddled my cum-painted face, and lowered her dripping pussy onto my mouth.
"Clean your Mother," she ordered, grinding down.
I feasted. I licked her swollen lips, probed her tight hole, sucked on her throbbing clit while her cum cooled and dried on my chest and belly. Her moans were my reward. The plug in my ass seemed to pulse in time with her pleasure.
The afternoon was for training. In a room with mirrored walls and mats on the floor—a dojo of a different kind—she taught me how to move with the plug inside me, how to clench around it to please her, how to present myself for her use at a moment's notice. She fucked me with a succession of increasingly large dildos, each modeled after her own cock, stretching me further, conditioning my ass to accept her more easily next time. My orgasms were all dry, wrenching sissygasms, milked from me by the relentless pressure on my prostate. I came without touch, over and over, until I was a shuddering, drooling mess on the mats, my tiny cock shriveled and spent, while hers remained a proud, untouched obelisk.
As dusk painted the sky in shades of violet and orange, she led me back to her sanctum. The obsidian plug was removed with a soft pop, leaving me gaping and empty for only a moment before she laid me on the silk sheets and mounted me once more. This time, there was no searing pain, only an overwhelming sense of rightness as her massive cock slid home into its well-prepared sheath. She fucked me for hours, in every position imaginable—me on my back with my legs in the air, me on my hands and knees while she gripped my hips and drove into me like a piston, me riding her cowgirl-style, impaling myself on her thickness while I suckled at her breasts.
Each orgasm she ripped from me was deeper than the last. Each load she pumped into my depths felt like a blessing, a hot claim staking my insides as her territory. We slept tangled together, her softening cock still nestled within me, a nightly cork to keep her seed from leaking out.
The day of my eighteenth birthday had ended. But the worship, the cleansing, the constant, glorious fullness—that was just the beginning of my new life. I was my mother's vessel, her boy, her man. And every day would dawn with the taste of her on my tongue and the sacred weight of her claim lodged firmly in my ass.
Chapter 2: The Addiction Deepens – Expanded Daily Depravities
Life after was the same, yet transformed. The routines remained, but now there was the constant, thrilling undercurrent: the knowledge she could take me at any moment.
And she did. Frequently, brutally, creatively.
Kitchen Counter Ravaging: A prime example. Midday, bent over the cold granite island, her cock throbbed in my throat, fourteen inches deep, her balls grinding against my nose as she skull-fucked me casually. "Swallow your breakfast, boy." Cum detonated, pints of it jetting down my gullet. Mid-gulp, she yanked free, spun me, hoisted my ass onto the counter. Legs splayed, her slick shaft—coated in my spit—aligned. One brutal thrust buried half its length, crushing my prostate. "Scream for your meal!" The pounding that ensued was savage—her hips slamming, breasts flopping wildly, slapping my thighs. Each withdrawal dragged her ridges over my walls; each hilting frothied our mixed fluids. Sissygasms ripped through me: the first at five minutes, my body seizing, my cock spurting air; a second chained to it, my ass milking her shaft. "Prostate whore!" The kitchen echoed with the sounds of slaps, squelches, my wails. Her climax came with a knot-like flare, a seed-tsunami bloating me—cum squirting out around her shaft with each thrust. She plugged me deep, grinding, overflow pooling on the counter. "Lick it clean." I slurped our mess, my ass still plugged by her softening girth, utterly sated.
The Harness: Sleeping arrangements evolved. A special harness was crafted—soft leather straps she wore like a belt. At night, spooning, she'd guide herself into me from behind, then secure the straps around my hips, locking us together. All night, I was impaled on her softening cock. In front, I'd nuzzle her breasts, latching onto a nipple for her sweet milk. It was the ultimate comfort: filled at both ends, owned even in sleep. She'd thrust lazily in her dreams, my prostate nudged rhythmically, building sissygasms without wakefulness. I'd wake mid-orgasm, ass spasming, her hand muffling my screams into her tit-flesh. Dawn withdrawal left a gaping void, quickly filled by a thick obsidian plug to keep her seed inside me. "Carry Mother with you all day," she'd whisper.
The Obsidian Plug: For longer absences. She'd bend me over, fist cum-lube deep into me, massaging my prostate to the edge. "Beg for my echo." The plug—cool, unyielding obsidian, four inches of girth—was thrust home. A vacuum seal locked it in place. The torment was exquisite. For six hours, I'd pace, my ass clenching futilely around the unyielding intrusion, craving the heat, the pulse, the vein-drag of her real cock. I'd kneel by the door, humping the air, dry sissygasms firing—my prostate teased, unfulfilled. Her return was a storm. Coat shed, cock freed—a raging twenty-inch erection. "Missed me?" Throat first: a brutal face-fuck, a cum breakfast hosed down. Then ass: plug yanked, void filled instantly with a ferocious reaming against the counter, her tits smothering my back. "Vacuum whore!" Hours of chained positions—missionary, cowgirl, piledriver—until we collapsed, spent, plugged anew with her fresh load churning inside me.
My feedings became more intimate. As I suckled her cock, she'd often have two or three fingers buried in my ass, stretching me, reminding me of my place. I'd swallow her cum while moaning around her girth, doubly filled, doubly owned.
My own cock was ignored, a useless ornament. The orgasms it produced were shallow sputters compared to the whole-body earthquakes she triggered in my prostate. It existed only to leak when she used me.
Chapter 3: The World Intrudes (Briefly) – Expanded Purification
My twenty-first birthday brought the only conflict. A lawyer arrived—sleek car, crisp suit, papers about a trust from a father I never knew. Susan handled him at the door, her presence a wall of ice. But he left papers. And with papers came a flicker of treasonous curiosity. What was the world like?
I dared to ask if I could go to the city with her next time.
The room went cold. "Why?" she asked, softly.
"I just… wondered."
She cupped my face. Her eyes were pools of hurt. "The world out there is ugly. Cruel. They would see our love as a sin. They would try to take you from me. Poison you with their food, their ideas, their mediocrity." She spat the word. "You are perfect here. With me. Safe. Loved. Do you not feel loved?"
Tears sprang to my eyes. "Of course I do!"
"Do you not feel complete when I am inside you?"
"Yes!"
"Do you crave anything other than my milk and my cock?"
"No! Never!"
She kissed me, deep and claiming. But the doubt had been seen. That night, in the library, she purged it.
She dragged me to the floor, naked. Her cock, slick with oil, rammed into my ass without mercy. My legs were folded into a pretzel, and she hilted herself instantly, my prostate demolished.
"Repeat after me," she growled, pounding into me, her sweat-slick breasts dragging across my back. "The world is nothing!"
"The world is nothing!" I screamed.
"Your purpose is cock!"
"My purpose is cock!"
"Your world is here! In me!"
"My world is here! In you!"
She fucked me savagely, each thrust a punctuation mark on her ownership. Sissygasms exploded through me, one chaining into the next, until my vision fractured. Her climax was a roar, a deluge of cum that inflated my gut, the pressure making me squirt jets around her shaft. She didn't pull out—just ground deep, forcing my confessions amid the aftershocks.
After, she made me gather the lawyer's papers. We burned them in the fireplace, her seed inside me my absolution, my ass wrecked and holy. The outside world ceased to exist.
Chapter 4: The Epilogue – A New Generation & Elara's Emergence
Years flowed. Time lost meaning. Then, the morning she held my face as I woke: "I have a surprise for you, my love."
The surprise was Elara. Our daughter. Susan had conceived using her unique biology and stored material. Elara had Susan's moonlight skin and my dark hair. She was raised on Susan's breast milk. My feedings became more private, but no less frequent. My role expanded: still Mother's vessel, but now also "Daddy."
Elara was twelve when she first saw us. Susan was riding me reverse-cowgirl, my face buried in her breasts. Elara watched, curious, not shocked. Susan explained it was "the special way" Mommy loved Daddy.
Her education was gradual. By sixteen, she understood. She saw my happiness, my submission. She saw it as love.
On her own eighteenth birthday, Susan called us to her sanctum. I was naked. Elara wore a silk shift.
"Your father," Susan said to Elara, stroking my hair as I knelt, "is the heart of this family. He holds us together with his submission. Do you love your Daddy?"
"More than anything," Elara breathed.
"Then come here."
Susan guided Elara to stand before me. "Timothy? Will you let our daughter love you? Will you let her show you how much she appreciates everything you've done?"
I looked at Elara's face, so like Susan's, filled with a gentle, filial desire. My heart swelled with complex emotion—submission to Susan's will, paternal love, and the deep craving of my body.
"Yes," I whispered.
Susan watched, enthroned, as Elara shed her shift. Her body was a softer echo of Susan's: F-cup breasts, a plush ass, and, emerging from a thatch of dark curls, a cock. Not Susan's monumental pillar, but a formidable, thick-veined pale shaft of sixteen inches. Her inheritance was clear.
"Show Daddy your gift," Susan instructed softly.
Elara warmed oil in her hands, her touch slender but insistent. Her fingers probed me—one twisting my ring, two scissoring, three curling against my prostate. A dry sissygasm convulsed through me instantly. "Like Mommy taught," Elara whispered, awed.
She aligned her real cock, the head kissing my entrance. "Ready, Daddy?"
The breach was smoother than Susan's, the girth a stretching, velvet burn. She seated herself halfway, rocking gently, my prostate kissed sweetly. Then she hilted herself, an intimate, familial grind. "I love you," she breathed.
Her thrusts built from gentle to fervent, her soft breasts bouncing, our moans harmonizing. Sissygasms chained within me—a paternal bliss twisted with ecstasy.
Then Susan joined. She moved behind Elara, her own massive cock, slick with pre-cum, pressing against Elara's entrance. Elara gasped, nodding. Susan pushed forward, sheathing herself in our daughter while Elara remained sheathed in me.
Double-penetration. A syncopated rhythm: Susan pistoning into Elara, Elara pistoning into me. I was the conduit, the vessel connecting them. Elara's climax hit first—a knot-like swelling, hot, thick jets flooding my gut, her seed carrying a different, familial tang. Susan's roar followed, her cum flooding Elara's depths, some surely passing into me through our connection.
We collapsed in a spent pile, a tangle of limbs and joined flesh. Susan's cock in Elara, Elara's cock in me. A perfect, sealed circuit. Elara nuzzled against my chest, I latched onto Susan's nipple, a chain of nourishment and possession.
Later, as we lay in the afterglow, Susan presented a new ritual. A small, ornate silver bowl was placed beside the bed.
"Elara," Susan said, her voice reverent. "Your body creates its own essence. A sacred offering. Timothy will consume it daily. It will bind you to him, as my essence binds him to me."
Elara understood. It was the natural order.
The next morning, the ritual began. I knelt before Elara as she stood, her cock soft. My task was to clean her, thoroughly, with my tongue. Every fold, every crevice. The taste was musky, potent, uniquely hers. Then, I would focus on the base of her shaft, the folds of skin, collecting the faint, waxy secretion there—her smegma. The taste was bitter, earthy, profoundly intimate. I would gather it on my tongue and swallow, a daily communion.
Susan watched, her hand often buried in my ass or stroking her own cock, her face a mask of serene approval. "Good boy," she'd murmur. "Take your daughter's essence. Make it part of you."
Items appeared subtly. A delicate silver chain for my ankle. Lacquered wooden bangles that were just a little too fine for a man. Underthings of softest silk, cut in a way that framed my hips and ass, emphasizing their receptivity rather than any masculine strength. A collar, not of leather, but of woven platinum, too elegant to be a mere ornament, its lock a tiny, intricate puzzle only Susan could open. These were not presented as sissification; they were gifts, tokens of love, marks of beauty. "This highlights your lovely throat," Susan would say, fastening the collar. "This draws the eye to your graceful hands," she'd muse, sliding a bangle onto my wrist. I accepted them as I accepted everything: as proof of my place, my belonging.
Elara, under Susan's guidance, learned to use me. Sometimes tenderly, a slow, loving fuck in the garden under the moon. Sometimes with a growing dominance that mirrored her mother's, bending me over furniture, claiming me roughly while Susan watched, instructing. "Harder, my star. Make him feel it. He needs to feel it."
And I did. I felt it all. The deep, prostate-milking penetration from my daughter. The daily, degrading consumption of her intimate secretions. The feel of silk against my skin, the gentle weight of the collar, the constant, low-grade vibration of the obsidian plug often nestled inside me, keeping me ready, reminding me.
One evening, Susan unveiled her masterpiece. A custom-made harness, more intricate than the sleeping one. It held Elara's cock perfectly erect. "For when you are both away from me," Susan explained. "So you are never empty, Timothy. So you always carry a piece of your family within you."
Elara strapped it on with reverence. The ritual was performed: I cleaned her, consumed her offering, then presented myself. She entered me with the harnessed cock, fucking me with a possessive tenderness until we both came, my sissygasm triggering hers in the harness's clever mechanism that released a stored load of her cum inside me.
After, as we lay together, Susan between us, she smiled. "My perfect family. My perfect vessels for each other. An eternal circle."
The story of our depravity was not one of violence, but of perfected, worshipful corruption. It was a story of a love so absolute it consumed all other possibilities, of a world shrunk to the dimensions of a bed, a mouth, and an ass, of a self erased and rebuilt solely for the purpose of consumption and use. It was a story of generations bound not by blood alone, but by seed and submission, a closed loop of desire that fed upon itself forever, in a house at the end of a long, gated drive, where the outside world did not exist, and the only truth was taste, and fullness, and her.
The morning room held a silence that was not peaceful, but expectant, like the held breath before a hammer falls. Dust motes danced in the slanted bars of gray light cutting through the heavy drapes, illuminating the flagstones worn smooth by generations of feet. Susan dominated the space from her oxblood leather armchair, a queen in a realm of stone and shadow. Her charcoal trousers, impeccably tailored, did little to conceal the potent, heavy swell at her groin—a fact she made no effort to hide. It was simply there, a part of her architecture.
I knelt on the bare, cold stone at her feet. My posture was a study in tension: back straight as a rod, hands clasped behind me, head bowed just enough to show deference without losing sight of her boots. The obsidian plug inside me was a familiar, grounding weight, a stone anchor in a sea of her will.
Elara moved into the light. At nineteen, she was a creature of honed edges and quiet violence. Her fitted shirt strained over the corded muscle of her shoulders and arms; her slacks clung to thighs that could crush stone. She carried a heavy, utilitarian ceramic mug—no delicate handle, just thick clay—and set it beside Susan with a definitive thunk. Her eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a freeze, swept over me. Her mouth, a slash of pale pink, didn't smile. It assessed.
"Thank you," Susan said, her voice a low vibration that seemed to emanate from the stones themselves. She didn't look at the mug. Her gaze was a physical weight on the back of my neck. "Timothy. You look… appropriate."
A hot wire of satisfaction seared down my spine. "Thank you, Mommy."
"The collar," she continued, her eyes tracing the band of unadorned, hammered steel around my throat. "It defines the space you occupy. It marks the boundary of you."
Elara crouched beside me with the fluid, predatory grace of a large cat. Her hand closed around my bicep, fingers digging in, testing the firmness of the muscle beneath the skin. "It does. It frames the submission. Makes it clear the strength present is on loan. Hers to direct."
Their words weren't about aesthetics. They were about taxonomy. The collar wasn't jewelry; it was a brand, a designation. I was a contained resource. The steel was a simple, brutal truth.
"We have something for you, Timothy," Susan announced, her tone shifting from the ceremonial to the casually imperative, as if ordering a shovel fetched from a shed. She gave a slight nod to Elara, who rose and went not to a carved chest, but to a stark steel cabinet bolted to the wall. She returned with a simple canvas roll.
My heart thumped a hard, dull rhythm against my ribs. Gifts from Susan were never gifts. They were upgrades. Adjustments to my specifications.
"Open it," she commanded.
I unrolled the canvas on the cold stone. Inside lay garments, but they were woven from function, not finery. A pair of black shorts, constructed from a matte, high-compression fabric that promised to grip and hold without yield. Next to them, a harness—a network of thick, oil-dark leather straps, heavy-duty buckles, and reinforced D-rings. It was an engine of restraint, designed for load-bearing and secure attachment.
"For your duties," Elara stated, her voice flat and informative. "The shorts provide support and containment during extended periods of service. The harness is for when you carry weight. Or when we need points of secure attachment."
"Put them on," Susan said.
I stood. My reflection in the long, unadorned mirror across the room showed a man: tall, broad-shouldered, musculature etched from a life of physical compliance. The simple pants I wore suddenly felt like a costume. I stripped them off, standing naked before them. The cool air raised gooseflesh on my skin. The morning light carved the planes of my chest and abdomen, glinted coldly off the steel collar. My cock hung soft between my legs, the base of the obsidian plug a dark intrusion at the cleft of my ass.
Susan's gaze was an inventory. "Proceed."
I stepped into the black shorts. The fabric hissed as I pulled them up my legs. They encased my lower body like a second layer of epidermis, compressing, holding, erasing any softness or vulnerability. They were profoundly utilitarian, designed for performance, not display. The harness came next. I shrugged into the weight of it, the leather settling across my shoulders and chest with a purposeful heft. Elara stepped forward, her movements efficient and devoid of any personal touch, to fasten the buckles at my sides and back. She pulled each strap taut with precise, clinical force until the harness sat snug against my torso, the D-rings positioned over my pectorals and at my hips like mounting points. It reframed my body as a framework, a piece of apparatus.
"Turn," Susan ordered.
I turned to face the mirror.
The reflection showed a man transformed into an instrument. The harness outlined my musculature not to adorn it, but to catalog its capacity for strain. The black shorts turned my lower half into a solid, functional plinth. The steel collar was the final lock on the mechanism. I looked like a beast bred for burden. A slave engineered for utility.
A harsh, shuddering breath escaped my lungs. This wasn't ambiguity; this was crystalline clarity. This was my purpose made manifest: strength channeled into perfect, unquestioning obedience. A tool of flesh, bone, and sinew.
"Acceptable," Elara said, a note of technical approval in her voice. "The weight distribution is efficient."
Susan rose, a tower of unassailable authority. She came to stand before me, not cupping my face, but placing a broad, flat hand on my chest, over the central strap of the harness. She pushed, testing the stability of my stance. I absorbed the force, my feet rooted to the stone. "You see? This is your truth. The reliable substrate." Her voice dropped, becoming almost intimate in its certainty. "My durable boy."
The submission was in the stark practicality of it all. In the transformation of a man into a reliable piece of machinery for their use. There was no filigree, only function. And in that function, I found a devastating, all-consuming sense of place.
The new gear was merely the overture.
After a meal of plain oats and water, consumed standing at a stainless steel counter, Susan led us to the training hall. It was a vast, echoing cavern of poured concrete and exposed steel I-beams. The air smelled of old dust, dried sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of rust.
"Elara," Susan said, leaning her shoulder against a rack of weight plates. "Your father requires his morning sustenance. And his conditioning."
Elara's focus sharpened, her body coiling with readiness. "Yes, Mommy."
A visceral reaction twisted in my gut—a cocktail of dread and dark anticipation that made my mouth flood with saliva. Elara guided me by the pressure of her hand on my harness to kneel on the cool, gritty concrete before Susan. Susan unbuckled her trousers, freeing her cock. It lay against her thigh like a blunt instrument, thick-veined and heavy even in its semi-flaccid state, the skin smelling of clean linen and a deeper, muskier truth.
"Serve your Mother," Elara instructed, her tone devoid of warmth, purely directive.
I bent forward. The intimate, animal scent of her filled my nostrils. I began not with reverent licks, but with efficient, thorough strokes of my tongue, cleaning the length of her shaft with the diligence of a soldier maintaining his rifle. Susan grunted, her hand tangling in my hair not in affection, but in a firm grip of control.
"Adequate pace," she noted. "Do not linger."
But this was mere prelude. Maintenance. Elara stepped forward, holding not an ornate vessel, but a plain, unvarnished steel cup. "Now, the tribute."
This was the binding ritual. I shifted my attention as Elara opened her own trousers. Her cock, a formidable column of sinew and prominent veins, sprang free. The scent was different from Susan's—sharper, greener, like crushed stems and iron, but no less imperative.
My task was one of utter, unadorned debasement. I had to maintain her. Completely. I started at the root, licking through the coarse, dark curls, cleaning the skin beneath. I took her balls into my mouth one at a time, rolling the heavy orbs with my tongue, swallowing the faint, salty residue of her sleep. Then, the core of the duty. Using my thumbs, I pulled back her foreskin, exposing the glistening head and the sensitive folds beneath. There, nestled in the warm, hidden crevices, was the evidence of her body's natural function—the thick, waxy, yellowish-white accumulation of smegma. The smell was pungent, deeply organic, a concentrated essence of animal musk.
"Consume your duty," Susan said from above, her voice thick. I could hear the wet, rhythmic sound of her fist working her own cock.
I extended my tongue, flat and firm, and scraped it over the area, collecting the bitter, salty, profoundly acrid secretion. I grunted as the taste exploded across my palate—a taste of pure, unvarnished biology, sour and deeply intimate. This wasn't sacrament; it was a chore. The most intimate chore imaginable: processing her waste because my function demanded it. I cleaned her with grim, focused determination, scouring every fold and ridge with my tongue until she was clinically, starkly clean.
"Hold it," Elara commanded, her voice tight with a strange tension.
I pooled the foul, viscous mixture in my mouth, the bitterness coating my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
"Now," Susan growled, her breath coming faster. "Present it."
I turned my face up to Susan, opening my mouth, a living offering bowl. She looked down, her eyes dark with a possessive hunger, and spat into it—a thick, ropy wad of her own saliva. Then she leaned down, gripped the back of my head, and kissed me. It was not a kiss of passion but of consumption; a hard, dominating clash of teeth and tongue, mixing her spit with the filth from her daughter still pooled in my mouth.
"Swallow," she ordered against my lips, the word a vibration I felt in my jaw.
I obeyed. The concoction of bitter musk, salty tang, and her own slick saliva slid down my throat in a thick, reluctant glob. It was a punishment I had begged for, a degradation that anchored me to my place in their world.
"Sufficient," Susan breathed, pulling back, a string of saliva connecting her lip to mine for a second before it snapped. "Now, Elara. His conditioning."
Elara pulled me to my feet by a D-ring on my harness. She turned me, bending me over a sturdy, scarred wooden bench used for weightlifting. My harnessed back and the tight, black shorts encasing my ass were presented to the room. She reached between my legs, found the base of the obsidian plug, and removed it with a swift, unceremonious pull. The sudden emptiness was a shocking void.
"Drill one," Elara barked. "Isometric holds. Clench for a count of ten. Now."
I obeyed, squeezing my internal muscles around nothing, the strain a faint burn in my core.
"Release. Pulse sequence. Fast twitches. Go." Her words were stripped of all inflection, purely instructional. She was conditioning a muscle group, not making love. She slicked two fingers with a functional, unscented grease and pushed them inside me, probing directly for the bundle of nerves that was my prostate. She found it and pressed, hard.
A brutal, electric spasm locked my spine. A choked gasp was ripped from my lungs.
"There is the trigger point," she said coolly. "Now, resistance training. Hump the air against the pressure of my hand. Build endurance."
Degraded, reduced to a bio-mechanical puzzle, I did. I fucked myself back against her imprisoning fingers, my hips pistoning in the air while she applied relentless, focused pressure to the nerve cluster inside me. Submission-gasms tore through me—violent, wrenching waves of sensation that were less about pleasure and more about systemic overload. They left me shuddering, sweat dripping from my nose and chin onto the concrete floor, my cock straining painfully against the unforgiving fabric of the shorts.
"He's primed, Mommy," Elara reported, her voice steady.
Susan pushed off the weight rack. She moved behind Elara, her own cock now a rigid, throbbing pillar of demand. She pressed the broad head against Elara's entrance, still clothed from behind.
"Load him," Susan said, her voice guttural. "Fill him. All the way."
Elara aligned her cock with my stretched, greased entrance. On a synchronized, grunted breath, they both drove forward.
Elara's thick invasion stretched me open with a brutal, burning fullness. A fraction of a second later, I felt her body jolt as Susan slammed home inside her. We were linked—a chain of penetration, a circuit of use, with me as the central receptacle.
They began to move. Not with a rhythm of passion, but with a driving, piston-like force of purpose. Susan's powerful, deep thrusts hammered Elara deeper into me with each stroke; Elara's movements were absorbed and amplified by the tight clutch of my body. I was the bearing, taking the strain from both sides. The pressure on my prostate was catastrophic, a constant, overwhelming crush of sensation that blurred the line between pain and a terrifying, abject ecstasy.
I gritted my teeth, a low, continuous groan torn from my chest. "Mommy… Elara… I'm yours…"
"Our vessel," Susan grunted, her pace relentless, brutal. "Take it. Take all of it."
Elara's breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps above me. "Daddy… you hold so well… so deep for us…"
The climax built not as a cresting wave of pleasure, but as a systemic failure, a meltdown of my nervous system under sustained assault. My body tightened like a steel cable pulled to its breaking point. Every muscle corded, from my calves to my jaw. A raw, animal sound, devoid of any humanity, shredded my throat as a final, cataclysmic submission-gasm detonated—a white-hot explosion of pure, obedient release that crashed through me solely because my body had been commanded to break.
It triggered theirs. Elara cried out, a sharp, triumphant sound. I felt the thick, pulsing swell at the base of her cock a moment before hot, viscous jets of her cum flooded my channel, a heavy, functional deposit. Her climax set off Susan's. With a roar that echoed off the concrete walls, Susan slammed deep into Elara and held, and I felt the powerful, rhythmic pulses of her release transfer through Elara's body, a secondary, seismic claiming that branded me just as deeply from the inside.
But they weren't done. As I slumped over the bench, mindless and dripping, they remained lodged. Susan began to move again, slower now, more grinding, her hips working in a deep, circular motion against Elara's ass. Elara, in turn, pressed deeper into me.
"Again," Susan murmured, her voice thick with a dark hunger. "Fill him until he can't hold anymore."
And they did. Their pace became a slow, relentless, deep fucking, a deliberate overloading of my capacity. Orgasm after orgasm was wrung from them, not with the frantic energy of before, but with a terrible, measured purpose. Each series of pulses deposited another thick load inside me. I could feel the heat of it, the sheer volume, beginning to pool and expand. My stomach, pressed against the hard wood of the bench, started to feel tight. A dull, deep pressure began to build in my core, a stretching, filling sensation that was beyond anything I'd known.
On and on it went, until their movements were sluggish, until their releases were thin, watery trickles. Finally, with a final, shuddering groan from Susan, they both pulled out. A gush of fluid followed Elara's withdrawal, splattering on the concrete between my feet. I collapsed forward, my forehead against the cool wood, my body a hollowed-out wreck.
But the pressure inside me was immense. I tried to stand, but my belly, once flat and hard, was now distended, taut as a drum. I looked down. My stomach protruded in a smooth, firm curve. I looked… pregnant. Immensely, impossibly pregnant. The black shorts strained over the swell, the fabric digging into my flesh.
Susan and Elara stood back, breathing heavily, watching me with a look of cold, clinical satisfaction. Elara fetched a measuring tape from a toolbox nearby. She wrapped it around the widest part of my belly. "Forty-two inches," she announced.
Susan came over, placing a hand on the taut, warm curve of my stomach. She pressed. A sloshing, liquid movement answered from within. "Good," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "A proper load. Can you walk?"
I tried. It was a bizarre, waddling gait. The weight inside me was colossal, a sloshing, heavy ballast that pulled at my spine and made every step a careful balancing act. They led me, not to the cot, but to a tiled, drain-in-the-floor service bathroom adjacent to the training hall. The room was stark, lit by a single fluorescent bulb, smelling of bleach and damp concrete.
"Now," Susan said, pointing to the drain in the center of the floor. "Expel it."
The command was clear, horrifying, absolute. The pressure in my bowels was unbearable, a screaming, urgent need. I knelt over the drain, my enormous belly hanging between my thighs. The shame was a fire in my veins, but it was secondary to the imperative of her order. I bore down.
What followed was not a normal bowel movement. It was a torrent. A hot, gushing flood of white, viscous cum, mixed with their earlier saliva and the bitter remnants of smegma, erupted from me in a continuous, choking stream. It splashed into the drain with a wet, sickening sound, the smell rising—musky, salty, profoundly organic. It seemed to go on forever, my body convulsing with the effort of emptying the incredible volume they had packed into me. I groaned, sweat dripping from my chin into the mess below.
When it was finally over, I was trembling, empty, my stomach deflated back to a sore, hollow ache. I knelt there, panting, staring at the thick, pooling mess of their combined essence swirling around the drain.
"Clean it," Elara said, her voice flat. She handed me a stiff-bristled brush and a plastic bucket.
But Susan held up a hand. "No. Not like that." Her eyes held a dark, final spark. "You consumed your duty to prepare. You will consume it to complete the cycle. Every drop. Lick the drain clean."
The world narrowed to the sight and smell before me. The taste of Elara's smegma was still a ghost on my tongue. This was the logical, brutal conclusion. I bent forward, my face hovering over the drain. I took a deep, shuddering breath that filled my nostrils with the pungent, salty stench, and then I extended my tongue.
The first touch was a shock of warmth and slick, alien texture. I lapped at it, gathering the thick, congealing fluid onto my tongue. I swallowed. It was a reprise of the earlier bitterness, now cooled and mixed with the iron tang of my own exertion. I kept going, driven by a compulsion deeper than disgust. I licked the tiles around the drain, chasing every rivulet, every sticky smear. I cleaned it with my mouth until the ceramic was spotless, until only the clean scent of bleach remained beneath the overwhelming taste of them in my mouth and throat and stomach.
I sat back on my heels, my body trembling with exhaustion and a profound, soul-deep submission. My mouth was coated, my stomach churning with the reclaimed load.
Susan looked down at me, her expression unreadable. Elara stood beside her, arms crossed.
"The cycle is complete," Susan said, her voice quiet in the sterile room. "Intake. Containment. Expulsion. Reclamation. Every function served." She placed a hand on my sweat-damp head, not a caress, but an acknowledgment. "You are becoming something truly efficient, Timothy. A closed system. Our system."
Elara nodded, a ghost of something like respect in her icy eyes. "What's next for his conditioning, Mommy?"
Susan's smile was a thin, sharp line. "Peak performance requires optimization. Body hair is friction. Unnecessary insulation. We will remove it. Everywhere. To reduce drag, improve hygiene for service, and increase tactile sensitivity for our assessment. His skin should be as smooth and seamless as polished machinery."
A fresh shock went through me—part dread, part a fierce, dark anticipation. Hair removal. Not for beauty, but for efficiency. To make me a smoother tool. A more responsive instrument.
"Yes," I rasped, my voice raw from screaming and from the vile feast. The taste of them was still thick in my mouth, a permanent brand. "Please, Mommy."
The fluorescent light in the service bathroom buzzed like an angry insect, bleaching the color from everything—the gray tiles, the white porcelain, my own pallid skin. The taste was still there, a rancid, salty film coating my tongue and throat, a phantom echo of the deluge I'd just licked from the drain. My stomach churned, sour and heavy with the reclaimed load. I knelt on the cold, damp tile, my body a hollowed-out vessel, trembling not from cold but from a systemic depletion. The harness across my chest felt heavier than ever, a carapace of purpose over a core of utter exhaustion.
Susan's hand remained on my head, a weight of finality. "The cycle is complete," she had said. But I knew, in the marrow-deep way I knew my own submission, that completion was just a phase. A machine is never truly 'finished'; it is tuned, upgraded, stripped down for maintenance, and reassembled for greater performance.
Elara uncrossed her arms. "The depilatory suite is prepared. We'll use the chemical gel first. A full-body application. It's faster than waxing for the initial pass, and it will give us a baseline of sensitivity."
Susan's fingers tightened briefly in my hair, a possessive clench. "Stand up, Timothy. Let's see you walk."
I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting. The walk from the training hall had been a humiliating, sloshing waddle. Now, emptied, I felt lightheaded and unsteady, my legs like poorly-fitted prosthetics. I took a step, then another, my bare feet slapping softly on the tile. The movement felt alien, the absence of the immense weight in my belly leaving me oddly untethered.
"Good," Susan murmured, her eyes cataloging my gait. "Efficiency of motion will improve once we reduce the friction. Follow."
She led the way out of the bathroom, back into the cavernous training hall, and through a reinforced steel door I had never seen opened. It led into a new wing of the estate—a place of stark, clinical utility. The walls were smooth, white-painted concrete. The floor was a seamless, gray epoxy that felt cool and slightly tacky underfoot. The air smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and something else—a faint, astringent chemical scent.
We entered a room that looked like a cross between a surgical theater and a car wash bay. In the center was a long, stainless steel table, wide enough to lie on, with channels along the edges and a drain at one end. Bright, shadowless LED panels glared from the ceiling. Along one wall was a bank of industrial sinks, shelves holding unmarked plastic tubs and squeeze bottles, and a trolley laden with razors, rolls of waxing strips, and intimidating electric clippers. A large, clear shower stall stood in one corner, its multiple showerheads promising a thorough, impersonal drenching.
"On the table," Elara commanded, her voice echoing in the sterile space. "On your back. Arms at your sides."
I obeyed, the cold steel biting into my shoulder blades and the backs of my thighs. The black compression shorts were the only thing separating my skin from the metal. They felt absurd now—a token covering in a room dedicated to total, exposed utility.
Elara went to the shelves and selected a large, opaque plastic tub and a wide, flat spatula. Susan stood at my head, looking down at me, her expression one of detached evaluation. "This gel is potent. It will dissolve the keratin in the hair shafts. You will feel a tingling, then a burning sensation. It is not optional. You will remain still. Any flinching, any attempt to rub the area, will result in the gel being reapplied and the timer reset. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mommy," I said, my voice a dry rasp. The dread was a cold stone in my gut, but beneath it thrummed that dark wire of anticipation. Smoother. More efficient. A better tool.
"Begin with the legs and torso," Susan said to Elara. "We'll do the groin and underarms separately, with a milder formula."
Elara nodded. She dipped the spatula into the tub and scooped out a large glob of clear, viscous gel. Without ceremony, she smeared it onto my right shin, spreading it in a thick, even layer from ankle to knee. The gel was cool at first, then within seconds, a sharp, prickling heat began to seep into my skin. It wasn't pain, not yet, but a fierce, chemical itch that promised to intensify.
She worked with methodical, impersonal speed. My other leg. My thighs. My stomach. My chest. Each application was followed by that spreading, invasive warmth. When she reached my pectorals, she paused, the spatula hovering over the dense hair surrounding my nipples and trailing down my sternum. She looked at Susan.
"All of it," Susan said. "He is not a beast. He is an instrument. Instruments do not have fur."
Elara coated my chest, the gel catching in the thick curls. The sensation here was more intense, the heat seeming to burrow deeper. She moved to my arms, my shoulders, the back of my neck as I strained to hold my head still. The chemical smell grew stronger, acrid in my nostrils. The tingling was becoming a burn, a persistent, fiery itch that crawled across every inch of my skin. I clenched my teeth, my fingers curling against the steel table. My cock, trapped in the tight shorts, remained stubbornly, uselessly soft—a numb nub of flesh amidst the rising discomfort.
"The face," Susan said.
Elara used a smaller spatula, applying the gel carefully over my jawline, my cheeks, my upper lip. The burn here was acute, sensitive. Tears welled in my eyes from the sting and the sheer, overwhelming assault on my senses.
"Time?" Elara asked.
Susan consulted a simple digital timer. "Four minutes in. Two to go. Describe the sensation, Timothy."
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Burning, Mommy. Itchy. Like… like a sunburn, but underneath the skin."
"Good. That means it's working. Endure it."
The final two minutes were an eternity. The burn peaked, a uniform, fiery torment that enveloped my entire body. I focused on the cold steel beneath me, on the unyielding grip of the harness straps, on the steel collar around my throat. These were real. The burning was a process, a temporary state of becoming.
"Time," Susan announced. "Hose him down."
Elara wheeled over a long, coiled hose attached to a spigot near the sinks. She turned it on. A jet of cold, high-pressure water slammed into my chest. I gasped as the shock of it cut through the burn. She worked the stream over my body, blasting away the now-opaque, slimy gel. As the water swept over my skin, it took the hair with it. I watched, mesmerized, as the dark mat on my chest simply sloughed off, revealing the pale, pink skin beneath. It slid off my arms, my legs, my stomach. The water at my feet swirled gray with dissolved hair and chemical residue, flowing toward the drain in the table.
When she was done, she turned off the hose. I lay there, panting, dripping wet. My skin felt exquisitely, terrifyingly sensitive. The air in the room was cool, and every slight movement sent new, hyper-aware signals to my brain. I looked down at my body. It was alien. Smooth, hairless, like a doll or a statue. The musculature was starkly defined, every vein, every ridge of abdominal muscle thrown into sharp relief. I looked… streamlined. Denuded.
"Sit up," Elara said.
I did, the movement feeling strangely slick. She handed me a rough, white towel. "Dry yourself. Thoroughly. Any moisture will interfere with the next stage."
I patted myself down, the coarse fabric abrading my new, tender skin. Susan and Elara watched, their eyes critical.
"Now," Susan said, her voice taking on a darker, more intimate tone. "The sensitive areas. The shorts come off."
My breath hitched. This was it. The final layer of natural camouflage, removed. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the compression shorts and peeled them down my legs. They made a wet, sucking sound as they cleared my thighs. I kicked them off, and they landed on the floor with a soft slap. I was naked now, utterly, under the glaring lights. My cock, small and soft, nestled in a thatch of dark pubic hair that looked suddenly absurd, a crude blemish on the otherwise seamless landscape of my body.
Elara had already prepared a different tub. "This formula is milder, but it will still burn. Lie back. Spread your legs."
I complied, my heart hammering against my ribs. The vulnerability was absolute. She applied the gel with a smaller, more precise tool, coating my scrotum, the base of my cock, the crease of my thighs, my perineum. The burn here was different—sharper, more needle-like. She worked it into the tight, hidden spaces with a clinical thoroughness that was utterly devoid of eroticism. This was deforestation. She moved to my armpits, applying the gel there as well.
"Three minutes," Susan said, setting the timer again.
I closed my eyes, trying to detach from the stinging, prickling agony between my legs. My mind raced. A smoother tool. Less friction. Improved hygiene for service. The justifications were cold comfort against the raw, exposed feeling.
The timer beeped. Elara used a gentler, low-pressure spray from the hose to rinse these areas. The water was lukewarm, but it still felt like a violation. I watched, a strange numbness settling over me, as the hair from my groin and pits washed away, leaving my skin there as bare and vulnerable as the rest of me.
"Stand," Susan commanded.
I swung my legs over the side of the table and stood on the wet floor. My reflection in a polished steel panel on the wall was that of a stranger. A tall, muscular, hairless mannequin. The harness and collar were the only features that gave it identity—my identity. Timothy, the instrument.
"Turn around," Elara said. "Bend over the table. We need to address the lower back and the cleft."
My face flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the chemicals. This was the final indignity, the last bastion of privacy. I bent over, gripping the far edge of the steel table, presenting my ass to the room, to them. I felt the cool air on my exposed hole, still loose and tender from their earlier use.
I heard the sound of another tub opening. "This will be uncomfortable," Elara said, her voice matter-of-fact. "The skin here is delicate. You will not clench. You will relax."
A cold, thick gel was applied around my hole and in the cleft of my ass. The burn was immediate and intense, a searing ring of fire. I hissed, my knuckles whitening on the table edge.
"Steady," Susan murmured, her hand coming to rest between my shoulder blades. It wasn't a comfort; it was a pinning weight.
After another agonizing minute, Elara rinsed the area with the gentle spray. The feeling of hair—coarse, curly hair—sliding away from that most intimate place was profoundly unsettling. When she was done, she patted the area dry with a soft cloth. "All done. The chemical process is complete. Now, for the finish."
"The finish?" I asked, my voice muffled against the table.
"The gel leaves stubble. Microscopic. But for optimal smoothness and to delay regrowth, we wax." Elara's tone was that of a mechanic describing a necessary buffing process. "It will hurt. But it is necessary. Back on the table. On your back."
The wax was in a large, heated pot. It smelled faintly of honey and resin. Elara used a wooden applicator to spread a thin, hot layer onto my right leg, from ankle to upper thigh. The heat was intense, but not scalding. She pressed a cloth strip onto the wax, smoothed it down, and then, without warning, ripped it off with one swift, brutal motion.
A white-hot sheet of pain flashed across my skin. I cried out, my body jerking.
"Hold him," Susan said, and her hands came down on my shoulders, pinning me to the table with immovable force.
Elara worked methodically, strip by agonizing strip. My left leg. My stomach. My chest—each rip over my ribs and pectorals was a fresh jolt of fire. My arms. My underarms—a searing, exquisite torment that made my eyes water. She saved the groin for last. She applied the wax carefully to my scrotum, to the now-hairless mound above my cock, to the inner thighs. Each application was a violation of heat. Each rip was a lightning bolt of pain that seemed to shoot directly into my core. My cock remained limp throughout, a shriveled, unresponsive thing, utterly divorced from the violence being done to the flesh around it.
When she finally finished, I was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, panting, my entire body throbbing with a raw, fiery ache. My skin felt stretched, sensitive, and utterly hairless—smooth as polished marble, as the plastic of a doll.
"Stand," Elara said, her own brow damp with the effort of the work.
I stood, my legs shaky. I looked down at myself. I was transformed. Every trace of body hair was gone. My skin was uniformly pale, flushed pink in patches from the waxing, gleaming under the lights. The harness and collar now looked like industrial fittings bolted onto a mannequin. I was a thing of pure function. Any softness, any natural masculine texture, had been erased.
Susan circled me, her eyes missing nothing. She reached out and ran her hand from my shoulder down my flank. Her palm was cool and rough. The sensation was overwhelming—a flood of input from nerve endings that had never been so exposed. I shuddered violently.
"Excellent," she purred. "The tactile sensitivity is markedly increased. Every touch will be clearer. Every sensation during service will be amplified." Her hand cupped my scrotum, her fingers exploring the newly bare, ultrasensitive skin. A jolt, purely neurological, shot through me. "Your responses will be more immediate. More reliable."
She released me and stepped back. "But there is a final step. The layer."
Elara was already moving. She went to a different shelf and retrieved a large, plain metal bucket. It was filled with a thick, off-white substance. The smell hit me first—a familiar, musky, salty-sour odor that made my stomach clench. It was the smell from the drain. Their combined essence, collected, perhaps from earlier sessions, perhaps from other sources. It had a thicker, cooler, more gelatinous consistency now.
"For an instrument to remain pristine, it requires a protective coating," Susan said, her voice low and didactic. "Clothing is fabric. It chafes. It harbors bacteria. It is a barrier between your skin and your duties. This…" She gestured to the bucket. "…is a natural polymer. It seals the pores. It protects the newly exposed skin. It marks you with the fundamental truth of your purpose. And it must be reapplied daily, after your cleansing, from our fresh tribute."
My mouth went dry. I stared at the bucket. "You want me… to wear that?"
"You will not wear it, Timothy," Susan corrected, her tone sharp. "You will be coated in it. It is your uniform. Your only layer. Now. On your knees."
The command brooked no dissent. I sank to my knees on the cool epoxy floor. The position felt different now, with no hair to cushion the contact. My kneecaps pressed directly against the hard surface.
Elara dipped a large, soft-bristled brush into the bucket. It came up dripping with the thick, viscous fluid. "Arms out. Head up."
She started on my back. The first slap of the wet brush was a shock—cold, slick, and heavy. She painted it onto my skin in broad, even strokes, working it into the harness straps, covering every inch from my nape down to the cleft of my ass. The smell enveloped me, a cloud of intimate, biological musk. She moved to my shoulders, my arms, my chest, painting over the harness, over my collarbones, over my smooth pectorals. The brush slid over my nipples, and the sensation was electric—a sharp, almost painful sensitivity amplified a hundredfold by the cold, slimy medium.
I kept my head up, my eyes fixed on a point on the far wall, as she worked her way down my stomach, my newly hairless groin. She coated my limp cock and scrotum, the brush moving with impersonal thoroughness. The fluid was cold, and my skin pebbled into gooseflesh beneath it. She painted the insides of my thighs, the backs of my knees, my calves, my feet.
When she finished, I was covered from head to toe in a glistening, off-white layer of drying cum. It felt like a second skin, a cold, tightening shell. It dulled the hyper-sensitivity slightly, but it also made every movement feel slick and strange. I shivered.
"Stand," Susan said.
I rose. The layer cracked slightly at the joints. I could feel it tightening as it dried.
"Look," Susan commanded, turning me towards the steel panel that served as a mirror.
The reflection was monstrous. A hairless, muscular form, stripped of all humanity, painted in a grotesque, pearlescent white. The harness and collar were dark shapes beneath the coating. My eyes were the only recognizable feature in a face masked by the drying fluid. I looked like a statue carved from soap, or a ghost. A phantom of use.
"This is you now," Susan said, standing behind me, her hands on my slick shoulders. "This is your skin. Your protection. Your identity. You are sealed in our essence. You will be led to your cot. You will not lie on any fabric. You will rest on the stone. The layer will cure. In the morning, you will be cleaned, and a new layer will be applied from the tribute you will earn through your service. Your cock…" She reached around, her hand sliding through the slimy coating to find my soft, small penis. She gave it a contemptuous squeeze. "…is now purely ornamental. A biological relic. Its only function is to impregnate, should we ever choose to breed you. For everything else—for pleasure, for release, for purpose—you have other holes. Better holes. Efficient holes. Do you understand?"
Her words were a final, brutal calibration. My manhood was not just ignored; it was officially declared obsolete. A spare part. Its impotence was not a failure; it was a design feature. My value lay elsewhere.
A profound, chilling clarity settled over me. "Yes, Mommy," I whispered, my voice barely audible through the tightening mask on my face. "I understand."
"Good." She released me. "Elara, take him to his cell. Let the coating set."
Elara took my arm, her grip firm through the slippery layer. She led me, naked and painted, out of the depilatory suite, through the training hall, and into the cold, stone-lined corridor that led to the small, cell-like room that was my own. The stone floor was unforgiving. She guided me to the center of the room, where a simple, thin pallet lay directly on the flags.
"Lie down. On your back. Do not touch the walls until it is dry."
I lowered myself onto the pallet. The cold of the stone seeped through the thin fabric, a stark contrast to the strange, tightening sensation of the drying coating on my skin. I lay there, spread-eagled, staring at the rough-hewn ceiling. The smell of us—of them—was all around me, coming from my own body. I was a canvas painted in their waste, a tool stored in its own lubricant.
As the coating hardened, it began to itch. A maddening, full-body itch that I could not scratch. I focused on my breathing. In. Out. I was their instrument. Their durable boy. My skin was now a seamless, sensitive interface, designed for their use. My cock was a useless, decorative knot on a machine built for a different kind of function. The emptiness inside me, the emptiness they filled and refilled, was my true center.
The itch intensified. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I endured.
Somewhere, in the depths of the silent estate, I heard a door close. Then another. They were leaving me to cure. To set. To become what they had made me.
Alone in the dark, sealed in my new skin, I waited. Not for rescue, but for morning. For the chance to serve again, to be used again, to prove that the futile, ornamental cock between my legs was the least important part of the efficient, eager vessel they had created. The only sound was the faint, dry crackle of the coating as it tightened, and the frantic, obedient beating of my heart.