A young man is taken as a prisoner of war and turned into a minotaur’s sow by his ex-lover.
6k, rated E, trans M/cis M. Lithsome Evvar is taken from the battlefield by his ex-lover, the mad sorcerer Mithal Lore, for a useful purpose indeed – Lore is going to use the young man to breed more of his monstrous army.
Prisoner of war, non-con, interspecies, huge size difference, fucked-up modified minotaurs, desperation, crying, begging, breeding, mentions of body transformation and modification, force-feeding, come inflation, huge insertions, breeding bench/phantom mare being used, generally nasty dynamics all around.
Author’s Notes
Yeah, as you can imagine, this one is a rape-central story that is NOT Patreon-friendly and will not be going on there, there’s no adjusting this one for their tastes.
I think I want to do more with these characters – it won’t be a directly chronological series, I just want to do more fucked-up breeding, so I might do some more shit with these lads and the pregnancy, hucow and milking stuff, some belly-riding, and all that good stuff. Shout out to Sylvenwere, who does a lot of fucked-up cumflation, but specifically has put phantom mares (this sort of enclosed breeding bench) in my mind of late.
They were fucked from the out, and Lith knows that now, but they couldn’t have known before what was coming, couldn’t have known… When the army had crested the hill with the dawn light behind them, their shadows had extended all the way across the field, so great and hulking were the warriors.
He hadn’t believed it, at first, had thought that it must have been some kind of illusion or mistake, and he hadn’t been the only one to go still and stare forward at the advancing forces, the only one unable to comprehend it, the only one…
They’d come forward so fucking fast, too fucking fast. It hadn’t even been a march, hadn’t been regimented or with rhythm, and yet they’d come forward like some herd of beasts, like a swarm of something dark on the horizon.
They were like minotaurs, but there were minotaurs among the Erden forces, and they weren’t like this – minotaurs were generally bigger than even the tallest of men or orcs, and they had the bulk and musculature of the bulls they owed their appearance to, their origins, but they were not unintelligent or uncultured, weren’t beasts of burden or brutality.
These things were brutes – they had bull-like heads and heavy horns, but they were built like boulders, dense and rippling with powerfully corded muscle, and although they were each of them superlatively large, their proportions were different to a usual minotaur’s, less definition between the waists and shoulders, less height.
What good did strategy do against an army so gargantuan in comparison to their own? What was the point in all their drills, in all they’d learned, in training or tactics, in any of it?
Lith’s sword is scarcely able to cut through the natural armour of these warrior’s bare thighs, their muscles too thick to penetrate, and although he casts with his free hand, they have their own robust magical shielding that reflects and neutralises any attempts at spelling them down.
Amell cuts one of their bellies, draws a drip of blood but gets no deeper, and the beast retorts with a swinging axe blow: the axe itself is as big as he is, and there would have been no saving him, even if Lith had been quick enough, even if—
In less than a second, Amell goes from being a warrior in his prime, swinging a bladed stave, and then he’s cleft in two: his legs take one final step forward as his torso is pulled along with the axe and falls dead to the ground, and Lith falls to his knees, staring powerlessly forward, because it isn’t just him.
Their forces are cut to nothing in a matter of minutes – hundreds of warriors, thousands, are turned to little more than gore and shreds of armour on the ground, and Lith kneels in the grass and stares forward, his sword dropped beside him, tears on his cheeks, his mouth open.
All he can smell is blood and shit and wet earth, and he can’t breathe, can’t think – his head is spinning, and he waits for he doesn’t know how long, waiting for the final blow to fall, waits to die himself.
It doesn’t come.
How can it have come to this?
They were expecting an army, expecting mages, even, not monsters, not this.
He flinches at the touch of fingers on the underside of his chin, and he looks up into the face of Mithal Lore, and he feels the tears begin to stream unbidden down his cheeks. In the past two years, since he absconded from Erden, chased by guards and enforces, he’s grown out his hair – it’s straighter than he would have guessed, always had little curls when he had it cut short in line with the palace uniform requirements.
Now, it comes down to his shoulders in dark green tresses, streaks of white breaking up the colour; his eyes shine silver with gathered magic, and he is smiling in a faintly superior way.
Despite everything, Lith has missed that smile, and a part of him wants to fall forward against Lore’s legs, to clutch at his calves and press his face into the other man’s skirts, to beg silently for his mercy.
“Poor thing,” he says softly. Lith can barely hear his voice over the shouts and screams behind them, over the sound of cut flesh, swinging blades, roars of pain and desperation – he reads the words on Lore’s dark painted lips. “I never knew you to give up hope so easily.”
“Just kill me,” Lith says.
“Now, why would I do that? I could have killed you when I left, Lithsome – I didn’t.”
“Maybe you should have,” Lith says, and he strikes with his blade as best he can – the rapier doesn’t make contact, and he shouts out in pain at the strength of the reactive pulse that Lore’s armour plating sends through it, electrifying the hilt and making Lith’s hand spasm.
Lore lifts a hand – his gloves are handsome things, each one wrapped around his thumb and middle two fingers, but leaving his index and smallest fingers free, enough for contact magics, Lith guesses. The palace mages in Erden aren’t meant to wear gloves at all – they’re against the uniform policy, and Pharanx, the Magister Senior, always used to look out for Lore particularly and would punish him, dock his pay or pile work on him, if he saw him wearing gloves during working hours, even if he was only studying.
His hands always got so cold.
He used to warm them on Lith’s skin, used to slide them under his shirt and make him laugh and wriggle and try to wrestle away from him. Lith has missed him, had missed him for so long, even as Pharanx and the others had called him a traitor, had said he was mad.
Lith shouts out in fear and surprise as one of the great beasts that make up Lore’s army grabs him easily about the waist – his hand is so huge it encircles his middle without difficulty, and he’s lifted clear from the ground, and there’s no way for him to struggle free, to kick out of the beastman’s grasp.
Staring up at the minotaur’s face, he sees that there’s a sort of silvery film over his eyes, a dull glow from within them, and as he grips Lith in hand he sniffs at him, nostrils flaring, hot air rushing over Lith’s legs and moving his robe skirts. There’s a blankness in his gaze, a lack of broader awareness, as he focuses wholly on the scent of Lith before him.
“If we’re to move on from Erden to take the capital,” Lore says, a little louder now to make himself heard over Lith’s grunts of anxiety and fear as the beast shoves his nose between his legs, sniffing more loudly, more focusedly, “I’ll need to breed more of my little pets here. I seem to recall you, Lith, were always… capacious.”
He doesn’t know why, but he casts a desperate glance toward Amell – where Amell had been, anyway. Now, his body is barely distinguishable amidst all the other fallen, crushed beneath the advancing feet of Lore’s warriors, but Lore still follows his stare enough to know who it is Lith is looking to.
Whose corpse he’s looking to, pointlessly – whose fucking ghost he’s thinking of.
“Amell Polan?” Lore asks quietly, following his gaze through the mess and making the connection, and he laughs. Had he always been so cruel as this? Maybe. He had had a cruel streak, always, but it had seemed so playful, had been fun, even, so long as he wasn’t expecting Lith to join in, so long as it was just the two of them together.
Had he ever really cared for him at all?
“Tut tut,” Lore murmurs. “Always pining after teacher, Lith – I would have thought I cured you of that.” He’s nearly upside-down in the beastman’s hand, the brute poking curiously under his skirts: Lore’s breath is warm against his ear as he leans in and says, “I always liked you so much, you know. I felt terribly betrayed you wouldn’t come with me when I fled.”
“You were the traitor, not me,” Lith says, his voice faltering a little as blunt fingers poke against his inner thighs – the brute seems baffled at his underskirts, doesn’t seem to understand that he has leggings on, doesn’t seem to comprehend what’s in his way, and Lith can’t help the way his whole body is trembling.
“That may be,” Lore says mildly, “but what a shame to have such a thing as loyalty come between us. You could have been so much more, Lithsome – unshackled from these petty magisterial regulations, you could have become something so much more than what you are.”
“And kill people? Murder innocents, like you?”
“Innocent is rather pushing it,” Lore says, casting an uncaring glance over the carnage of the battlefield around them.
The cacophony is fading rapidly, and as Lith follows the pan of his stare, he can see some warriors still living being plucked out from the mess and carried away – they cry out, protest, but none of them can get free from the giants lifting them, capturing them.
“You used to tell me you never wished to see a battlefield,” Lore says. “But don’t you worry, dear. I am keen to put you in the position of making lives, not taking them.”
“Just kill me,” Lith says, hears the begging, pleading note to his voice. “Just, I don’t, I’m,” he stumbles, stammers, all the blood rushing to his head – the creature holding him is wearing a heavy metal cup over a loin cloth, and he can see it rising as the beast takes more of an interest in Lith, sniffs him more and more passionately. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I wish I’d, I’d, please, please don’t do this, Mithal, please—”
“There there,” Lore says, and pats his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy it, Lith. You always were difficult to satisfy – my little pets might be what you’ve always been in need of.”
And then with another wave of his hand, Lith is being thrown over the beast’s shoulder and carried away, and no amount of shouting, crying, kicking, struggling, no amount of pulsing magic, even, will save him.
* * *
Lith is thrown into a cart with others taken from the field, men and women alike. He hasn’t been picked wholly because he already has the parts to carry a pregnancy, he can see, because he knows some of the men and women amongst the captives, and not all of them do.
He doesn’t know how long it takes, because they’re made to sleep, an enchantment he can’t hope to resist blanketing him amongst the others, and when he wakes he’s alone again and being pulled forward and into a great barn-like building. Lith can hear people crying out in pain and pleasure, hear different moans and gasps and grunts radiating out through the building and echoing off the high ceilings.
A lot of time must have passed, because Lore has stripped off his armour and changed into laboratory robes: they’re thin, made of a pale green faerie cotton, and wrap over each other about his waist, cinched very tightly with a tied belt over his leggings, although he still wears boots.
His hair is tied up in a high ponytail, a few strands of green and white loosely framing his face, and he’s wearing a fresh set of thinner leather gloves, still with some fingers bare to allow magical contact. The free strands curl a little at their ends.
Lith’s armour has been stripped off him as well, and although he’s blearily awake, the enchantment is still in place enough to keep him slow and unable to move his limbs. He’s aware of the warmth of Lore’s body as he’s carried like a bride into a bay and laid back in an examination chair.
He doesn’t reach for scissors or a blade, but cuts easily through Lith’s leggings and chemise with his fingertip glowing silver until Lith is naked, and then he surveys Lith’s body with a thoughtful gaze, his lips pressing together.
“You’ve lost weight,” he remarks – his expression is difficult to read, has always been difficult to read, and Lith is out of practice reading the mysteries of his expression. Lore hasn’t lost weight – he’s filled out, since leaving Erden behind him, and there’s obvious muscle on his jaw and throat, as well as under his robes. He’s a little rounder about his middle, a little wider at the shoulder: he looks good.
“I’ve been training,” Lith says. “It’s muscle.” His own voice is coming out slurred and a little soft, and his head is back on the chair – as Lore peels back the remnants of his clothes, his lips are still twisted in more obvious disapproval, distaste, as his fingertips trace down Lith’s body, between his pecs, down to his belly. He traces over a few of his old stretch marks, then down to his mons, his fingers wrapping loosely around Lith’s soft cock.
Lith grunts at the sensation – Amell rarely ever touched his cock, tended to just fuck him on his belly. Lith knows, in a distant way, that Amell was never quite comfortable with Lith’s body, disliked the idea that he was “in-between” in a way that Amell’s body wasn’t.
Lore had supervised the process at the temple of Ianus, had let Lith lean back against his body as the monks had worked on him: Lith had watched with interest, Lore with equal fascination, as the monks had reached beneath the surface of Lith’s flesh and adjusted it, sculpting and flattening his breasts into flatter pectoral muscles, and then spread his legs and enlarged his cock from the little bud of a clit it had been, broadening and lengthening the shaft, folding the lips together…
But he had kept his cunt, and kept his uterus, his ovaries, all of it – he had wanted children one day.
Human children.
Lore’s children, he’d thought, once upon a time, maybe, until he’d left.
“I missed you,” Lith mumbles, and Lore faintly laughs, reaching up and stroking through Lith’s hair. “You don’t have to do this.”
“No, I don’t have to do this,” Lore agrees, smiling in that easy way of his – up close like this, now they’re away from the field, the light of actively channelled magic has faded from his eyes, and now they’re just the slightly dull grey they always were. “But I want to, Lithsome – I’ve missed you too.”
He squeezes, and Lith whines, tipping his head weakly back into the chair, moves as much as he can – with a naked finger, he traces around the opening of Lith’s cunt, and Lith grunts at the sensation, almost ticklish it’s so incredibly light, making his tired thighs tremble.
“I don’t want this,” Lith whispers, breathing out the words, and Lore smirks down at him as he pulls the rags of Lith’s clothes out from under him. How is it that he can do this so easily, if he cares for Lith, if he ever cared for him? Was he truly always so evil, so utterly amoral?
Have all those great, hulking beasts been bred from people like him, real humans, forced to act as sows?
“All your decisions have led to here, my dear,” Lore says. “You refused to come with me when first I fled – you refused my call a second time, when I sent you that letter, told you how to join me, come to me.”
“I never read it,” Lith says, feeling tears begin to swell at the corners of his eyes, although they don’t fall, just feel wet and uncomfortable. He regrets it, suddenly: he had scarce had any time to think about it, to concern himself with it, at the time, and now he wishes he had gotten the letter, or that he’d demanded to read it, or something. “Amell found it in my quarters before I did, opened it, told me it was from you, but not what it was, except that you were insulting me, cruel to me.”
“Hm,” Lore muses aloud, expression still unreadable, and then says, “In that case, it seems you’re just unlucky.”
With a wet sponge, he washes the lingering blood and mud from the parts of Lith’s skin that had been bared to the air, from his hands and arms, his ankles, and then washes the sweat and oil from the day off his body, from his chest, from his sides, from between his legs.
“Please,” Lith begs him, and Lore leans in and kisses him, brushes his dark-painted lips over Lith’s own, and they are so soft, plumper than Lith’s own, more defined. It’s a very soft kiss, almost sweet, so warm, and it envelops him utterly, the tenderness of it and the tenderness of Lore’s hands cupping his cheeks, and for a moment he lingers dream-like in a world that is long-since passed behind them, a world where Lith is hovering in his tutor’s bedchamber, being eased back to bed before he goes to his own studies.
And then he’s lifting Lith again, lifting him so, so easily, and Lith’s eyes are closing.
When he wakes, he’s strapped in place.
His ankles are bound to his thighs, a position Lore had tied him into before, but not like this: he’s inside some sort of leather shell that covers his back, and his head is free, his arse and cunt sticking out from the shell, his wrists loosely tied to the leather bench, in line with his head.
He blinks at the sudden light as a set of little doors is opened around his head, baring his face to the air, and then Lore is in front of him, stroking the side of his cheek. There’s something in his arse, he realises, some kind of plug or toy, not very big at all – he just feels it when he tries to clench down, and is unable to force it free.
“Your body isn’t quite hardy enough to withstand the bulls’ hands on you yet, they can be a little rough with their toys, and I haven’t time to supervise them all the time,” Lore says mildly, and before Lith can respond, Lore is shoving a syringe into his mouth, forcing it over his tongue so that when he depresses it the liquid inside mostly goes right down his throat.
It’s the sort of syringe without a needle, one they might use to bottle feed oversized carnivorous plants in the larger gardens, the size of Lore’s arm and about as thick, and he can see how thick it is inside, creamy and heavy even before it gets between his lips.
Lith tries to cough and sputter, tries to lean away, but his neck is fastened in place, and he tastes how rich and creamy the mixture is as he swallows it down. He’s fucking hungry, he realises abruptly, and despite how stupid he knows it is, his abruptly gnawingly empty stomach is ravenous for more of this, so when Lore gives him the second syringe, he swallows it down without complaint, greedily, even.
It’s much thicker than regular cow’s milk, tingles a little when too much of it is in contact with his tongue at one time, it feels so rich in magic, and at the same time he’s aware of the heat beginning to radiate out from the base of his belly, through his veins, over his skin.
He feels the depressions of one of the bull soldier’s hoof-like feet behind him on the floor more than he hears them, and he yelps in anxious surprise as he feels the heavy weight of the bull’s hands grabbing roughly at the leather casement surrounding him. He hears the slightly hollow sound of his slapping palms, feels the soft padding inside the shell, and he tries to look at the massive shaft of the bull’s dick between his legs, but he can’t see past the underside of the leather bench.
He can just feel it, can feel the absurd heat of it, feel the wetness of his shaft, against his prick, feel how open his cunt is, and he realises that the milk he’s swallowing down isn’t just heating his skin, isn’t just warming his cheeks as it fills his belly, but making more heat rush down between his legs. His cock is hard and he can feel how wet he is, feel himself clenching around bare air.
He’s terrified, his heart pounding, and at the same time he’s fucking aching to be filled – Amell always fucked his ass, always just ignored his cunt entirely, and Lith rarely masturbates by fingering himself, doesn’t like the mess of how wet he gets over his fingers, and he’s never in the showers alone to get himself off.
“Please,” he whimpers after swallowing down the last of the second syringe, but Lore retorts by filling it and forcing it over his tongue and deeper this time – more milk goes down his throat, and at the same time the bull behind him rumbles a low noise, thrusting his too-long, too-thick cock against the bare underside of Lith’s belly.
Lith is growing so wet that he can feel himself dripping onto the bull’s shaft.
“Hole,” the bull soldier grunts in a tone of complaint – his hands roughly push and shove at the leather frame around Lith’s body, Lith can hear the creak of it and the noise his big fingers are making against the leather.
“Ah ah,” Lore says sharply. “No reaching under.”
“Can’t find it.”
“And would you like me to help you, perhaps?” Lore asks scathingly, and Lith chokes a little as the plunger is pressed down all the way and what feels like a gallon of milk is forced down his throat at once, making him swallow compulsively.
Lore pulls the syringe free and sets it aside, and as the bull mutters, “Please,” in the churlish tone of a scornful student, Lore sweeps forward. Lith feels his hand brush against the underside of his arse as he grips the bull around the shaft, and then squeals as it’s lined up to kiss his open cunt, forcing his lips apart.
It’s wider than a man’s fist and so hot and so wet, and the bull roughly shoves forward and then slickly ends up frotting against Lith’s dick instead before knocking against the underside of the bench – he grunts in frustration, and Lore exhales.
“Too small!” he complains.
“Please let me go,” Lith whimpers, and he’s ignored resolutely.
“Patience, dear, you’ve fucked smaller holes than this. I’m going to kneel down to help you – you’re going to be careful thrusting forward, alright? Last time you nearly knocked me out with those coconuts of yours.”
“Coco-nuts?” the bull repeats uncomprehendingly.
What does he look like? Lith doesn’t even know – he can’t see him, but he knows how much space he’s occupying in the room, how big he is, would know just from how far this breeding bench is set off the ground where the beast’s waist was, so tall.
Lore’s tone is only a little mocking as he says, “Your bollocks.”
“Mm… Hurt you last time. Hit your head. Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologise for, it wasn’t as if you did it on purpose, pet – just be careful now, alright? Once you’ve cleaved inside the first time he’ll be much easier.” As an aside, with a little laugh to himself, he adds, “I seem to recall having a similar problem myself.”
Gods, that sends a horrible shock of want through him, Lith’s cock twitching, and he’s able to just see Lore’s knees as he gets down on the floor, and then he feels Lore’s thumbs neatly pressing in at the very edges of his hole, and stretching him wider. Lith wants to kick, but his legs are too neatly bound in place, so much so he can only move his fucking toes, not even his feet; he’s crying out, wailing incoherent, wordless pleas to be released, and if not that, for this monster to just frot against him, or fuck his arse, even, and not to get him pregnant, not to breed him with more unholy beasts like him, please—
“There you are,” Lore says warmly, voice full of praise as the bull’s flared cockhead is rubbed up against Lith’s open cunt, touching against Lore’s thumbs as he keeps Lith spread wide to take it in. “Gently now, firm press forward—”
Lith screams.
The stretch is agonising, and he sobs out, “I’ll tear, please, don’t, please, he’s gonna rip me apart, don’t—”
“Sixteen isn’t going to rip you apart, Lithsome, I’ve treated this cunt of yours with an ointment to prevent it, not that it needs the help, as greedy as it is.”
“Tight,” the bull grumbles, but despite the tone of complaint he slowly slides forward, and Lith wails as he feels the blunt flare of his too-huge cockhead slowly, slowly force its way inside him. It feels as if he’s being dropped onto a fucking stone pillar, feels like a tree is being forced inside him, and as much as the stretch is unholy, unspeakable, unending and inescapable, it doesn’t actually hurt.
There’s no ripping tear of flesh or aching burn, just a sensation of pressure and stretching and it’s so much inside him, so so much, too much, because without the pain distracting him he’s aware of the strange pleasure of it, the satisfaction of having his cunt so full and at the same time, the pressure on his cock, squeezing it from the inside.
It’s a fierce, tightly coiled pleasure, buried deep in him and not even making him quiver or tremble, just settling in him. It’s like a pebble being dropped into a well, he thinks, a long fall, and then tiny little ripples.
“You know how this goes, Sixteen, grip the handles, lean back just a little and—”
Sixteen snaps his hips forward, forces the length of his cock inside Lith’s body in one sharp movement, until Lith’s cunt is stretched around the slightly wider base of his prick where the soft fleecy material of his sheath is tickling his lips: he’s wheezing, because he feels like he’s been fucking impaled, and he can feel his belly stretched out around the length of the bull’s cock, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, as well as not being able to move.
There are tears dripping down his face, and his voice is slurring again, to do with the immensity of sensation now instead of enchantment or drugs. He feels like he’s floating somewhere in the sky, he’s so utterly overwhelmed, and he’s not even making any noise, or not crying out, anyway: there’s a low, soft, rhythmic noise coming from his throat, but it doesn’t even sound like a moan.
“There, see? Listen to him, lowing like the cow he is,” says Lore, and Lith sobs as Lore unlatches something on the bottom of the bench and then pulls a panel free: there’s still support under his chest and arms, as well as the upper part of his thighs, but his belly is free.
Free, so that as Sixteen pulls back his hips and thrusts forward again, the draw-back making Lith’s cunt hold obscenely tight onto it, his cock doesn’t hit the bench but bulges out his belly even more. Lith can feel himself stretching around it, and he knows he’s whimpering again as Sixteen finds a slow rhythm: Lith’s muscles are relaxing a little, forced to by the breadth of what’s stretching him open, and the pleasure is beginning to build and glow out from his core in a way that makes him feel dizzied and far too hot.
Lore is on his feet again and coming around, and then he puts the syringe to Lith’s mouth again, and Lith is being filled from both ends. Swallowing down rich, thick milk, he’s distracted from the slow work of Sixteen’s prick into him and out of him again, and by the time he’s finished the length of the syringe, Sixteen’s able to thrust inside him a little more quickly. Every thrust rubs against the back of his prick from the inside, and the friction is making him feel like he’s being drawn tight on a wire, and his cock is twitching, jumping.
He feels like he’s being turned to rubber, and it feels good, being kneaded like dough until he stretches wider, and as Sixteen keeps thrusting inside him, gripping the handles on the top of the shell to support himself and to let himself fuck deeper into him, and Lith can feel the heavy weight of his bollocks hitting against his prick, and they are big, each of them the size of his fucking head.
He wonders if he can actually hear them churning, feel them churning with fresh come ready to pump inside him, or if he’s just imagining it, if he’s so dizzy with how he’s being fucked, how deeply Sixteen is fucking him, that he can’t get away from the pleasure for a moment.
“Please stop him,” Lith whimpers. “Please stop him, please, please, Mithal, get him out of me, I don’t want it, please, don’t let him, he’s going to get me, I don’t want, I can’t, I don’t want to be pregnant, I don’t want a monster growing inside me, I don’t—”
“Oh, Lithsome, hush now,” Lore says, and slides a thumb into his mouth – he’s stripped off the glove to the wrist and dipped it in milk, and Lith hates himself for how good it tastes, how he suckles on Lore’s thumb as soon as he tastes it. “They call me a monster, you know – is it so different, having one of my pets breed you full rather than doing it myself?”
Lith wants to argue, but he can’t, not with a thumb pressing down on his tongue, and he can hear Sixteen’s moans growing louder, can feel his thrusts not just speeding up but stuttering, and he’s crying more, tears dripping down his cheeks, and he is so scared, he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it, he can’t—
And then Sixteen is coming, and it’s the best sensation Lith has ever felt – the milk had made him feel warm and fed and full, but this?
This is… otherworldly.
Sixteen’s huge cock pulses strongly with each thrust of his cock, and the come that floods into him is unspeakably hot, making his cunt tingle, making his womb feel electrified, and he knows that he’s crying out, that he’s shouting around the thumb in his mouth, that he’s sobbing, and he’s coming, too – his cunt is fluttering helplessly around the prick forcing it to stretch, and his belly is really bulging outward now, and it feels so heavy, so heavy and thick and rich and too much and too good. This orgasm is hitting him so hard it’s blinding, and the obscene weight beneath him is making him sob even more, stretching him like this. This is just his come – how will it feel, when it takes, when he has Lith bred and pregnant, when a beast like this is growing inside him and weighing him down, ready to force its way out of him?
His belly is bloating, bubbling and churning with so much hot come he can’t stand it, sloshing like he’s a filled balloon, and it feels so heavy he can hardly believe that the leather bench he’s strapped into isn’t creaking under the weight. His belly is so full that Lith can see it, can see it bloating and threatening to brush against the ground beneath him, can see how his stretchmarks are stretching even more, and then his belly is so full it is touching the ground.
He stares down at himself, horrified and powerless, at the way his bloated belly goes from round to flat where it touches against the floor, at what he’s been made into, little more than a living tank for a bull’s milk and semen, and then he looks up at Lore again.
Lore is smiling at him as he draws back his thumb and taps it against his lower lip, smears Lith’s own saliva over the sensitive skin. Lith moans as Sixteen pulls back, feels as if he’s gonna drag the inside of Lith’s cunt with him, turn him inside out, but he doesn’t.
Lith just feels achingly empty as Lore walks around and slides another plug into his cunt, matched to the one in his arse, Lith supposes – it stops the air from feeling cold against his skin, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying as Sixteen’s prick inside him, doesn’t feel as good as that.
“Please,” he says, and his voice is low and desperate, and through the haze of desperate pleasure he wonders if what he’s really begging for is more – the fear is still here, still present, but it’s almost like it’s straying toward the horizon, like it’s being washed away. “Please… Get it out of me…”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Lore says mildly. “Spilt milk and all that. Want him to clean you off, dear?”
“Mmm,” grunts Sixteen, and Lith doesn’t understand what that means until the great shadow of the bull is standing before him, and Lith is staring down the shaft of his mostly soft cock, still bigger around than his arm, than his leg, probably, and then for reasons he couldn’t hope to explain he opens his mouth and laves his tongue over the flare of it, and fuck, fuck.
It tastes good.
It tastes better than the milk had, even, tastes salty, tastes rich, and yet at the same time tastes good in a way that is beyond flavour, feels like he’s tasting pure magic: his blood feels like it’s afire as he opens his mouth wider, trying to invite more of the bull’s prick onto his tongue, down his throat, until he’s choking on it, swallowing desperately around it, desperate to clean the last little bit of Sixteen’s come from his prick.
He’s aware of Lore laughing behind him, distantly, but the idea of him fades into nothing, eclipsed by the looming beast before him and the cock Lith’s inviting down his throat.
He complains, wordlessly, wantingly, as Sixteen pulls away from him, watching his cock soften further and fold back into the pouch of its little sheath: compared to his balls, now, his soft cock seems like an absurdly small thing, and yet it would still rival any cock Lith’s so much as put his hand on.
“Let’s leave him be a little,” Lore says, “let him rest – let it take.”
“Again,” Sixteen says, and Lith feels himself tremble: his belly, swollen and bloated beneath him, sloshes quietly.
“In a little while,” Lore says, and laughs when Sixteen grumbles wordlessly – before he leaves, he closes the doors around Lith’s head, leaving him in the darkness of the bench with just his holes free to fuck and his ruined gut reaching down to the ground beneath him.
He’s stopped crying, he realises in a distant way. There doesn’t seem to be a point any longer.
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