The New Girl, Ch. 7

 

Chapter 7: Mistress Freya’s Beautiful Breasts

 

I take far, far too much pleasure in the way the little “Freya’s Slut” tag bounces against my collarbone.

The sound it makes is meagre, a pitter-patter of metallic wobbling. A rattle of the tiny chain-link, the dull thud against my flesh and bone unheard against the backdrop of Mistress Freya’s laboured breathing and my own barely-suppressed groaning.

God, I’m glad she didn’t want to stop ploughing me.

‘Little fucking slut,’ my Mistress says, digging her fingers into my hips. ‘Cumslut. Cumdump. Ughn. Mine. All fucking mine.’

Mistress Freya, for all the vulgar viciousness of her words, practically sucks on my neck as she leans in to kiss it. Her bountiful breasts bounce against my back, such heavy cushioning weights that I’m ever so honoured to support. Her lips are slick, passionate in the way they grip and nibble, teeth periodically joining the play.

Bubble-gum sweetness and post-PE sweatiness mingle, pairing with the sticky tang of our filthy changing-room copulation. My nose is thick with her, my world engulfed by her. Freya Venyabildt, the most beautiful woman in the world. And I’m hers. Hers alone.

‘Yes, M-istress. All y-ours.’

‘Louder, slut. I can’t–ughn–hear you.’

‘I’m yours! I belong to you, Mistress F-reya. Mind and b-ody and–ugh–soul.’

She spanks me, a wallop that continues to echo long after the initial shockwave of pain merges and becomes subsumed within the overwhelming pleasure of being royally reamed by the tan blonde Amazonian futanari. My eyes roll upwards and my eyelids flutter, mouth falling open, fuck-sozzled spit glazing my lips.

‘Such a good, good pet.’

Mistress bites my throat, a beast more than a girl, applying only enough force to make me wince. And just as happened with the slap upon my arse, the sensation of having her teeth pressed into the skin of my neck undergoes that same electrifying transformation into the realm of the bizarrely enjoyable.

Her rough affection, so forceful and vigorous, nonetheless yields to gentleness where it matters the most. When Mistress Freya slams me against the painted cinderblock wall, she makes sure to hook her elbow against my Adam’s apple, taking the brunt of the impact upon her arm. And in the same movement she kisses my cheek, nuzzles my ear, nibbles my earlobe.

‘I love you, Tom,’ Mistress says. ‘I fucking love you, you perfect little slut.’

To find those brilliant blue eyes looking straight at me, staring to watch the minutest of reactions on my face, is one of life’s simple pleasures. And to be kissed by her, the taller dominatrix, is one of its finest. Sweet saliva and the fullest, softest lips in all the world. A tongue that, with playful enthusiasm, wrestles my own.

Snogging with eyes open is just a little unusual, but we’re each smitten with the gaze of the other. As Mistress ploughs me with slow deep pumps of her voluptuous hips, she studies my eyes, which instinctively flutter and fall hooded, resulting in obvious sensual satisfaction in her own. She breaks the kiss, nuzzles against my face, licks my lips.

‘Submission is just your nature, isn’t it?’ Mistress says, voice husky, breathy.

I nod, move to restart the snogging, but she retracts with a look of beautiful malice. ‘Don’t forget your place, slut. Ugh. All things, but on my terms.’

‘Y-es, Mistress.’

She chews on the curve of her lower lip. ‘Fuck, I love it when you say that.’

I almost topple when she slams with such force that my knees quiver, drilling my backside with that mighty length of throbbing hot cockmeat. Even now, even so used to it as I am, it’s still so big. I’ve been broken in by her, had my body taught its place by her, and yet all the same those fourteen fat inches of futanari are so effortlessly capable of blowing my mind.

‘Ughn. Fuck.’

She laughs mirthlessly as I lean into the wall for support, cheek pressed against it. Mistress picks up the pace, spanks me again, impales me upon her searing skewer. I’m drooling, mind blank, all the world non-existent beyond the sweaty sex-musk confines of the girl’s changing room, our favoured haunt for these not-so-secret trysts.

Thwap, thwap, thwap go her big meaty balls, slamming against mine, dominating me as much as every other aspect of her does. In relinquishing, in some sense, the idea of being the superior male between the two of us, I almost bust a nut. The thought of Mistress Freya being above me, being better than I am, taking what is undeniably hers, gives the little rattling wobble of the “Freya’s Slut” tag all the more importance.

‘Mhm. Such a fat arse. Such a tight butt.’

Slap. Crack. I shiver, groan, strain. The pressure is building, always building, but I’m getting better at holding out. Cumming a lot is no bad thing, but when I ride the wave for as long as possible, effectively edging myself on Mistress’s big bronze dick, the resultant climax is something practically supernatural.

The constant fleshy thup thup thup of her flesh on mine, and the thwap thwap thwap of her balls as they swing, and the occasional schlick-schlup as my lubed-up backside receives her cock at an angle conducive to producing the sloppiest of sounds, sometimes broken by the crackle of her palm against one of my bum cheeks, all makes undeniable what is happening. What always happens. What I keep, with increasing regularity, reflecting on.

If I were a girl, Mistress would so easily knock me up. Slut that I am for her, I doubt I’d ever turn her down, and I’m sure the moment she ditched the condom or told me to get off the pill I’d…I’d be hard-pressed not to accept this superior specimen’s seed deep inside of my hypothetical womb.

And I’ve never, ever wanted to be a girl. Never thought myself girly. Always been one of the lads, always been distinctly male. But…there’s something perversely erotic, all-encompassing in its allure, in the idea of…

…in the idea of seeing what we do as some kind of mating.

Because in a sense it is, right? To hear Mistress Freya as she grits her teeth and groans, or whispers sweet affection in my ear, or verbally disparages me, or all three in one grandiose combination of lusty sonority, is to know intimately that I am being ploughed here. Ploughed by a penis twice the size of mine, with balls easily three times as fat.

And before long, my Mistress will ejaculate. She’ll pump that thick creamy delicious ooze right out of her body, straight into mine. Genes, not mine, foreign and uniquely and utterly hers, will end up inside me. If she claims me when she cums on my face – and I believe she does – then what happens when she pumps full my arse? What happens when she loads my mouth?

God, what would happen if I just said it? What if I told her to, well, knock me up, or something? She’d know it’s just lusty talk, know it’s just play, know it’s not real…but if a girl told me to do that, if Freya – I mean, Mistress – one day says that…my balls might shoot out of my dick.

My mind is as much of a gutter as hers, isn’t it? Well…here goes?

‘Breed me,’ I say, surprised to hear the sheer filth of my tone. ‘I mean, uh–’

It gives her pause. No laughter, no mockery. Sheepishly I glance backwards, over a shoulder, to find a woman utterly besotted with lasciviousness. Mistress trembles, stock-still, half-impaled into my backside. Post-PE, glistening with sweat, her PE shorts dangle around one ankle and her polo shirt clings to those heaving G-cups.

Her hair, platinum blonde, long and straight, is somewhere on the border between casually disturbed and genuinely dishevelled. Those brilliant sapphire eyes, those full sweet lips, that gorgeous face with its sculpted cheekbones and womanly jawline. I’m hers. And she’s…she’s processing what I just said?

‘Do you mean it?’ Mistress says.

‘What?’

‘What you said. Do you mean it?’

I nod. ‘Of course. I’m yours.’

‘So if I could do it, you’d carry my child,’ Mistress says, wetting her lips with a sliver of pink tongue. ‘You’d let me wipe out your line because, let’s face it Tom, my genes are much stronger than yours.’

I bite my lip, nod. ‘Happily. It’d be an honour to end my line on your cock, with your delicious semen.’

Mistress chuckles softly. ‘You’re so, so dirty.’ She looks as though she’s going to spank me, then merely settles for a firm squeezing of my bum. ‘You’re a boy, you know?’

‘It’s just pretend.’

‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘I like you being a boy.’ My Mistress leans atop me again, big sweaty tits pressing against my back. Her lips find my ear, tickle it with sweet damp breath. ‘Let’s play pretend from now on. From now on, this is mating. From now on, we’re trying to breed. Got it, slut?’

‘Y-es, Mistress Freya.’

She slowly slides herself fully inside of me, hilting her weapon right up to the point that those curly pubes brush up against my arse crack. With a gentle shudder, her immense testicles wobble against my own, reminding me implicitly of the seething virility of my Mistress and her pseudo-superhuman loins.

Mistress draws herself back, sliding her hands down to grip my hips. And when her glans is the sole remaining presence of her cock inside of me, she says, voice breathy and passion-infused, ‘Get pregnant.’

She drives her entire length up into me in a single mighty thrust, repeating that phrase at the peak of impalement. ‘Get pregnant.’ And then out again. ‘Get pregnant.’ And in again. ‘Get pregnant.’

And with each repetition, with each back-forth limit-to-limit hilting and almost-uncoupling, the urgency of the demand increases. What begins as a whisper, by the fifth stroke, is bordering on a shout.

‘B-reed me, Mistress,’ I say, pleasuring reaching an inescapable conclusion. ‘Take full ownership of your–ughn–slut. My body is–mhm–yours. I’m your fucking property.’

Mistress roars when she slams herself back inside, hefty balls squirming and shifting as they smack against my smaller ones. A searing pulse of heat runs from the base of her cock along its length, cum-vein – I must be imagining it – bulging as it delivers her virile payload deep inside of me.

‘Ughn. F-uck,’ Mistress says, strained beyond belief. ‘You’re so–ugh–perfect.’

She clumsily musses up my hair, pumping shot after shot of thick hot semen straight out into my innards. Billions of my gorgeous futanari’s white wriggling sperms are flooding me now, her pseudo-masculine potency asserting itself over my body, claiming me as though I wasn’t, by the simple way of the world, already hers.

I cum as well, my orgasm mingling with hers, arse tightening down to accentuate her already potent climax. In some mutual howl of satisfaction we each spill our respective seed, but only hers is fated to end up in the body of another. Mine has that lesser fate, as it almost always does. It splatters the wall, white on white.

Fitting, really. And that self-degradation only heightens my happiness.

 

I wear the collar at all times, well-aware that I’d have to explain it if ever someone sees.

I’m pretty sure, on some level, that people know about us by now. What with Mistress having no qualms about coming up and hugging me in front of everyone else, or the fact that we’re always sitting together, or that we eat lunch together when absolutely no-one else is ever around Freya Venyabildt.

She brings me all manner of snacks and tasty treats – the non-semen kind, I mean – when we eat together. It gets to a point where I pretty much stop bringing lunch, or money for it, because I know that my Mistress will do a fine job in keeping me fed. And, as much as she mocks me for so much as hinting at it, it’s a rare day when we don’t snuggle up together post-lunch.

Mistress is, despite her toned physique, also plenty squishy and pillowy. Tensed, her muscles are rock-solid, but most of the time they blend into the womanly yield of her voluptuous form. Resting my head upon her chest while Mistress Freya reads is the ideal form of relaxation. Smelling her bubble-gum sweetness, basking in the warmth of her loveliness, feeling the steady in-out of her breathing, and listening to the powerful rhythm of her heart. What a life.

Today, for whatever reason, her buttons are all done up. Not that I mind, but it is odd. She’s usually quite eager to show off the bounce and jiggle of what might be the world’s finest pair of tits. But I must stare, or else forget that I’m looking at the curious change on attire.

‘Are my boobs really that interesting?’ she says.

‘Are you serious?’ I raise an eyebrow at her, finding in return an effortlessly domineering mirroring of my gesture. ‘I mean, that’s not why I like snuggling with you, Mistress.’

‘You can drop the title sometimes, silly.’ Freya musses up my hair. Her book today – Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra – holds steady in her other hand. ‘You’re my boyfriend, Tom. Pet, plaything, sure, but it’s more than that. We’re not just a sub-domme pairing. I hope I’ve not given that impression. I do actually love you, you idiot.’

She says things like this, and my heart soars. Such a cool head she has, to diffuse my concerns before I even knew I had them. As much as I adore the title myself…she’s still meant to be Freya, after all.

‘I may have been overdoing it,’ I say, glancing playfully aside. ‘But for real, man, as amazing as your boobs are–’

‘How would you know?’ Freya says, cocking her head. ‘You’ve not seen them.’

‘I…’

She’s too good at this stuff. There’s such a subtle teasing to the shadow of a smirk on her voluptuous mouth, the angling and focus of her eyes, even the way she slows and modifies the pacing of her fingers as they weave through my hair.

’Thirty-six double-G,’ Mistress says, smirk deepening. ‘God, you’re such a boy. Your eyes just shot wide as saucers.’ She chuckles, carefully flips the book and lowers it page-down upon the smooth concrete. It’s a dry summer day, at least. ‘I’ve been thinking, since our first little breeding session. About just how I should reward you for such good, good behaviour.’

Freya rises and pushes me back against the brickwork. I can do nothing but stare, bug-eyed, as the towering blonde with her sensually-sculpted body moves her legs and straddles me, sitting that plump backside down atop my thighs. Her hands go to my arms, and she strokes me with gentle adoration.

‘As much as I find the idea of a grown man sucking on my tits like a little baby just a smidgen weird…if that’s what you’d like to do, you can.’ Freya tilts her head to one side, smirk now a smile, warm and generous. ‘Do you want to see my boobs, Tom?’

I’m pretty sure if I nod any harder my head will snap off. Mistress giggles, releasing my arms and reaching for the buttons of her white shirt. Suddenly the full buttoning makes sense. The best kind of present, at least in those that can be so hidden, is one you need to unwrap.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she says. The first one goes, my eyes transfixed by it. ‘I’m guessing this is a good reward?’

‘The best. Holy shit, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Freya flutters her eyes at me. ‘I much prefer to keep my cumslut tame through kindness than cruelty, where possible.’

By the third button, her cleavage is taking shape. The upper outline of two full round prominences, curving together to meet in the centre of her chest, is tantalising by itself. That the valley deepens with each passing moment, with every popping of another button, only makes the sight more enamouring.

I have never seen breasts this large up close before. As the shirt comes away I can’t help but gaze at how they spill a little over the top of Freya’s full-cup bra, a pretty but mundane garment likely chosen for the fact her chest is so heavy as opposed to any aesthetic demands. Her bronze flesh is spotless, youthful and vibrant, maybe ever so slightly glossy from sweat right where the two bountiful boobs meet and press together. I…kind of want to lick it up. Is that so wrong?

It's difficult to look into Mistress’s face at the moment, much as I feel as though I should. This gift – and what a gift it is! – deserves some kind of awareness, some ocular appreciation, and yet as her toned belly comes into view I’m too stunned to think of manners.

‘Stare all you like,’ Freya says, breathy and sensual. ‘I’m not so cruel a mistress as to deny you the joys of admiring the body you live to serve.’

Like a fool, like an idiot, like the happiest version of me I’ve ever been, I shove my face into her cleavage, bra be damned. Mistress puts a hand on the back of my hand and strokes my hair as I slowly wiggle my face about, inhaling deeply of her feminine fragrance, face cushioned between immaculate softness and warmth.

They’re not just big, but entirely natural. Is there any part of her that’s not perfect? What the hell is up with Freya Venyabildt, to be so effortlessly hot? Breast meat bounces and shudders against my face, springy and pert, abundant in the way it completely swallows up my cheeks and jaw.

Her cleavage smells so good, so much of her, so much of her womanly fertile virility. The bubble-gum of her perfume is fainter here, in this most mystical of crevices. Body scents, sweet and uniquely hers, fill my world. They say that if you like someone’s natural odours, you’re probably highly compatible with them. And whatever it is about Mistress, whatever this ineffable olfactory flavour happens to be, I love it.

Freya chuckles, flicks the back of my head. ‘Christ, Tom, at least let me get my bra off.’

‘Sorry, I just–’

‘Shush,’ Mistress says. ‘I’m glad you like them so much.’

I pull away, face still tingling from the contact with her pillowy breasts. They jiggle beautifully as she shifts her torso, that clearly overworked full-cup bra doing its utmost to keep hold of such a bouncy set of boobs. Our eyes meet, and I shiver. Such brilliant sapphires in a perfect face, and they hold me in such peculiar regard.

The affection is strong, almost coming across as protective. But there’s possessiveness there, a will to have me to herself, to dominate without a word. Such pristine eyes, peerless, the closest thing to perfect I can imagine.

And when she leans down, pressing her lips to my forehead, my heart flutters and flails, a clumsy bird taking flight. So ripe and raw a thing this is, these feelings. Glorious to experience, yet in a sense, so unseemly. I want to be stronger, want to be less prone to blushing and shuddering. I’ve never been so haphazard with a girl before, never so ready to put my foot in my mouth.

Yet despite this, Mistress doesn’t seem to mind. Beyond the tumult of the earliest days, this entire thing seems…good. Great, even.

‘I’m so glad I’m yours, Mistress.’

Even Freya, diamond-minded demigoddess that she is, reacts to that simple title. A thing of play, but then isn’t it all? We’re language-users. We make up games and obey their concepts. And the concept of being my Mistress, for Freya Venyabildt, provokes a twitch of her long eyelashes and a disturbance of her lips. She shows an unintended glimpse of teeth, sucks in a breath prematurely.

‘You’d better be,’ Freya says. ‘What with such a lucky slut you are.’

The shirt slides off with a roll of her shoulders, the white button-up left clinging to her wrists for relatively easy redressing. Not that Mistress cares much, given her station in the world. Naughty, self-assured, confident beyond confident. But I get the distinct impression that she’d be annoyed if someone happened to stumble in on us.

Because as she tenderly reaches up behind her back with one hand, slipping the other across the front of her bra, I’m well-aware that the show is for me alone.

Words between us fade and our private silence gives way to the distant sound of voices, students and staff going about their lunch break. A faint click brings my inner ear back to the immediate, that being the sound of a brassiere unclasping. Freya presses her arm against her chest, bulging her breasts upwards as the shoulder straps loosen.

She’s blushing, all red and cute. Not so badly as she was when I played with her pussy for the first time, but it’s still noticeable. To play the girl, to have her body admired beyond her prodigious penis, is obviously something newer to her.

‘Because you’ve been so good,’ Mistress says. ‘Because I want that behaviour to continue.’

With lusty languidness she rolls her athletic toned shoulders, beautiful arms flexing. The bra straps slide off and Freya dextrously slips out of one side, then swaps the hand upon her chest and escapes the other. All that’s left is the bra itself, cups adhering loosely now, only by the presence of a forearm, to her sizeable boobies.

I flick my eyes between her two most (obvious) appealing pairs. Blue eyes, big tits, blue eyes, big tits. Perhaps time is moving especially slowly, but the more likely explanation, made certainly the case by the twisted mischief of a smirk up the left side of her lovely mouth, is that Freya is playing with me. Waiting, watching, testing the waters.

‘Mistress,’ I say. ‘Please. I want to see.’

Her blush darkens, deepens, and she glances away. ‘Go on, then.’

I’m vaguely aware that if I were to inhale any quicker, I might rupture a lung. With eyes as wide as they go, with my attention dialled to eleven, somehow such a small – I mean, relatively, compared to the world itself – part of reality seizes the entirety of my attention. Nothing else in this moment matters, beyond the sudden descent of that grey bra.

I don’t even see where it lands. Wobble, jiggle, bounce. Holy shit.

Sometimes, some people like to suggest that bodies, male and female both, are a lot more attractive inside of clothes. And this can be true, of course. Scars and stretchmarks, wrinkles and the weathering of years. But Freya Venyabildt’s bra, if anything, was hiding one (two, to be precise) of the natural wonders of the world.

She giggles. ‘Your fucking face, Tom. Such a boy.’

And I love, love, love the way she says that.

Each is much larger than a handful. Paralysed as I am by the sight alone, such an excessive quantity of plump bronze flesh, that an empirical test in this fashion will have to wait. I knew Freya was strong, but her back must be insanely sturdy, or else I don’t envy her the ache such a set must cause.

Two full round shapes that sag only a little, mostly pert, with slightly upwards-angled nipples. Her cute nips are neither especially large or especially small, surrounded by size-appropriate halos of light brown flesh, smooth and silky, the edges of her areolae clearly-defined where they contrast with the richer brownish-bronze of her flesh. I half-expected tan lines for some reason, but I suppose it fits for Freya to be the kind of woman to sunbathe in the nude. It’s not like there were any downstairs, after all.

She gives a playful twist of her torso, causing the eager wobbly tits to jiggle about, swaying bountifully, bouncing away. I’m instantly aware that my boner is pressing up against one of her thighs, and Mistress makes sure to give the clothed tip a little tap with a finger.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ she says, bringing a hand to my chest. Freya tucks her fingers into the collar of my shirt, and tickles my neck. ‘You don’t just have to look, though. I didn’t get them out for nothing.’

She lets out a startled laugh as I throw my hands upon them, fingers finding silky skin and heavy flesh. The roughness of the attack becomes calm, slow, transitioning into tentative movements the moment I’m actually holding them. One in each hand, glorious G-cup flesh spilling through my fingers and bulging beautifully where my palms and digits press into her chest. Freya moans faintly as I rub her nipples, the firm hard points prominent against the surrounding cushioning give of her breasts.

I want to suck them. Badly. To taste her tits.

Mistress does nothing to stop me. I check her face for permission, finding wet eyes, deeply reddened cheeks. Moving a hand aside I bring my lips in close, kissing the nipple of her left breast, cupping the heavy thing with my palm. Freya begins stroking my head, gently pulling me into her body.

‘Go on,’ she says, low and breathy. ‘Suckle on Mistress.’

As if I wasn’t already aching. As if it wasn’t already sublime. I should thank her, should plead, should know my place, but I’m too eager and her guidance is too demanding. Mistress releases a cool moan as the smooth halo meets my lips, shuddering as I flick out my tongue to taste her nipple.

The skin is firm yet supple, hotter than the surrounding breast. A vague saltiness of sweat, of flesh, graces my tongue. Freya sucks in a harsh breath as I begin to nurse in earnest, getting a seal around her teat, making sloppy, stupid, slippery sounds with my hungry mouth.

‘Mhm. Slurp’

To do this to her body, to suck on her breast, is a feast for the senses. My nose is enveloped in boob, my lips in constant contact with the smooth light brown of her areola. All that I can smell is her skin, her feminine musk, the pleasant sweat of the day. The weather is awful for this kind of contact, too sunny, too summery, but neither of us care.

I ply the other tit with my hand, try to glance up at my Mistress, but the angle is too awkward. Not that there’s anything wrong about shutting my eyes and nuzzling, releasing her left boob to tend to it entirely with my lips, and slide that arm around her back to stroke her hip and fondle more of her perfect body.

‘This is starting to annoy me,’ Freya says, giving my cock a squeeze. ‘I’m going to deal with it.’

God, I love the way her beautiful breast wobbles when I release it, the whole area around the nipple glistening with my spit. The mismatch, it sagging a little lower than its sister on account of my hand placement, does something for me.

I meet Freya’s gaze. ‘Can you get me out to do it? I don’t want to walk around with cum in my boxers again. Pretty please, Mistress.’

Something about her stare makes me shiver. ‘I’d need to get it out anyway, if I’m going to put it between my tits.’

Oh. Oh my. Okay.

‘Huh?’

Brain, keep up. Come on. Process! Titwank. Tit-wank. Do you comprehend? No. Stupid lusty idiot engine, slow when I need you quick. Great, and now she’s smirking. Now I might lose the chance! Earth to brain! Brain, give words. Give my tongue orders!

But Mistress is in charge. She pushes me, with playful firmness, back against the brickwork. ‘Just shut your mouth and be happy that I’m so good to you, Tom. Hand me your blazer.’

This can’t be real. Can’t be happening. I frantically pull off my school jacket and pass it to my Mistress. Freya adjusts herself, pushes my legs apart, and lays down the blazer upon the smooth concrete between my knees, then rests herself down on her front. Her boobs, at this angle, push together in the most uncomfortably divine fashion. Two weapons of mass distraction, plump and round and God they make such a ridiculous show of themselves when the ground and her arms sandwich them together like this.

All I can do is stare as Freya unbuckles my belt. She rips down my zipper with flair, retrieving my needily throbbing cock from inside my boxer shorts. Soft skin, gentle grip. I shiver, smile like an idiot. Like I must always do in her presence. How can I not? This is amazing.

‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ Mistress says, flicking the tip of my dick. I wince, pleasure and pain dancing together as they so often do. ‘I do want to make you cum, Tom. But I want to watch you squirm, as well.’

There’s that devilish side to her again, front and centre. I love it. Sweet and sour affection. Her eyes don’t bother to hide her love of me, much as her mouth so readily produces petty remarks and eagerly teases, pokes, prods.

‘Watch away,’ I say, momentarily emboldened. Freya gives me another, softer flick. ‘Okay, sorry. Damn.’

‘You better be.’

But the way she says it, and the fact she initiates the process of hefting up her big boobs to engulf my dick, makes clear the truth behind the remark. All I can do is stare, eyes glued to the wobbling wiggle of those immense titties. Freya holds them – barely, given that her hands are no larger than mine – at their sides, bringing them apart to make my cock the meaty filling of the world’s most wonderful sandwich.

‘Oh. Woah. Wow.’

God, they’re even better around my member. Freya sniggers, a little meanly, as my dick disappears inside the divine deliciousness of her immense breasts. All of it vanishes into the sea of bountiful boob-flesh, but for the heroic efforts of my throbbing helmet, which pokes out as a little reddish glistening protrusion between them.

‘I think we’re pretty well-matched,’ Mistress says, smiling at me. ‘If you were any smaller, this would be pretty awkward. But if you were any bigger, I wouldn’t find the little tip so cute.’

She amazes me, pushing her fat tits downwards and in the process increasing the tight warm vaguely damp pressure around my cock to the point that I shiver and tremble, all for the purpose of…tilting her head downwards and…and…

‘Mlup.’

Her tongue, perfect pinkness, slips out through those full lips and laps at my bell-end. Just for a moment, just a single lick, but holy fucking shit, Freya Venyabildt just put her tongue against my cock.

‘Freya…’

‘That’s Mistress, to you,’ she says, licking her lips. ‘You’ve got a nice cock, Tom. Shame I’m going to crush it with my big bad boobies.’

I can only stare, transfixed, as she chuckles to herself. Stare, transfixed, as she pushes her boobs together so forcibly that the squeeze is like a vice, the most wonderful way to kill a cock. Don’t cum. Don’t cum. Don’t cum!

It’s incredible, that a pair of the softest things I’ve ever felt can produce such a comforting crush around my shaft. The way Freya presses them together makes them seem all the bulkier, bulging as they do out of gaps between her fingers and straining against the shape of my dick.

She lifts them a little and lowers them, lifts and lowers, lifts and lowers. Slow and rhythmic, predictable, and yet something I can’t begin to prepare for. How could I? That handjob she gave me the other day was great, but this is something else. This is like my dick has died and gone to heaven. This is cock-pleasing paradise.

‘Ugh. Mistress…’

‘Good, are they?’ I nod, and she giggles. ‘They run in the family. Just like my fat dick.’

A passing, fleeting image, of a household of women as attractive and well-endowed – in all senses – as Freya is the last thing I need if I’m not going to just blow my load. But my head torments me. Are they all bronze-skinned Amazonian goddesses?

‘Good–ughn–genes.’

She cocks her head, merciless in her mammary movements. ‘You would know, cumslut.’

I smirk, submissive pride welling up. ‘You–ugh–treat me so well, Mistress.’

Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. No variation, because it’s not needed. Just the crush, the squish, the vice-like pressure of her pair of heavy G-cups. And her mischievous brilliant blue gaze, perfect face smirking up at me. Freya takes such pleasure in tormenting me at times, teasing me at others, but…taking care of me, as well.

‘It’s one of my duties, isn’t it? Making sure my subby little slut knows I can be kind as well as cruel,’ Mistress Freya says, angelic sultriness a dreamy warmth in my ears. ‘Have I proven my point, slut?’

I nod, with such enthusiasm that I manage to bash the back of my head against the wall. Freya immediately ceases, face losing its glee, replacing it instantly with concern. She doesn’t overreact, but the change of expression is obvious.

‘Are you okay?’ Mistress says. ‘Did that hurt?’

I smile at her, heart fluttering, mind fuzzy. Her worried look softens, and a deep blush creeps onto her bronze cheeks. Not a response to lust or carnal heat, but something far cuter.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. Courage seizing me, pulse racing with joy, I reach for Freya’s face. ‘I love you, Mistress.’

She glances to the side and away but then, for just a moment, leans into my touch. Freya rubs her cheek against my fingers, then smiles viciously, blush gone in an instant. ‘I am going to fucking drain those balls, even if it hurts.’

And my laughter quickly crumples into a grunting groan as she milks my cock with her mammaries, reckless and bordering on unkind in how Mistress so forcefully squishes my dick between her big breasts. I almost bash my head against the brickwork again, subject as I am to the warmth and heft of her perfect tits.

The pressure of her boobs provokes a sudden volcanic upsurge in my crotch, and my penis throbs almost uncomfortably within its cushioning pleasure prison. And unlike every past orgasm, this one feels somewhat special. I don’t think I’ve ever been so intensely thrown to the edge of ejaculation before in my life.

‘Ughn, M-istress…’

‘Serves you right for getting all–’

But her eyes go wide as saucers when, inevitably, the tip of my dick swells and spits.

Now, I’m not one for those porn-star level cumshots. Mine mostly always comes out as a dribble or a spit, a few spurts at most. But if anyone is to somehow extract the sperm from my balls so forcibly that it comes out as a C4 explosion instead of a black powder cap, it’ll be Freya Venyabildt.

Freya Venyabildt, who can only stare up at me in raw shock as a sticky white rope of my cum launches up from between her impressive breasts and arcs in such a way as to momentarily pass her staring-and-following blue eyes until the stuff splatters down across her face. And as she processes it, slow for the first time in what, I imagine, must be her entire life, my eager loins do a fine job of messing up her beauty.

I somehow manage to splatter her forehead and cheeks, layer her mouth in a thick helping of spooge and then, as my orgasm steadies itself and softens, I cover the tops of her breasts in plenty of gooey white muck.

‘You,’ is all she manages to say. ‘You.’

Freya pushes away from me, rising onto her knees, taller and vastly stronger than I am. She wipes her mouth on the back of a hand, caught between despairing and desiring – a frown on her lips, a lusty twinkle to her eyes – the fresh coat of semen upon her immaculate bronze skin.

Her perfect body, stained as it is with my dick-milk, provokes intense pride and concern. But, blessedly, thankfully, she gives me bedroom eyes when she affixes me with a sapphire stare. ‘I am going to fuck the shit out of you, you realise that, right?’

‘Y-es, Mistress.’

And when she throws herself upon me, kissing me with ferocious feistiness, the stink of my own familiar jizz upon her skin is a curious thing.

I’m struck by a vulgar, foreign, curious daydream.

What if…what if we switched roles, once in a while?

What if…Freya played the slut, for a change?