The New Girl. Ch. 10

 

Chapter 10: Mischief with Morgan

 

Freya actually gets out more than I’d expect, given that brief experience of my beautiful Mistress as some depressive shut-in.

Not to socialise, as such. Freya doesn’t exactly have friends, given her general brashness and comfortable aloofness. What she does have is a loyalty to her family, particularly her parents, that involves a continued willingness to mimic them. Such that, every other Saturday, I’m left in the house alone while Freya does something like an apprenticeship. Learning, bit by bit, how Persephone’s company works. How at some point, post-college, perhaps post-university, Freya can follow in the older futanari’s footsteps.

A peculiar kind of boredom sets in, with the house to myself. It’s a terribly embarrassing variety of do-nothing meaninglessness. I’ve got a gaming PC, plenty of food and drink, grounds to walk, exercise machines, a swimming pool, some wall-swallowing television, super-fast internet. The works.

Is that just some human thing, to have access to so much that we become paralysed by choice? It sucks, regardless. Every time I manage to start something up, some game or activity, my brain suggests an alternative. And then the cycle repeats.

Well, for a while, that is. Until Morgan appears.

‘Bored?’ she says, looming in the doorway to Freya’s (and my!) bedroom. ‘Not used to having everything at your disposal, I imagine.’

It takes a sublime strength of will to not drop the controller as she saunters in, given how readily distracting the tall gothic futanari is. Pale as cream, womanly as her mother, as heavy-breasted as her “father”. And it being summer, Morgan is wearing something a little airier than her usual full-dress garments.

Airier in this case being a tank-top without a bra, and boxer shorts. All black – it could only be black, after all – to match her hair and makeup, which are so far as I can tell identical in style to when we met prior. She’s clearly not wearing a bra, though her breasts, despite being larger than Alicia’s, don’t possess the same level of age-induced sag.

And those boxer shorts, baggy though they may be, have a noticeable bulge in their front.

I go to speak, but she plants herself down on the sofa beside me. The flash screen of Street Fighter 5 is up, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like this is any more interesting than anything else, beyond its association with my Mistress.

‘Want to play?’ Morgan says, smirking. Her lips are so full and curvaceous, evil crescents of blackness rimmed in blood red. ‘Or were you going to do something else before I interrupted?’

‘I…I didn’t expect you to be here.’

She flutters her long lashes at me, the pale blues of her eyes piercing and transfixing. ‘Am I really so scary, Tom?’

The humour that oozes from her voice, so effortlessly sexual, does little to help calm my nerves. Morgan is scary, but not for any reason that makes overt sense. She’s dangerous, though not how I expected her to be. Not how Freya described her to be.

‘I just expected to be alone,’ I say, focussing on the screen. Pressing buttons, moving through the menus, as if I’ve some goal in mind. ‘Freya didn’t say you’d be around.’

‘How quaint. And here I was thinking your Mistress would keep you informed of our discussions.’ She slips off of the sofa, moving towards the screen and the little shelf beneath it. As much as I don’t want to look at Morgan, it’s difficult to avoid the shapeliness of her figure, particularly as she bends down to collect up one of the PlayStation controllers. ‘Blondie’s decided to share you with us, I hear. With your consent, of course.’

The tall gothic futanari spends far too long bent over, her fat backside swaying with those rounded womanly hips. Morgan is a veritable succubus, in personality as well as physique. Freya doesn’t seduce, but takes. Alicia seduces, but sweetly. Persephone…I’ve not seen enough of, though she seems composed and coolly alluring. But Morgan?

Morgan speaks with this air of confidence that is the source of so many of my reservations with her. That she, unlike the others, talks with expectation.

The expectation that, at the drop of a hat, she’ll get her own way.

‘What’s that game you play with my sweet sister?’ she says, standing to her full and vaguely intimidating height. When she turns, her big breasts jiggle, and her curvaceous shape wobbles enticingly. The smile she affixes me with speaks volumes, a thing of black treacle. ‘She offers you your choice of sexual favour – to perform on her, of course – and if you win or lose, that determines the outcome?’

I nod weakly. ‘Yeah. I just, I mean, I don’t know–’

Morgan rolls her eyes, and approaches. I tremble when she cups my jaw, sharp-nailed thumb stroking my cheek. ‘I want that mouth around my cock, Tom. I want to train it.’

God, I am way too attracted to the Venyabildts. This family of perverts, all of them wanting a piece of me, and this terrible underlying feeling that I’m somehow betraying Freya. Somehow going against her, even though she’s been nothing but supportive of this peculiar arrangement.

Keep her family happy. Make her life easy.

But the guilt comes from the fact that I want it. That I’m wired to think I shouldn’t, but I do. And it feels especially troublesome with Morgan, for all that Freya’s warned me about her, for all that she’s effectively offering to tickle that urge which Mistress struggles to accommodate.

‘You want to train my mouth?’

Morgan smiles, that intensity, that expectation, raw and tremor-inducing. ‘We can help one another out. You get to worship a cock that won’t just – with all politeness to Blondie and her cuteness – blow its cargo after a few minutes, and I get to sculpt you into the dick worshipping little cum-hungry on-call suck-slut I’ve always wanted.’

My cock twitches, at her words, at a memory. What Alicia said, when I tasted that stupidly tasty semen of the futanari matriarch, Persephone’s load fresh out of the MILF’s pussy.

Morgan’s is almost identical in quality if not flavour, and she has quite the fetish for all things oral.

It only makes it feel like a greater betrayal. What if I like Morgan’s loads more than Mistress’s? What if that need for oral intimacy is met with the older sister, and not the one whose name hangs around my throat?

‘Does Alicia really suck you off?’

The gothic beauty produces a salacious smirk, shifts her thumb in a pleasing circle. ‘Mother dearest does have something of a taste for her eldest daughter, that’s true,’ Morgan says. ‘Why? Does that bother you?’

‘It’s incest.’

‘So? It’s two consenting adults. And I initiated, all the same. It’s not fair that Daddy-dearest should get all the fun. Or are you worried you can’t compete?’

‘It’s not that at all. It’s just a bit, well, weird.’

She chuckles, and withdraws her hand. ‘Good, because on the contrary, there’s no finer blowjob than one given by a man. Futanaris are superior, and male sperm will never compete. Once a man realises that, I can make him do all sorts of embarrassing things. Admit all manner of faults and flaws. All for the honour of having his mouth utterly packed with my ejaculate.’

Morgan’s is almost identical.

Why does that ghostly voice bother me so? Morgan sits herself down beside me, a shoulder-width gap between us, and starts browsing the character selection. Without even noticing, I’ve set it up for two-player mode, as if hoping to make a game of it. Hoping to in some fashion remove my own agency.

“Whoops, I thought I’d win, but lost! Now I’d better suck her off.”

‘Is it true, what Alicia said?’

Her fingers, despite those nails, move with practised delicateness. ‘That being?’

‘She said your…your loads are almost as good as Persephone’s.’

‘You’d best not be admitting that you’ve blown my father before you’ve blown me, Tom. My ego is a sturdy beast, but that might be slightly too much to handle.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just answer.’

Morgan considers me, side-on. Her pale blues are extravagant in their gorgeousness, every bit as lovely as Freya’s, yet different. Colder, calculating. Her milk-pale skin, spotless, complementing the darkness of her makeup and hair, might as well be marble. She, as all of them, is a sculpture, a thing of sublime beauty.

She stares for a moment, and then unbuttons the front of her boxer shorts. ‘Why don’t you find out for yourself?’

I’m transfixed as she pulls out her big creamy cock and a pair of superbly fat nuts from within. Flaccid, but easily eight or nine inches in length. Mine fully erect, and half of it again. She’s not noticeably larger than Mistress, but her bell-end seems particularly plump. Especially huge, in fact, despite not being fully engorged.

‘I…I just wanted to…’

‘You like semen, don’t you?’ Morgan says, smirking. ‘You’re in good company. We’ve got all day together. As much as I like masturbating, it’s beneath me, and you like sucking cock, so…come to my bedroom, perhaps? We can play a different game. How many loads can Tom swallow before the others come back and spoil our fun?’

Even the passing suggestion that Morgan will produce something similar to Persephone has me salivating, licking my lips. Before Freya, I’d never imagined that I’d want to suck cock, let alone want to taste semen, but things are different now.

Now, I struggle to think of anything more enticing as I look at the exposed junk of the tall gothic futanari.

‘You hoped for this, didn’t you?’

She sniggers. ‘Am I that transparent? Of course. Of course, I hoped. Blondie’s sweet and impressionable, but you’re wasted on her. I saw that mouth, Tom. I saw how it craved Venyabildt sperm.’

I shake my head. ‘This is wrong, Morgan. If you’d plotted for this–’

‘What’s wrong is this silly notion that people must meet all of their needs in the confines of exclusivity,’ Morgan says. ‘Freya, bless her, is a quick-shot when it comes to oral. That’s simply how it is. Will she improve? Yes, of course, but that takes time. Time, during which, you’ve got an appetite to suck cock, and taste semen. Both of which are perfectly fitting, given your nature. Both are things that, fairly, you shouldn’t have to go without.’

The look about her, the carnal glee, should disturb me. It’s certainly not a kindly expression. The emotion suggests pride, smugness, something that doesn’t seem to relate as much to me as I’d think.

‘It gets you off, doesn’t it? The idea that I’m Freya’s, but I’d crave your dick.’

Morgan bats her eyelids at me. ‘Of course, Tom. I don’t want to hurt Blondie, but it’s simply maddening that she’s got you. I’ll never forget that hunger in your eyes I saw that day. I knew, in that moment, that your mouth belongs to my penis. My cock, and your mouth, were made for one another.’

She’s insane, clearly. Insane, and perverse, and insanely hot. But Morgan touches on something that provokes that guilt in me, stirring it up from the depths of my soul. That yes, in so many ways, I want to suck cock. Want to worship Freya in the way that feels most submissive, most her-focussed.

And Mistress, as much as I adore her, to the stars and back again, just isn’t wired the same way. Through some combination of sensitivity, inexperience, and then reluctant embarrassment, Freya’s simply not able to fill my mouth as readily as I want her to.

Which makes the idea of Morgan replacing her, in this regard, all the filthier. It feels like a truer betrayal, to pick my lusts over working with Freya to meet them.

‘I don’t want to hurt Freya,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to partake of this weird rivalry.’

Morgan shakes her head, mane of black shivering. ‘She’s never going to know, Tom. Part of how the sharing process works is that our stories are separate. If she asks, by all means tell her as much as you want. But I’ll never say a word. If you want to suck me off, then come to my room. And if you want some semblance of reluctance, then let’s play this silly little game. But don’t pretend we don’t want the same thing. Not when we know each other so well as we do.’

‘But I’d know.’

She shrugs, and takes to her feet. ‘Yes, and isn’t that sexiest part? We’d know that your mouth has a new owner.’ Morgan shudders, and her cock twitches, growing noticeably larger with a single pulse of arousal. ‘I can hardly think of anything quite so hot as you wearing that cute little collar while my sperm explore your tastebuds, Tom. While you suck and savour and swallow for your Mistress’s older sister, tending to my needs but also, and ever so sweetly, tending to your own.’

The statuesque goth saunters towards the door, her womanly hips swinging, her body at once intensely desirable and somehow foreboding. A representation of my worst hungers, because with Morgan it seems personal somehow. With Alicia, even with those thoughts of Persephone, it’s only seemed complementary. But with Morgan it feels as though we’re actively betraying my Mistress.

And the older sister, at least, appears to take active pleasure in the concept.

‘You know where to find me, cocksucker. I’ll be happy to answer that question you had about semen quality, though you might have to do a little bit of work to get a good taste of the answer.’ Morgan winks at me, smiling cruelly, charmingly, both at once. ‘There’s no shame in knowing your place, Tom. If it happens to be on your knees, then so be it. Good boys get big, creamy rewards in this house.’

She shuts the door, leaving me with relative silence. Birds outside, and the game idling on the screen, music somehow annoying. A testament to the fact that, on some subconscious level, I was about to shamefully seek some means of escaping my agency.

And for all of Morgan’s words, for all of my worries, my cock is as hard as rock.

I…don’t want to betray Freya. But I do want to suck Morgan’s cock.

Morgan’s is almost identical.

The taste of Persephone’s incredible semen, taunting me just as much as Alicia’s voice, is traitorous in and of itself.

 

Why am I so nervous, to knock on the older sister’s door?

Why am I so willing, besides?

Here is this astoundingly gorgeous creature, same as the rest of her family, and I’ve explicit permission from Freya to mess around. To try things with her mother and her sister and her “father”. There were no rules in place, no lines drawn in the sand.

Make them happy. Keep the peace.

But I’m sweating a little bit, lifting my hand. Knuckles to the wood, ready to tap, ready to choose this fate. To go and orally service the gothic beauty that is Morgan Venyabildt, eight years my senior, Freya’s scheming older sister.

She opens the door before I make a sound, smirking. ‘Don’t give me that face, sweet Tom. You’re not exactly the quietest of men.’

In truth, more of my hesitancy is born of her toplessness. Morgan saunters into the depths of room, its walls painted scarlet, adorned with all manner of peculiar artefacts. Vinyls, ranging from psychedelic rock to death metal to classical music. Pieces of art, fantastical and mundane. A vast room, much like Freya’s, though cluttered where my Mistress keeps her domain (usually) clean and neat.

There’s the distinctive tang of semen, fresh and stale, and a veritable bucket of jism-tissues sat beside the goth’s large beanbag chair. Morgan returns to that seat and collects up an Xbox controller, though it’s not for the console. She’s got some mad setup, a water-cooled gaming PC, playing some Souls-like game. Effortlessly, it seems, despite her nails.

‘Shut the door and get on your knees,’ she says, not looking at me. Morgan twists her neck, throwing back the locks of raven darkness. God, to be told…

I do as asked, but hesitate. Holy shit, her boobs. They’re enormous! A pair of milk-coloured melons, bigger than Freya’s by a few handfuls, fairly pert yet showing gravitational sag given their obvious heaviness. Wide, smooth, puffy pink halos with inverted nipples makeup the front of each bosom, a familiar and attractive flat beauty mark on the inside top of her left breast.

‘They’re tits, yes.’ Morgan smiles at me, runs her tongue against her top teeth. ‘Do a good job and I might let you suck on them. Oral doesn’t just mean my cock, after all. My body itself deserves worship.’

Her words only make me feel worse. It’s so effortless, with her. No nerves, no wariness, no concern. I wish Freya was like this.

‘Can…can I ask a favour?’ I say, approaching.

Morgan makes a casual gesture for me to get down, out of her eyeline. ‘Maybe. Kneel.’

I drop down onto the plush carpet and glance back, vaguely emasculated – is that the right feeling? – by how she’s utterly ruining this game that I spent the better part of a month failing at, time and again.

‘Are you really playing without armour? You just dodge everything?’

‘Impressed?’

I nod. ‘I cheesed it and still sucked.’

‘You want me to teach you? I’m good, but I’m not that good.’

‘Fuck you, of course not.’

Her smile mocks me, but affectionately. Morgan doesn’t look at me, all the same. ‘That favour? What is it?’

‘Can you teach Freya?’ I say, crawling between her perfect legs. Those boxer shorts, baggy, hint at the heavy shape within. A big, fat, pale, beautiful dick. ‘To be…more like you?’

The violence in the background pauses, and Morgan glances at me. ‘No wonder you look so bothered. You quite like me, don’t you?’

I tremble. ‘I wouldn’t exactly want to put your dick in my mouth if I didn’t.’

‘Cheeky.’ She glances down at me, eyes piercing and pale. ‘Blondie’s that poor a domme, is she?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just a lot of what we talked about.’ I shuffle forwards and struggle with the angle, the lowness of her beanbag chair proving difficult. ‘Freya’s insecure, and she’s not so confident as you.’

‘But it’s attractive, isn’t it? My confidence.’

I nod, heart thundering. Her smells, that distinct tang of potent jism and the dark fruitiness of her body wash, mingle deliciously. ‘It is.’ I’m dimly aware that she’s observing me as I flop down onto my belly, resting on my forearms to get my head up at the right height. The angle of her hips, the inevitable direction of her dick, suggest this stance as most productive. ‘It seems wrong, to feel this way.’

Morgan rests a hand on my scalp, teasing me with those long nails. ‘It’s natural, sweet Tom. It’s part of what attracts me to you, in fact. You’re clearly submissive, and you clearly like to serve. We’re quite the match.’

Before I can speak she releases me and pushes down her underwear, freeing her immense genitals. Milky-white nuts, perhaps slightly bigger than Mistress’s. That creamy cock, capped in an overly large helmet, shrouded by wrinkly folds. Morgan brings down her smooth silky legs either side of me, leaving her junk to jiggle before my face. The delectable stink is stronger, richer.

‘You can begin,’ she says, shifting her hips, ‘by eating my arse. This is an act of worship, so make sure to kiss and lick and praise me a lot. Then move to my testicles, and do the same. Only when I give the word may you, at last, get what you want.’

Morgan so effortlessly puts goosebumps up the back of my neck. That she simply picks up her controller and starts to play, leaving me in this limbo, command in my ear, only enhances the profoundly pleasant perversion I feel.

I glance at her body, behold the insane beauty of her Venyabildt curves. Womanly hips and full thighs, a big dick and huge balls. Not toned or muscular, but not anything like chubby. Her pubes, at the base of her cock, form a neat wide triangle of darkness, shorn close to the skin.

‘Th-ank you, um, Mistress,’ I say, gingerly reaching for her buttocks, which sit at an angle which might just about allow me to rim her. ‘For the honour of tasting your b-eautiful body.’

Morgan says nothing, though the faintest smirk forms in the corners of her black-and-crimson mouth. That, too, that sheer lack of acknowledgement, does something for me. It’s so dirty, isn’t it? To relish in being ignored, in being used, in being seen as some tool for her pleasure, a masturbatory aid with a face.

But God, it makes me hot and bothered.

‘So beautiful.’ I’m speaking to myself, adhering perhaps too rigidly to her command. Leaning in close to those plump cheeks, getting a whiff of her potent musk, her pseudo-feminine sublimeness. ‘Your body’s exquisite, Mistress.’

Morgan says nothing, does nothing but continue playing, as I spread her arse and lean in closer and press my lips to her cheeks, kissing and smooching the soft milky flesh, warm and sweetly fragrant. She smells, fundamentally, completely, good. Not freshly clean, but not dirty either. Her pretty sphincter, pale pink, sits between those fat and creamy buns.

I realise that I’ve never actually eaten arse before. Freya always had it as a choice, that or sucking dick, and I always chose dick.

But now that I’m here, as instinctually dirty as the notion is, I’m licking my lips in readiness.

‘God, your butt is beautiful.’ Morgan might make a sound of acknowledgement, but just as well might simply be responding to her game. ‘I can’t, um, wait to taste your body, Mistress.’

‘Slut,’ is all she says. A single word, and I shiver. It’s said unkindly, not maliciously, but with plenty of implication to it. A suggestion that, fundamentally, I’m easy, servile, dirty.

And if such were possible, it makes her bum look all the more tempting.

‘Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for this opportunity.’

I shove my face between her cheeks, inhaling the pleasant bitterness of her arse. Kissing it, touching my lips upon its smooth yet firm wrinkles, provokes a sensation of genuine naughtiness. That this is particularly filthy, particularly pathetic. To treat her backside like a palace, a thing of nobility, deserving of such artful affection.

Smooch. Smack.

My lips and their sordid song play back at me, especially carnal. The meeting of a mouth and an arsehole, hot and humid against my face. Her big balls wobble and shift against my forehead, and Morgan goes to some effort to tighten her cheeks, to squeeze down against me and in a fashion to kiss my mouth with her puckered pretty paleness.

‘So–smooch–beautiful, Mistress.’ I test with my tongue, meeting that peculiar texture, tasting faint acridity. Not dirty, not unpleasant, but distinctly vulgar. Smack. Slup. ‘So–smooch–tasty.’

Does Morgan chuckle, or do I imagine it? I suppose, in some filthy fashion, I am laughable in this moment. Licking and lapping at her tight backdoor, massaging those pale wrinkles with my slutty eager tongue.

Teasing, again and again, at that slowly loosening hole.

Should I…should I just?

‘Get your tongue in there,’ Morgan says, cool and firm. ‘I’ve a prostate, and you’re going to pleasure it.’

Of course, she’d have a prostate. Of course, right? Dick, balls…yeah. Big, fat, silky-skinned balls, wobbling about against my forehead. The feminine musky sweetness of what must be an exquisitely beautiful pussy, awaiting behind them.

And this pretty pink arsehole, ready to eat my tongue.

Schlup. Mlep.

I push my face into her crack as deeply as I can manage, practically burying myself into that subtly dirty – in raw emotional terms, at least, given her cleanliness – depression. The faint bitterness on my tongue grows richer, stronger, as I manage to wiggle my tastebuds into her hotly gripping sphincter.

The gorgeous goth shifts herself forwards slightly, aiding my tongue’s efforts. Inches of my perky pinkness slip inside of her, into that carnal crevice, finding silky flesh and a peculiarly pleasing heat. I’m dirty, but I already knew that. A filthy man with a filthy mind.

I’m eating my Mistress’s arse, and I love it.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Does Morgan laugh again? God, if she does, it’s so faint and brief, a torturous thing.

Schlap. Mlup.

I dig around inside of her, worming my wriggling tastebuds about the interesting illicitness of her bum hole, attempting some poorly-managed mental mapping of the biology of it. When Freya fucks me, it’s…down, from behind? Up, from missionary? Right. So…up.

‘Aah.’ I actually get a response. ‘My, you’re a natural at eating filthy things, you disgusting little slut.’ But the vulgarity at least is paired with a momentary pausing of her game, and a degrading yet delicious patting of my head. ‘Go on, sweet Tom. Earn the right to suck my dick.’

Something about that spurs me forwards like little else on Earth, so hungry I am to worship Morgan’s penis and taste her genes. I move my tongue with wild abandon, tracing patterns on that male-form G-spot, pressing against her prostate in a fashion that makes her squirm and shudder against my face.

‘Mhm. Shit, that’s–aah–really good.’

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Schlup. Schlurp.

She doesn’t un-pause her game. There’s no more touch, but Morgan basks in the worship I’m giving her, sighs and exhales, murmurs sweetly. She moans softly into the calm of her bedroom, legs trembling and plump cheeks wobbling against my hands while her seed-churning nuts jiggle and sway against my forehead.

‘You might actually…’ Morgan suddenly laughs, and stops me with a firm yet gentle hand. ‘Up. Tend to my balls. You’re surprisingly good, so be happy. Rare is the tongue that tickles me quite so well.’

The shame, the guilt, has to compete now with a fuzzy sense of meaning. Of importance, knowing that I can do this thing so well for this woman who is so beautiful. Knowing that I can please her in this most carnal, and – given how she treats this, some expectation, some honour – most degrading of fashions.

‘Your body is so beautiful, Mistress,’ I say, pulling my tongue away. Kissing her cheeks, smooching her sphincter one last time. ‘I want to taste your semen so badly.’

‘Then suck on my nuts, slut. Tell them what you want, that they might deliver it.’

‘Yes, Mistress. Happily.’

My traitor mouth and my traitor soul. What would Freya think if she saw this? I’m doing what comes naturally, approaching this as I would anything with her. Submitting, behaving like my subby slutty self, following my instincts.

Lifting my head causes Morgan’s big bloated balls to flop down against my eye sockets, the excessive rolls of saggy skin tickling the bridge of my nose. I lick my lips frantically, with disturbing hunger, wanting something that now seems so normal and desirable and once seemed so odd.

Semen. Sperm. Venyabildt genes.

I completely ignore her pussy, wonderful as I’m sure it is. Morgan told me what to do, so I’ll do what she’s told me. Simple as that. And these big beefy bollocks that bounce so beautifully against my face, engulfing my nose, now come to rest against my lips. And her cock, a heaving mass clearly engorged either mostly or fully, replaces their weight upon my forehead.

I am, in so many ways, little more than a seat for her genitalia. What a fucking glorious notion.

‘Mhm.’ Schlup. Smooch. Mlep. ‘Mumph.’

Her balls are faintly sweaty, salty, richly flavoursome. Virile loins, productive, fatter than my true Mistress’s. I hate that they are, and love that they are. Morgan is older, and if what she says is true, then it makes sense that her sperm-makers are more sizeable.

Still, she doesn’t play. I glance up, my vision mostly obscured by her thick pole, and find the gothic futanari smirking. Pale piercing eyes, lips voluptuous and black, rimmed in crimson. Those big breasts sag in the most beautiful of fashions, displaying their heft and womanliness, inverted nipples a striking curiosity.

And I can’t look away as I taste her sack, trace out the contours of her fat futanari hangers with my tongue, in the process getting well acquainted with their unique bumps and dimples and distinctive shape. Enormous eggs in a loose-yet-taut scrotum. They shift as I chase them, some muscle movement voluntary or teasing, at times making them bulge out against the silken skin and then drawing closer to herself, forming greater quantities of rolls and wrinkles and creases.

‘Don’t stop, but listen,’ Morgan says, putting the controller down. She actually rests a hand atop my scalp, proprietary, casual. Those sharp-nailed fingers tickle my scalp, slow and methodical. ‘I’ll teach Freya. I was like her once, if you can believe it. Until Daddy taught me a trick or two about self-control.’

Don’t stop. I want to talk so bad, but don’t stop. I use her left nut as a gobstopper, managing – barely – to take the ludicrous lump past my lips. It oozes saltiness and something clean, sharp, dominant. Pheromonal, that fills my head with thoughts of wriggle little white things, desperate to escape, growing in number with every flick of my tongue and moment of steadily increasing arousal.

Schlep. Schlup.

‘Mhm.’

Morgan pets me like a dog, like a serf, like a suck-slut slave. ‘It’s going to be a little awkward, at first. She’ll take some–mhm–convincing.’

Her mighty member throbs against my head, and her balls pulsate, one in my mouth and the other dangling against my chin. Fat fantastical lumps, lurid and lovely. I suckle, slurp, but can barely move my tongue against the overwhelming heft of her fully-developed adult testicle. Another thought I hate, another I adore.

Morgan’s older than me, a fully-fledged person, while I’ve still yet to graduate sixth form.

Why is that so hot? Why does it make me hungrier to taste her spooge?

‘It’s going to be a lot of fun, though. For all of us.’ Her eyes glisten, and her cheeks go flush. ‘I’m going to help you suck my little sister’s dick, and then you’re going to–aah–help make sure that she sucks mine. And if you do a very good job for me generally…well, a double blowjob for you isn’t the worst of things, now is it?’

I have to stop, because what she’s saying is insane. Impossible. No way could she ever get Freya to suck me off, and no way is it appropriate, given that these futanaris are in charge and I’m just–

‘So nervous,’ Morgan says, patting my head. Soothing me with sultry voice and sweet touch. ‘Blondie has a silly view of things, okay? And I know what I said, but you’re never going to demand anything.’

I let her ball slip from my mouth, slick. It shivers in the air, jiggles about.

‘But–’

‘Did I tell you to stop, slut?’

I shake my head. ‘N-o, but–’

Morgan sighs, and rolls those perfect eyes. ‘Do you remember why you thought Freya might be in the closet, so to speak, about having submissive tendencies?’

Her face, stricken by the sheer giddiness of being blown by me, and the nervousness, and the overall shyness, comes rapidly to mind. ‘She seemed to be weak, when I was sucking her. Putty in my hands.’

The gorgeous goth nods. ‘Precisely. Because Blondie, and so many others, until they grow out of it – though sadly many never do – mistake acts of service with submission. If I tied you to a chair and sucked your cock, teasing an edging, letting you beg and wail and whine, would you really be in charge?’

I can only shake my head. ‘Well, no. Of course not.’

Morgan titters, smiles. ‘Blondie’s my equal, and we’re both superior to you. You’d have to be ever so thankful, insanely grateful, but the fact that you get so nervous about it only makes me want to do it more.’ She brushes my cheek with those talons, tickling away. ‘For the first time in my life, I’m jealous of my little sister. You’re a remarkable little pet, sweet Tom.’

‘Th-ank you, Mistress?’

Her eyes widen minutely. ‘Do you want that?’

‘What?’

‘For me to be your Mistress?’

To be called out on it, the topic raised vocally, provokes a chill. ‘I just…it came naturally, and–’

She effortlessly pushes my head backwards, and wallops down on my cheek with her fat futanari length. Morgan holds it there, this dense weight with a truly insane helmet, a thing like an apple, something that looks as though it’ll strain my lips like nothing else in the world.

‘I want to feed you my sperm, Tom,’ Morgan says, pulling back her foreskin. That glistening glans drools and splatters my cheek, its heat immense, its stink provoking a sudden onset of saliva. Her words, of course, only help matters. ‘I honestly wish I could see them all, swimming around on your tastebuds. Little else on Earth is so satisfying as knowing that someone is tasting my semen, tasting me. But few people really enjoy how I taste.’

‘But Alicia said–’

I immediately shut my mouth. Oops. The beautiful futanari simply smirks.

‘What did Mummy say? And why were you talking about family secrets?’

‘I just…I’m sorry.’

She pets me, but this time with a faint wiggle of that wet-tipped dick. It pulses, throbs, and I’m struck by a powerful shyness. In its presence, I’m nothing more than a cocksleeve, a means to pleasure this mighty member.

‘It’s fine, sweet Tom. Yes, we do things a little strangely. But finish your sentence. I’m genuinely curious, and I won’t judge.’

How to tell her, exactly, politely and diplomatically, that I ate her father’s load out of her mother’s snatch?

‘Um…Persephone’s cum is very tasty,’ I say, provoking a growing smirk. ‘And…it’s like Freya’s? But older. More potent. And…Alicia said…she said that yours…is almost identical? But you say that people don’t tend to like it?’

Morgan lifts her gaze from me, as if computing the words. Scanning the upper orbits of her eyes, then returning to my cock-smeared face. ‘I’m more like Gen, unfortunately. Persephone – and one of the reasons I want to blow Blondie – is quite creamy, sweetish, wouldn’t you say? You might even, if you’d somehow ignored where the substance came from, forget what it is.’ She quickly shakes her head. ‘Mine’s not like that. Gen’s complex, and has a deal more bodily control, which unfortunately wasn’t passed down beyond Persephone. She enjoyed, in her rapacious brutality, making sure there was no way anyone could mistake her immense loads for something gentler on the palate. A trait I unfortunately inherited, however it all works. And so I ended up with especially dense and thick ejaculate with a rich but in no way sweet flavour. With mine, it’s a lot harder to pretend that you’re not tasting semen and sperm. Which, for many people, puts them off.’

The thought of tasting something more concentrated, in a sense more vulgar, has me weakly licking at my lips. ‘Not me,’ I say, shuddering. ‘I…want to taste you.’

‘Did you hear what I said, sweet Tom? I don’t need flattery.’

‘It’s not. Nothing turns me on more than the thought of having a beautiful woman like you, or Freya, or Persephone, shooting your genes into my mouth. You see it the same way as me, Morgan. Uh, Mistress.’

‘Mistress might well suit me perfectly,’ she says, teasing at her lower lip with her teeth. ‘Do me a favour, Tom.’

‘Anything.’

‘If you really do like it, if you really enjoy the experience, become my outlet. We clearly share this interest, and as much as I’ve warned you, I do so for your sake and not some inadequacy in myself. As much as I despise my grandmother, I appreciate her logic. If you really are as compatible with me as I’m starting to think, then not a day should pass without you servicing me. Let this room be a temple, and I your goddess, and fellatio your act of prayer. And let your deity’s blessing be my ejaculate, and your mouth its intended receptacle. Do you agree?’

I’m not sure any force in nature could deter me from this feral hunger to taste the produce of Morgan’s beautiful balls. And her language, that filthy confidence, only enflames my desires all the fiercer.

Freya cannot give me this thing, but Morgan can. And if what Morgan says is true, few in this world can give her what I can.

What good is worrying over nothing?

‘Yes, Mistress. I’ll be your cumdump.’

She gently slaps my forehead with her slick glans. ‘Suck out my sperm, sweet Tom. This is going to beautiful.’

Morgan lifts her cock, and I draw back my head from her crotch. To actually behold her engorged member fills me with the most vulgar and carnal of lusts, the desperate beyond words desire to please this creature and receive her ejaculate.

The gothic futanari’s bell-end is huge, a fat pale purple crown atop her creamy cock. Her dick is no longer than Freya’s, no thicker around the pole itself, but the head is ginormous. Its contours are charming, thickly flared around the base of the tip and then narrower at the front, a true “helmet”.

Smooch. Smack.

Before I know it I’m kissing her cock, practically snogging it. Its heat is sweetly searing, its stench musky and sexual and thick. Not dirty, but clearly clad in the vestiges of past ejaculations, given that Morgan seems to care little for restraining herself.

‘It’s a travesty that Blondie has such oral issues,’ Morgan says as I kiss her. The dominant goth plays with my hair, smiling away. Satisfaction, smug and snarky, is ripe on her red-rimmed black lips. ‘You’re clearly made for this, sweet Tom. Put on this Earth to tend to my family’s cocks. To consume our strong and healthy genes.’

I’ve nothing to say that would contribute anything of value, because she’s right. With Freya, everything is how it should be. Used with loving affection, fucked raw, but it’s earnest and honest and the way of the world.

And so it was in tasting Persephone, out of her wife’s cunt. And so now smooching Morgan’s dick, treating it like a familiar lover.

‘Mhm-hm.’

Smooch. Smack.

Morgan chuckles. ‘You know, you don’t have to kiss it to draw things out. Even if you’re sucking on my glans – the best bit, let’s be honest – it’ll still take me at least half an hour to give you that virile mouthful you so crave.’

That spurs me, because it touches on the reality of things. If I can give her a better “kiss”, with my whole mouth, but not lose out on the duration…then that’s what I’ll do. So I lurch forwards, parting my lips to engulf the entirety of her enormity. That monstrous purple apple atop her delectable dick spreads heat and potent salty-bitterness inside my mouth, sliding silkily onto my tastebuds. The same tastebuds that, soon enough, will get their first experience of Morgan Venyabildt’s apparently rather special semen.

Schlup. Slurp.

‘Good cocksucker,’ Morgan says, patting my head. ‘God, I’m pretty sure this is fate, sweet Tom. Your mouth and my cock are just naturally meant to be together. Mhm.’ She wets her lovely lips, stares into my eyes, right into my soul. ‘I might have to lay down the law with Blondie, and claim your mouth as my own. I’ll share, of course, but–aah–I want your face as a toilet for my loads, on-demand.’

I’m dimly afraid of her. Beyond her confidence, I’m scared that she’s right about this. About me, in this situation.

What if…what if I like Morgan’s the best? How would Freya take that kind of betrayal? Is it a betrayal? I’m not going to suddenly sleep in Morgan’s bed, and Mistress has my heart, but…

…I really, really like sucking her big sister’s big beautiful dick.

Schlup. Schlop.

‘Mhm. This is how nature intended things.’ The gothic beauty trembles, exhales softly. ‘The male mouth is just ideal, in size and musculature, to extract Venyabildt ejaculate.’

She says it so honestly. It’s stated so plainly, albeit in her ludicrously luscious voice, that it goes through reason straight into the infernal depths of horniness. Because the implication is that I, a male, am less than she is. That all I’m good for is to pleasure her, to service her body, to act as the equivalent of a masturbatory aid.

And again, Morgan scares me. Because Freya would never behave like this.

Is she just saying this to help me with my guilt? Because I certainly feel less bad. This is definitely not a romantic act.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

But…but I also struggle to disagree, in some fashion.

Morgan’s meaty member is capped in such lustrousness, a pearlescent smoothness that is at once spongy and sublimely stiff, rhythmically pulsating as it drools an endless quantity of salty and slightly bitter pre-ejaculate into my mouth. I’m aware, already, that I’ve tasted her sperm just by savouring this flavour, but these are just the advance party, making ready the territory that the first load I’m going to taste of Morgan is soon to claim.

‘Granny’s ideas about men are definitely close to the truth,’ she says, adjusting her legs. Morgan brings her knees up, rests her feet flat on the floor. The slight lift lets her balls hang more freely, and she widens her gait to allow what can only increased relaxation for the muscles that will inevitably deliver her potent payload. ‘But she didn’t–mhm–realise the truth, did she?’

The gothic goddess cocks her head to the side. ‘There’s no need to be forceful, is there, sweet Tom? Your pathetic little balls will never produce the quality of mine, and you know that I’m doing you a favour here.’ She titters gently, sighs. So beautiful, so cool and sharp of mind and tongue. Hitting psychological G-spots with her awful and alluring assertions. ‘I’m going to get a long, slow, hungry blowjob, and I’m going to shoot out my thick, virile, musky load for you to laboriously chew and struggle to swallow, and then you’re going to thank me.’

She laughs more forcibly now, balls shuddering and breasts jiggling. ‘Isn’t that a lovely thought, cocksucker? Aren’t you ever so lucky to be in this house, where your body can finally experience real sperm. On your tastebuds, of course, but–aah–even so.’

Why does it make me blush so much, to be talked down to? To be told such vile things?

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Schlup. Slurp. Schlack.

I find myself more enthusiastic, sucking in my cheeks around her ridiculous bell-end, lapping passionately at the banjo string on its underside, shivering each and every time it pulses and emits another dose of that salty bitter oiliness.

‘God, you’re pathetic, aren’t you? It turns you on so much, to be degraded by me.’ Her eyes flutter, cheeks reddening. ‘You’re perfect, sweet Tom. Blondie has excellent taste. A man who knows his place is on his knees, in service of his betters – we futanaris – is a man I will always take care of.’

That darkness is edged in honey, at the end. A weird kind of affection, but affection all the same. Black treacle of a thing.

Schlap. Schlop. Schlurp.

Morgan pats my head, trembling. ‘A day will never pass where you can’t do what you’re best at, okay? No matter what Blondie’s feeling, you can always – ooh – find me. I’ll feed you, sweet Tom. I’ll make sure that hungry mouth always has a real penis to suckle on, and that starving belly is always full of my genes.’

I blush brightly, mind racing, heart thundering. God, she’s so hot. This is so hot. Vulgar and primal and animalistic, dominance and submission, asserting her supremacy and acknowledging her as my better in the most beautiful way imaginable.

And I don’t know how much time passes, because I’m lost in her eyes. Lost in her pale and perfect gaze, swimming in her soul. It’s so different with Morgan. Better for blowjobs, I have to admit. I can’t pretend that sucking Freya’s dick is better. If Freya were to talk to me like this, maybe, but…I really can just keep sucking.

Schlap. Slurp.

No matter what I do, whether I try and fill my cheeks with the fat futanari helmet or practically stick my tongue in her cum-slit or go absolutely mad on Morgan’s frenulum, she at most groans and trembles and keeps lathering my mouth in her salty bitterness. And she talks throughout, stares me down, reminds me of my place and how pathetic I am and how right this is and how grateful I should be.

Over, and over, and over.

‘Mhm. Won’t be long now.’

When Morgan says those beautiful words, I tense up to an absurd degree. I glance up at her, finding the smuggest of smiles. A declaration of pride, of dominance, and her total victory. Her urging for Freya to view this sharing as dominant won out, and she got what she wanted. She’s about to potentially claim my mouth, to ruin me in a passing sense for the others. If her sperm is really as vulgarly virile as she claims, a thing of force instead of finesse, then I might…I might have to rethink things.

Schlup. Slurp.

‘Flatten your tongue,’ Morgan says, ‘and keep tugging. That’s a good cocksucker. Ooh.’

Her knees tremble either side of me, a pulse rocking her body and swelling her already stout glans. The precum seems to decrease, drying up almost. And her cum-vein bulges, shudders with a quaking force.

‘Mumph. Mhm.’

Schlup. Schlap.

I keep sucking, of course. Keep sucking, and flatten my tongue as requested. Why wouldn’t I? I need to know what Morgan tastes like. Crave that most carnal of knowledge like nothing else on Earth. God, I hope I love it, and God I hope I don’t.

Betrayal. Cheating, it feels like. To potentially give my mouth to Mistress’s sister.

‘Aah. That’s it, cocksucker. Here it comes. Here comes the real deal. Mhm.’

Her big balls rise and fall, shifting and swaying. It’s happening. Holy shit, it’s happening, and there’s no going back. No way to escape the reality that is my filthy fate here, this doom I’ve brought upon myself. This beautifully baleful meeting of male mouth and futanari ejaculate.

Schlop. Slurp.

‘Aah. Taste my–ooh–pride.’

I’m honestly amazed that it spits as far as it does, exploding out of her glans and going all the way across my tongue, spreading heat and a flavour that is absolutely potent but definitely not traditionally pleasant. Where Freya’s loads are creamy, and Persephone’s the same, this stuff is…it’s so fucking viscous, it’s almost like jelly.

So heavy, so thick, that her bell-end’s eyelet is left with half a rope hanging out of it, noticeable when I shift my tongue in anxious acceptance of the first taste of Morgan Venyabildt.

But it’s a fucking good thing I’m both utterly disgusting and clearly cum-obsessed, because I think I’m in love with her spooge.

‘Mhm. Cumdump. Cumslut.’

There’s little time between the first stringy shot and the second, which is of similar size and forcefulness as the first. It catches on the roof of my mouth near the back, and hangs low, stuck there like glue.

‘Mumph. Mhm-hm.’

It’s salty, and it’s tangy, and it’s rich. Absurdly thick and clinging, and not at all sweet. Not bitter as such, but pungent, and so absolutely and undeniably semen. God, she’s virile as fuck. God, Morgan is some cock and cum goddess.

And it just keeps coming, her body rocked by rhythmic pulsations, convulsions culminating in constant carnal creaminess. She’s loading my mouth, and all I can do is…keep sucking. Keep stroking her powerful shaft. Keep working to pleasure her and to receive her thick virile pride.

Morgan is blushing as I do so, smirking serenely. ‘There’s no going back–mhm–now,’ she says. ‘You’re going to take care of me, sweet Tom. To suck out my loads whenever I ask. Is that–aah–clear?’

I nod faintly, contended, cum-filled. So much sperm, healthy rich virile Venyabildt spooge, must be racing around my mouth. It’s a dramatically huge quantity, so much that I’m forced to swallow despite how badly I want to savour and taste her. Rich and salty and tangy, not at all sweet, viscous to the extreme, and I want to just keep tasting the fresh milk of Morgan.

Gulp. Gulp. Little swallows, draining a bit, only for Morgan to replace what was consumed with a groan and a sigh, her loins releasing thick burst after dense shot. Gulp. Gulp.

‘That’s it, cumslut. Swallow my sperm. Mhm. Swallow the creamy cum of a real cock.’

I shut my eyes and relish in the way her helmet swells and shudders, the manner in which her jism is simply so ropey and gluey. It’s the best semen of the bunch, isn’t it? Such a betrayal to even consider the possibility, but it’s true. It really feels like she’s breeding my mouth, really establishes that I’ve got her genes swimming across my tastebuds, and I’m so glad that she tastes so vulgar.

‘Mhm. That’s it. Keep sucking you–aah–pathetic little jizz toilet. It’s the only reason you’re here, sweet Tom. The best thing you can–mhm–ever achieve. Cumdump. Ooh. Fucking cumdump!’

I blush and shudder beneath her crude remarks, sucking away. Relishing in the perfect prominence that caps her penis, eagerly serving it, tending to it while it continues to feed me. To feed me her genes. Her strong, healthy genes. God, I’m fucking perverted.

Gulp. Gulp.

When Morgan finally seems to relax, I have to wring out the gooey muck from her shaft with a combination of suction and wanking, because it’s just that dense. The dregs come out heaviest of all, these kinds of vulgar strings that require me to urge them forth, because her swollen glans won’t deposit them otherwise.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

I chew and churn the stuff around, reluctantly leaving her helmet behind. And for all my efforts, that beautiful bell-end still has an oozing string of the thickest murkiest white hanging from its enticing eyelet.

‘Beautiful,’ Morgan says, her gothic gorgeousness catching my attention. Her blush, her peculiar smile, speak volumes as to her delicious depravity. ‘I’ve never seen something quite so perfect. You really like how I taste, don’t you?’

‘Mhm.’ I nod, and chew. ‘Mhm-hm.’

She chuckles cruelly. ‘But you’ve got sperm in your mouth, sweet Tom. Billions of little white wrigglers. And it’s not Blondie’s, but mine. Her big sister. Maybe your big sister, the way things are going.’ She wets her black and crimson lips, eyes glistening. ‘Doesn’t that bother you at all?’

It should, I’m sure. But Morgan is offering something nobody else can. Something perverse and perfect. So I shake my head. ‘Mumph.’

He smile deepens, shows off those neat white teeth. ‘Good boy. Give my swimmers a home, cocksucker. Absorb me into your body. Affirm me as your new goddess. I’ll feed you every day for the rest of my life, you pathetic little spooge-lover.’

I can’t think of anything more divine. Gulp, gulp, gulp. I’d show her, but she already knows, right? And this seems to be the major point, the vital outcome. That her load ends up inside me, digesting, vanishing, becoming part of my body. I can practically picture it, billions of little Morgans, swimming past my tonsils into the depths of me.

A true acknowledgement of our rightful places. Me, a cocksucker. Her, possessing a superb cock.

‘Thank you, Mistress,’ I say, licking my lips, mouth emptied. My throat feels warm, my whole chest heated by her healthy ejaculate. ‘I like your semen a lot. You were right, it’s particularly, um, carnal. I wanted to taste your sperm, and…its quality is clear.’

She pats my head as I take her helmet back into my mouth, slurping out those last dregs, shivering a little as their strong flavour coats my tongue. Morgan is still hard, somehow. Her dick clearly needs more affection.

‘Let’s get more comfortable,’ she says, playing with my hair. ‘On the bed, sweet Tom. Let’s leave that cute belly looking pregnant with me before the others get home.’

And…I can’t think of anything quite so exciting.