The New Girl, Ch. 9

 

Chapter 9: The Venyabildts

 

How can I possibly refuse the opportunity to live with Freya?

I’d have to be insane. To look the love of my life in her bright blue eyes and choose the lesser option, to keep ourselves separate when an alternative exists, would be utterly daft. To choose to stay with Dad and Mum, instead of with Freya in that fuck-off big house, wanting for nothing, needing nothing, would be foolish.

So of course, I jump at the chance. But it involves, from the very beginning, introductions.

Because my parents want to meet Freya’s. Because, unsurprisingly, this offer of an “all expenses paid young couple moving-in together” situation provokes questions.

And what better way to introduce everyone than have my family visit the Venyabildt Estate.

Not Freya’s idea. Not mine. The whole process is awkward, to say the least, given that parents can be embarrassing at the best of times, when all is profoundly normal, and Freya and I are deeply aware that our situation – her situation generally, in fact – is the farthest thing from “profoundly normal.”

I have the luxury of suffering parental inquisition on the car journey there. “Why haven’t we met this girl yet?” and, “Are you sure you’ve not been confused about what’s happening here?” and, “I don’t want to lose my baby boy to anyone less than perfect, and if–”

It takes some heroic effort, but I tune it out. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the worry – they’re just trying to help, to be protective – but I don’t have any answers to offer that they’ll actually take into consideration. They love me, sure, but legal adult though I may be, they still treat me as though I’m a child when it comes to anything so life-altering as this.

Dad and Mum marvel and mutter, upon reaching the house. A cacophonic commentary trails alongside us as we walk up to the main house, two fundamentally regular people in a fundamentally irregular environment.

Alicia – Mrs Venyabildt – welcomes us in. It’s my first time meeting the actual “Mum” of Freya, and it’s more than a little uncomfortable. She smiles at me, and I shiver. Shiver, because I should not, in meeting my girlfriend’s mother, immediately think “God, it’s no wonder that Freya and Morgan are so fucking hot.”

But Mrs Venyabildt clearly contributes her fair share, especially in Morgan’s case. ‘Mr and Mrs Olsen,’ she says, stepping to one side of the opened door. ‘Please, come in. Freya’s waiting inside, and Persephone – my wife – is just preparing dinner.’

Dad gives me a look, when Alicia moves ahead of us. A kind of old-fashioned, “ooh, lesbians!” look. And I smile, not because I get the outmoded male humour – I mean, I understand it I guess, but it’s not funny or interesting – but rather because if Dad knew quite what goes on in the Venyabildt line he’d be as pale as a ghost.

Whereas my real issue in the heat of the moment is this vague worry that I’m going to struggle to talk to Freya’s mother, what with her seeming to be some mature older shorter non-futanari fusion of both my Mistress and her sister.

Alicia Venyabildt is tall, but not Amazonian. Especially curvaceous, with womanly, motherly hips and a prominent backside that shifts as she walks ahead of us, a knee-length black skirt clinging to her shapeliness. Her raven hair is similar to Morgan’s, though she keeps it up in a ponytail with a parted fringe. When she turns and smiles, lips full and glossy chocolate, her breasts – easily as large as Freya’s – are impossible to ignore given how they visibly shudder and seem wholly unsupported.

‘Sit,’ Alicia says, gesturing towards the downstairs lounge. A large room, as they all are, with several sofas and a vast flat-screen television taking up one wall. ‘Would you like anything to drink? I make quite a mean cocktail, alcoholic and not.’

My parents are all thankful, on their best behaviour, tripping over their words. And all the while Mrs Venyabildt smirks at me, her pale blue eyes a contrast to the olive tan of her skin. Everything about her face is neat, carefully assembled. A flat beauty spot sits beneath her left eye, a point of darkness amidst the bronze. At a glance I’d think her thirty-five or so, though she must be older, given Morgan’s age.

And when Dad and Mum have put in their requests, given the vast range of choices, Alicia sends them into the lounge to meet Freya. But she stops me, taking hold of my wrist, when I attempt the same.

‘A moment,’ Mrs Venyabildt says. Her voice is warm, sweet, easy on the ear. Posh without being grating. I don’t resist when she pulls me aside, out of sight of Freya and my parents. ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? And here I was thinking I’d be the only non-futanari living here until the end of time, at the rate Morgan goes through partners.’

She straightens up, form-hugging white buttonless blouse failing to hide the heaviness of her breasts. Are those…her nipples? Is she not wearing a bra? Don’t look. Don’t stare. Jesus what an awkward–

But Alicia takes hold of my arms, stroking my biceps with gentle up-down motions. ‘You don’t need to be so shy around me, Tom. Stare all you like. It’s rather flattering, really, being able to produce such an effect in so handsome a young man despite being forty-five.’

I meet her pale blue eyes, so much like Morgan’s, and blush. ‘Mrs Venyabildt, I–’

She puts a finger to my lips. ‘Tom, we’re going to be living under the same roof. Call me Alice, Alicia, Mummy, whatever, but please, don’t be so formal about things. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?’

Alicia pulls back the collar of her blouse, revealing the pretty bronze of her throat. And there, dangling from a black leather collar around it, is a little tag which reads: “Persephone’s Slut.”

So…it’s not just Freya and Morgan. It’s a family matter.

‘Woah.’

She smirks, and wets her lips with a pretty sliver of pink. ‘Woah indeed, sweetie. Doubtless my dear daughter hasn’t quite explained how things work around here, but satisfying our Mistresses doesn’t mean that we can’t have our other needs met.’

My eyes bulge slightly as she cups my groin, doing it with such irreverent nonchalance that I’d almost think this fake. A strange fever dream. This is Freya’s mother, birth-mother, and she’s…molesting me?

‘You’re making me uncomfortable,’ I say, yet find myself paralysed. ‘Freya’s next door.’

Alicia immediately removes the hand, smiling with all the cheek of a schoolgirl. ‘I take it you’ve not discussed how exclusivity works here, Tom.’ She moves past me, peering into the lounge where my parents are. The pair of them sat together, meeting my girlfriend-Mistress for the first time. ‘I’m just going to take Tom away for a little while, to meet Persephone. We’ll return with drinks in a moment.’

I catch a glance at Freya’s face, finding on it something remarkably familiar. The awkwardness of family, especially one’s parents, though I don’t know how I’m going to raise the matter of her mother’s crotch-groping in a way that doesn’t sound terrible.

Mrs Venyabildt takes my wrist and leads me through the house, towards a thickening odour of restaurant-grade cooking. Something distinct yet impossible to place, a fusion of familiar scents mixed into something that goes outside the boundaries of my grasp.

And there, slicing vegetables with apex preciseness, is Freya’s “Father.” The futanari matriarch, Persephone Venyabildt. The older Mistress Venyabildt.

‘Mistress,’ Alicia says, grinning from ear to ear. ‘This is Tom. Freya’s pet.’

I’m not sure what I expected, but a naked woman in an apron was certainly not it.

Persephone is, much like Alicia, some contributor to the qualities that her two daughters possess. Mistress Venyabildt is a blonde, like Freya, but pale as milk, like Morgan. Her hair, the colour of spun gold, is luscious and full, flowing down around her shoulders like a regal auric mane. The same height as Morgan, the pale futanari is closer to Freya in terms of musculature, though with a larger backside and plumper breasts.

And when she looks my way, full ruby lips faintly smiling, I’m struck by a pair of eyes that are the spitting image of Freya’s. Distracting to the point that I don’t even focus on the immensity of side-boob presented by the apron that lewdly covers her front.

‘Tom Olsen,’ Persephone says. ‘Or is it Thomas?’

‘T-om’s fine, uh, Mistress Venyabildt.’

Both women chuckle and the tall futanari puts down the folded-steel knife, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘No need to be nervous, boy. I don’t bite, unless you explicitly ask me to. And even then, I’m not prone to honouring requests from submissives.’

She struts over to me, opulent hips swaggering, peeking out from the sides of the apron. Her cleavage is insane, all of this is insane. All these beautiful women, in one family. Persephone Venyabildt, the head of house, the tallest of the futanaris, appears in many ways to be some older rendition of Freya. Her age is obvious, matured like fine wine. Youth fades, but to mistake youth with beauty would be foolish. Persephone is no less beautiful than her daughters. Her allure is regal, noble, gorgeous.

‘I’m Persephone,’ she says, extending a long-nailed hand. ‘Whatever silly ideas Freya’s filled your head with, they can die a death here. Unless – and until – I have my name on that collar, I’m no Mistress of yours.’

As I take the hand, out of politeness, I’m struck by a powerful notion. That I am, in this place, prey. A feeling felt before, at times. At the best of times, even, in the most erotic bouts of fucking with this woman’s younger daughter. But in those brilliant blue eyes, it’s clear where I stand.

Freya, as troublesome as she can be, is the safest of the lot.

‘Um, thank you?’

Persephone smirks, and says, ‘Definitely a submissive.’ Alicia chuckles, and strokes my back. ‘You’re welcome, Tom. And it’ll be good to have you around. Freya’s been dramatically better since you entered into the picture. You’re a good omen.’

‘Better?’

‘Freya is prone to bouts of bad behaviour,’ Alicia says, moving around to my front. She drags her hand in the process, fondling me in passing. The “mundane” woman stands beside Persephone, who idly hangs an arm around her waist. ‘Or was, anyway. Her grades are up, and she’s not been in a fight for months now.’

They smile at one another, and then at me. There’s something touching, about the idea that I’ve been good for Freya. She always seemed to be, well, doing me a favour. But maybe it’s a lot more complicated than that.

It does, however, make things a lot more difficult when her parents are giving me eyes that suggest an undeniable degree of voraciousness. Alicia alone is enough to be problematic, without the addition of the motherly futanari beside her.

‘I’m…glad?’

Persephone cocks her head at me. ‘You’re all nerves, boy. What’s the matter?’

Alicia smiles up at the taller woman. ‘I may or may not have introduced our dear Tom to the possibility of being shared, Mistress.’

Perhaps my eyes deceive me, or I’ve simply got the imagination for such, but there’s a subtle shift in the angle of the drooping apron. Is that…is that what I think it is? Persephone…might actually be bigger than Freya.

‘Is this true, Tom?’ Persephone says. ‘Would you be interested in such an arrangement?’

‘I…um…’

‘Where are those drinks, you cretins?’ Freya saves me. She barges in and halts behind me. ‘Oh. No, you don’t. You utter perverts.’ My Mistress puts her arms around my shoulders and draws me against her body, a show of safety and possessiveness all at once. Bubble-gum safety. ‘What’ve you said to him? And why’re you cooking in nothing, Dad?’

The older futanari winks at me, smiles at Freya. ‘We simply were suggesting to Tom that there’s the possibility of him being shared, given that he’s going to be living with us. What’s yours is mine, darling daughter.’

To my surprise, Mistress’s grip softens. ‘Oh. Well, uh. I don’t know about that.’

Wait, what? Alicia finds something in my face particularly funny. God, she won’t stop looking at me, eating me with those pale blue eyes.

And Freya? Freya…she’s meant to be angry, right?

‘He is going to be family, darling,’ Persephone says. ‘He’s yours, obviously, but you know the place of men in this household.’

Mistress squeezes my shoulder. ‘I…I don’t know.’

‘Morgan told me that the two of you were talking about this. She seemed to think you were coming around to the proper way of things.’

The proper way of things? Freya talking to Morgan? What the hell’s going on?

Alicia clears her throat. ‘Sweetie, shall I take Tom back to his parents with those drinks, while you and your father hash this out?’

Freya’s grip on me fades into nonexistence. ‘Yeah, sure, Mum. I…need to work this out with Dad.’

I’ve nothing to say. Nothing to add. All of it’s weird. Strange.

Mistress gives me a funny look as her mother guides me away, taking me by the wrist. Not a look of upset, or anything malign. I can’t quite put my finger on the meaning of it, all the same.

Like she’s viewing me in a different light, somehow.

 

The introductions go swimmingly, at least.

I’m left with a low-level foreboding throughout, wondering about so many things that will have to wait until I can sit in private with Freya, but at least she’s beside me. At least she touches me regularly, each rub of my shoulder or pat on my thigh ensuring a prolonged feeling of being safe and wanted.

Alicia rarely takes her eyes off me, throughout the wonderful dinner. Persephone – now in a form-hugging black dress – occasionally smirks my way, but mostly eyes her daughter. My parents are too busy being brown-noses to notice anything amiss. But they come away with a deep enthusiasm for my decision, with nothing but good words and high hopes.

Partly, I imagine, because they hope for some degree of financial assistance if I’m to be the long-term partner of a scion of the Venyabildt billionaires.

And when they leave, my moving here agreed upon without reservation, Freya and I slip away to her bedroom.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ I say, sitting down on the sofa.

Mistress hesitates. Freya looks divine, especially in her burgundy dress. It clings to her curves, a selection of criss-cross cut-out sections revealing her hips and her bounteous cleavage while otherwise being fairly tame. At the very least, in his vulgar outmoded fashion, Dad approves.

‘It’s complicated,’ she says, lingering by the door. She folds her arms across her chest, stares out of the windows behind me. ‘You know how I said that men don’t do well here? This is what I meant.’

‘You didn’t seem all that bothered, though?’

Freya affixes me with a brilliant blue stare. ‘Because I shouldn’t be. Because Persephone isn’t exactly wrong, and…Morgan’s been very forthcoming about how things are. Or should be.’

‘You’re listening to Morgan now?’

Mistress nods as she approaches the sofa, sitting herself down beside me. She casually puts an arm around my shoulders and brings me in close, filling my nose with that tell-tale bubble-gum perfume. The warmth of her body, her beauty swallowing the world, isn’t enough to stem the tide of concerning concepts.

‘We talked, okay? Made up a little. And…she’s teaching me to become more dominant. More in control. Like I should be, given what I am, and who I am.’

‘Meaning what?’

Freya blushes. ‘Meaning that it’s no threat to what we have for me to share you with the others. Just like they always do, not that I ever wanted to take them up on it.’ She quickly takes one of my hands in hers and squeezes. ‘It’s like I said, Tom. Futanaris are superior. Men and women both exist to cater to our needs, and if I’ve found a good pet, then that pet should serve Persephone and Morgan as well.’

I stare at her face, in profile, because she can’t seem to look at me right now. ‘You sure they’re not just trying to have a shot at me without consequences?’ I say.

And Freya shuts her eyes. ‘Yeah. That’s pretty much the first thought.’

I lean into her, nuzzle her throat, kiss the silken bronze of her skin. ‘I’m yours, Freya. Nobody else’s. You don’t need to share me because your Dad-Mum and sister want a piece.’

Mistress strokes my head, tussles my hair. ‘But then aren’t I admitting that I’m not so confident in my ability to control you? That what we’ve got only exists in the absence of competition? Dominance is about confidence, Tom. And if I can’t confidently believe that you’ll pick my bed every night, even with the offer of Persephone and Morgan, then how can I claim to be confident? My behaviour would tell it true. I’d be scared of losing you to them.’

‘You’ll never lose me to anyone. I don’t want anyone else.’

‘Tom, that’s bull.’ Freya’s tone is soft, though, and she smiles warmly at me. The blonde beauty kisses my brow. ‘It’s okay to fancy other people, you know? You’re not the only man in the world I notice, after all. Just the only one I want as my slut.’

‘A slut you’re thinking of sharing. And what about your Mum? She made her intentions way too clear, Jesus.’

Mistress giggles. ‘Alicia’s no threat, because she’s not a futanari. It’s a bit weird, but as I’m sure you’re discovering, this family is fucking weird.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know that Morgan sometimes blows our Dad? And gets blown by Mum?’

I did notice something off about Morgan’s kiss, that day when it all kicked off. It certainly wasn’t a purely platonic thing. ‘I…get the impression that Morgan’s into you, as well.’

Freya shudders a little, blushing brighter. ‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘That doesn’t bother you?’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s a kind of fucked-up coping mechanism. Because of what Genevieve did. To Dad and Morgan both.’

‘You don’t mean she…?’

Freya shuts her eyes, wincing. She nods. ‘Yeah, Tom. It ended before I hit puberty, but from the little I’ve been told, Persephone was exposed to some seriously messed-up things. Morgan was on the tail-end of that.’

Psychotic raping bitch, indeed.

‘Shit.’

‘Yup. Partly why we’re so close. Why this idea of sharing doesn’t seem so bad. I love my family, weird as they are. I was too young to suffer the darker stuff, and end up involved in the resultant incestuous shit, but even so.’ Freya opens her eyes, looking exhausted just from talking about it. ‘The whole “futanaris are superior” thing stems from the mess they went through. If we look out for each other, and view ourselves as deserving only of the finest treatment, then the mess with Gen won’t repeat itself.’

‘What happened to your gran? Morgan said she’s not allowed here, but beyond that?’

‘Too rich to go to prison,’ Mistress says. ‘She’s still, de facto, the head of Venyabildt Industrial. But she’s nothing to worry about. Lives in California, hasn’t been in touch for years. Persephone put her in hospital. Like, badly.’

‘Coach Bulger badly?’

Freya grips me a little tighter, smirking proudly. ‘Worse. I heard they reattached it, but Gen had her cock cut off. Almost became some Cronos and Ouranos shit.’

I smile at the reference, at her unassuming cleverness. Where her sister and parents are so overtly intellectual – at least by their manner of speaking – Freya can seem rougher around the edges, with her casual speech and easy dialect. But this is the girl who reads Dostoevsky and Nietzsche during lunchtime, after all.

‘I love you, Mistress.’

She ruffles my hair. ‘Where’d that come from?’

‘Just thinking, is all. How easy it is to imagine that you’d have no real issues because of your money, but then you’ve got this psycho rapist for a grandmother. Money doesn’t cure that. Makes it worse, even, by the sounds of it.’

Freya nods. ‘I do, for the record, have it easier. Way easier. If I don’t want to work, I don’t have to. I see your point, as well.’ She kisses my forehead. ‘But we got off-topic. If you want to be shared, Tom, then I…I think I need to be confident enough to allow it. But this is up to you, okay? I’ll command you in all other things, but I can’t command this. You’d be doing me a favour, keeping Dad and Mum and Morgan happy, but it’s wholly optional.’

‘Do you want this, Mistress?’

She stares at the wall, and shrugs. ‘I don’t know. But then, I’ve never had a boy to share like this. We could start easy, right? See if it works?’

My cock twitches at the thought. This can’t be real.

‘Freya…’

Mistress smooches my head. ‘Sleep on it. In our bed.’

I put my hand between her thighs, feeling out the clear definition of that big burly dick. ‘Shall we get tired out, first, Mistress?’

Freya’s member thickens in response.

 

She slips out of the dress and throws it aside, revealing sweet nakedness beneath.

Mistress and I have had much better sex, since I actually began communicating my needs and wants to her. Funny, how that works. Sure, we still have plenty of rough animalistic screwing, but just as many encounters involving lots of eye contact and intimate moments.

Freya smiles at me as I undress. She climbs atop the bed and lays herself down in the middle, head resting atop the pillows. Her body, curves so weighty and divine, jiggle and shift as she relaxes against the covers. That beautiful bronze cock, already erect, stands to attention.

‘Sit on me,’ Mistress says. ‘Be a good little slut, Tom.’

I kick off my boxers and smile brightly at her. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

She slowly strokes herself as I fetch the lube and join her atop the sheets, applying the cool fluid to my arse both inside and out. A few fingers, testing the waters, easily slip inside and come out again without difficulty. Though, of course, a few of my fingers is hardly the equivalent to the mighty member of my Amazonian Mistress.

It’s a little awkward, straddling her hips. Being somehow the centre of things, rather than some passive player. Freya releases her hold on her cock and lets it rest against my cheeks, putting a chill up my spine. The sheer heat of it, the way it throbs, is wondrous. Silky skin and a rigid, potent core. Such noticeable weight and heft, crudely wedged between my butt cheeks.

‘So cute,’ Mistress says. ‘So sexy.’

She moves suddenly, taking hold of my throat in a possessive manner. Those blue eyes swallow me up just before her mouth hungrily takes control of my own, lips moving sweetly, tongue tasting my teeth. ‘Mhm.’

I’m struck by the severity of my appreciation for this woman, and at the same time, the guilt presented by the possibility of being shared. Shared, if I want to be. And I do want to be. I…I shouldn’t, but I do.

I want to fuck her mother. To suck off her sister. To ride her “father.”

‘Tom?’ Freya draws back from the kiss, vaguely troubled. ‘You’re not doing anything?’

‘Sorry, Mistress. I was thinking.’

She squeezes my hip with her other hand. ‘About what?’

I blush. ‘I…can’t stop thinking about the sharing thing.’

Freya’s cheeks quickly match my own, colour for colour. ‘You want it, don’t you?’

I suppose if anyone is going to see through me, it’s going to be Freya. If anyone knows me as well as I know myself, or even better, it’ll be my Mistress.

‘It feels wrong,’ I say, glancing away. ‘To want…to want it.’

She reaches beneath me, between my legs, brushing my balls where they sag against her. ‘Up. Get me inside you.’ I obey, of course. For a moment the situation is all business, purely mechanical, but when the fat tip of her prodigious penis slides into my lubed-up backside, things become pleasantly organic. ‘There’s no guilt, Tom. Ugh. Not if I’m allowing you to do this. Not if you’re still going to be mine, in every sense that matters.’

Mistress’s big beefy bell-end barges its way into my depths with such casualness. A lump of spongy solidity, hot and lustrous, reverberating with risqué energies. It’s distinctive, even after having felt it so many times. Distinctly Freya, hung like she is. A shape that’s made my bottom into its own private pleasure palace, a rectal retreat for it to relieve itself within.

I belong to Freya’s cock as much as I belong to Freya herself.

‘Even if–guh–I’m attracted?’

‘Especially if you’re attracted,’ Mistress says. She nuzzles my throat, kisses my collarbone, all the while guiding my efforts with that strong hand on my hip. ‘If you weren’t, why would you consent? It’s–mhm–more of a test, if you actually want them.’

A test, of which the failure state would be ceasing to be Freya’s. To be Morgan’s, instead. Or Persephone’s. Or choosing to spend time with Alicia instead of Freya.

None of which seems likely. All of which require an active limitation in place, to force my hand. And why would any of them do that to family, a daughter or a sister?

‘Ughn.’

I grunt, groan, as I swing my hips. Up and down, the angle making the whole act so much more perverse. I can’t simply sit and take it, much as Freya is gently pushing herself into me. To get what I want, what I need, requires active effort. To lift myself up and then lower myself, all in pursuit of sliding that fat fucking cock back and forth within the gripping tightness of my sphincter. I take hold of Freya’s shoulders, strong and athletic, to keep myself steady.

‘You won’t fail the test. I know you well enough.’

‘But–’

She lifts that hand from my throat to my jaw, cupping it. Mistress puts a silencing thumb across my lips. ‘Tom, I know you. And I know my family. I’m giving you this–aah–chance to play with them, and you’re guilty. That says it all.’

‘Guh. It…d-oes?’

Freya smiles at me, cheeks red, eyes bright and blue. ‘Of course. Even when you can have something, you still–mhm–care. You’re mine, Tom. My slut. Doesn’t it say so on that collar?’

The thing shifts, the faintest of sounds, every time I rise and fall. “Freya’s Slut.”

I nod, gritting my teeth. ‘Y-es, Mistress. I’m your prop-erty.’

She brings me in for a slow yet tempestuous snog, eating my face with those sweet sensual lips. Full lips, beautiful crescent curves around pearly white teeth. Clean, honeyed spit. A tongue that teases, yes, but here attends to mine with passionate affection.

‘You only have one Mistress. And we both know that what exists between us is–mhm–more than just the fact you like to get dicked-down.’

Freya applies greater force with her muscular thighs and hips, driving her fiery futa fuck-meat right up inside of me. I quiver and quake, doing my utmost to match her pace, to ride her in the slavish fashion that my position demands of me. That spectacular spear, beyond simple physicality, is Mistress’s.

No other cock will ever be the same, because no other cock is hers.

Lust, and love are different beasts.

‘Th-ank you, M-istress.’

I throw my arms around her shoulders and we topple backwards, bodies colliding in the most fantastical of fashions. Merging, not just our loins, but our hearts. Our minds. Mouths locked and moans endless as I gyrate my hips and Freya thrusts into me, her smells rich in my nostrils, her spit sweet on my tongue.

‘Mhm. Mhm-hm.’

God, I love her. All day I’ve been wanting to be at her side, to be safe, to be with the one person who is undeniably in my corner. The one who has my back. And now I’m here, now we’re together, and all is well with the world.

‘Move yourself,’ Mistress says, leaving my lips. She relaxes back against the bed. ‘Milk me, slut. Ride my–ugh–fucking dick.’

I nod, stupid, frantic. ‘Y-es, Mistress,’ I say, sitting upright on her cock, pressing my palms against her thick hips to support myself. ‘Ughn. So b-ig.’

Freya chuckles, watching me with lascivious glory. Staring up at me as I rise and fall, rise and fall, mounting her wholly under my own power while she simply rests and takes it. Becomes passive, yet retains control. Goes so far as to nonchalantly put her arms behind her head, revealing the contours of those beautifully muscled shoulders, and the shaven stubble of her bronze pits beneath.

‘That’s it, slut. Mhm. God, it’s hot watching you–aah–work for it.’

It’s awkward, is what it is. Erotic as anything, but awkward. I’m so exposed, doing this.

Riding such a fat fucking thing, thick and throbbing, so familiar and yet no less intimidating for all the intimate experiences I’ve had with Mistress and her body. A rod from God, it feels like, a thing some hung futanari angel would have. All the better that the angel is real, and her name is Freya Venyabildt.

‘Ughn. J-esus.’

I have to war for focus, to maintain control. Losing myself to the pleasure is one thing when I’m being ridden, being mounted, but when atop her it’s different. I’m the active one, I’m not exactly in control of the situation, but I’m definitely in charge of the pacing. The rhythm. And getting stuck in the labyrinthine corridors of carnal bliss is a quick recipe for slipping or hurting her or losing that pleasure entirely.

Those eyes hold me, watching me bounce atop her body. Mistress, blonde perfection and a brilliant blue gaze, smiles with utmost smugness. And God, I love looks like that. Ones that imply, in no uncertain terms, that she’s some tigress, some queen of the jungle, and I’m her prey. I’m just meagre, weak, and serving some higher purpose in using my body to pleasure her so.

Nothing is so sexy as being hers, as belonging to her. To see, in those wonderful eyes, such possessive and prideful power.

‘Faster,’ Mistress says, trembling. ‘Ugh. Quicker, slut. And tighten that–ooh–naughty arse.’

‘Y-es, Mistress.’

Thup. Thwup. My balls jiggle and slap against her furry forest of golden pubes where they bounce around, each shuddering slam of my hips sending them wobbling about. They’re small, compared to hers, but the sound is pleasing, and the feel of that faintly humid jungle against my sack is glorious. Thwup. Thup.

With each and every moment, every completed up-down motion, I’m driven closer and closer to climax. Little by little, I’m learning to restrain myself. Not because the ecstasy is lesser – God, no – but because, in holding on, the conclusion is all the rawer and nobler. Earned, rather than simply given freely. Amplified, as if every perpetuation of penis-induced pleasure prepares my nervous system to erupt in fantastical fanfare.

And then, out of the blue, Freya swiftly grabs my hips and hilts herself inside me. ‘Ughn. Get fucking–mhm–pregnant, you slut!’

I blow my top instantly, the moment her helmet swells and cum-vein bulges. As my load splatters out across her beautiful stomach, hers sloshes out into my guts, creaming me with thick foreign warmth, all sticky and dense.

Our bodies shake and shiver, mingling marvellously. Her seed spurts out without apparent end in sight, a large futanari-grade ejaculation. I writhe and wiggle, clenching down, milking her member of every last drop of that genetically supreme semen. God, it’s good to be bred. To be plugged to the limit with her bountiful ball cream.

‘M-istress,’ I say, losing balance. ‘I–ugh–l-ove you.’

Freya wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me down atop her, her big breasts acting as the most wonderful cushion for my chest. Mistress kisses my head and strokes my hair, snuggling against me as her cock continues to deposit its virile payload. While I, of course, am spent.

‘I love you too, slut. Ever so much.’

It’s the most wonderful thing, to rest atop her. To be held by her strong arms, against her warmth, basking in her bubble-gum sweetness and sexual musk. To belong to her, and be with her, and at ease. All worries melting away, as her dick softens between my cheeks. Staying there, of course, held onto in some secondary embrace, welcome within me, right where it belongs.

 

I wake late, beside the gently snoring Freya. In the dark of night, a silvery sliver of moonlight creeping through to reveal her naked form, half covered by the thin summer duvet, I’m passingly in awe at just how lucky I am. How divine she is.

Freya stirs sweetly, but doesn’t wake, when I kiss her forehead. A thirst grips me and I make my way down to the kitchen, noting as I pass through the upstairs hallways a light coming from beneath one of the rooms down the corridor. It must be past twelve, I’d think. Morgan’s room?

But when I reach the open-plan kitchen, vast and impressive, I find Alicia bent over in front of the freezer. Her broad backside, facing me as I enter the room, might as well be nude given how poor a job her semi-transparent silken nightie does of covering its fat cheeks.

She turns as I stare, glancing back over a shoulder, raven hair falling about lusciously. Mrs Venyabildt, Freya’s mother, smiles at me with illicit interest. That full-lipped look, paired with the alluring energy of those pale blue eyes, makes me deeply uncomfortable despite everything that’s been said and suggested today.

‘S-orry,’ I stammer out, but Alicia chuckles.

She wiggles her bum from side to side. ‘Something you like, honey? It’s okay. We didn’t exactly get a chance to properly introduce ourselves earlier, did we?’

I’m struck dumb, rooted to the spot, as she pulls up her nightie. Her tan and buxom backside is beautiful enough as is, revealed in the low light of the open freezer. All the more so, to catch a glistening hint of her sex, inner lips tantalising in their pretty prominence. Meaty, where Freya’s pussy is neat and trim, but puffy just the same as her daughter’s.

‘Alicia…’

She lets the nightie drop back down and stands to her full height, an inch or so taller than myself. Shutting the freezer throws us into almost-darkness, making her mature beauty all the more mysterious and enchanting. The Venyabildt MILF swaggers over to me, clearly wholly naked beneath her gown, which clings against heavy breasts and erect nipples, makes obvious thick womanly curves suggestive of motherly fertility.

I’m struck by a mixture of smells. The sweetness of perfume, a fruitiness from soap, and a tang of sensual femininity. But something else, besides, carried on her breath and perhaps from elsewhere. A potent odour, musky and rich, somehow familiar and yet not. Edged in bitterness it nonetheless makes me salivate, provokes a response between my legs.

‘It’s okay,’ Alicia says, her voice sonorous and warm, caring and carnal. She presses a hand to my groin, roughly fondling the growing erection. ‘It’s pretty sexy, isn’t it? To have access to your Mistress’s own mother, if you want it.’

It’s wrong, no matter if Freya agrees. This woman is in her mid-forties, attractive as she is. She’s Persephone’s pet, just as I’m Freya’s. And this is Freya and Morgan’s mother.

God, the more I associate with these Venyabildts, the more wrong becomes right.

‘Look, I just wanted some water.’

Alicia squeezes on my shaft, and I wince. ‘But you want something else as well, don’t you?’

I can do little when she kisses my cheek, with perverse passion to those full lips. Freya’s mother nuzzles my face, chuckles with soft naughtiness. ‘You’ve got a golden opportunity to taste where Freya came from, if you want it. Is your mind a gutter like mine, Tom? Pets of the Venyabildt line that we both are?’

I do. God, what a fucking thought. Eating Freya’s mother’s fat mature pussy. Shit.

I barely ever get to eat pussy. It’s not “submissive enough” for Mistress, most of the time.

‘Yes,’ I say, quickly, before sanity can catch up. ‘Please.’

Alicia strokes my face. ‘Call me Mummy, Tom. Given that I might be your mother-in-law, sooner or later.’

A twisted, tantalising, terrific creature is Alicia Venyabildt. I can barely think, staring as she pulls her nightie aside, revealing that incredible body. Motherly breasts with broad areolas and prominent nipples, a little larger than Freya’s, sagging sensually with their years. Smaller than Morgan’s and Persephone’s, though I’ve not seen theirs bare. Her hips are wide and womanly, belly slightly plump. There’s a captivating chubbiness to the older woman, to the bona fide MILF, that jiggles joyously with every movement of her body.

She uses both hands to hoist herself up onto the central counter, angling her pelvis in such a manner as to present her coochie for me to marvel at and taste. Her bush is trimmed to a triangle, yet the hair in that patch is no less wild than my Mistress’s. But it does allow ready access to her womanly bits without navigating a truly unkempt jungle.

‘Go on, honey. Eat Mummy’s pussy.’

Of course, I obey. All of it, the faux-incestuous styling, the age disparity, the vulgarity of doing such a thing in the dead of night in the kitchen, drives me into the welcoming arms of lasciviousness.

The tile flooring is warmed from beneath, but still hard on my knees. Alicia’s coochie stinks in the best of ways, sexual beyond belief. Potent muskiness, abundant womanliness, but something else as well. Something…I’m not sure if I know or not.

Glistening in the almost-darkness, the thing is tantalisingly inviting.

All the more so when she cups my head from behind and urges me forwards, the radiant heat of her sex warming my face with its sweet humidity.

I press my hands against her thighs and burrow my nose in her thick pubes, smiling at my filthy luck as the richness of her smell clings deep in my nostrils. My lips find silkiness, exposed inner folds all velvety and protruding, kissing me back and leaving my mouth glazed in sweet stickiness.

Slurp. Mlep.

‘Mhm. Good boy.’ Alicia plays with my hair, trembling against me. ‘Eat up. Get–aah–right in there with that naughty young tongue. Taste where–mhm–Freya came from.’

That notion possesses me with a fire like no other, insanely erotic. Perverse and yet pure.

‘Mhm-hm.’ Schlup. Slurp. ‘Mumph.’

Her juices coat my lips, soak into my tongue. Familiar flavours, salty-sweet, yet more potent than memory would suggest. I trace out the protruding inner folds, meaty and delicious, before testing the little hood at the top, brushing faintly the pearl of Alicia’s pussy.

She shakes her head, eyes glistening in the dark, barely visible. ‘No, honey. Get inside. Get in me. I want to feel that lovely tongue inside.’

Her urgency is attractive, and I’m hardly going to refuse. But when I slide the tip of my tongue down the slick folds of her opening proper, and push it faintly inside, something from within falls out. Something heavy, warm, gooey…darkly familiar. Something from a third party, not present in our nocturnal tryst.

Semen.

I tremble, freeze up, as the fat glob of knotty cream slides onto my tongue, drooping over the sides but staying in place by sheer gluiness. Alicia chuckles, shivers softly. She plays with my hair, pats my scalp.

‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You know whose it is, Tom. You know it won’t be bad.’

Persephone. Persephone’s ejaculate, drooling from Alicia’s pussy. Freya’s parents, and I’m managing to taste both in a single session of salacious depravity.

I pause, sucking the spurt of jism into my mouth. Tasting it, marvelling. God, it’s…it’s delicious. Guilty as the thought is, it’s better than Freya’s. Rich and salty and creamy, savoury, dense as hell. The passing mental image, the realisation that I’m tasting Freya and Morgan’s recipe, in some perverse sense, makes my heart flutter. Aged futanari sperm, swimming about my mouth, is a perversely perfect thing.

I actually find myself slipping my hands beneath her thighs and burying my face into her snatch, working with vulgar voraciousness to taste more of the thick semen of the futanari “patriarch”.

‘Such a good boy.’ Alicia runs her nails against my scalp, moans softly. ‘Mhm. You’re going to be very–aah–popular here, honey.’

God, I’m raw filth.

I’m fucking relishing the heavy oozing of spooge, its potent taste overwhelming any sweet nectar of the older woman’s vagina. So thick and creamy, so strongly-flavoured, clearly the product of virile testes, clearly of the same line as Freya but richer and bolder, more dominant in the way it clings to my teeth and splatters my coochie-exploring tongue.

Schlup. Slurp.

I barely notice her wrap her thighs around my head, crossing her calves behind my shoulders. It only makes this more divinely depraved, when I meet her eyes in the dark. They glisten with such appeal, such intense arousal. Two perverts, collared by their futanari mistresses, sharing in lasciviousness.

‘You can–mhm–eat Mummy’s pussy whenever you want, okay, honey?’ Alicia says, smirking salaciously. She strokes my head, brushes my cheek. ‘And while I’m a little busy tonight, I’ll be happy to–aah–take care of that lovely young cock whenever we’re both free of our duties. This is strictly a no-masturbation household, from now on, for both of us.’

This woman is…something else. It’s no wonder Freya’s such a freak, if her parents are like this. And what the hell is Persephone going to be like?!

‘Mhm-hm.’

Schlap. Schlurp.

Alicia moans, thighs shivering against the sides of my head. Persephone’s delicious spooge continues to leak out into my hungry mouth, seemingly endless in quantity, no matter how deep I thrust my tongue into the gripping sloppiness between the Venyabildt MILF’s luscious legs.

Eating the older Mistress Venyabildt’s creampie, fresh out of her pet’s pussy, is something I never imagined I’d be doing. Something that I am, guilt or no guilt, immensely happy is occurring.

All the better that Alicia cums, hard, and splatters my face with her salty-sweet juices. All the better that Freya’s “father” is swimming about on my tongue, devilishly divine, its sublime quality forever firmly imprinted into my memories.

‘I’ll be your–mhm–Mummy,’ Alicia says, both hands firmly digging into my head. ‘From now on, honey. I’ll be–aah–your Mummy. So do as I–ooh–say, okay?’

Of course, I can do that. Submission comes naturally. Alicia Venyabildt might not be a hung futanari, but she’s an older woman, and this feels every bit as natural a hierarchy as the one that exists between myself and Freya. And now, myself and Persephone. And…probably, myself and Morgan.

It dawns on me, in an instant, that I know what I want. That if Mistress is offering, then I want to be shared. May even need to be shared, given how satisfying something as simple as eating her mother’s pussy has turned out to be.

I mumble, moan, and fall back on my calves when the MILF releases me from her leg-lock. Thick Venyabildt seed is drooling out onto the counter, the last dregs of what must’ve been a particularly voluminous load.

‘You’ve not swallowed it, have you?’ Alicia says, cupping my jaw. And I realise, swirling around a dense mouthful of Persephone’s pride, that no, I’ve not. I shake my head, and Mrs Venyabildt chuckles. ‘My, you’re a dirty one. My Mistress tastes good, doesn’t she?’

I nod weakly, rolling the jism about. Such ropes and sticky strings, the strong flavour of a mature futanari. A virile, sperm-packed quantity of creampie.

‘The older they get, the more sperm they produce.’ The MILF teases my cheek, soft and slow. ‘If you like a mouthful of the heaviest and creamiest stuff, you’ll want to talk to Persephone. Perhaps call her Daddy, as she’ll love that.’ She slips off the counter, patting my head as she covers herself anew. ‘Saying that, Morgan’s is almost identical in quality if not flavour, and she has quite the fetish for all things oral. Pay her a visit, maybe. Take good care of my family, Tom, and we’ll take good care of you.’

She walks away, nonchalant, a slight weakness to her strides. Convulsing still from her climax, the older woman smiles from ear to ear, and when the light from beyond the kitchen catches her face, it reveals red cheeks and sublime horniness.

‘Welcome to the family, honey. You’re going to fit in just fine.’

There’s no humour to her words, just affection. Instant, easy appreciation for having another non-futanari, but also having a malleable young man in her presence.

And when Alicia is out of view, I climb to my feet and crudely scoop up the remainder of the spooge on the counter, watching the muck form beautiful strings and pearlescent ropes between my fingers.

Of course, I suck each clean, tasting Persephone Venyabildt. Tasting her sperm. I’ve got so much in my mouth, and I’m not going to swallow just yet. It’s…it’s something to savour, just like Mistress’s.

Smiling stickily, I know just what to tell Freya.