The Den of Iniquity

What? Do you seriously think a bunch of demons would pretend to be cowgirls just to get you to milk them?

Do you really think cunning, cruel succubi are that desperate for a pair of hands on their tits?

That needy for a good, thorough milking?

And, what? You think a herd of them just moved in a week ago, tricked you into drinking their milk, and then turned you into their brainless milker?

Their dumb, obedient human thrall?

Their hopeless, helpless, horny toy who can't help but moan and drain their breasts with your eager lips?

That's right. It's so silly. The idea isn't even worth entertaining.

Now, get those pants off. Milking time is over.

Now it's time to reward your cowgirls for working so hard with a good, thorough rutting.

You're so lucky to have stumbled across that plant girl.

So fortunate that she's so kind and sweet, willing to let you shelter in her grove. Rest. Recuperate.

Relax.

Breathe deep her sweet, calming pollen...

The Wire Woods can be so dangerous to cute mortals so lost and confused.

So addled and dumb.

You're so lucky to have found her.

Found a place to rest.

To relax.

No no, don't squirm. Just let her vines wrap around you.

Pull you into her breasts.

Take off your clothes.

You don't need clothes.

Don't need to resist.

That's it.

Just relax.

Sink into her breasts.

Sink into submission.

Don't think about her petals closing around you.

Don't think about sinking into her intoxicating nectar.

Just relax.

Just submit.

Don't think of it as your girlfriend being corrupted into a gorgeous beembo drone.

Think of it as her becoming flirtier.

More affectionate.

More delicious as you lick the honey off her bare skin.

She's still herself.

She's just bustier.

Sweeter.

And has lots of wonderful, blonde sisters who can't get enough of cuties who stumble into the hive, so drunk on beembo honey they can't resist.

Can't escape.

Can only sink under their kisses.

Sink into their breasts.

Sink into the honeypot until their minds are gooey, golden, and melty.

So happy and moaning as beembos kiss them.

Stroke them.

Sink them deeper.

Deeper.

You were right to save the elf from those villagers, who ignorantly believed she was in heat and that she had pheromones which turned men into brainless studs.

You were right to bring her back to the inn.

You were right to share a room to quell her fears.

You were right to let her sleep near you even as you felt so hot.

Feverish.

Befuddled.

You were right not to resist her kiss.

Her touch.

Her needy tongue.

You were right to let her pull off your shirt.

Your pants.

Everything else.

You were right to let her ride you.

You were right to surrender to her.

Empty in her.

Give in to her need.

You were right.

It was right.

You just can't get enough of that new coffee place.

Why is that?

Why can't you ever go too long without a cup?

A drink?

One with plenty of... cream.

Maybe it's because all the cowgirl baristas are so eager to spend some time at your table.

Being so attentive to your needs.

Sitting beside you.

Squeezing you between them.

Talking about what a good customer you are. So loyal. So... thirsty...

Or maybe it's because they keep sneaking you into the breakroom.

Taking off their tops.

Letting you drink from the tap.

That fresh milk.

That sweet milk.

You don't really mind staying late at the office, right?

You're not eager to go home while your lamia manager needs you.

You're such a good employee to her.

And good employees get rewards.

You don't mind working so hard with her hovering at your shoulder.

You're happy to let her tail lazily wrap around you.

Her breasts press into the back of your head.

Her hand slide into your lap.

You don't resist as she turns you around.

Stares into your eyes.

Her spiral gaze holding you as she tells you how good you.

How she appreciates you.

Adores you.

Squeezing and stroking you.

Ssssuch a good employee.

There's something about that new maid that's a bit... suspicious.

Like how you don't remember hiring her.

How you keep meaning to as about that until you look into her eyes.

Pretty eyes...

And how she always asks for a kiss as a reward for a job well done.

Which you always give. Obedience needs to be rewarded.

Always.

Which is why you kiss her cheek.

Kiss her breasts.

Kiss down.

Down.

Down her stomach.

Between her thighs.

Kiss her as she pets your head.

Lick her as she tells you what a good master you're being.

A good, obedient master.

As her foot pushes between your legs.

Rewards you with a stocking-clad toes rubbing you.

Stroking you.

Obedience is rewarded.

Good masters obey pretty maids.

Obey.

It was a pretty good deal.

You'd pay off your debt. And all you had to do was be the personal milker for the moofia.

Just pump those flirty holstaur's breasts and all is forgiven.

Just pump.

Just massage.

Just milk.

And if you happen to taste a bit of the product, that was fine. It's not that addictive.

Not that compelling.

Not that enthralling to poor debtors pressed under those busty babes.

In fact, why not use your mouth? They're not complaining.

Not when you're so good.

So skilled.

So eager to milk the boss and her sisters.

And well... maybe you don't need to quit once you paid your debt.

Maybe you like working under those bovine beauties.

Maybe you can't get enough of cream.

Of milk.

Of being theirs.

So, yeah. Maybe you will stay on. Just... for a bit.

No harm in it.

The prince thought he was negotiating a trade deal with the dark elves.

But that was before he was given a room with their matriarch.

Before his clothes went missing.

Before he found himself wearing a collar and led around by a leash.

And to be fair, he was trading.

Trading his freedom for devotion.

His mind for obedience.

His kingdom for a chance to kiss up Mistress's thighs, feel her fingers grip his hair, and let his tongue make her moan.

Because a pet didn't need a kingdom.

Didn't need free will.

Didn't need to do anything but submit to Mistress. Obey Mistress. Adore Mistress.

Well, obviously a witch needs a familiar.

And obviously if she's already a cat it can't be a cat.

So obviously the solution is to turn the silly human who climbed over her wall and got caught in the hedge trap into her familiar.

And sure, he might have some objections. But how could he resist the benefits, like free dental.

A pretty collar.

Or staring at her bouncy breasts?

And sure, being bound to obey her every whim is a lot to ask.

But think about her breasts.

And yes, becoming her obedient thrall will be hard.

But consider her boobs.

And sure, he will be her live in housekeeper cooking, cleaning, and waiting on her every whim.

But watch her breasts.

Watch them bounce.

Bounce.

But what is the secret ingredient to the sugar witch's food?

What is it that makes her cakes and muffins so delicious?

So tantalizing?

So wonderfully... irresistible?

Is it nutmeg?

Is it MSG?

No. Of course not. It's love.

And she has so much love to give.

So much just stuffing her.

Filling her.

Sloshing in her big, soft breasts.

And she's so grateful you always help her... get it out.

Burying your face in her breasts as you pump and milk her until she has all she needs for her baking.

But she always has more.

And is always happy to let good, thirsty helpers lick the... spoon.

Especially since you always come back.

You can't help it.

The drow was right. No way you could sneak through the dark elf city without her help.

But was the slave outfit really necessary?

The leash?

The enchanted collar?

But not to worry. The collar wouldn't activate unless you came.

It wouldn't turn you into her obedient, horny thrall so long as you didn't spurt.

So you just... just had to not get too horny.

No matter how much she touched you.

Rubbed against you.

Stroked you in front of the guards.

You... you could hold out.

No problem.

It was just a few days with her holding your leash.

With her teasing.

Her touching.

Her grinding.

Her... her sucking.

You... you could hold out.

Not become her pet.

Her thrall.

You could...

...could...

Sure, maybe it was a bit reckless to splice lamia and holstaur genes together. But look at the result! And she's so docile. So busty. So affectionate.

So cuddly.

So very... very cuddly.

Which would be concerning if you hadn't removed the genes for a lamia's hypnotic eyes.

And a holstaur's addictive milk.

And both of their need to breed with brainless men.

Which you did... Right?

Yes, you think, relaxing as her coils tighten around you. Squeezing you. Her swirling eyes staring into you. Her sloshing breasts smothering you.

Yes.

You remembered.

You're not reckless.

You're just good.

And relaxed.

A good scientist.

Everyone warned you about hiring a goblin as a maid. Told you they're tricky. Cunning. Turn men into brainless studs.

Which is funny, because she's a model servant.

Always helpful.

Always polite.

Always eager to bring you tea with her special secret ingredient.

In fact, she's so helpful, why not let her make more decisions around the house?

Hire some more goblins?

Fire the rest of the staff?

You can trust her.

Trust her with anything.

With everything.

In fact, you have been looking for a bride lately. And why not her? She already runs the household. Why not marry her?

And a good husbands always obeys their gob.

Breeds her.

Loves her.

Drinks his special tea.

Loves his green wife.

Adores her.

What are the odds that village you saved from orcs was home to your old crush?

That she would invite you to a party afterwards?

That you'd realize only women are in the village?

That her pretty, golden eyes are oddly... compelling?

What are the odds she'll laugh off your questions and kiss you?

Hug you?

Her golden eyes shining as she tugs you out the door?

Drinking your thoughts?

Your doubts?

Your resistance to her caress?

What are the odds you can't keep your hands off her?

Even after she grows some horns?

Her skin turns red?

Her whispers filling your ears?

Your mind?

And you decide that you'd love to be her husband?

Her stud?

Her obedient toy?

What are the odds?

It's so cute you thought you could bind the demon.

It's so cute you thought you had a chance.

Thought you could best her.

Beat her.

Dominate her.

Lucky for you, she likes cute.

Likes it a lot.

And don't worry. That obedience collar you brought will get used, just not in the way you expected.

And so will that leash.

Your clothes will have to go, of course.

Good pets don't wear clothes.

Good dumb, weak, collared and leashed pets do what they're told.

They follow the tug of the leash.

Follow it onto her bed.

Between her thighs.

And they lick.

And kiss.

Okay, so maybe you didn't read the fine print in that job description.

And maybe you should have quit when Dr. Bimbaux brought out a serum labeled STUD7.

But on the other hand, what other lab has such... lax dresscodes for the good doctor?

What other lab would insist you work shirtless so the good doctor could assess how her serum is making you bigger? Buffer?

Dumber?

What other employer would insist you bend her over a table and show her how you're changing?

So, yeah. Maybe you should have quit.

But really, in today's job market, maybe you should stay on.

Especially since HUCOW88 needs testing, and the doctor needs your personal touch measuring how her bust is expanding.

You know.