MildlyMortified

"Sal, stop it," you huffed and lounged back on the pile of blankets and pillows behind you. You flipped a page in your book, trying to ignore the abomination strapped to your thigh.

"B-but I-I...I need it!" Moreau blubbered, desperation leeching its way into his tone. He rubbed his snubbed nose into the swell of your hip; his own rolled in awkward, stilted motions, and tried his best to provide himself some kind of pleasure.

"You don't need it, Be quiet and let me read," you hissed, shoving your legs against his chest. He was dislodged, and he fell back to his knees a foot or so away. Pain filled his eyes, but from how his gaze was only on you, you knew he wasn't hurt by the fall itself.

"Please!" Moreau begged, crawling towards you on his hands and knees as his eyes got glossier than they usually were. You cringed. "I-it hurts so bad!"

He latched onto you again with the strength of a constrictor, burying his face between your thighs. His thin legs wrapped around yours, and his hips shoved at your shin while he attempted to get any kind of friction possible. As much disgust you felt for the man's pathetic display, you allowed Moreau to hump your leg; it was better than letting him get any higher up and letting him get ideas about actually fucking you.

"I don't care how bad it hurts; you can get off without fucking me." You scowled down at the man. Now that he was relatively tamed, you were happy to ignore the grotesque man at your feet in favor of the novel in your hands.

As you ignored him, though, you were forced to eventually acknowledge the noise from below. There was his usual nasally breathing and shuddering moans, but there was also a hitching sound in his breaths that made you pause, irritated.

"Sal, don't be so loud," you warned him. You grimaced when you heard it again, only louder; he sobbed, rubbing his face into the crux of your thighs over your jeans. You could feel a wetness there that wasn't yours: saturating the denim of your pants was his swampy tears, a moisture fueled by his sexual desperation and agony.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry!" Moreau slurred in a guttural tone, sniffling as he stared up at your unimpressed face.

You held the book to the side and sneered down at the man. "Salvatore Moreau." Your brow furrowed and he cringed at the sight, your disapproval more painful than the ache in his groin.

"I'm s-sorry! Pl-please!!" he stammered repetitively, about as eloquent as he ever was; it made your expression that much more severe.

"God, fine!" You dog-eared your book and set it to the side, pulling away from the miserable fish. Grabbing a few pillows, you set them under your chest and laid down on your stomach. In turn, it didn't take long for him to climb atop you, gripping onto your body from behind.

"Thank you, thank you"'s spewed from Moreau's rubbery lips like vomit, becoming a rhythmic chant that only got more and more breathy until it devolved into a whimpering tune next to your ear. His anterior was against your posterior, and it was like he was trying to meld your frames together, to melt your body into his and join the conglomeration of disgusting flesh.

You could feel his biology against the plush fat and muscle of your ass; hard and stiff, a sickly moisture coating the surface further soaking the denim of your pants. Moreau moaned out your name as if punched, and his hips rolled again and again, shoving hard into your ass with a desperate rhythm. Unfortunately, the constant show of lust had you reacting too.

You'd had sex with Moreau a few times before, but you recently had stopped because of the fact that, at the end of a sexual encounter, you'd be stuffed to the gills with frog-like eggs, bulging and bloated. Of course, it didn't entirely remove the desire to have sex with your partner, but it surely put a damper on the idea.

However, hearing him praise you in desperate, breathy moans had a visceral effect on you. Your breathing picked up and you found yourself rereading lines in the book, completely forgetting anything you'd read.

You put the book aside, hissing softly as his massive weight kept bearing down on your back. You felt your pants getting soaked through, but your underwear also matched it from the opposite way, proof of your own need. Sighing, you resigned yourself to the mutual desire.

"Fine, Sal," you groaned, grabbing one of the pillows and clutching it to your chest, getting ready for a habitually messy time. "You can fuck me."

Salvatore didn't even wait after your declaration, didn't question it: he scrambled to grab at your jeans, tugging them down with unsteady and stiff hands. It wasn't long until the chorus of "thank you" got louder and more strained, then a wet, lukewarm shaft was pressing against your backside, promising something more than genitals full of Moreau's altered physiology, but also a belly full of his spawn.