"BE A GOOD GIRL–"
Praise tastes different on every tongue– holy, filthy, cruel, hungry, and obsessed.
Content Warnings: MDNI, degradation & praise (slut mostly), dacryphilia, man whimpers, angst if you squint, rough oral/face-fucking/throat use, overstimulation, public/semi-public sex, religious stuff(church defiling), Xavier is a soft-spoken menace, cross dressing (maid outfit), exhibitionism (cameras/observers), size kink/stretching, anal (spit prep), cumplay, spit, pain/pleasure dynamics, CNC-flavored, alien sex (tentacles, oviposition, breeding themes).
A/n: This was supposed to be a gentle little praise kink thing, but it got derailed– and you got railed– into another 10k words. So bone apple teeth, babes.
Happy Kinktober <3
tagging my mootie @bluetoska ♡ thanks for being the brave pioneer in this unholy land. <3
On your knees, but God's not listening
The booth smelled of incense and dust, stale wood and candle smoke. It was too warm, too cramped, the kneeler digging into your knees as you shifted. The carved screen between you threw shadows across Father Xavier’s sharp cheekbones, but his eyes were steady, fixed, unflinching as his voice rumbled low.
“Speak.”
Your thighs pressed together, nerves sparking. You wet your lips, tilting your chin just enough to make sure he noticed the flutter of your lashes.
“I want to be a good girl,” you whispered, breath hushed in the dark.
His jaw flexed. Silence stretched, heavy. “Do you?”
“Yes.” You leaned closer, voice dripping, coaxing. “I’ll do anything you tell me.”
His breath hitched– barely audible through the lattice. For a heartbeat, he stayed perfectly still. Then the sound of fabric scraped faintly; he’d turned, checking beyond the confessional curtain, scanning for movement in the pews. Empty. Safe.
When he turned back, restraint was hanging by a thread. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said, voice low, wrecked.
“Don’t I?” You leaned back, sliding your hand up your thigh, slow as confession, fingertips brushing your heat. You let out a soft, trembling sigh, tilting your head until your throat was bared to him.
“Say it again,” he murmured, the edge of a prayer in his voice.
Instead, you brought your fingers to your lips and gave them a tentative lick, locking eyes with him before letting out a soft moan that sounded like, “please”.
That was his breaking point.
For a moment, he looked heavenward– begging for self-control or forgiveness. Then his hand punched through the lattice, fingers seizing your chin. His other hand worked at tearing away more of the wooden screen.
“You should’ve never let me hear you beg.” He forced your face up, thumb pressing furious against your bottom lip until it split open around the pressure.
“Open,” Xavier said. His voice was rougher than before.
You obeyed, lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste. His thumb slid over your tongue, deeper, until you gagged softly, drool sliding down your chin. He watched the way your lips wrapped around and sucked it, eyes darkening, and when he pulled back, spit glistened on his digit. He smeared it across your cheek with deliberate contempt.
“Slut.” The word was sin and salvation in one. “Good girls don’t beg. They prove.”
The blunt head of his cock pressed through the gap, flushed and slick with precome.
He pushed in.
Your lips stretched around the thick head, already salivating. The first thrust was shallow– testing– and then he drove deeper, forcing half his length into your throat. You gagged, eyes watering, nails clawing the kneeler as his cock pulsed against your tongue.
The confessional rattled as Xavier used your mouth, wood groaning under the sharp snap of his hips. His hand gripped the back of your head through the screen, forcing you forward every time you tried to pull back. Your gagging was loud, obscene, wet sounds filling the booth as drool dribbled your chin and breasts.
Your cunt throbbed, your panties beyond soaked by now. Moving the kneeler so you could straddle it, you ground down against the wood, rutting like an animal, moaning around his cock as he hit the back of your throat again and again. Each gag sent sparks racing down to your clit, the sharp ache of choking turning into dizzy pleasure.
“Pathetic,” Xavier hissed, slapping your spit-slick cheek through the makeshift window. The sting bloomed hot and you whimpered, grinding sharper, your thighs shaking. “Crying, drooling, choking on it– and you love it.”
You tried to speak, to agree, but it came out as a gurgled moan around his cock. He let out a rough and broken sound, as your throat convulsed around him.
When he came, it was sudden– thick pulses flooding your throat, hot and salty, drowning you. He held your face there, cock buried, watching your throat bulge as you swallowed every drop.
But you didn’t let go.
You shot your hand through and trapped him, pulling his hips closer, tongue lapping greedily at his tip as if to clean it. His eyes widened, a rumble tearing from his chest.
“Enough,” he barked, trying to pull back.
You gasped, spit dripping from your chin, eyes glazed. “Not enough,” you moaned. You stood and drove your fist into the fragile wood, splinters biting your knuckles as you tore a hole wider. You caught his wrist, and yanked him closer, so he hung heavy past the broken partition, and you started rubbing your soaked cunt back against his cockhead.
“Mmm…Fuck me, Father. Make me your good girl.”
Xavier cursed, low and furious, but the sound broke into a groan as his cock slipped into your dripping pussy. You cried out, clawing the booth as he buried himself fully in one push.
The wooden screen shattered as he punched through what remained, hand gripping your hip with bruising force. “Ungrateful little slut,” he snarled, slamming into you roughly enough to rattle the wood of the confessional. “You think this makes you good? You think this is obedience?”
You cried out, bouncing back on him with every thrust, slick making it easy for him to drive in further. “Yes,” you sobbed, shameless. “Yes– fuck me harder– please, I've been so bad.”
The booth shook, wood splintering under the force of his hips as he pounded you raw. His breath was ragged in your ear, his composure long gone, your body used like an offering until the whole church might collapse around you.
Xavier’s cock split you all the way to the base with every thrust, his hands gripping your hips, dragging you back onto him until your ass smacked back in time with his rhythm. You were sobbing and grinning all at once, your cunt clenching wet and tight, gush after gush dripping down your thighs onto the booth floor.
“You’re mine,” he snarled, teeth bared, his voice unholy. “My good girl. My filthy, ruined– ” He broke off with a guttural curse as your pussy milked him.
The confessional cracked with every thrust, hinges whining, wood splitting beneath the force of him. One last slam and the booth gave way– splintering apart as your orgasm hit, the sound of cracking wood swallowed by your cry. Your body convulsed around him, cunt spasming so tight he cursed, hips stuttering as he drove deeper, grinding his cockhead against your cervix like he meant to fuck straight through the wreckage.
“Good girl,” Xavier rasped into your ear, broken and reverent now. “Take it– take it all– ”
His cock pulsed, hot spend flooding you. You whimpered, slick and cum rivuleting down your thighs, grinding back on him desperately, chasing more even as his cock twitched and emptied inside you.
The heavy wooden door to the sacristy creaked.
“Father Xavier?” A woman’s voice, tentative. The swish of fabric. “Are you– ”
You both froze, locked together, bodies slick with sweat and sin. The nun stepped into the chapel, a cardinal just behind her. The air snapped taut.
Xavier’s cock was still buried in you, his grip iron on your hips, chest pressed against your back. Your pussy flexed involuntarily around him, and his breath hitched hot against your neck. The confessional booth in ruin framed you both like an altar of filth.
The nun gasped, hand flying to her mouth. The cardinal’s sharp intake of breath echoed off the stone.
Xavier didn’t pull out. Couldn’t. Instead, his fingers dug deeper into your flesh, his cock twitching inside your still-quivering cunt. His voice was hoarse, defiant.
“She’s– confessing,” he ground out, hips jerking once more despite himself.
You moaned, shameless, pulsing around him on purpose, arching against him. More cum leaked down your thighs, dripping audibly to the chapel floor. The cardinal hissed a prayer under his breath, the nun whispering nonsense in horror.
But Xavier didn’t stop. His hips rammed into you again, and again, skin slapping, echoing in the holy air.
You sobbed out loud, the sound filthy, triumphant. “Your good girl,” you cried, your orgasm crashing over you again right as his cock spilled another hot pulse inside you.
The nun turned away, the cardinal crossed himself, but neither could move away. And Father Xavier kept his cock buried inside you, utterly spent, a low, broken sound tearing from him, as he sagged against you panting. Unrepentant.
Frills don’t soften the way he fucks.
You weren’t even trying to sneak up the stairs– the music from Caleb’s room was loud enough that he wouldn’t have noticed if you stomped. But you still tiptoed, attempting to scare him. When you pushed the door open, the sight that greeted you stopped you dead.
Caleb. Six-foot-hunk-of-something, broad shoulders, thick thighs– stuffed into a frilly black-and-white maid outfit. Lace garter digging into muscle, a skirt flouncing mid-thigh. He froze, wide-eyed, halfway through adjusting the little headband in his hair.
“Uh,” he said eloquently, ears going crimson. “This– uh– it’s for a thing. With the boys. Like…a group costume, don’t make it weird.”
You leaned against the doorframe, biting back a grin. “Group costume, huh?” You let your eyes roam slowly, deliberately, pacing around him like a shark scenting blood. His face burned brighter with every step.
“You– uh– don’t look weirded out?” he tried, scratching the back of his neck.
“I kind of like it.”
His head snapped toward you. “Yeah?” The eagerness in his voice betrayed him before he tried to recover, coughing and tugging at the skirt like he wasn’t glowing. “I mean. Yeah. Cool. Whatever.”
You stopped in front of him, close enough that he shifted on his feet. Your hand dragged down his chest, over the frilly apron, landing on the hard bulge under lace. “Cute,” you murmured, giving him a slow squeeze.
Caleb inhaled sharply, head dropping, breath hot. “Shit.”
You pushed him back onto the bed, skirt riding up as he fell onto the pillows. He looked ridiculous– ridiculous and gorgeous, flushed in satin and lace, thighs spread.
“Oof, even got the panties on too?” You murmured, caressing his straining length through the black lace.
Caleb whimpered, muffling it with his palm, ears peaking red.
You hummed in approval and straddled his lap, tugging his cock free from the panties. Thick, heavy, flushed dark, it twitched in your hand as you stroked.
“Baby,” he whined, trying to play it off but unable to stop his hips from jerking.
You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb dragging lazy circles over the slick head. His hips twitched, but you kept the rhythm torturously steady, savoring every broken sound he made.
“Look at you,” you murmured through your own lust. “All dressed up, dripping for me.” You twisted your wrist, dragging your fist down his shaft and back up, smearing the wet across his flushed skin. His breath hitched audibly, thighs clenching as he tried not to buck.
“Please…” he whined, voice cracking. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, as if he didn’t know where to put them. He keened softly when your thumb circled his slit, cock twitching in your palm.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered, leaning close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “You want it, but you’re holding back. Let me feel how bad you need it.”
He whimpered your name, low and broken, head tipping back, a guttural sound catching in his throat. “I can’t– please, I can’t–” His words dissolved into another moan when you squeezed, slow and deliberate, your praise a soft knife. “So big in my hand,” you murmured. “You’re leaking like you’re ready to lose it. Show me. Show me what you’ve been hiding.”
His thighs trembled violently now, cock jerking with every stroke, precome running down your knuckles. When you tightened your grip and gave three quick pumps, his whole body bucked helplessly, a choked, shameful cry breaking out of him.
He came with a shuddering moan, hot spurts striping your hand, the skirt, the apron. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, lips parted around soft little gasps as he tried to catch his breath, still trembling from the wreckage of it.
You leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered against his ear: “Good girl.”
His whole body jolted. The soft, embarrassed Caleb vanished. In his place: a growl, his hands gripping your hips hard as he flipped you on your back under him. “Say that again,” he rasped, cock still hard and messy against your thigh.
You smirked. “Good girl.”
He snapped.
Yanking your clothes aside, he fumbled with just enough force to bare you for him. Then he drove in, no hesitation, stretching you in a single harsh thrust, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Caleb was huge, big enough that you never got used to it. Still hard even after spilling in your hand, his cock split you open in one long, messy push. Lace scratched your thighs as he bottomed out, his sounds turned rough, almost feral.
You gasped, clinging to his forearms as he grinded into that thrust before sliding out a bit.
“You think I’m your good girl?” he growled, before his hips slammed into yours, cock stretching you wide again. “Fuckin’ take it, then. Take it all.”
“Ah– fuck– Caleb–”
Caleb’s groans turned guttural, his hips driving into you with relentless force.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he rasped. “So wet for me– fuck.”
You grasped at him, the ridiculous frills of his outfit turning into anchors as he pounded into you. Each thick drag of his cock made you gasp, then faster, sharper, until the bed squeaked and the little headband slipped off his hair and on your chest.
“Good girl,” you taunted, voice breaking, flicking the discarded piece to the floor. “My pretty maid– ”
Caleb’s breath tore out rough, hips snapping forward, fucking you harder, sweat dripping down his temples. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him as he pounded you.
“You think a good girl could fuck you like this?” he growled, voice low and rough. Another thrust, burying deeper, your cunt clenching tight around him. “Huh? You think a good girl would ruin you like this?”
You sobbed, nails digging into his back with every snap of his hips. He shoved your thighs wider, cock hitting even deeper, his words ragged against your mouth.
“Say it,” Caleb demanded, grinding in until you could feel him everywhere. “Say who’s being the good girl now.”
Both of you a filthy mess as he fucked you through the question, every thrust daring you to answer, every moan swallowed by the golden-retriever-turned-maid pounding you raw.
Caleb’s thrusts grew more savage, more consuming, until the frame of the bed creaked. Then with a growl, he pulled out, grabbed your waist, and flipped you onto your hands and knees as if you were a rag doll.
“Stay there,” he rasped, voice breaking. His hand tangled in your hair, urging your head back until your eyes locked on the mirror across the room. The sight made your stomach drop– your own flushed face, mouth open, tears shining at the corners of your eyes; Caleb behind you in that ridiculous, ruined maid outfit, cock slick and heavy, dragging through your folds.
“Fuuuck,” He growled low, half a moan breaking through, eyes dark in the reflection. “What a sight.”
Then he slammed back inside, the girth of him punching a cry from your throat. He didn’t ease in this time– he was too far gone, pounding into you with relentless force, the outfit clinging and wrinkled as his cock drove you forward against the mattress.
Your cheek pressed into the pillows, but Caleb yanked your hair again, forcing your gaze up to the mirror, every brutal snap of his hips reflected back at you. His cock glistened with slick and cum, disappearing into you again and again, your body shaking, thighs trembling as he fucked you open.
“Do you see it,” he grunted, rutting deep. “Do you see how well you take me. Fuck– what a good girl you are for me.”
The reflection was obscene: you drooling, eyes glazed, body jolting with every thrust; Caleb wrecked in lace, chest heaving, muscles straining as he pounded you like he wanted to break the bed.
His snarls echoed in your ear, his pace frenzied now, every thrust slamming his cock so deep your vision blurred. You clenched around him, sobbing, and he bent low, voice rough and reverent all at once.
“Fuck– my perfect girl. Look at you. Look at what I do to you.”
Caleb’s grip in your hair tightened, pulling a gasp from your throat as he drove into you again and again, the mirror catching every frantic snap of his hips.
Your body clenched hard around him, shaking, the rhythm of his cock pushing you past reason. He moaned raggedly in your ear, watching your face in the reflection. “That’s it… fuck, that’s it… you feel so good for me.”
The sound of him was desperate: heavy panting, curses spilling without restraint. His cock pulsed inside you, thick veins dragging along your walls until your vision blurred.
“God, look at you,” Caleb whispered hoarsely, the words tumbling out broken and reverent. “My pretty girl… my good girl… taking all of me.”
Your body tightened, everything coiling at once, every drag of his cock stoking the fire until it burst. The orgasm tore through you, blinding, your thighs clamping, your cunt fluttering so hard around him that it stole your breath. You choked on a sob as the pleasure refused to stop, refusing to let you come down.
Caleb groaned like he’d been gutted, hips faltering at the vice of your cunt. His cock twitched inside you, then he thrust again, desperate, sloppy, his breath breaking against your ear. “Fuck– baby– keep squeezing me– God, you’re perfect.”
He pressed deep, grinding, as if he could bury himself in your very bones. His release broke in hot pulses, thick spurts spilling into you, heat flooding your core. The mirror reflected it all: your tear-stained face slack with ecstasy, hair tangled in his fist, and Caleb wrecked in lace, chest heaving, cock jerking as he filled you to the brim.
His rhythm slowed only after he’d spilled everything he had, his hips rocking shallowly to keep it in, unwilling to let go. White leaked around the base of his cock as he moaned low, almost reverent.
“Look at us,” he managed, wrecked and awed. “Look what you do to me.” He kissed your shoulder, your neck, everywhere he could reach, still pulsing weakly inside you.
His forehead rested against your temple, breath hot, words soft and ruined:
“Still think I’m your good girl?”
You smiled faintly at the reflection, still twitching around him in aftershocks. “My best one.”
He can't dominate the world but he can dominate your body.
The lair was dark glass and cold steel, the city skyline spread beneath the windows like prey. Rafayel lounged in his chair at the head of the table, a monarch of ruin, voice velvet-lined cruelty as his henchmen slunk away to obey their orders. World domination didn’t pause for anything– except when he crooked a finger at you.
You, his loyal sidekick. His sharp little shadow. Always mouthing off, always rolling your eyes at his speeches. He let you play at defiance because it amused him– and because he knew how quickly he could snap you down.
He’d even dressed you for the part: a costume closer to an insult than an outfit. A strip of leather masquerading as a skirt, thigh-high boots laced so tight they bit into your thighs, and a corset that forced your tits up like an offering. Pearls strung across your chest in delicate chains– around your throat like a collar, looped between your breasts, threaded down to your navel. Pretty, fragile, slutty. Leaving you exposed by his design, a body meant for display and use.
You hated him. You loved him. Both truths sat like glass in your chest, cutting every time he looked at you with those sharp, amused eyes. You were nothing more than a weapon to him, a pretty blade dressed in pearls and leather. You wanted him, wanted him in ways that had nothing to do with orders or obedience– but Rafayel’s hunger was too big, too endless. His eyes weren’t on you. They were always on the city sprawling beneath his tower, on rules yet to bend, on power too vast to share.
And still, when his attention turned your way, you burned for it.
You had spat some barb about his “evil empire,” and before the words finished echoing, you were bent over the conference table, cheek pressed into polished steel.
“Bitchy little thing,” Rafayel purred, his breath hot against your ear. His gloved hand gripped the back of your neck as his other slid down, between your thighs, forcing them apart. “You know I could throw you off this tower and no one would miss you.” His fingers brushed your bare heat, finding it wet already. He chuckled darkly. “But you’d rather I fuck you first, wouldn’t you?”
You squirmed, muttering some half-hearted insult, but he only laughed.
Rafayel tugged at his belt with a sneer. “You think you’re so clever?”
“On your knees,” he ordered, and before you could quip back, his hand was in your hair, pulling you down.
His cock pressed against your lips, thick, flushed, heavy. He fisted your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was bared. “Open. Let me see how sharp that tongue really is.”
You didn’t get a choice. He pushed past your teeth, groaning as the first stretch of your throat sealed around him. You gagged, tears springing instantly, and he laughed low, cruel. His hips rolled, then snapped, cock sawing in and out of your throat until spit streamed down your chin.
“Mm, such a better use for this mouth,” Rafayel rasped, tilting your face toward the glass so you could see yourself choking on him. “Taking all of me.”
You moaned at the scrap of praise he gave you, the sound swallowed down his length.
His pace shifted, no longer just brutal but savoring, grinding deep enough to make you gag, then easing back just to smear spit across your lips before ramming in again. Every time your throat seized around him, his groan sharpened, like he was charging power from your ruin. He tilted your face toward the glass, thumb pressing into your cheek so the camera of your reflection showed every bulge and stretch. “Filthy little toy,” he hissed, rutting harder. “Made to choke on me.”
When he pulled you up, your jaw ached, spit slicking your neck. He bent you over the table, fingers prying at your ass, smearing slick from your dripping cunt across the tight ring. You flinched as his thumb pressed, but he only chuckled, leaning over you, breath hot at your ear.
“Relax. I'm being nice by even prepping you.” He spat, wetting his cock, then rubbed the thick head against your ass, smearing spit and your own slick until it glistened. His other hand pressed into your lower back, holding you down. Slowly, inexorably, he pushed inside.
Your hole resisted, tight and clamped, but Rafayel was relentless. He ground his hips forward an inch, then held there, forcing you to breathe around the burn. When your body tried to push him out, he only chuckled and shoved deeper, savoring the way your thighs shook. He spat again on your hole, slicking his cock with a slide, and dragged it back just enough to slam forward another inch. “You’ll take it,” he growled, hips grinding. “Every fucking part of you is mine.”
The stretch burned, and you clawed at the steel, gasping. He shushed mockingly, groaning as your ass clenched around him. “Tight little thing. You’re mine everywhere, you understand? Every hole.”
He fucked you there until you whined, until sweat dripped from your temples and the table screeched against the floor. His thrusts were deliberate, savoring the way your body trembled, making you feel every inch. He lingered there until your muscles fluttered helplessly around him, until the stretch was all you could feel.
Only then did he ease back, cock dragging free in a slick mess, and shove your thighs wide.
“Now the pretty part,” he said, lining up with your cunt and plunging deep in one smooth stroke. You sobbed, your body seizing around him, so full you could hardly breathe.
Every thrust sounded obscene, wet and punishing, your body jolting forward across the steel with each snap of his hips. The table legs screeched against the floor, your tits mashed flat, your cries muffled against cold glass. He bent close, voice curling hot at your ear. “You’re squeezing me like this was a reward.” His hand slid up your spine, pressing you down harder, cock driving in deeper. “I’m not giving you anything. I’m taking.”
Your orgasm tore through you despite his words, shameful and hot, slick gushing down your thighs. You spasmed, gasping, but Rafayel didn’t let you breathe. He dragged your hips back, cock rutting in sharp cruel strokes that wrung the climax out of you until it hurt. Tears streaked your face, slick streaming down your thighs, and he groaned low, savage. “Pathetic slut,” he rasped, watching your cunt gush for him. “You’d come on my fist, my boot – anything I gave you, wouldn't you–" His hips slammed harder, making the words shake against your ear.
His hands clamped on your hips, dragging you back onto his cock even as your body shuddered and clamped down too tightly. “Again,” he ordered, thrusting so deeply that your vision blurred. “You’ll break on my cock until I’m finished.”
The table squealed against the floor as he fucked you harder, every snap of his hips punishing. You sobbed, nails scraping uselessly at the steel as his cock drove into your sore, overslick pussy. The wet slap of it echoed, obscene, your thighs trembling, juices streaking down your legs in waves.
“Cry for me,” he taunted, yanking your hair so you had to see yourself in the glass wall, mascara running, lips open on a silent scream. “That’s the face of someone who knows her place.”
Your cunt betrayed you, fluttering around him, another orgasm surging before the last one had ebbed. Your cry cracked, body convulsing, slick flooding over his cock as he groaned in triumph. He never slowed, never let you down, each thrust dragging you through overstimulation into ragged, keening sobs.
Your legs buckled, cheek hitting the table again, wrecked and quivering. He pulled out with a lewd squelch making cum drip from your cunt down your thighs. He slapped the wet length against your ass once, twice, groaning at the mess he’d made. Then he dragged your limp body upright by the hair, forcing your back arched, your lips parted and trembling. “Still got more holes for me,” he muttered darkly, grinding the slick head against your spit-smeared mouth.
“Open again.”
You whimpered, but he forced you down, rutting into your mouth until your throat spasmed around him. His groan was guttural, head tipping back as he yanked you closer, cock shoved deeper down your throat. The pearls at your neck snapped under his fist, strings breaking as he spilled– hot and bitter down your tongue– beads scattering across the steel in the same instant his cum flooded your mouth.
He held you there until he was finished.
Pearls lay broken across the steel, his cum still hot in your mouth. You swallowed for him anyway, though his eyes were already on the city, glittering with promise he’d never share.
His voice was calm again, cold, as he tucked himself back in.
“Not a good girl,” he said simply, fastening his belt. “Not yet. But keep trying.”
All in the name of science...right?
The valley was silent, thick with mist that clung low over the moss. Zayne’s boots sank with each step, damp and springy, leaving faint glowing footprints where spores reacted to his weight. He swept his lamp across the field and froze.
At the center of the clearing loomed a bloom unlike anything in his records. Its size was absurd– easily large enough to swallow him whole. The lips of the structure were sealed shut, ridged like muscle, the surface glistening under his light. Clear liquid seeped from the seam, sliding down in heavy ropes to pool on the moss.
Zayne crouched, datapad balanced in one hand, the other tugging a vial from his belt. He dipped it into the fluid and watched it stretch, clinging in strings between glass and ground. His glove glistened when he smeared a drop across the pad of his thumb.
“Viscosity’s higher than mucilage,” he muttered for the recorder. “Composition unknown. Possible digestive fluid.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, brows furrowed at the sticky sheen. “Sweet odor. Volatile compounds?” He leaned in closer, breathing deep.
His pulse thundered in his throat. The smell wasn’t just sweet– it was alive, curling down his lungs, blooming in his chest like a fever. His tongue tingled, a phantom taste chasing the air. For a scientist, curiosity had always been his sin; now it felt like temptation itself.
He braced to collect another sample. The bloom shivered. You shivered.
You felt him before he ever touched you– the heat of his pulse against your flesh, the reverence in the way his light traced your lips. You tried to stifle your growing want, but it was a hungry thing.
Zayne blinked, straightening. The petals had not opened, but something in the moss shifted beneath him. A rustle. The faintest movement against his boot. He turned, lamp cutting through the mist– nothing.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. “Likely reactive root system,” he told himself. He bent again, datapad raised to sketch the seam of the flower.
The ground flexed over your roots, and you reached for him. Tendrils unfurled, tasting the air, tasting him. His fear hit you first– sharp and electric. Delicious.
Zayne froze, breath caught, then snarled, jerking back. Another slid up his calf, cool and strong. The datapad slipped from his grasp, tumbling into the moss as the first pull dragged him off balance.
“The fuck– ?” he hissed, twisting to break free. The tendril tightens, and you lift him a foot off the ground. A second, thicker coil wound his thigh, squeezing, dragging him higher.
Panic kicked in, raw and instinctive. He grabbed for the nearest root, nails raking moss, but the ground slicked under his fingers. Every tendril that found him seemed to learn him– mapping muscle, following the path of resistance. When one coiled higher, brushing his hip, he realized the thing wasn’t hunting to feed. It was testing.
By the time the third snaked up his waist, it was too late.
Zayne cursed, twisting against your grip, but your strength was unyielding. His datapad fell uselessly to the moss as more of your tendrils slithered from the flower’s core, winding around his arms, prying at the seals of his suit.
“Shit, shit– no signal,” he snarled, slamming at his wrist console. The static hum swallowed his voice. The air buzzed, pheromonal, the spores flaring in rhythm with his heartbeat. The world felt like it was breathing with him– and waiting for him to give in.
“Let– me– ” His voice broke when his chestplate hissed and slipped free, then his undersuit.
You peeled him open like a fruit, layer by layer, savoring the hiss of his breath as the air kissed what you’d uncovered. Your slick coated him in long, glowing strands, draping his chest, his thighs, shining across the rigid lines of his stomach.
Your bioluminescence crawled over his skin like worship, tracing veins, lighting each breath he took. It was obscene, how beautiful it was– how his body lit up like a constellation in the dark. When the first drop of your slick slid down the curve of his cock, he groaned, a sound too low to be all resistance.
“Fuck– stop,” he growled, straining against the bonds. You only stroked him harder, sliding over his nipples, circling the flushed head of his cock, smearing fluid down the length until he was dripping. His body betrayed him, cock twitching under your attention.
He told himself it was reflex. Nerve stimulation. A trick of adrenaline. But when your tendril slid higher, teasing the edge of his slit, his hips lifted to meet it. “Not– fuck– not that,” he gasped, but the plea sounded like need.
You coiled his shaft, pumping slow, deliberate. Another part of you cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing until his breath hitched. He bucked against your hold and a third tendril slapped slickly across his slit, smearing pre-cum into glowing strings.
Zayne’s head fell back. A ragged sound tore from his throat as you opened wide, petals glistening, and drew him in. He hit your tongue like lightning– salt, sweat, growing submission.
Heat wrapped him, your wet tongues lapping the head of his cock, curling, stroking, sucking with greedy insistence. Suction pulled at him from all sides, a dozen slick textures dragging over every vein, every ridge, until his hips jolted helplessly. He choked on a moan, eyes wide, muscles quivering as the tendrils forced him to hold still while your mouths worked him over.
“Ah– no– ” His protest collapsed into a gasp as you sucked him harder, milking the thick first spurt from him. He spilled in hot pulses, swallowed instantly by your tongues, licked clean before the next came. You didn’t stop, didn’t slow– just kept sucking, lapping, dragging more out of him until his cock was raw and his moans broke into whimpers.
You moaned through him, every sound he made feeding back into you until neither of you could tell where one ended and the other began. His hands twitched uselessly, the strength gone from them, replaced by something that trembled with surrender.
Your tendrils lifted his legs higher, folding him back. His ass brushed the slick lip of another of your openings, heat pressing in. He thrashed once– then groaned when you pushed a tendril inside, hot and thick, fucking him in rhythm with the suction around his cock. His thighs trembled, pinned to his chest, every thrust forcing a cry from him as he was used from both ends.
Fluid streamed down his body, soaking the moss beneath. His belly slick, his chest smeared, his cock swelling and twitching even as he spilled again and again, milked until his eyes rolled. His hands were forced into your other slits, fingers swallowed and sucked until his knuckles disappeared, each of your cavities pulling hungrily. You shoved past his lips. He groaned and let your thick tendril in, sucking desperately as it pulsed slick down his throat.
The man who had barked commands into a recorder an hour ago was gone. In his place was something pliant, glazed, hips jerking uselessly while you wrung him dry. He didn’t fight anymore. He couldn’t. He was nothing but soft sounds and leaking cock, body open wherever you wanted him.
That was when you split wider, grinding down harder, your walls rippling as you rode him deep. His scream cracked as another orgasm was dragged out, cum swallowed greedily, his body shaking. He was egg-soft now, pliant, trembling, but not resisting.
The glow pulsed in time with his heartbeat, as though your body had synced with his. Every exhale fogged the inside of your slick walls, every inhale dragged in the scent of sugar and decay. He should’ve been horrified. Instead, his lashes fluttered and his hips rolled weakly, chasing your warmth.
When the first orb pressed into him, he sobbed. Thick, heavy, stretching him as it slid past his cock from your slick depths. His belly swelled under the weight, glowing slick smeared across it as you pushed another in, and another. His eyes fluttered, tears streaking down his temples, lips parted around the tendril fucking his throat.
You stroked his hair, your hum resonant and satisfied, as you patted the bulge in his belly.
“Good girl.”
Zayne’s wrecked eyes widened, confusion flickering through the haze. “I’m not– ” His protest broke into a moan as another egg slipped inside.
You shushed him, smiling against the glow in his skin, coaxing the egg in place. “Yes,” you whispered, curling around him like worship. “My good girl.”
When the mist closed again, you left your first believer, a man claimed by something older than science, glowing where your touch had enlightened him.
Pornhub's favorite cock breaks in a new toy.
The lights burned hot, the cameras humming. The set looked like a bedroom but smelled like powder and sweat, and you sat on the edge of the bed with your pulse rabbiting in your throat.
Sylus stepped into frame like he owned it, precum catching the light, cock already heavy and half-hard. He didn’t ask if you were ready; he just tipped your chin up with two fingers, smirking like he’d seen this a thousand times before.
“First-timer,” he murmured, low enough the mics barely caught it. “Relax. Just follow my lead. I’ll make you look like a natural.”
The director’s voice snapped: “Action.”
Sylus guided your head down, cock brushing your lips. “Open up, princess,” he said for the camera, voice drawled, practiced. You obeyed, mouth wrapping around him, and the crew’s murmurs went quiet as your throat worked to take him deeper.
He gripped the back of your head, pace steady, hips rolling with just enough force to make your eyes water. “That’s it. Breathe through your nose. Smile for the lens.” Professional lines, the kind meant for footage. His expectant gaze locking on you made you eager to please him.
You moaned, taking him in deeper, drool sliding down your chin, and he groaned low in his chest. “Fuck, you take me better than most of the vets. Damn.”
When you gagged on him, he angled your face toward the camera. “That’s it. Open wide for the lens. Show them how good you suck my cock.”
Then, low, where only you could hear: “Fuck, baby, that throat was made for me. I'll be back for it, I promise.”
His cock slipped from your lips with a lewd drag, spit and precum stringing between you. He tapped it against your swollen mouth once, twice, smirking at the mess on your chin. “Look at you. First day and you’re already a pro.” He thumbed over your bottom lip, then shoved his slick fingers into your mouth, groaning as you sucked them down. “Yeah… that’s the hunger I like. Let’s show them what else you can do.”
He pulled you up, spun you onto the mattress, and pushed your thighs wide. The cameras crowded close, catching the way his cock dragged through your folds, smearing you open. “Angle up,” he told the cameraman absently, but his eyes never left yours. “Yeah. Let ‘em see how wet she is already.”
The first thrust drove a cry from your throat, your back arching. He should’ve slowed, but he didn’t– his rhythm was steady, relentless, nothing staged about the way he rutted into you.
“Keep your face up for the camera,” he grunted, hand wrapping around your throat to tilt you toward the lens. “Yeah, that’s the shot. Perfect, baby.” His words were still for show, but his eyes had gone sharp, narrowed on your shaking body like this wasn’t about the shoot anymore.
He didn’t rush the rhythm– he stretched it out, hips dragging slowly to grind every inch against you before snapping forward again. The cameraman muttered a curse under his breath at how obscene the wet slap sounded through the boom. Sylus leaned down, biting at your jaw, whispering hot against your skin: “Not acting anymore, baby. You feel too fucking good.” His thrusts grew faster, rougher, until sweat dripped from his temples and your moans filled the room.
His thrusts built until your nails clawed at the sheets, each snap of his hips punching sound out of you. He slowed suddenly, grinding deep, his cock thick and pulsing inside you, making sure the cameraman caught your trembling thighs. He pulled back, not all the way, just enough to let you feel the drag, the ache, before slamming forward again. Your body jolted with the impact, and he laughed quietly, eyes dark on yours. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let's see what else you can do, hmm?”
He pulled out, flipped you, propping you onto your knees, and shoved your face down into the mattress, your ass arched for the camera. He spread you open with both hands, dragging his cock back through your slick folds before slamming back inside. The cameraman crouched low for the close-up, the wet squelch of every stroke caught by the boom.
“Fuck, look at that,” Sylus growled, hips pounding into you.
His big hands spread your ass for the close-up, he rasped for the cameraman: “Get in tight– you see that? She’s dripping for me.”
He yanked your hair back, forcing you to arch until the camera caught your face twisted with tears and pleasure.
His lips brushed your hairline, whispering, “You’re clenching like you need it deeper. Don’t hide from me. I know you love this cock.”
He kept you pinned there until your legs shook from holding yourself up, every thrust shoving you further into the mattress. “Stay right there for me,” he told the cameraman, prying your wider with one hand as his cock pistoned into you. The lens zoomed in on your cunt sucking him back in every time he pulled out. Sylus bent close, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping: “You’re practically milking me. Can’t get enough, can you?” You sobbed a broken ‘no’ against the sheets.
He didn’t let up, your cheek pressed flat to the mattress, drool wetting the fabric. “Fuckin– too good,” he rasped, hammering in faster, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the set. Your pussy gushed around him, slick dripping down your thighs. Only when your body sagged from the strain did he ease back, palm sliding down your spine as he kissed the back of your shoulder. “Keep me in, pretty girl, don’t lose me.”
Then he rolled you onto your side, hooked your leg over his hip, and drove back in at a deeper angle. “Hold that,” he told the cameraman. His hand turned your face towards him, his gaze glued to you, watching every flutter of your lashes as his cock bottomed out. His teeth grazed your jaw, and his voice dropped, urgent: “Forget the cameras, baby– I’m the only one fucking you like this.”
You whimpered, thighs clenching, and he groaned and kissed you hard, swallowing the sound.
He stayed in that angle for long minutes, grinding deep, hitting a spot that made your thighs tremble uncontrollably. His cock dragged slowly, then hammered in hard, alternating until you were gasping and shaking under him. “Eyes on me,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “Stay with me, baby, I’m not letting up.” You clutched at his shoulders, every muscle straining, and he growled when you clenched around him again. The director shifted in his chair, voice rough:
“Alright– let’s cut for a reset. Take five– ”
“No,” Sylus shot back, not looking away from you. His hips never stopped moving, driving his cock deeper, harder, as though daring anyone to intervene. “No need, right baby?”
He nuzzled your throat, breath breaking against your skin: “Don’t make me stop. I can’t stop. Tell me you don’t want a break either.”
Your body seized around him, the answer ripped from your throat in a broken moan. The cameraman swore under his breath, lens still rolling. Sylus smirked, kissed your jaw, and fucked you harder. “See? She’s not going anywhere. Such a trooper, let's see what else she's got.”
He pulled out suddenly and rolled onto his back. “Climb on,” he ordered. You rose slowly, his hand steadying, and straddled him. Thighs shaking, you sank onto his cock as the lights caught every inch of stretch. Sylus grinned, both hands gripping your hips tight. “Ride me. Show them what a natural you are.”
The cameras caught everything– the way your tits bounced with each rise and fall, the way your cunt clung slick and hungry to his cock. Sylus let you move for a moment before he took control again, thrusting up hard, making you sob and fold forward onto his chest.
“Fuck,” he groaned, slapping your ass, driving you down on him. “Good girl, taking it all. Bounce on it. Show them you’re mine.”
He supported you back upright, letting you ride until your thighs burned, every bounce squelching loud enough for the whole crew to hear. His hands left your hips to roam your tits, squeezing, thumbing your nipples, groaning when your cunt tightened around him. “Fuck, that’s it. Keep going, baby,” he whispered, too low for the mics. When your body gave out, slumping back against his chest, he kissed your temple. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He whirled you down into the mattress, never slipping free, shifting you fluidly into the next position.
He folded you in half, ankles pressed by your ears in a brutal pile-driver angle. The cameraman gasped as Sylus pounded into you from above, sweat dripping down his temples, muscles straining as your body shook beneath him.
His voice ragged in your ear: “That’s it, baby. Come for me, right here in front of everyone.”
You cried out, tears streaking, the sound caught raw in the mics.
Your orgasm hit hard, slick gushing on his cock, thighs trembling uncontrollably. Sylus groaned, fucking you through it.
The room was silent except for the sound of rythmic squelching and your cries echoing off the studio walls.
His hand brushed your hair, soothing as he stayed buried in you for a long, obscene moment, his hips grinding slow circles that had your belly quivering. His cock slid out with a slick drag, your cunt fluttering around the loss. He smeared himself against your folds one last time, groaning at the mess dripping from you, before yanking you up by the throat. “Not done yet,” he growled, guiding your face down to his cock, wet and glistening. “Open that mouth. Let me finish where we started.”
He shoved it back into your mouth, holding your head steady as he fucked your throat with the same relentless rhythm, your eyes watering, drool streaming down your chin.
“Open wide for the camera,” he growled, cock twitching. “Let them see what a perfect little slut looks like.”
His hips jerked, and then he came– thick, hot ropes spilling down your tongue, across your lips, dripping messily over your chin. The cameraman zoomed in on the strings of cum shining down your throat. Sylus leaned back, chest heaving, and smirked down at you, thumb wiping the mess across your cheek like war paint.
The director broke the silence first, voice hoarse. “Fuck… okay. That’s a wrap. Christ, even I’m hard just watching that.”
Sylus ignored him. He brushed your hair off your damp face, tilting your chin up with two fingers until you met his gaze. His cock was still wet against your skin, your lips swollen, spit and cum smeared across your mouth like paint. He smirked, but his eyes burned serious now, locked only on you.
“Star material,” he murmured, just for you, thumb pressing into your cheek possessively. “But don’t forget who made you shine.”
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