Faeophobia: Spring Break Ch. 05

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There was no other option; Clayton strode out, wearing a sequined red bikini, to save the Bar, to save this business. The music began it's pulse-pounding throb, as the jiggling sex-pot grasped the greased pole......

**********

She was truly a contender; the combination of luck, discipline, and grit had payed off. Violet practically jiggled with enthusiasm as the cooled her heels backstage while replacing the tortured ruin of her bikini top. When the fertility magic claimed you, the amateurs fell all to pieces. But not her! She had suceeded! She had not done a stage dive into the seats to rape the male audience! The drills and exercises over the past year had been just enough; when her rational mind had been utterly subsumed by the primal breeding instinct, her subconscious mind had remained firm! She remained on the stage with not a drop of sperm on her!

Yet from the groans, and the way the men in the front rows had clutched their crotches, she suspected that there had been quite a bit of sperm, confined to the insides of underwear. Despite the reactions she'd grown accustomed to over the years, despite the gawking and staring at the twin mountains of Violet's double-KK cup udders, she still couldn't help but be flattered when men came in their pants because of her.

But even better was her chance to turn a failure into a success! There had been no way to stop her milk production; the fecundity of her magical figure had turned her into a fountainhead of female productivity, as with most bosom builders. During her dance routine, she had already passed the point of no return, where her body could no longer contain the rich ambrosia boiling inside her teats. Soon into the routine, as the magic of breeding, lust, and fertility burned through her veins, she was unable, (even had she wanted to) of shriking down her bazookas into a size that would have allowed walking. There was too much milk, too much lactation. Her body demanded release! Her body demanded sex! At that past moment, on stage, near the end of the dance, the magic seized her, and Violet existed for no purpose than to accept semen, release her nourishing milk, and grow gravid with young. She had narrowly evaded the crushing urge to offer herself to the audience, but she couldn't help but replay in her mind the moment....

"I'm your Venus, I'm your Fire, at your Desire...."

So ended her soundtrack, and so ended her restraint. Breasts had been enlarged by the bosom magic past the size of any fruit, jiggling and throbbing on through baseball, football, even basketball size, larger then her normal size of a collegiate backpack. Her sensitive, milk-ripened boobs soon began to surpass even that of beanbag chairs. And while it was relatively easy for most Contenders to reach this size, it was not easy to maintain this size and not tackle any man in sight with nymphomanical frenzy. Yet Violet had done one better; she'd gotten larger yet, near the size of twin weatherballons, as the reinforced denim weave of her bikini began to shred. While a professional could often reach this size as well, it was not easy to maintain such splendour for even a moment without setting off to track down and rape anyone with a cock at the fastest speed her preposterous dimensions would allow.

It was as if Nature itself had delivered her an ultimatum; with so much magic, so much breeding potential surging through her, it was as if Mother Nature had sternly instructed her: "YOU WILL NOT GROW MAMMARIES THAT LARGE WITHOUT POSTURING YOURSELF TO A MALE TO BE IMPREGNATED!" it was a stern, unspoken edict that each Contender had to find the strength to deny. But it was almost agonizing to resist this mandate. The seething lust within her drenched pussy became almost painful at this point, unless a penis was swiftly forthcoming. That elf, a blue-haired beauty before Violet, had not been able to resist. Nature's command could not be denied, and she was not the only Bosom Builder to eschew her own performance, leap from the stage naked to bare her female charms to any and all penises able to muster up an erection. It was still amazing to the tall, atheltic human that she'd maintained any shred of control at all. Was it just her, or where there fewer Bouncers around? No matter.

At the last moment, at the final beat, right at the very second her song ended, came the release. There was no avoiding it; no suppressing it. And typically a Contender would lose points for drenching the audience with sprays of hot breastmilk spewing from her hardened nipples. It was an understandable reaction; but ideally, a modern women of preposterous endowments must be able to excuse herself from polite company before 'letting-down'. And gang-bangs, whether the woman started them or not were a strict no-no. Yes, Violet should have lost points- except that her eruption occurred at that precise, final moment. The end of her soundtrack was the start of the fountain.

She still had the strength; Violet's athelticism would have enabled her to walk just enough to do a stage dive onto the penises below, but it was just enough release to simply spew forth hot gouts of raw, female ambrosia onto the expectant men in the front row. And that was the dilemma: The precise timing of her let-down was itself an accomplishment. Each of the judges, visible but shrouded in obscuring shadow, knew all too well the trials and tribulations of the preposterously-endowed woman in the modern world. Each of them had been in a similar situation; the unchecked magic of breeding and sex made them into engines of fertility, they would have all had embarassing lactation episodes. Such precision spoke of a higher discipline, it suggested that Violet might have several levels of control. The commentators chattered about the skill needed for such restraint, and the judges seemed to have deliberated carefully.

A plain-looking woman in a red uniform sauntered past, between the two long benches where the bosom builders rested between events. She was a temporary worker hired for this event, and she displayed an impressive professionalism in her demeanor when confronted with a room full of the preposterously endowed. She carried a silver tray full of a colorful arrangement of fragrant dildos, arranged in an appealing spectrum of hues. In the professional circuits, it was good practice to provide relief for the Contenders at least midway through the event; while you were normally encouraged not to indulge in sex right before; once the magic surged through each contestant, a little relief often diminished the chance of accidents. Accidental orgies, that is. Really, it was not much different than athletes gulping down some Gatorade between sprints.

Violet chose a green, minty-scented 8-incher with extra ribbing. While relaxing, she decided to indulge her curiosity. Well-versed though she was in the Sport, it always paid to get a hint of what the competition was up to; how they trained. Next to Violet on the bench was a freckled, red-headed sex-pot; perhaps Irish in origin. She was number 17, according to the circular button affixed to her bikini strap, and she had her eyes closed in exhaustion while gently milking herself. Her rosy, freckled udders would have put a typical dairy cow to shame, and Violet had never seen the girl's boobs smaller than basketball size. Now, her breasts where perhaps an inch in diameter past that, and with each squeeze, silken rivulets of rich milk escaped her mammalian mounds. While her green eyes where closed, Violet cupped her hand and captured a bit of the warm lactate to taste. Mmmm..... heavy sweetness....with a rich, nutty flavor....hmm.... Number 17 must be using a heavy cardio-vascular approach to training; much like Violet herself. The gallons of feminine ambrosia fell into a grate in the center of the floor, where it would be piped out to sealed containers, then filtered and pasteurized by the Dairy company sponsors. Why waste it?

Across from the athletic, tanned human was a pixie with an pert nose and sky-blue hair, number 47 she was labeled. Her naked mammaries jutted out like submarine torpedoes, her heavy breathing told Violet that this pixie's escape from sexual oblivion had been even more tenuous. Her clear antennae were curled up tightly above her brow, indicating considerable stress. Violet's hand quickly darted out to catch a drop from the golden nipples of the pixie's protruding juggs. *SLURP* the milky flavor had a powerful undercurrent of cinnammon; from that, Violet could tell that number 47 relied heavily on magic potions of many varieties, a method Violet distrusted for its unpredictability.

Feigning the need to stretch, she next decided to check out competitors she was less familiar with. Violet's attention focused upon a voluptuous hispanic woman with a tousled mane of jet-black hair and thick lips. Her breasts seemed to be quivering with barely suppressed growth, it seemed as if their owner was trying to restrain their fertile enthusiasm with the tight grip of her fingers, sinking into the pillow-sized vastness of twin bastions of womanhood. She grunted, arching her back, Violet saw the button, #31 on her bikini shaking as the woman's hips throbbed, seeming to grow. That was why women who were already exceptionally fertile were discouraged from competing; the fertility magic that enhanced her into a Contender also enhanced other sexual traits. Even now, her hipbones were expanding, enlarging so that the latina might bear yet more young within her fecund body. She'd have to be careful; the judges were known to subtract points for that. A tingle surged through Violet's pussy in sympathy for the searing magic that electrified number 31; she was most certainly in the grip of that ultimatum from Mother Nature; it seemed almost a crime against Life itself for this woman not to be on her back, thighs open, with sperm rocketing towards her inner sanctum. No doubt, it wouldn't be long before #31 heeded the demand, probably the next time she saw a man, any man. The need would then become more powerful than all her years of retraint.

With a wild yelp, her left nipple spurted, catching Violet right in the mouth with a potent gush of cream. Mmmm... less sweetness...high richness...and oooh... a throbbing warmth bathed Violet's tongue, combined with a tingling rush. The girl was a dancer! Either a dancer or a stripper, could be either one. Violet reconsidered; if she was used to posturing herself before men, she likely had efficient, powerful methods to avoid orgies! There might be more to number 31 than she suspected!

"Come to me, human." said a smooth, even voice. Violet turned quickly. The elf sat in a serene, almost stately posture. A trail of tattoos in the shape of butterflies flew from her label, number 83 up around her navel and between her engorged breasts to form a collar of vibrant colors around her throat. Her pointed ears twitched slightly beneath her strait coiffure of snow-white hair. With each slow breath, milk spurts escaped her golden-tipped nipples; her breasts shifting in sizes to a girth similar to that of a canteloupe, larger and larger until her mammalian mountains were in diameter much like a hubcap...then back down to canteloupe size. Rigid control of vaginal muscles caused the black dildo embedded in her moist twat to push in and out in a lazy, steady rhythm.

"Don't be shy; I want you to know my practices." Violet gulped; the elf was onto her. That was a classic misconception about the Fae; many of them were dangerously intelligent, but humans underestimated them due to the use to which they applied that intelligence. But Violet knew better. The elf's slender hands grasped Violet's shoulders, and she was pulled down, face first, into a dribbling nipple. "Drink as much as you like." With a throaty grunt of pleasure, Violet's lips began suckling, draining the elf of her hot milk. Hmm......exotic...... The elf's mammaries produced a creamy lactate with high sweetness, and a strong undercurrent of....green tea? Yes, that meant....mmm.....number 83 was a practitioner of Eastern meditations, probably tantric sexual practices. She had heard that this technique was of use in suppressing the Breeding Lust. Waves of soothing ecstasy washed over her, as the nourishing milk coursed through her body. Hands groped at her outfit, stretching the fabric, until her chosen, minty dildo was rammed unceremoniously into her cunt. Violet sputtered as the elf gripped her, stroking her head until...

"MMNAAAAHH!!" The reverberating cry rang from both throats as the simultaneous orgasm seized both wombs! Violet had tried to ignore...she'd tried to deny how close she'd been to cumming! Her spine tingled, toes curling as the ecstatic spasms wracked her. With each moment of throbbing passion; more muscular control slipped from her spasming body, until Violet's athletic, tanned and toned frame collapsed in a pulsating heap; the orgasm claiming her...dominating her...jerking her like an indecent puppet on a string of latex. She could feel the elf's bulging bazookas spewing tight streams of lactation into her face, as her orgasm triggered the let-down reflex.

And that set it off. Each Contender was sensitive to the magic around them, and the fertility magic increased exponentially from one orgasm, much less two. Just the presence of Violet and the white-haired elf; just their proximity in climax was enough to set off a chain-reaction. A sweaty black girl seated across was the next to fall, her hips churning, writhing as her lower lips shook. A green-haired forest nymph collapsed onto her hands and knees, pussy throbbing, trembling violently. And as each Contender succumbed to the orgasm, the sexual-wave grew stronger, increasing its ability to drive anything with a cunt into spurting, grunting, pussy-dripping climax. The shared explosion swept the backstage hall, and with almost mechanical precision, backs became arched, breasts leapt forward, and nipples began to spurt.

It's a funny thing about Forest Nymphs; they are among the most fertile of all Fae, and not only that, Violet noted that they all seemed to have this pathological urge to use magic to impose that same fertility on others. The dildo-woman, who was just a temporary employee, mistakenly believed that she could escape the proceedings. She was really rather plain, dirty blond hair, a slight double-chin, close to 40 in age. But that was another thing about Nymphs, for some of them, it was like they had a sacred duty to ensorcel people that they thought fell short of their own standards.

It was unclear whether a nymph with two tulips in her hair, labeled Number 56, tackled the assistant simply as a result of the orgasm wave, or whether that was simply an excuse. Her struggles were useless, #56 encircled the human's head and chest, thrusting a turgid nipple deep into her throat. Her pants were soon shredded by a taller, more athletic nymph, #42, who proceeded to eat her out, devouring the human's sex. It took only seconds for the dirty-blond haired worker to forget her struggles; carried off by the narcotic thrill of nymph's milk. Seconds later, the human was borne to the ground, where her two paramours, consumed with the seething tide of fertility magic straddled their sex-toy from both ends. And...uh-oh, the human's face...she was directly exposed to nymph 56's pussy! The tangy nectar dribbled onto her face. Unable to stop herself...the human began to lick. *SHLUNK* *SLURPT*. Quivering in excitement, the captured woman could not have stopped drinking the nymph cum even had she wanted to. The female ejaculate from the steamy-hot cunt of the fae might as well have been the nectar of the gods.

To amuse themselves as the human writhed beneath them, the two nymphs grasped each other's bosoms, boobs with the girth of watermelons collided, nipples pressing each other. With a twitter of forbidden glee, the two fae began drinking from each other. The vast size of their overripe breasts enabled them to easily suckle themselves or each other, and they drank the feminine product churned out by the other, dribbles escaping their lips.

Violet felt a vague sense of duty to intervene, but the second wave hit just then. It was sort of like an echo; the sweeping magic that claimed the bosom builders was so powerful that it triggered another, smaller lustwave in its wake; much like a bouncing rubber ball, or a pendulum. The trick was to remove your panties! Or bikini bottom, or whatever. Backstage shenanigans were not unheard of; but an outfit drenched with milk or cum would be noted by the judges, and points would be lost. Everywhere, drawers were dropped, and Violet hunched down on all fours, trying not to scream out her pleasure, baring her spasming pussy to her fellow Contenders. She could feel her girlcum, a tide of her own cuntjuice slavering her thighs, and had no choice but to kick off her garment altogether, to save it from her own feminine lubricant. She thought she knew how to ride out the storm; Violet was no novice; she'd been in situations like this before, but that was when she felt the lick. It was that stupid, slutty, Zen-Tantric elf with the butterfly tattoos. Maybe she was wrong about her ability to contain the Breeding Lust. She thrust a lurid tongue directly between the pulsing lips of Violet's womanly core. Bitch! She'd get her back. Violet's fingers shot forward, landing with a meaty *SPLUNK* into the elf's own drooling sex. In one of her last, lucid moments, Violet noted that Ms. Zen-elf was probably the only one not howling madly with lurid zeal. It was a quiet, serene nymphomania that controlled the elf; might be an approach worth investigating. But for now, the impulse proved too powerful; Violet's control had diminished considerably after the first half of the competition; not unusual for a major Bosom-Builder's event. An electric surge of libido momentarily stole away her discipline; the Breeding Lust, having no penis as an outlet, manifested itself in a wild burst of lesbian frenzy. Violet could not stop herself from collapsing into a sixty-nine posture with the Zen-elf. Nuzzling, slurping, grinding nose and mouth into the lusty cunt drooling before her.

Violet's own pussy was soon ravaged by a rhythmic, methodical series of strokes from a talented tongue. As their naked, grunting flesh writhed in perverse symphony, the human again made a futile attempt to suppress the exploding Breeding Lust that seared through her; but it was mid-competition, and it was rare indeed for a Contender to maintain full composure after she'd already exercised her fertility powers for so long.

But she knew, they all knew how this would end. As their mountainous mammaries started up another round of fertile growth, they would continue the lesbian orgy until their breasts grew so large that both females were pushed off of each other by the swelling grandeur of their own ripening bosoms.

**********

Hard to remember...Jamie disengaged herself from the tangled, slippery legs of the dozing forest nymphs. Shakily, she tried to stand. The Bosom Builders were quiet now; they'd seemed to have exhausted themselves from orgasm. But she was...she...had...she had a job once...working...for a temp...agency...she...her...her breasts! Clutching the fleshy melons throbbing pertly upon her chest, Jamie examined herself. Gone were decades of stretchmarks, moles, sags and scars. Everywhere she felt only smooth, firm flesh. Her naked form was...well the same as it was when she was 18; she had the same toned legs, silky thighs, taut belly and...and her tits! She had never been quite so big; grasping her ample bosom, Jamie estimated that she was somewhere between grapefruit and soccerball size, with exceptionally wide aureolas, much like coasters, and nipples longer, and harder than ever. Though drenched in sweat, milk, and cuntjuice, she was even better, even tighter than she'd been that night of the Senior Prom; her first experience. The Nymph's magic had given...

xxxecil
xxxecil
1,503 Followers