She's the Boss Ch. 09

'Mhmf. Mhm.'

It provokes a moan, as I continue to nurse on her right nut. A muffled sound, lost in the carnal chaos, but audible to me. An affirmation that this is what I want, too. That Irina's words, vile as they might be interpreted, are completely true. Her body is sculpted perfection and her male organs are divine, tools of some demigoddess, and I'm sure that even if I sate myself on the excessive spillage of the creampie on the horizon there'll be more than enough strong-swimming sperm to plaster Maddie's womb in Mummy's superior genes.

The way the dominant woman fucks, witnessed and experienced from this particular angle, suits Irina precisely. It's not clumsy, but not artful. She uses her cock like a weapon, without concern as to her pace or fierceness, doing only what she wants, what she thinks is best, what she enjoys the most. Fucking like her penis is a gift, and Mads would be mad not to accept it, however our Mummy deigns to give it to her.

We're just...just playthings, aren't we? Not partners, never partners, even if Irina seems to desire a kind of twisted exclusivity. If Maddie were a man, she wouldn't be here, for her submission -- superb though it may be -- is a shadow of mine. In so many ways, she's just a womb, a cunt, to be used and seeded. It doesn't give me satisfaction to recognise that fact, doesn't establish some pleasing sense of being the superior slave, but it's nonetheless a passing point of interest as my thoughts briefly overwhelm my senses.

Schluck-schlick-schfwup, schlick-schlick-schfwap, schlick-schluck-schfwup.

That sound, that veritable drumbeat of the depraved, becomes the dominant sound inside my thoughts. So arousing is the banquet for the senses -- the smells, sounds, tastes, textures, temperatures -- that it's easier, for a little while, to shut my eyes and lose myself in the purely sensory. The addition of the psychological, that awareness of my place in the world, only potentiates what is already a deeply unmanageable state of being.

So much simpler, to be a mouth, nursing on a testicle. To be a face, walloped by the coochie-juice-slathered sibling to that lurid lump. To be a set of ears, able to drink down the consistently carnal smashing together of bodies, two beautiful bodies, and all the slickness and meatiness that results. To be a nose, basking in the rich tangy sexual musk generated by our three-way tryst.

So much simpler, to be my senses than to be me. For to be me is to struggle with all this, to question and probe, to introduce all these silly notions like "self-respect," "shame," and "pride." The things that haunt me, outside of this room, outside of this hierarchy of filth, when I'm able to stare at the ceiling and consider my thoughts.

It pokes and prods, from time to time, that awfully alluring revelation. Pokes and prods through the sensory haze, from time to time. That demon of depravity which knows, knows far too well, that this is so much better when I acknowledge that I am more than my senses.

That if I acknowledge the reality of our dynamic, its complete annihilation of my self-respect, its absolute establishment of my perpetual shame, and its wholesale slaughter of my pride, those wonderful sensory states are not diminished but enflamed, set ablaze across the soul, imbued with an even grander state of significance.

Slurp, schlup, schlurp, slurp.

'Mhmf. Mumph. Mhm.'

It's there in the sounds I make, and not merely the necessary accidental ones, those of lips around a hefty lump. My muffled moans come, again and again, impossible to restrain. I can't lock them away, can't prevent their escape. They evade my best efforts to shackle them, adding to the coital chorus that fills all four walls of my office.

'Ugh. Such good things you both are, such good--aah--toys for Mummy,' Irina says. 'Such dutiful little sluts. Born for me. Made for me. Meant for me.'

There's a shift of shadow, catching my attention before her hand comes down atop my head. She keeps her fingers straight, palm flat, and pats my head as if I'm some hound, some loyal beast. It's gentle, affectionate even, and sends a ripple of knee-quaking ball-churning satisfaction down my spine. Some affirmation that this is where I belong, suggested by her, agreed upon by me. It takes me out of the sensory sanctum, of course, pushes me into the front-row seats of the filthy theatre going on upon my desk.

'Y-es, Mummy! I love being your slut! Aah. Ooh. Mhm.'

It gives me pause, and in the pause I lose the right bollock. Her movements are fierce enough, my surprise severe enough, that the mouth-and-pussy-dirtied orb swings freely again, bouncing wetly against my chin as I stare dumbfounded at the meeting of minge and member.

Irina...makes her so wet. Makes her gush. I've never been able to do that, not to Maddie, not to any woman. Yet Irina does it so easily, without the faintest degree of equality, of unconditional affection. Mads knows that this woman doesn't love her, will never love her as any woman -- or man, for that matter -- might wish to be loved. Oh, I've no doubt Irina thinks that she loves us. No doubt even that she does, in her own perverse, twisted, even somewhat evil way.

But we'll never have genuine, true, affectionate, equal, unconditional love here. To love Irina is to love God. That is, to live on your knees, in prayer, in worship. Her ego won't allow any other kind of relationship with her, because how could it? This isn't BDSM, this isn't a "scene," this is life. This is how she wants it to be. How she needs it to be.

And yet, despite that fact -- that Maddie must understand, has hinted at understanding time and again -- Mads is gushing her cute little coochie out to the point that without the promise of water afterwards, I'd think she'd die of dehydration. Her sticky yet flowing fluids run down the edge of my desk, the front of it, permanently staining the wood. It'll need to be replaced, as if that matters. This isn't about practicality or thoughtfulness, simply that Irina can do this, time and again, as often as she likes. It's almost like an attack on me, an insult to my masculinity, that here's this girl we both have access to and yet Irina will always, and forever, do a better job at fucking her.

I can't even make Mads gush so much from eating her out, and she's wet as the ocean during every moment of that. To...to do it with dick alone...it's absolutely absurd.

Schlick-schluck-schfwup, schlick-schluck-schfwap, schlick-schluck-schfwup.

'Aahn. Knock me u-p, knock m-e up, knock me up!'

Fuck, to hear her scream that, atop her lungs, makes my dick sore. It's terrifying how small the part of me is that now cries, "I wish that was me" has become, and how silent the rest of me is. How many would judge me, if they saw this? How many would think me pathetic? That primal fear of the male mind, to ensure that the offspring are yours, is frighteningly docile in the face of what can only be described as the purest and most exposed embodiment of its concerns.

Because Mads was, in some weird way, mine.

Mummy's enormously big balls swing freely, smacking against the bubble-roundness of her buttocks, rippling the flesh, and I'm completely forgotten about by both of them. Why doesn't this bother me more than it does? Why aren't I angry? Why, if anything, do I want to see it through? Why can I so easily picture the virile swarm of little white soldiers racing around those huge dusky-skinned nuts, ready to completely soak the younger woman's womb in genetic material?

'Ughn. It's coming, honey. Oh, God, it's definitely coming.'

Irina continues to thrust, to pump away, to plunge herself all the way up to the hilt inside the pretty blonde. Her efforts send flecks of juices everywhere, splattering even my face behind Mummy's thick thighs and monumental backside in the process. It's a perversely refreshing shower, a constant spray of something deeply and darkly illicit.

Schluck-schlick-schfwup, schlick-schlick-schfwap, schlick-schluck-schfwup.

Mads clearly isn't mine, anymore. Will never be again, even. She, and I -- I'm not thick enough to believe otherwise -- both belong to Irina. If I had any self-respect, any sense of shame, any remaining pride, I'd storm out of here and abandon them both to their sordid lusts. I'd accept this as some cruel slice of life, gone awry, and move on.

If I had any, that is, of any of those fabled and now-mythical things.

Instead, I stare at the large swinging lumps in that taut sack, flying through the air, back and forth, pummelling against the blonde's pert backside. I catch glimpses, from moment to moment, of the swollen cum vein on the underside of Mummy's prick, seeming more intimidating and meaningful than ever. I note every little twitch and contraction up the beautiful body of our boss, readily picturing the faint gritting of her teeth, the smug smirk that contains multitudes of ego within its perfect curves.

'Aah. Mhm. So b-ig.'

Maddie moans all the sweeter as her own climax sets in. One of many, most likely, but admittedly I've not been paying the utmost attention to her side of the sordidness. I chance a glance up and see her toes curling and uncurling, her ankle-led grip around our Amazonian boss's waist a fragile thing. All her strength is there, the flexing of her calf muscles above the callipygian perfection of Mummy's backside, but she's hanging on by a tenuous thread.

There's no distinct eruption, no especial spray of feminine fluids. That constant leaking doesn't change, though the persistent plunging of prick into pussy stirs the stuff up into some kind of dense sticky foam, white and creamy around her pretty pink lips, which themselves are utterly distinct from the dark and girthy pole which splits them wide open.

'Ugh. Fuck, you're such a breedable little whore.'

Irina's climax, however, is noticeable. All those little signs that acted as a premonition come together and become almost amplified, some much more so than others. Her balls, for instance, seem to contract in their sack, rising and slowly falling only to rise up again. Above me her cheeks clamp together, magnificent muscles on full show, at the same time tightening her thighs and making faintly rigid her overall gait.

I follow the throbbing protrusion of her cum vein to where it disappears, along with the bulk of her penis, inside of the tight-bodied blonde. Those lips suck down with ravenousness as the futanari bull's member strains at its surroundings, delivering a hefty dose of supremely virile spooge deep inside that fertile and hungering hole.

Schluck-schleck, schluck-schluck, schluck-schlick.

Irina pumps only irregularly now, her heavy balls swinging softly as she wrings her shaft out inside of Mads. Half-thrusts, ensuring that not a drop of her load is spilled, that every last sperm swims freely into that twenty-four-year-old coochie, desperate to get at her egg. Or perhaps I witnessed such last night, and this is merely an encore, irrelevant. Shit, for all I know they've been fucking with the intent to breed her long before they got me in on things.

I remain on my knees, a shadow of the man I once was, and yet...satisfied where that version of myself wasn't. This is dirty, depraved, but it's beautiful, as well. I can't help but see Irina Blackwell is this borderline peerless woman, this goddess among mortals, and in doing so find some degree of risqué rightness in considering that she's just laid claim, again, to what seems naturally and utterly hers.

'Mhm. So hot,' Mads says, shrill with joy. 'So fucking thick.'

It takes a moment before I get to experience my own end of that climax. Mummy's load is sufficiently massive that she readily fills up Maddie's coochie with her reproductive cream and then overloads it. The exterior coating of whiteness is nothing in terms of volume or density compared to what begins to leak out of those pretty pink lips, the futanari's semen drooling from between those firmly sucking folds and the sides and underside of her shaft initially, and then oozing forth from all surrounding angles as she thoroughly breeds the blonde bitch.

If the glazing of girl juices wasn't enough to irreparably stain my desk, the thick fuck milk of the dominant dickgirl has surely done the trick. It falls in ropey clumps, splattering the carpet in places but mostly drooling down the front of my desk, the darkness of the wood assaulted by a constant smattering of white.

Irina shivers, her whole body atremble with the forcefulness of orgasm. She produces little sound, content simply to bask in the erotic ecstasy, to churn out fat rivulet after heavy spurt of seed as she lightly plunges forwards and pulls back, milking herself utterly, draining her dick of every last drop of ejaculate.

'Ughf. You're such a good girl, Mads. Taking Mummy's load so well.'

Schluck-schleck, schluck-schluck, schluck-schlick.

I barely register her pulling out, because it happens so quickly. The dusky Amazonian is agile even when succumbing to such sensual pleasure, nothing having much of an ability to keep her from her lurid ends. She yanks herself backwards, unplugging that pretty pink hole, now thoroughly painted white, and Maddie's shuddering works to push out a healthy micro eruption of cream-thick jism.

All of a sudden Irina's got my hair in a knotted tangle in one of her hands, and she hastily twists herself about to present her penis to my face. The final burst of cum, held back by her intense force of will, sexual savant as she is, at last shoots forth as she smacks her sex-slathered helmet down against my left cheek and graces me with a sticky shot of spunk, then glides her glans over the bridge of my nose and deposits a second spurt on the other cheek.

Her fat dark purple helmet shudders and swells, lustrous and slippery, as she brings it up one last time to baptise me with a final squirt upon my forehead, all three pools of spooge loosely linked by the ropey stringiness of that sordid substance. The final dose lingers halfway out of her bell-end, slowly dripping down under gravity's burden, glistening in the overhead lights.

'Mhm. M-ummy.'

Mads moans to herself, quivering away atop the desk, while I manage to meet Irina's gorgeous green eyes. 'Your reward,' she says, as if my face alone asks the question. 'For tending to my balls like a good boy. You can clean up, if you like. My cock, her cunt. But don't be too thorough with Mads -- we wouldn't want to risk our family, would we?'

I stare dumbfounded for a moment, completely in her thrall. She plays with my hair, roughly and dominantly, smirking to herself. Stunning, as ever, as always. Unfairly attractive, for one so brutish and twisted beneath, possessing of such intense feminine wiles.

Irina's cock throbs before my face, losing a little firmness from her orgasm. The opening in her helmet, that proud plump crown, drools the dregs of her load. My boss makes no effort to push me towards it, much as she could. Its potency tinges the air, lustful, thick. So familiar a smell, musky, pseudo-masculine, another of her contradictions.

I lick my lips on reflex, wanting what only she can give me. Wanting to obey, to...to make her happy. It makes me happy, somehow, even when it shouldn't. To put that rich smugness on her face, to gift her the glorious alignment of her egoistic fantasies and the reality of things.

'Good boy. Ugh.'

Schlup, slurp, schlup, schlep.

I've got her sex-slathered helmet between my lips within the span of a heartbeat, its flavours all the stronger for mingling with Maddie's. Irina's viscous jism comes out on my tongue with little coaxing, eager to spill free, to be drained from those final inches of her cum vein. It makes my eyes flutter, the intensity of it, this creamy tangy salty ropiness that I can't seem to get enough of despite having had the first and fattest load of the day pumped across my tongue so recently.

'Mhm. Mumph.'

It's impossible not to moan on reflex, perverse as I am. The mental image of her strong, healthy genes drooling across my tongue stiffens my cock, accelerates the racing drumbeat of my heart. It's more intimate than anything I can imagine, all the more so when this particular load can only be described as a breeder, its purpose made abundantly obvious by the sight of the pretty blonde resting back atop my desk with her pussy absolutely overflowing with the majority of the dominant dickgirl's release.

'Ooh. Dutiful little mouth you've got, honey,' Mummy says, tugging a little on my hair. 'I think I've got just the reward for you, but you'll have to clean up Maddie a little bit first.'

I pause my servile sucking, and meet those venomous green eyes, her helmet still softly pulsating halfway between my lips. Even without her voice, she could command me. That gaze alone seems to instil a powerful need to obey, to do whatever she wants. I could keep sucking, I'm sure, but those eyes hint at the possibility of something...greater.

'Not too much,' Mads says, her words sounding more distant than they should. 'But...eat up.'

To be caught up in this perverse pyramid of roles between them, now seemingly less in control even than Maddie, is a curious state to be in. No longer clear-cut, no longer possessing any kind of authority at all. Mads below Irina, and myself below Mads. Is that how it's going to be, going forwards? Is it just the game of the day?

Maddie's words linger in my ears like some misplaced command, not to be spoken by her lips. The wrong mouth says the right thing, and it leaves me far more aroused than it should. To submit to Irina Blackwell makes full and perfect sense, for her virility, for her stature, for her authoritative nature. But Maddie? Maddie the broodmare? The twisted unexpectedness of the comment, however meekly spoken, causes my dick to ache.

'I...I'll do it,' I say, letting Irina's bell-end free. It comes away clean, glistening only with spit, though her shaft is messier. 'Let me, um, g-et that for you.'

Slurp, mlep, schlep, slurp.

The dusky-skinned Amazonian chuckles warmly, full of lustful majesty, as I put my tongue to good use. That combination of pussy cream and semen is a filthy feast upon my tastebuds, replaced stroke by eager stroke with nothing but the shimmering glaze of saliva. It goes down easily, thinner than the stuff that came straight out of her dick, though it naturally takes a deal more effort to do away with.

'Up you go,' Irina says, prodding at the back of my head, as if walking her long-nailed fingers against my scalp between my ears. 'Every little bit, now. That's a good boy.'

Mlep, schlap, schlep, slurp.

'Mhm.'

'He's so dirty,' Mads says, though she's not getting quite the same quality of view as Mummy. 'Can...can he fuck me after he cleans me up a bit, Mummy?'

Irina's smirk grows stronger. 'I think that'd work perfectly, honey. We'll have ourselves something especially fun.' Only now does she apply that hand with some degree of guidance, quickening my pace. 'The sooner you finish your duties, honey, the sooner you can join in on the main event.'

'Mhm-hm.'

I work that much faster, passing the halfway line of her shaft, having plenty to clean. It'd be quite the task even if she had simply gone halfway into the pretty blonde, but no, there are no half-measures for Irina Blackwell. I have to go all the way up to those curly red pubes surrounding the broad base of the beast, washing all of it with my tongue, going so far as to lap at the insides of her thighs where her rough rutting has splattered their combined juices.

The moment she's all but spotless, slick only with my saliva, Irina pats my head gently and seems to study her yet-trembling junk for any hint of residue beyond my eager saliva. 'Very good work, honey,' she says, wetting her lips. 'Let me help you with that mess on your face.'