The New Girl Ch. 11

***The characters referenced in this story are Sixth-Formers, aged 18, or they are teachers. No character is any younger than 18***

I'm not sure how much time passes.

There's something simply profound, about performing oral sex on a hung futanari. Something sensation that, weird as I find it to consider, eating pussy never quite managed to match. I don't know if it's that raw submission of it, the fact that the Venyabildts have bigger cocks than mine, the way they take subtle control, or perhaps even the fact that there's something incredibly rewarding about receiving their healthy and voluminous ejaculate inside my mouth, some mark of a (blow)job well done, but whatever the source, I love it.

And I particularly love sucking on Morgan.

The dominant goth lays back in the comfort of her bed, idly playing her game while propped up against a collection of comfortable pillows. Her sharp nails click and clack against the plastic of the controller, and occasionally she'll moan, but the vast bulk of all sounds originate from me.

From her cocksucking slut.

'Mhm. Mumph.'

Schlup. Slurp. Schlack.

I know it won't be long until I receive another dose of her particularly characterful cum, that thick and sensually vulgar-tasting spooge. Her knees are trembling a little bit and her breathing is that much quicker, but it's remarkable how composed she is all the same. How natural it seems for me to do this thing, to service and worship her, and how nobly she behaves, a queen in black and crimson.

It only makes it hotter. Only inspires greater desire.

Schlap. Schlurp. Schlock.

I bob my head slowly, lavishing my ministrations upon that overly plump crown. To nurse on Morgan's helmet is to taste such endless salty bitterness, to be well aware that I'm sucking on her penis. My lurid licking, feeling out its breadth and bulkiness, only amplifies the erotic excitement born of blowing her.

'Mhm-hm.'

How long has it been, since this started? How many blowjobs, to completion, have I given her? One, when she was on the beanbag chair, and then two, three on the bed? This being the fourth, as and when it shortly concludes?

It's a wonder my jaw's not aching. There's a faint bit of fatigue, yes, but Morgan is especially easy to suck upon, and has little interest in being rough with me. Her dominance is effortless, a show of composed confidence, some expectation that she'll be delivered unto ecstasy rather than a use of force or command.

Every now and then she'll glance down at me, eyes the prettiest of frozen sapphires, arctic pale. At odds with her hair, that raven blackness, and those voluptuous lips, onyx rimmed in crimson. And then Morgan will focus anew on her game, ignoring me, provoking a bizarre pang of arousal that really feeds into this fundamental notion that I like being treated just a little bit unkindly by her.

That submissive part of me really likes serving, and being used. Particularly when the target of my affection is a beautiful futanari, Morgan or Mistress, likely Persephone as well.

'Aah. Good boy.'

It's the most warning I get from Morgan herself, though I've discerned a thing or two about her body's tells when a creamy climax is rapidly approaching. Her breathing, her spasming belly and legs, her rising-falling fat futanari nuts.

'Mhm. Mumph.'

Schlup. Slurp.

I keep sucking, of course. Keep sucking on that fat helmet, that pale purple plum, as it releases yet another healthily heavy quantity of richly virile Venyabildt jism right across my hungry tongue, slathering my tastebuds in her flavour. Her cock pulsates against my hands, delivering spurt after shot of immensely thick spooge, pumped out of her balls, riddled with her potent sperm.

In the throes of such dick-milk desiring depravity, I pay no notice to the faint sound of my collar swinging against my neck as it rises and falls, Adam's apple bobbing as I swallow down the rich genetic material of the gothic futanari.

It takes some time to milk her completely, even now, so late into the day. Morgan's body is a thing of sexual excellence, just like Freya's. Their capacity for stamina, for back-to-back extensive eruptions, is something to marvel at.

Something to be deeply satisfied by.

'Mhm. Mhm-hm.'

Of course, she pays no real notice of me while I swirl the sea of sperm about my mouth. Dense ropes and knotted strings, melting in the warm wetness of my saliva, becoming like alien custard all tangy and salty, cheek-reddeningly sensual. There's something immensely satisfying about that mental image, of all those little white swimmers, desperate for an egg cell to claim and yet finding only my teenage male mouth.

Schlurp. Schlap.

'Ooh. Good boy.'

Morgan winces and flexes her thighs, sensitivity creeping in. For the first time today, she's actually softening. Her dick, ordinarily the fattest firmness, droops slightly at the tip, more pronounced when I release it from my lips. It's only then, in a state of surprise, with my mouth filled with her jism, that I realise it's almost evening. I've been sucking her dick all day, holy fucking shit.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

In the slightest panic I quickly empty my mouth, the molten mess of Morgan's man-milk noticeable in its passage down my gullet for both its thickness and its heat. She watches me idly, faintly amused, as I sit upright between her milky thighs and lick my lips.

'Something the matter, sweet Tom?'

Morgan's room, with its black-out blinds, gets only the faintest bit of sunlight through the cracks in their coverage. She looks vampiric, and happily cultivates that image, especially with the general aversion to brightness. But it does mean that the passage of time, without a watch or clock to pay close attention to -- I left my phone in Mistress's room -- is a difficult thing to keep track of.

Especially when I'm clearly such a natural at losing myself in the suck-fest of being Morgan Venyabildt's personal suck-slut.

'I figure I should probably try and look presentable,' I say, still tasting her distinctive semen all about my mouth. 'And maybe not stink quite so strongly of dick and balls and spooge.'

She pauses the game and smirks. 'You're not having regrets, are you?'

'Not at all.' I shake my head. 'Just...I'm a little wary of how Freya would react, if she stumbled in on this.'

'She did give you permission. She even made that permission explicit to me, the sweet thing. Nobody could blame you for surrendering to my wiles, sweet Tom.'

'Still, I'd rather play it safe. I don't want to hurt her.'

Morgan considers me for a long moment, devouring me with those piercing pale eyes. Their frostiness matches her overall composure, distinctly capable of hiding the depths of her inner world. Where Freya wears her heart on her sleeve, Morgan is inscrutable.

'You're quite lovely, sweet Tom. Blondie's a lucky girl.' She reaches for me, then hesitates. Something about the gesture suggests the breaking of a mask. Or the almost-breaking, given that Morgan quickly withdraws. 'Go and wash up. Look after your Mistress. I'll be in touch to organise her training promptly, and likely to help orchestrate some mutually advantageous absences on her behalf.'

Words spoken, for all intents I'm invisible again, and she attends solely to her game. That behaviour, and her almost-touching, leave me with curious notions as I take my leave. Morgan doesn't of course mind that I give her perfect body a once-over, burning into memory the sight of that enormous dick and huge balls, those wide child-bearing hips and those mammoth breasts, all enshrined by marble white flesh and -- even while nude -- a gothic aesthetic that really does something for me. A palate cleanser, at least, from my Mistress.

Six hours of sucking dick certainly did the trick, however. Weird, that something where I get no physical satisfaction nonetheless leaves me feeling fulfilled, but I go back to Mistress's -- my, I need to get in the habit of thinking -- room with a clearer head.

That Morgan -- and Persephone as well, perhaps? -- has made use of Freya's insecurities to get access to me is unkind, but given that Mistress seems to have been aware of the fact anyway, at least from what she's said before when we mused about their overall goals here, maybe means that it'll be okay.

I surprise myself a little in this capacity to keep emotions separate, that after hours of pleasuring Morgan's penis, I don't have some desire for something more intimate. Not like I have for Mistress Freya, who means something to me far beyond her cock.

Morgan used me, and I used Morgan. A transactional relationship, and perfectly functional given the strangeness of the circumstances.

Right. All is okay. All will be well.

And there might be some tremendous upsides to this, as well. If Morgan really can improve Freya's stamina, and train her to be both more dominant and commanding, then...maybe Mistress will manage to meet all of my sexual needs without any difficulties on her part. Maybe it'll be her that I give endless blowjobs to, instead of her big sister.

I shower and dress, awaiting Freya's return. A little bit of reading, a little bit of mindless scrolling through memes. It's funny, really, how badly I anticipate her arrival. To consider where this started, how scared I was of Freya Venyabildt -- tall and overtly rapacious -- really puts into perspective how far things have come.

How when at last my beautiful blonde Mistress saunters through into our bedroom, looking somewhat business-like in a formal skirt and blazer (albeit with the top buttons of the shirt beneath now hastily pulled open to reveal her ever-bountiful cleavage), I'm struck not with that seemingly ancient pang of concern but a simple sense of security.

A sense that here I am, and here I belong, and it's so much better with Freya around.

'You hungry?' she says, pulling off the blazer. 'Mum and Dad asked me to go out and eat with them tonight. You're welcome to join us.'

'Sure, I could eat. I'll put on something nicer.'

Freya smilingly shakes her head. Her hair today, done up in a high ponytail, only hints at its usual wildness at the very tips which dangle behind her shoulders. 'You look fine, Tom. Handsome. I'm just going to freshen up. You might as well go and wait downstairs.'

I must get over my discomfort. I need to be okay with the fact that yes, Alicia and Persephone are both highly attractive women. It's just the way of things here, in the Venyabildt Estate.

And, thankfully, "Mummy" plays it cool and "Daddy" is her usual charmingly reserved self. Both are not so distant from Mistress, in terms of outfits. Business-like, faintly serious, yet abundantly attractive all the same. Tight-fitting skirts and blouses that show off plenty of cleavage, the beauty of each older woman alluring in a different fashion to that of their daughters.

Morgan joins us, for a whole family outing. The gothic Amazoness gives me a wink but says nothing more, dressed in her usual mixture of vaguely fetish-worthy attire, black and leather, buckles and ornamentations. The parents engage in forgettable small-talk while Morgan plays on her phone, and I keep checking the staircase for Freya's arrival.

God, it's so much easier in her presence. Somehow the addition of a bit of dark ruby lipstick and a pair of silver earrings clad with sapphires, complementing her brilliant blue eyes, makes her all the more gorgeous. And thankfully Mistress goes straight to me, slinging an arm across my shoulders, and in some sense -- greatly appreciated -- protects me from the ravenous pack.

Because, as much as it turns me on to realise how desired I am here, their lust for me, all the same, is troublesome.

'How was your day today, Tom? And yours, Morgan?' Alicia says, relaxing into the rear-facing seats of the limousine. She sits beside Persephone, opposite Freya and I, while Morgan occupies the equidistant middle. 'How are you finding our home? Your home, I should say.'

'It's beautiful, Alicia. Thank you for being so welcoming. All of you.' I smile, not falsely -- the remark is true as can be -- but somewhat warily. The degree of "welcoming" has certainly been sexual, in two instances. 'I'd really like to contribute more, if that's possible. Is there any chance of--'

Persephone waves a dismissive hand at me. 'Nonsense, Tom. We'd not ask of you anything we'd not ask of Freya. You're not merely a guest, but family. Think nothing of it, sweetie.'

It's difficult not to blush, under the purview of that effortlessly commanding smile. In so many ways, Persephone is some older, more mature Freya. Where Morgan is a wildcard in futanari terms, my Mistress's lineage shows clearly. Both are abundantly buxom Amazonians, athletically built, with tremendous blue eyes like captured sapphires. The only mismatch is the father's creamy paleness and the daughter's bronze tan.

It also doesn't help, of course, that Mistress is slowly stroking my arm and pulling me against herself such that I'm against an armpit and the cushioning heft of a double G-cup breast.

'He contributes plenty,' Morgan says, smirking briefly. She doesn't look up from her phone.

Mistress tenses beside me. 'What does that mean, Morgan?'

The tall goth shrugs her shoulders. 'You did allow him to be shared, didn't you?'

And to my surprise, Freya's tension melts away. A glance at her perfect face reveals something quite strange, in fact. A species of confidence I've not seen before.

'I did, yes. Did he do a good job?'

'Several.' Morgan smirks again, but the look doesn't fade. 'And swallowed every drop.'

Alicia pats Persephone's thigh. 'I did tell you he was eager, Mistress.'

And the futanari patriarch watches me with a wordless smile, coolly confident, all the more intimidating for the lack of remark.

'Of course he's eager,' Freya says, giving my arm a squeeze. 'He's a good boy. Aren't you, Tom?'

Sharing, admittedly, didn't mean such exposure in my head. Because all eyes are on me, and my face is red as the devil's dick. Four beautiful women, all taking an interest in my perversions. My affection for futanari cock, and cum.

'I am, Mistress. I'm your good boy.'

Mistress chuckles and rests her face against my head. 'See? If you lot had planned to upset me, you've gone awry. Tom's mine. Use him, sure, but he's mine.'

Morgan rolls her pale eyes. 'Nobody said he wasn't, Blondie.'

The subtext, of course, is: someone's insecure.

But Freya clicks her tongue. 'What's that, Morgan? You can't seem to find a boy half the quality of my slut?'

'Freya!' Alicia says, a little loudly. 'Don't be mean to your sister.'

Thankfully, the limo's cabin is soundproof. An opaque shutter spares the chauffeur -- an elderly man, likely familiar with the family's filth -- from the dirty details.

Morgan, as effortlessly composed as her father, simply shrugs and rolls her eyes again. 'I would be wary of throwing stones, Blondie. A coat of paint doesn't hide a glass house.'

'What are you going to do, Morrigan? Going to regale us with how Tom so expertly sucked your dick, and swallowed your cum?' Freya's grin, throughout, is just a little bit scary. To think I had guilt, and worry, and yet...she really doesn't seem to care? 'You're not a threat, you vampire wannabe. I'm doing you a favour, after all. The only consistent cocksucker you have in your life is Mum, after all.'

Morgan -- Morrigan? -- smiles, but the look is faulty. Something familiar, a potential Venyabildt tendency, is brewing behind those ordinarily so composed eyes. 'Listen here, Blondie. If you think using that silly name and acting all--'

'Freya,' Persephone says, and then, 'Morgan.'

All vivaciousness, all will to fight, fades from the sisters. They simply look to their father, who doesn't so much as raise her voice. Persephone only sighs, and shakes her head. 'What does this accomplish, girls?'

'Nothing, Daddy,' the pair say at once. Two sweet, sultry voices mingling. It puts a chill down my spine, especially, to hear "Daddy".

'Good.' Persephone smiles at me. 'How does it feel, Tom, to be the object of both of my daughter's affections? Not to mention my wife's, as well.'

Alicia actually blushes. 'Mistress, I--'

'Oh, stop it,' Persephone says, stroking her wife's thigh. She smiles at Alicia, pecks her on the forehead, then turns back to me. The dominance in those eyes, a self-ownership of incredible proportions, produces an uncomfortable lump in the back of my mouth. 'Something that my little girls might not understand yet is that you, ultimately, are the prize. That the kind of relationship I have with my wife, and you have with Freya, is born out of respect and love, channelled in what we might regard as a more primal, animalistic fashion. We play this role to please our submissives, and as a result are pleased by them in turn, allowing them to be honest to their true and slutty selves.'

Morgan slumps into her seat, and Freya clings to me more tightly. Their father smirks at each of them in turn, her pride obvious, but each girl -- each woman, in fairness -- seems that much smaller despite their developed bodies and carnal appetites.

'Freya has no place to talk about Morgan's love life, because Freya's love life can be summed up with the simple utterance of your name, Tom.' Mistress shudders, cheeks red as strawberries. 'But Morgan was not always the talented dominatrix that she now is, and has no place mocking Freya -- eight years her junior -- for being at a different place in life.' The oldest of the futanaris puts an arm across her wife's shoulders, and looks ever so passingly mischievous. 'If you're worried about either of them, for any reason, talk to me. I'll sort things out. They're still young, and lust and love cloud their judgements. Keep that in mind.'

It's funny, how quiet things remain for the rest of the journey. Persephone and Alicia talk quietly, Morgan sits busy on her phone, and Freya clings to me all the tighter, but nothing more is said. The drive into London, to some three Michelin-star Chinese restaurant, is a peaceful one.

The chauffeur lets us out in front of the establishment and the first thing I notice is the price of everything. It's maybe four or five times what I'd expect to pay, per dish, but both Morgan and Freya pretty much instantly set about making notes on their respective phones as to which collection of dishes they want. Expensive drinks are ordered, a special table in the quiet rear of the place is appointed to us, and the night begins in earnest.

Mistress begins making an order for me, in what seems like a general addition to her ordinary selection. I assume it's ordinary, given the practised manner in which she selects about six separate dishes, alongside both rice and noodles. Futanaris, from the little I've seen, eat a lot more than typical women, though I lack familiarity with "traditional" women as Amazonian as the Venyabildt ladies.

'Order anything you like,' Alicia says, giving me one of her motherly smiles. 'Freya's likely to overfeed you, but she eats like a pig.'

Mistress glares. 'I do not.'

'We all do,' Persephone says, ever warm and calm. 'It's a biological imperative. But please, Tom, order whatever you want. Drinks, food, I don't mind.'

So I glance at the menu and then give Freya an elbow nudge. 'Mistress, how big are the portions?'

She winces. 'Mum might be right. I...don't actually know what's reasonable.'

I smirk, and playfully poke at her side. 'It's okay. I'll just order what I'd usually get.'

'You can try some of my things, as well. And I will judge you for how exotic you get, or lack thereof.'

With that in mind, I find myself being just a little bit spiteful and ordering fried rice and sweet and sour, with some sweet and sour chicken balls on the side. And some spring rolls, because why not. And all the while, when I give my order to the waiter, Mistress's gaze narrows little by little into the realm of playful disgust.