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I angled my hips to invite him in.
A flared, spear-like tip parted my entrance, worming its way inside.
That first stretch and I was already crying out something like a release. But it wasn’t orgasm. I wished it were, for it kept monstrously growing as he borrowed deeper.
This was where the plug would be impelled to loosen, where what was left in me would flood out over his slithering cock and leave a puddle beneath me to perfume my nest.
Hands to his perfect rear-end, I urged him to impale me fully and ease my need, but he remained half-sleeved, eyes focused as his squirming cock wriggled and poked.
Another segment made its way inside me, a strange stretch beginning to add a stinging prick to the ecstasy that left me bucking like one possessed.
The plug was not releasing. No flood of fluid was set free. Yet his cock was burrowing itself through internal muscles convulsing like mad.
Yet he worked another segment where there was no room.
“You’re so tight.”
As if to relax me, lips came to my mouth. A playful tongue engaged, but I did not want to play. Ineededhim to fuck his way inside me, rooted deep as he could go.
Clawing his ass, I tried to pull him into the cradle of my hips.
And was denied.
His mouth moving over mine, he tormented me soundly, ignoring my piercing talons, undulating just enough that I didn’t start snarling in frustration.
Another segment stretched my seam, tears coming to my eyes that he would not just rip through whatever barrier kept him out.
Angling my hips as if that might ease the pressure, I whined, “Why isn’t the plug moving?”
Another segment popped past my stretched slit, my breath hitching as I felt him snake his tip further than any plug might be. It was then I realized, Cyderial was not entering the channel where he filled me to satiate my addiction.
He was penetrating me somewhere entirely new.
Grunting, he panted from the effort not to shove deep. “The plug stays. You’ll need your fluids to make the slick required to ease me through the passage where I am needed.”
That night on his office floor, he had moved his cock into so many parts of my belly, stroking himself and puffing me up with his fluids. It had felt so similar to this, so unyielding.
How many hours had it taken him to do whatever he had done to push his sperm into so many different channels? Much of the memory was cloudy, intercourse since different.
This was not regular sex. His worming dick was working to help me, squirming through a dripping passage that opened specifically for estrous.
I could be plugged, fucked, and seeded all at the same time.
But I had no idea how to make the room.
It was impossible to relax, my body straining as it was, but I abandoned his ass to stroke my belly between us as he had done that night. Finding his cock bloated up by my swollen internal pocket, I stroked him through my flesh—through layers of muscle and unknown reproductive organs—and was rewarded with a deep moan from the male as he gained another inch.
That cock within me dared stretch long under my hand, his girth lessening as his spear dug somewhere new.
Slick squirted from me in a wave that left me swearing.
Another segment worked past my swollen lower lips.
Retracting his cock, he grew fat again, girthy to stretch me until I was wriggling from discomfort and climaxing all at once.
But it wasn’t a true climax. Another half-lived release brought only more sensation and greater building pleasure in the pain.
I could die this way, unsatiated and ripped in half where tender tissues would only allow him to travel so far.
