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“Whatever you wish, milady,” you offer, standing straight and sweating and keeping your head fixed in place as Alcina circles around you.
She whispers something into your ear, something so scandalous you shan’t even think the words back to yourself. But it makes you stiffen, makes heat crawl up your face. Her fingers linger on the back of your neck. There’s a smile on her face, expectant, almost tender if you didn’t know how hungry she really was. There are sharp teeth behind those slick red lips.
“Yes, Mommy,” you stammer hotly after a time, quiet and embarrassed.
Alcina makes a low sound of approval in her throat. Her fingertips scrape against the back of your skull as she takes her leave, reclining on a massive fainting couch that must have been built just for a woman of her proportions. It doesn’t so much as creak under her weight. She leans back and groans, low and throaty, as something pops in her back. You wince in sympathy. She must be so strong, to carry herself so gracefully with such a size, and you can only imagine the strain it puts on her. Her bathrobe threatens to fall to the wayside as she stretches. Underneath, you catch a glimpse of flesh and fabric, the curve of her breast. You swallow, hard.
“Come here,” commands Lady Dimitrescu. She beckons with a finger. You can do nothing but submit.
She pats the fabric at her side, an invitation to hop up onto the couch with her. It’s a bit of a struggle, but you manage. Her body leaves you little room beside her, but she coaxes you into position, nestling you flush against her body with a firm hand. Your head rests against the swell of her chest. It rises and falls with each of her breaths, and it is so soft and so, so warm. You shiver, and you know she feels it, what with your back pressed tightly against her belly. When you are aligned to her satisfaction, she hums, and she holds you close with an arm around you. Like a glorified hot water bottle.
You will gladly perform that service for her, you think dizzily. This must be what heaven feels like - being buried in a giant woman’s plush body, manhandled and nuzzled. So be it.
A strong hand comes to rest on your head. It strokes your hair, gentle but firm. You lean into it, eyes drifting shut, and you allow her to pet you like a fond owner does a housecat. Alcina murmurs sweet words about your hair into the base of your scalp, and you preen, and you thank her in such a small, tender voice that it shames you. But you can’t help it - you are so small, so vulnerable, and you feel so at ease in her arms that those instinctive barriers melt away.
Her hand slips to your jaw, and you make a sound as she thumbs at the side of your neck.
“Good boy,” she says, voice low and warm.
Alcina turns you in her arms, shifting you with an iron grip until you’re facing her. She holds you close in one arm while pressing your head to her chest with the other. You gasp, taking in a deep breath of her scent through your nose, and she smells powdery and spicy and musky. It’s strong where she’s got your face crushed between her breasts. And it makes heat race through your veins.
“My good boy. I've been quite lonely,” Alcina croons. You don’t know what to do with your hands, but all that pale flesh spilling from her bathrobe is too tempting, so you keep them pressed firmly against your chest. “My bed has been so cold. Stay with me.”
You make a choked noise into her chest. “Yes, Mommy,” you whisper.
“Hmm?” She draws back and angles your face up with a hand. “Louder, boy.”
“Yes, Mommy,” you say, louder. Forced to look directly into her eyes. She smiles at you.
“Come here,” she tells you again.
This time, she pulls aside the fabric of her robes, and she exposes— everything, everything above the waist, breasts heavy and swollen and unspeakably massive. Being with child had only worsened matters, softening her sharp features and engorging her in so many of the areas she already shone. Now, Lady Dimitrescu is a sumptuous feast, and her bare tits loom next to your face as she purrs, “My chest is so sore, boy. Let me teach you how to comfort me.”
She guides your mouth to a nipple, pink and shiny. You latch on desperately. No woman has ever lain with you like this before, let you see or touch such a thing before, and she wants to— to teach you? As if she knows that you’re… inexperienced. That this is something you only imagined in your wildest dreams. Her flesh is so hot against your face, her nipple stiffening against your tongue.
“Suck.”
It’s an order, delivered with her hand pressed against the back of your head. Keeping you cradled in place. You moan, helpless, and seal your lips around her breast. It’s larger than your head, and its weight rests gently upon your face as you do as your Lady commands, silken and oh so warm. Alcina makes a quiet, pleased sound.
“Good boy.”
You suck, and you take as much of her breast into your mouth as you can. It makes you feel so small - she’s massive, dwarfing you and any other man, and hands the size of dinner plates are stroking your sides while you suckle at her chest. You whimper involuntarily. There’s so much of her around you, warm and inviting, and the itch to touch grows too strong. Better to wrap your arms around the woman attempting to breastfeed you than to continue pretending otherwise. Her other breast looms nearby, and you tentatively place a palm upon it. Alcina murmurs encouragingly.
The weight of her feels incredible on your face, the flesh like satin on your tongue, and you close your eyes and suck her breast while she presses you firmly into place. You lap at her nipple, and Alcina moans and rocks forward into you.
“You’re doing so good for me,” she lilts, “my good boy,” and you moan against her in turn.
Your skin burns. You want her to touch, to stroke lower than just your pretty hair. You want her to feel where you’re pressed against the front of your undergarments, achingly hard. You wear the same as all the other maidens, at her request, and the ladies like to wear these tight things that make situations like these harder to ignore. They weren’t designed for things like your Lady, in all her swollen grace, singing praises to you while you suckle at her breast and squeeze the other in your impotently small hand. Your mouth draws back wetly, and you suck in a deep breath before diving back in for more. Another moan tears out of you.
“Mommy,” you whine around her tits. Hot shame roars up the back of your neck.
She groans and shoves you closer. “Good.”
You’re jammed so tightly against her that it dizzies you, plump flesh enveloping your arms and legs. Her stomach, distended with child, presses against your entire torso and lower body, and your cock twitches angrily against its hot, taut surface. She can feel you. You know, because she chuckles darkly at you, and shifts her belly up into it.
You press her nipple between your tongue and the roof of your mouth, and you taste something sweet. A bead of milk.
“That’s it,” Alcina instructs, voice breaking on a moan. Her chest heaves, and the sight of it drives you to whine. “You’re good at this…”
You groan and draw her into your mouth again. You want to taste her again - she must be aching, so full of milk, and you’ve got the knack of it now. You grab her massive breast in both hands and squeeze while suckling at her nipple, and you draw forth another bead of milk. And another. You’ve never tasted something so sweet. It’s otherworldly, the milk of a superhuman vampire laden with some kind of mutant fruit, and she wants you to taste it. You suckle harder, and you taste a fiercer spurt of it, and she groans and clutches you all the harder to her breast.
You ache under your skirts. You want her to touch you. Slide that gargantuan hand underneath them and feel where you’re dripping in your undergarments. But you don’t know how to ask, and certainly not without humiliating yourself all the further. So you rut slowly against her big belly, not knowing what lies inside of it but knowing that she makes an unearthly vision, right now, of fertility and femininity. Like a goddess. Her thighs have been fattened, her breasts swollen, her belly ripe with unknowable horrors, round and huge even for a woman nearly ten feet tall. And she wants to play mother to you, her loyal manservant, just for a moment. She wants to nurse you and train you and teach you to worship her.
You’ve heard stories like this before. You assumed they were filth. But Lady Alcina always thought you were beautiful, with long, dark curls and cowlike eyes and a body that was so inviting for her to sink her teeth into. She drew you back to her bed, again and again, as her belly grew and her body changed and her desires for simple warmth morphed into something more… ravenous. And now, for once, she feeds you. She cradles you in her arms and rubs your belly with a large yet delicate hand. She presses her breasts into your face. And she whispers heretical, seductive things to you. How good you are. How much she loves her sweet baby boy. You’ve seen the remains of her other maidens enough to know how far that love stretches.
But here, now? Squeezed between her arms and chest and belly while she nurses you and feeds you sweet nothings? You want nothing more than to please her. Nothing more than to deserve this warmth and comfort. You want to suck her dry. She must be so sore, and you could… you could massage her. Feel her. Rub circles into her belly and watch it shift under your fingers. Spread her legs and massage her there, rubbing circles into that thatch of dark curls—
You twitch. Alcina hums. Her eyes, heavy and lidded, look at you with something approaching adoration. But you know your Lady well. There’s something darker there, too. A singular fixation, like a spider’s on its web. She holds you close, palm spanning the width of your soft belly. Your soft chest. Your Lady’s made you soft and sweet, hard angles worn down and flesh settling around a form that has never grown accustomed to it. Like a hog for the slaughter. But you like the way she looks at you and your soft spots, love handles and breasts unbefitting of a boy like you. Says she likes the way it tastes. And you’d do anything for a woman who looks at you, something not quite woman, not quite man, with saliva pooling in the corner of her mouth.
Anything. Including this. Letting her overwhelm you with her body, cutting off your airways when she squeezes you tightly to her. You gasp for air when she relaxes her grip. Your lower body throbs.
“Mommy, please,” you beg, mindless. You just— you want, and you don’t know how to express what you want, but you want her and you love her and she’s only given you a specific vocabulary to express yourself with and you crave something, something involving hot flesh and your Lady and you’ll take whatever she’s willing to give.
And yet you find yourself sucking at her breast again anyway, head spinning from lack of air. You would do anything to worship her like this. You may never get the opportunity again. So you’re going to bury yourself in her until you pass out, if need be, just to make her feel good and relieve her of the pressure. Just to taste her. To imprint the feeling of her into your sense memory. Any other man would do the same. Her dark hair, her creamy skin, her throaty voice and heavy breasts and sharp, sharp teeth - you can’t believe how lucky you are to service her.
Alcina takes pity on you and smiles. “My good boy,” she croons, “do you want to help me?”
You nod furiously where you’re shoved against her chest.
“Good. Between my legs.” She’s so forceful and blunt. Your face blisters, assuredly red. But you do as she instructs, parting from her nipple to edge around the couch and sit where you’re told.
Alcina parts her legs to make way for you. You stare, wide-eyed, as thighs the size of redwoods spread apart to offer a tantalizingly dark view between them. Her bathrobe still clings to her massive belly and conceals her upper thighs. The darkness there is so tempting, you get lost in thought staring it down, and your Lady’s voice fades in as if through cotton.
“Boy. The oil.” Cold impatience lines her words.
“Oh! Of course, mila—” You catch yourself mid-sentence and force yourself to stop. The sight of those expectant yellow eyes, above the hill of her belly and the valley of her legs, makes you sweat as you fumble for the right thing to say. “M-Mommy. I’ll fetch it for you…”
She gestures to the end table next to the couch, atop which sits a collection of glass bottles and ceramic pots. Small to her, you realize, but not to you, as you pick up a mulberry-tinted bottle with an ornate wrought iron enclosure. The contents move with a viscosity that suggests one of her many oils. Lady Dimitrescu values her personal care, all the maidens come to know that well, and it would hardly be the first time she’s commandeered a massage from them. This would be the first, however, that she’s ordered from you. On her heaving belly. At least, that’s where you assume, since she shrugs off the robe entirely to reveal a broad expansive of dusty white skin and leans back with her hands on her stomach. All the blood in your body seems to pulse at once.
You have to be patient. You’re sure she’ll reward you for being good. You’re her favorite. That’s why she trusts you with this. Her other maidens aren’t here, drizzling a floral oil onto their master’s skin, watching it spill down her broad curves. They don’t get to touch. You do, and you can’t tamp down the little moan that spills out of you when you place your palms on Alcina’s massive belly at last. Her skin is so taut and warm, her flesh soft and giving, and she lets out a quiet noise of her own. Your little hands feel so emasculated by the sheer size of her. You spread the oil in a thin, even coat over her skin, her gravid stomach and her large, dangling breasts. Alcina is a feast for sore eyes, you think, head spinning. A goddess. A living Venus statue, gargantuan and bulging and fertile.
“Is it good?” you blurt out, your hands atop the peak of her stomach.
“So good,” Alcina purrs. “Mommy needed a massage. She’s had a long day.”
You smile. Good. You like being good for her. You’re doing your best, ignoring yourself trapped in your undergarments while you rub the giant pregnant woman before you. She looks so luxurious, covered in oil all the way from her chest to her ankles. Below the curve of her belly, a dark thatch of hair shines wetly of its own accord, obscuring what lies beneath it. You want to find out. But you have to be good.
You massage her breasts, fingers gentle on the tender, reddened skin of her nipples, and she groans quietly. Her eyes flutter shut. There’s so much for you to touch, so much soft skin and squeezable flesh. It’s sensory heaven. And she’s just— just letting you do this. Letting her sick little boy cop a feel of his pretty mommy. She’s only just now started this game, but you’re already entranced by it, mental pathways adjusting to the errata of this new relationship. It almost feels natural. She’s so large, so imposing, you want to think of the two of you that way. Her little boy.
Maybe you always have.
Alcina leans back on her elbows, baring the curve of her chest and neck. Your breath comes harder through your mouth, despite your best efforts to meter it. You feel as desperate and duped by hormones as a dog in heat, panting with it, and in your dizziest moments, you’re almost convinced you can smell them on her. Something deeper than that tart, musky smell you catch as you massage the underside of her stomach. It has to be. No mortal woman has captivated you so intensely.
Your fingers skirt the inside of her thighs, where the texture of her skin changes to something moister and warmer. Something dangerous. They’re wider around than you, even, and your mouth waters at the sight of all that unblemished skin. Your hands tremble on her.
“That's it,” she tells you as you approach her ankles.
Even her feet look graceful and delicate, in spite of the fact that you’ve seen her stomp men’s heads into the ground more than once. They’re soft, though clearly wanting for some moisturizer where her heeled shoes chafe the back of her ankles. You work the area with care. You’ve always had an attention for detail, and that, you think, is why she’s truly fond of you. You don’t make work. You attend to needs before others realize they’re needed. You remember how much honey goes into your Lady’s favorite drink. What to order from the patisserie when she’s expecting visitors. How to prepare the soup she ate as a girl. The other maidens may attend to her, but you take care of her.
Once you’ve finished working your thumbs into her arches, she flexes her toes and looks upon your work. She shines like she’s fresh out of the bath, and her eyelids droop, clearly relaxed.
“I haven’t had somebody know how to work out that knot in decades,” Alcina bemoans. She turns her gaze to you. A devious smile curls her lip. “You make mommy feel very good. Do you want to keep making her feel good?”
You nod, hasty and eager.
She reaches down to part that thicket of hair with her fingers, revealing slick flesh. Her— her clitoris, you realize. It’s so big. Even for a woman of her stature, it stands at attention, engorged and red and easily the size of your fist. And beneath it… You shiver.
She doesn’t have to tell you twice. Or even once. You get to your knees and cup her oversized flesh in your hands, marveling at the feel of it. It throbs in time with her heartbeat, and twitches when you rub the shiny surface of the head. Your underwear is going to be ruined, you realize distantly. It’s stretched beyond belief. Dampened all the way down the front. You wrench your eyes shut for a brief moment, overcome by a hot wave of— something. Something frightening.
One palm rubs wide circles into her clit, and the other wanders downward, probing blindly into that wet heat. “Mommy,” you ask her, voice shaking with nerves unlike any other, “can I? Do you want me to?”
“Do it,” she demands. She leans forward on her arms, a sudden and intense focus to her gaze. “I need it.” You search her eyes, frantic, and choose to believe you see something there: she needs you. And you will do whatever she needs.
Your hand probes further, pushing forward and feeling where her flesh gives way. First with fingers, and then, when that proves to be inadequate, the entire hand. She makes a low noise, and you take it as a good sign. Heat climbs up your face as you lean further into her, and soon you find yourself buried elbow-deep inside of Alcina. You clench your hand into a fist inside of her, groaning at the resistance from her walls. That low noise gets louder.
“Good boy,” she whispers quickly. “Good boy.”
Slowly, you retract your arm, having to fight against the impossibly tight grip of that wet muscle around you. And then you push it back in again. She’s so large that she takes you easily, and yet she clenches around your every move as if trying to crush your arm inside of her. Oh, God. Something about that makes you ache between your legs in the most pleasant, humiliating way.
You build up a rhythm, steady but slow. Slow enough that you can rub her from the outside at the same time. That you can mouth at her and listen to how her low whine changes in pitch. Down here, it’s impossible to see her face, eclipsed by her belly, but you can hear her and you can see her shake with each firm motion of your fist inside of her and that is good enough. More than good enough. Each thrust punches a moan out of your Lady. Your useless little cock might not be enough to satisfy her, no, but that doesn’t mean you can’t help her with other means. And each motion of your fist in and out of her makes you throb in time with it. It’s just like you’re having her, anyway. Like you’re pistoning your hips and filling her up.
Impossible for any man your size. She must have to make do.
“Oh, God,” you whine of your own volition, lips brushing against her with each word. She groans so low and deep and she tightens, again. It prompts you to push and pull with greater urgency.
“More.”
It doesn’t occur to you to disobey. Wet, slick, obscene sounds fill the air until it’s fit to burst, the humidity clinging to your skin. Her voice takes on a different pitch, climbing and climbing, louder and louder as your muscles burn with the effort of fucking her - your face burns at the thought of such vulgar terminology, but what else would one call it? She moans like a wounded animal, guttural and hoarse. Her breasts heave with each firm thrust. Your fist fucks her as good as any cock could ever hope to, least of all yours.
“More!”
Sweat drips down your forehead. You’re elbow-deep in the welcoming embrace of her insides, wishing that you were bigger, stronger. Better. But Alcina meets you as you push into her, rocking her hips down into you, and she tenses around you in waves. You don’t know how you know it, but she’s close. You can give this to her.
Your lips meet the hard, red bud before you. You lave it with attention as best you can without losing speed. She tastes tart but clean, with an edge of salt on your tongue, and you can feel her pulse pounding against your mouth.
“Good boy,” she pants, “oh, you are so good, so, so good— Ah!"
You hear it just before it happens - her sharp nails tear into the fabric of her recliner. Then she clenches her muscles around you so tightly that you’re bound in place, unable to so much as wiggle your fingers, and her thighs do the same, crushing you between them. She grunts once, twice, riding the waves. All you can do is kneel there, helpless.
Your ribs hurt, but you feel so warm, surrounded by soft flesh on all sides, that you can hardly bring yourself to care. You’ve done it. You’ve satisfied your master.
“Please, milady,” you whisper, afraid to break the silence. Your useless thing twitches in agony, begging for release. “Let me, let me—”
Alcina rumbles, a pleasured sound of acquiescence. You strip yourself of your underthings so quickly that it’s a miracle you don’t rip them.
Your penis springs free, and it fits cleanly inside your palm, a neutral, non-threatening shape. No woman would bed you with a manhood like this, or so you’ve heard. Your Lady is a marvel, however, defying so many of man’s natural laws with her very being. Why should this be any different? And so you press it against her skin, into her body. Between those large, fleshy lips.
It slides in so easily. She must hardly be able to feel it at all, but she makes a noise of approval, and so you continue, pressing your whole body against hot, slick flesh. She threatens to subsume you like this. Thankfully, some long-dormant instinct unfurls itself within you, a mating drive you’d long since left for dead, and you thrust your hips in weak, aborted jerks. Her wetness ruins your skirts, but you can hardly care.
“Mommy, it feels so good,” you moan, unbidden.
She does not need to remind you any longer. The word has seared itself on the inside of your brain, a permanent fixture from this moment on. Even just thinking it makes you twitch with pleasure. You couldn’t dream of doing something this filthy with your own kin, had never entertained thoughts of this nature and felt them heretical. But she surpasses all your heuristics for motherhood. She’s more than any mortal mother: she is the embodiment of procreation, the Platonic ideal of Mother, a feast for a desperate, lonely man-thing still at the mercy of his instincts. The instinct to rut. The instinct to breed.
You abruptly come with a cry and fall limp. Alcina murmurs something that you fail to comprehend, and then she strokes your hair, wordlessly praising you.
After a long moment, you withdraw yourself. There’s no visible evidence that you were there, not so much as a trickle of your own fluids among the sticky mess. No matter. The satisfaction that wells up within you is deep and unabating. Another man-thing may have filled her belly before you, but you are the one she allows to suckle and bathe her. To please her. That is your duty, and you intend to fulfill it to the best of your ability.
“Clean me, boy.” Her voice, a gravelly, satisfied rumble, startles you from your reverie. She then spreads her legs impatiently.
Now, it would seem that your duty is to take care of the mess you’ve made, and you scramble for fresh towels, hoping they retain some of their warmth. Nothing but the best for your mistress.