9. Lyric
Lyric
P ots and pans clanging together. Soft Scottish murmuring. Searing meat perfuming the air.
I smile to myself. I could get used to this life.
Cool air pricks at my skin, and I sigh as I push off the bed. Grabbing my robe, I slide it over my arms as I make my way to the bathroom.
Everything has changed so much in the last couple days. I never thought this could be my life, but here we are. And honestly? I couldn’t be happier.
I know I don’t know Ian all that well—okay, I don’t know him at all. But that doesn’t matter, does it? I can get to know him. He might not even be around much longer…
A pang shoots through my heart at the thought of him gone. I’ll miss him, of course. But this longing, this ache, feels like something more than that.
He’s in the other room, but I feel panicky because I can’t see him. Because he’s not with me. What will happen to me when he disappears?
No, not when. If. Because it might not happen.
It can’t happen.
Story said I needed his baby batter to make him stay forever, and I’ve had it—I’ve had a lot of it. He can’t go anywhere.
Something crashes, then Ian shouts, and all my thoughts fly out of my head. I rush through the house toward the kitchen.
“Ian!” I shout, watching as flames engulf the stove. “What happened?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy running around, arms flailing and eyes wide, to focus on speaking. I can’t blame him. Fire is terrifying.
I snatch the fire extinguisher from the cabinet under the sink, aim it at the stove, and spray. White powder erupts from the nozzle and coats every surface.
I feel Ian freeze behind me. His breathing is labored but distant.
“It’s alright,” I sigh, turning around.
My stomach plummets as I stare at the faded man before me.
Faded .
He’s see-through. Like a ghost.
Oh, fuck.
“What’s wrong with you?” I cry, dropping the metal canister to the ground. Reaching out, my fingers brush along his skin. It’s cool and rough, but different. He’s not whole. He’s not… “You can’t disappear. No. Please. You can’t?—”
How do I fix this? What do I do?
“Jizz,” I breathe. “I need more jizz.”
I let my robe fall to the floor, loving the way his ghostly eyes heat. Resting my hand on the center of his chest, I gently guide him backward toward the counter.
He grips the edges as I drop to my knees before him. “Naked,” I demand, reaching for the waistband of his new sweatpants. “Mommy needs to milk you.”
He wastes no time shucking the clothes, letting them pool on the ground in a heap. His manhood is already hard and throbbing as I wrap my hand around it.
My lips meet his velvety cockhead, and I suckle on it, groaning at the hot, salty precum immediately coating my tongue. He’s as desperate for this as I am.
I open my mouth as wide as I can, taking him deep. A harsh gag comes from me, and thick mucus coats my throat as I pull back before slamming my mouth forward again. I need him deeper. I need him in me.
My eyes flick up to him, finding him gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles are white. I can’t stand the look on his face. It’s making my kitty purr.
“Mommy needs you to tongue-fuck her after this,” I coo, stroking his thick shaft. “I need you to eat my cunny until I come all over that pretty face of yours.”
“Okay,” he breathes. I grin as I take him as deep as I can again, violently gagging at the invasion. “Whatever ye want.”
“Mommy,” I say, using my other hand to cup his freshly smoothed nut sac. His breath hitches as my grip tightens. “Say it.”
“ Mommy ,” he groans, his head falling back. “Christ.”
I double down on my efforts, stroking, twisting, choking, drooling on that glorious yogurt canon. I’m a crazed woman—an addict. I’m more than desperate for his delicious man gravy.
I yearn for it.
It’s my lifeblood.
But he’s taking too long to give it to me, and with each passing second, he’s becoming more and more ghostly.
With an irritated growl, I slide off his flesh impaler and glare up at him. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m disgruntled. He’s too lost in the bliss of having my hot mouth around his climax popsicle.
Getting to my feet, I point at him. “Turn around and spread your asscheeks.” Robotically, he does as he’s told.
Moving to the fridge, I crouch and look through my vegetable drawer. I have to have something in here that’ll stimulate that little puckered hole of his.
Ah, a carrot. Perfect.
I grab the bottle of olive oil from the counter before making my way to him again. His fingertips are white from gripping his meaty cheeks so tightly, his little bootyhole quivering with anticipation.
Pouring the oil over his crack, I watch it slide down his body, glazing his hole and balls. I give the carrot a handy with the oil, slicking it up for good measure before pressing the thick end against his entrance.
His body stiffens, but I rest my oily hand on his back. “You’re okay,” I soothe. “You loved when Mommy played with your chocolate channel. You’ll love it now, too. Just relax and breathe for me.”
He takes a deep breath as I work the carrot inside his bowels. I fuck him slow and deep with it, watching the orange veggie slide in and out of him at an agonizingly erotic pace.
“It’s so much,” he grunts, his flesh overflowing between his thick fingers. “It’s so big.”
“You love it, don’t you, snookums?”
His only response is a long, low grunt. I move my arm faster, fucking him harder. With a loud cry, his hands fly to the counter to brace himself. I stop holding back, slamming into him with the thick carrot.
“Tell me how much you love Mommy’s carrot stick fucking your tight little dookie hole,” I demand. His body trembles, but I don’t slow down.
He screams louder, his voice echoing off the walls. That won’t do. My neighbors might hear him and think someone is getting murdered.
Leaving the carrot in his Hershey highway, I grab a banana from the fruit bowl beside him. Peeling it, I rip it in half, order him to open his mouth, and stuff it inside.
“Leave that there,” I tell him. “And stay quiet.”
I spin him around and drop back to my knees. Reaching around, I grip the end of the carrot and go back to fucking his poop chute. Once his breathing is ragged and he’s teetering on the edge, I turn him around.
The mashed banana dribbles from the corners of his mouth as he watches me engulf his pork sword down my throat again. His body trembles, and I know it’s so close. His God rod is nice and thick, the veins pumping and cum bubbling in his sac.
Give it to me, I mentally demand. And it’s like he can hear me because his head falls back and he lets out a roar. His splooge shoots out, painting my mouth and throat white. Distantly, there’s a thud , and when I glance that direction, I see the carrot stick has flown clear across the room from the force of his ejaculation.
I don’t swallow yet, instead rolling the nectar of the Gods around in my mouth, savoring it. He stares down at me, his bare chest heaving. He crooks his finger, and I hesitate before getting to my feet.
With uncharacteristic dominance, he grips my hair, tilts my head back, puckers his lips, and pushes the mushy banana from the tiny hole. It drips into my mouth, mixing with his spunk.
It’s banana man milk. My new favorite treat.
I swish it around in my mouth, the fruit/cum mixture turning into the best kind of smoothie before I swallow it. It fills my belly, satiating me in a way I’ve never felt before.
His color begins coming back, but not enough. He’s still fading.
Fuck.