CHAPTER 4
SYLVUS
By the stars, she’s fucking gorgeous.
Tits swollen, hanging heavy ahead of her soft belly and thighs, rippling where every band of silk digs in…
I want to sink my fingers, my teeth, into every inch of her.
But if I touch her, I’ll lose control. I’ll be the one responsible for extending her transformation, making it painful. She might actually like that, but I can’t let it happen. It’s a matter of professional pride.
I’m not usually like this. I’m usually impartial, detached, clinical.
This is my job, after all: preparing willing applicants to become milking pets.
We take finding a good match as seriously as the ICSS does, albeit for quite different reasons.
Our version of a one-star review is an escaped pet that draws the might and ire of the ICSS slamming down on our little operation.
But as long as everybody’s happy—pets and owners alike—we continue to fly under the radar.
Most compatible humans already have temperaments suited to being good pets. They tend to be submissive, trusting. Many already have lactation fetishes and they relish the transformation.
But this one…
Andromeda…
With her wild, curly hair and those cutting green eyes…
She’s another kind of creature entirely.
One that’s dangerously fun.
When she parted her legs and her scent hit me—sweet and spiced like candied fruit—I almost devoured her.
When the other hucows transform, it’s a blissful, peaceful process. Lots of happy sighs.
But Andromeda is having a revelation.
Her eyes roll back. She moans with every breath. Slick arousal drips between her legs, and she trembles and shudders.
The last band of silk across her breasts covers her nipples, holding back the milk that swells her skin, making it taut and round.
Her areolas show around the edges, puffy and dark pink. So, so close to being ready…
My mouth waters. My venom glands throb eagerly, and the sweet taste fills my mouth.
“Please,” she begs, sweat-damp curls sticking to her face. “Please, they’re so full…”
“Soon, little cow. If I drain you now, I’ll hurt you.” I say it to remind myself.
“I don’t care,” she moans, head lolling. “It already hurts.”
“It’ll hurt more.”
“I don’t care!” Her sobs jostle her breasts, worsening her plight. “Please… just milk me already… fuck…”
I lean close to her cheek, taking a deep breath of that incredible scent. Heat radiates from her. “But it’s so fun to listen to you beg…”
She shudders with a guttural moan.
Thrill rises in my chest. “So responsive to my venom…”
“Please! I’m so full…”
“Ah-ah…”
“I need it… please…”
“You need patience.”
“Sylvus!”
My breath catches as the sound of my name, turned to a desperate plea on her lips, goes straight to my glands.
Warmth pulses through my abdomen. My legs slide reflexively over each other, clicking and vibrating with the mating rattle.
I force them to still, clinging to the webbing with my toes to keep them in place.
“Andromeda…”
“Why won’t you touch me?” she sobs, hormones suddenly shifting toward distress. “Why don’t you want me…”
My body snaps forward, and I grab her face, gripping it tight.
Her green eyes shine up at me, full of relief as she leans into my rough touch.
My breath shakes. “Let me assure you, Andromeda. I want you far more than I should. You feel this way because of the hormones of the transformation. It will pass.”
But she’s not listening to me. With surprising strength, she twists her head and gets my thumb in her mouth, closing and sucking.
I tighten my grip on my web even as my legs strain against it. My body tenses in a shuddering wave.
I lean closer to her neck, where her skin is still red with the crescent shape of my mark. I could bite her again… in this state, she’d be mine forever.
I close my eyes to block out her pleading expression.
My pedipalps, leg-like limbs usually tucked peacefully at the base of my humanoid torso, knead and drip from the slits in their smooth ends, aching for the heat of her cunt.
I never quite understood why other Arthropoids get so attached to their pets. I see the general appeal, of course, but I never had a problem passing them on. Never felt my pedipalps stir.
Until now.
Her cunt is so close, it would be so easy to slice through the silk…
I force deep breaths as clear, hot fluid drools down the front of my Arachnoid thorax.
She sucks my thumb deeper, tongue sliding along my palm.
At least having something in her mouth seems to have calmed her down.
She’s nearly ready.
I carefully lower a hand to the soft, taut skin of her breast.
Andromeda moans and whimpers.
I hook a finger under the silk binding her breasts. The silk releases and gently falls away.
Andromeda gives a muffled scream and bites down hard on my finger.
I shudder at the pain, pedipalps vibrating. She’s not the only masochist here.
Her heavy breath washes over my hand as she adjusts to the full weight of her breasts, which hang low and heavy and glorious.
I slide a leg under her just in time for a droplet of hot, creamy milk to splash against my chitin. She moans into my hand, relaxing, teeth releasing my thumb. As her head starts to hang, I quickly weave a sling for her to lean into.
“You’re ready,” I say quietly. “Let me go get the equipment.”
I slip away, quickly fetching the milking machine, ignoring how my abdomen aches and pulses. Assembling the equipment is second nature, which is good, because I’m not thinking the most clearly right now.
I soon press the milking attachment to Andromeda’s breast. Usually, that’s met with a sigh of relief.
But Andromeda recoils with pain.
“I hardly touched you,” I murmur, more confused than defensive. Maybe something’s wrong with the equipment. I test every attachment and setting, then press the soft suction attachment to my own pectoral. The pressure is the same as always.
I touch it to Andromeda’s skin, and her brow knits, groaning.
“You’ve very sensitive right now,” I soothe. “Give it a moment. You’ll adjust.”
Andromeda nods into the sling, jaw tensing.
I apply both attachments, and milk begins to flow. She should be relieved. But she’s silent, breathing deliberately. Then a low, quiet whimper forms in her throat.
“Does it still hurt?”
She nods.
“How badly?”
Her jaw tightens, determined. A shudder runs through her, and another whimper. “Bad,” she admits, and I can tell every cell in her body resists saying it aloud.
“Something’s wrong.” I immediately turn off the milking machine and remove the attachments.
She stabilizes, moaning quietly. “What’s wrong?” She tries and fails to hide her worry. For a human as feisty as Andromeda, this hormonal state must feel extremely vulnerable.
I look down at the milking attachment, then set it aside. “Maybe… not wrong. Just… different.”
I tuck my legs and lower down until my head is just below hers. “I’m going to milk you now, alright?”
“Please,” she gasps. “Please, I’m so full…”
I lower further until I can reach down for her hard, swollen nipples. I brush one with the lightest touch—and hot milk spurts out over my hand.
Now Andromeda gives a lowing moan of relief. She’s extremely sensitive. Even the gentlest machine was far too much for her.
I return my fingertip to her nipple, brushing the tip with a slow, gentle circle, rewarded with another gush of milk.
The silk in this room is hydrophobic and canted to drain into a collection basin for exactly this reason.
Usually, it just makes sure I don’t lose precious milk when things get messy.
Today, it’ll likely provide for Andromeda’s full milking.
“Oh my fucking god,” Andromeda moans, milk streaming steadily under my gentle touch. Her breath heaves with relief, each movement sending a thicker spurt pouring out. The other breast lets out a small, steady stream, and I reach over to give it the same treatment.
Andromeda gasps and writhes.
“Too much?” I ask.
She whimpers, beyond words.
“Too much. Alright. We do this one at a time.” And at this rate, it’s going to take a while.
Now, my free hand is covered in thick, creamy milk. If I’m going to be here for a while, it wouldn’t hurt to start grading her production…
Still working her closer nipple, I press my fingers to my tongue.
It’s perfect. Better than perfect. The grading scale doesn’t go high enough. I moan as I cram my fingers into my mouth, tongue sliding along my skin to gather every drop. When my hand is clean, I hold it under the stream, bringing another palmful of milk to my mouth.
Every handful draws me closer and closer to the source.
Drool and milk run down my chin.
Andromeda’s moans of relief spur me on.
She’ll have no way of knowing this isn’t how it’s usually done…
And with that thought, my inner resistance melts, and I close my mouth around her nipple.
Milk floods my mouth, and I moan in pleasure. Arachnoids have an especially strong craving for milk—most of our natural diet is liquid to begin with.
I drink her down, and she moans with pleasure.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes—oh god… Oh, I’m going to… I’m going to…”
I yank myself back in the nick of time. Andromeda shakes at the edge of orgasm, milk gushing from both breasts.
“You fucking asshole!”
“You can’t cum yet,” I pant, as frustrated as she is. I tug on my threads to pull her higher so I don’t have to crouch.
“You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do!”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
She fumes at me. Good. I need her back down from the edge.
I switch to her other breast, earning another moan of relief. My palms slide along her stretched skin, but I don’t dare touch her anywhere else.
The first orgasm after transformation causes extreme sensitivity. The pain of milking or of her full breasts would be equally excruciating. I haven’t seen it happen, but I’ve heard of cases where it’s bad enough to cause shock and permanent neural damage.