Shortstack Kirlia Have Rights?

BY : Tastatura
Category: Pokemon > General
Dragon prints: 53121
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This is a fictional story. I do not own Pokemon. I make no money from writing this. Any resemblance to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. Love your pal Jesus.

*Special thanks go out to a good friend of mine without whom I would not have been able to write them. Much of the story’s content is owed to their input and ideas, for which I am extremely grateful


The world of Pokemon is a world with an unstated predilection for the status quo. Whether battling with Pokemon, breeding Pokemon, or researching Pokemon, or some other job that the existence of Pokemon facilitates, niggas get up every day and do more or less the same shit that they did the previous day. Major events do draw global attention from time to time, but for the most part, paradigm shifts—or more simply, ‘change’—rarely succeed in overwhelming the world’s assiduous commitment to its norms.


In this sense, the fictional world is not unlike one that could exist in reality. One would need to discount the hundreds of species of fantasy creatures and lack of wars waged with said fantasy creatures, but it’s basically the same shit at the end of the day.


Parallels of this sort are rarely a one way street; it is not impossible to imagine the world of Pokemon as having many more genuine similarities with reality than is immediately apparent.


Take for example the concept of time. With its passage comes inevitable change, and with this change the birth of individuals who come to regard the changed world as the norm rather than a deviation from what was or ought to’ve been. No matter how seemingly stable, the passage of enough time within the world of Pokemon would likely leave it as a different place than it is as present.


Alright, I’m going to be straight with you: I was going to continue with this pattern of introduction for a little while longer, but I’m sitting here lamenting how gay it is, so let me just do this instead.


Say Pokemon training escalates to some wild, indubitable shit. What was once a wholesome profession for niggas to get into whenever they wanted becomes a cut-throat line of work predicated on min-maxing, survival of the fittest, and exploitation of the most consistent and effective strategies possible.


You know, just like how it is in reality.


To keep up, Pokemon trainers would come to regard their partners not as friends or tools, but purely as a means to an end. In particular, the vast majority would forgo the process of catching them at random, and would instead take to the process of breeding species with the traits that they desire through trial and error before choosing one to invest time into.


You know, just like how it is in reality.


Regarding the majority of Pokemon species, following such a methodology would require time. Barring the use of artificial incubators for the most prominent species, one interested in training would have no choice but to wait for the birth of an ideal female species, and wait for said species to be bred by a sufficiently ideal male.


Change is some wild shit, though.


As the world of Pokemon seems to lack a formal economy, let’s assume that Pokemon battling forms the world’s financial backbone. Maybe it doesn’t’; I mean, it probably doesn’t. It’s a video game for children—niggas haven’t thought this shit that far out. Anyway, fuck man, just roll with it.


In such a case, the world’s leading scientists would be motivated to find a way to keep the trade of Pokemon battling a flourishing one.  In all likelihood, they would tirelessly research the genetics of the creatures in question until they happened upon something that might make the process of breeding children as simplistic as the process of training them.


Say what they discover is a loose genetic link between relatively humanoid species of Pokémon and humans themselves. Say that these hypothetical researchers mark every Pokemon species that kind of looks appropriate to depict as a shortstack as capable of being impregnated by humans with a disgustingly efficient rate of turnover. If you were a Pokemon trainer trying to stack paper and accolades up, what would you do?


You would succeed—remorselessly and by any means necessary.


Undoubtedly, the ‘world of Pokemon’ birthed from such a discovery would not be a very pleasant one. Certain female Pokemon species that kind of look like humans provided you use your imagination and fuck around on the internet a bit would be made to endure repeated instances of brutal sex and insemination for the sole purpose producing superior offspring. The most potent species would be subjected to these ‘atrocities’ more often than others, which would consequentially lead to great deal of genetic variance and mutation.


Of the species most likely to be abused, the Ralts line would likely sit at the forefront. Globally, rashes of dudes trying to cop that Modest Gardevoir or whatever the best one is now would tirelessly drain their balls into female Ralts, Kirlia, and Gardevoir hoping to Christ to get a better one than they have already.


Why? Because they’d feel as though they’ve no other choice but to. Also because grinding Pokemon doesn’t flex bitches, but that’s beside the point.


Moving forward with this obtuse hypothetical, society would quickly devolve into an excess of male degenerates pursuing a ‘profession’, and the men and women on the sidelines content with watching others live this way.


Regardless, even if allowed to persist for decades on end, such a society would eventually find itself subject to change once again. Sooner or later, the repeated breeding of Pokemon with humans—I know this is gay, we’re almost done—would result in these humanoid species adopting human mental traits for the purpose of survival. The foremost of these would be sentience, language acquisition, and emotionality: the three things that might see their generations spent as breeding stock brought to an end. These things as witnessed alongside the intelligence naturally gifted to many of these species would see the use of Pokemon within society as something more comparable to the enslavement of another race than the mass production of cattle.


Humans, fictional or otherwise, abhor the abuse of beings like them. Pokemon capable of speaking, feeling, and acting as they do would prompt society to ‘take one for the team’, and cease their barbaric practices for the greater good of all life on earth. Accords would be put in place banning the use of sentient species for combat, and with further time, battling would be outlawed as an archaic, barbaric practice better left in the past.


Now, I can’t really speculate on what people in said hypothetical fictional world would do for money without Pokemon battling. What I can do, though, is speculate on how such a world would turn out under the assumption that everything turns out for the best.


To protect their newfound brethren from discrimination and bias built up over countless generations, right and privileges would be bestowed onto the aforementioned Pokemon species under a blanket classification. Sentient and Humanoid Pokémon (SEPHs for short), would be forcibly integrated into society against the protests of humans deeply invested in the trade of Pokemon battling and the class divide between the species. A generation of friction and conflict would dawn and set, and with time, the classes concerned would learn to see eye to eye. Neither side would forget that which had been, but for the sake of progression, all would move past it in search of a better future.

Publically, of course. Though most would genuinely acclimate, others would feign as much whilst housing more ‘unacceptable’ opinions deep within themselves. Some would be born with these opinions whilst others might adopt them as a consequence of history itself.


Ultimately, the biased would exist in every shape, size, and age imaginable: even those that one might place at the pinnacles of innocence and purity.


Like a kid, for example. A harmless, slight, and monstrously-endowed child seemingly more capable of injuring himself than anyone else…






Throughout the second floor of a house could be heard the repeated thump of a hammer to a surface flat, and in all likelihood, wooden. Unhindered and echoing, its clarity suggested production within a room containing minimal obstruction—furniture, mattresses, and perhaps even curtains.


Sealed box in hand, a child pattered progressively towards the source of this noise. First clearing the sole flight of stairs leading up into the area, he progressed across the second floor corridor with a smoothness that implied familiarity. Innocuous in both appearance and stride, one would sooner describe him as a resident of the house than an intruder within it.


Truthfully, he was both.


Soon enough, his slide across the corridor came to an end with his frame opposite the second door to his right. Leaning against it to drive its unlocked face into the room itself, the weight of the box that he clutched and the amount of time he had spent carrying it nearly resulted in his losing his balance and falling through it. Steadying himself within several single-footed hops through the room itself, his reorientation saw the consistent hammering noise produced within the room replaced by that of a short-lived chuckle.


“Ha! Just can’t help yourself when it comes to helping out, can you, Cruz?” the source of chuckle suggested. “That box is probably the heaviest one left; I could’ve managed it with levitate afterwards, y’know?”


Quite used to his neighbor’s good-natured chiding of his efforts, Cruz responded with a chuckle of his own. Setting the box within his hand down ahead of him, he rolled his shoulders in a display of indifference.


“I know, I know.  It still would’ve taken something out of you to get it done, right?” he replied. Setting his feet into a stride, he moved over the face the older male within the room’s center. After his first step on this path, he continued speaking with his features directed downwards rather than forward. “Unlike me, you’ve got actual work you need to do after this. Sure I’m not the biggest or the strongest, but kids have a lot more energy than you think!” he added. “Besides, Kaona, Anya, and…”




“Yeah, Suya! All three of them are counting on you to come home in decent shape afterwards. I’m here to help you do that, so carrying a box or two is no big deal.


“And anyway, you’re just as bad as I am. If I help out too much, then you work too hard, Arthur!”


Cruz’s rebuttal left the adult to which he spoke smiling and reticent. Incidentally, it also came at a point in time just short of the end of his stride towards him.


Once opposite each other, it became apparent that the boy and the man were not at all comparable. Ahead of Cruz and several feet beneath him stood the male Ralts he had referred to as ‘Arthur’. Hammer in hand and dress-shirt sleeves drawn up to the middle of thin and lime green arms, the psychic Pokemon momentarily ceased his constructive efforts to stand and face his young neighbor as he usually did.


To his left could be seen a child-sized bed frame, and at his knees the beginnings of an infant-sized crib—the catalysts for the hammer-impacts that had once flowed through the room. These structures were the products of several hours’ labor on Arthur’s part. Physical strength substituted for psychic energy, he had worked through just as much perspiration and exertion as a human might’ve whilst working through a similar task.


Though his fatigue was evident, the response that Arthur produced to Cruz’s claim maintained the same hints of masculine bravado predictable from an adult male proud of the effort he had put forth.  Per usual, though, its impact suffered from the perpetually pre-pubescent voice with which it was uttered.


“Ha…I wouldn’t call this hard work, Cruz. You probably won’t understand for a long time yet, but this is the kind of thing that fathers live for.” Arthur replied. “Anya’s getting bigger, and she’s going to have a sister before long. Nothing makes me happier than being able to give the two of them a room to grow up happy and healthy in with my own hands.”


“Is that so?” replied Cruz, head tilted in confusion. “Nice as that sounds, I guess you’re right—I don’t really get it. Kaona’s sure to be impressed, though; she’s been frowning about you working so hard all morning.”


Struck by an epiphany, the youth made a fist with his right hand and gently thumped it into a basin made from his left palm.


“Oh! Almost forgot! I’m not just here ‘cause of that box; I was supposed to come up here and remind you’ve got to be leaving soon.” Cruz continued. “Kaona didn’t think you’d be keeping track of the time, so she wanted me up here to bring you down a little early so she can see you off properly this time.”


First stifling a mild chuckle, Arthur set down the hammer clutched within his hand. Gingerly progressing forward, he cut around Cruz’s frame to set about the task of making himself presentable for his wife’s reserved, yet ever-so-cutting concern.


“Ah, I guess that’s it…” he sighed. “I’ll have to finish up with this another day. Do me a favor and make sure Kaona doesn’t try to do it herself while I’m gone, ok? Knowing her, she’ll try the first chance she gets.”


Following behind Arthur, Cruz rolled his hair-obscured eyes into the top-right corners of their sockets. Momentarily imagining Kaona’s labored frame setting about the task, he nodded in agreement just after the mental image he had formed frowned at him.


“Probably, yeah.” he replied. “I’ll make sure she takes it easy, though. That scowl of hers is scary, but I’ve managed so far, right?”


Already partway through the door, a subdued laugh slipped from Arthur’s lips.


“You’ve got a point there, huh? Sometimes, I almost think you’re better at dealing with her than I am.” he muttered.


“Genetics really are something. Through and through, you’re exactly the kind of kid your father was…”







Scarcely could Arthur recall a pair of years happier than those than the last two that he had lived. In these years, he had married, his first child had been born, and—well before he could settle into either of these things—he had found himself reunited with the sole person that had motivated him to achieve these things for himself.


The happiness that he felt was not imagined; the 22 years he had lived prior to them had taught him enough about suffering and discomfort to make positive affect that much more apparent to him.


A runt male born 3 full generation after the end of an age of atrocities, his upbringing was one rife with loathing self-imposed, and inadvertently projected by those around him.


Decades of specialized and select breeding processes predisposed female SEPH types to birthing female children. These females were typically born with superlative feminine traits regardless of the input provided by their fathers, and more often than not went on to sire additional female children themselves. Conversely, the birth of healthy male children from females was selected against, as were female bodies liable to produce them. So deeply had their biological processes been shaped by human contact that the birth of male children blighted by slightness and smallness had become the rule than the exception.


Arthur’s birthed had adhered to this rule. Smaller, shorter, and weaker than even his father had been, his youth was spent looking up to and around at others for information as to what he was ‘supposed’ to have been. Whether human or Pokemon, few regarded him as anything more than another person deserving of care and affection. He could not be looked to for success or failure—only an existence devoid of impact on the world around him.


Along the way, only a pair of individuals viewed him as something more. The first was a friend he had met and maintained throughout highschool, and at present, the father of the preteen child who so earnestly devoted the days of his second consecutive summer assisting his wife.


The second of these individuals was his wife.


 Amongst Pokemon, a great deal of stock was placed in the idea of early and disproportionate marriages.  Unlike many of her youthful peers, Kaona’s upbringing had made her a firm believer in the aged concept. From birth to her teenage years, it was impressed upon her that making use of her genetics naturally for the betterment of her species was amongst the very best she could do for herself as a female. Birthed from their instruction was a young woman rigid and reticent, yet on occasion more childish than any of her peers. Eventually, the idea was internalized deep enough into her psyche for her frame to unconsciously seek out a means of realizing it.


The first step that it took was evolution. Early on within her teenaged years, her appearance as short and slight Ralts was replaced by that of a slightly-taller* (still extremely diminutive) and impressively buxom Kirilia. Her board-flat chest was replaced with a pair of spine-testing and tactually squishy E-Cup breasts that rarely agreed with her 3 ½ feet in height. Legs thin and spindle-like were packed with fat and flesh until their smoothness demanded the re-organization of her wardrobe, and hips narrow and dollish were bent outwards to compete with the obtuse curvature symptomatic of over-fertility.


Next, she found herself a husband. Geographically, Arthur had been her only option if she wished to remain within touching distance of her family. Separately, he represented the familiar; shared schools and social circles had acquainted her with him long before the idea of marriage became so appealing. Moving away in search of a more ‘ideal’ partner was hardly unheard of for a female in her position, but so far as she was concerned, the ‘contribution’ that she owed her species was not one that she ought to be choosy about.


From her tenacity came a meeting between the two of them, and shortly after that, their marriage.


Naturally, Arthur did not resist coupling with another a mere 24 years into his youth. Permissive aptly described his thoughts towards the intents of others, but past this, the idea of a Kirilia so developmentally gifted approaching him for a marriage was akin to a dream come true.


The dream he had come to live did not begin and end with only Kaona’s body.  A mere 6 months of living alongside her introduced him to the weight of duty, and how one might find meaning in its fulfillment. The former he learned from watching a young woman devoid of domestic skill throw herself into the role of a housewife without any idea of how to flourish within it. The latter was impressed on him through conversation—or what little amounts of it she entertained.


“What you look like and what you can do don’t matter to me at all. When you were faced with an opportunity to do something for your kind, you accepted it instead of turning away from it. That’s what matters to me, and that is why I will stay with you no matter what difficulties we encounter.”


When jokingly asked about the reasoning behind her approach, this was the answer that she produced. Ultimately, it served as the sole motivation for Arthur’s decision to cast off his weakness.


Perhaps he was not the strongest example or the most traditional example of masculinity. Perhaps he never would be. Regardless, when put up against the idea of failing the woman who had invested herself in his actions rather than his stature, such fates seemed far less crippling than they had during his youth.


Day by day, he worked to convince Kaona that her trust and pride had not been misplaced. From the job he acquired for himself to the home that he selected for them to live, each decision he made was one made with her in mind.


Living like this made the birth of his first child an inevitability. Children were a want that Kaona could not stifle, and one he could not help but attempt satisfying.


Initially, Arthur was quite confident that managing a marriage would not be unlike managing a family. Months into the ordeal, he found the anxiety wrought from Kaona’s refusal to sit still and be taken care of greater than any he had felt previously. Mere words could not convince the sorely pregnant woman to put down her mantle of ‘wife’, yet words were the only tools that remained at his disposal.


Reality did not allow him to suffer with this plight for long, however. Seemingly rendered unto him as recompense for his decision to do his utmost was the arrival of the boy he had befriended in high school and his family into his neighbourhood.


As it turned out, the location offered qualities that appealed to human sensibilities regarding family rearing as well.  With a daughter on the way and a son young enough to be moved around without much friction, it occurred to him that a fresh start somewhere new would do his budding family well.


From his arrival, Arthur gained both a means of looking after his wife and an outlet with which to try his hands at fatherhood.


Much like his father, his old companion’s son was a boy too kind hearted for his own good. Old enough to understand Arthur’s situation yet young enough to meddle with it, he offered his services as an occasional assistant to Kaona during her pregnancy. Citing his recently-gained freedom in summer vacation and the various skills he had acquired from his father as backing for himself, he lobbied aggressively for the opportunity for what seemed to be no reason at all.


Arthur understood him; the boy was the spitting image of his father in his youth. He thus accepted, and in doing so earned peace of mind for himself and Kaona until the day his daughter was born.


In the end, the arrangement proved potent enough to validate the youth’s continuing to aid his family—albeit on a more infrequent basis. Evening visits from him became the norm, as were requests from Arthur himself for babysitting from time to time.


Over a year later (one that included the confirmation of Kaona’s second pregnancy), the adult Ralts could no longer imagine a world wherein the boy was not present. Such was the trust and affection he held towards him that the differences between their species never stymied his desire to refer to him as a son.


Having finally found stability and happiness, he refused to look past it.


Never did he wonder as to what the boy’s evenings with Kaona were like, nor did he question the strange smells that sometimes permeated the house’s air on his return from work.


In his mind, there was no reason to. Gone were the days wherein humans and Pokemon had reasons to mistrust one another.


Now was the present: An age trust, equality, and progression for humans and Pokemon alive…








In the minutes (nearly an hour, in truth) most immediate to Arthur’s departure, Cruz found a place for himself seated within the house’s living room.


 Lounging around atop one of its couches and relaxing was his best means of keeping abreast of Kaona’s condition without making her feel as though she was a prisoner being watched by a child. Really, though, the reason for his presence alongside her was far more self-serving than some naïve desire to play the part handed down to him by her husband.


Bluntly, he persisted alongside her not out of obligation, but for the sole reason that being in her presence was enjoyable.


Ground with which to base this could be seen in his current upright lean back into the material of the largest sofa within the room. Left leg curled sharply over the knee of his right, he sat here engaged in a conversation with the older woman that had thus far etched a smile to his youthful features.


“…And then….” mid-thought, Cruz dipped his skull backwards to speak toward the ceiling as opposed to his conversational partner. “If you can believe it, he started going on about some shit to do with what it felt like to be a ‘good father’ or something retarded like that. I almost felt bad for him, but then I remembered that he isn’t saying shit like this on purpose…” again trailing off, he pulled his skull out of its bend prior to continuing.


“The only reason he feels good about admitting that kind of garbage out loud is because you can’t find it in yourself tell him the truth, isn’t it?” he suggested. “But I can’t fault you for that either, can I? If I tried, I’d just be punishing you for being yourself.


“And that wouldn’t be fair. Not when you’re disgusting SEPH genetics have been so much fun for me to abuse c:”


Having talked himself into desiring a response from Kaona, Cruz ended his unwholesome diatribe with an uncurling of his left leg from around the back of the pregnant Pokemon’s skull. Relieving the primary weight that kept her face messily affixed to the expanse of slop and stench matted at the base of his pale crotch, he watched and waited for her to right herself and draw her first breath of air not infected by the stench of musk or semen.


Predictably, she did not move an inch. What fractions of her cheeks and face sat ‘uninvolved’ with her throating of his member grew redder in color and wetter with tears, but her frame did not produce a single alleviatory motion in response.


Unsurprised yet disappointed, Cruz’s produced a smile drenched in a warmth far too understanding to be genuine. Dipping his left hand downwards, he clasped one of the crimson fringes arcing from the top of Kaona’s head. Clenching down on the vital organ as a lever, he vigorously yanked her skull backwards and upwards to see the inches of cockmeat presently engaged in her suffocation extracted from their bloat of her neck.


Reaped from the rise of her skull and the drag of steeled cockmeat from out of its depth were a pair of presentations that Cruz could not help but smile at. As Kaona’s lip-less maw was made to trail over the system of engorged and compressed blood vessels lining his member, regular expulsions of precum and mucus regurgitated from her innards by the activation of her gag-reflex could be seen rolling down the length of his endowment into additional splatters against his crotch. When finally his cocktip was pulled from its invasion of the Pokemon’s G.I tract (just over a foot of punishing extraction), the silver-haired youth was again made to compare the size of his endowment with the hole that he had plunged it into.


To the right of Kaona’s reddened, sputtering, and pubic-hair smeared features was an erection that represented just under a third of her body’s length. Well-wider than her neck at an imposing 4.5 inches and swathed from base to tip with an assortment of thick, and often rock-solid blood veins, the very idea that its entirety had tasted the muggy constriction of even one of her orifices seemed inhumane—more so given her status as pregnant.


Long since had Cruz achieved this feat. As such, this was not what he focused on whilst his shaft steamed and throbbed beside Kaona’s face.


What interested him was the fact that, even now, Kaona managed. Furthermore, she did so not against her will, but in following the instincts written into her very species.


If only for a few seconds, dwelling on this thought made the ‘effort’ that he had expended in remaining present with her day after day that much more worthwhile.


Whilst admiring the sight, an unexpected deviation in its contents provided the youth with something else to admire.


After righting her breathing, Kaona’s first action was a slide to her right. Replacing her features underneath the erection that she had plastered with her mouth’s lubrication, she dove downwards to press her face into the sweaty and equally-mired testicles settled underneath it. Going so far as to put both of her fingerless hands to use to peel the root of her suitor’s towering erection from off of them, she affectionately nuzzled the greasy orbs with the nose-less midsection of her face. Despite being without an obvious means of taking in the fluid-muddied scents affixed to them, noises akin to harsh snorts could be heard from her skull as she moved. Additionally, mucus-glutted pants and groans slipped regularly from her opened maw in a manner similar to an ill person’s struggle with their own congestion.


After a time spent like this, the Kirilia moved from the right-left nuzzling of her face to Cruz’s testicles to a biased press of her features to the region. Here, she steadied her breathing with the left side of her face still smothered to the underside of his shaft, and afterwards opened her mouth to send her tongue into a perverse ‘collection’ of the taste of his balls and the throatslop affixed to them.


As she did this, she spoke.


“I-If y-you want me to t-take responsibility for—*SCHL—PPAH!* what y-you’ve d-done to me, I refuse.” she began, a shaken iciness held within her tone. “D-Doing those things doesn’t make him *SLSHH-PLORPP-AHH—doesn’t make him foolish. H-He’s doing his best a-as a man. Y-You can’t expect me to want t-to take that kind of purpose away from him…”


“I-I am not a good w-wife, b-but I’m not as cruel as you…” she finished.


Seemingly level-headed, Cruz took the ‘good’ of his situation with the ‘bad’. Watching idly as Kaona continued to feed her olfactory organs sick on that which his member had produced, he met her rebuttal with a chuckle of derision.


“Aren’t you, though?” he suggested. “Only one of your kids belong to him, yet you refuse to tell him because you’re a little too comfortable feeding those perverse instincts of yours day after day.”


“There’s nothing wrong with admitting that, you know.” he added genuinely. “Your whole species were bred over and over again like fucking pigs just over 100 years ago. You never had much of a short at being a ‘good wife’ to begin with.”


With these words came an affectionate rocking of Kaona’s skull executed via his maintained grasp to the red arc atop her skull. A vital protrusion in the cognitive architecture of Kirlia, the grind of his palm and fingers into its rigid flesh was tantamount to a physical curtailment of one’s ability to think.


Kaona had grown quite used to this discomfort. Nevertheless hindered by it, continuing to lap and kiss at Cruz’s cock seemed a more worthwhile activity to her than working her taxed brain to produce a legitimate response.


Soon, though, she was given a choice. Whilst her mouth remained engaged in a syrupy suckle to the exterior of her ‘tormentor’s’ balls, the weight atop her head disappeared, and her ability to think about matters unrelated to cock-stink and semen returned to her.


Even so, she lingered. Precious seconds that she might’ve spent defending herself and her husband were instead spent caressing her tongue against the now gleaming and tasteless pocket of cockflesh she had popped into her mouth. When finally she separated her mouth from Cruz’s shaft, the scowl on her face almost looked sharper for it.


“Don’t call us that!” raising her voice ever so slightly off of its un-invested floor, she leaned in from behind Cruz’s erection to ensure that her anger was understood. “M-My weakness isn’t an excuse for you to speak poorly about a whole race! W-We’re as much people as humans are…




‘The same’. Kaona’s mind generated these words and slated them for delivery by her tongue. As she did, something instinctual grabbed their tail-end and held them within her throat. For every breath of cock-scented air she took, these instincts replaced the composition and tone meant for these utterances until an entirely new end to her sentence took shape.


“We’re worse…” she whispered.


Uncertain as to whether or not she had been heard, both of her hands jumped to her mouth in a display of remorse and embarrassment. Daring herself onward, she glanced up at Cruz in search of evidence one way or another.


There, she found a smile swamped with condescension, and in it, the result that she feared.


Satisfied solely by the visual plummet of Kaona’s mood induced by his expression, Cruz did not carry the subject further. Instead standing to his feet, he briefly reorganized his jogger-clad lower half into a presentable state before turning his attention back to Kaona. Bracing her by her shoulders, he hoisted the pregnant woman back to her feet before addressing her with a downward glance.


“Well, whatever. Anyway, that makes three loads you’ve taken down your throat in the past few hours. You should be able to manage for the rest of the day, right?” he suggested.


Referencing the Pokemon’s acquired dependency on the substance, Kaona was made to recall the depth of the vacancy left within her by Cruz’s recent absence. Several days spent without exposure to or the ingestion of human reproductive fluid had again afflicted her with the only pregnancy craving she could recall having: the muddy and disturbingly-pungent muck fucked from Cruz’s testicles straight into her stomach.


The extent to which she craved the substance grated on her even now. The persistence of ‘emptiness’ within her even after the better part of three stomach-basting orgasms had been squirted into her (the worse parts being fucked from her throat as a slimy lubricant) replayed Cruz’s taunting within her mind, and made her hesitant to simply allow him to separate from her.


Perhaps she really had lacked any sort of hope to begin with.


“I-I don’t think I need anything, but…” beginning cordially she turned her head downward. Intentionally ‘overlooking’ the soaked and smeared expanse of her breast-swelled blouse, she stared at the floor as she spoke so as to not give away clues about her state from her face. “What do you even have to do? I thought the only reason you were here w-was…”


Already on his way to the kitchen, Cruz’s stride came to a sudden halt partway through Kaona’s response. Being a child, he quite easily turned, and inquired with genuine innocence as to her meaning.



“Was what?”



Me…” Kaona mumbled.






“I thought the reason that you came here today was so that you could use me!”



Just as Kaona pushed these words from out of her lips, a more highly-pitched parroting of the word appeared from out of the corner of the living room.



“Me-Me-Meeeee!” Anya chirped, arms flung in apparent celebration.


Avidly repeating the word that she had heard her mother stress, the sun-dress clad Kirlia pattered from her hiding place at the corner of the living room’s left-side over to a position directly in front of her mother. Transitioning from her arrival straight into a thoughtless hug of her chest against the ample swell of her mother’s thighs, she continued smiling and squeaking as though her life depended on it.




 Within several affectionate nuzzles to her mother’s legs (nuzzles whose fervor reaped an affirmative hug of her mother’s hands to her back), the developing girl wracked her brain in search of the word that might convey the reason for her sudden entrance.


Gifted with a mind as impressive as her mother’s had been at the age of some number that your boy would rather not state, her search began and ended over the course of a pair of blinks from the adult’s that surrounded her.


“Me, luunch!” she repeated. “Miiiiilk~!”


With these words, Kaona’s confusion and concern regarding her daughter’s presence were replaced by another flare of the parental instincts bred into her being. Frantically peeling pubic hair from the greased exterior of her cheeks, she bent her knees, and dipped her front as far forward as the gravidity of her stomach would allow. Granted just enough ‘give’ to guide her arms to her daughter’s hips, she expertly scooped the chirping child up into an affectionate length-wise cradle across her front. 


The moment she affirmed it, fear saw her shift her hold on her frame into a familiar width-wise cradle. For as much as she wished to wean her off of the infantile support style (as well as the narrowed distance to her ‘lunch’ that came alongside it), face to face contact with her daughter was not a risk that she was willing to take.


“She can’t smell it. I can’t let her smell it. Who knows what it’ll do to her brain...” she thought, her inner tone more dire than it had ever been for herself.


Naturally, her organizing Anya’s body this way provided the near-infant with everything that she required to feed herself. Rolling inward to bring her face opposite the gratuitous puffiness of her mother’s chest, she reached up with what would become her dominant hand to tug at the collar of Kaona’s shirt. Eager to begin on the arduous task of exposing the sweetly-scented flesh of her mother’s breasts, Anya learned quickly that the strength of her grasp and the downward tugging motion she had learned could not disrobe her mother at present.


This realization welled tears within the girl’s eyes, and moments later, pushed a sound wail from the back of her throat.



Briefly, Cruz was left as baffled by Anya’s sobbing as her mother. Staring at the two of them, he could not bring himself to regard them as an adult female cocksleeve and her recently born nuisance. Their appearance was so innocuous—so natural—that his mind sternly matched them with the very definition of maternal compassion.


For a time, of course.


 Seconds proved the extent of the wispy-haired child’s compassion. Past this point, his mind took their appearance as a solute for the minor impasse that they had bumped into. Halting his retreat from the living room, he again turned to face Kaona—this time with hands ‘innocently’ wrapped behind his back.


“Haha, like mother like daughter, huh?” he teased. “Seeing as your both hungry for something, how about we handle both at the same time? That way I don’t have to cook, and Anya doesn’t have to wait for her Mommy to finish eating.”


Utterly ignorant as to the noises coming from Cruz’s mouth, Anya rolled her features towards him solely because he had made noise.


Wary, Kaona did so not out of curiosity, but as a result of hunger and anxiety.


“What do you mean? S-She’s hungry; I have to feed her before anything else, so just forget what I said, okay?” she stammered.


“Forget it? After hearing you ask for it like a pouty little girl? That’d be kinda cruel on my end, don’t you think?”


“Cruel or not, it doesn’t matter! This is MY decision! I-I have to look after her—“


“And you’re gonna.”


Unwilling to entertain Kaona’s best attempt at hysteria, Cruz used the duration of her response to make his way back around the couch to her side. Once close by, he again made use of the sore difference between their heights to reach down, and affectionately pat at the grown woman’s head.


“Sure, the two of you are same breed of disposable SEPH fucktoy. That doesn’t mean I can’t try and look after you properly from time to time, does it?” Cruz suggested.


“Just trust me.  Everything will turn out for the best.”


Try as she might to see the obvious ambiguities in Cruz’s words, Kaona took a sickening amount of comfort in Cruz’s words. This too was a feeling that she was predisposed to, but given the situation, there remained little excuse for it.


Little, but just enough to validate utter compliance from a Pokemon attached to her ‘trainer’.








Kaona did not expect Cruz to keep to his word without some kind of ‘catch’. Her time spent interacting with the youth had taught her that attempting to hold him to such a standard was likely to end in disappointment and discomfort on her end.


Funnily enough, the actions he took following his claim surprised her. Hands infused with a congenial warmth and masculine strength* (as a consequence of her body size, even mild prompting felt to her as legitimate direction), he guided her back atop the sofa she had lounged at by her shoulders. All but placing her up against it, he afterwards released her in apparent anticipation of her doing ‘what needed to be done’.


Though concerned as to what her doing so would reap, she did not pass up her opportunity to satiate her squirming daughter. Again reaffirming her cradle of Anya’s frame, she briefly dipped a hand away from the child’s back. Pressing it through to the lower hem of her blouse, she peeled the garment the meager length off her midsection, and finally over the compressed (yet still protruding) swell of her breasts. Doing so with Anya’s body held so closely against her chest eventually resulted in the pale, puffy mounds at her chest flopping outwards into partial coverage of the little girl’s frame. Wisely amending the situation with another adjustment of her position, Kaona slid Anya upwards and inwards until her mouth sat opposite the fraction of cleavage where her left nipple ought’ve been.


In place of this was a square-shaped medical plaster whose material had darkened from fluid absorption. Placed across both of her nipples for the sole purpose of stemming the soak of milk into her clothing, Kaona did not hesitate to peel its loosened adhesion from off of her inverted nipple and the drooling milkducts that surrounded it.


Upon exposing herself, sensations both expected and otherwise assaulted her. A stab of Anya’s skull plugged her lips full of the leaking breast flesh placed by her mouth. As children were want to, she immediately worked her mouth to begin drawing the creamy fluid stored within the mound into her mouth.


Before she could acclimate herself to the soothing fulfilment inherent to ‘motherhood’, Kaona felt her center of gravity inverted, and afterwards invalidated. Reflexively tightening her grasp on Anya’s frame, she failed to trace the exact cause for her frame’s repositioning until it was self-effacing.


Left with the back of her skull settled against the couch-cushion she had sat atop, focusing her line of sight revealed Cruz’s frame crouched imposingly above her own. Bundled within his left hand were the calf-sections of both of her legs—the means by which he had turned her pregnant frame onto its head. By raising both of the limbs off of the ground and pushing them into backwards bend, he had effectively tied and hung her as a porcine awaiting slaughter.


Kaona well knew that death was not the primary concern she ought to harbor in this position. Hands occupied in maintaining her daughter’s comfort and legs trapped by a strength that she could not surmount, the only protection left for the rounded swell of life at her middle was the thin layer of blouse fabric spread over it.


As a mother, such a circumstance was unacceptable.


“A-Cruz, wait! T-This is bad for them, isn’t it?” she stammered, concern for her children overwhelming her concern for herself. “B-Being upside down is…”


Without warning, the slide of the ankle-length leggings that clothed her lower body across her rear and off the tip of her toes cut her desire to speak short. Suddenly, the arousal-swelled mound between her miniature legs was wholly exposed to the boy above her alongside the fattened, visibly-overused donut of anus flesh behind it. Around Cruz, being exposed to such an extent was dangerous.


“But so fulfilling as well, don’t you think?”


Again, action from Cruz cut Kaona’s time to form a response in half. Swiftly, the warmed air that surrounded her womanhood and asshole was replaced by the stifling haze of hormones and temperature exuded by Cruz’s cock. All of the ease with which he had undressed her had been applied to the sweatpants at his lower-body, thus unearthing the steadily-fattening log of cockmeat that miniatures ago sat inches away from her stomach.


With this, the over-arching ‘purpose’ behind her suitor’s actions became clear.


As if silently in-tune with her level of perception, Cruz responded to her initial outburst nevertheless.



“Anya isn’t the only one that’s hungry, Kaona…” he began. “You wanted to eat too, didn’t you? This way, the two of you can eat what you want without getting into each other’s way.


“I mean, look,” pointing down at her chest with a finger from his right hand, he referenced Anya’s unchanged cradle at her chest, and the indifference with which she regarded the change in her position. “She looks fine, doesn’t she?”


“B-But the baby…


“Suya i-is going to come soon. I-If you use me down there now, you’ll just—HIYYYUGHHH~♥”


This time, that which stopped the older woman’s reasonable complaining was a furrowing of her brow equally grounded between stress and pleasure, a gritting of her teeth, and the squeeze of a strained groan of stimulation out from the back of her throat.


All of these things were the product of a sudden downward plunge of Cruz’s crotch, and the sound, sphincter-greasing compression of several inches of grossly-oversized cockmeat into the welcoming looseness and humidity of her asshole.


Relative to Cruz, Kaona’s frame represented little more than an oversized stuffed animal wrought from a local carnival. Typically, the difference in their heights, limb-sizes, and weight exacerbated the stimulation generated by her penetration to a mind-rotting extent capable of direct ‘contact’ with her bred instincts as a Seph.


Having her asshole penetrated in this manner was different. Backed by gravity, her upturned frame had been forced to accept a grotesquely-thick forearm of cockmeat through its sex-sensitive rectum straight to a stretching of the intestines past it. So quickly and deeply was she skewered that her purpose in life—represented by Anya, Suya, and their well-being—was ground down to a superfluous, and ultimately forgettable triviality.


With Cruz’s cock inside her, this purpose was brought into conflict with one that she, her mother, and her mother before that had been made to harbor within themselves by virtue of their birth.


She was to serve her master as a receptacle for his young and semen.  No matter how she wished it whilst sober, her instincts as a mother could not stand to parity with the size and span of this desire.


It never had for her kind, and in truth, it likely never would…






Kaona loved her circumstance. She knew she ought not, but it spoke to her in a way that nothing within her rigid, ‘purposeful’ existence had thus far. What was done to her body, the regressive ideas that were branded to her brain—no matter how horrid, she loved all of it.


Admitting as much to herself had come quite easily. From the very first time she had felt Cruz’s cock sink inside her, her mind and womanhood were left so fundamentally smitten that she wasted no time waffling as to whether or not it was something she could resist. For her, entertaining the organ-displacing phalluses wielded by humans and having her insides made a clogged incubator for their seed was as basal for her as breathing.


Now, the wide blanket of activities that she ‘loved’ was made to stretch over the act of having the depths of her asshole pile-driven by a cock nearly as thick as her waist was wide. With time, she was pushed further in admitting that the sensation of such a cock being dunked in and out of the moist squirming of her puffy shithole underneath her occupied womb was even better than having it gaped naturally.


These were not concessions that the sexualized Pokemon made without reason. From Cruz’s initial penetration of her rear and the organ-fattening delivery of his member through her guts, a regular (and sloppy) up and down pumping pattern saw her bloated insiders punched and stretched at regions where they were most sensitive.


Calling the delivery of these thrusts and the consequences reaped from them ‘obscene’ was nearly a misnomer. From her initial impalement, a single cycle of depression and extraction drove a tree-trunk of throbbing cockmeat down through nearly a foot of her intestines. Each inch in this foot made to wrap and suckle around the trunk’s girth (and the meaty, root-like blood vessels embedded into it), both the thickness of Cruz’s cock and its typical virility were ironed into her depths with a familiar brutality.



Once hilted, these qualities were drawn up the same stretch of inches a second time throughout Cruz’s retractions. During these instances, her insides sought suffering for themselves as opposed to meekly accepting it. Visually, each outward drag of Cruz’s member through her cratered asshole was accompanied by a gloving of bubble-gum pink intestine flesh to his member’s exterior. Adhered to the phallus’ surface by the gratuitous amounts of sexual ‘glue’ present within her bowels (a potent mixture of precum, sweat, and sexual mucus), Kaona’s guts lovingly cradled the topmost inches of his shaft even as they threatened to abandon the orifice entirely.


Though lengthy, the extent to which Cruz withdrew his member through Kaona’s asshole was not so wild as to tease legitimate extraction as a real possibility. At the root of each of his thrusts was a consistency that served their ultimate ‘impact’ more so than any other qualities. Without fail, a hilt-depth depression that sent his glans into a nauseating-spike against an over-fucked pocket of intestine lining a ways past her asshole’s entrance was followed by an extraction of just over half these inches through the slop-glutted hole. Like this, the top half of his erection consistently remained within Kaona as a vicious pike to be stabbed against the congealed meat settled deepest within her asshole. Equally, the bottom half of his member was put to use in a regular outward peel of her asshole’s needier beginnings.


By this point—nearly two years after she was first ‘treated’ to gut-fucking as delivered by a human cock—Kaona could no longer differentiate the depression of his member from its extraction. The inflammation of the depths of her large intestine into the same mess of fluid and subservient flesh that comprised her shithole’s initial inches had lost its nuance, as had the tooth-chipping prolapse of its ruined, cock-hungry initial inches.


What she perceived amounted solely to an extremely pleasurable loss of brain cells. When Cruz’s cock was at its deepest within her, the stimulation wrought from his penetration grew sharp enough to rob her perception of the world quality and color. As he pulled himself outward, these lost facets returned as dulled iterations of themselves, and prompted a greedy anticipation for the next midsection rending hilt of his cock into her intestines. To her, everything was a haze. A destructive, addictive, and obscenely pleasurable haze.


The simplification of her perception was not an act of self-defence or rebellion against that which she experienced. She had been born without such self-preservation instincts where humans were concerned, though this aside, her flesh had already learned to love the strenuous stretching and fattening her body endured whilst serving as a fleshlight for human cock.


Truthfully, it was a product of circumstance. As mentioned above, the pace and quality of Cruz’s thrusts were accompanied by visual consequences of a comparable obscenity. From these visual consequences Kaona’s senses reaped a stimulation that reduced all others forced onto her into a non-descript haze.


Most immediate to her line of sight was her daughter. Content to drain milk from the obese thimble of nipple flesh within her mouth, she did so with the same adoring expression and stillness she had projected when first cradle against her mother.


By itself, seeing her innocent, sun-dressed frame as presented in the midst of a dedicated feeding would have delivered pangs of guilt into Kaona’s heart. As presented just above cock-shaped contortions of her mother’s stomach via sexual intercourse, a disgusting satisfaction filled Kaona each time she dared to glance at her middle.


Below Anya was a midsection warped to represent the repeated addition of second, larger mass of flesh within her. At the end of any given one of Cruz’s thrusts, his endowment could be seen distending the flesh of her midsection from the peak of her crotch to the peak of her abdominals. Forced to curve around the globular swell of her womb throughout its ascent, its arrival at the ‘stopping point’ imposed by the end of her abdominals saw the region’s solid-white flesh stretched upward and outward away from her body-cavity in accommodation of his glans and the inches of cockmeat beneath it.


From its general shape to its extent, the bloating of her middle was a product of her asshole’s penetration over her cunt. Though the former orifice was equally overwhelmed by Cruz’s cock, its flexibility and placement allowed for the ‘accommodation’ of his masculinity without a displacement of the growing life within her womb.


Over and over again was Kaona made to watch this curved distention grow through her middle to its hellish, flesh-stretching utmost. Through it, she viewed the throbbing of Cruz’s cock against the flesh of her uterus, and on occasion, a fussy shift of the developed egg within her in response to the squeezing and prodding imposed by his member’s very presence.


Thus, no matter how impossibly brutal the fucking of her intestines became, its qualities would never compare to what the observation of her middle inflicted on her mind. In this sight alone could be seen her stature as a mother and individual. So dependent was she on the stimulation and semen of another species that she could not be brought to prioritize the life that had been rooted within her womb over a ‘feeding’.


No mother would commit such an atrocity, nor would a Pokemon woman supposedly bent on holding to the traditions and progressions of her people. Only a smiling, powerless whore for her human betters would accept such a circumstance in return for pleasure.


This was what she was. She could not see her own face, but she could feel it.


She was smiling. Through tears of joy and exertion’s perspiration, she smiled wider than she had at any other point in her life.


More so than when she had married her husband.


More so than when her daughter had been born.


And more so than she ever would.







Alongside the squeals of bliss and breathless huffs that dribbled from Kaona’s maw, vocal  gems such as these flowed from the female’s Pokemon’s mouth straight into Cruz’s ears.


Alone, hearing these things spoken by a woman that denounced his vitriol towards her race would have kept his hips to their pendulum-like swing, and his crotch to its up and down plunge against her lower body.


Presently, they represented only the icing on the ‘cake’ of his experience. In committing himself to ‘feeding’ Kaona through her asshole, he had earned and consumed layer after layer of the pastry until only the best of it remained.


As was so often the case where his feeding of Kaona was concerned, the means by which he earned his meal had been as worthwhile as the nourishment itself. With the first drive of his member down into her asshole came the arrangement of his frame into a position best suited to take advantage of the differences between them.


Inverting Kaona atop the couch and pushing her raised and ankle-conjoined legs forward as one might a trapped animal left the support of her weight to her upper back, shoulders, and neck. As all three of these regions were backed by the cushioning of the couch beneath her, he inferred that one could safely—not comfortably—impose a downward-angled thrusting pattern without risking irreparable damage to her dollish frame.


Cruz did exactly this. Stamping the midsection of his right foot into the front most rim of the couch whilst bracing his left on the floor for support, the disappearance of his cock within her asshole saw him leverage his body weight in the delivery of a curved, gut-wrenching anal breeding reticent of stud’s insemination of a too-small mare.


To reiterate, his maintaining this thrusting pattern had earned him stimulation from a variety of sources. Receptive to the heat and girth of his shaft no matter how it invaded her folds, Kaona’s asshole did well in producing its usual excess of lubrication and applying it to the surface of his member. With the murky slime’s over production came a slogged adherence of her intestines to his cock, and more notably, complex discharges of their mixed fluids from out her bruised sphincter as his cock was fed through it. The force of the initial portion of his thrusts sent heavy arcs of the substance through languid bursts from the corners of her fattened sphincter. Towards a full hilt, a muddy burble of the substance could be seen clattering from the peak of her depressed shithole, and heard from what fractions of the orifice he couldn’t see. Not only did the substance’s expulsion ease his member’s domination of her guts, but watching as her tiny frame was made to regurgitate it in such blatant fashion made the pulsing of his member much more pleasurable.


More prevalent than even this was Kaona’s condition. A glance downward at the Pokemon depicted a mother’s perfectly maintained cradle of her suckling daughter to her chest. Stains—some fresh and others double-layered from their previous engagement—could be seen strewn out across the neck-wise portions of her blouse whilst the flow of breast milk from out of her still-covered nipple had utterly dampened the fabric to her chest’s right.


Above the dishevelled remains of her clothing were facial features fit for them. Orgasmic, yet equally debilitated by mental and physically strain, her visage was that of a woman at her limit. Eyes crossed inward, the state of her mouth and brow shifted regularly to match the depth to which her asshole was penetrated by cock. At his deepest, Cruz saw her jaw clench, and subsequently transition into a mouth-piece rounded for the production of a squeal. Whilst sliding outwards, flutters of her eyelids were combined with a careless lolling of her tongue from out of her mouth. In the former could be seen her genetic hunger for abuse and her body’s pleas against it whereas the latter framed what catharsis she garnered from being ‘emptied’.


At no point throughout his ministrations were either of these expression sets inappropriate. Given that which her body endured—an excavation of her intestines, the serpentine drive of a cock through the digestive tubing underneath her womb, or the creamy orgasms flushed from her fattened cuntlips by their combined irritation of her innards—the perversion and abandon that they displayed were appropriate.


Just as well, the sight of these faces and the knowledge that his actions were responsible for them contributed considerably to the weight of the load growing within the base of Cruz’s crotch.


With time, the combined sources from which the youth ate set his sights on the primary course of his meal, and coincidentally, Kaona’s.


Once again leaning into his thrusts so as to bring his face closer to Kaona’s, he pushed yet another harmless smile across his sweat-drenched features with the intention of informing her as such.


“…You’ve waited nice and patiently to get fed this time around, Kaona.” he noted, voice thinned by exertion and the pornographic *CLOP-CLOP-CLOP* of his crotch to her own. “You’re usually a lot greedier. I’m not saying that’s weird: the only thing your insides know how to do is squeeze and beg for human cock juice.


“Still, you’re being awfully compliant today. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that little Anya is here this time…”


As much pensive as inquisitive, the veil of ignorance that he donned may very well have held were the woman he wished to deceive not already stuffed with his cock. Recognizing his attempt at subterfuge as superfluous, he shrugged off the veil with another dumping of his crotch. Actively curving his lower body through another hilting of his shaft within Kaona’s asshole, he afterwards set his facial features alight as if he had realized something.


“Oh, I get it! This is you trying to teach her how sharing works, isn’t it? Greedily draining load after load of cock juice into yourself with her around would be setting a bad example, huh?”




“What’s that? Did I guess right?”



“P-Please feed me…”


Teased to her very limit by the persistent swelling and throbbing of the cock within her, Kaona forced words through a maw loosened by bliss.


“I-I can’t a-anymore n’I’m g-gonna die…” she hiccupped. “P-Please dump it all inside me. P-Pump your smelly dick milk inside me until m-my stomach c-can’t digest anything else…”


Despite its timid volume, Cruz perceived this utterance as clearly as Kaona’s natural speech. He heard her, and yet feigned ignorance to serve the agenda he had presented at the outset of the female Pokemon’s abuse.


“Sorry, didn’t really catch that. I get the idea, though: you wanna teach Anya how generosity works for your kind.” he replied. “If that’s the case…


Against his own frame’s protesting, Cruz drew his crotch outwards and a handful of inches of his member alongside it. Holding himself in place as quivering intestine flesh fussed at his exit, he held himself still, and spoke.


“Who am I to get in your way?”







Cruz’s misinterpretation of Kaona’s words did not make the final thrust he pressed into her any less effective in achieving her ends. With this depression came another winding disappearance of his member into the warmth of her asshole, and another grinding slide of his intestine-wrapped member through orifice flesh smothered underneath a pregnant uterus. Again was his glans delivered into a squeeze against a sex-loosened stretch of intestine flesh, and again did its swelling subject the region to a momentary ‘bloating’ against the distended flesh of her stomach.


Coaxed out by the renewal of these conditions was a strenuous beginning to the youth’s orgasm. A split-second of his urethra’s swelling and contorting with discolored cock juice ended with a pressurized shot of the off putting muck being delivered directly against the stretched intestine-lining that blanketed the nose of his erection.


On delivery—a vile splatter of primarily-white and seemingly curded semen against a too-small pocket and back out against the phallus responsible for shooting it— the contrast between the size of his endowment and Kaona’s frame was touched upon for the umpteenth time.


After the first jet of semen to squirm its way up Cruz’s length basted the gutmeat assigned to it with seed, the contents of those that followed it were denied placement within the same semen-glutted pocket. Instead, their volumes were flushed through the length of Kaona’s intestines in search of fuckmeat ‘unoccupied’ by grimy sperm cells. The steaming reproductive blubber acted this way not by choice, but by necessity. So thoroughly fattened was the pocket opposite Cruz’s glans that the delivery of additional semen against the region was nastily repulsed toward the ‘openness’ offered by the remainder of Kaona’s bowels.


Like this, Cruz’s erection took on the role of a resvoir source whereas Kaona’s intestines assumed the role of a hose. Each volume of jizz puked from the head of his member fed an explosion of chunked semen through her guts. Subsequent strings of ejaculate filled in the putrid shrapnel coating, then coated over it until the stretch in question was made rigid and heavy with semen. Then, the process began anew. With nowhere else to go, the continued outflow of semen from Cruz’s length forced the engorgement of her intestines to continue up the sprawling organ toward Kaona’s stomach.


Externally, the repeated chain of smearing and stuffing that played out within her was expressed visually and auditorily. Throbs and quivers from the shaft stretching her middle provided insight as to the size of the semen strands pumped into her whilst the *GLORP* noises timed to them conveyed the inundation of her guts with a substance sloppy, protein-riddled, and virile.


Unsurprisingly, evidence of the latter-most quality was that which Kaona attended to. Winded and dumbstruck by the first caking of her asshole with semen, the noises associated with it were easier to attend to than raw visuals.



This was not to say that she was without a clear understanding of her cream-filling, however.






“I-I’m d-drinking d-down cock juice w-with my asshole. H-ahhh ♥ Hahhh♥ h-human s-semen is b-breeding my a-asshole…” she murmured, voice breathless and subdued. “B-Being a c-cum-dumpster feels g-good. I-I c-can’t hate bein’ treated like this…



“T-This is better…



“B-Better thn’ s-stupid customs, b-better thn’ my h-husband’s worthless jizz, b-better thn everything .”  She huffed.


Though euphoric in his own right, Cruz’s condition was not so bogged down by stimulation as to overlook the words that left his neighbour’s lips. Listening intently throughout labored groans of his own, the passage of a particular sentence between her lips prompted him to focus on her as opposed to the masculine fulfillment drowning his brain.


“So that’s what you think about it? Arthur would be so disappointed…” he exhaled.


“Anyway, if that’s the case, you shouldn’t be keeping everything to yourself, Kaona.” he suggested. “Don’t you remember? You were going to share this experience with Anya, weren’t you?”


“Ah, never mind. Here, let me give you a hand…”


Quite familiar with Kaona’s propensity to forget herself whilst semen surged through her innards, Cruz did not wait for her input on how to proceed with her demonstration of ‘sharing’. Reaching in towards the underside of her thighs, he clasped his right palm to the white-ish green flesh of Kaona’s thigh. This done, he began peeling his crotch backwards from its sandwiching against her own whilst simultaneously applying a downward pressure onto her frame with his hand. Holding her in place throughout a haggard and messy drag of his endowment through her innards, his efforts brought the entirety of his shaft (and the translucent cream-coating affixed to it) out from a asshole depressed, cratered, and visibly inundated with semen from the smearing of its mouth to the puffy pink meat visible deep within it. Behind the wet *PLORP* that signalled its exit came a gurgle, and finally a lazy expulsion of backed up semen from the destroyed orifice onto the floor beneath it.


Given the size of this expulsion, the state of Kaona’s asshole, and the more uniform roundness at her stomach, one could reasonably assume that the entirety of Cruz’s orgasm as having been squeezed into her stomach.


In this case, one such person would assume incorrectly. Poised upwards towards Kaona’s face and the child still suckling at her breast was an erection still in the midst of spewing semen. Though the target of the ropes spat from it had changed, the product of their delivery was the same as it always had been: an unsightly caking of stinking semen to a variety of surfaces.


One after another, especially thick strands of semen were dumped into a varied smearing of the area encompassed by Kaona’s face and chest. Initially, strands of muck were draped vertically from her forehead straight down to the much-smaller facial features of the child at her chest. Soon, though, these vertical deliveries were replaced by a messier clotting of thicker expulsions to differing sections of her face altogether. Though Anya’s facial features were intentionally ‘missed’ by these slug-thick wads, her apparent indifference to the substance and her placement below her mother’s face resulted in her features acquiring a chunked glaze comparable to her mother’s.


Tragically, semen again proved the sole ‘thing’ that Kaona was willing to respond to. Taking the matting of semen arcs across her face and the stinging redness applied to her eyes as a call to action, she abruptly released her cradle of Anya’s back and sent her hands upwards towards the near-infants skull.


Then came words spoken from her mind to her body.


“If you do this, you’ll be just as bad as him.” she thought to herself. “You’d be spitting on everything you were taught as a girl, and everything you’ve lived for as an adult.


“And you know what else? You’ll have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life.


Her frame could no longer be dragged back. Freed from their apprehensive trembling, Kaona’s hands oriented Anya’s skull to face the remainder of Cruz’s orgasm, and afterwards slid downward to deliver her index fingers into the opposing corners of her mouth.



And she pulled.




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