Self Indulgence
A continuation of my Flash Pulp/Self Indulgence Series written during my hiatus. The reader is an "industrial" sex worker servicing an insatiable client whose needs continue to escalate.
The hog groaned as he unsheathed his cock from your throat, wiping the slurry of spit and jizz off on your hand then lumbering off for another gatorade. Despite your best efforts you cough and gag as you struggle to recover from being throatfucked like you didn't need to breathe. Honestly you feel bad for the guy. He has to make appointments because none of your coworkers can handle his needs and there doesn't seem to be anyone else in his life judging by the all-day blocks he schedules with your face.
Your supervisor suggests you get reassigned as his live-in jizz dumpster (and if the hog huffing to catch his breath as he fills his heavy belly with electrolytes ever asked, you are certain you would agree) but it seems wrong to impose on his life, to insist he do things any way but the way that makes him comfortable. So you just watch as his balls slap back and forth against his knees, dripping with his previous loads and catching the oozing dregs of his most recent one as it belches out of his fat, trembling and still rock hard cock.
He approaches slowly and mercifully just smashes his sac artlessly against your face. His signal to give you a 'break' and let you suck his balls clean of sweat and spooge. Of course, you're a professional and you gobble up his balls enthusiastically. If you were paying attention you might have heard the casual tittering of the other sluts you work with chatting up the guests, moaning as they get railed into a cushion. You feel a kind of dutiful pride in being stashed away in your corner, laid out on your back and working hard to please a man who might rather fuck a milking machine than you. You gasp and gulp loudly struggling to meet his needs and you can hear him turn on the screen above you; tuning into a stream of loudly gushing cumshots to drown you out.
He comes to you because you're provided free of charge. A municipal servant he doesn't have to put any work into taking care of. He can just schedule a double shift for you and anything he thinks of, you'll figure out a way to provide. Sure, he tips you well enough, better than the two or three people who have to replace you when he needs another day before you've recovered and you even get token gifts on holidays. But you know he'd be happier with a milking machine, something that'll suck relentlessly for 12 hours straight and take any amount of cum.
"I want piglets," He announces suddenly. "Can we make this a breeding session?"
You keep sucking his balls like he wasn't talking to you. That's the only time you ever heard him talk before besides dismissing you or discussing something with your supervisor. You don't realize he remembered you were a person until he asks you again a half hour later while he's depositing another load down your throat.
"Can the next one be for my piglets?" he asked a second time, obviously having a hard time expressing his frustration and anticipation.
You have to think it over, sputtering again as he gives you a chance to breathe and answer, jerking himself off with his own cum, obviously holding back another of his long multigasmic binges. This was going to be hard work but you agree, guiding him across the room to your supervisor, getting issued the correct meds to put you in heat, make you even more receptive to the hog and his potent and never ending cum.
The other sluts seem rather disturbed by the look of you, haggard and obviously smeared in layer upon layer of ruthless, sticky facefucking. They whisper among themselves and their clients as the anxious man fails to be patient, cumming on your back as he watches you take your fertility meds, spearing your ass as your supervisor tries to explain to him all the responsibilities and obligations of reassigning you as a breeder. He doesn't care. You're just a cum incubation chamber to him. A piglet factory.
He would be happier with a milking machine but a milking machine can't make children. So you'll have to do. You try to simply accept your role. Unlike the other sluts, you're just a living onahole. From now on, you're certain you're gonna be on retainer for your hog. Instead of emptying himself once or twice a week, you know he'll be here anytime he has a boner for longer than a few seconds until it's confirmed you're pregnant, then he's gonna be cumming on your belly. You can feel it in your bones. This is all about jizz. You're not even sure that he wants the kids. The idea occurs to you that he wants to knock you up because that's what cum is supposed to do.
Either way, you just let him pump another load in you and dump half of it on the floor and your supervisor's desk. You don't even bother asking him to take you back to your cumstained corner. When someone finally asks him to take it to a splash zone, you just climb on him and resettle on his dick, straddling his plush gut and let him carryfuck you wherever he feels like going.
With the drugs and his breeding fervor, you give in to your own desire. You let him completely break you down. You are determined to become a milking machine. An organic sex doll for him to pump with as many gallons of cum as he can manage. A baby oven to mix endless pig batter into. Out of love for this strange, asocial man you completely surrender to his lust.