Catching the Starflae Girls

The creature reached out furtively to fondle Tiffany, then snatched its hand back. Its lips were swollen now, moist and flush but raisiny-wrinkled, clammy. Thick green saliva leaked steadily from its lower lip. The creature cowered like a sleeping bat, its webbed claws arched before its sooty, withered face.

"Look," said the Mad Scientist to defenseless Tiffany. "Your ample mammaries have completely stimulated and activated my little fuck-fiend's oral gland." Tiffany lifted her head, saw the slimy sewage smeared all over her body and the creature's bulging, throbbing lips, and let herself fall back again in stunned, silent disgust. Try to relax, she remembered.

A strange older relative had once said this to her at a Christmas family get-together when she'd come home from college. He'd cornered her in the bathroom, settled lightly over her lap on the toilet seat and lifted her tiny skirt. Try to relax, he'd said as he'd played with her skirt's hem, unzipped his pants and pointed his pee-log at the crotch of Tiffany's panties, started stroking his shriveled, half-hard, elderly penis. Try to relax, he'd whispered, as he jerked himself on her, pointing his wanker through him, toward the toilet, as though relieving himself. You'll like it soon, he'd whispered. And he was right. It was humiliating and shameful, particularly when he squeezed her leg hard enough to give her a start, or bent and licked her face, leaving a sticky mess on her cheek. At the end of it thick white gobs of come spurted onto the crotch and front of her panties, staining them, and she was so grossed out she gagged.

But she had relaxed and after a while—except for that gooey part at the end—it was okay, still disgraceful and obscene but vaguely pleasant for all of that. A safe feeling swept her, like being warm at home, and she'd laid back to feel the strange, cool, flicking splats from the old man's pee-log on her soft undies and her tummy under the belly-button. After it was over she'd remembered even that part with the kind of peculiar pleasure she got from knowing she was bottom dog. It felt good to be shamed and dirtied, but not be hurt.

"My seed mutant has stimulated itself by masticating and salivating all over your nursing udders." The Mad Scientist fondled and groped Tiffany, tugged on her nipple and let it go, jiggling her tits. A little spittle smeared on his hand and he flicked it in the helpless girl's face. She flinched and gave the Mad Scientist a pitiful, supplicating look.

She was clearly in a state of languid, dizzy distress. But the Mad Scientist was far too transported with lechery to relent in his violation of this powerless female. Her naked body bore all the plumage of college co-ed youth—freckles that dusted her high cheeks and tiny nose and the cleavage of her ample breasts. She bore a smattering of pimples—one on her chin, another on the crown of her tit below the nipple that he had squeezed and popped not long before.

"The creature has secreted so much of this disgusting film on you"—the Mad Scientist wiped his hand disdainfully in Tiffany's hair—"that we must scrub your little nursing-buds clean again." He turned, picked up a soapy, wet sponge from his tooltray and squeezed a gush of soapy water all along Tiffy's naked body. The shiny pools of suckspume and crusty phlegm trickled down her—tracing the contours of her arched, trim figure—and then dribbled to the floor. He rubbed the sponge vigorously on her tender breasts until she moaned and gagged on the tiny, snotty underpants crammed in her mouth. Soon, though, she was soaking wet and squeaky clean except for the stew of liquid germs that ringed her mouth and smeared her face.

The slavering fuckslave monstrosity scraped its claw along the ground.

"I forgot about the creature," the Mad Scientist sneered. Then, to Tiffany: "and your little friend." A vacant lunacy dimmed his face. "I must keep the fuckbeast stimulated," he said aloud to himself, "so that its open sores will be primed to contaminate your uncorrupted pink bodies." He patted Jodi's soft rump. She jumped and gasped, startled to be touched.

"Squeeze that little cunt's hamhocks a few good ones for me," the Mad Scientist instructed his creature. "Get a whiff of 'em. Sniff their plumpness."

Eagerly obeying, the creature slithered over behind Jodi on its knees and petted her brusquely on the hindquarters. "Oh, God," she sniveled, tossing her head from side to side, worming feebly in her bondage. The sex-creature drew its face to Jodi's ass.

It sniffed her.

"God, no, c'mon—ugh." Jodi's hips wiggled and jerked. Warm breath tickled her anus. When the sniffing, hissing creature detected that Jodi was sliding back into the soft twilight of the drugs the Mad Scientist had shot inside her, it clutched the seat of her panties and wrenched them, then shook them hard while yanking on them with enough strength to lift Jodi's heels off the ground. She gasped. Her breath caught in quick rhythm. Hot. Then burning . . .

What an easy one this is to push around, the Mad Scientist mused. Even at this early stage she has lost most of her dignity.

Once the Mad Scientist had finished carefully drying Tiffany's bosom with a towel, he replaced the towel and, with both hands free, massaged the underside of Tiffany's right breast. As he used his other hand to play with Tiffany's bright blonde hair, he squeezed her breast slowly, regularly, pumping it. He worked his thumb and fingers and Tiffany's feathery, malleable orb dimpled and jiggled in his palm. Her rosy chestnut swelled and expanded as he squeezed her. Soon her breast would flush with blood; then it would be ready to receive the injection.

He pulled a chilled ice cube out of a small freezebox on his operating tray. He stuck it on the underswell of her right breast, the one he'd picked for this experiment. The ice cube clung to the dry skin. The bitter bite of its cold made Tiffany wiggle.

"Icy?" the Mad Scientist asked, idly fondling Tiffy's trim waist. She faintly tried to pull herself upward, then shook off a chill. She sighed again. She was groggy, inconsolable.

The ice cube softened enough from warming against her flesh that it fell off her. It left a moist patch of whiter, cool skin on her breast.

The innocent Tiffany's eyes went wide when the Mad Scientist showed her the syringe he was going to use on her. She fixated with palpable dread on it.

The scientist flicked Tiffany's breast twice. It rippled lusciously. She squirmed.

"Needles," the Mad Scientist hissed. His face was close to Tiffany's cheek, which puffed in synch with her halting breath. A lock of her bangs, which had fallen over her brow, fluttered. "You are frightened of the needles."

Tiffany nodded urgently.

"You must learn to accept it. Your body," he palpated Tiffany's milky round jugs and then ran his hand over her smooth, heaving belly, "will be my soft little pin-cushion. I will enjoy it when you wriggle like a piglet and squeal." He reached between her thighs, fingering the pink pouch of her girlhood. "I'll stick a needle in your pussylips next," he whispered to her. She flinched. "I'll make your little girlhole hot and raw so when my fuckbeast runs its cold. Black. Tongue on it, you'll feel. Every. Little. Lick."

Tiffany shrank, pulling away to forbear hearing any further horrid secrets. She didn't want to know what would happen to her next. But even so, that sublime, dirty submissive pleasure was returning, the one that had seemed so alien to her in the bathroom at the family get-together years before. Even as she whimpered and convulsed with dread, her body was getting slick in the crotch and musky-moist in her stubbly underarms. Her breasts swelled as if gorged with hot buttermilk. Her hips absently, subtly gyrated. Underneath her revulsion, some animal part of her was pulsing to primitive life. This electric, lubricated tingling favored her most shameful and private bodyplaces.

So lost was Tiffany in this inner turmoil, this tangle of consuming revulsion and faint, unfamiliar pleasure, that it took her a minute to realize what had happened when the Mad Scientist jabbed the syringe into the soft underbelly of her breast, where he had chilled her with the icecube moments before. The needle's point dented Tiffany's skin, pushing up on her globe of jiggling milkfat. Then the point sank in, and at the same time her breast settled on the needle, taking back its original shape. Her body tensed up, elbows stiffening. She pumped her legs once, and the rack she was pinned to rattled.

But by this time the worst had already passed, and she soon settled down again. The tumult of her shame and her weird, excretory pleasure drained her, left her languid and docile. Submissive. The scientist slowly bore down the needle's plunger. A jet of cool liquid streamed into the girl's budding mammary gland. It spread into a pool inside her.

She thought of a film loop she'd seen in college biology. Sperm swam determinedly in salt water. Swollen, crimson blood cells meandered single file through tiny capillaries. Tiffany became aware of her own desire watching this movie. The realization had dawned on her in the projector's flickering light that her tuft of hair wasn't going away. Her sex had felt so small and mysterious as she idled in class, the little quim in the seat of her panties, hidden in her skirt.

Now as she remembered it, the changes in her body were being described in the movie she watched, and the narrator was using her name. "Tiffany's dirty dreams have corrupted her body," the narrator was saying. A few people in the class turned to look at her. "Tiffany thought that the fuzz on her snatch meant she had done something wrong," the narrator continued, and a movie of Tiffany showering, zooming in on her naked peachfrizz, was being shown to the whole class. "She thought her pussy was a secret." One of the students tittered.

"What a freak," another whispered. "Something must be wrong with her."

"But now the whole class can see Tiffany's snatch," the narrator said. He began speaking like a hypnotist. "Watch the movie," he said. "Watch." On screen, Tiffany's pink fingernails played in the tuft of fur, dripping with shower water. She rubbed soap onto her hands and lathered her sex in circular motions.

"Watch her pubic hair become public hair."

The class by and large was mesmerized. They rocked back and forth, gazing at Tiffany's naked body on the screen. But by ones and twos, some of the students began to glare menacingly at her. Two of Tiffany's fellow students in the front of the classroom started climbing over the backs of their chairs. They looked other-than-human, like panthers.

"You must expose her real pussy," the narrator said, and the movie became a nature program of Tiffany in the clearing of a rainforest, on her hands and knees, waiting still as a gorilla lurched around behind her. It mounted her and hooted and grunted. Its hips thrashed against her bottom.

"Expose her crime," the narrator bade the young scholars. One of them—little fat Oscar, the filthy pariah, the class perv—had taken the lead. He reached out to Tiffany's knees, started to pull them apart.

She started. Whatever the scientist had shot into her had given her a dream.

Her injected breast had swollen and her nipple was a brighter, smoother pink. The aereolae ringing it were bulging white pimples. While she had lolled in her bizarre college-class reverie, the Mad Scientist had sniffled and licked Tiffany's scruff, indulging a crude reverie of his own in the oversweetness of her drugstore perfume.