A Femboy And His Blob

"Jesus fuckin'

Christ!

" I whine. Yeah, I'm admitting that I'm whining. I'm very self aware. I'm checking the vote scores on my latest story, and they're not great. I'm not even getting many views. I've been at this for six months, and I just can't get over the hump.

I write smut. It's not my day job, but then again, my day job isn't really my day job either. I work at a Double-Secret-Probation research facility about fifty kilometers away, and another three kilometers straight down. I'm a total fraud; actually, I'm a Double Secret Fraud. See that, there? That's high-quality wordplay. That's an ancient film reference that flows right back into the main character's backstory. These fucking readers, I tell you. They wouldn't know irony if they got butt fucked by a giant fucking butt.

I'm totally cool with being a fraud at my day job. I'm genuinely trying to learn how to write good smut, though -- or at least popular smut. Is there a difference? I want there to be, but maybe there isn't.

You need hobbies. You need interests. I've always been a perv and a slut. I've been a slutty, perverted, big-dicked femboy for almost a hundred years. It's been quite the ride. I don't base many stories off of my real-world exploits, though. I like sci-fi and fantasy.

Okay, that's going to get confusing in a minute. Remember: "sci-fi" means "science fiction." Focus on that second word. I take it literally. Most people don't.

Then again, most people don't live with an alien. Fiction is fiction until it isn't.

You are recalcitrant. We have been over the results of my analysis multiple times. You are the author of your own misery.

"Oh fuck y-"

I stop just short of saying it. I realize something.

"Wait... did you just make a joke, Puddles? 'Author of your own misery?'"

Idioms are useful. It was apt.

I roll my eyes. "I don't understand why you're so

recalcitrant

. You know I'd be thrilled if you developed an actual sense of humor."

A human sense of humor.

"Well, yeah. When in Rome."

Rarity is correlated with value, albeit nondispositively. You should attempt to cultivate a [dense squishing noises] sense of humor. Your current one is... not rare.

"You learned how to be a catty little bitch pretty fuckin' quickly," I mutter.

It is almost time. You should consume more.

"Fine," I sigh, pretending to be annoyed. I grab a fistful of Spicy-Cheez chips and shove them into my mouth. Next I finish up the chili dog, then the bacon cheeseburger, then three massive bites to obliterate the cinnamon roll, then... well, you get the idea. I cap it all off with an extra-large strawberry milkshake, still reasonably cold. I chug that sucker, and let the whipped cream give me a facial. It has to be something like six hundred calories by itself. That's nothing for me. I've consumed -- no,

eaten

- easily ten thousand since Puddles' last feeding.

All of it is delicious. I fucking

love

to eat. I always did, even before I met Puddles. Sex is better, and quite a few drugs are better, but for the past hundred years or so I've been keeping food a contender through quantity alone. I never built up a tolerance for food or sex like I did for most of the drugs. They're both just as satisfying as they were a century ago, and thank god for that. Since I'm rich, the food also tastes better than ever. Most people have to settle for the cut-rate synthetic stuff. I can afford the real stuff, but, since I'm not a complete fucking monster, I go for the ridiculously-expensive designer versions.

The sex I have with other humans also tastes better; that's still mostly thanks to Puddles. It's a long story. You'll probably put its pieces together during this much-shorter one.

I'm naked, and Puddles is already halfway merged with me. It's almost impossible to describe how much better I feel whenever he's around me and inside of me. It's more than just feeling better, though. He makes me better, period. I never get sick. I never get sore. I never have to worry about overdosing on drugs, or suffering any withdrawal symptoms. I don't even have to shower, except if I have company and Puddles needs to hide away. I only sleep because I want to, and because Puddles likes consuming me while I dream.

I also never get fat. Puddles is a hungry boy, and his line is that he can only feed off of 'complexity.' Catty bitch that he's become, he regularly implies that humans are just barely complex enough to qualify as food. He's a fucking liar, by the way. You'll see. You won't need a degree in medicine to figure out that he's full of shit.

Still, he does love the drugs, and so I flood my body with the most sophisticated and hardcore ones ever designed. They're a delicacy for him. They're rare and exotic spices atop his main meal. Me? I barely feel them anymore. I'm hopped up on euphies all the time, and I'm completely functional. If opium took drugs to get fucked up, it'd look at euph and say, "well... maybe cut the pill in half?"

Anyway, I guess you're just going to have to trust me that I'm not an unreliable narrator. I'm clear-headed. I'm admitting I'm on drugs all the time. I'm crabbing with my alien owner and lover like we're Bert and Ernie. Ernie would be the alien, right? I say that even though Puddles is more of a Bert.

It's time. Puddles is hungry again, and I'm almost always horny.

"Take, me, beautiful," I say dramatically, standing up and spreading out my legs and my arms.

I appreciate the compliment.

The rest of Puddles emerges from his warm vents and tubes -- custom jobs, designed with his input -- and completely engulfs my body. For the first few years, I instinctively panicked. Now, I enjoy the ride from start to finish. From the outside, I look like I've been encased in a blob of quivering gelatin. I feel like I've died and gone to heaven -- although, granted, there's still a moment of unease when I can't traditionally breathe anymore.

This is going to get complicated, so let me add some background and some formatting bullshit. My name's L. It's a reference, yeah, but it's more than that. I'm the world's prettiest, femme-iest femboy. My name used to be Lawrence. Now it's L, but also Elle, and it can be pronounced 'Ellie' if anyone cares to. What can I say? I like being a gurly-boi, and I appreciate that drag-queen wordplay.

You're smart. You'll figure it out.

L: Milk me, baby. Make me your femboy hucow bitch.

Being surrounded by Puddles is divine, but there are circles to heaven as surely as there are to hell. Puddles gets inside my windpipe and lungs first thing; he gives me a few seconds to surrender one of my vital bodily functions over to him. I'll be honest: it's some kinky shit, and it gets me hard. He can kill me if he wants, in so many different ways. When he feeds, it's simply undeniable that he owns me. No one has ever felt so helpless and vulnerable -- at least not while gearing up for the ultimate sexual release. We're already up to the second or third circle of heaven, at least. I'm surrounded by my alien owner, and partially filled by him. He's basically sapient sex lube; that's his default. I can writhe around and give myself pleasure just by rubbing against him. I start doing exactly that. I try to moan, and fail. It's okay, though. When Puddles has merged this fully with me, he can feel my intentions and reactions telepathically.

P: You are already experiencing tremendous sensual and sexual pleasure, and proactively seeking out more, in spite of the fact that I have barely begun our routine. That makes you a slut. Your choice of sexual partners, and willingness to engage in unusual sexual acts, makes you a pervert. Given your collection of personal traits related to sexual and gender identity, you are therefore a slutty, perverted femboy.

He's got me pegged, but it's always hot to hear your owner lay it out for you. I can't call what I feel humiliation -- not anymore, not after all this time -- but I still get a thrill. I feel like that other kind of fraud: the slutty perv who pretends to be a decent, upstanding member of society. Puddles is exposing me for what I truly am. He's stripping off my mask. He's consuming and digesting it, leaving me naked -- not just my body, but

me.

My cock is so fucking hard. I want to cum, but I also want to get fucked. I want to get fucked so badly. There's nothing more submissive than this. This is the rock-bottom of bottoming. I never feel like a submissive bottom with humans anymore. It's all a game with them. Puddles owns this planet. He owns my species. I'm the femboy-princess-slave of the entire human race.

They just don't know it yet. I do. I toy with them. Puddles lets me.

P: Your current socioeconomic status is primarily due to my superior intellect, and my willingness to abet you in fraud. Currently, I have the power to terminate your social and economic existences almost as quickly as your literal one. So the human saying goes: possession is nine-tenths of the law. You are my femboy. You are my owned, slutty, perverted femboy, and I am going to consume you. You are going to enjoy it.

After all these decades together, honestly, the laborious detail is kind of a turn-on. It shows he's making a real effort. Plus, if there's anything I've learned about smut, it's that, once the action starts, repetition and excessive detail aren't necessarily bad things anymore.

L: Yes, Master. I love you, Master. I'm your slutty little femboy bitch. I'm your living feed bag. You own me. Please destroy me. Ruin my body and my mind. Make me cum to fucking death.

P: Perhaps this time I shall.

Once Puddles controls what used to be my breathing, he firms up pieces of himself. He creates more than a dozen tentacles, straight out of a hentai. If you were watching from the outside of his gelatinous form, you could probably just make them out, writhing inside of the sloppy egg shape: translucence upon translucence that's distinguished only by thickness and motion. Two are for exactly what you think. Several wrap around my limbs, role playing as restraints. I love the extra pressure, and their monstrous undulations. Their heads are a mop of flagella that tickle my palms, fingertips, feet and toes. Several more tease me like that all over my body. I strain against the main four, and it feels good. Puddles knows to let me feel the briefest hope that I'll actually break free of them, before asserting his true strength and snapping me back to my suspended, spread-eagle position.

Each of my nipples gets a tentacle of its own. The flagella do their work expertly, but soon enough the heads will morph into inhuman mouths. It's an insulting understatement to call what they'll do to my nipples 'sucking' and 'licking,' but those are the best words I've got.

Similarly, the one at my balls is content to tickle for now. Another, near my large, throbbing cock, pointedly refuses to touch, except for the merest brush against the least-sensitive portions of the shaft. Puddles also does an 'ear thing.' It's something humans should never, ever,

ever

try to do themselves, but Puddles knows human anatomy inside and out, and he has the precision of an AI-controlled surgical suite. People used to talk about how good it felt to cram weird, cotton-tipped things in their ears. It's like that, times a hundred, with no risk of fucking yourself up.

P: Anticipate the act of simultaneous penetration. I am superior to all human sexual partners due to this ability, and also due to the size of the appendages I will use. Your primary sexual appendage is comparatively small. Accept this fact and internalize its bevy of psychosexual implications.

L: Oh god. Conquer my boi-holes with your big, gelatinous cocks! You are the master species! You've ruined me for human lovers! I'm addicted to your superiority!

P: Your acceptance gives me satisfaction, but, ironically, will only serve to increase my contempt for your inferiority. I shall use you to seek my own satisfaction. You shall achieve yours nonetheless, because my sexual prowess is overwhelming. You will come to associate your submission, passivity, and wholly-accurate sense of inadequacy with the sexual pleasure I carelessly and unintentionally provide. You will lose your ability to be dominant or active within the context of sexual relationships and interactions. Indeed, I believe you already have.

Puddles and I have been doing this dance for a long time. I know he's impatient to feed. He knows that his attempts at dirty talk only enhance my experience to a certain point. We've reached that point, and so now it's time for the two F's.

Puddles does his 'ear thing,' and I start jerking my entire head around like a seizure victim. I practically am one. Insulated by sapient gelatin as I am, though, I'm perfectly safe. Then, the final three tentacles find their marks: my mouth, my boi-hole, and my cock-slit. The first two mimic the shape of a human phallus near their ends, but they're bigger; Puddles commits to the BGC fantasy, and he's long since made sure my body can handle it. The last tentacle starts as a silky thread, and, once inside, only expands enough to remind me that I have absolutely no control.

Puddles sounds me and spitroasts me, and I flood his consciousness with my intense reaction. It's too embarrassing to write out; imagine as many capital letters and exclamation points as you want. He feels it, but he's too distracted by his own needs to care that much. He begins feasting on everything. He empties out my bladder, testicles, and prostate -- not to mention a host of smaller sexual glands -- in no time. The feeling of them all being drained simultaneously is indescribable, and so is the zen-like peace of having them all

be

completely drained. No mere mortal pushes every last drop out of themselves with a regular orgasm. The closest anybody comes is when they get their prostate aggressively milked for an hour or more. Even then, the swelling sends a false signal that there's still more in there; when nothing comes out, that final emotional barrier remains unbreached. I don't suffer that fate. I know true peace. It's the impossible reward the human body grants when it senses that it's truly cum its last. Puddles stops doing his 'ear thing' long enough for me to appreciate it. I move up the circles of heaven. Let's call it seven.

Puddles also fucks my throat and my boi-hole the whole time he feeds; that, he never lets up with. The sense of submission it imparts -- or imposes, if you like -- only enhances my unnatural calmness once I'm drained. All the while, the tentacle that penetrated my pretty, pink hole just keeps getting longer and longer. Eventually, the one in my mouth will withdraw, because the other one will have made its way from one end of my digestive tract to the other. He'll turn me into a cocksleeve, and then fill me from end to end with hot, thick, gelatinous cum. Indescribable sensations abound.

Puddles gets a massive dose of calories in exchange: all the food that's been digested by my hyper-efficient stomach and guts. Even the stuff I just scarfed down is fair game. I told you he's a fucking liar. The bar for 'complexity' isn't that high, and he likes the human element far more than he lets on. I'm willing to believe that his food fetish probably covers plenty of other intelligent species's bodies and digestive tracts, too, but, well, he's in Rome. We're the apex -- or were, until he showed up. We're not so much a delicacy as a machine that makes a whole bunch of them. If a ridiculously-complicated multi-course meal can be called a delicacy in its own right, then maybe we qualify.

Before he begins breaking down and absorbing my fat deposits - not to mention any stray ATP I can live without - he performs his ultimate sexual miracle: he inserts himself into my blissfully-empty sexual organs and glands, snapping me from monk to maniac in mere moments. I lose my mind to the overwhelming urge to fuck and cum; then, just to prove there's always more sanity to lose, Puddles reinserts himself into my ear canals. I jerk and spasm all over again, but eventually, the urge to rut wins out; I begin rhythmically straining against my tentacle bondage, but only for leverage. I don't want to break free this time. I just want to fuck, and my long, thick femboy cock is already surrounded by something that feels eminently fuckable.

The tentacle on my balls goes into overdrive. The one near my cock finally wraps itself around my throbbing ten inches, and adds both stroking and undulating to the stimulation I'm giving myself with my frantic thrusting. Fucking into sex lube was one thing; now, I'm being given an alien hand job atop it.

It doesn't take me long to cum. I feel the profound satisfaction of pushing Puddle's sounding tentacle out of my body. That's not the miracle, though. The miracle is that, once the path is clear, I simply do not stop cumming. I cum buckets of Puddles out into Puddles, but there's always more Puddles to cum. My owner even coagulates a false cervix for my wildly-thrusting cock to press against over and over again. It's just pliable enough to convince me that maybe I can penetrate it, and it quivers with a false climax for as long as my very-real one lasts. My body's instinct to shoot its seed up into a fertile womb is reset over and over again. Even when it flags, Puddles keeps forcing himself out of me, and then back into me. He massages my balls, my glands, and my cock from the outside even as he fills and empties their insides.

Once I'm in the throes of my orgasm, Puddles finishes cocksleeving me, and cums into my stomach. Believe it or not, I can feel the difference between gelatin-tentacle and gelatin-cum. He's a versatile blob.

Being consumed is a little uncomfortable. The nigh-endless mega-orgasm drowns that sensation out. It's like using a nuclear blast to shush a mockingbird. To me, right now, that sounds perfectly reasonable. Make it thermonuclear. Antimatter. Fuck everything. End the fucking universe with a bang, not a whimper. Who needs it? I'm already in heaven, right at the very top. So an alien eats humans. So he owns the entire planet. So we're technically already a part of his species's interstellar empire and will be glorified cattle-slaves forever. Big deal. I'm fucking cumming. That's what matters. The rest is irrelevant worldbuilding that should be probably be cut before publication.

When my orgasm finally ends, Puddles goes completely soft, and empties himself from my digestive tract. It's a hundred-gallon gelatin-cum enema flushing out of me, and it gives me that unique, almost-sexual sense of accomplishment and completion that can only come from the rear hole doing what it's meant to do. I'm done. That's a real emotion, and I'm feeling its best version. I am utterly, completely, gloriously, serenely

done.

I'm sure I send Puddles all sorts of telepathic messages during this process. They probably sound a lot like his native language. The plain fact of the matter is, Puddles

does

ruin me. He's just courteous enough to fix me afterwards. All the king's horses and all the king's men were pathetic, terrestrial clowns. Puddles puts hump-boy together again.

A few minutes later, I can think clearly enough to send him something intentionally.

L: I could stay in here forever, Master. I love you so much.

P: Hold that thought.

He really is developing a sense of humor.

Puddles lets me enjoy my emotions for a while, but then it's time for his dessert. I close my eyes and submit to him even further. You know how some people call analingus 'the kiss of ultimate submission?' Well, Puddles knows how to perform the kiss of ultimate domination. I feel him seeping up into my nasal cavity, and beyond. I experience him consuming the most private and intimate part of me -- not my bowels, but my brain. I stop feeling post-coital affection. I stop feeling post-orgasmic giddiness and haziness. Hell, I stop feeling much of anything, except completely owned. Without all the sex stuff, you might think that that would be a horrible feeling. It was, for the first few years. Now I just accept it. I've come to associate it with everything else good in my life -- which is, well, everything. I'm his pet. Dogs seem to love the arrangement. Why shouldn't I?