Marise hummed a cheerful tune as she led him by the leash into the meadow of shining pools. She moved backwards, leaning over slightly--as though trying to soothe and lure a beast.
Gretel stared at her bouncing tits and felt completely lost. He couldn't help himself. Couldn't look away. It felt so natural to stare, and she smelled so
good
--like cookie dough, like sweetness, like surrender. Every time he thought he might be recovering himself, she seemed to sense it, reaching up to give one of those massive teardrop-shaped breasts an indulgent
bounce
, and his mind seemed to...
...drift...
... until remembering itself a moment later and finding his feet had taken him several more witless steps forward.
They came to the tent. Gretel searched inside, trying hard to muster his will, to draw his inner strength to the surface. But it was putty. Goo between her bouncing, jiggling tits.
"Well?" She turned to him and smiled, pressing in close again. Gretel stumbled, caught off-guard by the sudden advance, and his balance lurched farther than his bound hands could follow.
He fell on his back.
Luckily, he landed somewhere soft.
The bedroll,
he remembered numbly. Then,
Oh, no.
Marise stood above him. She had an imperious, condescending smirk gracing her gorgeous face, and that should have filled Gretel with indignation. It just made him harder. "Poor, silly boy," she purred, reaching up and jiggling her breasts. Gretel felt his mind melting away from him with every bounce. "It's just not fair, is it?"
"Nn... not fair..." His voice was a wretched whimper. He squirmed, pleading with his own body to rally itself. He couldn't get caught, not again, not already, he... he wasn't... supposed to...
"Boys can't help themselves around pretty girls like me," she cooed. The holstaur clasped her hands behind her back and leaned over, and her enormous tits bounced right above his head. "Boys can't help but get hypnotized by pretty, bouncy tits like this, can they? Poor, weak, brainless horny boys~"
Her voice was a melody, but he didn't even feel like he was listening to it anymore. He was caught in it, swept along, helplessly entangled in the treble clef trill of her sugary, seductive words.
There was something unspeakable about it, something unechoable that slipped from her lips. Something about that voice that wrapped around him like thornless rose briars and blew sweet scents upon his mind until it swooned. Something about it that went beyond any fey he'd ever met. Something that he'd never heard of inhabiting the tongue of any holstaur, from what little he knew.
He wondered what would happen if he kept listening to it for too long.
"Nn... n-no, I..."
"After all..." She laughed at him, squeezing her breasts together. "When my breasts go
squish
... boys
brains
go squish~"
Squish. He felt her musical voice tugging his mind along, like a finger under the chin luring it deeper into the flowers. Delicate, and yet if he followed it...
He watched her breasts fall.
Squish.
Gretel humped the air without thinking. Oh, Limini's leggings were so unbearably tight.
She laughed, and to his intense relief--and confused disappointment--the strange quality seemed to slip away from her voice. Still, it remained sweet, low, sultry, and still he could not escape it as she sang, "When tits go
bounce
, your
thoughts
go bounce~"
"Oh... but... but I..." Gretel was panting. Drooling. He knew he was proving her right, acting like a dumb, stupid boy drooling over a pretty girl's tits, humping the air, totally transfixed, totally hypnotized, her weak little boytoy, unable to resist the pretty bouncy tits, unable to resist her, unable to resist any pretty girl...
He was humping faster. Bucking into the air. Whimpering. Moaning. Watching as her tits bounced and swayed and jiggled.
Marise descended lower, and her scent descended, too, thicker than ever. He was drugged out of his mind by her perfume, her musk, her... pheromones. Drugged by his own lust. Sent into a pathetic mating fog, straight into heat like a wifwolf ready for breeding. Broken by a pair of pretty tits. As any boy would be.
"P-Please," he whimpered, "please, I c-can't..."
The pleas felt false to his own ears. At his most ashamed center, he knew the truth. He wasn't begging her to stop anymore.
He was begging her to force him.
And judging by that lovingly cruel smile, this was the message she received.
Her coos were wordless, soothing sounds, the sounds one might make to calm a crying infant or startled kitten. She slid into his lap, straddling him, pinning him against the bedroll and locking her knees around his hips.
"Please," he whined.
"Don't struggle, sweetie," she murmured, licking her lips. "It won't do any good. Stop fighting."
Keep fighting,
her eyes whispered, sparkling with amusement.
See how little it matters. See how easily you fail.
"B-But I..."
His voice was slurred and vague, like his own tongue was somewhere far away. But he could still hold on, couldn't he? He had to keep his mouth shut, no matter what. He didn't have to... to hump against her luscious, curvy ass, to completely lose himself to her scent and huff as much as he could. He didn't have to... humiliate himself like...
