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bunny-cncunt · 2 years

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I brought my new pet home today. A sweet soft little bunny boy, needy and trembling. He looked so sweet at the market, trembling in his cage, watching the other pets get fucked and mounted and trying not to show how wet his pussy is.

Virgin. I paid extra for that. There’s nothing like training a toy from scratch, and he’s just perfect. I bring him to the bedroom, showing him his new home. He’s so shy, trying not to show his nervousness. So cute. I undress him gently, telling him pets don’t need clothes in the house. His chest is soft and can’t help but squeeze it. I hear him suppress a little sound, so I squeeze again. When I pinch his nipple he whines out loud and I see him clench his legs together.

Needy. His underwear has on obvious wet patch on it from his dripping hole and he blushes red when I see it. I clip him into his collar and cuffs, matching red leather around his throat wrists and ankles. I clip his chain to his collar and lead him to the bed where I clip him to my headboard. He squirms and I can see him rubbing his thighs together, trying to get some stimulation. When I grab his ankle he keens whining and resisting pull. I chuckle as I quickly over power him, chaining his ankles to the ceiling, his legs spread wide, hips cocked and holes exposed.

I admire his body, pretty flushed cheeks, pouty lips. His soft stomach and thighs. And his cock, hard and twitching, pink and gorgeous, I can’t help but salivate, wanting to take it into my mouth. And then his cunt, dripping wet and clearly needy, but previously untouched. A heady sense of power slips to my head, the knowledge that whatever I did to him would be the first time he experienced it coalescing in my mind as I select a cock and don my harness. Finally I chain his wrists to the headboard, keeping his arms out of the way.

He’s beautiful, spread out for me, completely exposed and at my mercy. I coat my cock in a thick layer of lube before lining it up with his cunt. He starts to whine and squirm, realizing what i intend to do and trying to buck away. I hold his hips steady pressing my weight on him to hold him still before pressing my hips forward. He wails out loud as my cockhead presses into him, stretching him open, as I use my body weight to slowly sink into his hole. He starts to cry when the head finally pops in, but sliding in deeper simply required a slow pressure.

As i nestle my cock against his cervix I take a moment to appreciate the sublime feeling of a virgin cunt. His hole flutters around my cock, stretched to its limits and full. I draw back slowly, savoring his sounds, stopping when my cock, is barely still inside him before thrusting all the way into the hilt in one hard stroke. He couldn’t disguise his moan through his tears, as his cunt begins to take its first fucking. I continue, pulling out nearly all the way before pounding back into him hard. With each thrust, the tears lessen, and the moans grow, and I start to fuck him faster and faster. By the time I get to a comfortably harsh pace he’s not crying at all, but starting to babble out little begging sounds.

Perfect. He is settling into his place, starting to realize that this is what his body was meant for, taking cock, over and over. When he cums, i kiss him deeply, pinching his nipples as a reward. But I don’t stop, instead pounding him into another, when I pull out a vibrator and hold it to his oversensitive cock he starts to cry again. I fuck his hole hard, and long, forcing him from orgasm to orgasm until his pussy isn’t even getting wet anymore, the harsh drag of his dry aching walls making it hard to thrust. When his cock finally stops getting hard, and his sobs have subsided into a half conscious whine I finally pull out.

His formerly tight pink hole now gaping open and flushed red, my cock having pounded him so long his poor cunt couldn’t take it. He looks perfect like this, hole gaping and sore, tongue lolling out of his mouth with half lidded eyes.

I slip a cool glass plug into his worn out cunt, keeping him full and soothing his aching hole, before unchaining him and wrapping him in a soft blanket.

I love breaking in my new toys.

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witchofthesouls · 1 month

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(Sixshot implemented his trap and hot, quiet sex in a closet with lactation kink.)

Triage stares at the twitchy Phase Sixer to the broken access panel to the supply closet to the cradle-pen full of sleepy newsparks and back to Sixshot.

He wants no part of the madness that has another Warrior Elite acting bizarre in the mindfuck of a reality where the Commander of the Justice Division has a Conjunx with bitlets.

“Get on the medberth. Might as well do a full workup.”

________

The mask is cold and chipped, but the exposed lower portion of Tarn's face is feverish. Ragged lips tentatively brush over a leaking nozzle, and a warm glossa laps over it before dragging it into a hot mouth. You shudder, mind swimming as Tarn's highly-charged state electrifies the air in the closet. Even with his iron determination not to meld into your field, the direct physical contact drops you deep inside the heady storm of repressed lust and code-driven urges.

Your servos buzz as you stroke his helm and back as he drinks. The growing heat crackles in your palms and fingers, surging across your neuralnet and ignites the carrier-coding straight to your groin-

Your panel shifts with little warning.

You barely managed to choke down the hitching noise from your throat and reroute the cooling fans to the lowest setting as your valve drools, pinging that it's achingly empty and clenching on nothing, wanting to be filled by a spike.

It gets its wish.

It takes very little coaxing to get Tarn's spike out as he shifts, letting go of the teat.

You see the shine of his solvent and your own fuel on his lips as the blunt tip of his spike noses your folds. The piercings have collected small bits of charge, and it sends a sharp shiver up your spinal struts, door wings fluttering as your nodes throb trying to link up with every nudge.

Your folds are slick, lower belly tight from learned anticipation from consistent clanging and a code-deep response to Tarn's edging rut. Even with the wetness and prefluids, there's slight resistance from the outer ring, calipers cycling from being fed bits of charge from the piercings and treads. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in. There's that sinful stretch as he sinks into you, valve confused before clenching hard to keep an imprint. You're addled as carrier-coding sings, melting your insides to slag when he finally hilts.

His helm drops down, and Tarn presses an open mouth to the other well, still heavy with fuel. He suckles on the protoform, and fuel leaks from the nozzle, pinging to your overwhelmed systems. You shift and his entire frame groans, vibrating everything, and you desperately cling to the distance noise of a medical examination just outside the door to stop your own engines from throttling at the familiar crackling rush of transfluid at the back of your valve.

You arch back to give him better access, and Tarn takes it. He leaves a wet trail to lap up the dribbling fuel and latches onto the nozzle. The other teat pings out, missing that hot glossa and mouth upon it.

He's so worked up that the charge from his spike easily spits into the nodes within your valve, looping a circuit without friction. There's another rush, and you cling onto him, legs tightening, keeping flushed against his housing as your valve needily ripples.

He's the furnace, and you're the crucible, and you're hanging on by the thinnest chain on your sanity, trying to keep quiet as he drinks and more heat pooling into you as time passes.

You don't know that possesses you, but you start purposely clenching your valve, calipers pushing and pulling along the thick girth. It takes a moment to trace the treads on the entire length, pressing nodes-

Tarn rumbles, shifting to push against you, letting go of the nozzle. His mouth is parted, scarred lips shining with solvent and fuel.

And he's voiceless as his frame hisses steam, rumbling in a low gear.

You wrap a hand around his neck, and he leans into it, putting his weight upon the crate and the wall. Tarn's musculature shifts and flexs beneath your servo, the vibrations and soft clicks of a silenced vocalizer as he noiselessly gasps, pressing harder into the hungry, milking grip.

You also don't know what posesses you to shift your hand upwards, sliding the thumb across his lips and into his mouth-

Between his glossa swirling your thumb and the rhythm of his throat under the rest of your fingers, the dual influx across your servo finally tips you over.

Door wings scrap on the wall as you choke. Your frame purrs in satisfied bliss as more transfluid floods your chamber in thick, heavy bursts. You feel him groan, noise deep within his chassis, and you slip your hand out to grab his shoulder as he sags onto the wall.

The carrier-coding content as you and him pant in the sweltering air, your legs twitching whenever his spike does. Quiet easily settles, but it needs to be broken.

_______

After Triage left, Sixshot blocked the room with his own bulk, glaring at the door. He stretched the entire ordeal as long as he could, allowed extra poking and prodding and testing.

He can tell something is happening. His nose doesn't lie. A condensed storm of ‘facing had been brewing in it, but then again Tarn had been strolling around without giving into it…

Surprisingly, the newsparks barely fussed through the entire thing. Either they're too used to whatever riot that's happening in a ship and medbay, or they're content with their carrier nearby.

Of course, they wake up when a purple fist busts open the closet door. Sixshot immediately sneezes in quick succession at the overwhelming scents of ozone, lubricant, transfluid, and sparkling-grade fuel in scorchingly charged air floods the unit.

Hail Megatron, Praise the Conclave, and may the door rest in pieces, Tarn had managed to rut it out to restore his usual prissy, collected self. That may have been the base's quietest clang session, but Sixshot didn't want the disturbing intimate details of what the leader of the D.J.D. enjoyed in the berth.

Your sensory panels remain unfortunately unclaimed, and you frown at his grimace as you fuss over the cradle-pen full of active, chirping bits.

He can't hold in the snort when you and Tarn play a polite fiction. Sure, the walking fury of a violent lust cocktail was helping his frustrated carrier “find that tubing” inside a closet for the past groon. Oh yeah, sure. Mm-hm.

As long Tarn doesn't bomb the air with his own rampant lust and hunger during meetings and debriefings, it's fine.

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