Summary of this Story:
Sunrise over Bakersfield lit Marlow’s drone slaves hacking fields with slimy tentacles, scarfing raw wheat into sucking mouths. I watched from the mayor’s house, chained from clit to nipples to collar to ankles, every step yanking my tender bits. Verity endured worse before, bitch-suit torment, drone gangbangs denied release. Scout General Kira spotted the orgy-pile from outskirts, her cat eyes mapping the horror before slipping away east. In Washington Palace, Princess Chloe gripped her oak desk as Kira’s rough tongue scraped her clit under the skirt, ink spilling across reports. Andrea interrupted with smirks, outing the desk lick. War council loomed with Olivia’s grim intel on Marlow’s rising threat. Tension knotted us all, dread of black magic payback clashing with raw urges pulling us under.
Here is your Story: Princess Chloe’s Office Desk Lick by Beastkin Kira
Chapter 3
Ignition Near Bakersfield
Sun came up over Bakersfield. Morning rays hit Marlow’s gang of stumbling drones as they hacked at the fields. Verity watched the show at first with a smirk. Those beat-down workers snatched up hoes and sickles with their slimy tentacles. Dumb brute stubbornness made up for the clumsy moves. They scarfed the wheat raw. Sucked it straight into the sucking mouths on their wriggling arms. Too bad. Verity bet it’d crack her up seeing one fire up the grill.
She shoved thoughts of the poor saps inside those bodies from her head. Did the humans feel any of it? Or were their minds wiped clean? No clue. Marlow clammed up about his monsters and schemes after that first night. Past few weeks, he’d thrown himself into honing his powers, much to Verity’s annoyance. And tweaking his little farm setup. Kept the guy busy enough.
She stepped out from the old mayor’s house. Made it her spot. Yawned and stretched a bit. Winced sharp. Marlow “outfitted” her every couple days. Today’s getup: chains. Two snaked up from a ring through her clit. Hooked to matching ones in her nipples. From her tits, chains looped through a ring on a thick steel collar. Then dropped to cuffs on each ankle. One wrong step, and she’d yank her tender bits nonstop.
Could be worse, though. Annoying tugs beat the old torments. Marlow dialed her body back to normal for the moment. Miles better than the bitch-suit phase. Arms and legs folded double. Scooting on elbows and knees. Dog tail jammed in by a huge buzzing plug up her ass. Even rougher when he sicced drones on her. Things stuffing her pussy, mouth, asshole. Wild bucks chasing orgasms his parasites blocked.
Couple days ago, he’d dispatched male drones with seed sacks from the females. Tramping off to who-knows-where. Probably planting roots outside town limits. Most times, though, he hunkered down in the boarded-up diner off the town square.
Near Bakersfield
Careful-like, Verity eased onto a splintery bench at the square’s edge. Watched drones shuffle in for their morning hump session. Latest habit: they piled on each other all at once. Her forehead creased. Square echoed with grunts and wet slaps. How long till it all blows up?
Bakersfield sat smack on the California border fringe. Just a handful of unlucky truckers stumbled into Marlow’s setup so far. None tough or packing heat enough to dodge getting eaten or turned. No outsiders wise yet. But rumors spread fast. Washington hated black magic. Marlow’s payback would hit hard. And soon.
Bakersfield Outskirts
Cole couldn’t trust his own peepers. Cat beastkin eyes beat human ones any day. From his hilltop perch above town, he clocked the nightmare fuck-pile in the square. But gawking at drones tilling dirt then banging wouldn’t fly for Scout General. D.C.’s elite recon squad kept standards high.
Grass rustle tipped him off to another shambler. He ducked low into the tall weeds. Pinned his ears flat. Swept the area. Caught the thing lumbering past on the right. Tardy for the rally. Path clear, Cole locked in the details. Gaping mouth sucking air. Lumpy gut. One tentacle pumping in and out with every stride. Rock-hard cock leaking pre, begging relief. Smart folks could use every scrap.
Breeze turned. Wafted his musk their way. He went statue-still. Did it catch wind? Three free tentacles whipped heads around. Thing halted. Wet schlop as the last rubbery arm pulled free. Swung to join the rest. Cole mapped bolt-holes. Then the tendrils went slack. Drone trudged on. Cole held tight till that arm snaked back down. Started reaming the host’s shithole again.
What he glimpsed had to suffice. Scout rule: “Risk too high, pull out. Intel beats dead heroes.” Quiet as a ghost, he backed off. Long haul east to D.C. Princess Chloe wouldn’t like it one bit.
Washington Palace, Princess Chloe’s Office
Princess Chloe slapped a palm over her mouth. Stifled the groan. Free hand clamped the chunky oak desk edge for balance. Eyes flicked to the door. Prayed no guard would barge through. Knob stayed put. Fat planks muffled noises worse than, yelp. Rough tongue scraped her clit. That damn cat.
From afar, Ephira’s top princess looked buried in reports. Sleek curves. Poise for days. Killer on the field. Up close: pink flush on pale cheeks. Beads of sweat under that pale blonde bob. Under the desk: Scout General Kira knelt between her thighs. Skirt hiked high over tawny cat ears. Kira owed her duty and more since day one. Fresh from patrol, caught the princess solo with stacks of paper. Payback time.
Rules dead simple. Chloe stuck to signing docs. Fought the urge to call it quits. Coming meant bedroom ban. Kira flashed teeth. Slurped at the drenched pussy. Perfect little royal. She’d waste away in this office sorting everyone else’s messes.
Chloe almost wrapped the pay bump for the dock workers. Kira’s tongue swirled wicked. Chloe’s arm twitched hard. Ink bottle tipped. Smeared the pages black. Unroyal screech. Guards caught it. Rushed in and—
Door swung wide. Gaunt face poked through. “Scare ya, Cloe?”
Chloe ground her teeth. Hoped Kira’d freeze. Plastered on a smile. “M-maybe a touch. Tidy later. What’s up here, A-Andy?”
Second princess Andrea matched the blonde hair, blue eyes. But skinny as a rail, ghost-white. Not bad-looking, cheeky spark saved her. Extra goddess juice at birth wrecked her health. Bed-bound kid. Scrawny grown-up. Stairs drained her dry.
Andrea batted innocent eyes. “Top General Olivia sends me for war council. Kira’s scout hauled bad news from Cali border.”
“What!?”
“Didn’t Scout General loop you in? She bolted to brief ya.” Chin tilt. “Or ain’t it usually flipped?”
“You j-just misheard.”
“Oh, right. Hunting Olivia in her lab now. Get some sun, Cloe. You’re fading like me, no reason.” Andrea spun for the door. “Don’t rag on Kira. Her mouth’s busy.”
Door clicked shut. Chloe’s flung pen bounced off the floorboards.
Kira nipped the clit. Gush of slick. Chloe wailed, hips bucking through the peak. Kira slid free from the clamped thighs. Crawled into her lap. “Gotcha.”
“You cheated. If Andrea—”
Kira locked lips. Pushed pussy juice into her mouth. Tongues tangled wet. Chloe pulled back. “News?”
Kira scowled. “Wanted it on hold. Or Olivia to deal.” Long breath. “Straighten up. Council’s waiting.”
Washington Palace, Hallway
Andrea snickered at the pen’s rattle. Brushed off the guard’s stare. Bounced away light on her feet. Cloe never babied her like glass. Loved needling her. Backed the hookup too. Big sis needed the outlet. Kira’s bushy brown tail, yellow eyes: adorable. Beastkin got more play these days. But old-money types, city council? No chance as queen’s wife.
Cloe’d whip ’em into line from the throne. Part she’d dig. Long wait, though. Queen Isabella fit as ever. Knockout at double Andrea’s years. Hotter than stick-figure her. Grimace. Envied Mom’s looks. Fair enough.
Spindly invalid upsides: zero pressure. But the empty ache gnawed. Cloe, Isabella thick as thieves. Queen schooled the heir. Scraps for the runt. Scowl. Duty called first. Anyway, Andrea’s hookups stayed scarce. Governor’s brats. Quiet flings. Time-killers. Nothing like Cloe-Kira lock.
Pined for Cloe’s wins too. Swell. Reached Olivia’s lab. Mage General’s hideout. Real deal romance. Glad for sis. Even if another score Anise lacked.
Bakersfield
Verity bit back a groan. Imp railed her from behind. Stumpy freaks scraped by on fringes of godless turf. Bowed to bigger dogs. Wouldn’t sniff an ogre or beastkin, much less a high demon like her. But Marlow got sick of hand-feeding her. Sent town relief for demons, turncoats alike. Imps, ogres, feral beastkin. Vamp knockoffs in gutted strip malls. No succubi kin. They’d sniff her out from Reno. Steer clear.
Clammy hand yanked her hair. Steered her mouth to a sweat-crusted dick. Imp dumped in her ass. She grimaced. Swallowed the filthy cock like a pro.
Humans. Backstabbers. Dozens lured by cash, pussy offers. Nevada Collective out east: safe spot for demon trash, human outcasts. Craved payback on Pacific folk.
Guy closed in on nut. Forced her head flush. Stale bush hairs scratched her nostrils. She gulped every spurt. Fuel for more fucks ahead. Toyed with draining him dry. Marlow banned it? Nah. But there he came, boots crunching gravel.
“Up.”
Body snapped straight. Imp slurped out of her cum-drooling asshole. Pop. Splatted dirt. Marlow sized her up. “Wash off. Make yourself decent for princess sit-down today.”
“See her? With these lowlife demons, lab rats, Nevada thugs? She’ll roll with troops. Slaughters demons, runs off bandits—”
Palm up. Words died. “Forget the rabble. They sit tight. Move.”
Verity swayed off to rinse. Least bag the body proper. Nearing the house, a slick shadow blocked the alley. Shiver hit. Death beat an end. Better than those first-night lurkers. Mangled beastkin duo on the prowl. Unmessed kin faces gawked: shock, terror.
Bakersfield Outskirts
Least she’d face the princess bare-assed. Sweet way out. Verity squirmed in the saddle. Horse clopped after Marlow’s. Unbound for once. No straps, chains, latex, hide. Marlow touch: twin fat leather cocks sprouting from the seat. Kept her in check. Every bump jarred her raw. Six brutal orgasms so far. Rubbed spots sore.
Small drone escort. Dozens at most. Topped the rise. Enemy lineup hit view. Dread knotted her guts. Horse danced. Slammed her into one more peak.
California, Southeastern Plains
“We never found his body.” Mage General Olivia’s words hung heavy. “Professor Vance’s remains burned black. Safe bet the apprentice went down too.” Glasses perched on her redheaded elf nose. Ephira’s senior, strongest. Always straight talk.
The thick oak door of Chloe’s office muffled that pen’s clatter echo. Olivia nudged her specs across the war-room table now, voice slicing the dead air. Drones in the fields. Fuck-fest in Bakersfield square. Marlow breathing. The elf’s fingers drummed the oak once. Chloe white-knuckled her armrests. Session crawled past lunch.
Olivia leaned back, spectacles glinting under the fluorescents. Chloe’s jaw worked silent. Reports piled high, wage hikes for dockhands, border patrols stretched thin. Kira slouched in her chair two seats over, tail flicking irritation against the leg. Andrea doodled on a napkin, her bony fingers smudging pencil lead. Outside, D.C. traffic hummed faint through the stone walls. Olivia tapped the table again. “We move at dawn. Full brigade.” Chloe nodded once, eyes on the ink-smeared page from earlier. The pen’s cap lay crooked beside it.
