I slowly shut my eyes, taking a moment to center myself before beginning what could only be described as a ritual—though whether it were sacred or profane depended entirely upon which deity you asked and how much they'd been drinking when you posed the question.
My first sniff was tentative, testing, just enough to register the scent without fully committing to the experience, though it hit me like a tidal wave anyway—thick, musky, distinctly mine, yet warped and elevated by the warm bronze of her skin into something darker, richer, and more depraved.
My stolen beastman senses amplified the sensation tenfold until I was practically drowning in it, caught completely in the mess I'd made.
I felt myself melting, any last shred of composure liquefying and pouring out of me in waves, leaving me boneless, glassy-eyed, and utterly undone.
It wasn't that I disliked the smell—far from it, actually. I'd grown accustomed to it, really. It was familiar now, intoxicating—and with my heightened nose it became overwhelming, each inhale dragging me deeper into the sticky, cooling mess, worshipping the pungent evidence of how thoroughly she'd ruined me with nothing but her foot and my apparent lack of shame.
It wasn't long before I began mashing my nose hard against the slick sole of her foot, dragging it upward and inhaling deeply enough that my lungs burned with the effort.
The scent was strongest there, where the cum had pooled thickest, and I followed its trail down her arch—that beautiful curve where instep met heel—breathing it in with the obsessive focus of a scholar dissecting forbidden texts.
Between her toes was where it truly wrecked me, the thick globs of cum trapped in those narrow spaces, fermenting into concentrated pockets of head-spinning filth, giving my cock another interested twitch despite having just spent itself moments ago.
A small spurt escaped me—just a weak, pathetic dribble of leftover cum that my drained balls somehow scraped together, oozing out in a thin, watery thread from the swollen slit of my cock.
Jazmin chuckled, the sound rich with satisfaction. "Oh, you're precious. Absolutely precious. Getting hard again already just from smelling your own mess on my foot? Gods, I've had my share of whores before, though none of them were quite this enthusiastic about the cleanup duty as you."
She shifted her foot slightly, pressing her sole firmly against my face. "Speaking of which, this mess isn't going to clean itself. And I have particular standards about hygiene—can't have my beautiful bronze skin stained with your stinky cum now, can I? That would be terribly unhygienic. Unsanitary, even."
Without waiting for explicit permission—because at this point my dignity had packed its bags and left for extended vacation—I followed the implicit command on my own initiative.
My tongue began dragging a thick, wet stripe straight up the center of her sole, starting low at the heel and crawling agonizingly slow toward her toes, scooping up the cooling, half-congealed ropes of my semen in one unbroken lick.
Salt and musk exploded across my taste buds, bitter and thick, clinging stubbornly to the roof of my mouth and the back of my teeth as I swallowed reflexively, then immediately dove back for more.
The texture was viscous, stringy in places where it had started to dry, smooth and slick in others where it remained fresh.
I began licking between her toes with particular attention, my tongue wedging into those tight, sweat-slick crevices to chase the sticky pools of my cum that had settled there. Her toes flexed and curled around my face in slow, possessive grips, squeezing my cheeks and smearing more of the cooling mess across my lips and nose as she growled above me.
I couldn't hold back the pathetic little moans leaking out of me—high, needy whimpers of pure satisfaction.
Her arch required careful dedication—broad, languorous strokes that traced the high, elegant vault from heel to ball, gathering the viscous marriage of my spend and spit into one slippery mess. I pressed my tongue flat against her skin, using as much surface area as possible to gather the semen into my mouth where I could swallow it properly.
The top of her foot had caught some spray too, white droplets decorating her skin like obscene little pearls. I dove lips first, sealing around each swollen droplet in soft, possessive kisses that drew the warm weight into my mouth, before letting my tongue return to scour its territory, polishing her skin until it shone wetly anew.
By the time the last viscous trace had vanished from her skin, her foot gleamed—not with the dull matte of spent seed, but with the wet, liquid mirror of my saliva.
In my mind, surprisingly enough, I felt no shame in the action—no embarrassment about what I'd just done, no horror at how far I'd fallen from whatever standards of behavior I'd once maintained.
I'd finally come to terms with the fact that I might as well chase the feeling, lean into whatever deviant impulses were currently driving my behavior, because it was in my nature after all. The incubus side of me demanding I feed, that I debase myself, that I revel in the slick, shameful slide toward ruin.
Jazmin uncrossed her legs with unhurried grace, the motion slow and sinuous enough to make the air itself feel heavier as her tail lashed behind her in eager, rhythmic sweeps.
"Good boy," she purred, her voice thick with approval. "Such an obedient little pet. I was prepared to command you, to force that pretty mouth to work, but you went ahead and did it yourself without needing orders. That kind of initiative deserves a reward, don't you think?"
Her hands dragged slowly up her sides, fingers worshiping the lush swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, before finally claiming the heavy undersides of her breasts. The weight of them settled in her palms, soft and heavy, her nipples peeking between her fingers as if begging for the attention I wanted desperately to provide.
Internally, I smirked with satisfaction because this was progress—slow, circuitous, degrading progress, but progress nonetheless toward whatever information or advantage I needed from this encounter.
I made a show of the action, letting my legs wobble slightly as I staggered to my feet with exaggerated effort, playing up the post-orgasmic weakness for maximum effect.
Then I lunged forward with just enough force to send us crashing backward together into the plush mountain of pillows—her voluptuous body cushioning the fall beneath me, breasts flattening warmly against my chest, while her arms snapped up instinctively to wrap around my waist, pulling me tight against the furnace of her skin.
Jazmin giggled—bright and delighted—as the pillows sank deep beneath our combined weight. I dove in without hesitation, lapping at her face like an overexcited puppy reuniting with its owner after a long separation.
My tongue swept across her cheek in hot, sloppy drags, savoring the salty sheen of her skin laced with that intoxicating honey-amber musk that clung to her like sin itself. I traced the sharp line of her jaw, before crashing against her lips in a frantic, open-mouthed assault—more raw enthusiasm than any semblance of skill.
"Oh my goodness," she cooed as I pulled back to lick at her face again, her voice muffled by my aggressive affection. "Someone's eager. Such a needy little slut, aren't you?"
Her hands rose to fist my hair—not yanking, just firm, possessive guidance—tilting my head down so I could gaze at my cock, already rigid and flushed again, standing proud and leaking despite having cum twice in rapid succession.
"Look at you," she breathed, her eyes widening with mock surprise. "Already hard again. Already dripping. That poor little cock doesn't know when to quit, does it?"
Her voice dipped into a syrupy coo, fingers loosening from my hair to trace lazy, soothing trails down the length of my back—gentle strokes that set my nerves aflame, making my hips jerk and my shaft twitch harder against the open air.
With slow, meticulous intent, she guided my hips forward, settling me precisely just below the swell of her chest. She positioned me with the precision of a sculptor, aligning my aching cock so it nestled perfectly into the deep, warm valley between her heavy breasts.
The soft, sweat-slick mounds enveloped me instantly—plush and yielding yet gripping with their own weight. Then she pressed those breasts together, trapping my throbbing little cock between them in a sensation that made my vision blur at the edges.
The engulfing heat swallowed me whole—soft, warm, perfect pressure that squeezed without crushing, friction without discomfort, creating a channel that felt custom-built for this exact purpose.
Without a second thought—without any thought at all, really, my brain having completely abdicated its responsibilities in favor of letting my body operate on pure instinct—I began to rut.
Hard.
The first thrust came tentative, almost shy—testing the plush friction, the perfect angle of her cleavage hugging my shaft. The second snapped out more desperate, hips jerking with growing need. And by the third I was gone, completely lost in the overwhelming grip.
My hips slammed forward with increasing speed, pistoning my little cock through the slippery, sweat-glazed channel of her tits. Wet, filthy noises bounced off the walls—skin smacking skin in lewd, rhythmic slaps, the squelching slide of pre-cum and sweat coating us both.
I was drooling—actually drooling like some kind of feral creature, thick strings of spit spilling from my slack mouth to splash onto her flushed face and neck in hot splatters, chasing sensation without regard for dignity, composure, or anything except the mounting pressure building at the base of my spine.
Each brutal thrust made those wrist bracers clink faintly, creating a rhythm that punctuated the slapping sounds, turning our coupling into some kind of percussion performance where the instruments were our bodies and the song was depravity set to tempo.
Jazmin's voice rose above the sounds of our fucking, her words pouring out in a steady stream of filth that made my cock throb harder with each syllable.
"That's it, fuck my tits just like that. Show me how desperate you are. Show me how much you need this. Rut against me like the filthy little animal you are. Like some needy beast in heat who knows nothing but pounding, cumming, and making a sloppy, beautiful mess for me."
Her hands pressed her breasts tighter together, increasing the pressure until I whimpered with the intensity. "You're gonna cum for me again, aren't you? Gonna paint my face with that thick, stinky load… gonna cover me… fuck, drown me in your seed until I'm dripping… dripping with it." Her breath hitched hard, chest heaving beneath me, words tumbling out in hot, desperate bursts between each sloppy thrust.
"I want it," she panted, eyes wild and locked on mine, lips parted on a few ragged inhales. "I want you to… let it all out… every last fucking drop… don't hold back, please, give it to me… ruin my face… make me yours."
She shifted her grip with a tiny, wicked twist, breasts squeezing tighter around my frantic cock at new, devastating angles that shattered my rhythm into desperate, stuttering jerks.
Her tongue lolled out slow and shameless—pink and glistening, draped heavy over her lower lip like an open invitation, trembling slightly as she panted, ready to catch every filthy rope I could give.
"Cum for me… Now—!" she commanded.
The permission broke whatever control I'd been desperately clinging to.
I let out a broken moan—high, needy, completely devoid of any masculine pretense—before slamming forward one final time. My hips seized and bucked as the orgasm detonated inside me like a dam finally giving way, pressure exploding in a blinding, unstoppable rush.
My little cock throbbed violently between her slick tits, the swollen head pushing free just enough to aim straight at her waiting mouth.
And then it burst.
The first rope shot thick and heavy, landing directly on her outstretched tongue with a wet splat—satisfying in its filth, disgusting in its volume. The second surged right behind it, overshooting to streak a long, stark line of white across her nose and left cheek. The third followed weaker but just as fat, catching her upper lip before dripping down to join the pool forming on her tongue.
Each subsequent spurt decorated her face in abstract patterns, some landing on her forehead where it immediately began sliding down toward her eyebrows, others catching her chin and neck, a few weak pulses barely cleared her breasts, adding to the overall mess coating her chest.
The sounds crashed through my skull in filthy symphony—the wet splat of my spend striking her tongue and skin, the squelching between her breasts, my own whimpering gasps as the orgasm wrung me completely dry, her slightly muffled, ragged breaths as she fought to keep her lips parted around the heavy load I'd dumped into her mouth.
When it finally ended—when my body had nothing left to give and my cock gave one final pulse that produced nothing but the ghost of sensation—Jazmin slowly opened her cum-coated eyelids.
The mess had caught in her lashes, making them clump together, and when she blinked it caused fresh strings to break and run down her cheeks.
She released a few heavy breaths through her nose, making sure I could see the full stringy mess coating the inside of her mouth—thick ropes of semen creating bridges between tongue and palate—ropes sagging, snapping, and re-forming like molten wax.
Then she gulped it down in one deliberate swallow, her throat working to process the volume. When she was finished, she let her tongue roll out once more to show me it was gone—nothing remaining except the faint coating of saliva and cum ghosting her breath.
Her chest heaved wildly, breasts rising and falling with exaggerated motions before her smirk returned, confident and commanding, though I'd seen behind the curtain now and knew it wasn't quite as unshakeable as she wanted me to believe.
As soon as she shifted—sitting up just enough to signal intent—I bolted with more enthusiasm than coordination, nearly launching myself off the bed before catching my balance and collapsing back onto the sheets in a sprawl of post-orgasmic exhaustion that was only partially performance.
Jazmin laughed, rich and genuine, before raising her hand to touch her face with exaggerated delicacy. "Well now," she purred, her fingers coming away coated in my cum, "you've absolutely painted me in your stinky semen, haven't you? Marked me thoroughly. Made such a filthy mess that I'll probably be finding traces of this in my hair tomorrow morning." She examined her cum-covered fingers with mock fascination. "I suppose I should wash up."
She rose from the bed with a long, luxurious stretch clearly engineered to be remembered, arms lifting overhead as her back arched and her tail swayed with the quiet satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what effect she was having and saw no reason to apologize for it.
She padded across the room toward the back wall where I'd noticed a few thick curtains hanging heavier than the ones at the entrance, ones designed for privacy as opposed to decoration—then disappeared behind them without looking back.
Internally, I pondered for a moment, my brain finally getting enough blood flow back to form coherent thoughts. And with that rare, inconvenient clarity, I realized this wasn't going to work. Not the way I'd planned, anyway.
If I wanted to pull any information out of her—learn about the honeypot operation, discover connections to Oberen, extract secrets that might give us any advantage—I needed her to be vulnerable.
Not the polished imitation of vulnerability she wore like a costume, but the real thing. Truly vulnerable. I needed to break her completely, shatter that confident dominance until she surrendered her secrets in full.
Seconds later the sound of running water echoed from behind the curtains, splashing sounds indicating she was cleaning herself thoroughly.
I decided in that moment that it was time to turn the tables.