Looking up you see a very impatient looking woman, she's tapping her nails on your desk and glaring at the front door as the silent, young minotaur next to her stands with a stuffie held in his hands, and a heavy backpack on the floor.
Clearing your throat, you ask if you can help her, smiling in that way you trained yourself to do when a karen comes to the front desk of the library. Internally rolling your eyes as she almost dismisses you, pulling her phone out and sending a text message before looking over at you and barking for you to watch her kid till his dad gets there, giving said child a pat on the head and stomping out of your work. Confused, you look down at the young minotaur and ask if he wants to help you check in books, the young boy is more than happy to help as he drags his stuffie and bag behind the desk with you before climbing onto the stool you pull over for him.
It's about fifteen minutes later that an older minotaur walks into the library, looking every bit like a dad.
He's in shorts, a cheesy joke shirt, sandals made just for minotaurs, and sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar. The young boy next to you calls out to the man and waves excitedly, drawing the older monster over to the desk, looking both relieved and slightly concerned that the kid's mother isn't here. Once he's close enough, you explain that the woman who was with the boy left earlier. He had been helping you since then, calling the kid a sweet boy as he dragged his bag back around the desk to his dad's side.
The moment the boy is by his father's side, he is babbling about how cool you are, practically vibrating with excitement as he tugs on his dad's hand, a complete difference to the silent way he stood with his mother, asking if you could be his new parent. Your face flushed as the kid pleaded a case for his dad to get with you, after all you had done was give him some apple slices and a cup of milk from the staff fridge while the two of you checked in books.
The real flustering thing is how the older minotaur looks you up and down before telling his son maybe, slinging the boy's bag over his shoulder and winking at you as he ushers his son out of the library. The young boy turns around and waves at you with his whole body, tail wagging with how exaggerated his movements are.
Request: Just maybe the general idea of not believing/looking for/expecting like ridiculous sexual pleasure then being convinced if that makes any sense! Also a fan of rough sex without it being sadistic and still pleasurable! It could also be a single monster! stranger-roommate-friend whichever! If only small pieces of this get the brain juices flowing in a complete opposite direction, I would not be upset in any way. I would even love a story of just fem autistic reader falling in love with a huge monster or a slice of life! I am just excited to see what you make! I hope this is something you can work with! Thank you so much
A/N: I laughed so hard at some of the lines here, I find myself hilarious, ngl. Enjoy!
Pheromoned
Minotaur x fem!reader || dub-con, accidental heat (kinda?), rough sex, (light) dirty talk, (mentioned) oral sex
It all started in the weirdest way possible. You’d been living with him for a while already, at least half a year, and he never showed much interest in your hobbies or spending time with you. And you were fine with it, you didn’t have to be friends, you were only roommates after all. But someday… It changed.
You didn’t know why he did it, but he started hanging out with you almost constantly out of the blue. If you were home, he was in the same room as you, it was like he couldn’t get enough of you. But you didn’t question it much, he could be lonely, and you definitely felt better when he was around. He was so sweet and kind, always offering to cook for you, always giving you compliments and snuggling with you when your day was shitty. It was like having a best friend. A very big, very beefy, and very hot best friend. One that made your pussy get wet. But you could ignore that in favor of hanging out and having a good time.
But lately, things have started to escalate. Your response to him gets hotter and hotter. You don’t know what’s happening to you, maybe you are ovulating or something, because every time he’s close to you, your pussy is clapping for attention. You get used to being constantly wet around him. It’s intoxicating. It’s like your pussy is salivating for his cock, and damn… You want to jump his bones very badly. But you can hold it together. You really can. You aren’t going to ruin your friendship because your pussy wants to be all slimy next to him.
But it’s getting harder and harder (or more like wetter and wetter).
He gets closer to you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pressing you close to his side. You inhale deeply, and feel a literal gush of desire soak through your panties. You feel so embarrassed that you have to excuse yourself, running to your room. You are in such a hurry that you don’t hear him following you.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” He sounds so concerned, and looks so cute… You wonder how his dick would feel buried deep down your throat, how nice it would be to bounce on it while he gropes your tits, how wide he would stretch your pussy while he fucks you from behind.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. “Yes! Yeah!” Your exclamation sound so fake you cringe at your own words. “I’m perfectly fine,” but your voice breaks at the last word in a high-pitched tone that only makes you feel weirder about the whole thing. Your pussy is still gushing, and you can feel heat all over your skin. And he looks so fucking good…
It takes you a total of three seconds to close the space between you two, throwing yourself at him. Literally. He catches you mid air with a huff of surprise before he cradles you against his chest. Your hands find his horns instantly, and he moans against your mouth when you go for it. You massage the base of his horns, where he confessed he feels the most, while you claim his mouth like you are desperate for him. Because you are. Very desperate. You feel like your life is going to end if you don’t get his dick to kiss your cervix in the next couple of minutes.
“We should- Fuck!” He curses when you grind down on his cock, your legs around his waist while you do your best to create friction between your bodies, biting down on his neck. “We should talk,” he breathes out but his hands are groping your ass, pulling at the waistband of your shorts and lowering them enough to pull at your thong. The rubbing of the fabric over your clit makes you scream his name, much to your embarrassment and his delight.
“Later. We talk later. I need your cock. Please. Please. Give me your cock,” you are being incoherent, but you don’t care. You need it. Your pussy is crying for him and he can wipe the tears with his huge minotaur dick.
“Okay. Okay. Get to the bed,” he orders, trying to get you off his body, but you only cling harder. You squeeze your legs around his middle, grinding your pussy against his abs and rubbing his horns until his knees buckle under him. “Fuck. No bed. Okay. No bed. Whatever you want.”
He pulls at the fabric of your pants until you hear something ripping, you don’t fucking care. You release one of his horns to slip it between your bodies and pull his cock free. You are so grateful he’s wearing sweatpants.
He puts your thong to the side, sniffing the air and moaning. “Fuck, you are dripping, aren’t you? Goddess, you are perfect.”
He positions himself, trying to go slow. But you are above all that. You sink down in one long thrust that makes his legs give out under him. His knees hit the ground with a soft thud, and he groans in pain, but you don’t fucking care. You are already bouncing on his minotaur dick like you are in a rodeo and aiming for the first prize.
He’s huffing and puffing, holding you close against his chest while you go crazy above him, fucking him with all your might. You are having the time of your life and he looks like he’s holding on for dear life. You are pretty sure your hips are going to end up bruised, but you don’t fucking care because his dick is huge and it’s pressing against every single pleasure point inside of you. It’s driving you insane in the best way possible.
Your first orgasm hits you like a brick to the head, your whole body going lax and then thrashing above your minotaur roommate. Unable to control your extremities, you almost hit him in the head while your body shakes with a pleasure so high you could barely describe it. You ascend into another dimension. Into another plane of existence. Your pussy is singing with the angels and his dick is the melody.
But your body craves more. It craves so much more.
You continue riding him, chasing the edge of pain and pleasure due to overstimulation, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone, the tip of his dick hitting your G-spot with each thrust. He’s making sounds not known by humans, but you don’t even care.
He’s grabbing at you like a lifeline while you continue biting his neck and holding onto his horns. You can feel his dick twitching inside of you, precum so copious it’s starting to mix with your juices, ruining his pants completely. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, helping you up and down his shaft again and again.
You come half a dozen more times before he finally releases everything he’s holding. He cums so deep inside of you, it’s almost like he’s fucking your throat. You let out a whimper that could easily be his name, but also anything else. You feel boneless, completely exhausted and thoroughly fucked. You are in heaven. He lowers his body until you are cuddled against his chest, his heartbeat still going rabbit-fast.
“The pheromones worked way better than expected,” he says with a chuckle between labored breaths. His whole chest shakes, and it takes you a second to catch up with what he just said.
“What do you mean?” You ask, your breathing is equally erratic after that good fucking. Your brain is still swimming in a daze of pleasure and minotaur dick.
He kisses your forehead, making you blush. Because apparently after fucking dirty, you would blush after a little kiss. “Minotaurs exude pheromones when we find our mate, and I’ve been trying you to catch up for months. I thought the pheromones would help and well… You did become pussy-dazed for me,” he explains.
You pull at his chest until you can look at him in the eyes, anger coiling inside of you. “You pheromoned me?!” Your voice is shocked and high-pitched.
He shakes his head, apologetically, trying to get you back to his chest. “For us, babe. I did it for us. Didn’t you like my dick?” He sounds almost pitiful with that question, and you feel a tiny bit bad for him.
But not enough to let him go so easily. “What are you tal-” You ask, equal parts offended and confused.
He rolls over you so fast you can’t process his movement before his big head is between your legs and his tongue is licking your whole pussy in one long lick. Whatever you were going to say gets lost in the pleasure of his tongue against your clit while you hold onto his horns for dear life.
Summary: You work as a clothing assistant and have to take measurements of every monster because their dick is too big to fit in normal pants.
Minotaur x fem!reader || semi-public sex, groping, size kink
You are kneeling before him. Again. “I’m so sorry. Truly. I promise I don’t do it on purpose,” he sounds so flustered you almost want to laugh.
You let out a breath, biting down on your lip to not laugh out loud at his awkwardness. “Don’t worry, this happens a lot.” He’s so adorable when he gets like that.
“It does?” His voice is high-pitched and very, very nervous, as he tries, not very subtly, to move to the side so his huge erection is not right in front of your face. You almost coo at him. You get up from the floor, already knowing he’s not going to let you finish the fitting. Not that you can if he’s hard. His giant dick would make the pants look weird.
Maybe talking him down could help… “Yeah. Many monsters need special fitting and some of them… Well, it’s a very hands-on experience and they can’t help it. Don’t worry.”
It’s not really a lie, it had happened a couple times before, but it’s usually when your superior steps in and does it himself. No monsters play with his staff. Especially the human (monsters get a bit overprotective of you). But this one… This one you know is not doing it on purpose. You find it cute actually.
Every time he comes for a fitting, he gets so flustered and so awkward, and then the second you start measuring him, he gets an erection. It’s kind of adorable. In a hot way. Because damn. That minotaur has a monster dick if you’ve ever seen one. Not that you’ve seen it seen it, but you’ve been close to it, to the bulge in his pants, when you are trying to get his measurements just right. It hasn’t worked so far.
...
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a/n: just some writing practice. I'm open to a few shorter requests like this.
please reblog!
A courier arrived with a letter during your seaside respite. It entailed a request to come to a nondescript village in the mountains for the sake of slaying a Minotaur for a great reward. The enormous creature had arrived in the night some moons ago and had chosen the mountain pass as its new dwelling. It would not allow them, or traders, through the routes, and now there was fear that the village may perish soon if they could not receive outside goods.
The loyal courier had waited for you to finish reading the letter before he revealed to you a pouch of gold coins and jewelry that the village had collected from their own vaults to give to you in exchange for slaying the creature. The amount would keep you comfortable for some time, the shining jewelry would accentuate you, and prestige would follow you across the world if your arrow struck the Minotaur true.
When you arrived in the village, they said they'd heard you were blessed by the Gods. That all of the pantheon had kissed your cheeks and then bestowed upon you a glowing gold bow.
You'd come prepared and proved your status to them with the very bow they spoke about.
The people of the village viewed you in reverence and fell to their knees, faces wet and scarlet by tears and overwhelm. They promised you the entire wealth of their village if you would only slay the Minotaur.
You smiled at them serenely but promised them nothing, because, as you told told them, Minotaur's possessed among the thickest skin of all strange and powerful creatures in the world, and their inborn rage would have them charge through any arrow or sword.
"I will do my best," is all that you were willing to swear to them.
It was a two day's trek up the mountain to reach the routes which eventually forked, diverging into paths that were a longer, much more harrowing journey to get around versus the one straight through. You had decided that you would meet the Minotaur in the core of the mountain, where it protected mostly fervently.
When the time came for you to confront the beast, you strung a shimmering gold arrow onto your bow and drew it back. The glowing bow emitted a low hum, a vibration which unsteadied your hand and numbed it. Its radiant light pulsed in dissatisfaction of what you were going to do, as though it could see into your mind and heart and know what your intentions were.
That was the only caveat of this bow. It knew things it shouldn't and tried to keep you from straying the right and good path that the god wanted you to follow.
"A glowing bow and a scowl, I knew it was you without ever calling out," said the Minotaur as it lumbered out of the shadows towards you. An enormous creature more beast than man, but with the torso and hands of one. Most Minotaur's were only capable of simple speech, threatening or goading words. "These mountains are unforgiving. Unless I am slain, the people of that village will die. None may pass while I am here."
"Then, I suppose this is where I will slay you."
But, you did not draw you bow. You followed the beast into the shadows and plucked apart the buttons and ties of your clothes until they were a heap at your feet. The cold prickling your skin was immense, the wind would inevitably chap your flesh, make raw and hurt, but that was something you could bear.
That night, you let the Minotaur take you with pulverizing thrusts on his curved cock. No human man or phallus has ever made you feel so fulfilled, brimmed with pleasure and pain that turned the darkness behind your eyes shocking white and hot.
The Minotaur's departure in exchange for this seemed well worth enduring the wrath of the Gods.
your ex boyfriend minotaur hypnotized you into getting back with him. it worked so well that he gives you a cow print lingerie and a breast growth/lactation potion and convinces you that you get really horney behaving like a cow. you love to get milked and bred by your bull.
The Bull's Milkmaid (minotaur x fem!human!reader!2nd!POV)
Trigger Warnings: NSFT, MDNI, hypnotic mind control, con non-con, lactation kink, breast growth, breeding kink, degradation, P in V, petnames (heifer, cow, sweetmeat), milking, oral (male receiving), size difference, psychological manipulation.
Summary: After your minotaur ex-boyfriend hypnotized you into returning to him, he's convinced you that you belong on your hands and knees in cow print lingerie, desperate to be milked and bred.
♡────── 🎀༘⋆──𐀔˚˖♡ ──────────── 🎀༘⋆──𐀔˚˖
The silk of the cow print bra cuts into the new weight of your tits, and you can't stop touching yourself through the matching panties. The spots are white against black satin, a costume he picked out himself, and the fabric strains across your swollen areolas. They're darker now. Wider. The potion he poured down your throat three nights ago saw to that.
You hear his hooves on the hardwood before you see him.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Your thighs press together instinctively, the wet heat between them spreading against the ruined gusset of your panties. You're kneeling on the faux fur rug he laid down in the bedroom—for your knees, he said, because good little cows need comfort when they wait for their bull.
The word bull makes your cunt clench around nothing. Makes your tits ache with the fullness building behind your nipples.
"Look at you." His voice rolls through the room. Deep. Gravel-thick. "My pretty heifer, all dressed up and leaking already."
You hadn't realized you were leaking.
Looking down, you see the twin dark circles blooming through the satin cups—one on each side, damp and spreading. Your nipples are hard and each throb of your heartbeat pushes another trickle of milk past the barrier of the fabric. The sensation makes you dizzy. Makes your mouth water.
"I didn't—" you start, but the words tangle on your tongue.
He kneels behind you, and his bulk blocks out the ceiling light. The heat of him washes over your back—that warmth he always carried, even before the hypnosis, even before you forgot why you left him in the first place. His hands find your shoulders. Squeeze. His thumbs press into the knots at the base of your neck.
"Didn't what, sweetmeat?" His muzzle brushes your ear, the coarse fur scratching your cheek. "Didn't mean to get wet? Didn't mean to lactate all over my good rug?"
"I can't control—"
"Course you can't." His laugh is a low rumble that vibrates through your spine and settles in your belly. "That's the point. You're not supposed to think anymore, remember? You gave that up. Gave everything up. Said you wanted to be my cow, didn't you?"
You did say that.
You remember saying it, though the memory feels like a dream you're watching from outside your own skull. You remember his voice going soft and hypnotic, remember the spiral he drew in the air with his fingertip, remember the way your thoughts just... dissolved. Like sugar in hot milk.
"Yes," you breathe. "I said that."
"And what does my sweet cow do?"
The question makes your cunt pulse. Makes your ass lift instinctively, presenting yourself the way he taught you. The way that makes his breathing go ragged and his cock swell against the seam of his leather trousers.
"Get milked," you whisper. "And bred."
His hand comes down on the curve of your ass, making you jolt forward onto your palms. The impact sends a shock through your clit, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.
"Louder."
"GET MILKED AND BRED!" The words tear out of you, and the shame of them should burn, should wake you up from whatever fog he's wrapped around your mind, but instead it feels like coming home. Like finally saying something true.
"That's my girl." He reaches around and unhooks your bra. The straps slide down your arms, and your tits swing free—heavier than they were last week, heavier than they were yesterday. The potion is still working. Still filling you up from the inside. "Fuck, look at these."
He cups them from behind, his palms wide enough to hold both at once. His thumbs find your nipples and press, and milk sprays from the tips in thin white arcs that spatter against the rug. You watch the droplets soak into the faux fur and feel your brain short-circuit.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"I need—" You can't finish. The words won't form. All you know is the pressure in your breasts and the emptiness between your thighs and the way his thumbs keep pressing, keep milking, keep making a mess of everything.
"You need what, heifer?" He pinches both nipples at once and tugs, and the sensation is so sharp and so good that you cry out. Milk runs down his fingers, down your stomach, pooling in your navel. "Use your words. I know you still have some left in that pretty head."
"I need you to fuck me."
He releases your nipples and you whine at the loss. Then his hands are on your hips, pulling your ass back against his crotch, and you feel the ridge of his cock through his trousers—thick and long and inhumanly hot. He grinds against you once, twice, and the friction against your soaked panties makes your eyes roll back.
"Beggars can't be choosers," he says. "You'll get milked first. That's the rule. Cows get drained before they get filled."
He pushes you forward until your chest is flat against the rug, your tits squashed beneath you, milk soaking into the fabric. Your ass stays up—he holds it there with one broad hand on your lower back. His other hand hooks into the waistband of your panties and rips them down your thighs. The satin tears like tissue paper.
"Spread."
You obey without thinking. Your knees slide wider, opening yourself to the cool air of the room, and you feel your pussy lips part, feel the wetness that's been gathering there since you woke up this morning, since you put on the lingerie he left on the dresser, since you heard his hooves in the hallway.
"Glistening," he groans. "Dripping down your thighs like a bitch in heat. You know what that does to me?"
You don't answer. You can't. Your face is pressed into the rug and all you can smell is milk and arousal and the musk of him, and your clit is throbbing.
His fingers find your cunt from behind—two of them, thick and calloused, sliding through your folds without resistance. You're so wet that you hear it. A slick, obscene noise that fills the silence. He circles your entrance without pushing in, just teasing, just making you ache.
"So eager," he murmurs. "And so empty. When's the last time you had a cock in here, sweetmeat?"
"Before I left," you gasp. "Before—before the hypnosis. Months."
"Months." He says it like a curse. Like an insult. "And you expect me to believe you didn't fuck anyone else while you were gone?"
"No. I swear. I couldn't—no one felt right. No one smelled right. I'd try and my body would just..." You shudder as his fingers press deeper, still not entering, just spreading your lips wider. "Would just dry up. Like it knew."
"Like it knew you belonged to me." He says it with absolute certainty. Because in his mind—in your mind now, too—it's true. Your cunt belongs to him. Your tits belong to him. The milk leaking from your nipples belongs in his mouth or on his cock or soaking into his rug, but it will never belong to anyone else.
"Yes," you sob. "Please. Please, I need—"
"You need to get milked." He pulls his fingers away and you hear him unbutton his trousers. The sound of his zipper makes your mouth flood with saliva. "You need to present your udders like a good heifer and let me drain every drop before I even think about breeding that empty cunt."
He kneels behind you, and then his body is covering yours—the weight of him, the heat, the fur of his chest pressing against your bare back. His cock slides between your thighs, not entering, just lying there against your slit, and you feel every inch of it. The ridge of the head. The vein that runs along the underside. The sheer size of it, thicker than your wrist, longer than your forearm.
"You feel that?" he asks. "That's what's going to fill you up when you've earned it. But first—" His hands come around to your chest, cupping your tits from behind. "First we deal with these."
He squeezes. Not gently. Not carefully. He squeezes like he's wringing out a cloth, and milk jets from your nipples in thick streams that splatter against the floor. The pressure release makes you sob with relief. Makes your whole body shake.
"There we go," he says, pulling you back against him and working your breasts with his palms, pressing from the outside in, forcing the milk out in rhythmic pulses. "That's it. Let it all out. Such a good cow, so full for me, so desperate to be empty."
Your nipples are raw and aching and you can't stop crying and moaning. From the way your body responds to his hands like it was built for this. For him.
"Please," you gasp. "Please, I need—"
"You need to tell me how it feels."
"Full. So full. It hurts—"
"It's supposed to hurt." He twists your nipples between his fingers and you scream. More milk sprays out, thinner now, the last dregs of the morning's accumulation. "That's how you know it's working. That's how you know your body is changing. Getting bigger. Getting better. Getting ready to feed my calves."
The word calves hits you. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your hips buck backward against his cock.
"You want that, don't you?" His voice is soft, the hypnotic cadence creeping back in. "You want me to put a baby in you. Want your belly to swell while your tits keep growing. Want to waddle around this house with my seed dripping down your thighs."
"Yes."
"Say it properly."
"I want you to breed me! I want your cock inside me. I want you to come so deep that I can't—that I won't—"
"Won't what?"
"Won't ever forget who I belong to."
He pulls his hands away from your tits and you whimper at the loss. Then his fingers are in your hair, fisting the strands, pulling your head back until your spine arches and your throat is bared.
"Look at me," he says.
You do. You look into those yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and ancient, and you see nothing but hunger. Nothing but ownership.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he says. "And when I'm done, you're going to thank me. You're going to crawl to the kitchen and cook dinner. And then you're going to come back here and let me do it again. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, sir."
He releases your hair and your head drops forward. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you open. The head of his cock presses against your pusy—just the head, just the first thick inch—and you forget how to breathe.
"Look at that," he rasps. "Look how your cunt is trying to suck me in. You're drooling for it, aren't you? Making a mess all over my cock."
He pushes forward and your body stretches around him—too much, too fast, too big—and you whimper into the rug. Your inner walls clamp down on him, trying to push him out, trying to accommodate him, doing both at once and failing at both.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're tight. Tighter than I remember. That's what happens when you leave me for months, sweetmeat. Your cunt forgets its job."
"I'm sorry," you sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"I know you are." He pulls back until only the tip remains inside you, then slams forward again. Your vision whites out. Your fingernails rake through the rug. "That's why I'm going to remind you. Every day. Every night. Every time you think you can walk away from me, I'm going to fill this cunt until you can't remember your own name."
He sets a rhythm—not fast, not yet. Deep, dragging strokes that pull almost all the way out before shoving back in. Each thrust makes a wet squelch, your arousal slicking the way, and each withdrawal makes you clench around nothing, desperate to keep him inside.
"Listen to that," he says. "Listen to what a slutty little cunt sounds like when it's getting what it needs."
You hear it. The squelch and slap of his cock plunging into you. The ragged gasp of your own breathing. The low, animal sounds he makes with every thrust. He leans forward, pressing your chest harder into the rug, and his mouth finds your ear. His breath is hot and damp and smells like the mint he chews after meals.
"You're going to cum for me," he says. "And when you do, I'm going to feel it. Your cunt is going to squeeze my cock so hard I won't be able to move. And then I'm going to keep fucking you through it. Through every clench. Every spasm. Every time you think you're done, I'm going to fuck another one out of you."
"I can't—"
"You can." His hand slides between your body and the rug, finds your clit. The callus on his thumb rubs circles into the swollen nub and your hips buck backward, driving his cock deeper. "You can and you will. Come on my cock, heifer. Show me how much you missed me."
The pressure builds in your belly, all at once, like a dam breaking. Your cunt seizes around him, clenching so hard that he grunts, and the orgasm tears through you in ragged pulses that make your whole body shake.
"THERE," he snarls. "THERE it is. Squeeze me. Milk my cock with that greedy little cunt."
You can't speak. Can't think. Can only feel; the drag of his cock through your spasming walls, the relentless pressure of his thumb on your clit, the way your tits jiggle with every thrust, spraying the last drops of milk across the rug.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. He fucks you through the peak and past it, into the oversensitive place where pleasure and pain are the same thing, and you sob into the rug because you can't tell which one you're feeling anymore.
"Good," he says. "Good cow. Taking my cock so well. But we're not done yet."
He pulls out and you feel empty. Hollow. Your cunt gapes for a moment before clenching shut, and a rush of your own wetness drips down your thighs.
"Turn over."
You do. Your limbs are shaking so hard you can barely move, but you roll onto your back and look up at him. He's beautiful in the lamplight—the curve of his horns, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark fur that covers his chest and arms. His cock juts out from his body, slick with your arousal, the head dark and swollen.
"Open your mouth."
You obey. He kneels over you, straddling your chest, and guides his cock between your lips. The taste of yourself is sharp and salt-sweet, and you open your throat the way he taught you, taking him as deep as you can.
"Hands on your tits," he says. "Squeeze them while I fuck your face. Get the last of the milk out."
Your hands move. You cup your breasts—they feel foreign, too heavy, too full even after he drained them—and press. Milk dribbles from your nipples, running down your ribs, pooling in the hollow of your throat. He leans forward and laps at it, his tongue rough against your skin, and the vibration of his groan travels down his cock and into your mouth.
"This is what you are now," he says, pulling back to look at you. His cock slips from your lips and you gasp for air. "A pair of tits, a cunt and a mouth. That's all that's left of you. And you're happy about it, aren't you?"
You nod. Because it's true. Because the last scraps of who you used to be are buried so deep you can barely hear them screaming.
"Say it."
"I'm happy," you whisper. "I'm your cow. I exist to be milked and bred."
He smiles. "Then let's finish the job."
He flips you onto your stomach again—manhandles you like you weigh nothing, positions you on your hands and knees, and drives into you in one stroke. You scream into the rug and he covers your mouth with his hand, muffling the sound.
"Shh," he says. "You'll wake the neighbors. And then they'll hear what a slut you are. How loud you moan when your bull fucks you."
He pounds into you—fast now, relentless, the rhythm of a monster. His balls slap against your clit with every thrust, and the wet sounds fill the room, obscene and constant. You feel everything. The stretch of your pussy around his cock. The ache in your nipples where milk still beads. The scrape of his fur against your back.
"I'm going to cum," he says. "I'm going to fill this cunt so full that you'll be dripping for days. And every time you feel it running down your thighs, you're going to remember who put it there."
"Please," you sob. "Please, please—"
"Please what? Please come inside you? Please breed you like the cow you are?"
"YES!"
He slams into you one last time and holds there, buried to the hilt, and you feel his cock pulse. Feel the hot rush of his come flooding your cunt—so much of it, too much, spilling out around his shaft and running down your thighs in thick white ropes.
He stays inside you while he finishes, his breath ragged against your neck, his body shaking with the force of his release. And when he finally pulls out, you feel the emptiness immediately. Feel his seed dripping from you, pooling on the rug beneath your knees.
"Good cow," he says, stroking your hair. "Now crawl to the kitchen. I want to see you cook."
You start to move. Your limbs are shaking, your thighs slick with his come, your tits aching and empty. Behind you, you hear him light a cigarette and exhale slowly.
"And after dinner," he says, "we're going to do that again. And again. Until you're so full you can't walk straight."
You crawl toward the kitchen and feel his seed dripping down your legs, and somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice is screaming.
But it's getting quieter now. Drowning in the milk and the come and the sound of his voice.
Minotaur (Ambrose) x chubby fem!reader || sharing is caring, sex toys, edging, overstimulation, semi-public sex, (very light) degradation
It all started with a soft “wanna play a game with us, sunshine?” Whispered against your ear while you were having lunch with your mate, Poppy and Brick. You were still trying to process that Ambrose was, indeed, your mate, and the little word brought a smile to your lips. He kissed it instantly, still completely sappy when it came to you after just a few days of being officially mated.
“What do you mean by a game?” You asked, confused but down with whatever he offered when he was looking at you like you held the sun between your hands.
Ambrose smiles, and Brick lets out a huff of laughter while Poppy licks her lips. “Well… I might have gotten you a little present so we can all play a game together,” Ambrose finally tells you, grin getting wider when he sniffs the air and recognizes your growing arousal.
You can’t avoid the instant reaction, excitement filling you even when you don’t want to. “A present? What is it?” The smirk that appears on the faces of all three of them is enough to send shivers down your spine.
And that’s how you ended up in the bathroom of the parlor, with Ambrose on his knees in front of you, stretching you out with his fingers so slowly you were going a little bit insane. Once he was satisfied, he slipped a tiny ridged bullet vibrator inside of you.
“So, what are the rules?” Poppy asks while you try not to look at any of them directly. Your knees feel a bit weak, and you can already feel the dampness on your panties. They are going to be ruined by the time you get out of here.
“Whoever gets her to come, wins,” Brick tells her, rubbing his hands together like an evil genius.
“And who decides who gets the remote?” Poppy adds, an edge of mischief on her tone that gets your nipples so pointy you are about to moan just by the caress of your bra against them.
“We pass it around so my sunshine here doesn’t know who has it at any given time, to add a bit of an… edge,” Ambrose says, making everyone chuckle while your face gets so hot you are burning up.
You are already clenching down on the toy while they talk about you like you are just a toy for them to enjoy. Fuck, that’s so hot.
Ambrose turns you around and kisses you, distracting you enough that next thing you know the vibrator is doing its thing inside of you, and you are moaning. But when you turn around to see who has the remote, you can’t figure it out.
They all have equally smug grins on their faces as they get to their work and you sit on the sofa at the front to try get something done (even if you know there’s no way you are going to focus enough to do anything when somebody has a remote that controls the toy inside of you).
And like that it begins.
You try to focus on anything, helping Poppy with some designs, checking out reservations, and doing some reminder calls while you are at it. Anything to distract you from the little vibrations that change patterns and stop and get high and then… You are just going a bit insane with each second passing.
They keep snickering when they pass you, adding comments and jabs at you, telling you how dirty you are getting off because of this game. How pretty you look all flushed and flustered thanks to them. Each one of them getting flirtier and filthier by the minute. And you are still not sure who has the remote at any given point, but at least you are realizing there’s some kind of pattern.
One of them goes for high vibration with short pauses, making it hard to breathe.
Another one goes for the low hum that gets you moaning and covering your face, running to the bathroom so the clients don’t see you losing your mind.
And the third one is completely chaotic, different patterns of vibration, intensities… Just like whoever it is is having the time of their lives just playing with you for fun.
The thing is: you don’t know which one is which, and it only adds to the pleasure and the embarrassment of being played with. You are losing your mind, scared that your juices are about to create a wet spot in your pants while they chuckle when they see you pressing your legs together and panting.
Some clients throw weird looks at you, but nobody says anything while the three keep passing the remote and trying to get you to come. The edging lasts for a couple of hours, and by the time the last client leaves, you are ready to start sobbing to whoever has the remote to stop teasing and let you come. Hell, you’ll ask them all at once if that’s what it requires. You can’t hold it together anymore, not when you are so oversensitive anything could set you off.
So when Ambrose calls you back to his stall and helps you on the stretcher, legs open and a knowing smirk on his face… you know he’s on this to win it.
He knows plenty well how to get you to come, and to be fair, after all afternoon of edging and teasing, it wouldn’t take long for you to come. But he still knows something that’s probably vital in this situation: you can’t come with just internal vibrations, and you are pretty sure he’s playing Poppy and Brick.
Ambrose fingers slip inside your panties, rubbing your clit just the right way, and the cry that you let out is loud enough to alert everybody of who just won the bet. It’s as easy as that, a kiss from your mate and his fingers against your clit, and you are done for. The edging culminates in an explosion of pleasure that leaves you breathless and your panties absolutely drenched. The trip back home is going to be uncomfy…
He doesn’t pull the toy out, he simply pulls his hand out of your pants and licks his fingers thoroughly, looking at you while he does, the smirk on his lips knowing. Your pussy is still clenching with aftershocks, and you are pretty sure if he asked you to bend over and let him fuck you right there and then, you would do exactly that. It’s not like it would be the first time you two fucked while Poppy and Brick were outside.
“Come on, sunshine, I made reservations for dinner… And I need to claim that remote again.” You realize a tad too late that he didn’t even have the remote when he made you come. Fuck. Why does that make it better, hotter?
It takes you a while to get out of the room, your knees still weak and your face completely flushed while you look at the ground, unable to meet Brick’s nor Poppy’s eyes. Completely embarrassed, and lowkey still turned on by the whole thing.
“You won, then?” Poppy says, and you glance up at her, who instantly winks at you, making your face grew even hotter. You can’t believe she spent the day playing with your pussy.
“Okay, pay up, you fools,” Ambrose tells them, hand facing up while the other two look at him with annoyed faces. “We have reservations in half an hour,” he adds, smirking.
There’s a second of silence. And then: “You played us!” Poppy gasps, her face already showing signs of plotting. Ambrose is definitely in trouble.
“I played to win,” Ambrose clarifies, looking incredibly smug. “And hand me the remote, I’m not done playing with my mate,” he adds, your body shivering violently at the implications of dinner with a toy.
Brick continues blinking slowly and gaping like a fish, completely flabbergasted. You chuckle at the face he’s making and he focuses on you for a second, just enough to wink at you before disappearing on the back. Poppy hands Ambrose the money and the remote, and he thanks her with the smugest of smiles.
You leave the parlor with Poppy mumbling curses under her breath and your mate laughing softly next to you, his arm thrown around your shoulders and your legs still weak after that orgasm.
The second you are inside the car, he presses the button and you let out a choked breath, body melting against the seat. “Let’s have a fun dinner, yeah?” He tells you, leaning over the console to peck at your lips.
If anyone ever had anything to say about you, it was that you were raised right, not in any bad kind of way, just that you used your manners and terms of address when speaking.
How were you meant to know where that was going to land you?
He lived down the hall from you, an older gentleman and one of the only monsters that lived on this floor. There were a few others on other levels, but he is the only minotaur. Still, on your floor, it was him and a surprisingly nice vampire woman who offered to cook for you more often than not; you're pretty sure it is only because she misses the need to eat actual food over blood, and less because she's actually being neighbourly.
So, you genuinely don't know what you could have done to make him watch you the way he does. The first time you encountered him, you smiled and introduced yourself, called him sir when he gruffly said hello back, learned his name, and since then, you had tacked on mister to it without fail. Now whenever you see him and you say hello, he watches you, not glaring but watching, following your form as you move around the common area of the hallway between his apartment, the elevator and to your door.
Tonight, however, you have found him in the building's laundry room, nodding your head as you wish him a good evening, the moment that habitual 'sir' leaves your lips, he is turning on you. Huffing hard enough that the ring through his nose moves visibly, his voice is rough as he asks if you're doing that on purpose or if you just get a kick out of riling him up?
The confusion on your face turns to pleasant surprise as he walks around the folding table and corners you against the laundry door. You should be afraid, should be concerned about what is going on as this minotaur towers over you and huffs again, only as he cages you in against the door, you can clearly see what he meant by riling him up. Through the sweats he has on, you can clearly see the outline of what is surely the beginning of a soon-to-be very noticeable hardon.
So, you look up at him, playing as sweetly as you can, as you ask him...
earned trust • stillness before acceptance • something sacred made small
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It did not happen quickly.
Thalos is not built for casual touch. Not in the way others are. Every part of him is wired for reaction, for defense, for dominance or resistance. Contact, especially near his head, is not neutral to him. It is threat, challenge, or control.
The first time you stood close enough to reach his horns, he noticed.
The first time your hand lifted, he went still.
Not calm.
Not relaxed.
Still in the way something dangerous becomes when it is deciding whether to react.
Touch near his head is not something he allows. Not from anything. Not from anyone. It is instinctive, the way his body protects that space, the way his awareness sharpens the moment something enters it.
If you had moved too fast, he would have stopped you.
If you had grabbed, he would have pulled away.
If you had hesitated in fear, he would have noticed that too.
But you didn’t.
And that is why it changed.
Because you did not reach for him like he was something to control.
You reached like he was something you already understood.
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The first time is quiet.
There is no build up, no announcement, no moment where it feels like something important is about to happen.
You are close to him, standing near where he sits, the den warm, the fire low. He is relaxed, or as close to it as he gets, one arm resting loosely against his leg, his attention on you without being sharp about it.
Your hand lifts.
He notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His body stills, breath slowing, shoulders tightening just slightly. His head does not move away, but it does not lean in either. He is watching you now, fully, not with suspicion, but with awareness.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, not harsh, but not soft either.
“Nothing,” you answer.
That is not an answer he likes.
But he doesn’t stop you.
Your hand moves closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Giving him time to react.
He doesn’t.
That is the first choice.
Your fingers hover just above him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your skin, close enough that if he wanted to pull back, he could do it easily.
He doesn’t.
That is the second.
When your hand finally makes contact, it is light.
Careful.
Not grabbing, not pressing, just resting against the top of his head, fingers barely moving at first, like you are testing something fragile.
His breath catches.
Not loudly.
But you feel it.
Every muscle in his body goes still, not tense in the way of aggression, but locked in place like he is holding himself there on purpose.
For a moment, you think he might pull away.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers move slightly, slow, dragging gently through his hair, over the base of his horns, careful of the space that matters most.
He exhales.
Long.
Deep.
It sounds different.
Not strained.
Not forced.
Something softer than anything you have heard from him before.
“You shouldn’t be that close,” he murmurs, but there is no force in it, no real warning behind the words.
“You didn’t stop me.”
A pause.
“You’re not… doing it wrong,” he says after a moment, quieter now.
That is as close as he gets to permission.
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After that, it becomes something else.
Not frequent.
Not casual.
But allowed.
At first, it only happens when you initiate it. When you choose the moment, when you close the distance, when your hand lifts and he makes that same quiet decision not to stop you.
But over time, something shifts.
He starts to position himself differently.
Closer than necessary.
Still within reach.
Sometimes when he sits beside you, his head will lower just slightly, not enough to be obvious, not enough to be acknowledged, but enough that your hand would find him easily if you chose to move it.
He never asks.
He doesn’t need to.
When your fingers touch him now, the reaction is different.
Less stillness.
Less resistance.
His shoulders ease faster, his breathing settling sooner, his body no longer locking up in that same way. Instead, he allows it. Fully. Quietly.
Sometimes, without realizing it, he leans into it.
Just slightly.
Just enough that you notice.
Just enough that he pretends he didn’t.
“You do that like you’re not afraid of me,” he says once, voice low, thoughtful, his eyes half-lidded as your fingers move slowly over his head.
“I’m not.”
Another pause.
His head dips a fraction closer.
“Good,” he answers.
And this time, when your hand stills, he doesn’t move away right away.
He stays there.
For a second longer than necessary.
Like he’s waiting.
Like he’s hoping you’ll start again.
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ok i lied i got it done wayyyy faster then i should have while at work oooopsie
