A celebratory drink

“It is the offering,” Kroak croaked. He blinked his domed eyes as the crowd of wugs parted. “To celebrate the coming of the tribe.”

You fail to answer, your attention fixed as the crowd parts and you see what is led through. A woman stumbles through the crowd of wugs. Her hair is long and uncombed, matted with filth. She has a shapely figure, not quite as good as yours, but notable curvaceous, flushed a healthy pink, her hips wide and her steps uncertain, like she’s drunk or has not used her legs in some time. The former seems more likely, for her expression is dull and vacant, eyes rolled back and mouth gaping open stupidly. Her breasts are immense, hanging low and heavy, aeroelas dark and trickles of milk escape the ducts.

Before her marches a wug. His reptilian skin is pale like the others, but his face is also painted in a savage mask of chalky white whorls. In his hand is a chain which leads back to the woman, and your breath catches at the sight of the rings in her breasts which the chain connects to. He leads her like he would an animal, giving a small yank whenever she slows causing her to moan in desire unfulfilled and milk to squirt from her massive teats.

You gape as the wugs whoop and jeer. Some enterprising ones reach out and slap her thigh causing flesh to jiggle and the woman to arch her back, straining her breasts against the chains and crying in pleasure to the sky.

“Goddess,” you breathe, unable to look away from the spectacle.

“One of those given to us by Tokonga,” you hear the chief’s voice say from behind you. You stiffen as you feel his arms loop around you, webbed fingers taking hold of your engorged teats and gently beginning to massage the prominent flesh. “Normally she is kept in Brooding Hut. But this is occasion for celebration.”

“What’s going to ha-appen?” you gasp over the pleasure of the chief’s hands.

“She will give her milk to the brood keeper,” the chief says. His hand slide around the generous curve of your bust, lifting at the weight of your breasts, feeling their heft and admiring the bounty of milk they reserve. “And it will be shared. We will drink of her, then, and by doing so, rejoice in the presence and gifts of Tokonga.”

Your breath comes heavy as the chief massages your breasts, pleasure oozing through you in waves of warmth that makes your toes curl and breath come short. The woman is brought to the centre of the camp, before the rich heat and illumination of the bonfire. Once there the wug at the end of the chain gives a slight yank down. The woman falls to all fours, breathing heavily. Her handler strokes her head affectionately, and to your horror, she leans into his touch like a pet.

“It is an honour for that one,” Kroath says idly. “She has not spawned well of late.”

“Not…” you groan. The woman’s handler now kneels by his charge, running his hand affectionately over the broken woman’s wide, breeding thigh, following the curve of the hip and to her gaping folds. You gasp as his fingers finds her slit, unabashedly fingering her before the mass of wugs, and goddess help you, you feel your thighs slicken as the woman moans whorishly and grinds against the wug’s hand.

“The races of females do not often take seed well,” Kroath says, watching the show with you. You cannot help but notice his metal ringed fins lay flat, while all around the other wugs have their standing starkly erect and flushed red as they watch. “It is said that when Tokonga freed us from her womb and gave to us the world, her brother, jealous of her gifts to us, lit his phallus aflame and took her so that every woman born of her would be nearly barren to our seed. We must be potent to overcome the curse, and her women fertile.”

“You accepted my seed the first time,” the chief says from behind you, running his fingers over your swelled stomach, his tongue licking the sweat of your back. You gasp and rise slightly, pressing his fingers against your egg swelled womb.

Kroath turns to you in interest. “This is true?”

The chief chuckles, the vibrations shuddering through you. You squirm as you feel his cock slide from his abdomen and between the cheeks of you palm filling rear. “She speaks the tongue. The ritual was a success. She is the voice, chosen of Tokonga.”

The medicine wug looks at you more intently but you pay little attention. Your whole world is swallowed by the feeling of the chief’s webbed hands as they run across your sensitive flesh, his talons grazing lightly your flushed skin sending pleasure shooting through your spine; your vision fixed on the scene before the bonefire as the painted wug milks his willing captive like a cow, filling wooden bowls he passes out to the crowd, milk the woman is only too willing to give. You stare, fascinated, and goddess help you, goddess save you, you want to be there. You want to be milked before this crowd of monsters, the object of their lust, taken as you give them milk to drink, be an object of such carnal worship. A mindless tool of pleasure, children and sustenance. A broodmare to be bred and milked every day. You grind against the chief’s cock, feeling the cool flesh against your flushed pillowy ass.

You catch from the corner of your eye Kroath putting something in a bowl of milk before passing it to you. Unthinking you take it, feeling the chief’s cock rubbing insistently against you, his hands pleasuring you and worshipping your form. The keeper of the woman has finished. He stands and raises over his head his bowl of milk. Every wug raises their own. You look into yours like you could scry your future in the white fluid. With a shout the wugs tip back their bowls and drink.