Chapter Four: One Night as a Demon (Part 1)

He didn't move right away.

The head of his cock rested against the mouth of her slit, and that wet membrane opened and closed around it, as if a small mouth inside were sucking at him, gently. One more inch and he would be inside. He didn't push in; she didn't sink down. Their noses touched, and the hot breath they let out bounced back off two glossy black faces and heated them another degree.

"There's only one way…" he repeated, his voice low and hoarse in that new female register. "Elena, you make it sound like we're being forced."

She laughed. Her chest quivered, and the two tips of her nipples brushed against the larger pair on his chest with a squeak.

"Forced?" She tilted her head, and the small horns on her forehead scraped along his long ones. "Baby, touch yourself."

She took his hand and pressed it to his cock. The moment his palm closed around it, his whole body jerked. Hot, hard, swollen — ring after ring of raised bumps pulsed in his own grip, faster than his heart.

"You call this forced?"

The membrane behind his ear lit up all at once.

"And… and you?" he shot back quietly, but his fingers didn't let go. They slid down the shaft, and the backs of them brushed across her slit and drew out a shining thread. "You don't feel forced down here either."

"I never said I was forced." She put her lips to his ear, and her forked tongue swept across that glowing membrane. "I said the rules are what they are, so we do what they say. But inside, I'm begging for it to be written exactly this way."

She paused, her tongue pressing under his earlobe, her hot breath pouring into his ear.

"Even if we didn't need to take them off, baby, I'd still want to."

His hips went soft, but the thing in her hand jumped so hard that they both made a sound at once.

"So would I," he said. His voice shook badly, but not one word faltered. "Even if it fell off by itself tomorrow… I want tonight."

"Want what? Say it all."

"…Want to do it with you."

"Do what?"

"Elena…"

"Say it." She caught his earlobe between her black pointed teeth and closed them gently. "In the voice you have now. I want to hear it."

He shut his eyes. The words rolled around in his throat several times, until they were burning, and then the heat of the latex pushed them out.

"Want you to suck me in. Want to fuck you."

As soon as he said it, he buried his face in her neck out of shame. The shame only lasted a second before something hotter washed it away. He heard himself say that word in a woman's voice — soft, sweet, the tail of it almost a sob — exactly like the subtitles on the latex dolls in his photo album. His cock swelled another size.

Elena laughed against his ear, laughing until she was out of breath.

"Good boy," she said. "Then let's take our time. No rush tonight."

She lifted her hips a little, letting his glans slip out of her slit. As it came free — pop — wet membrane parted from wet membrane, and a long shining thread stretched between them, hung down onto his belly, cooled, and was warmed soft again by his heat.

He nearly whined, like a child whose candy had been taken.

"Don't make that face." She bent down and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I said we'd take it slow. I want to look at you first."

She sat up straight, straddling his waist, both hands braced on his chest — on the pair of breasts bigger than hers — palms sinking in, latex bulging out between her fingers, highlights hopping.

And she looked down at him like that for a long time.

The warm lamp at the head of the bed spilled in at an angle, slid down over her smooth bald head, over her forehead, over the two small horns, over her all-black eyes and pointed teeth, gathered into a small pool of light at her collarbone, then poured down the curve of her chest to her nipple tips, to her belly, to the place between her legs that was still dripping threads. She looked carved from a single block of black jade, and just pulled out of oil.

The room they had slept in for three years was very quiet. Only breathing was left, and the squeak latex made whenever it touched latex.

He suddenly felt that he matched this room. This room had waited three years for him, and tonight was what it had been waiting for.

For the first time he knew, this clearly, how much he loved this.

That he loved her — he had known that for a long time. What he meant now was something else: latex. This shine, this slickness, this sweet-salt smell that rose once it was warmed. He had loved it for years, loved it in hiding, loved it so much that he only dared look at it on a phone with the screen dimmed, loved it so much that he swiped past it every time it came up and then, a while later, secretly swiped back. He had always thought it was something you could only look at and never touch — a specimen in a glass case.

Now it was straddling him. Hot. Breathing. Laughing. Calling him baby.

"You're staring so hard," she said.

"Mm…" He reached out and touched her waist with his fingertips. A long nail grazed her lightly — squeak — leaving a faint foggy mark that polished itself back to a shine a moment later. "So bright. Elena, you're so bright."

"So are you." She took his hand and guided it upward, over her ribs, under her breasts, to her nipple. "Feel this. You licked it for so long, and it's still hot."

It was still hot. When his fingertip pressed down, the tip was wrapped hard and slick by the latex, like a sugar-coated bean that bounced back the moment he pressed it. She drew a breath and pushed her hips forward.

"I love being wrapped up like this," she murmured. "Baby, you know, I used to complain that even a tight dress was too tight. Now there's not a single seam from head to toe, squeezed this tight, and it feels so good. Like being held by you. Held all the time."

As she spoke, she put both hands on herself and stroked upward from her waist, over her breasts, over her collarbone, over her throat, and finally pressed her palms to her smooth head and smoothed them back — as if smoothing a head of long hair that didn't exist.

Squeak. One long sound, from her forehead to the back of her skull.

He watched that gesture until his throat went dry.

This love was like a basin of warm water, and it soaked them both. Soak long enough, and the water heats up.

Her hands slid down from the top of her head and landed on his horns. Both hands, one on each, gripping the long horns that grew from either side of his forehead and swept backward, stroking from root to tip. The horns were hard, but the surface was wrapped in the same oily membrane as the rest of him, and her palms squeaked as they passed. When she reached the base, his whole body bucked upward and a cry burst out of that female voice — soft and sharp, the first half frightened, the second half lifting on its own into a thin, trembling tail that still carried a little nasal whine.

So coquettish that he froze at the sound of himself.

"That sensitive?" She looked at him in surprise and stroked again.

"Don't… Elena… there…" He grabbed the sheet, his long nails digging in. "It feels like it's connected to down there."

"Connected to where?"

He couldn't say. She looked down and knew. Every time she stroked the base of his horns, the thing between his legs jumped, jumped until a bright bead seeped from the tip.

"Amazing," she murmured, her hand not stopping. "Baby, you've grown so many things you didn't have before."

He had. Her eyes traveled down his body as if seeing it for the first time.

Bald head, long horns. Shoulders wider than hers. That pair of breasts a full size bigger than hers, spreading slightly to either side as he lay there, nipples tilted up, highlights piling into two bright points. And his waist was narrow, so narrow her two hands could almost circle it. Below that, his hips flared wide, and that ass, rounder than hers, sank into the sheet and pressed a deep hollow into it.

Two legs pulled long out of that excessively round ass, so long it was almost unreasonable. The thighs were full, wrapped tight in latex, a layer of oil shine running from hip bone to knee; the knees were narrow and round, like two glossy black pebbles. The calves tapered thin and straight, the little curve of the muscle traced into a line by the highlight, sliding all the way down to the ankle, sliding into those heels that had grown together with his feet. The stiletto was sharp and high, drawing the whole foot into a bow and pulling the whole leg up another stretch.

Her legs were the same. Four legs overlapped on the sheet, black over black, shine over shine, no telling whose knee was against whose inner thigh.

And then, between his legs.

She took her hands off his horns and moved them down, stopping on his lower belly without touching. She wanted to see clearly.

It stood straight up against his belly, thicker than his old one and longer, black through and through, black and shining, as if the same sheet of latex had been drawn out of his body and molded into this shape.

The first thing she made out was its segmented outline. From the glans down, the whole shaft was divided into eight sections, each one a raised ring, each ring overlapping the one below. The front edge of every section was rounded; the back edge flared slightly outward into a thin lip, thin enough to be translucent, trembling at a touch. Between section and section ran a shallow groove. Fingers sliding down could count them one by one: swell, lip, drop into the groove, swell again. It grew thicker toward the base, and the lowest section was so thick that one hand could barely close around it.

Veins crawled over every section too. Several thick blue cords wound up from the root, climbing over ring after ring, pushing up ridges under the latex that showed clearly whenever the light slanted across. When his fingertip pressed them, he could feel them bulging and pulsing beneath that membrane.

The glans was full and round, the latex polished brightest there, like a fruit carved from black jade. The coronal ridge beneath it had changed as well, become round and smooth, like a black jade bracelet clamped around it. And in the groove below the bracelet, a row of tiny bright points was faintly hidden — she still couldn't see them clearly.

Farther down, at the root. Where there should have been a sac, two soft weights, there was nothing. Six latex balls, three on each side, pressed tight against the root, lined up neatly, each one taut, hard with a bounce to it, the membrane stretched so thin and bright over the surface that he could see the pulsing underneath.

"I had it in my mouth just now," she said quietly, "but I never looked at it like this."

She extended one finger and, with the pad, not the nail, stroked upward starting from the lowest ball. Over the seam between one ball and the next — he shuddered. Up onto the shaft, the pad sliding over the back edge of a ring, lightly scraped by that lifted thin lip, dropping into the next shallow groove, sliding up again, scraped again, dropping again. Like stroking the back of a black snake.

"One… two…" she counted as she stroked, her voice growing softer, "three… baby, it's jumping. Every section is jumping."

Her fingertip stopped on the fourth section and pressed down on a vein that crossed the ring. The vein bulged under her finger. Bulged again.

"Veins too." She bit her lip and smiled. "I can feel it jumping through the latex. Your cock is in sections, all covered in veins, black as carved stone."

"Don't count…" He turned his face away in shame, his long horn dragging a line across the pillow. "It's embarrassing."

"What's embarrassing?" She found his glans and pressed her thumb into the round groove, circling it. "It's beautiful. So beautiful that the moment I see it, I'm wet down there."

She was telling the truth. He could see it. Straddling him, the slit between her legs was directly over his belly, and a glossy black drop welled out of it, stretched, drew into a thread, and fell on his navel. Cool. And immediately warmed by his heat.

"You're dripping on me," he said quietly.

"Then let me make it up to you."

She slid down off his waist — slowly, latex against latex, squeaking all the way down his chest, over his stomach, until she was kneeling low between his legs, both hands cupping her own breasts and pressing them together.

"Elena, you…"

She didn't let him finish. Those breasts closed in from either side and trapped his cock between them.

A moment of cool. The membrane on her breasts had just left his body and a thin chill floated on the surface. Then it went hot, as hot as him. Latex pressed to latex with no gap at all. She pushed her breasts upward, and the eight sections squeezed up one by one through her cleavage, each lifted thin lip scraping the membrane on the inside of her breast — squeak, squeak, squeak — one sound per section.

She sank down, and the string of balls bumped up against the underside of her breasts, pushed into the lowest curve of the two soft masses, squeezed until they spilled to either side.

She looked down at the place where she had him trapped. The two masses of latex were pressed together in the middle, the membrane in her cleavage so thin and bright that she could see the shape of him squeezed out beneath it, section by section, bulging and drawing back. She deliberately squeezed the two breasts together, and the raised rims were pinched upright, like a row of little dikes. She let go and they slowly settled back. She played with it twice, heard his breathing break, and only then lowered her head and put her tongue to him.

"It's butting me." She looked down at the wet shining glans emerging from her cleavage and smiled. "So hard. Baby, those six of yours are knocking at the door."

The membrane in her cleavage was rubbed hot, and the heat had nowhere to go, all of it trapped where the two of them touched. She could feel the edge of the latex band around her chest, cinching from under her collarbone all the way to her armpits, so tight, and not uncomfortable at all. Sweat vapor seeped out little by little from the edges, mixed with the sweet-salt smell of latex, steamed up between the two of them, smelling like a just-opened jar of sugar. She lowered her head and touched her tongue to the wet shine on his glans. When she pulled back, the taste dissolved in her mouth — faint, warm, with a little rubbery astringency underneath. She touched it again, and this time lingered a second longer.

He couldn't speak. He could only see those black breasts rising and falling on him, the highlight squeezed into a thin line and then stretched open into two wide sheets. He could only hear squeak, slurp, squeak, wetter and wetter. What seeped from his glans was smeared into her cleavage, slicker and slicker, until the moment she loosened her hands, several shining threads stretched between her breasts, hanging from his rings, quivering.

She lowered her head.

When the wet shining glans emerged from her cleavage again, she didn't let it draw back. She pressed her breasts down, pushed it all the way out, then opened her mouth and extended that long, thin, forked tongue.

First the tip. Two glossy black tips, one to each side, like two thin living nails, pressed simultaneously to either side of the coronal groove beneath his glans, traced upward along that round edge, met at the tiny opening at the very top, and closed gently on it.

"Mm." His hips bucked.

She looked up at him, her all-black eyes curving in a smile. Then the two tips separated, each circling the glans, one clockwise, one counter, circling until the membrane squeaked, smearing the bright bead he had seeped into a thin film. Her breasts were still clamped below; as she licked, she pushed them up, and the sections scraped through her cleavage.

Finally she pursed her lips and took the whole glans into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, and sucked.

Pop.

Just one suck. She released him, and a shining thread ran from her lower lip to his glans, swayed twice, and broke.

"Phew…" She laughed against him, the laugh coming out of her nose, more breath than sound, quivering, hot air spraying over his wet glans. "Baby, you taste sweet."

The tail of that sound lifted, rose into the air, and settled back down softly. Her tongue hadn't gone back in yet, forked and curled between her teeth, rolling that breath into a thin ribbon of sound. His belly tightened.

"All right, that's enough." She let go and licked her lips. "Just a taste for you. I'll give you more later."

He nearly cried. She climbed back up onto him, smiling, and kissed the tip of his nose like coaxing a child.

That kiss was impossibly light, nothing like what she had just been doing. And yet it was in that kiss that he became certain once more: this glossy black thing straddling him, the one that could hold him between her breasts, was the same Elena who stole his blanket every morning and drank half his coffee. She hadn't become someone else. She had simply brought out the part of herself she used to hide, along with everything else.

So had he.

He wanted to look at her too.

"Elena…" He propped himself up. "Let me look at you too."

She smiled, shifted back onto his thighs, leaned back on both hands, and opened her knees.

That slit lay fully exposed in front of him.

Outside were two lips, swollen badly, full as fruit about to split from ripeness, wrapped tight in latex, a layer of oil shine on the surface. The slit between them was wet and bright, and the small bump at the top tilted up like a black pearl. Between the lips the opening gaped slightly, black inside, bottomless, and in it he could see only a wet membrane opening and closing. Opening — a little water seeped out. Closing — a squeak.

He stared, dazed.

His. Hers. Both of them had turned into this. Turned into the kind of thing he had only ever dared look at on a screen. No — more real than the screen, hotter, more alive. Those pictures were dead, posed, an ordinary person hidden inside a latex suit. But not them. This thing had grown on his body, and it jumped and burned and trembled under her touch. That swollen slit was hers, and it opened by itself, closed by itself, dripped by itself.

They had become demons. Become the filthiest thing in his dreams. The thought itself was like a ladle of oil thrown on a fire.

She seemed to be thinking the same.

"Baby," she said, head tipped back, smiling at the ceiling, "I think we really aren't human anymore."

"Mm."

"I should be scared, right?" She caught her breath. "But the moment I think about it, down there… look, it's dripping again."

Dripping again. One drop, two, squeezed out from between the lips, rolling over the full curve, rolling onto the sheet.

He suddenly noticed the other end of the room.

That full-length mirror. They had stood in front of it just now, looking at themselves. Now it was several steps from the bed, but it still took in the whole bed. Two identical glossy black bodies stacked together, four horns, two bald heads, four breasts, four long legs, four high heels. He narrowed his eyes, and for a moment he genuinely couldn't tell which one in the mirror was her and which was him.

The same skin. The same shine. The same black eyeballs, the same pointed teeth, the same forked tongue. Whatever he had, she had. Whatever she had, he had too. His chest was even bigger than hers.

"Elena," he said quietly, "look at the mirror."

She glanced back. Looked for a long time without speaking. Then she crawled back to him, onto him, chest to chest, face to face, and watched the two demons pressed together in the mirror from the side.

"Like looking in a mirror," she said. "When I look at you, it's like looking at myself."

She put a hand on his chest and kneaded. He shuddered. Then she put her other hand on her own chest and kneaded that too. The same feel, the same bounce, even the squeak was identical.

"I can't tell us apart anymore." Her voice suddenly went very soft, very wet. "Baby, touching you is like touching myself. Wanting you is like wanting myself. This feeling is so strange, so…"

She didn't finish. He knew what she was going to say. He felt the same. He looked at her and saw another version of himself — a smaller one, with shorter horns, calling him baby. He had loved her for so many years, and now she had become the same thing as him, and he had become the same thing as her. Love and desire layered together into a flavor he had never tasted: wanting to swallow her whole, and wanting to be swallowed. Either way, when it was done, they would be the same demon.

And then there was the last bit.

The bit pressed down at the very bottom. They had said "want to take them off" so many times out loud just now, and that sentence was still there, it hadn't left. He thought of her alarm the morning after next, of her having to go to work, of how she would leave the house if this face couldn't come off. That thought was like a very fine thorn, stuck under all the heat.

But the thorn didn't make him back away. It pushed him.

If they wanted them off, they had to do it. All the way. Both of them had to get there before they could take them off.

So that little bit of "wanting to go back" turned into part of the "wanting" too.

He saw that she was thinking the same thing. Her black eyes shifted, glanced toward the mirror, came back to him. Then she licked her lips.

"Baby," she said, "if we want them off, you have to make me feel good first. You know that, right?"

"…I know."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The shine of the latex, the transformed bodies, the identical pair of them, and that thorn urging them to go all the way — one layer stepping on the next, each hotter than the last. In the end he couldn't tell which layer was making him this hard.

"Wait," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. She had no eyebrows, but the membrane lifted, and he knew she was raising one.

"Just now…" He swallowed. "Just now I only went in a little. Shallow. I want to feel my way inside first. All of it."

She looked at him, and the oily shine in her black eyeballs shifted.

"All of it?"

"All of it." He raised his right hand. That hand was long and slender now, the knuckles distinct, and on the tip of every finger grew a long glossy black nail, long and sharp, tapering straight forward, straight as a thin blade, the surface bright enough to reflect her face, a whole knuckle longer than his old nails. "This too."

She stared at those long nails for a moment, then smiled, soft and wicked.

"Afraid you'll cut me?"

"…A little."

"You won't." She caught his hand and took his middle finger into her mouth. Her forked tongue split around the long nail, one fork on each side, and licked from the base to the tip, then let it out, the surface hanging bright with her saliva. "See? My tongue isn't cut. They're sharp, but soft. Like us. They're latex."

She pulled his ring finger over too and took both in her mouth at once, until his whole arm went numb.

"Just these two," she said. "The middle ones. The longest."

She lay back. Fell backward into the covers, her bald head sinking into the pillow, two long legs drawing up, knees opening to either side, the pointed toes of her stilettos pressing into the sheet and leaving two small dents, spreading that slit wide open for him.

The two legs stayed open like that, braced at an angle from the knee down, so long they took up half the bed. He knelt between them, as if kneeling inside a glossy black doorway.

"Come on, baby," she said. "Feel your way to the bottom. I want to know how deep your fingers can go."

He didn't go in right away. He bent down first and kissed the inside of her left knee. The latex there was thin and hot, and it flinched with a squeak at the touch of his lips. She made a small sound and reached out to stroke his long horn, as if petting a big cat that had come over to be spoiled.

Then he put his middle and ring fingers together, held them upright, pads facing up, the two long nails side by side and pointing forward, and pressed them to the mouth of her slit.

The moment his nail tips touched the two full outer lips, they gave way to either side, then closed back around him, wet and soft, wrapping his fingertips, wrapping the two straight nails, like a mouth taking two candy sticks between its lips.

Squeak.

He pushed in.

The first knuckle went in. He had been here before. That first time he had only come in this shallow, and then it had felt like a tight, sucking membrane, hot, slick, clenching. It was the same now. The two long nails slid forward along the membrane, impossibly smoothly, like pushing through a latex tube greased with oil, only a film of her water between nail and wall, squeaking, faintly, thinly.

The second knuckle.

Hotter. The membrane inside pressed to his fingers, pressed with no gap left at all. When he curled his two fingers slightly, the membrane curled with them, squeaking. Elena drew a breath, her belly pulling in, the latex on her inner thighs going taut all at once.

"More… more…"

He pushed to the third knuckle.

And then, when his nail tips touched something deeper, something sucked at them.

His whole body went rigid.

That thing clung to the tip of his middle nail, small, round, soft and tight, like an extremely small mouth giving one suck. Pop. A very light sound, coming from inside her body, traveling up his finger to his wrist, to his ear.

Then another on the tip of his ring finger. And another. And another.

"Elena…" His voice cracked out of its register. "Inside you…"

"Hm?" Her eyes were half open. "What? Don't stop."

He didn't stop. He was being pulled in.

Those small mouths lined up in a ring around his two fingers, one against the next, and sucked at him all at once. The first ring had barely closed on his nail tips when the second ring closed on his first knuckles, and the third on his second. He could feel their shapes — each one only the size of a grain of rice, a soft slightly raised rim around the edge, a tiny hollow in the middle, wet and hot inside, sucking inward the moment it touched, sucking until the latex on his fingers bulged slightly, then releasing with a pop, then sucking again.

Even into the narrow gap between his two fingers a row of them squeezed in. One small mouth sucked at this side of his middle finger and the other side of his ring finger at the same time, pulling the two fingers together as if to twist them into one.

One ring, and another. Deeper, deeper, deeper.

Both fingers were all the way in, to the base. The knuckles of his hand pressed against her full outer lips, clamped between those two swollen folds. His two fingers, from base to tip, were sucked by ring after ring of small suckers. Dozens of small mouths sucking at once, and not at once. One ring sucked, one ring released, one ring sucked again, like a wave pushing from his knuckles to his nail tips, and back from the tips to his knuckles.

Squeak… pop, pop, pop… squeak…

The sound welled up out of her body in strings, wet and sticky, obscene, and unbearably close.

"What is this…" he murmured, his voice shaking so badly he could barely finish a sentence. "Elena, there's something inside you sucking me. So many… so many little mouths."

She froze too.

"It wasn't like this before," she panted, propping herself up a little to look down at the hand buried between her legs. "You only came in a little before. They were hiding this deep the whole time."

"I… I didn't know I was like this inside." Her voice jumped half a tone, then softened. "But baby, I can feel it. Every single one. I can feel them."

She looked down and saw her own belly swelling with each breath, the latex stretched over it, thin enough to show the shape of what lay beneath. She had never known her body could hold this many sensations. Now every inch of the inner wall felt turned inside out and laid under the lamp, and she could count even the finest curve at the tip of his nail. She tried to clench, and the small mouths all moved together, like a nest of things just waking up, fighting to take his fingertips.

She could feel it.

Every small sucker was hers. She could feel them open one by one, press on, suck him. Could feel the slight hardness of his knuckle, held in three or four small mouths at once. Could feel the slick straight surface of his two long nails licked, sucked, drawn inward bit by bit by the deepest ring. The very tip of the nail rested right in the center of one small mouth, held completely enclosed. It didn't feel like being touched. It felt like she herself was touching him, with dozens of mouths at the very inside of her body, touching him, tasting him, eating him. Every mouth was wired to a nerve, and every nerve ran to the bottom of her belly, to her nipples, to the base of her horns, to the root of her tongue.

She began to shake.

First her thighs. The latex on the insides of those two long legs twitched in jumps, jerking her knees inward, and she forced them open again. Then her calves, the stilettos scraping lines across the sheet. Then her belly, her waist, her shoulders, and finally even the tips of her horns trembled, so that the pillow rustled.

"Baby, don't come out." She grabbed his wrist and pressed it inward. "Don't come out. They want you. I want you."

He had no intention of coming out.

He was fascinated. The fright from that first moment was gone, and what was left was a fascination he couldn't name — the same fascination he had felt the first time he saw a latex doll wrapped from head to toe on a screen, but a hundred times stronger. Those dolls were hollow inside, fake. She was alive inside, hot, ring after ring of little mouths fighting over him. He wanted to know how many there were, how they were arranged, how they moved. He wanted to learn every inch inside her body.

He curled his two fingers gently upward.

The two long nails slid up along the front wall, up across the deepest ring of suckers. That ring released all at once, then sucked back all at once, tighter than before. Pop pop pop pop, a whole string of them, like beads dropped into water together.

Elena bucked straight up.

"Ah, ah, baby, there…"

The cry changed register the moment it came out. It started in her own throat, then halfway through lifted suddenly, sharp and thin, the tail dragging out long, and at the end it curled and trembled three times, leaking a thin thread of breath.

He curled again. Again. His two fingers hooked inside her, not fast, but every hook went to the bottom. The two long nails slid straight through those small mouths, their surfaces smooth and tough, and everywhere they passed the suckers lunged up one after another, sucking at the backs of the nails, the sides, the fine seam where nail met finger, as if fighting over them.

"They're fighting," he murmured, watching his buried hand. "Elena, they're fighting over my nails."

"Because… ah… because it tastes good…" She no longer knew what she was saying. "Your nails are so long, so straight, they scrape me inside… my whole body…"

Her right hand let go of his wrist and moved to her own breast.

She cupped the right one, five long nails sinking in, latex bulging out between her fingers, squeaking as she kneaded. She kneaded without any gentleness at all, kneading that black breast out of shape in her palm, the nipple squeezing out between two fingers, and she pressed it down with the flat of a nail, grinding it back and forth.

"Baby…" she panted, calling him, "this side too."

He bent down.

His fingers didn't stop. Hooking inside her, he buried his face in her left breast and opened his mouth, taking the whole nipple in.

The taste of latex flooded his mouth at once. Sweet-salt, hot, slick. First he pursed his lips and sucked at the ring of the areola, drawing inward until that black breast was pulled up into a small point. He kept sucking, and his long forked tongue came up to the nipple and circled it. One circle, the tip tracing the fine groove at the base of the nipple. Two circles, faster. Three, the two tips separating, one going left, one right, crossing over each other at the top. The tip wrapped in latex was rolled hard and slick, like a sugar-coated bean rolling under his tongue. When he had circled enough, he released the suction and laid his whole tongue flat, licking upward from beneath the nipple, pressing it down and letting it spring back. He caught it gently between his pointed teeth, held it, let go, not daring to bite. Then sucked again, circled again, licked again.

Squeak… slurp…

"Mmh… baby… hahh…" Her voice dragged out long, climbing up from the bottom of her throat, trembling at the top, and at the end trailing a wisp of wet breath.

Her left hand came to rest on his head.

Her palm against his smooth skull, five fingers spread, the long nails resting lightly on the membrane of his scalp, not pressing down, just holding. As if holding something she was afraid would fall. Then her thumb began to move, tracing slow circles around the base of his left horn. One circle. Another.

He made a muffled sound against her breast. The base of the horns connected to what was below, and every circle she rubbed sent the thing between his legs jumping, dripping onto the sheet.

"Good boy…" she panted, looking down at him. "Baby, you're so good. Hooking me and eating me at the same time."

He raised his eyes to her.

From this angle her face was just behind her own right breast, kneaded out of shape, her all-black eyes half closed, mouth open, the tip of her forked tongue resting against one pointed tooth, trembling. One hand kneading herself, one hand stroking his head. Obscene beyond words. And yet the hand on his head, the thumb rubbing the base of his horn, was exactly the way she used to stroke the back of his head when he came home from overtime and collapsed with his head in her lap.

His nose stung suddenly.

No reason. Just a sting. He thought, so this is how she has always been. Fierce when she was fierce, wicked when she was wicked, but the part of her that ached for him had never changed. The mask hadn't turned her into someone else. It had only brought out everything in her at once — the good, the bad, the soft, the greedy.

So had it with him. He wanted to show her everything in himself too.

He hooked deeper inside her.

Middle and ring fingers together, curled, pressing up against the front wall, the two long nails scraping straight across ring after ring of small mouths. Scrape one ring and it all released, then all lunged back. Her body began to follow his fingers. He hooked, and her hips lifted. He pulled back a little, and she sank down after him, chasing his hand.

"Baby, baby, quick, I'm going to…"

The hand kneading her breast clenched. The hand on his head clenched too, long nails pressing lightly into the membrane of his scalp, not hard, just unwilling to let go.

He held her nipple in his mouth, tongue pressing down, fingers inside the deepest ring of suckers, gently spreading them apart.

Middle finger this way, ring finger that way.

In that instant every sucker released at once, then lunged back all at once, sucking so hard his fingers hurt.

She came.

Small. A small, short wave, welling up from the very inside of her. She cried out — first a short gasp, then a string of tremors climbing higher and higher, each one higher than the last, and at the top it turned a corner and became a thin, long, breathy tail. Her whole body shook in waves from bald head to stiletto heels, her two long legs clamping inward, clamping his wrist tight, then releasing. All the latex on her body tightened in those few seconds, stretched bright, highlights bursting open across her belly in whole sheets. Against the half of his face pressed to her breast, the membrane went hot as fire.

He raised his eyes. Her face was above him, all-black eyes open and unfocused, lips parted, the tip of her forked tongue slipping out between her pointed teeth, trembling. The small horns on her forehead tipped back, and the latex at their base pulled into a tiny crease. Her whole face was shaking, shaking until the highlight on her cheekbones shattered into pieces. He suddenly thought her face had never been more beautiful than at this moment, so beautiful it made his chest ache.

But there was something new in his mouth.

In those few seconds when she shook hardest, the nipple in his mouth went hot, and a thin, warm something seeped out of the tip onto his tongue. Not much. Just a few drops, like dew seeping from the tip of a leaf.

He froze, and let go.

A darker drop hung on that glossy black nipple, round, trembling, shining in the light like a drop of ink. It ran down the nipple, leaving a thin black line.

He licked it. One curl of the tongue, and the drop went into his mouth.

Sweet.

Very faintly sweet, like the juice that seeps from the skin of an overripe fruit when it's broken, warm, slick, dissolving on his tongue, and beneath it a little of the fragrance of latex. He swallowed, and the sweetness slid down his throat, into his chest, spread out there into a patch of warmth.

Then his head went light.

Just once. Like half a glass of wine — exactly the right half. Not dizzy, only his face hot, everything in front of him edged with a soft glow, his heart loosening all at once, loosening until he wanted to laugh.

"Elena…" He licked his lips, his voice floating a little. "What comes out of you here… it's sweet."

"…What?" She was still panting. She looked down at her own nipple, saw the black line not yet dry, and stared. "I… this does that too…"

"Mm." He bent down again and licked the black line clean from bottom to top, which made her shudder again. "So sweet. I think I'm a little drunk."

His laugh came out soft, that female voice dragging a sticky nasal note, the tail floating upward like a drunk humming a song. Hearing himself, the membrane behind his ear lit up.

She relaxed and fell back onto the pillow, gasping for air. The hand on his head didn't move away, still stroking the base of his horn, slowly, softly.

"Baby…" Her voice had fallen apart. "I… just now… it was only a little, and…"

"Are you all right?" he asked. His fingers were still buried inside her, sucked by those small mouths one after another, more lazily now, stickier.

"I'm fine. It feels so good." She laughed through her panting, the corners of her eyes trembling. "Just a small one. Baby, that was only the appetizer."

He drew his fingers out slowly.

The suckers still wouldn't let go. His two fingers were sucked ring by ring, drawn out bit by bit, and with every bit a ring of small mouths released with a pop, and water rushed in at once to fill the space his fingers left. He felt it. Something warm and impossibly slick wrapped his fingers and flowed out, over his knuckles, into his palm.

The last ring of suckers let go of his nail tips. Pop.

His fingers were out.

He raised his hand in front of his eyes. Two fingers, base to tip, entirely black. Not the black of his latex, but another black, a wet, flowing black, blacker than his skin, wrapped around them as if just pulled from a jar of ink. It gleamed under the warm light, but that gleam was different from latex. Latex shone in one whole sheet, hard, like a mirror. This water's shine was broken and soft, sliding in threads along the direction it ran.

It was thin. Thinner than he'd expected, thinner than saliva, impossibly slick. When he rubbed his two fingers together they slid off each other, pads slipping over pads, catching nothing. And yet it was sticky — not thick-sticky, but string-sticky. He spread middle and ring finger apart, and a glossy black film stretched between them, thin enough to let light through, widening to nearly a finger's width before splitting down the middle into several fine threads that hung and swayed between his fingers.

The other ends of the threads were still attached to her.

From his nail tips all the way to her slit, still slightly open. Five or six of them, fine as spider silk, brightening and dimming in the warm light, trembling with her breathing. One broke first, snapped back, and slapped onto her full outer lip. The rest stretched longer, thinner, and finally slid off his straight nails, each carrying a glossy black drop, falling toward the bed.

Tick.

Onto the sheet.

It didn't spread out like water. The black bead sat on the sheet for a moment, plump, round, its surface shining like a tiny black eye. Then it collapsed, spread into a spot the size of a coin, its edge sharp and clear, not blurring at all.

Another drop. Tick. Falling from his palm, landing beside the first.

He brought his hand to his nose.

Warm. Warmer than his hand, a little warmer than the latex of her body, like the mouthful of heat just brought out from the deepest part of her, dispersing between his fingers. The smell rushed up — the sweet-salt of warmed latex, which he knew well by now. But beneath it lay another layer, thicker, closer, warmer, a little like musk, a little like honey boiled past the point, that heavy sweetness that crawls into your nose and won't come out, crawling all the way to the back of his skull until his scalp tingled.

"So good," he said. And then startled at himself.

"That's… mine?" Elena propped herself up, looked at what was on his hand, and froze too. "So black. It wasn't like that before."

"It is now."

She reached out one finger, touched the small pool in his palm, drew up a thread, and looked at it for a long time. Then she lowered her finger and wiped it on his chest, dragging it across his left nipple, leaving a wet shining black stroke.

The black stayed on his latex for a while without running. It just clung there, shining, and under his body heat it spread into an even brighter film of oil.

Neither of them noticed.

He wanted to lick it. His tongue was already out a little when she caught his wrist.

"Not yet." She sat up, looking at him, her black eyes shining wickedly. "You haven't had enough of mine, and I haven't had enough of yours. Baby, I told you, I'd give you more."

She pushed him down.

As he went down, the latex on his back slid across the sheet with one long squeak. The pillowcase was cool, and the instant it touched him the seam of the mask at the back of his neck was pressed tight, cinched into his skin, then slowly released. He lay on his back and watched her rise to her knees, the lamplight coming down from above her head and casting the shadow of her breasts onto his belly, swaying.

Not a push. A press. One hand on the middle of his big chest, palm sinking in, and she pressed him back onto the bed. His bald head sank into the pillow, his long horns pressing the pillowcase into two deep creases.

She straddled him, kneeling between his legs again.

This time she didn't take it slow. She lifted both breasts in her hands and closed them over his cock, heavy and tight, the undersides pressing straight down onto the string of balls.

"That was a taste," she said. "This is the main course."

She pressed down.

The balls were swallowed whole by the lower curves of her breasts, three on the left, three on the right, each one pushing into the soft latex, pushing the membrane under her breasts out to all sides. She pushed up again, and ring after ring squeezed up through her cleavage. The same as before, and not the same. Before it had been dry, one squeak per section. Now her cleavage was full of what he had seeped out, plus the black water her fingers had brought, impossibly slick, and the rings slid up in one breath, squeak, slurp slurp slurp, one long string.

She lowered her head and extended her long forked tongue.

Every time the glans emerged from her cleavage, her two tongue tips were waiting, one on each side, catching it, licking once, letting it draw back. Breasts clamping below, tongue licking above. Latex against latex, tongue tip against the groove under his glans, two kinds of slick layered together until his heels kicked at the sheet.

"Elena… Elena… slow…"

"No." She raised her eyes to him, the wet shining glans in her cleavage pressing right against her chin. "You hooked me until I came. Now it's my turn."

She parted her breasts.

Seven or eight glossy black threads stretched between them at once, from the insides of her breasts all the way to his rings, taut in the warm light, trembling.

She looked at the threads and laughed. The laugh came out through her nose, short, the tail tipping up, coquettish and wicked.

Then she let go of her breasts and tapped one long nail lightly against his inner thigh.

"Baby, sit up," she said. "Against the headboard. I want you to watch me properly."

He pushed himself up and shifted back until his back met the headboard. Latex against the padded headboard, one squeak, a small slide down, and he braced himself up again. His two long legs stretched out in front of him and filled half the bed. Without thinking he opened them a little, and his cock stood straight up between two glossy black legs, sectioned, veins bulging under the latex, the six latex balls at the root pulsing.

She crawled between his legs.

Not sitting. Crawling. She knelt first, both knees sinking into the quilt, then lowered her upper body forward until her chest was almost on the sheet, both elbows braced on the insides of his thighs, her face directly in front of his cock. Bent like that, her waist collapsed into a deep curve, and that black-peach ass tilted high behind her, round, full, wrapped in latex with not a single seam, the highlight sliding down the crown and into the deep cleft. Behind that, her two long legs folded under her, calves stretching back, stilettos pointing at the ceiling, sharp and high, the toes resting lightly on the sheet.

From where he sat at the headboard, that was the line he saw. Her bald head, her small horns, the slope of her bent back, her sunken waist, then the ass tilting up all at once, then the legs folded back, endlessly long. The whole of her like something written in a single stroke.

She raised her eyes to him.

All-black eyes, no whites, no pupils, only a single sheet of oily black with a small point of lamplight reflected in it. And yet he could tell — that black was full of him. The same look she used to give him across the dinner table, from under the covers, the look that found him at the airport exit at a glance. Exactly the same. Only now there was a layer of hunger beneath it.

"Baby," she said softly, "I'm going to start from the very bottom and eat my way up, one section at a time. You're not allowed to hide, and you're not allowed to close your eyes."

"I… I won't hide."

"Good."

She lowered her head, then didn't go all the way down. She stopped her face a little above his root, chin almost touching the sheet, eyes still lifted to him. Then she opened her mouth.

Opened it wide, wider than a human mouth could open. The corners pulled back to either side, latex lips stretched into a glossy round, all four black pointed teeth showing, sharp as four cut pieces of obsidian, a bead of light hanging on each tip. The inside of her mouth was black too, black and wet, and deep in her throat was a darkness with no bottom. She held her mouth open like that and let him look. Let him see clearly what was going to eat him.

His Adam's apple moved.

"Scared?" she asked thickly, mouth still open, the voice drifting straight out of her throat with a wet breathiness.

"…No." He heard his own voice trembling. "Beautiful."

She smiled. The smile was a wisp of air blown out between two rows of pointed teeth, and it landed on his root, hot. Then the tongue came out.

That tongue was far longer than a human tongue. It slid out from between her teeth, glossy black, thin and long, one length, another length, endlessly long. The tip split into two, each half tilting up slightly, like two thin living nails. The surface was coated with something — her saliva, but no longer saliva. Black, thick, smooth as milk, a thin layer of black lotion hanging on her tongue, and when the tip lifted it drew a shining black thread.

She wasn't in a hurry. She simply laid the tip down.

Laid it on the very base of him, in the center seam beneath the six latex balls. Pressed to it. Didn't move.

Hot. Wet. And a little sticky. That layer of black lotion clung to his latex like two membranes pressed together, so slick he couldn't find a single gap. He drew a breath, and it caught halfway.

"This is the very bottom," she said, tongue against him, eyes on him, and as she spoke the two forked tips quivered in that seam. "Baby, I'm starting now."

Then she began to lick upward.

Impossibly slowly.

Not one sweep of the whole tongue. She used only the tip, the two forks pressed into a single fine line, climbing up from the seam, a little, then a pause. A little more, another pause. At every pause she licked that small patch of latex over, left, right, carefully, as if polishing something very expensive. Up over the hollow between the balls, over the tops of the two uppermost balls, up to the very base of the shaft, the lower edge of the eighth section.

Stop.

Her tongue tip traced back and forth along the edge of that ring. Once. Again. The front edge was round, and she followed the round. The thin lifted lip at the back edge she caught with one tip, flicking from left to right, letting it tremble and spring under her tongue.

"This is the eighth section," she said, her voice soft as melted sugar. "The thickest one. Baby, it's so hard, so hard my tongue is being pushed open by it."

He couldn't speak. He only saw that when her tongue left the eighth section, a wet shining black mark was left behind, her lotion, a layer of shine blacker and smoother than his latex, smeared thin over the ring, running down the lifted edge into the groove.

She looked at the mark and narrowed her eyes in satisfaction.

"I'm marking you," she said. "Where I've licked is mine."

The seventh section.

She laid her tongue tip into the shallow groove between the seventh and eighth, and circled along it. Not all at once. She circled a short way, stopped, looked up at him, circled a little more. The groove was narrow, and her two tips fit exactly — one against the lower edge of the section above, one against the upper edge of the section below — pushing forward with the groove between them, until the thin latex at the bottom squeaked, a very fine sound.

"Mm… Elena…" His legs drew inward, the latex on his inner thighs meeting her shoulders with a squeak.

"Don't clamp me." She laughed. "Baby, open your legs. Let me eat properly."

He opened them.

When she licked to the front of the seventh section, her tongue tip met something raised.

A vein. That blue cord climbed all the way up from the root, and here on the seventh section it crossed a ring, bulging into a fine ridge under the latex. Her tongue found it and stopped. She licked along the vein, from where it crossed the ring upward, to where it sank into the next groove, then picked it out of the groove again, licked up onto the sixth section. With her tongue pressing on the vein, she felt it jumping, through two layers of membrane, tapping against her tongue.

"Baby," she said thickly, eyes curving, "your vein is jumping. Jumping under my tongue. I can feel your heart from here."

"Don't say that…"

"Why not?" She pressed lightly on the vein, and his whole body jerked. "I'll say it. Your cock is so hot, all in sections, veins crawling over every one, hard as black stone. And the moment I lick it, it trembles. Baby, tell me — does it miss me?"

"…Yes." His voice broke into pieces. "So much."

The sixth section. The fifth.

She licked slower and slower, so slow that time seemed to stick. Every section she licked three times. First trace the round of the lower edge, then lift the thin lip at the back edge, then follow the lines of muscle, strand by strand, from the back of the section to the front. Those black muscle lines were strung taut over the shaft, twisted one around another like a tightened black rope, and her tongue followed each twist, until the lines rose one by one under her tongue, hardened, and new highlights ran bright across the latex surface.

Every section she finished left another wet black mark. The marks grew upward section by section, from the root to the fifth, like a small black river climbing him, and wherever it climbed, that place shone and burned.

The lotion didn't run down. It clung to the rings, clung in the grooves, a thin warm layer wrapping him. He could feel it. Not cool, warm, warming him bit by bit, and everywhere it warmed went numb in a small patch, as if a little ball of electricity were turning inside that section and, when it finished turning, didn't leave, just stayed there humming. Four of the eight sections were humming already.

"Elena… your saliva…" he panted. "So hot, it's making me numb."

"That's me." Her tongue was still on the lifted lip of the fifth section. "Baby, my saliva has turned to latex too. Black, like milk. I lick you once, and you get another layer of my taste. Do you like it?"

"I like it…" He tipped his head back, the back of his skull against the headboard, but his eyes still looking down, unwilling to move off her. "I like it. Lick… a little more."

Her eyes lit up.

She had been watching him the whole time. From his root up to the fifth section, all that time, those all-black eyes had never left his face. No whites, no pupils, only one sheet of oily black. But he could see that the black was full of love, the same love as before, only burning hotter now, so hot it gave off hunger, gave off a wickedness. She was licking the filthiest part of his body, and looking at him like he was a treasure. That look made his whole body go soft, and made what was below ache hard.

He let her look. He didn't hide. His face was covered in what she had licked out of him. His lips were half open, biting down, then releasing, the tip of his forked tongue slipping out from behind his pointed teeth now and then and drawing back. His all-black eyes were blurred by that oily shine. The latex between his brows furrowed and smoothed, furrowed and smoothed. Whichever section she licked, his face changed with it. She saw all of it, and every time she saw it, she got wetter below.

The fourth section.

She changed her method. She laid her whole tongue on him. Not the tip — the whole flat of it, wide and soft, coated in that black lotion, like a hot wet silk cloth, pressed to the lower edge of the fourth section, then slowly pressing upward. The lifted lip was pressed down by her tongue, flattened, pressed to the bottom. The tongue slid over, and the thin lip snapped back up, slapping against the back of her tongue.

"Mmh…" His voice shot up at once. Thin and long, low at the start, climbing higher and higher, trembling at the top, the tail sticky with wet nasal sound. He heard himself and was so ashamed he wanted to bite his lip, but the lip was still snapping against the back of her tongue, and the sound leaked out again, longer than before, sweeter.

She laughed between his legs, shoulders shaking.

"Baby, you sound better than I do." Her tongue still on him. "Again. I lick one section, you make one sound. Deal?"

"I…"

She licked the third section.

"Ah…"

The second section. This time she used the two separated tips, one on each side, catching both ends of the lifted lip at once and pinching them toward the middle.

"Hahh… mm… Elena…"

"Good boy." Her voice dropped, dropped to a rasp, carrying a lewdness that rose from the very bottom of her throat. "Baby, do you know what you look like right now? Like a little she-demon licked soft. Crying out so sweetly, and your cock so big, so hard, all in sections, my saliva all over every one."

With every word, her tongue tip quivered on the second section. The latex on his face burned at her words; he wanted to talk back, opened his mouth, and another soft "mm" came out.

"You're the…" He finally forced out a sentence. "You're the little slut demon."

"That's right." She blinked those all-black eyes, utterly unashamed. "Yours."

The first section.

The topmost section was the thinnest and the most sensitive, right up against the coronal ring under the glans. She licked it the slowest. First she traced the lifted lip of this section all the way around once, and when the circle was closed the whole ring was shining, shining and dripping black. Then she stopped just below the groove under the glans and didn't go up.

She only laid her tongue tip along the lower edge of that coronal ring and circled.

The ring was round and smooth, the latex polished like a black jade bracelet. Her tongue tip went around beneath the bracelet, around to the back, and suddenly touched something. One. Small, round, hard. A little farther, another. Another. One against the next, lined up in the groove beneath the coronal ring, like a string of hidden beads.

Her eyes flew wide.

She didn't stop to look closely. She only let her tongue tip roll across that string of small beads one by one, half a circle, until his whole body bucked upward. Then she drew her tongue back.

"There's something good hidden up here too." She licked the black thread from the corner of her mouth, smiling sweet and wicked. "I won't eat it yet. I'll save it for last."

"Elena… please…"

"Please what?" She tilted her head, eyes still on him. "Baby, say it clearly."

"Please… don't stop."

"Hah…" She dragged the sound out, letting it slip through the gap in her tongue, wet, and at the end tipping up into a breathy, shaking laugh. "Good. I won't."

She looked down at him. From root to tip, section by section, those rings, each one shining with a black mark she had left, one overlapping the next like a string of black jade she had lacquered herself. She had licked that. It was hers.

Then her right hand closed around him.

Five fingers ringed the middle of his shaft, palm against the rings, pads hooked around the back, the long nails extending straight out, their surfaces touching his latex, cool for a moment, then immediately warmed. She didn't grip hard, just loosely circled him and began to stroke upward. Her palm went from the fifth section to the first, the thin lips pressed down one by one and springing up one by one. Then down again, all the way to the eighth, the heel of her hand pressing on the tops of the balls.

Up, down. Up, down.

And her mouth came down on that string of balls.

First she kissed the topmost one on the left. Lips pressed, a light suck — pop. The ball jumped hard under her lips, hard and springy, its membrane stretched so thin and bright that she could feel the pulsing underneath, thump, thump, thump, in time with his heart.

Then the middle one on the left. The lowest one on the left. Her tongue tip traveled from one to the next, traced the seam between them, climbed to the next, licked them one by one, and when the three on the left were done, swept sideways through the center seam at the bottom to the right side and licked her way up again, one by one.

She opened her mouth and took the biggest one on the right in whole.

Held it, tongue supporting underneath, lips wrapping above, sucking gently. The ball swelled into her mouth under the suction, swelled hot. Her hand was still stroking above, and at the bottom of each stroke the heel of her hand pressed on another ball beside her lips, pressing and releasing.

"Ah, Elena, there…" His hips pushed up. "Those six… all of them… all jumping…"

All of them were. One in her mouth, one under the heel of her hand, and the other four butting against her cheek, bulging, as if six hearts had grown on his root and were all knocking at once.

Her eyes never left him.

Watching while she licked, watching while she sucked, watching while she stroked. Her face was buried between his legs, her mouth full of him, and those all-black eyes kept lifting, unblinking, watching his upturned chin, watching his bitten lip, watching how his glossy black face furrowed and slackened wherever she licked.

He looked down at her too.

He saw the oily shine shifting in her eyes. And he understood suddenly: she wasn't watching to see whether he felt good. She was watching the way he looked feeling good. She liked watching. She loved seeing him like this, the way he loved seeing her shaking under his fingers a moment ago.

"Do I look good?" he asked hoarsely.

She let the ball slip out of her mouth — pop — a shining thread still connecting them.

"You do," she said. "Baby, I could look at this face for the rest of my life."

She said it so seriously that his nose stung, and yet his cock jumped again.

Then she moved up.

She let go, and her tongue licked up the back of his shaft in one breath, brushing over the black marks she had left, section by section, from the eighth to the first — squeak, one long sound — up to the base of his glans, and stopped.

She opened her mouth and took the glans in.

Only the glans. Her lips wrapped just under the coronal edge, wedging there exactly, the two pointed teeth hovering to either side without touching him. Then the long tongue inside her mouth began to circle the glans.

One circle, the flat of her tongue against the side of the glans, turning slowly. Two circles, faster, the two tips separating, one above, one below, tracing two crossing arcs. Three, four, her tongue turning on his glans like a glossy black whirlpool, turning until the membrane squeaked, turning until what he seeped was smeared out over the whole glans, wet and shining.

His fingers clenched in the sheet and released.

Then she stopped.

Her tongue stopped, the two tips separated, and each found the groove under his glans.

She began to tap.

Lightly. The tip tapped once in the groove, lifted, shifted a little, tapped again. Like pecking. Like counting something one by one.

Because there really was something there to count.

His coronal ridge had changed. That ring used to be skin, wrinkled, soft. Now it had been latexed into a round, smooth, polished ring, its edge full and raised, like a band of black jade set around him. And beneath that ring, in the groove, one against the next, grew rows of small round beans. Each one only the size of a sesame seed, glossy black, round as pearls, arranged in a ring that ran neatly all the way around his glans.

Her tongue tip tapped one, and it sank slightly under the tip and sprang back. Tapped the next, sank, sprang. Each one was connected to him. Every tap made his whole body twitch, as if someone were using a feather to pluck his nerves one by one.

"Ah… ah… what is that…" His voice had fallen apart, that female voice thin and high, every syllable bouncing upward. "Elena, what are you tapping, so many, so many of them…"

She had him in her mouth and narrowed her eyes.

Her eyes narrowed, the root of her tongue aching from being stretched, and a sweetness rising through the ache. She tasted the latex on his skin, faint, like licking a toy just out of its packaging. She liked that taste, so she drew her tongue back a little, spread it flat again, and pressed slowly upward from below.

She counted that ring of beans from end to end with her tongue tip. She lost count. So she counted again.

She didn't find any of it strange, or disgusting. She used to think, sometimes, secretly, that a man's parts were a little ugly, a little fierce, and that she only put up with it because she loved him. But this was different. Now his cock was as beautiful as a piece of jewelry. Section after section of black rings, six full latex balls, a band like black jade, and beneath the band a ring of tiny black pearls. It had grown out of his body, it was his latex, the same substance as hers. Licking it was like licking the part of herself she loved best.

She wanted it. She wanted to take every pearl into her mouth.

She had him in her mouth, and yet her mind suddenly flashed to tomorrow morning. The 7:30 alarm, the knit sweater washed thin and pale, the "good morning" she would have to say when she met a colleague in the elevator. Those things were very far from her now, as far as another person's life. She was kneeling here, a thing with eight rings in her mouth, knees pressing the sheet, sweet liquid still dripping from her nipples. She didn't want to go back at all. The thought made her take him deeper, lips pressing down along that band to the first section, then drawing back. On the way back her lips refused to let go, pulled outward by the raised edge until a small ring of glossy black showed, then snapping back with a slap. She heard a short grunt leak from his throat, the muscles at the tops of his legs going taut against her shoulders. She liked that sound, so she did it again, slower, letting the edge slide out of her lips bit by bit.

She loosened her mouth and brought both hands up.

Both hands together, palm to palm, trapping his glans and the two sections below it between them, and gripped. Then moved up and down. Hands up: palms wrapping the glans, pressing that whole ring of pearls into her palms, twisting half a turn. Hands down: palms sliding over the first section, the second, two squeaks. Up again. Her mouth was right above the web between her thumbs, and every time her hands came down and the glans emerged from her palms, her tongue tip was waiting there to lick the wet shining little opening.

Up, down, lick. Up, down, lick.

Her rhythm steadied. Hands up, lips following up, tongue tip tapping the little opening. Hands down, lips releasing, leaving a thread between lip and glans, stretched thinner and thinner, breaking on her chin. She deliberately slowed it down, so slow that his hips lifted on their own, chasing her hands. When she saw him chase, she stopped moving entirely, only pressing her tongue tip to that ring of pearls, waiting until he was as high as he could lift, then taking him down in one swallow. The grunt in his throat shot up, the muscles at the tops of his legs going taut into two hard ropes under her shoulders.

His hand came to rest on her head.

One hand. Palm on her smooth skull, five fingers spread, holding. Just as she had held his head a moment ago. He didn't press down, only held, fingertips stroking the membrane lightly, feeling her head move up and down in his palm.

She made a muffled sound under his hand, like a cat being stroked just right, the tail of it rolling in her throat.

She worked more earnestly.

He held her head and watched her, his mind a burning white. His gaze slid from her bent back to her raised ass, then drifted sideways.

The mirror.

That full-length mirror stood at an angle across from the foot of the bed, catching her exactly from the side. In the mirror she was bent between his two glossy black legs, and those legs were in the mirror too, stretching from his ass all the way to her shoulders, long as two streaks of light. Her own legs were folded kneeling behind her, from under the raised ass to the back of the knee, to the calf, to the stiletto pointing at the ceiling, drawing a long bright zigzag in the mirror. Her breasts hung suspended above the sheet, swaying back and forth as her head moved up and down, nipples almost brushing the sheet, and with every sway the latex gave a soft squeak.

Two glossy black demons, one against the headboard, one bent between his legs. In the mirror he couldn't tell which one looked more like the thing in his dreams. Both did.

As he watched, the hand holding her head slid down.

Over the top of her skull, to her horns.

Those two smaller horns grew from her forehead and swept back into two short, pretty arcs, their surfaces wrapped in the same oily membrane as the rest of her. His fingers found the base of the left one.

And then he took hold.

Both hands. One on each. Gripping her two horns.

Elena's whole body jolted as if shocked.

Her back arched hard, her ass jerked up, the two stilettos behind her kicked at the sheet, and a cry burst from her throat, blocked by his cock in her mouth, muffled, but he could still hear how high it climbed, up to the top, and broke into a string of fine tremors.

He knew what that felt like. When she stroked the base of his horns just now, he had been the same. The base of the horns connected to what was below.

She didn't stop. She moved faster.

Her hands flew up and down his glans, mouth following hands, taking him in, letting him out, in, out, her tongue scraping that ring of pearls every time. Her head moved up and down between his two hands, and he held her horns like two handles. He didn't press down hard, but when he tightened his grip she shook. When he loosened, she chased him, deeper, faster.

Squeak-slurp squeak-slurp squeak-slurp, gluck, pop, squeak-slurp.

"Elena, Elena." His head tipped back and hit the headboard, thud. "I… I'm close."

She looked up at him, mouth full of him, eyes full of laughter.

He tightened his grip on her horns again.

And then he laughed.

Not because he meant to. It rolled up out of his chest on its own.

"Heh…"

The first sound, very light, came from the deepest part of his throat. It was a woman's voice, but beneath that voice lay something not human, like a piece of ice sliding across something hot, rustling, cool.

"Heh heh… heh heh heh heh…"

Then a string of them. Each higher than the last, each sharper, sharp to the very top, and then softening, softening into a sticky, hooking tremble, every tremble carrying a breathy edge, as if his forked tongue were curled behind his teeth, rolling his breath out in threads. It was sharp, but it was sweet. It didn't sound human, but it sounded like coaxing. The sound turned once inside his own ears until his scalp tingled, and the thing in her mouth jumped hard.

He was startled. He had never heard himself make a sound like that.

But he wasn't afraid. He even liked it. Hearing that string of laughter come out of his own mouth, he felt that it was him — the thing inside him that had been locked away for so many years had finally found its own throat.

Elena went soft all over between his legs.

She let him out — pop — tipped her head back, looked at him, her all-black eyes burning bright.

"Baby…" she panted, her voice sweet and husky. "What was that sound you just made…"

"I… I don't know…"

"Again." She licked her lips. "I love it. When I hear that sound, down there I… hahh…"

Her last sound dragged out long, floating up from her chest, spinning once in midair, and in the spin was a thread of breath — her tongue tip curled in her mouth, drawing the breath out. Coquettish, seductive, and not human.

He looked at her upturned face, at the shining thread hanging from the corner of her mouth, at the ass raised high behind her, at her hanging breasts in the mirror, at the space between her legs. He couldn't see it from this angle, but he knew it must be soaked.

He wanted to taste it.

"Elena," he said, his voice thick as if clogged with latex, "I want to eat you."

She blinked.

"Eat where?" she asked, knowing full well, smiling wickedly, the tail of it tipping up.

"Your…" He swallowed, and the word rolled on his tongue, pushed out by the lingering drunkenness. "Your pussy. I want to put my tongue inside your pussy."

Her eyes lit up at once.

"Hee…" She laughed, a fine, fragmented laugh, more breath than sound, shivering out through her nose. "Baby, you said it. In that pretty voice, you said you want to eat my pussy. Hee hee hee."

At the end of the laugh came that thread of breath again, like a small snake sliding off her tongue.

She climbed up.

He slid down from the headboard and lay flat, his bald head sinking into the pillow. She swung a leg over his body — the other way round this time. Her two long legs spread, knees sinking into the quilt on either side of his shoulders, that black-peach ass hanging above his face, pressing down, down low, so low that one lift of his head would touch it.

Two full outer lips right in front of him, swollen, wet and shining, the slit between them slightly open, dripping. One drop fell on his lips. Hot.

She bent forward, her breasts pressing onto his belly, trapping his cock between them.

Then she took him into her mouth again.

Still only the glans. Her lips wedged under that black jade band, and her tongue began to turn. One circle, one circle, around his glans, slow and deep, and every time the two tips passed that ring of small pearls they flicked it once.

He made a muffled sound. Then he lifted his head.

He didn't go in right away. He copied what she had done, starting from the outside.

He extended his long forked tongue and laid it first on the outer edge of her left lip — the outermost, fullest curve. Tip pressed there, tracing downward, past the lowest point of the curve, then around from the inside, back up to the top, drawing a circle.

Squeak…

A thin "mm" leaked out of her mouth around him.

Then the right. The tip traced down the outer edge of the right lip, circled back, another circle. Left circle, right circle, left circle, right circle, his tongue drawing figure eights on those two full folds of latex until they swelled fuller, brighter, hotter, and the slit between them opened wider and wider between the two circles, water seeping out more and more, running down to his chin.

He didn't touch the middle once.

"Baby…" She let him slip halfway out, voice trembling. "The middle, the middle too…"

"What's the rush." He mimicked her tone, a wicked little smile in that female voice. "Didn't you start from the very bottom too?"

She made a small "wu" sound, sweet and wronged, the tail dragging out long and curling at the end as if scratching the tip of his heart. Then, for revenge, she took his whole glans into her mouth and sucked hard.

His hips bucked, and his tongue bucked with them.

Right onto that little thing.

Her black pearl, growing where the two outer lips met at the top, small and round, a little bigger than a pea, glistening, tilted up, hard, quivering.

The moment his tongue tip touched it, she sank down.

He stopped. Then, very lightly, with one tip, he tapped it.

Tapped, lifted.

Tapped again.

Every tap made her thighs clamp once on either side of his face, then tremble apart again. By the fifth tap she was whimpering around him, the whimpers higher and more broken each time.

Then he separated his tongue tips.

Two tips, one on either side of the black pearl, closing gently on it. Then turning. One forward, one back, the two tips holding the pearl between them, turning left, turning right, like two fingers rolling a bead, rolling it spinning between his tongue tips. The pearl grew harder, hotter under the rolling, its membrane shining so brightly it was frightening.

"Ah, ah, ahh, baby, that, that…"

She let him out and tipped her head back and cried out.

That cry was a string of climbing tremors, each higher than the last, and as it climbed it stopped sounding human. Thin, fine, long, like a string drawn to its tightest trembling, and at the very top it hooked back suddenly into a soft, seductive "mm-hm," breath hissing out through the tail of it.

Hearing it, the whole length of him jumped so hard in her cleavage that it hurt.

He didn't stop. He slid his tongue down off the pearl and into the slit between the lips.

Two tips together, probing inward. In.

Through the two outer lips, through the tight sucking membrane at the entrance, deeper.

The first ring of suckers lunged up.

Pop.

The instant his tongue tip was sucked in, the root of his tongue went numb. A tongue is far more sensitive than fingers. He could feel the shape of every small mouth: a soft raised rim, a wet hot hollow in the middle, sucking inward the moment it touched. He pushed deeper, the second ring lunged up, the third, ring after ring, a ring on each tip, each tip held by a dozen small mouths at once, drawn inward.

His tongue was sucked in. Deeper and deeper, until his lips sank entirely into her outer lips, his nose pressed to her pearl, his whole nose full of her smell — sweet-salt, musk, honey boiled too long.

"Baby's tongue… it's inside… so long… ah…" She had taken him in again, talking around him, her voice muffled in her mouth, vibrating against his glans in waves. "They… they're eating your tongue… mmh…"

Inside her, he spread his tongue tips apart.

Her two long legs clamped hard on either side of his face.

The latex on her inner thighs clamped his cheeks, hot as fire, slick as oil, trapping his whole head between them until his ears rang and all he could hear was the pop-pop of the small mouths inside her releasing together and lunging back together, and the moans leaking from her throat around him, higher each time.

She began to move.

At first she held back. Her mouth was on his glans, but her hips didn't dare really sit down, only rubbing those two outer lips against his mouth. After a few rubs she couldn't stand it herself; her knees clamped inward, her ass sank half an inch, pressing the black pearl square onto the tip of his nose. Her whole body shuddered, a muffled groan leaked from her throat, and the sound traveled down the thing in her mouth and numbed the root of his tongue. He raised a hand, hooked her ass, and pressed it to his face. Her flesh spilled through his palm, the latex so slick he couldn't grip it, only hook a little with his nail tips, leaving a few shallow dents. She sank lower and lower, that membrane pressed to his mouth, hot as candy fresh from the pan.

At first it was still slow. Her mouth on his glans, tongue turning, head sinking bit by bit, swallowing the first section, the second, then drawing back.

But every time he spread his tongue tips inside her, she sank deeper. Every time he rubbed his nose against her pearl, she pulled back more urgently.

And then she lost control.

Her head began to move up and down, fast and heavy. Both hands gripped his root hard, above the balls, her mouth swallowing from the glans all the way to the fifth section in one go, pulling out, swallowing to the sixth, pulling out. Her forked tongue tangled over his shaft, wrapping the rings, scraping the grooves, and every retreat to the glans dragged hard across that ring of small pearls. Her ass moved too, sitting down on his face, those two outer lips grinding his mouth, grinding the tip of his nose, grinding the black pearl rolling back and forth across his lips.

Squeak-slurp, gluck, pop, squeak, pop pop pop.

Both their sounds tangled together. The sounds in her mouth, the sounds in her body, latex against latex, and those inhuman moans from her throat, and his own muffled female hum leaking out from between her legs.

"Mm, mmh, hee… hee hee…" She laughed around him, the laugh blocked in her mouth, muffled, vibrating through his whole length. "Baby, I'm, I'm going to—"

She swallowed down again. Deeper than any time before, so deep that the seventh section pushed into her throat and her throat contracted.

He came too.

Both at the same moment.

He felt the rings of suckers inside her stop sucking ring by ring. All of them, from entrance to the deepest point, sucked inward at once, so hard his tongue hurt, so hard his vision went white. Then they all released at once.

She squirted.

A surge of black water rushed out of her deepest part, parting his tongue, splashing over his face. Over his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, into his all-black eyes, running down his bald head to either side, over the pair of long horns sweeping back from his forehead, into the pillow. Hot, thin, slick as oil, it couldn't stop on his face at all, running down into the space behind his ear, down under his jaw. Once, again, each burst following a muffled "mm" in her throat.

At that same instant, he came in her mouth.

The six balls clenched together in the palm of her hand, like six hearts squeezing shut at once. Then something rushed up from his root, section by section through the rings, and each section swelled in her mouth as it passed. Then it poured out of his glans and flooded her throat.

Her eyes flew wide.

That stuff was black too. But not like hers.

Her water was thin, slick, spilling out in a rush. His was thick, thick as black syrup boiled too long, heavy and sticky, surging into her mouth in pulses, not flowing but piling, piling on her tongue, filling her mouth. It was brighter than her water, so bright it didn't look liquid — like beads of freshly polished black jade, the shine in whole blocks, round and smooth, not broken.

She swallowed once. Again.

Some spilled from the corner of her mouth and hung from her chin. It didn't run. It fell bead by bead, a string of round black beads hanging from her chin, from her collarbone, rolling onto her latex and stopping there. Stopping, plump, round, like black pearls laid out on black velvet. Then, very slowly, one by one, they collapsed, smeared open by her latex, shining into a single sheet.

She watched the bead on her collarbone sink bit by bit and said nothing.

She held the last mouthful without swallowing right away. She closed her eyes and stirred it with her tongue, one circle, another.

Then she swallowed.

As she swallowed, her whole body shuddered. From bald head all the way to stiletto heels.

She opened her eyes. In those all-black eyes the oily shine had dispersed, gone misty, like ink bled into water. Her lips were slightly parted, tongue tip out a little, licking the corner of her mouth, finding a black bead still hanging there, curling it in, and shuddering again.

Then she lowered her head and reached out her tongue to lick the last bit still clinging to his glans. She licked it clean, then licked again. On the third pass there was nothing left there at all, and she was still licking, tongue tip circling that little opening, as if waiting.

"Elena…" he called hoarsely.

"Mm…" She didn't look up, her voice drifting as if in a dream. "A little more. Baby, give me a little more. Just a little."

She finally licked enough — or finally had to stop to breathe. She collapsed on him, cheek against his thigh, gasping, and every breath she let out smelled of him.

He lay there, his whole face covered in her water, and it was a long while before he came back to himself.

He raised a hand and, with middle and ring finger, slowly wiped from his forehead downward.

The pads of his two fingers passed over his brow bone, over his eyelids, over the bridge of his nose, over his cheeks, scraping that layer of glossy black water down to his fingertips, down onto the two straight nails. It hung from his fingers, dripping, shining in the light like printing ink, or like syrup just off the fire.

The smell was right under his nose. Ten times stronger than the little bit on his fingers before.

He put his fingers in his mouth and licked.

Sweet. A deep, warm sweetness that dissolved on the tongue, and beneath it, as it dissolved, a little salt rose up, a little rawness, a little of that fragrance of warmed latex. The same sweetness as those drops from her nipple, but far stronger.

And then, heat.

That faint drunkenness from before ignited all at once. Heat starting in his throat, running down, into his chest, into his big breasts until his nipples ached hard. Into his belly, into the thing that had just come. It should have softened. It didn't. The eight sections swelled back up ring by ring, the balls jumping one after another, harder than before he came.

His head rang.

He licked again. Again. Took both fingers into his mouth and curled his forked tongue around them, one tip on each side, licking every trace of black water off each long nail. When that was done, he wiped what was left on his face. Wipe, lick. Wipe his chin, his throat, the small pool gathered in his own cleavage.

He couldn't stop.

"Baby…"

She climbed off him, turned around, knelt beside him, and looked down at him. A black bead of his was still on her chin, not yet sunk in, and she hadn't noticed.

"What are you licking?"

"Yours…" He was licking his nail tips, eyes unfocused. "Elena, your water tastes so good. I want more."

She looked at him. Then she smiled, eyes curving, that fine laugh shivering out through her nose again, the tail tipping softly upward.

"So do I," she said, licking her lips. "Yours. I want more of yours too."

She bent down, cupped his face, and wiped the last bit of black from the corner of his eye with her thumb. Very gently. Then she kissed him, tongue sliding into his mouth, curling once around. He tasted himself in her mouth, and she tasted herself in his. The two blacks stirred together between two forked tongues until they both made a sound at once.

"Idiot," she said against his forehead, her voice soft as something melted. "We're both idiots."

Their horns touched, his long pair and her short pair, tap.

She didn't move. She stayed pressed to him, her black eyes so close they almost touched his.

"Baby."

"Mm."

"I don't want tongue anymore," she said. "Or fingers."

Her hand slid down, closed around him, hot and hard again, palm sliding over that ring of small pearls, making him shudder.

"I want this." She spoke against his lips, every word carrying breath, the tail long and trembling, drilling into his mouth. "I want this inside me, all the way to the deepest part, and I want those little mouths to eat it one bite at a time. Now, baby."

His cock jumped hard in her hand.

He rolled over and pinned her beneath him. Her two long legs opened on their own, knees lifting, stilettos pressing the sheet. He knelt between her legs, took himself in hand, and aimed.

Then stopped.

"Wait."

"What now?" There was a catch of tears in her voice, urgent and half laughing.

"A condom," he said. "We're not wearing one."

Elena stared for a full two seconds.

Then she watched him roll off the bed, stilettos going tap-tap-tap on the floor, a pair of breasts bigger than hers swaying on his chest, that round ass twisting as he walked, two long legs covering a stride each, all the way to the nightstand, where he pulled open the drawer and buried his head in it, rummaging. Bald head, long horns, a whole demon glossy black, ass in the air, hunting for a condom in a drawer of junk.

She covered her mouth, shoulders beginning to shake.

"Found it." He came back holding a small square, a note of triumph in that female voice.

He used a nail tip to tear the wrapper. The first try didn't open it — the long nail was too smooth and skidded on the foil. The second tore it open, but the straight tip stabbed through too far and nearly punched a hole in the condom inside too. He pinched it out carefully with two fingers, that thin ring of half-transparent latex looking small and pitiful between his glossy black fingertips.

He set it on his glans and rolled it down.

The condom was so thin it was almost transparent, pinched between his two glossy black fingers like a wrapper of candy that might melt at any moment. He rolled it down, latex against latex, producing a dry, grating squeak unlike every other sound in that room. It caught on the first section, the lifted thin lip propping the condom's mouth open, the condom stretched white, like skin pulled to its limit. He switched fingers to press it, and the moment his nail tip touched it the condom slid off.

It wouldn't roll.

The ring of the condom had just covered the glans and caught on the first section, and it wouldn't go further. The thin lip at the back edge of that ring pushed the condom's edge and the condom shrank back up. He rolled harder, the condom stretched white, barely forced over the first section, and caught on the second. He used a nail tip to help, flicking it down.

Snap.

The condom flew off his glans, turned two somersaults in the air, and landed on her thigh.

She finally laughed out loud. Once it started it wouldn't stop, crisp and shaking, a string of "hahaha" that dissolved into pure breath at the end, and in the breath was a wet tremor, more seductive than mocking.

"Ha, haha, baby…" She was laughing so hard she curled up, latex squeaking against the sheet. "You, look at you…"

"Don't laugh." The membrane behind his ear lit up again. He picked up the condom, turned it over, tried again. "It's just a little small."

"It's not small." She was out of breath, pointing at the six swollen things at his root. "Even if you got it over those sections, what about the bottom? Where are you planning to put those six?"

He looked down. The string of balls sat taut and neat at his root, wide and thick — forget the condom, his own hand couldn't close around them.

He went silent.

The condom slid on his fingertip, latex against latex, impossible to pinch, and fell again, landing beside the black spots on the sheet, crumpled into a small ball, looking white and soft and utterly out of place on that bed.

Elena had laughed enough. She sat up, crawled to him, knelt, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pulled his face to hers. The wet shine of laughter hadn't left her black eyes.

"Baby," she said, one word at a time, soft and wicked, "from head to toe, what part of you isn't latex?"

"…"

"From head to toe, what part of me isn't latex?"

"…"

"This thing of yours," she let one hand slide from his neck, down, and closed around it, stroking from glans all the way to the string of balls until he sucked in a breath, "is a condom in itself. A natural one, grown on you, made to measure. What other brand fits you this well?"

"But…"

"But what?" She smiled against his lips, the tips of her pointed teeth showing at the corners. "Latex on latex. Safest thing there is."

Paid version is up to Chapter 4 Part 2 (Patreon / Ream for EN & JP, SubscribeStar for EN). Read the full parts here:
Patreon: https://patreon.com/TitiRubberDoll
SubscribeStar (EN & JP): https://subscribestar.art/titirubberdoll
Ream: https://reamstories.com/TitiRubberDoll