Epilogue...The Blissful Life of a Cum Pudding.

It feels like it's been ages since you traded your heart for a high, but it's probably only been a century or two...tops. Then again, at least a half of that time has been lost to blissful blackouts that can last dizzying days, wonderful weeks, moan filled months, and even yipping, yelping years at a time. Not that it matters what you remember, since every memory is pretty much the same. You wake up every day at the crack of noon, still sloshed from the night/week/years before, roll out of bed/car/fuckpile, and hunt down your Mommy Mistress for more mooks. You vaguely remember a time when you called it 'milk' like an adult with a fully functioning brain, but that sounds so boring compared to being a brainless bimbo baby.

That's not the only baby babble you picked up from eons of endless euphoria and beatific brian damage. You call Krissy's heavy breasts your 'mom mom nom moms', her puffy nipples 'glomp glomps', her ample ass 'yum yum bum bum', and her luscious lips 'shlorpy slurps'. You vaguely have a sense of her personality, but it's mostly moot since you never have a conversation that doesn't immediately devolve into begging to suck on one of her aforementioned body parts. You get a sense that maybe this is for the best, since you maybe might have done something unforgivable to her once upon a time, but luckily she seems to have found a way to forgive and forget by turning you into fuck furniture.

Krissy uses you as a massaging, sucking, licking footstool...a beanbag with benefits...a water bed that never fails to make her spring a leak...and a bed that rocks her to sleep every night while you wrap around her as a blanket and pillow too. Her druggy drink makes it easy to just drift dreamily in a state between concussive conciousness and cumatose calm. There are no worries or cares or regrets, if only because you never seem to know what is happening around you if you aren't being kissed or grinded on or penetrated with every manner of appendage from every manner of girl.

You don't remember their names, can barely place their faces, and could care less about their chatter about purity and purges as long as their plunging their pretty digits deep inside your squelchy slurpy slime. You think you might have gone to school with some of the girls that use you as everything from a dildo to dishrag, but honestly they all kind of blur together after awhile. Sure, their are some thighs you can place from pressure around your neck alone, and some pretty petals you could place from taste, and some lips you can single out by suckling them, but who they belong to or what their owner does when she isn't squeezing the squirts out of you is a mystery to you.

You've gotten used to unsolved mysteries. With all the missing time, muddled thoughts, and mommy mooks, it's a wonder you remember your own name...you think it's Cum Pudding, or Spunk Bubble, or maybe Jizzele, but would a rose smell any less sweet by another name or covered in cum? You have long since abandoned trying to figure out where you live, what century it is, or what is going on outside of whichever well appointed bedroom you're getting sloshy and slippery in this time. What's the point in wondering about the perplexities of the universe with what little brainpower you have left? Any answers you cum up with will just be drowned in druggy drink and bombed with bliss and explosions of ecstasy.

No, it's better to just be love dumb, girl juice drunk, and lost in lust with no plan to ever find your way back. You are happy and safe and sublimely satisfied with wherever and whenever you are, and somehow you know you always will be. Living your best life...